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FATHEE DAECY. 
 
 BY THE 
 
 AUTHOR OF “MOUNT SOREL/’ AND THE “TWO OLD 
 " MEN’S TALES.” 
 
 “ Oh Ballard, Ballard !— What hast thou done ?~A sort of brave youths 
 otherwise endowed with good gifts, by thy inducement hast thou brought to 
 this utter destruction and confusion.” 
 
 The Lord Chancellor Hatton's Address— State Tryals, 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES, 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 CHAPMAN AND HALL, 186 , STRAND. 
 
 1846 . 
 
“ What the loftinesse of the argument requireth, I confesse with 
 sorrow I have not performed: yet have I willingly bestowed what 
 pains I have been able. I have neither in other works, nor yet in 
 this, in any sort satisfied myself. Neverthelesse, I shall hold myself 
 recompensed to the full, if by my ready willingnesse to preserve the 
 memory of things, to relate truths, and to train up men’s minds to 
 honesty and wisdom, I may find a place for a time, amongst the 
 petty writers of great matters.” — Camden, Introduction to the Annals. 
 
M355 
 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 '^to Mount Sorel, you may imagine what abundance of 
 ^;;old rubbish was disturbed — what long-hoarded relics 
 of bygone times were dragged from their mouldering 
 recesses — what piles of worm-eaten books and packets 
 of time-stained papers brought to light — as new to Mr. 
 de Vere as to any of us. 
 
 I was his principal companion during this time, for 
 we grew every day more and more attached to each 
 other ; as he, from temper, and I, from circumstance, 
 lived a good deal apart from the rest of mankind — and 
 were both, perhaps, interested rather in the ideal, than 
 • the actual. 
 
 So we tossed over these old papers with almost 
 equal interest. To him they were precious as the mon- 
 uments of his family, to me, as records of that great 
 human family to whom we equally belonged. 
 
 One day, after we had been thus engaged — I sorting 
 some old books, while he was examining the contents 
 - of a huge black trunk — after nearly an hour’s silence, 
 during which he had been perusing several papers with 
 ^ an appearance of much interest, he turned to me and 
 said : 
 
 Tliere, Edmund, is something for you. — These seem 
 
6 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 curious fragments connected with a very incompre- 
 hensible portion of our history — one that has often 
 been the subject of my reflections. These papers do 
 not properly form part of my family archives, and I do 
 not understand, exactly^ how they came here ; though 
 I beheve there have been intermarriages between the 
 De Veres and some of the families in question. The 
 indifference of principals and the carelessness of ser- 
 vants, jumble things together, and throw them into 
 hands where they have properly no right to be. I 
 make you a present of the contents of this trunk, 
 Edmund, for I know you have a liking for such things. 
 When you have nothing better to do, it may interest 
 you to examine these papers; and to exercise your 
 propensity for scribbling, by giving a certain form and 
 consistency to this fatras of letters, notes, diaries, and 
 law proceedings.” 
 
 I accepted the commission with pleasure as a proof 
 of confldence and affection on the part of Mr. de 
 Vere, at that time most precious to my heart: but it 
 was long before I opened the trunk. 
 
 When at length, however, I came to examine the 
 papers, I found they had reference to a period, and to 
 circumstances, singularly dark and mysterious : — I 
 conceived that some very important lessons might be 
 derived from this section of the history of our race ; 
 and I endeavoured to put the materials together so as 
 to engage interest, and perhaps excite reflections that 
 might possibly be useful : — though no one can be more 
 aware than I myself am, of the imperfect manner in 
 which I have executed my difficult task. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 “ For the love of truth hath been my scope and aim.” — Camden. 
 
 Let us picture to ourselves England at the latter 
 end of the sixteenth century: when — after the desola- 
 tions and destructions of that immense social revolution 
 which took place under the reign of Henry VIII.; 
 the short and well-directed efforts to establish some 
 kind of order, under Edward VI.; the tremendous 
 reaction, the confusion and misery of Queen Mary’s 
 reign it had for nearly forty years reposed under 
 the firm, wise, and temperate sceptre of Queen Eliza- 
 beth. 
 
 What Queen Elizabeth’s reign actually was — the 
 full value of that firm, yet moderate system of govern- 
 ment, which was then carried out — under the direction 
 of two or three of the ablest statesmen that ever 
 appeared, and the auspices of perhaps the very cleverest 
 woman that has yet existed — must be learned, not by a 
 comparison with what we now see about us; not by 
 what has succeeded ; but by what went before. 
 
8 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 We must contrast the England of 1580 with the 
 England of 1501 : — and though, doubtless, there is still 
 much left to grieve and sadden the heart in the man- 
 ners, the ways of thinking, the system of jurispru- 
 dence, and the conduct of the government, yet let any 
 one candidly compare that period of our history with 
 those which had preceded it, and a somewhat juster 
 estimate will be formed, than it has lately, perhaps, 
 been the fashion to do — of the immense advances made 
 in civilisation, under the influence of the reformed 
 religion — and of the prodigious increase of domestic 
 prosperity consequent upon the government of that 
 wise monarch, who flrst carried out its principles into 
 actual public life. 
 
 This is not the place to enumerate even the more 
 important of these advances ; I merely point them out 
 as a subject of contemplation for the candid and atten- 
 tive reader of history. My business is with pictures : 
 my design to raise again before your eye the scenes of 
 that green and beautiful England — ^lier soil no longer 
 deluged with the blood of contending parties — the 
 fierce contest of religious violence assuaged — no foreign 
 enemy permitted to set his foot upon her sacred shores ; 
 and her ships and her commerce circumnavigating the 
 globe. 
 
 Imagine her, to yourself, in all the graces of her still 
 wild and unsubdued beauty. 
 
 The wide extent of her vast oak forests ; interspersed 
 with all the native trees that enrich our landscapes; 
 the crimson and gold of the beeches, the green elms, 
 the scarlet maples, the dark glossy hollies clothing 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 9 
 
 her hilly sides — and hanging thick and pendant over 
 the gushing streams that sparkled through her secluded 
 valleys. 
 
 Those delightful woodland scenes so dear to the 
 heart of the native Saxon ; which Shakspeare has 
 transferred to his forest of Arden; scenes where the 
 outlaw once had dwelt in his greenwood bower, under 
 the shade of melancholy boughs, — ^where the red stag 
 sheltered, and the herds of fallow-deer grazed amid 
 the sunny glades. 
 
 But the forest was not all of the country which re- 
 mained in its primitive state. 
 
 Though most of the best land of England had long 
 been enclosed and cultivated, immense districts remained 
 in a state of nature ; either as barren sandy heaths — 
 green commons of prodigious extent — or black dreary 
 moors and mosses. The unredeemed tracts were of such 
 extent, that the aid of the ‘^land-pilot” of Comus was 
 frequently necessary. Even within the memory of 
 man, a sort of lighthouse was standing to guide the 
 traveller through wastes of this description, among the 
 high lands of Lincolnshire ; — lands which, under the 
 influences of a system now perhaps to be destroyed^ 
 have been redeemed at a vast expense, and are now 
 waving with seas of corn. 
 
 The fragrance and beauty of the sandy heaths covered 
 with gorse, purple ling, centaury, and hawkweed ; the 
 sense of freedom and community of rights inspired by the 
 wide commons, nibbled by flocks of little black-nosed 
 sheep ; the mysteries of those dark, gloomy moors, as 
 
10 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 seen under the indigo clouds of a November sky — 
 peopled as they were by the superstition of the times, 
 with witches, demons, dwarfs, and fairies — served to 
 elevate the imagination; and, doubtless, added force to 
 that ardour of sentiment, in matters either of love, 
 patriotism, or religion, which distinguished the period. 
 
 He who lived in such scenes — sat by the lonely mere, 
 or visited the silent streams tenanted by the crane, the 
 egret, the melancholy heron, and the innumerable broods 
 of lesser waterfowl — became a poet before he was aware 
 of it, and an enthusiast unknown to himself. 
 
 In spite of those gloomy passages which darken her 
 history — but which, acted upon that narrow stage then 
 occupied by the court and government, seem little to 
 have affected the general sentiment — England was a 
 merry England. 
 
 It was a free, happy England. The people of this 
 country enjoyed a share of domestic liberty, and che- 
 rished a sense of domestic independence, almost totally 
 unknown to the miserable serfs and peasants of the 
 continent. 
 
 The aspect of the country gave evidence of this. — The 
 haughty Norman castles might rival those of the warlike 
 barons of France and Germany ; but where else could 
 have been found the innumerable country houses, built 
 by the gentry? — the men of the middle class of society 
 — numbers of which edifices still remain to attest by 
 their splendour the general diffusion of prosperity. 
 
 “For now,” says Camden,“ began more noblemen’s and 
 private men’s houses to be raised here and there in 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 11 
 
 England; built with largenesse, neatnesse, and beautiful 
 show than ever in any other age ; and surely to the 
 great ornament of the kingdom.’^ 
 
 Numbers of these were erected by the Catholic gentry ; 
 a fact which Butler accounts for, by the circumstance 
 of their owners appearing at court much less frequently 
 than their Protestant neighbours ; and thus being spared 
 many expenses incident to such habits ; but which at 
 least proves that they were not so grievously oppressed 
 by pecuniary fines, as it is the pleasure of some writers 
 of their party to represent. 
 
 Rushton Hall, in Northamptonshire, may be quoted 
 as one of the most beautiful specimens of the domestic 
 architecture of Queen Elizabeth’s time: it, with the 
 Town-Hall of Rothwell, and the beautiful ruin of 
 Leveden, now buried in the surrounding woods, was 
 erected by Sir Thomas Tresham : a Catholic gentleman of 
 wealth and consideration, though a great sufferer for his 
 religious opinions — of which the unfinished state of the 
 Town-Halb and the ruin of an edifice never completed, 
 seem to tell the melancholy story. 
 
 The houses of the farmers and yeomen were large 
 and substantial, though certainly not furnished with 
 modern luxury. The stalwart master of the mansion 
 sat at the head of his huge oaken board, dispensing their 
 daily food to his hinds and labourers; and, stretched at 
 night upon his hard pallet, thought his good Queen Bess 
 not to be envied upon her throne. 
 
 The hind or the peasant sought his warm thatched 
 cottage, where the houseleek grew and the swallow 
 
12 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 harboured, and cherished no jealous heartburning against 
 the man who fared better than he. 
 
 Exclusive pride on the one hand, and that black heart- 
 rending jealousy which infects the lower ranks of society 
 on the other, were alike unknown. Each man accepted 
 his rank in life as dispensed by the hand of his Creator; 
 enjoyed its pleasures frankly ; and never thought of en- 
 viously comparing his lot with that of others more 
 splendid^ but not more happy than himself. 
 
 Even the very beggar under the hedge was a merry 
 being, and thought a ‘‘ cup of ale was a drink for a 
 king.” 
 
 All this cheerful harmony of classes, in which each 
 one, forming a portion of the whole, was content to exe- 
 cute his part in his proper place — where some were satis- 
 fied to perform, though they were only to hold second 
 and third violins, and loyally supported with their instru- 
 ments the chosen leaders of the band* — is at an end. 
 
 We must all play first fiddles now, or we become very 
 ill-humoured and enraged musicians. — How the concert 
 is to fare may be questioned by the lovers of the good 
 old music; but C'aira is become the motto of the world. 
 
 , It is impossible for a mind of any imagination not to 
 regret in this picture the absence of the monasteries, 
 which, under the destructive agency of Henry and his 
 minister Cromwell, had altogether disappeared. 
 
 The magnificent abbey situated on the bank of some 
 gentle stream; its rich meadows covered with sheep 
 and kine — the convent bell tolhng for evening prayer — 
 the beautiful priory — ^the hermit’s silent cell — all had 
 vanished. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 13 
 
 The monk in his long, waving garments, book in 
 hand, the type of a life of contemplation — the holy 
 nun — the ancient palmer — were gone. The tide of 
 destruction had swept over all this, and the place 
 thereof shall know it no more. 
 
 The unsparing and indiscriminate destruction of the 
 monasteries was a very doubtful feature in the Reforma- 
 tion, and is still by many, not without reason, regretted. 
 To destroy is easy ; but to re-erect that which was 
 founded upon sentiment, impossible. The sole vestiges 
 which remain of that life of learned leisure, devoted to 
 the higher purposes of being, undesecrated by the sordid 
 struggles of every day life, remain in our two universi- 
 ties. And oh ! may the hand of innovation at least 
 spare them! And leave us these last relics of days, 
 when man, with all his errors, lived to God rather than 
 to Mammon; and prized the regions of intellect and the 
 heart’s best freedom better than whole miles of smoking 
 factories, millions of web-weaving slaves, and mountains 
 of untold gold. 
 
 One glance at the different classes of society which 
 then possessed this lovely land of England, and to my 
 story. 
 
 There was the queen — ay, every inch a queen — 
 wise, courageous, religious, learned; magnificent, ao 
 complished, spirited, and gay. Affable to the lower 
 orders, resolute with the higher. A lover of mercy, 
 yet of unflinching severity injustice; splendid, yet fru- 
 gal of her people’s money; emulous of peace, prepared 
 for war. The noble leader of the great march of intel- 
 lect which then began for the world of Europe; the 
 
14 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 refuge of the distressed churches; the mother of the 
 reform; the champion of civil and religious liberty 
 throughout the world. 
 
 Yes — religious toleration and equal justice were in- 
 scribed upon her banners and engraved upon her heart; 
 and it was not till the insupportable attempts at usur- 
 pation on the part of the Roman pontiff, and the un- 
 principled proceedings of his emissaries here, drove her 
 into a contest with the ancient religion for life and 
 crown, that she departed from those principles of in- 
 dulgence and mercy. 
 
 The history of the times teems with proofs of the 
 truth of this assertion. 
 
 See her in her rich dress and ruff stiff with gold; 
 her small crown upon her royal head; her bosom 
 covered with inappreciable jewels; her train of velvet 
 and ermine, borne by that nobleman who follows her. 
 
 The people shout — the people rend the welkin with 
 the voice of frank enthusiastic love and loyalty; while 
 she, turning from side to side, rejoices in their joy, and 
 answers their vociferous greetings with — 
 
 ‘‘ I thank you, meun peuple — God bless you too, 
 myne peuple.” 
 
 A noble aristocracy surrounded this queen — Arundel 
 and Norfolk, De Grey of Wilton, Howard of Effingham, 
 St. John of Bletso, Nevilles, Stanleys, Devereux, and 
 De Veres. 
 
 Men of true ancient blood, with all the associations 
 and long honourable memories which cleave to those of a 
 high descent, whose ancestors slumber in our hoary ca- 
 thedrals, their time-honoured banners waving overhead. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 15 
 
 Nor was that other nobility wanting, that aristocracy 
 of God’s own forming — the men of expansive intellect, 
 daring genius, and lofty principles — the Burleighs, the 
 Walsinghams, the Bacons, the Hattons. Men selected 
 by her own sagacious eye, and endowed with the highest 
 dignities about her throne. An innumerable troop of 
 knights, esquires, and gentlemen followed ; the bold and 
 spirited sons of those who had fought in the fields of 
 France. Nor were wanting the substantial citizens in 
 their furred gowns and gold chains, rivaling in wealth 
 the burghers of Flanders. As for the inferior classes of 
 society, they were, as I have said above, frank-hearted, 
 simple, content, and merry. They had little luxury, 
 but much sport: few newspapers, but many pastimes. 
 Plenty of air, plenty of laughter, and abundance of 
 song — for every one was a minstrel in his way^ from 
 Hodge who whistled at his plough, to the milkmaid 
 Kiting under her pail. 
 
 What makes all our fine slip-slop dairymaids and 
 free-thinking journeymen, so silent now? 
 
 The old song is right, they were golden days 
 those of good Queen Bess.” 
 
 Hearts beat warm, and fancy ran high. The new dis- 
 covered realms of the west excited the imagination to the 
 most romantic adventures; the newly-discovered and 
 far more glorious realms of thought exercised yet higher 
 influence. While the struggles of two opposing systems 
 of rehgion accustomed men to martyrdom — in other 
 words, to the sacrifice of the actual to the spiritual, of 
 the present to the future, of the body to the soul — and 
 thus raised the tone of the human character. 
 
16 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Love and frlendsKip reigned triumpliant in those high 
 devoted hearts. — The generous loves, and the ardent 
 friendships maintained through life and death by the 
 gallant youths of those days, are among the most pa- 
 thetic pages of its wild and romantic story. 
 
 The influence which their intense feelings upon the 
 subject of religion exercised upon the minds of the 
 generality of men in those times, would astonish the 
 cold-blooded reasoners and philosophers of ours. 
 
 A little more must be said upon that head before 
 terminating a preface, perhaps already too long. 
 
 It is difficult to realise to the mind of the nineteenth 
 century, the hold which religion had upon the human 
 heart in the sixteenth. The devoted loyalty to an 
 ancient Church, and what they esteemed the honour 
 of God on the one side — the deep reverence for truth, 
 and the enthusiastical defence of what they looked 
 upon as the cause of Christ, upon the other. The abhor- 
 rence with which those of the old Church stigmatised 
 what they esteemed the licentious impieties of the new 
 —the still deeper horror with which the barbarous 
 cruelties of that Church were regarded by the reformed. 
 
 Every passion of human nature was enlisted on either 
 side ; and while we weep over the martyred saints who 
 fell in the cause of religious emancipation, let us shed 
 a tear over those other victims of mistaken principles, 
 the disciples of that Roman priesthood, who, blinded by 
 casuistry, and betrayed by her assumption of spiritual 
 authority, yielded their passive consciences to the 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 17 
 
 guidance of men, too frequently the mere agents of un- 
 principled ambition, and many of whom, there is too 
 much reason to suspect, were unbelievers in the very 
 first rudiments of those doctrines which they supported 
 with such barbarous pertinacity. 
 
 The reign of Elizabeth was one unremitting contest 
 against these dark and dangerous forces ; in the course 
 of which she was precipitated into measures, which 
 have cast upon her name the brand of a cruelty, abhor- 
 rent to her heart and foreign to her character. 
 
 But it was a fearful struggle which she had to maintain, 
 not against the battle-sword flashing in the face of day — 
 that she had met and overcome — but against the secret 
 knife, the hidden intrigue, the insidious power of the 
 whispering tongue; against mysterious enemies creep- 
 ing in darkness from house to house ; poisoning the ear 
 of her subjects, dissolving the ties of allegiance, sub- 
 verting the very foundations of good faith between 
 man and man, by their villanous doctrines of equivo- 
 cation and falsehoods. 
 
 The very men who in secret awaited the favourable 
 moment for open rebellion, being instructed to affect 
 every outward appearance of patriotism and loyalty till 
 the hour of vengeance should arrive. Can we marvel 
 that a government thus situated, found itself compelled, 
 each succeeding year, to have recourse to measures of 
 increasing severity? 
 
 But this history seems, of late years, to have been 
 strangely misrepresented — and possibly owing to the 
 undue authority attached to the representations of the 
 Catholic writers of that day, most of them Jesuits, 
 
 B 
 
18 
 
 rATHER DARCY. 
 
 whose principles with regard to the sacredness of truth, 
 should render them very suspicious witnesses in any 
 V matter where their own interests or prejudices are con- 
 cerned. 
 
 I will further take leave to remind the reader, who 
 may not lately have looked into this portion of our 
 history, that several of the priests living upon the con- 
 tinent, seeing the favourable manner in which religion 
 appeared to be settled under Queen Elizabeth, feared 
 that the Catholics might, in spite of the issue of the 
 celebrated bull, finally be lost to the papal authority.* 
 For, provided they were allowed the consolation of 
 their own ceremonies in private, the majority made 
 little scruple of outwardly conforming and attending 
 upon the services of the Church of England, which was 
 indeed regarded by many as merely a branch from their 
 own. In consequence of this apprehension. Cardinal 
 Allen, Father Parsons, &c. &c., founded seminaries at 
 Douay, Rheims, Rome, and elsewhere — for the educa- 
 tion of priests destined to the English mission. These 
 young men were brought up in the most exaggerated 
 ultramontane principles; and in habits of the most un- 
 limited obedience to the commands of their religious 
 superiors; and were, together with the Jesuits — secretly 
 Introduced into the kingdom — employing their time in 
 journepng in various disguises, from house to house, 
 
 * The fines for recusancy, during the first eleven years of Elizabeth, 
 in fact, until the bull of Pius Quintus was issued, were only one shil- 
 ling for each Sunday. And though she refused, in spite of the 
 instances of the Spanish Ambassador, to allow them churches, they 
 were allowed imdisturbed to celebrate the ceremonies of their religion 
 in their private houses. 
 
FATHEK DAECY. 
 
 19 
 
 reconciling, as it was called, the English Catholics to 
 Rome : that is to say, dissolving the ties which bound 
 them to their sovereign — taking them out of the hands 
 of their native priests, and under this new guidance, 
 leading them to renounce their allegiance under pain 
 of excommunication — and to embrace principles in- 
 compatible with any regular government, and subver- 
 sive of all social order. 
 
 The perversion of ideas, with respect to the regard 
 due to existing authority, to the sacred nature of oaths, 
 and to the duties of patriotism — and the necessity of 
 defiling the conscience by the practice of constant 
 equivocation hence arising — laid the foundation of the 
 sorrows and the crimes which ensued. 
 
20 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 “ Thy love is better than high birth to me, 
 
 Richer than wealth, prouder than garments cost.” 
 
 There was a royal fete going on in the splendid 
 halls of the Palace of Old Westminster. 
 
 The lofty and magnificent apartment was hung with 
 tapestry of the richest and most varied hues, and the 
 roofing, cornices, and grovings, glittered with burnished 
 gold, reflecting the light of innumerable sconces filled 
 with prodigiously thick wax candles, that blazed around. 
 On the tapestry was represented the story of the Ten 
 Virgins, from the Evangelist, in living forms and glow- 
 ing dyes proper to that age when the art of design had 
 attained to so much perfection, and that of producing 
 the most splendid colours was so well understood. 
 
 The blessed virgins with their flaming lamps, almost 
 seemed to live again, and illuminate the scene; while 
 the miserable, rejected sisterhood, with their exhausted 
 oil, gave depth and relief to the picture. 
 
 The vast room was crowded with gay and splendid 
 groups, such as long had adorned the court of that 
 brave old queen. 
 
 She sat at the head of the apartment, upon a 
 costly carved chair covered with cloth of gold, elevated 
 upon a dais, and under a splendid canopy — looking 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 21 
 
 like an aged lion -whose spirit and courage yet re- 
 mained unextinguished, in spite of the wrinkles of age, 
 and the inroads of time and care. 
 
 And yet, those who had loved — and many there 
 were who had truly and deeply loved — that great 
 though faulty woman, might discern an expression 
 upon her face which it was painful to consider too 
 attentively; for the high-spirited, courageous, yet fresh 
 and cheerful countenance, had been exchanged for one 
 where anxiety was mingled with what might almost be 
 called fierceness. The red eye glared, the mouth was 
 stern and resolved, the whole air told the tale of that 
 long contention with insidious and secret foes and un- 
 sparing open enemies, which had embittered the last 
 twenty years of her life. 
 
 A contest which had without intermission been sus- 
 tained ever since that fatal bull of Pius V. had con- 
 verted religious dissidents into political traitors, and 
 had rendered a temper naturally just, tolerant, and in- 
 dulgent, suspicious and severe. 
 
 The blood, too, of so many she had personally known 
 — and of some whom she had personally loved — which 
 had been shed upon the scafibld, laid heavy at her heart. 
 She had suffered deeply, as her waverings and irre- 
 solutions prove, before she could bring herself to sign 
 the sentences. And she had, perhaps, taken refuge in 
 the endeavour to render herself insensible to the dread- 
 ful subject, and thus to preserve the equilibrium of her 
 too excitable mind; but such a resource against the 
 stings of regret, it may be of remorse, infallibly tends 
 to harden the character. 
 
22 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Yet there as she sat — gorgeously attired — glittering 
 with jewels, and every inch a queen — ^filled as that 
 chamber was with men of all descriptions, of differing 
 religions, of various political opinions, and of conflict- 
 ing interests, few among them all, we might almost say 
 scarce one, but revered in heart that aged monarch; 
 few, we might almost say not one, but would have 
 drawn his sword to defend her. 
 
 No longer mingling in the galliard, and dancing, high 
 and disposedly , herself ; there she sat, still surrounded 
 by her troops of gallant favourites — the wise, the beau- 
 tiful, the able, and the good : for among such were her 
 favourites chosen. Last, but not least, there stood that 
 one, who could not be called graceful — could scarcely 
 even be called beautiful, but whose brave and gallant 
 spirit had won her heart : her mother’s heart it was, 
 which had yearned to the proud petulant boy, because 
 his temper was full as fiery and lofty as had ever been 
 her own. 
 
 Her Essex was there — and the aged Burleigh was 
 there— and his nearly equally able son, afterwards Earl 
 of Salisbury ; and Hatton, the accomplished gentleman 
 and the man of temperate judgment and sound good 
 sense ; and Hunsdon, and Raleigh, and Blunt, and 
 numbers whose names it is useless to recapitulate. 
 
 “ Girt with many a baron bold, 
 
 Sublime their star-clad fronts they rear, .... 
 
 Mid the rest a form divine, 
 
 Her eye proclaims her of the royal line.” 
 
 Of such was the group composed, which more imme- 
 diately surrounded the queen. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 23 
 
 The hall lower down was filled with beautiful and 
 distinguished-looking figures, all splendidly attired — 
 some were dancing, some walking round the room, some 
 sitting on the gold and crimson benches that surrounded 
 the apartment : a gay crowd actuated by the same 
 passions, and employed in much the same conversations, 
 gay or sad, which occupy youth and beauty at such times 
 in all ages. 
 
 Will you walk round the hall with me, and cast your 
 eyes upon these groups ? I will single out a few in whom 
 I am deeply interested, and point them out to your ob- 
 servation. 
 
 Look upon that splendid seat, which stands in a 
 corner of the hall; it is somewhat obscurely situated, not 
 for want of, but it is darkened by excess of^ light ; it 
 stands so near one of those flashing sconces, that your 
 dazzled eye can scarcely see the features or countenances 
 of those who occupy it; while the loud cheerful voice of 
 the trumpets, clarions, and flutes, which are sounding the 
 gaUiard, conceals what is said from all but you and me. 
 
 There are two people sitting upon that low seat 
 — a gentleman and a young lady. The gentleman is 
 dressed in a rich suit of black satin laid thick with 
 gold lace ; his doublet is of cloth of gold; the black 
 cloak which hangs over one shoulder is lined with plush, 
 and ornamented with silk and gold tassels and laces ; 
 the dress is costly, and is that of a man of easy fortune ; 
 it has cost him 130/., such as pounds were in Queen 
 EHzabeth’s days : — but we will have done with his dress ; 
 look at him again. He is perhaps scarcely what you 
 
24 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 would call young — lie may be eiglit-and-twenty or thirty 
 years of age ; he is somewhat above the middle stature, 
 with thick dark brown hair closely cut, waving rather 
 than curling round his head. His features are rather of 
 the ordinary stamp, neither very handsome nor the con- 
 trary ; but there is something in the expression of both 
 face and figure, which no one can pass by without 
 noticing. 
 
 There is an energy of thought, a vehemence, a pas- 
 sion, a resolution and force of character, displayed in the 
 whole outward man, which cannot be mistaken or over- 
 looked. The dark eye melts and flashes — is ardent, is 
 impassioned, is stern, is almost cruel by turns; and yet 
 there is a depth of sensibility when it expresses the 
 softer feelings, which steals into the very heart of those 
 he loves — and excites in return an affection that is almost 
 incredible — such is its intensity. He is born to exer- 
 cise the most extraordinary and romantic influence over 
 the circle in which he moves, for he is devotedly, he is 
 immeasurably beloved by his intimates and friends. To 
 the world in general, he has been till of late little known, 
 and that chiefly as the wildest among the most bois- 
 terous of his age — as the most reckless of revellers, the 
 most enterprising of brawlers, the most exaggerated in 
 every extravagance, the most unrestrained in every 
 licence — at the tavern, at the tennis, at the theatre, at 
 the gaming-table, at the banquet, at the masque ; who 
 so wild, so excited, so intoxicated as he ? 
 
 The lady who sits by him, is attired in fair white 
 satin, with a fall, as it was called, of the richest Flanders 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 25 
 
 lace ; and her fine natural hair drawn up, and dressed 
 according to the fashion of the day, yet with a certain 
 pure and beautiful simplicity — which, indeed, charac- 
 terises her whole appearance. 
 
 Her features are of the most exquisite delicacy of out- 
 line ; it is a face such as Raphael would have chosen 
 as a model for the Virgin Mother ; but there is, if pos- 
 sible, something still less of the woman, and still more 
 of the angel than even his divine imagination has 
 painted. The transparent whiteness of her fair skin, is 
 scarcely tinted by the slightest blush of colour ; but is 
 relieved from insipidity by a certain holy darkness that 
 surrounds her eyes ; her expression is calm, rather than 
 serene. Indeed a shade of melancholy, and lines which 
 bespeak firmness and determination of character, may 
 be detected under the tranquil stillness of her deport- 
 ment. 
 
 The young man is imploring some favour with a 
 force and earnestness which seem scarcely compatible 
 with the careless animation of the surrounding scene. 
 She listens, though she will not consent, while her 
 serene and holy eyes meet his calmly. 
 
 “ You will not dance a corant with me. You will 
 not pace a cinque pace — yet this once — this once 
 more — though it be the last time we are ever to tread 
 a measure. This once, Grace — unutterably beauteous 
 Grace — this once ’’ 
 
 Such were his pleadings. 
 
 “ No — why I am here I know not ; why,” looking 
 down upon her sparkling carcanet of jewels, ‘‘why I am 
 
26 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 here at all, I know not. My heart is far from such 
 scenes. What have I to do in this revelry?” 
 
 And why not ? Why should you not adorn that 
 old lion-hearted woman’s court — the fairest among the 
 wondrously fair now surrounding her hke as it were a 
 sunny blaze and glory of beauty. Why not you, fairest 
 Grace? It is true your eyes are hke those of the Virgin 
 Mother herself — ^your face as that of one of the hea- 
 venly host. We are not worthy^ even to offer worship to 
 thee, saint and beauteous virgin. Yet, why shouldst 
 thou be thus adorned, and these and all innumerable 
 
 graces lavished on thee and all — but for man’s 
 
 despair!” he added, vehemently, passionately, bit- 
 terly. 
 
 “ Talk not to me in this way, Robert,” said she, 
 casting down those beauteous eyes; and assuming, 
 quite unconsciously, the expression of that heavenly 
 purity and modesty which the immortal painter has 
 given to that holy mother of whom we spoke, that 
 tender type of womanhood. “ Oh, where have you 
 learned this sad profanity in your speech?— Do you 
 think to please me, sinful and feeble woman as I am, 
 by comparisons such as these I Comparisons with that 
 glorious Queen of Heaven — whose honour, alas! in 
 these days of atheism and blasphemy, is forgotten and 
 
 obscured. — It ought not to be so with you But 
 
 hope not to please me by such impieties — impieties 
 repulsive to my heart I” — 
 
 And she turned away from him. 
 
 Impieties I — blasphemy 1 — ^Nay,” said he, his counte- 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 27 
 
 nance suddenly changing, and a darkness overspreading 
 his wonderfully expressive eye — ‘‘ who knows?” .... 
 
 He was for a moment plunged into deep thought^ 
 then he said : 
 
 ‘‘ Angel worshipper with a holy and persecuted 
 church; — thy reproof is just!” 
 
 ‘‘ Yet most unjust,” he added, significantly. 
 
 Then he rose from his seat in a reckless kind of 
 manner; as if just or not, he was one to defy reproach; 
 and, leaving her side, advanced to where another most 
 lovely and blooming creature sat. 
 
 If the fair creature whom he had quitted was beau- 
 tiful, with all that holy and spiritual beauty which I 
 have attempted to describe — the one he approached was 
 of a far different appearance. 
 
 No blooming rose just bursting into blow, was ever 
 more fair, more rich in colouring — more replete with 
 all earth’s brightest charms than she. 
 
 Her black abundant hair fell in richest curls over her 
 swelhng cheek, which bloomed with nature’s brightest 
 roses; those large gray eyes sparkled in their sweetness; 
 that lovely mouth spoke all the tenderness of her 
 warm and feehng heart. Her figure was beautiful and 
 noble, though of the middle size ; — it seemed rounded 
 by health, and a youth of joy. 
 
 If one young lady might be taken as the type of the 
 holy beauty of the angelic host; the other was the 
 child of the laughing earth, when she pours forth the 
 wealth of her enjoyments and her glories around. 
 
 But look at those dark gray eyes ; see how they 
 flash as he approaches I — Can you see her heart beating 
 
28 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 under that rich purple robe, which, adorned with gold 
 and jewels, hangs upon her beauty? 
 
 She will not refuse to dance — 
 
 That white and jewelled hand is soon placed in his; 
 he leads her forth, and they tread the mazes of the 
 dance together. 
 
 Near to the place occupied by the state of the mag- 
 nificent old queen, another group is observable. A 
 young man just entering into manhood, is standing by 
 a sweet innocent-looking girl, who is gazing with a 
 sort of pleased wonder at a scene to her almost alto- 
 gether new. 
 
 They are both younger than those you saw at the 
 other end of the room. The young man is dressed in 
 a suit of white satin and silver tissue, laid all over with 
 silver lace; his cloak of white satin lined with peach- 
 coloured plush, and richly embroidered and ornamented 
 with silver, hangs negligently over one arm. 
 
 He is a charming-looking person, tall, fair, well-pro- 
 portioned ; every movement of his figure is full of 
 grace ; he is almost the perfection of opening manly 
 beauty; his fine countenance bespeaks at once energy, 
 sensibility, goodness, and truth; and in spite of the 
 extreme elegance of his dress and appearance, there 
 is a simplicity and air of ingenuous candour about him 
 which is inexpressibly attractive, united to a spirit, 
 force, and dignity, above his years. He is bending 
 down and speaking to the sweet pretty young lady 
 who sits a little before him; her white flowing dress 
 falhng softly in clouds over the crimson stool she occu- 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 29 
 
 pies; her fair hair hangs abundant round her throat and 
 face; and her eyes so blue, so ingenuous, so simple, so 
 clear, are lifted up to him, as he speaks, with a pleased 
 attention. 
 
 You might not suppose it, but so it is — that simple, 
 unpretending girl is the heiress of broad lands and 
 splendid halls ; but she has lived retired, and her life 
 has been spent in those bowery green retreats, imbibing 
 the sweetest influences of nature ; and protected by her 
 widowed father. She has escaped the infections of a 
 court, and been sheltered from those storms which 
 agitate the society around her. 
 
 The father of Evelyn, Mr. Mulsho of Goddeshurst 
 in Buckinghamshire, was a gentleman of considerable 
 fortune, educated in theCathohc Church, to whose creed 
 and discipline he still, in a great measure, adhered; he 
 was, however, of a reasoning and philosophic turn of 
 mind, and of a temper the most benevolent and humane. 
 
 His whole soul had revolted at the childish bigotry 
 and barbarous cruelties of Queen Mary’s reign; and 
 contrasting the confusion and misrule of those unhappy 
 years with the peace, tranquillity, and equal justice, of 
 her great sister’s sway, he had uniformly supported the 
 government, and had, with a great number of the 
 Catholic gentry at the time of the Armada, come openly 
 forward to offer his purse and his sword in the defence 
 of the common country. 
 
 In the schism which had long secretly rent asunder 
 the Catholic party — between the Catholics of the old 
 English school, who, with the spirit of their forefathers, 
 resisted the usurpations of the Roman pontiff, and the 
 
30 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 disciples of the Jesuits and seminary priests, who were 
 devoted to Rome with a blind fanaticism unknown be- 
 fore in this country — Mr. Mulsho had resolutely ad- 
 hered to the ancient party, or, as it was called, that of 
 Queen Mary’s priests. 
 
 The moderation of his opinions, the excellence of his 
 understanding, and the even tranquil course of his life, 
 had won the esteem of all men, and few were more 
 welcome at the court of Queen Elizabeth than he. 
 
 At that court he, however, but rarely appeared; he 
 was jealous for his motherless daughter, and lived with 
 her retired at his country-seat, only associating with a 
 few of the Catholic families in the neighbourhood; 
 avoiding as far as was in his power any very familiar 
 intercourse with those who had yielded themselves up 
 to the new and dangerous influences of the Jesuits. 
 These, however, were chiefly to be found among the 
 younger and more rash and inexperienced men. 
 
 ‘‘ Ah!” said the temperate and judicious Hatton, 
 they do not go about to seduce the ancient and dis- 
 creet men, for they (as the priests say) be too cold; but 
 they assail with their persuasions the younger sort, and 
 of those the most ripe wits, whose high hearts and am- 
 bitious minds do carry them headlong.” 
 
 But to return to the ball-room. 
 
 The effect produced upon the character, by the dif- 
 ferent schools of religious opinion in which it had been 
 formed, was exemplified in the three young ladies before 
 us — a contrast which the most careless reader of history 
 cannot help remarking between the great leaders and cap- 
 tains of the contending parties for and against the 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 31 
 
 reform: between Guise and Coligny — tbe Duke of 
 Alva and William of Orange — Henry of Navarre and 
 Henry of Anjou — Mary and Elizabeth of England: 
 and so for the rest. The education which Evel}^ 
 Mulsho had received, though nominally Catholic, par- 
 took of the enlightened opinions upon moral and reli- 
 gious subjects which took rise in her day; and her 
 manner and countenance showed their effect. 
 
 The same remark might apply to the two other young 
 ladies; the cold ascetic beauty of the one, the somewhat 
 too animated graces of the other, contrasted with the 
 sweet, innocent smile, the gentleness, cheerfulness, and 
 ineffable simplicity of the third. 
 
 There are several other pleasing and high-bred young 
 men, intimate friends of the gentlemen above described, 
 who take part in this royal entertainment. 
 
 There was Mr. Winter, an inteUigent, animated 
 young man, in his tawny satin suit, cut and embroidered, 
 and slashed with tawny cloth of tissue, and ornamented 
 with abundance of tawny-coloured lace, dancing away 
 with all the gaiety proper to his age. There was 
 the common friend of them all, Francis — in a suit of 
 murrey satin — no one much likes Francis, he is so cold 
 and cautious in his demeanour; and Winter makes sport 
 of his grave, pondering face, as he flashes gaily by, 
 dancing with that fairest Bridges, whose syren smiles 
 ship-wrecked a far mightier than he. 
 
 And there is that tall man with his half Scottish, 
 half Norman features, his hooked nose, and his some- 
 what high cheek-bones — he is a gentleman pensioner. 
 
32 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 and he well becomes the gaudy dress he wears, as he 
 paces about the room ; he is called Thomas. 
 
 The aged queen looks on with her red and fiery eye, 
 and her countenance softens into indulgence and kindness, 
 as she watches the gay revellers, and marks the glittering 
 groups pass and repass, and glide away in the intricacies 
 of the dance. 
 
 She is happy at this moment herself; for her favourite 
 sits near her feet, conversing in that delightful and 
 spirited manner which has perhaps pleased her too well. 
 She does not perceive, luckily, that his eyes fall more 
 often than they ought to do, upon his fairest Bridges — 
 that courtly coquette who is dancing so daintily along. 
 
 He is talking to his royal mistress of Cadiz, and of 
 the sultry suns and splendid cities of Spain, of her 
 towering sierras, her magnificent cathedrals, her 
 well-trained infantry, her countless treasures of pearl 
 and gold, and of all her gorgeous and most barbarous 
 pride, power, wealth, and cruelty. 
 
 She shudders at the tale — thinks of the burning auto- 
 da-fe, and of that cold and cruel king attired in his 
 crown of empire, and watching the miserable wretches 
 burn: she cries out in her secret heart, “ How long, oh ! 
 Lord, how long?” 
 
 She has not the gift of prophecy, anointed queen 
 though she be — she cannot see that sun of glory sink 
 in the blood and smoke of those unhallowed and devihsh 
 sacrifices, and the darkness and the desolation that shall 
 long overshadow the land. 
 
 She looks round the brilliant assembly of youth and 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 33 
 
 beauty before her, and her experienced eye singles out 
 the fair and stalwart youths there assembled, with frames 
 of energy, and eyes full of generous courage and assur- 
 ance. She counts them, as one that maketh up her 
 jewels. 
 
 But she had, in spite of all her wisdom, too much of a 
 foolish woman’s eye. She overlooked that countenance 
 with features ordinary enough but with an expression 
 so remarkable, and her eye dwelt upon the beautiful 
 Everard. But she was not altogether mistaken in thus 
 singling him out ; for Everard was a rare and inestimable 
 pearl. 
 
 The queen ordered Essex to bring up that young 
 man, and she soon won his heart by her kind manner, 
 and varied and pointed conversation. 
 
 He met her favour as she loved to have her favours 
 received, neither with too base an observance, nor with 
 too forward a presumption. She loved to see all around 
 her maintain a free-born English heart, even in her 
 royal presence; and, though the flattery was irresistible 
 that simulated affection, she never could away with 
 mere servihty. 
 
 In the meantime the music blows louder and louder, 
 the dance becomes more and more animated; Robert 
 seems to have forgotten the cold and ungrateful Grace 
 Vaux, and to be for the time the slave of the enraptured 
 Eleanor. 
 
 Oh ! how sweet and fascinating were her smiles when 
 thus made happy by the attentions of her heart’s idol, 
 till at length, led by that intoxication which has turned 
 the head of many a graver man in such circumstances, 
 
 c 
 
34 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Robert seemed to have forgotten the severe and beau- 
 teous saint to whom his heart’s secret adoration was 
 devoted, and to be revelling with delight, dancing with 
 her beauteous rival. 
 
 The fair and holy Grace, unhke so many saints that 
 have been seen in this court and in this world, is content, 
 it would appear, under the desertion her severity has 
 occasioned. She sat lost, as I said, behind the blaze of 
 light above her^ watching the dancers with a calm and 
 serious eye from which every appearance of severity 
 had vanished, though its expression was darkened, as 
 it were, by hidden sorrow. 
 
 Sometimes gravely and thoughtfully she gazes upon 
 the grand and noble queen, and a slight shudder runs 
 through the tender frame of that beautiful creature. 
 Sometimes her eye wanders amid the gay and thoughtless 
 groups of dancers, and a mingled expression of pity and 
 of wonder crosses her beauteous brow. Sometimes a sad 
 and wintry smile steals over those sweet and serious lips, 
 as the merry jest and echoing laugh ring upon her ear. 
 
 So she sat lost in her own reflections, and apparently 
 forgotten by all around. No one approached her, no 
 one spoke to her ; she seemed deserted by all that giddy 
 world. At last a gentleman of the middle age and of a 
 remarkably pleasing aspect entered: he was dressed in a 
 most elegant and expensive manner, his white satin vest 
 and cloak embroidered with gold and pearls, and his 
 soft curling fair hair was arranged with almost feminine 
 nicety: his dress was delicately perfumed, as were 
 his fine embroidered white gloves, with some of those 
 rare and exquisite perfumes then so much esteemed : 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 35 
 
 he came from behind a group of gentlemen who stood 
 around the distant door, being among those admitted 
 rather as spectators, than as guests. 
 
 These gentlemen were crowded together in one dense 
 mass under the orchestra where the music was placed, 
 and were all handsomely dressed, as well as the one who 
 approached Grace Vaux. 
 
 The maiden queen, even in a favourite like Essex, 
 could scarcely forgive any neglect of the outward 
 habiliments ; he was an exception — a tolerated sloven 
 — but in any one else who presented himself, whe- 
 ther as dancer in the galliard or merely as spectator 
 at the door, such remissness was considered inexcus- 
 able. The cavalier, however, that now came up, was 
 certainly no offender in this respect. He had, indeed, 
 quite an air of studied elegance, and his delicate com- 
 plexion and peculiarly sweet blue eye rendered his ap- 
 pearance extremely agreeable ; he was a little too much 
 embonpoint perhaps to be perfectly handsome, and his 
 countenance might have seemed to some too soft and 
 languid ; it carried a certain appearance of indolence, 
 and of a negligent and indifferent temper. 
 
 There was, likewise, an indescribable something, slow, 
 almost cautious, in his manner of speaking, which to a 
 nice critic would not have been engaging — but they 
 were not very nice critics in that day. 
 
 He approached the place Avhere the fair votary sat 
 retired, and, with a certain air of assured welcome, 
 placed himself by her side. 
 
 She did not start, or betray the slightest degree of 
 surprise or emotion as he did so ; but raising her eyes, 
 c 2 
 
36 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 fixed them upon him without speaking, only acknow- 
 ledging his presence by a slight almost imperceptible 
 move of the head. She then resumed her former attitude, 
 again casting her eyes upon the ground. He rested his 
 head upon his white gloved hand, gazed upon her in 
 silence for a second or two, w^hich gaze she received 
 without seeming to notice it. 
 
 At last, in a very soft insinuating tone of voice, he 
 said, And who must not rejoice to see the fairest Grace 
 Vaux in this scene of pleasure?’^ 
 
 I am here,” said she, without turning her head 
 or raising her eyes from the floor, “as one in a strange 
 place.” 
 
 “ What place upon this dark and troubled earth 
 but must seem strange to the denizen of heaven ?” said 
 he, in a low voice; “ and yet, as the angels at times 
 descend and visit this sphere upon their holy purposes, 
 so the virgin saint of Harroden Magna has done well 
 to be here.” 
 
 She only answered with an almost Imperceptible sigh; 
 and he, his head still resting upon his hand, continued 
 to gaze upon her. 
 
 After a second silence of considerable length, he 
 began again in the same calm, low, unaccented tone : 
 
 “Yet this must needs be a strange spectacle for one 
 whose eyes have been purged by a drop of that precious 
 herb which destroys the vain enchantment of the out- 
 ward seeming, and shows us things as in truth they are.” 
 
 She cast those clear bright orbs full upon him, turning 
 slowly like the wheel of a planet. Their dark splen- 
 dour almost dazzled him. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 37 
 
 “ It is . . . was all slie answered. 
 
 ‘^The Hall ofEblis... ” 
 
 It dropped from his lips so softly, that she could but 
 just hear the words. 
 
 “You have read the legend,” he went on in his 
 ordinary and low tone of voice; “if not, it were a 
 legend worth the perusal, for it is grand and it is 
 terrible. There, sits he — the damned monarch of that 
 mighty crew — gorgeous in gold and crimson, pearl and 
 priceless gems .... the floor of Hell is paved with 
 gold and gems, fair creature. . . . And there those cursed 
 and most miserable spirits are crowding and clustering, 
 all decked and dizened out. . . . Smiles are on their 
 lips — the glitter of sin is in their eye .... and in 
 their hearts .... hell fire r 
 
 Her countenance, so pale before, grew paler at the 
 terrific description ; — but not a feature moved. 
 
 “ Have you read the legend ? Did you say that 
 you had studied the legend ?” — ^bending forward with 
 a sort of quiet, conversational expression of counte- 
 nance, as if asking the most indifierent question. 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “I have often thought,” continued he, after a third 
 pause, resuming the conversation in a careless tone, 
 but with a voice low as ever. “ what a strange thing 
 a crowd of dancers is ! Close your ears with your 
 hands — silence the music which incites them — look upon 
 those flesh and blood creatures — and they instantly 
 appear as dreamy phantoms. — Has the fairest Grace 
 ever tried that experience ?” 
 
 “ I have in a fantastical mood sometimes,” she said. 
 
38 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 ‘‘ Strange metamorpliosis ! But there is,” again low- 
 ering his voice, a more extraordinary effect sometimes 
 produced upon my mind : these are circumstances under 
 v/hich those who close their ears^ become to me as 
 mere phantoms.” 
 
 No reply. 
 
 ‘‘ Singular, but true. The ear, fairest Grace, is as the 
 porch of life ; — well has the matchless poet represented 
 the venom which destroyed the royal Dane, as distilled 
 through the porches of the ear — admirable fable ! 
 Deep and deadly hath that venom been which through 
 that little gate hath found its entrance, carrying death 
 not only to the frail and perishing body, but perdition 
 to the everlasting soul.” 
 
 She sighed. 
 
 ‘‘ Have you ever marked,” he again began, a ‘‘ num- 
 ber of light, many-coloured autumn leaves dancing as if 
 in wild delight before the pleasant morning wind ? It 
 sweeps them by, and where are they ? Gone ! — perished ! 
 and the place that hath seen them, shall know them no 
 more. Who asks after the idle and unvalued leaves? 
 have they perished ? are they gone ? are they anni- 
 hilated ? or have they been gathered to the fire? 
 So are these things to me, for the seed is not in them. 
 They shall — yea, like a baseless vision, they shall dis- 
 solve, and leave not a wreck behind.” 
 
 She sighed again, and her melancholy eye slowly 
 turned from that brilliant scene: — yes, passive as she 
 seemed, there were many there, the loved, and the 
 honoured, whom fain would she have snatched from the 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 39 
 
 fearful doom. She looked at her companion again, 
 •with a sort of imploring expression, as much as to say, 
 Must all these perish? Nay — not all — surely 
 there are those who will save some?” 
 
 He fixed his eye steadily upon hers for a short time; 
 then withdrew it — and with a gentle smile he said : 
 One wandering in the wilderness — marks and se- 
 lects the balm-distilling plants and precious herbs — ^lie 
 culls them with a careful hand and places them in his 
 bosom: when the wind of destruction passeth over, 
 they are not found.” 
 
 Again she looked at him wistfully, again at the com- 
 pany ; his eye followed hers, and fell upon Kobert ! 
 
 That is as a rose of Sharon,” said he, the wayfarer 
 will not pass him by.” 
 
 Then he rose quietly from the place, and walking 
 away, was soon lost in the crowd that closed around him. 
 
 She continued to sit in the same place, but her eye 
 followed him anxiously; there was one question she had 
 longed, yet dared not ask. 
 
 But her heart was full of it. 
 
 There sat that royal woman — there danced and 
 fleeted by the gay stream of revellers ; but her soul was 
 in a dark and lonesome place. 
 
 There was one about to be cast into the dungeon, 
 over whom all the terrors of the law were impending. 
 A wise, pious, and accomplished man; and Grace Vaux 
 turned sick at the contrast with the gay scene before 
 her, and shuddered at the horrors of his probable fate. 
 
 But she had not ventured to ask a single question 
 
40 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 from the gentleman in satin embroidered with gold and 
 pearl; had not ventured even in the remotest manner 
 to allude to the subject. There was something in the 
 blue mild eye of that man, which she dreaded incon- 
 ceivably: there was nothing on earth she dreaded so 
 much as a reproof from him. He had commanded her 
 to appear at this festival, and she, her heart bleeding 
 silently within, had obeyed; and there she sat, the 
 very image of patient suffering, watching the glittering 
 crowd and listening to the loud clang of the music; 
 but her very soul was sick with anguish. 
 
 By and by she saw the same gentleman appear at the 
 other end of the hall. And well instructed as she was 
 in many things of which the world in general was 
 ignorant, her astonishment was excessive, to see him 
 enter into conversation with the Earl of Essex ; and 
 upon terms, as it would appear, of old acquaintances. 
 
 She saw Essex introduce him to many of those around, 
 and she thought her head must be dizzy, and her eyes daz- 
 zled, when she beheld him presented by the same hand, 
 to Robert, Everard, young Winter, and several of his 
 and her mutual friends. ^ 
 
 She sighed, and cast her eyes in perplexity upon the 
 ground. 
 
 Presently Robert was at her side again. 
 
 ‘‘Still here !” he said, “still fair and blessed one — 
 obscured in a blaze of glory too dazzling for our feeble 
 eyes. Why — why will you not condescend to mingle 
 with lower beings, and do as others do ? See,” he con- 
 tinued, with a look of meaning — “ There is very good 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 41 
 
 company near the state. Mr. Darcy^ of Northumber- 
 land ; I have been just introduced to him by the Earl 
 of Essex himself.” 
 
 “I thought I saw something of the sort,” said she, 
 with another sigh. 
 
 “ He seems to be an accomplished cavalier, that Mr. 
 Darcy,” said Robert, with some little dissatisfaction in 
 his tone of voice, “ but men may be too accomplished 
 to my taste. I prefer the daring of the lion to the 
 wisdom of the serpent. What says the fairest Grace?” 
 
 “ A pious end must justify the means,” said she, 
 while a slight colour passed over her pale cheek. ‘‘ And 
 what are we poor, cowardly sinners as we are — that we 
 should judge a Daniel, even in the lions’ den.” 
 
 The colour flashed across Robert’s face, and flew to 
 his temples. 
 
 ‘‘ Cowardly! the lady Grace says — the lady Grace 
 thinks us cowardly,” repeated he. 
 
 Well, well ; time was, time is — ” 
 
 But Grace,” — turning to her again, and bending 
 the full force of his deep melting brown eye upon her — 
 “ Grace, have you ever heard in your idle hours at 
 Harroden, such things as old romances ? Has Grace 
 Vaux ever condescended to bend her eye upon such 
 foolish tales ? Have you ?” 
 
 “ Idleness all — ” said the fair devotee. 
 
 “ Did you never hear of what has been done — is done 
 — may be done for the queen and idol of one’s heart ? 
 Have you never learned that these charms, this wealth 
 of beauty was given you for a purpose, Grace ; for a high 
 
42 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 purpose ? Know you not that there is one breathing 
 upon this earth who would dare all that man dare- 
 more than man dare — all that devils dare — at your bid- 
 ding ?” 
 
 She shook her head, looked at him again,- and sighed 
 heavily. 
 
 I have been taught my duty,” she said ; but oh ! 
 that you would place that jewel, your imperishable soul, 
 under other and higher guidance than that of a weak 
 and sinful* worm like me. Oh ! Robert ! why do you 
 come to me ?” 
 
 Because I adore you,” he cried, impetuously. 
 
 ‘‘ Hush, hush, I will not, cannot hear such words ;” 
 and yet, as if constrained by some overruling power, 
 though with visible reluctance, she still listened. 
 
 He went on little heeding her interruption: Because 
 
 I hate and despise much that I see and that I ought 
 to reverence and respect — and — ” 
 
 Ah, blessed and holy martyrs ! And is it thus 
 your pious sacrifices are regarded ? Is this the return 
 for the stifling rope, the butcher’s knife, the de- 
 vouring fire !” and she shuddered and turned deadly 
 pale. 
 
 ‘‘ No,” said he, glancing again to the other end of the 
 room ; ‘‘ that was not what I was thinking of.” 
 
 And would these or ihat^'^ said she, gravely fol- 
 lowing his eye as it rested upon Mr. Darcy, engaged 
 in courteous communication with those around him. 
 ‘‘ Would these or that cost you most, Robert ?” 
 
 He was silenced. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 43 
 
 There are sacrifices^” continued the fair, but too 
 sincere sophist, ‘‘which are to a brave man more than 
 the sacrifice of life.” 
 
 And she turned her eye from the state full upon 
 him. — At that very moment the Earl of Essex was pre- 
 senting Mr. Darcy to Queen Elizabeth. 
 
 Robert and Grace Vaux exchanged glances of aston- 
 ishment. Even the spirited young man felt as if there 
 was something almost magnificent in the daring de- 
 ceptions of Mr. Darcy. As he sat watching the in- 
 sinuating air of politeness and calm dignity which that 
 gentleman assumed, upon this his first interview with 
 the mighty queen: as he marked the respectful de- 
 ference of his manner, the reverential humility of his 
 
 whole demeanour^ and thought of 
 
 “ What mean you, I say, to push yourselves in so 
 horrible danger of body and soul, for a wicked woman ! 
 dismissed by the Vicar of Christ, her, and your, 
 lawful judge — forsaken of God, who justifieth the 
 sentence of his vicar — ^forsaken of all Catholic princes, 
 whom she hath injured intolerably — forsaken of divers 
 
 lords, knights, and gentlemen of England what 
 
 will ye answer to the Pope’s lieutenant, when he shall 
 charge you with the crime of doing suit and service to 
 an heretical praetensed queen against Christ’s vicar?” 
 Words — which that very day, in secret conference, 
 Robert had heard fall from the lips of Mr. Darcy. 
 
 Tlierc was that unhappily in the nature of Robert, 
 which responded to every thing which was bold, daring, 
 and desperate ; duplicity in a moderate degree he would 
 
44 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 have despised; but tlie immensity of the deceit hid 
 from his conscience its meanness. 
 
 He looked on, wondering and admiring. 
 
 “ His genius is really astonishing,” at last he ex- 
 claimed turning his eyes from the group at the top of 
 the hall, and again addressing his companion. 
 
 Say rather his faith,” replied she, with reverence. 
 Robert looked in a strange way: his countenance 
 was far from being acquiescent in this last sentiment. 
 
 But now several of their mutual acquaintance, young 
 gentlemen of fashion and breeding, came rushing down 
 the room; the drums, trumpets, rebecks, and flutes, 
 again struck up their loud symphony; — and there was a 
 preparation for another dance. 
 
 ‘‘ Come, Robert,” cried young Winter, gaily: “ find 
 yourself a pair — I am to dance with Eleanor.” 
 
 “Will you not dance, Grace Vaux?” said Francis, 
 addressing her in his usual formal, composed manner. 
 “ Why do you choose to make yourself so singular? 
 Every body dances but yourself? My lady, your mo- 
 ther would wish you to dance too?” 
 
 “How can I?” said she, looking more and more 
 distressed, — “ Oh, Francis, how can you ask me?” 
 
 “ How can I ask you? And pray why should I 
 not ask you? — I hope,” said he, with meaning, “ you 
 do not refuse to dance because .... that would be im- 
 prudent indeed.” 
 
 “ But I have refused Robert.” 
 
 “ Never mind Robert. — It would be no penance, 
 perhaps, to dance with him,” said Francis: “and I 
 
PATHER DARCY. 
 
 45 
 
 know it can be no pleasure to dance with. me. Try 
 one cinque pace.'* 
 
 He spoke as one accustomed to be regarded — and 
 the last argument was not without its weight with the 
 fair ascetic. It was true she did distrust herself, and 
 her inchnations pleaded too strongly when Robert was 
 in question — with Francis there was no such weakness 
 of inclination to be resisted; she gave him her hand; 
 and executed the measure in a way that drew the eyes 
 of the whole assembly upon her. 
 
 Robert, this time, refused to dance : he stood lean- 
 ing against the wall, wrapt in a sort of ecstasy, as he 
 watched her slowly moving among the rest : the lovely 
 sedateness of her appearance still preserved — and the 
 holy tranquillity of her brow still unruffled. 
 
 The queen, Essex, Mr. Darcy, all watched her. 
 
 The old queen asked who that fair creature was: 
 “For methinks,** said she, “ it is some time since our 
 court has been graced with so rare a pearl — Mrs. 
 Bridges is an Ethiop in the comparison,’* she added, 
 loud enough to be heard by the Earl of Essex; but 
 not directing the remark to him. “ May it be the 
 daughter of the late Lord Vaux? if our memory 
 deceive us not. We have not held the house of Vaux 
 as among the closest of our friends, perchance ; but 
 we rejoice that the fair daughter of Harroden hath at 
 length graced our court. She is dancing with that tall 
 Tresham I think, whose father owes us no kindness . . . 
 an evil conjunction ! Methinks the fair lady might 
 have chosen better.** 
 
46 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 I assure your majesty/’ said Essex, bluntly, that 
 there are none you might more readily, if such were 
 your pleasure, count among your real friends, than 
 such as he. Those who are faithful in one thing, 
 shall be found faithful in many. A hypocrite is an 
 apple of Sodom — under any garb.” 
 
 ‘‘Full of bitterness and ashes — think you so, Essex? 
 Marry, you are a rare man for discerning of spirits.” 
 There are those who think nothing but experience 
 can give discernment,” said he, saucily. 
 
 The colour flashed into the queen’s face. 
 
 Marry, and if it do — it shall give authority hke- 
 wise,” said she. And it shall court reverence too, 
 from every malapert reasoner among you all.” 
 
 Essex bowed with a kind of ironical smile, which 
 seemed to say, to such reasoning there is no reply: 
 and turning from the queen, addressed himself to Mr. 
 Darcy, who had continued standing at no great distance 
 from the state. 
 
 ‘‘ And who is this new face? This Mr. Darcy, of 
 the north, my Lord Essex is so thick with?” said the 
 queen, addressing Robert Cecil, who, silent and pre- 
 occupied as usual, had remained standing where he 
 had first placed himself, close beside her. 
 
 ‘‘ Nay, your most gracious majesty, I don’t pretend 
 to know all my Lord Essex’s acquaintance — not I.” 
 
 He is marvellously given to strange company,” 
 remarked the queen. 
 
 Cecil shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 “ But that seems a gallant gentleman, and is ex- 
 ceedingly well dressed and appointed,” pursued the 
 
FATHER DARCY. 47 
 
 royal critic. ‘‘Darcy, of the north! The Darcy s 
 were ever an honourable race . . 
 
 The eye of the secretary, sharp and scrutinising, was 
 fixed ^ upon the person in question; but he made no 
 answer; and presently a rush of a party of gallants 
 separated Mr. Darcy from Lord Essex, Cecil lost sight 
 of him for a moment, and he never during the evening 
 observed him again. 
 
 Essex, out of humour and sulky, as he was too apt 
 to be at the slightest contradiction, remained standing 
 at a little distance from the queen. 
 
 She was piqued, and signing him to come up to her, 
 said: 
 
 “ It is reported, that my Lord of Essex keeps choice 
 company, it gives a friend pleasure to hear it.^* 
 
 “ My Lord of Essex selects his company to please 
 himself, not his back friends,’^ said he, bluntly. 
 
 “ Flatterers are the most dangerous of UN-friends,^’ 
 said his monitress and mistress, who loved to school him. 
 
 “ And if five-and-thirty years have not taught wis- 
 dom, neither shall stripes on the back of a fool,’’ — was 
 his answer. 
 
 “ Thou speakest but the truth,” said the queen, with 
 a certain sadness in her tone. “ Vain are stripes, and 
 vain the idle breath of words. He of whom the stars in 
 their ascendant marked out the fiery course, how shall the 
 
 poor hand of a clay-built creature stay Phaeton 
 
 — I think it was they named thee at thy baptism — was 
 it not, Essex ?” 
 
 “ Titan — rather,’^ dropped in a whisper from Cecil. 
 
 “ Parmenio— ” said Essex, with feeling. 
 
48 
 
 PATHER DARCY. 
 
 The queen continued the war of words no longer : her 
 heart — placable and forgiving, and but too susceptible 
 for her peace — melted at the tone in which the last word 
 was uttered, and the petulance of the favourite was in a 
 moment forgiven. 
 
 In the meantime the dance in which Grace Vaux 
 had taken a part was ended; and no longer retreating to 
 the further end of the apartment, she was led by Fran- 
 cis to the place where Evelyn sat, who, rising with an 
 air of much delight, greeted her and made room for her 
 by her side. 
 
 Eleanor was already occupying the other end of the 
 low bench on which she was seated — and of the three 
 fair girls now sitting together it would be difficult to 
 say which was the most lovely. 
 
 ‘‘ I was so much pleased to see you dance at last,” 
 said Evelyn, affectionately taking the hand of Grace in 
 her own, “ I was afraid you were ill or unhappy, sitting 
 there so far from us all. I was so glad to see you dance.” 
 Were you?” said the other, quietly, then I could 
 almost be glad I did dance: but you know I do not 
 like dancing. I merely trod a measure to avoid the 
 persecution of Francis, who you know is used to carry 
 things all his own way.” 
 
 Francis had walked away apparently as indifferent, 
 now he had accomplished his purpose, as she could be 
 herself. He went and stood by Eleanor, who was look- 
 ing at Grace with a strange kind of dubious expression. 
 
 ‘‘ I got her to dance at length,” said he, ‘‘ though she 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 49 
 
 had refused Robert repeatedly. And I suppose I shall 
 have Robert’s sword through my body for my pains.” 
 
 Robert had by this time left the wall against which 
 he had leaned. He came up to the bench which the 
 young ladies were occupying. 
 
 The eye of Eleanor followed him, but that of the fair 
 Grace continued bent upon the ground ; Eleanor 
 watched them anxiously. Would he be piqued and 
 oiFended ? Would he forsake the cold indifferent, as 
 he had once before that evening done ? 
 
 No !— 
 
 Not one syllable, not one look for any one but her. 
 
 He drew a stool and sat down by her side ; she did 
 not even turn her eyes towards him. 
 
 It is to no purpose,” he said at last, in a low but 
 resolute voice. ‘‘ You think perhaps to drive me from 
 your side by this severity, to offend my pride as much as 
 you wound my heart by this preference of another. 
 No, Grace ; you cannot deceive me. You do not ; you 
 cannot prefer Francis to me — I defy you. I have loved 
 — I do love, you best know how deeply ; in life in death 
 I am yours, and I know you to be mine .... deny 
 me, defy me as you will, cruel Grace.” 
 
 “ It is you that are cruel,” said she, gently, “ I thought 
 you would have saved me from this persecution. You 
 know how bitter are all these things to me this night 
 .... but you are still the same that you ever were : 
 persecuting, careless, and unkind. Even this night 
 you will not leave me in peace — ^you arc without pity, 
 Robert.” 
 
 It was said in so very low a tone that no one but 
 D 
 
50 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 himself, as he leaned anxiously forward to catch what 
 she said, could hear it — and having said it, she turned 
 away from him and began to talk of quite indijQferent things 
 to Evelyn, carefully avoiding the slightest allusion to the 
 secret cause for sorrow which she had glanced at to him. 
 
 He did not look offended — far less jealous — far less 
 was he inclined to resent her unkindness by giving his 
 attention to another ; he continued to sit in his usual 
 persevering determined manner by her. 
 
 He appeared to have made up his mind to adore her - 
 in spite of all her coldness, and seemed almost contented 
 with the mere pleasure of gazing at her — as in her serious 
 way she talked to Evelyn and to Everard. 
 
 The brow of the fair Eleanor darkened, and she could 
 scarcely smother a sigh ; but she turned to Francis and 
 Winter, and began to laugh and talk. 
 
 ‘‘ Did you ever see any thing so determined,” said 
 Winter to Francis, ‘‘as his devotion to Grace Vaux? 
 He, whom we both remember such a wild roisterer, such 
 a daring despiser of Dan Cupid and all his toils— to be 
 snared in this fashion !” 
 
 “ You and 1 think differently of Robert,” said Francis. 
 
 But I do not pretend to understand him, and there is 
 not quite so much love lost between him and me, as 
 between you and him. Winter.” 
 
 Oh !” said Winter, “ he is my friend^ 
 
 “ That means much, does it ?”said Eleanor. “ I have 
 heard people call one another friend so Hghtly, that for 
 my part, I am no greater a believer in friendship, than 
 I am in love.” 
 
 “ You not believe in love — the beautiful Eleanor 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 51 
 
 whom all men worship not believe in love?” cried 
 Francis and Winter at a breath. 
 
 “Idle words — mere breath,” said she carelessly; and 
 as if wearied by their attentions, she turned round, and 
 again caught the eye of Robert fixed upon the lovely 
 Grace with such a deep and fervent expression ! 
 
 The heart of poor Eleanor fiuttered and faltered 
 sadly. She could not bear to believe it; she could not 
 endure the conviction that the coldness and severity of 
 Grace would not suffice, as it once seemed to have done 
 during that evening, to drive Robert from her side. 
 
 But he had taken his resolution while leaning against 
 the wall, following her as she glided gently through the 
 dance. He had made up his mind with much of the 
 devotion of a knight of chivalry — that, cruel or relenting, 
 nothing should drive him from her service. 
 
 He was one who, intent upon his purpose, disre- 
 garded all minor considerations, and was accustomed to 
 cling to his resolution in defiance of all the world. 
 There passed in his heart at that time a secret vow — 
 to devote his whole being to her. He was as yet a 
 stranger to any other of those raging passions which 
 might have served as a diversion to this. As yet the 
 fanatical devotion to a sect or a party had not taken 
 possession of his mind ; the sort of wild excitement in 
 which he had passed his youth had not yet altogether 
 subsided ; but his character was about to undergo a change, 
 and the form his passion for Grace Vaux was taking, 
 might be regarded only as a sort of earnest of what his 
 other passions would in time become. 
 
 Everard had prayed of Evelyn to dance yet another 
 D 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF M i 
 
52 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 dance with him — she had risen ; Eleanor had accepted 
 the hand of Tresham, and thus Grace and Robert were 
 again left to themselves. The music was so loud that 
 it was impossible for any one to overhear what was said. 
 It was but very seldom that such opportunities, pre- 
 sented themselves : he left the stool on which he had 
 been sitting, and took the seat by her side in disregard 
 of a sort of imploring look which she cast upon him : 
 but there is an unerring instinct in these matters — ^he 
 felt that it asked him to desist from his importunities, 
 but it spoke rather of self-distrust than of repugnance. 
 
 In spite of all her apparent coldness, the heart of the 
 sweet votary trembled as he placed himself again by 
 her side, and in a low earnest voice, rapidly reiterated : 
 ‘‘ Tell me — tell me, Grace — once for all tell me why 
 you hate me?” 
 
 Have I any cause to love you?” said she, gravely, 
 ‘‘ one who has such ways— holds such sentiments as you 
 do — why should I? How should I love that which 
 my whole soul disapproves and abhors?” 
 
 You speak of my past life,” said he. Is that what 
 you mean to allude to? You think me perhaps a 
 desperate and irreligious man — so I was once — so per- 
 chance I might still have been had I never known you, 
 Grace. But all this is changed with me — I am become 
 another being, you know that I am. Why reproach 
 me with the past?” 
 
 ‘‘ You know, Robert,” said she, gravely, that I re- 
 joice in that change — ^but ... .” 
 
 “ There are other changes you would say. What ! 
 have you not suspected them ? We kneel at the same 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 53 
 
 altar now, Grace. Would you have more? — Take more 
 — I have been reconciled by Mr. Darcy — ’’ 
 
 She started, and looked round terrified at his bold- 
 ness: but there was no one there to listen ; the 
 dangerous confidence was safe. 
 
 Has he ? Oh ! Robert, has he ? — ^blessed and 
 righteous missionary of Heaven !” She spoke, and the 
 tears swelled into her beautiful eyes ; not one drop, 
 however, fell upon her cheek. Robert gazed in a sort 
 of ecstasy at this demonstration of feeling. 
 
 ‘‘ At least then, you care for my everlasting soul’s 
 health, Grace,” he said. 
 
 ‘‘ The holy Virgin Mother forbid, that the redemption 
 of any poor lost and perishing soul should be indifferent 
 to me !” 
 
 “ Is that all you will say ? — Is that all I can wring 
 from your cold, insensible heart ?” said he, with some 
 impatience and bitterness. I had thought — I had 
 hoped — linked together in one sentiment — ” 
 
 “ Surely you did not think of such a woman as I am 
 in that awful moment ! Nay, Robert, you had not such 
 impiety in your heart.” 
 
 He gazed at the sweet moralist ; there was something 
 ineffably tender in the expression of his eye and his 
 tone of voice, as he said — 
 
 ‘‘It is vain to parley with you — you are an angel; 
 and I am the most darkened and corrupted of the 
 sinners that deform this miserable earth. But what 
 matters it, angel as thou art; I must and I will adore 
 thee ! In adoring thee, I adore that Heaven which 
 speaks through those eyes and in that voice. Impiety 
 
54 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 didst thou say ? I deny it. If I mingled the saints 
 and angels in my thoughts, as I took that step which 
 was to lead me to their habitations — if I thought of 
 thee ! — call it impiety if thou wilt. I own the impeach- 
 ment and repent it not. Others may have their tutelary 
 saints, but thou alone art mine ; others their guardian 
 angels, thou art mine ; others adore the Queen of 
 Heaven, but thou art the type of that divine one to me. 
 Do what you will — say what you will — this is the faith 
 to which I was reconciled. I ask for no other. — I am 
 thine ; ;do with me what thou wilt, for I am thine.’’ 
 She answered not ; she sat musing. 
 
 And now she began first to understand some of her 
 life’s past history. She began to comprehend the aim of 
 Mr. Darcy in his injunctions — the reason of the almost 
 stern command imposed upon her, to leave that religious 
 solitude in which she loved to dwell, to mingle in the 
 world, and to receive without too great impatience the 
 I service proffered by Robert. Commands to which she 
 had submitted with extreme reluctance; but which she 
 dared not and could not resist, for secret reasons known 
 only to them both. 
 
 She began to understand the vocation to which she 
 was called ; and sighing gently but without her usual 
 sadness, she said : 
 
 I have always told you how my heart shudders at 
 this profane and desperate way of talking to me. 
 Have done with such words I pray you, Robert — if for 
 the sake of nothing higher — let it be for my sake.” 
 
 “ I will never offend again/’ he said, submissively^ 
 charmed by her gentleness into softer feelings than 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 55 
 
 usual. ‘‘ Only acknowledge, sweetest Grace, that this 
 which I have told you of myself does not altogether 
 displease you.” 
 
 What has passed,” said she with composure, 
 consoles and reassures me. Shall I tell you, Robert, 
 that I have sorrowed over your impenitence? Ask 
 me not whether I joy at your reconciliation. Mayest 
 thou but tread her holy courts as a good and faithful 
 soldier of the Church, perilling life, if it must be so, 
 in the righteous cause. That shall be my heart’s prayer 
 for thee, Robert.” 
 
 And then there was a deep silence between them. 
 Suddenly she exclaimed, 
 
 ‘‘ Ah me ! could I have thought it possible that my 
 heart would have been beguiled from sadness on this 
 sorrowful night ? Woe’s me! a thoughtless, careless 
 sinner I” 
 
 ‘‘ How so?” said he, somewhat surprised. 
 
 “ You are in his confidence now,” said she; know 
 you not what has happened?” 
 
 “ I have heard a rumour of ill news.” 
 
 “Alas! alas! he that was more than my father upon 
 earth ; he who first carried the banner of the Church 
 into this lost and benighted land — the brave, the 
 wise, the venerable .... he who called so many from 
 darkness into the wonderful light ! . . . . The evil news 
 reached me, even while these miserable ornaments 
 were being hung upon me ! I was dressing myself for 
 this pitiless woman’s feast of gladness, when he was 
 quivering and shuddering under the iron grasp of her 
 implacable laws.” 
 
56 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 They both looked round suspicious and fearful, as 
 she uttered this. 
 
 “ Ask me no more,” she said; “ how dare I betray 
 my trust, and break his commands? He commanded me 
 not to speak of this. I have erred and spoken of it 
 to thee — Mea culpa ! — mea culpa !” 
 
 There was a look of rapturous delight in the eyes of 
 her lover, as with a face yet paler than usual, she struck 
 her bosom with her small clenched hand as she said 
 this; and rising, removed further from him on the 
 bench, as if guilty of some deadly sin. 
 
 He did not attempt to follow her, but rose and 
 again strolled up and down the room. 
 
 In the meantime Everard and the sweet Evelyn 
 had danced once more together, and were now sitting 
 engaged in pleasant converse, and insensible to all else 
 that was going on. 
 
 There seemed to be a sympathy in their natures 
 which attracted them insensibly to each other. They 
 were indeed, very much unlike the rest of their com- 
 panions ; there was an ingenuous truth — a simplicity, 
 a repose — about both of their countenances which was 
 very remarkable among those too often marked with 
 sullen discontent, suspicion, violence, or a kind of 
 dfmbiguous softness still more disagreeable. 
 
 The anxious father stood at some distance gazing 
 intently upon his child. He seemed endeavouring to 
 peruse in his handsome features the character of the 
 young gentleman who occupied so much of her attention. 
 
 He knew him little, though this was not the first 
 time they had met. They had occasionally been in 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 57 
 
 company at Harroden Magna, the seat of the Catholic 
 family of Lord Vaux. Earely — it is true ; for Mr. 
 Mulsho being, as has been said, a moderate Catholic 
 of the old school, was not held in much esteem by those 
 now converted to the new and dangerous opinions in 
 circulation. Neither did he desire for his daughter any 
 very close intimacy with those whose factious violence 
 he deprecated; though of the extent to which their 
 designs were in secret carried, he was kept in profound 
 ignorance. 
 
 The disposal of his daughter in marriage in these 
 difficult times, was the daily subject of his anxiety. He 
 desired to place her under the protection of some man 
 whose opinions were as moderate as his own; but how 
 could he find such a one in days such as these? 
 
 She looked so serenely, so perfectly happy at this 
 moment, that the father’s heart, in spite of all his anxious 
 forebodings of the future, could not but share in her joy. 
 
 In the meantime the smiles of the unhappy Eleanor 
 had been exchanged for an expression of the most 
 grievous dissatisfaction, as relinquishing the hand of 
 her cavalier, she stole up to her brother, for Everard 
 was her brother, and sat down by his side. 
 
 He looked round and observing her fallen expression 
 of countenance, said very kindly, for he was kindness 
 itself : 
 
 “ What ails my Eleanor ? She looks weary and pale 
 — nay, sweet heart ! you are ever the first to begin and 
 the last to leave off dancing — something more than com- 
 mon has happened, or you would not look so weary — 
 what is it, my sister?'’ 
 
58 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 What is it, sweet Eleanor,” said Evel3m, leaning 
 forward and speaking with her usual kind tone of voice; 
 
 there, try this pouncet box — ^you look pale and faint, 
 fair Eleanor.” 
 
 You are very kind — thank you — I pray your pardon ! 
 I believe I am not quite well. It is nothing, it will 
 soon pass away.” 
 
 She saw the beautiful Grace rise to leave the room 
 with her mother; and Robert, with several other young 
 gentlemen, in a kind of duteous attendance, following 
 her. But they only accompanied her to her coach- — 
 they all returned again to the hall. 
 
 And now Robert came up to. the place where they 
 were sitting, and placing himself by Eleanor — it was 
 now her turn. He was happy — he was overpowered 
 with happiness; he, so wild and careless, was for the 
 moment serious and still ; he had seen the faint blush 
 colour her cheek as he had taken her hand to lead her 
 from the apartment. It was enough — ^he asked no 
 more : he came and sat by Eleanor and Everard whom 
 he loved with great affection, to enjoy his satisfaction 
 in silence. 
 
 There was a perfect understanding existing between 
 these three young persons, so far as their religion went, 
 a matter at that time of such moment in all domestic 
 relations ; each of them had been reared in the profession 
 of the Protestant faith, from which, by the exertions 
 of Mr. Darcy, they had been rescued (as he would 
 have called it), and had all been reconciled together. 
 
 The reconciliation, however, conducted as it was by 
 Mr. Darcy — who it is proper to inform the reader, ^was 
 
EATHEK DARCY. 
 
 59 
 
 at that time the provincial or superior of the Jesuits in 
 England — implied much more than a mere return to 
 the Catholic religion : he had the art to mix up many 
 doctrines of ultramontane tendency (and with which, 
 strictly speaking, religion had nothing to do) with his 
 instructions — and to make use of the generous ardour 
 with which the heart of the young clings to the oppres- 
 sed and fallen, to infuse feelings the most pernicious 
 and dangerous : — but of this hereafter. 
 
 The sort of communion of feehng which this event 
 had produced among them had endeared them greatly 
 to each other; and had unhappily fostered in the too 
 susceptible heart of Eleanor the seeds of that passion 
 which was destroying her peace. 
 
 Evelyn was altogether without the pale of these secret 
 understandings. She had not the slightest suspicion of 
 the existence even of such intrigues; and this artless 
 simplicity was beyond measure charming to Everard, 
 naturally of a character as ingenuous as her own. 
 
 Robert talked with Eleanor with all the affectionate 
 freedom of a brother, which she, too apt to deceive 
 herself, mistook for a deeper and tenderer partiality. 
 And as she pursued her way home with her brother, sunk 
 into the corner of one of those splendid coaches which 
 were by this time almost in general use among men of 
 fortune — she indulged in dreams of felicity, the dan- 
 gerous delight of those who have never been schooled 
 to the duty of watchfulness and "internal self-discipline. 
 
60 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Evelyn and her father rode home, engaged in that 
 cheerful conversation which was usually maintained 
 between them. 
 
 Father and mother in one, his constant and unremit- 
 ting efforts had been directed to improve her under- 
 standing, and to strengthen her character; preparing 
 her to meet what might result from that dark and 
 threatening future which lay before them all. 
 
 Days, in which little children had talked of martyr- 
 dom as of a familiar thing, were not yet forgotten; and 
 every man of forethought, now that the years of the 
 hoary old queen were evidently approaching to a close, 
 looked forward with solicitude to what was next to 
 ensue. 
 
 Mr. Mulsho had accustomed his daughter to the most 
 perfect and unreserved confidence. 
 
 Evelyn, content of heart, and as yet in the dawn of 
 that passion whose mid-day hour is too often so troubled 
 and so stormy, prattled away upon all that she had seen 
 and observed; while her father, from time to time, 
 made his remarks, correcting her more rash and hasty 
 impressions. 
 
FATHER DARCY, 
 
 61 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 “ Create and rule a world, and work upon 
 Mankind by secret engines.” 
 
 Eleanor, exhausted with agitating passions, Tvent up 
 to her chamber ; tore off hastily all her splendid orna- 
 ments; and sinking upon her couch of down, was asleep 
 before her attendants had left the apartment. 
 
 Evelyn consigned herself to the care of an ancient 
 lady who officiated as a sort of half aunt, half governess, 
 half duenna, in the family of Mr. Mulsho. Mrs. Maude 
 was sitting up expecting her, accompanied by two serving 
 gentlewomen, as they might be called — almost of the 
 rank of gentlewomen, indeed they were ; for with the 
 forms of most respectful attendance was this young lady, 
 the heiress of Goddeshurst, and all its broad lands, re- 
 ceived upon returning to her father’s house. 
 
 Her bed-chamber was arranged with the greatest 
 luxury, the rich curtains of the bed fell in heavy velvet 
 folds upon the floor, the bed itself being covered with 
 a fine white satin coverlet fringed with gold. A large 
 dressing-table was set out, displaying the preparations 
 for the toilette, and adorned with several pieces of fine 
 gold filigree work ; gold and silver boxes and vases, and 
 rich cups of crimson and blue Venice glass stood on each 
 side of a mirror, in a frame of silver elaborately worked; 
 
62 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 silver lamps were burning on each, side of the apart- 
 ment. Every thing was costly and beautiful — and yet, 
 it was in accordance simply with the fashion of the 
 times, that all this was arranged: it was the result of a 
 certain style, due to her rank in society, rather than as 
 a matter of selfish luxury, that this was done for Evelyn. 
 
 Neither Mr. Mulsho nor his daughter loved luxury or 
 show ; it was a habit of their life and times which 
 passed without consideration. It was nothing more. 
 
 Good Mrs. Maude received her precious charge in 
 the hall as she entered — the two duennas standing like 
 maids of honour at some little distance behind ; the 
 large cloak in which she had been wrapped fell from 
 her as her father carefully unclasped it, gazing with a 
 father’s delight for ever new, upon her lovely face and 
 form ; but he gave no expression to the admiration he 
 felt ; such a proceeding would have been quite incon- 
 sistent with the gravity of a father in those days. Eve- 
 lyn dropped upon one knee, kissed her father’s hand — 
 received his blessing — and then consigned to Mrs. Maude, 
 was carried away to her bed-chamber, there to spend 
 the time, while her attendants were busily employed 
 upon her night toilette, in relating all the wonders of 
 that gorgeous scene at which she had been present for 
 the first time of her life. 
 
 And how was the still more delicate — the still more 
 graceful — the still more beautiful Grace Vaux, received 
 as she entered the house of her fathers that night. 
 
 In the days of Queen Elizabeth the Strand, as a street, 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 63 
 
 did not exist ; from Temple Bar to tlie wide extended 
 precincts of what was called the Old Palace of West- 
 minster, a line of grand but detached houses stood upon 
 the banks of the river, at some furlongs’ distance from 
 the water. They were all surrounded by large gardens 
 which were carried to the river’s brink, and were laid 
 out with much of the quaint magnificence of those days 
 in such matters. 
 
 Among these was one which history has for ever 
 rendered memorable ; namely, Essex House — but this 
 is not that to which I am at present going to conduct 
 you. 
 
 The one you are about to enter is a large gloomy 
 looking mansion of very great antiquity, built of timber 
 and clay; what we commonly call black and white 
 houses, with which style of architecture all are perfectly 
 well acquainted, specimens still existing of it all over 
 the country. 
 
 The house of which we are thinking was a very fine 
 example of the style in question; at least so far as ex- 
 tent of front and innumerable peaks and gables went; 
 but it was more than usually heavy and gloomy. 
 
 The stories overhung each other so that the lower 
 windows were completely cast into shadow by the huge 
 projecting beams above ; the ground-floor apartments 
 being thus rendered so dark, that it was twilight within 
 even in the glare of mid-day : — as the stories rose one above 
 another, the aspect of things became somewhat more cheer- 
 ful. A long gallery or receiving-room upon the highest 
 floor extended the whole length of the house, and its 
 line of rich lattice windows looked out upon the Thames ; 
 
64 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 but the story below this was very heavy and gloomy. 
 A very large low irregularly shaped ante-room occupied 
 at this floor the centre of the mansion, lined with a 
 wainscoting of oak, which time had rendered nearly as 
 dark as ebony. Out of this several very small cham- 
 bers equally gloomy and dark opened,; some serving as 
 the sleeping apartments of the members of this family — 
 the rest wrapt in a sort of mysterious solitude and silence, 
 which was oppressive to the spirits and imagination. 
 
 It was into the large court of this gloomy abode that 
 the coach of the Lady Vaux turned ; and here, gliding 
 like some white spirit amid the realms of darkness, the 
 beautiful Grace, taking a small plain iron lamp from the 
 aged serving-man who opened the door, after having 
 made a formal reverence to her mother, began to 
 mount the dark stairs of chestnut, which led to the 
 gloomy gallery above. Staircase followed staircase and 
 gallery gallery — all seeming, however, darker, more 
 low, and more gloomy one than the other — till she 
 reached the ante-chamber upon the higher floor ; and 
 turning an outer key that stood in the lock, entered un- 
 attended, her small and dismal chamber. The walls of 
 this, like those of the other apartments, were wainscoted 
 with dark panelled oak, against which hung some pic- 
 tures of saints, in black ebony frames ; a few chairs of 
 oak without cushion or covering ; a table without carpet 
 or velvet overlaying it — perfectly bare ; with only a 
 few books in black covers, arranged around. Such was 
 the furniture of the room. At one end of it there was 
 a door, now standing open, which led into the cell, 
 rather than chamber, where was a narrow uncurtained 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 65 
 
 bed, with its one mattress, and scanty covering, formed 
 as nearly as possible upon the model of those of the 
 strictest conventual orders. Opposite to this door, 
 a panel, so exactly fitted to the wainscot that when 
 closed its existence escaped observation, stood open; 
 and lighted by two immense wax-candles which were 
 placed on either side, displayed an immense black cru- 
 cifix. The a«:onisin^ fiofure of the blessed Saviour of 
 Catholic and heretic alike, was here represented larger 
 than life ; in wood so excessively darkened and discoloured 
 by age, that it had the appearance of bronze; the terrors 
 of that dreadful hour were represented with a truth 
 almost harrowing, in the writhing limbs, and by the dark 
 hue of the drooping head and face. 
 
 At the foot of this crucifix a very aged woman, at- 
 tired in deep black was kneeling ; — she had on a small 
 white tippet, and a black veil and hood encircled her 
 face, not suffering one lock of her silver hair to become 
 visible : her rosary of plain ebony in her hand, she was 
 repeating prayers which might have appeared mecha- 
 nical, had not the deep devotion of her whole air and 
 manner rendered them affecting and impressive. 
 
 The aged nun, for a very aged nun she was — a last 
 relic of those religious societies which the rage for inno- 
 vation of Henry, and his minister Cromwell, had abo- 
 lished — had, when driven from her convent, received 
 shelter in the family of the Lord Vaux ; and had 
 from that time lived there secluded, and as much ac- 
 cording to the severe rule of her order as circumstances 
 would allow. 
 
 She was praying with such deep devotion, and was so 
 E 
 
66 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 entirely absorbed in what she was about, that she did 
 not hear the door open, nor perceive the entrance of the 
 Lady Grace: who, presenting a strange contrast to the 
 gloomy scene, arrayed as she was in her rich white 
 dress, and sparkling jewels, came forward silently, and 
 began to take off her ornaments, and cast them with 
 something which was more than disdainful indifference 
 — with a sort of disgust — upon the bare oaken table 
 before her. 
 
 Her robes of white satin fell upon the ground, 
 displaying the extraordinary simplicity of her attire 
 or under-dress beneath. No point, no needlework 
 adorned her. She cast hastily aside the vestments of 
 ceremony assumed for the occasion, as if she were im- 
 patient to be rid of such offensive vanities, and covered 
 herself with a white wrapping-gown of the most rigid 
 simplicity, and having done so, sat down upon a bare 
 oaken bench which occupied one side of the wall, 
 waiting till the orisons of the nun should have termi- 
 nated. 
 
 The ancient woman rose from her knees, and turned 
 her withered face and dimmed eye upon the young 
 lady. The face was paler than usual, pale as it ever 
 was; and in the eye spoke an expression of grief and 
 horror not to be mistaken. The young lady clasped 
 her hands with a look of agony. 
 
 Neither of them spoke, but a gesture of the old nun’s 
 head said: “ It is too true 
 
 The young lady gave a low groan, then she lifted 
 up her clasped hands before her eyes, and the tears 
 trickled slowly through her fingers. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 67 
 
 She wept some time in this quiet manner, her tears 
 falling like the still summer rain; and then she slowly 
 let her hands sink upon her lap, and speaking with 
 her usual gentle composure, she said : 
 
 ‘‘ And how did you hear it?’ 
 
 “ Father Tesmond was here to-night. He came by 
 command of Mr. Darcy to give you the intelligence.” 
 
 ‘‘ Is Father Tesmond still here?” 
 
 ‘‘No — he is departed for Staffordshire for Henlip, 
 the seat of the Abingdons^ under their protection 
 to remain concealed till this storm is blown over. 
 There were two more priests arrested with the holy man; 
 there are doubts as to their steadfastness in resisting 
 the terrible rack. Mr. Darcy has given orders, there- 
 fore, that till such time as the result of this business 
 can be ascertained, the holy missionaries shall re- 
 main concealed in their different asylums among the 
 devout Catholic gentry. He himself, with his known 
 courage, ventured to appear at the festival to-night; 
 but he mounted and rode north, as soon as he had 
 changed his attire. It is his command to us both that 
 we remain quietly here, engaged in such fasting, humi- 
 liation, and prayer, as may move the saints to interces- 
 sion for him who lieth grinding in the prison-house. . . . 
 This is what Father Tesmond had charge from him 
 to say.” 
 
 She had listened without moving a feature. Then 
 she stepped up close to Mother Anne, and said, in a 
 trembling voice, 
 
 “Did he say nothing more? Did he not say for 
 what they would be arraigned ? For a misdemeanour, 
 E 2 
 
68 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 or for ... . ” her lips growing white with the suppo- 
 sition. 
 
 “For treason/^ said the nun, her countenance as- 
 suming a hue almost as dark as that of the crucifix she 
 had quitted. 
 
 The young lady cast her eyes with a half-appealing, 
 half-reproachful expression upwards. A slight, almost 
 imperceptible shiver shook her frame. Then she re- 
 tired into the little cell where stood her bed. She dis- 
 robed herself even of the simple dress she wore, as far 
 too delicate an indulgence under her present feelings ; 
 and assumed a clothing adopted to those ceremonies 
 of penance, which it was the practice of the rigid 
 Catholics of that day to adopt in moments of distress 
 and terror such as these. She then passed that night, 
 which those two other young creatures spent in peace- 
 ful slumber, in all the horrors of self-imposed penance; 
 wrestling and struggling in heart-rending supplication, 
 and almost hopeless prayer. 
 
 The penance was agonising, the prayer despairing 
 and hopeless, and wherefore? 
 
 Because, in spite of all, even in this moment of horror- 
 struck agitation, one image would suddenly start up and 
 cross her imagination — one image send a thrill of im- 
 pious pleasure, as she thought it, through her heart. 
 
 It was not that he was reconciled. 
 
 That would have been a pious and permitted joy. 
 To rejoice that one other was gathered into the sacred 
 fold — to rejoice even unto tears — this would have been 
 a sentiment, which even in the depths of penitential 
 devotion might not have been disallowed. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 69 
 
 But why would that dark mysterious eye of passion 
 still rest upon her memory till her very heart thrilled? 
 And why would the demon whisper amid her prayers, 
 what if they, too, were never to be severed ? — what if she 
 might be to him, as that lamented and revered being 
 had been to her ; his monitor — ^his guide?. . . 
 
 Oh, why should kind nature’s consolations in this 
 hour of sorrow whisper to her heart in vain ; why, 
 alas ! was she impelled to reject with dread the tender 
 consolation, as if it were an unpardonable sin ? 
 
 In such struggles — in such agonies of conflicting feel- 
 ings, this lovely creature strove and suffered till day. 
 
70 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 “ What’s the matter, 
 
 That you unlace your reputation thus, 
 
 And spend your rich opinion for the name 
 Of a night brawler?” 
 
 Othello, 
 
 Such were the different ways in which those three 
 fair young creatures passed the night. 
 
 How did some of the rest of the party wear out the 
 remaining hours ? 
 
 Robert, Thomas, and Winter, with several other 
 young gallants of their age, left the palace arm-in-arm, 
 and wrapped in their cloaks, their swords by their sides, 
 their hats and pendent feathers down over their faces, 
 walked up what is now Whitehall. 
 
 They were characters far too wild and irregular to 
 suffer their spirits to subside into tranquiUity at their own 
 chambers, after a few hours of so much excitement ; 
 Robert, in particular, was dizzy with a sort of wild hope, 
 which the adventures of the evening had raised; and — 
 as was always the case, at that period of his life, with 
 him — whenever any circumstance had occurred to ele- 
 vate his spirits he was as one intoxicated, appeared 
 quite incapable of self-government, and was accustomed 
 to dissipate his feelings in any extravagance that might 
 first present itself. 
 
 “ What has night to do with sleep?” was something of 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 71 
 
 tlie sentiment with wliich lie passed up the street, ex- 
 citing his companions by his example to the perpetra- 
 tion of a thousand capricious pranks that would be 
 considered unpardonable in these our more sober and 
 well-regulated days. 
 
 They passed on till they came to a large tavern in 
 the vicinity of St. Clement’s Church, much frequented 
 by the young Catholic gentlemen, and where wine and 
 dice at all hours of the day and night were to be had. 
 
 Most of the party had before this time dispersed their 
 several ways; Robert, Thomas, and Winter were alone 
 when they entered the large, low room, still full of com- 
 pany, where wine was circulating freely ; the loud 
 catch was being trolled at some tables; and the loud 
 rattle of the dice echoing from others. 
 
 Hallo, mine host! a bottle of sack here,^^ cried 
 Robert, throwing himself down by one of the tables, 
 taking off his sword and unclasping his rich cloak. 
 ‘‘ Come, Tom, off with that heavy pensioner’s cap of 
 thine. Winter, a chair there, let us make a night 
 of it.” 
 
 Who have we here?” said Thomas, standing erect 
 several inches taller than any other man in the room, 
 and surveying the apartment with a sort of suspicious, 
 scrutinising glance, “ half of them are unknown to 
 me. 
 
 And if they be, man — we arc not coming here 
 to hatch treason against our most legitimate queen, 
 are we? — but against those unpardonable criminals — 
 those murderers of human enjoyment — sleep, good 
 hours, good order, good manners, and so forth. What 
 
72 
 
 FATHER HARCy. 
 
 art thou afraid of, man? None but friends frequent 
 this loyal house; Old Gregory knows better, and is 
 better known, than to harbour any but brave gallants 
 of the party. But who have we here? Ah, Lyttleton ! 
 — Ah, Wright! — shaking the dice box, are ye both — 
 what’s the main ? Nay, and if Lyttleton refuses your 
 challenge, I’m your man — more sack — a bottle of Mal- 
 voisie — and fifty ducats to one on the next throw 
 against thee, Lyttleton, for thou art not fortune’s 
 minion.” 
 
 Lyttleton looked up, smiled, and shook his cornet. 
 
 “I take you,” said a gentleman of the name of 
 Keyes, who was standing over the table watching the 
 game betwen Lyttleton and Wright. “ Fifty to one 
 against Lyttleton.” 
 
 “A somewhat heavy venture upon Wright’s ugly 
 face,” said Winter, in his quiet way. ‘‘ What are you 
 about, Robert?” 
 
 “ Nay,” said Robert, carelessly, “ it is done — have 
 at it,” — and Wright threw aces. 
 
 His countenance changed not a whit : he threw the 
 money to Keyes, and turning to Winter, said, “ I’ll hold 
 you a hundred to five on Wright’s next throw.” 
 
 “ Not I,” said Winter, “ I neither love to rob my 
 friends nor be robbed myself — why, Robert, thou must 
 have found the gold mines they tell us of . . . thou’rt 
 mighty free with thy ducats to-night.” 
 
 The only answer was hastily to write a promise for 
 five hundred, throw it upon the table, and challenge 
 any one to stake to the odds of five hundred to one 
 against his own. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 73 
 
 Wright took it; he threw, and won. 
 
 Then Lyttleton rose from the table, and Robert sat 
 down, and the wine circulated rapidly, and the dice 
 rattled, and eyes were sparkling and cheeks flushing, 
 and voices rising into an excited clamour. 
 
 Robert was playing in the most desperate manner; 
 rattling his dice, betting with all around, swallow- 
 ing bumper after bumper of strong wine; his eyes 
 flashing, speaking at the top of his voice, the most ex- 
 cited of the excited group which surrounded the table — 
 which was indeed now the only table occupied in the 
 room. 
 
 The night was far advanced, and the other guests 
 had in small parties gradually retired, all save a gen- 
 tleman dressed in a dark riding suit, who, a news-letter 
 in his hand, which he held so as entirely to shade his 
 face, sat reading by a small lamp in a very remote and 
 obscure corner of the apartment. 
 
 Robert was losing, and in the desperation of defeat 
 was doubling, trebling, and quadrupling his stakes 
 against Wright, who, his clumsy, heavy countenance 
 fixed in deep attention, was calculating his chances, 
 and accumulating his gains. Robert, with one hand 
 raised above his head, was rattling the box with fury, 
 while with the other he held a bumper of sparkling 
 wine, which he was pledging to the fairest she on earth. 
 
 When a hand was laid upon his shoulder. He turned 
 his face suddenly upwards. 
 
 “ Who dares? .... You ! — Mr. Darcy !” 
 
 “ I,” said the stranger. “ Mr. Darcy. Is this a time, 
 gentlemen — is this a time?” 
 
74 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 And why not?” cried Kobert, with a dauntless 
 air — why not? — What better time?” 
 
 ‘ Catch the minutes as you may, 
 
 Life flies fast and wears away.’ 
 
 What better time? — what have we else to do — 
 Field of enterprise there is none — ^hope of glory there is 
 none — ^hope of vengeance there is none — let us drink 
 oblivion, and fight with these stamped bones.” 
 
 And so sa}dng, he flung the dice upon the table, 
 and lost 1000 ducats at the throw. 
 
 Mr. Darcy allowed Wright quietly to add the note- 
 of-hand which followed to his other winnings, and then 
 said: 
 
 Gentlemen, you are not, perhaps, aware, that a 
 head — the value of whose lightest hair outweighs the 
 worth of all present here, not excepting myself — ^is in 
 jeopardy at this very hour; which it pleases you to 
 spend in this noisy revelry. You do not, perhaps, 
 know that,” in a sort of whisper, yet so distinct as to be 
 heard by every young man at the table, but which 
 reached no further, the retreat of the Father Pro- 
 vincial has been discovered, and that he is arrested.” 
 There was a sudden start; every one fell back, looked 
 aghast, and every eye was lifted to the speaker. 
 
 Gentlemen,” he continued, my duty requires 
 that I should ride north to-night; on me, henceforth, 
 devolves the authority till now so far more worthily 
 wielded by him whose shoes I am not worthy to bear. 
 My duties are now extended — on my head devolves 
 the conduct of that noble cause to which ye, all gallant 
 
TATHER DARCY. 
 
 75 
 
 and generous spirits, have devoted yourselves. The 
 contest against this foul woman and her iniquitous 
 government is committed to me. Gentlemen, the 
 obedience which no merits of my own entitle me to 
 claim, I demand in the name of that holy church of 
 which I am the most unworthy servant. Let us have 
 done with dice and wine, for this is a terrible night.’^ 
 
 The glasses and the cornets in every hand sank as by 
 enchantment on the table, and every head was bowed in 
 an attitude of respectful attention. 
 
 ‘‘ Three words, gentlemen, only: — My intelligence 
 has it that the sheriffs’ officers are bringing up their pri- 
 soners by night, for reasons best known to themselves. 
 The darkness is long at this time of year ; it is now two 
 hours past midnight,” looking at ""an old Dutch clock 
 that ticked loudly in one corner of the room. “ The 
 day dawns at seven — there is no moon, and the stars are 
 muffied. The road towards St. John’s Wood lies over 
 the fields before you .... Visors most gentlemen possess ; 
 rapiers and poignards you none of you are in want of. 
 Examples have we heard, where princes have amused 
 themselves with cutting travellers’ purses. Gallants of 
 the present day may perhaps engage in a somewhat more 
 perilous, and somewhat more noble enterprise. It were 
 easy for two or three gentlemen, having secured their ob- 
 ject, to dismount and return to their lodgings on foot; the 
 others might gallop their horses towards Erith, where 
 the boat is always ready, and opposite to which the small 
 ship is lying. And thus the victim of a barbarous, ty- 
 rannical and heretical government might be torn from 
 the fangs of the harpies of law, and escape to France.” 
 
76 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 They scarcely gave him time to conclude his speech. 
 Every gentleman had risen hastily from his seat; they 
 passed to the table where their swords were lying, and 
 began in silence to buckle them on, assuming their 
 cloaks, and pressing to leave the room without a word 
 more. 
 
 Tarry a little,’’ said Mr. Darcy, laying his soft white 
 hands on the shoulders of two of the party. “I am 
 sorry for you, sir,” . . resting his blue eye upon Thomas, 
 and I am sorry for you, sir,” doing the same by 
 Winter. “ One, pardon me, is too well knowm, and 
 too remarkable by his height and bearing ... for the 
 other there is a different task prepared. Your courage 
 and spirit alone,” turning to Robert, “ is sufficient to 
 animate a party far less brave and gallant than the one 
 confided to you. Gentlemen; behold your leader — you 
 will be pleased to consider him as invested with my 
 authority. ... I need not remind those who possess 
 horse pistols, that in the darkness of a night like this, 
 they may be found more useful than swords — and once 
 more,” in a lower voice, “ that every queen’s officer is 
 to be regarded in the light of a sworn and uncompro- 
 mising enemy.’^ 
 
 “ Come, gentlemen,^’ addressing Thomas and Winter, 
 “ shall we walk? My nag is eating his beans not far 
 off — will you not see me to horse?’ 
 
 The two gentlemen shrugged their shoulders, cast a 
 rueful glance at their companions, but followed Mr. 
 Darcy with an air of submission, and quitted the room 
 as if impelled by a force against which resistance or 
 remonstrance was equally vain. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 77 
 
 ‘‘We meet at the windmill in the fields by the 
 Piccadilly,’’ was Robert’s brief order : ‘ ‘ the word — F aith 
 and Justice. There is no time for delay; when Paul’s 
 clock rings three, such of us as are ready, start; two or 
 three, with a dark night and good pistols, will beat the 
 sheriff and his merry men. — Farewell, gentlemen, till 
 three by Paul’s,” and with a general salute he left the 
 room, which was speedily cleared of the rest of the 
 company. 
 
 The night was pitchy dark, as the several gentlemen, 
 ha\dng hastily thrown off their rich dresses, and assumed 
 the riding costume proper to people of the ordinary 
 sort, mounted their heavy powerful horses, and with 
 their huge horse pistols in their holsters, and swords by 
 their sides, somewhat more effective than the rapiers they 
 used when in full dress, rode swiftly down the lanes, 
 and through the fields then occupying what is now 
 covered by the labyrinth of streets and squares north of 
 Piccadilly. 
 
 Robert was first at the place of rendezvous, and sat 
 silent upon his large black horse, listening for the 
 approach of the others; his heart would have been 
 highly elated with the excitement of a fray of this sort 
 at any time, but now he was animated by a kind of 
 rapturous ecstasy which would have led him to beard 
 the very lion in his den. He thought of her, that angel 
 of his adoration; of the emotion she had shown — the 
 deep bitter emotion which her countenance had ex- 
 pressed, when she had alluded to the subject of this 
 
78 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 intended rescue ; and it would be impossible to express 
 tbe sort of delirious pleasure with wHcb he dwelt upon 
 the moment, when, in one of those secret meetings 
 which the circumstances of the times so often rendered 
 necessary among those of his faith, he should tell her, 
 that her revered and beloved spiritual father was saved, 
 and should claim and receive from that fair saint in 
 return, a smile, or a syllable of approbation. 
 
 Under the pressure of such thoughts he paced his 
 steed up and down, impatiently listening to the stilly 
 hum of the drowsy city; and to the clocks of the 
 different churches as they rang the quarters on the 
 bell. At last the plashing of horses through the 
 deep miry lane, and the jingling of bridles was dis- 
 tinctly heard ; and one by one, through the almost pal- 
 pable obscure, the moving forms were dimly descried 
 as they advanced, and the words Faith and Justice,” 
 were passed from one to the other. 
 
 “ Silence and forward,” said Robert, in a voice of 
 command — and they took the road leading towards 
 St. John’s Wood, where they expected to arrive in 
 time to waylay the cavalcade; and, sheltered by the 
 thicket, to attack the escort and carry off the prisoners. 
 
 St. John’s Wood was then a portion of the primeval 
 forest still unreclaimed, which yet surrounded London on 
 that side ; and which stretched far and wide over hills and 
 valleys, now covered with gardens, villas, and fields. 
 Its thickets served for concealment to many an outlaw 
 from society, and was usually the harbour first sought 
 by those who, pursued for civil or political offences, 
 fled from the city to escape the hands of justice. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 79 
 
 The tall oaks overhung an almost impenetrable 
 labyrinth of underwood, composed of hollies, willows, 
 hazels, and trees of inferior growth, mingled in almost 
 inextricable confusion, through which the great road 
 from the north-western part of the country was cut. 
 
 The Catholic gentlemen posted themselves in a 
 thicket close by the road side; and, by the very faint 
 light of a few stars which just then became visible, 
 watched the long line of road that stretched through 
 the wood before them. 
 
 They had not long to wait. The sound of an ad- 
 vancing cavalcade was heard slowly descending a hill 
 at some little distance, plashing through a brook that 
 traversed a narrow valley; and then ascending leisurely 
 the bank on the side of which the rescuers had planted 
 themselves. 
 
 First rode the pursuivant on a tall bay horse, fol- 
 lowed by three or four soldiers on foot, with their 
 matchlocks resting on their shoulders. Then appeared 
 the priests, three in number, clothed in black, and with 
 their hands tied behind their backs; they were on 
 horseback, and each horse led by an officer of justice, 
 with his short sword in his hand. The procession 
 closed with a small detachment of half-a-dozen more 
 foot soldiers. 
 
 The guard was slender, for the arrest had been so 
 sudden and unexpected, that, the means of conveying in- 
 telligence in those days being so scanty, it was imagined 
 the prisoners would be safely deposited in the Tower be- 
 fore the news of their detention could have reached any 
 of their friends; but such was the extent of that secret 
 
80 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 net of intrigue, if tlie expression may be used, which 
 enveloped England — extending from sea to sea — that in- 
 telligence of any disaster Avhich might befal one of 
 those engaged in carrying on these secret understandings 
 spread in an inconceivably short space of time through- 
 out the whole body; and Mr. Darcy had received the 
 intelligence of the arrest of the missionary priests before 
 it had reached the government. 
 
 A sudden volley of fire-arms flashed from amid the 
 bushes. A ball from Robert’s pistol struck down the 
 pursuivant as he rode. 
 
 He was a fine young man of about one or two-and- 
 twenty ; no more. He fell to the earth without even a 
 cry — and the rescuers rushed from the thicket, sword in 
 hand, and endeavoured to seize upon and carry off the 
 prisoners. 
 
 But the foot soldiers of those days were not to be 
 lightly dealt with ; they rallied round their prisoners — 
 forced them from their horses — formed in a hollow 
 square round them — and presenting their matchlocks, 
 sent a volley among the attacking party, whom they 
 mistook by their dress and visors for common robbers. 
 
 A ball passed through Robert’s sword-arm, and ren- 
 dered it useless ; with his left he drew out and fired a 
 second pistol, but no second man fell. 
 
 The skirmish was speedily decided. Tlie soldiers and 
 their matchlocks were more than a match for the two 
 or three gentlemen who assailed them; their leader, 
 wounded and bleeding, unable to animate them to a 
 fresh attack, they had the mortification to see the caval- 
 cade proceed on its way ; dragging the priests on foot 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 81 
 
 tied to their horses, on which a soldier was severally 
 mounted. The body of the unfortunate pursuivant 
 thrown across his horse, closed the procession. 
 
 Robert sat upon the turf by the way-side — the blood 
 streaming from his arm, as the party, at a turn of 
 the road, disappeared behind the thickets, and was soon 
 out of sight. 
 
 Several of the horses had been hurt, and some of 
 the gentlemen had received slight wounds — the diffi- 
 culty now with them all was, how best to conceal the part 
 they had taken in the adventure ; as it was certain that the 
 queen’s attorney-general in the trial, now inevitably 
 impending, would make the most of a circumstance so 
 suspicious as the attack of these young men, and at- 
 tempted rescue. 
 
 There was nothing to be done but to abandon their 
 horses — taking off their accoutrements which were care- 
 fully hidden in the thickets; to make their own way 
 stealthily over the fields ; and to take refuge in a house 
 named White Webbes, which was situated somewhere 
 in the neighbourhood of Epping Forest, and which 
 had been purchased by the Jesuits under feigned names, 
 to serve the purposes alike of a place of rendezvous and 
 concealment. 
 
 How such houses, many of which the Jesuits are 
 known to have possessed, escaped the searching eyes of 
 the government, it seems difficult to understand ; it may 
 perhaps be accounted for, by the very limited means of 
 observation which the government possessed. The houses 
 of the principal Catholic gentry were well known, and 
 
 were carefully watched; but separated by unfrequented 
 
 p 
 
82 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 woods, by deep, obscure, and almost impassable lanes, 
 the less considerable houses of the smaller proprietors, 
 yeomen, and freeholders, very generally eludedobserva- 
 tion. 
 
 This house had probably belonged to some Protestant 
 or Puritan family, and had been purchased by one 
 appearing to belong to that party ; it was now occupied 
 by a man, his wife, and one woman servant ; still wear- 
 ing the dress, and affecting the manners of that sect, 
 whose solitary and stern habits of seclusion from the gay 
 world and its society, accounted in the eyes of their 
 neighbours for their unsocial ways of proceeding. 
 
 The day was dawning in the east before the party 
 reached the place. 
 
 The heavy door opened at the secret signal, made by 
 the hand of Wright ; and the blank visage of the pre- 
 tended Puritan presented itself. He soon recognised these 
 gentlemen, and leading the way down a narrow passage, 
 now faintly illuminated by the uncertain twilight of the 
 morning, ushered them into a small room, where two 
 narrow-paned windows placed at least seven feet from 
 the ground, admitted a pale and dubious light. 
 
 “ Bring us a light,'^ said Wright, and let us see 
 whether there is any thing more the matter with this 
 fellow’s wound than we can doctor ourselves.” 
 
 They had before this bound a scarf tightly round it 
 and staunched the blood ; they now, by the light which 
 the man held, discovered that the ball had passed through 
 the flesh, and that the bone of the arm was uninjured. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 83 
 
 The man of the house, who was not deficient in some 
 portion of surgical skill, speedily dressed the wound in 
 a proper manner ; and a fire being lighted in the huge 
 yawning chimney, the gentlemen sat down on some 
 oaken benches which they drew around, and began to 
 talk over their late defeat. 
 
 They spoke of it as brave and careless spirits, accus- 
 tomed to the ups and downs of this world, are wont to 
 talk of such matters — mingling with Imprecations against 
 their own ill luck, and the good success of their adver- 
 saries, the short laugh and the biting jest. 
 
 But Robert sat in a gloomy silence, leaning his back 
 against the side of the chimney, and lost in thought. 
 
 They might jest — for they had come oJ0f neither in- 
 jured, nor injurers, from the fray. 
 
 But what had he done ? 
 
 For the first time in his life .... he had slain a 
 man. 
 
 He saw the gallant figure of that young pursuivant, 
 as he headed the soldiers, advancing up the hill — the 
 hasty flash of his own pistol — and there was a man dead. 
 
 It is easy in such a romance as this, to represent a 
 bold restless spirit as was that of Robert, dealing death 
 and destruction on every side with the indifference of a 
 hero in an old tale of chivalry : but it is not so with 
 real men : the most determined starts and shudders the 
 first time he sheds human blood — be it in the heat of 
 battle — ^be it in the agony of self-defence — in the duel — 
 in the strife — by accident, by design. The most resolute 
 shudders and turns cold, at the idea of death inflicted 
 by his own hand. 
 
 F 2 
 
84 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Eobert was not one possessing a very scrupulous 
 conscience, nor endowed with any very refined view of 
 things ; and this outrageous attack upon the authorities 
 of his country appeared to him as a very venial sin — if 
 sin it were to be called. But that was not what he was 
 thinking of ; he was thinking of himself as stained with 
 the blood of a human creature — of the gallant bearing 
 of that young man, full of life, vigour, and action — 
 and of the dead body swinging over the horse. The 
 talk of the others was unheard^ which they observing, 
 yet too much in awe of this commanding spirit to ven- 
 ture upon asking the cause of his stern and gloomy 
 silence, let their discourse sink gradually into a whisper, 
 till they were silent too. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 85 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 “ On appelle tuer en trahison quand on tue celui qui ne sen defie 
 en aucune maniere — Et c’est pourquoi celui qui tue son ennemi 
 n’est pas dit le tuer en trahison, quoique ce soit par derriere ou dans 
 une embouche: licet perinsidias, aut a tergo percutiat.” 
 
 Escobar', as quoted by Pascal, p. 134. 
 
 Robert had been kneeling before Father Darcy, and 
 had received absolution for the deed he had done — for 
 as to its being called a sin, the father would listen to 
 no such doctrine. 
 
 He was far too perfect a master of casuistry not to 
 have abundance of arguments in reserve, calculated to 
 silence the reproaches of conscience, and allay that 
 natural horror of bloodshed which agitated the heart of 
 this young man ; but Robert was excessively susceptible 
 to impressions of every kind. 
 
 He had received absolution, but he was not as yet 
 sufficiently habituated to the practice of putting his 
 conscience into the keeping of another, so as to feel en- 
 tirely reconciled to himself by this ceremony of his 
 Church : he still continued dissatisfied and ill at ease. 
 
 He still saw the young pursuivant riding gallantly 
 up the hill; — he still saw the body hanging over the 
 horse ; — and he still felt the pistol which had effected 
 the deed explode in his hand. 
 
 A conversation upon the subject had followed the 
 
86 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 ceremony of confession and absolution, as the two 
 walked up and down a secluded walk in a thick wood 
 which surrounded White Webbes, and eifectively con- 
 cealed them from observation. 
 
 This conversation took place some time after the 
 event had occurred, when Mr. Darcy had returned 
 from the north to the neighbourhood of London ; the 
 authors of the attempt had, as has been said, remained 
 undiscovered; under the cover of a very heavy mist, 
 they had severally succeeded in returning to their 
 various lodgings without exciting remark. 
 
 The attack upon the escort had, of course, roused 
 the attention of the government; and it had been 
 readily concluded that this was no affair of common 
 robbers, but an attempt on the part of the Catholics to 
 rescue their priests. But not the slightest suspicion 
 had attached to those who were really engaged. 
 
 Robert was still regarded as a Protestant, and his 
 connexion with the Jesuit and missionary priests not in 
 the least degree suspected. The remaining gentlemen 
 were too obscure to excite much attention in any way, 
 and not the slightest indication had been left by which 
 to follow their traces. 
 
 The thing was soon regarded as an affair of inconsi- 
 derable importance; — the unfortunate pursuivant was 
 buried, the priests safely lodged in the Tower, and the 
 subject died away; and was little more thought of by 
 any one, save by Robert himself. 
 
 I cannot but marvel at you,” said Mr. Darcy, 
 fixing his calm blue eye upon Robert’s troubled and 
 clouded countenance^ to which the extraordinary mild- 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 87 
 
 ness and serenity of his own afforded the most striking 
 contrast. A young gentleman of a brave spirit like 
 yours — a man of action — a man of courage — a man of 
 the world — to be as faint-hearted as a poor country 
 wench, the first time she is commanded to. slay a pullet 
 for her mistress’s table.” 
 
 The expression of Robert’s eye, as he looked sud- 
 denly up in the priest’s face at this remark, was such 
 as to demonstrate to the speaker that he was proceeding 
 rather too fast : — the mind of his auditor was not yet pre- 
 pared for so light a manner of treating such a subject. 
 
 ‘‘ I cry you mercy,” said he, correcting himself, “ I 
 spoke lightly — it might appear unfeelingly. I cry pec- 
 cavi .... but I own it grieves me to see a spirit, ge- 
 nerous and courageous like your own, grovelling and 
 rendered imfit for useful action, by scruples which would 
 disgrace . . . .” 
 
 “ A mere girl, you mean,” said Robert, bluntly ; 
 ‘‘but understand me, I care as little for blood — and 
 so I may, perchance, have opportunity to show before 
 the world has done with me — as any man ; so it be shed in 
 open strife, man to man. But here is a young fellow 
 shot down in the performance of his duty, by one lying 
 in a cowardly ambuscade ; and my pistol it was that 
 did It. The man is dead, and I can’t forget it — that’s 
 all.” 
 
 “ That the man is dead must be lamented .... And 
 yet, we must all die — and half a century hence it will 
 little have mattered who went first or went last. As 
 regards open strife, it is, doubtless, what young blood 
 likes best — ^but young blood fortunately, or unfortu- 
 
88 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 nately, has not to arbitrate upon all that it is necessary 
 to do in this life. You speak of an ambuscade against 
 an enemy, too powerful to be met in open warfare with 
 any chance of success ; all men are agreed upon the 
 lawfulness of employing stratagem, ambuscade — what 
 you will. This was a great occasion, young man — the 
 deliverance of these holy ones from a cruel and barbarous 
 death. Every thing is justifiable in such a cause; for, 
 mark me, every action takes its colour from the motive. 
 If, as it is allowed by our celebrated casuist, Navarrus,* 
 even in a private quarrel it is lawful to choose, in certain 
 cases, the alternative of destroying an enemy in secret, 
 where it is probable one should come off* worsted in 
 open duel — surely, in a cause sacred as is this, all 
 measures become not only legitimate, but praiseworthy. 
 The end not only justifies, but ennobles the means. 
 Were it better, think you, that a man like that reverend 
 father — a man of rarest intellect, and extraordinary 
 spiritual gifts — should perish in miserable torture, or 
 that a common pursuivant, a mere animal, a mere 
 effigy, a mere puppet of legal authority, with scarcely 
 soul enough to animate a bull-dog — should render up 
 his base and valueless life a few years, it may be a 
 few days, a few hours only perhaps, earher than he 
 might otherwise have done ? Who knows, after all, 
 how much of the actual span of this man’s existence was 
 cut off by his violent death .... Think no more of 
 this accident.” 
 
 Did Robert’s understanding and conscience acquiesce 
 in such reasoning ? Was he satisfied, and at rest? 
 
 * As quoted by Pascal, Frovinciales, p. 134. 8vo. edition. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 89 
 
 Not in the least. 
 
 He thought that his feelings were not in any degree 
 understood, but he made no further attempt to explain 
 them. His conscience remained unsatisfied ; but he 
 was of far too impatient a temper to support the miser- 
 able burden of his self-reproaching thoughts. He did 
 as many far better instructed than he was, have done; 
 he hardened his heart against the recollection of what 
 was wrong, and suffered the wound within to heal over 
 wfithout endeavouring to extract the sting, by repen- 
 tance, by reparation, or by amendment. 
 
 He let the matter pass, and endeavoured to shake off 
 the recollection of it. 
 
 An unrepented offence is as a moral poison : a con- 
 science awakened and in vain is the precursor of moral 
 death. 
 
 In the oriel window of her small and gloomy apart- 
 ment which commanded a magnificent view of the 
 Thames, her casement open, her head leaning upon her 
 hand, sat Grace Vaux. 
 
 The Thames might at that time have been considered 
 as the great thoroughfare of London — for the streets 
 were in general so narrow, so dirty, so ill-kept, so im- 
 peded with dirt and mud, in wet weather, and the dust 
 so suffocating when the sun was hot, that almost every 
 one who possessed the means, preferred the passage by 
 water ; and the river, now covered with coal-vessels, 
 wherries, and steamboats, offered then a very different 
 spectacle. 
 
90 
 
 PATHER DARCY. 
 
 Richly gilded barges with streamers flying, rowed 
 by men in the splendid liveries of the different noble 
 families to which they belonged, were continually 
 passing and repassing ; and when the queen, as at this 
 moment, took that way to go down to her palace at 
 Greenwich, nothing that we have to exhibit in this 
 our day, can bear comparison with the gaiety and 
 splendour of the pageant. The sad and sorrowful figure 
 of Grace, was in melancholy contrast with the scene. 
 Her hair was braided plainly over her temples, and sur- 
 mounted by a small plain hood ; her dress was of a con- 
 ventual simplicity, composed of a dark and somewhat 
 coarse stuff; which displayed to perhaps peculiar advan- 
 tage, the fairness of her complexion, and the angelic 
 purity of her countenance. 
 
 She was deadly pale, and the fair hands which were 
 clasped and resting upon the window seat, as she 
 watched the pageant upon the water, were tinted by 
 the blue colour of the veins, which might be distinctly 
 seen through their transparent delicacy. 
 
 The room lined with its dark wainscot; the pictures 
 in their ebony frames, in the gloomiest manner of the 
 gloomiest Spanish painters ; their ghostly subjects — 
 those of martyrdom, torture, and death; the furniture 
 scanty and bare even to rudeness; the black oaken table 
 that stood near her, on which lay her books of piety in 
 black leather bindings; served to contrast with and 
 throw into brighter relief, that beautiful fair face and 
 hands, as pale and pensive there she sat. 
 
 At one end of the chamber Mother Anne was sitting 
 as usual, clothed in her black dress, employed in some 
 
FATHEK DARCY. 
 
 91 
 
 of those works that had formed the recreations of her 
 monastic life, and at which she still laboured at set 
 hours; endeavouring, in all this, to maintain the rule 
 of that order to which she had belonged, when thus 
 restored against her will to secular life. 
 
 It was a piece of most delicate lace on which she was 
 engaged: one of those rare specimens of needlework, 
 the result of persevering industry, in the leisure 
 of the conventual life — a life, where industry was 
 little recompensed, and time of no account. Sold, 
 they most often were, and the proceeds distributed to 
 the poor at a price so far below the real value of the 
 time they consumed, that their production under the 
 present order of things is become an impossibility. 
 This delicate web hung from the withered hands of 
 the old nun, and fell upon her black dress ; giving a 
 singular and beautiful effect of light as there it lay. 
 
 This was intended for a priest’s garment — or it may 
 be to be sold, and the money scrupulously devoted to 
 purposes of piety — it is not material what the purpose 
 was; and it is only mentioned here to obviate the idea, 
 that any motive of personal advantage stimulated to 
 the industry of such recluses as Mother Anne. 
 
 The silence in the room was perfectly unbroken; 
 neither spoke — the nun never raised her head from 
 that on which she was employed, and the young lady’s 
 eyes were fixed upon the pageant before her. 
 
 The day was bright, the heavens blue and without 
 a cloud; the sun in his meridian strength, glittering 
 upon the gilded cornices, pinnacles, and various orna- 
 
92 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 ments wliich enriched the barges. Loud blasts from 
 the trumpets sounded from time to time through the 
 air, and came mingling with the soft breeze that was 
 blowing so pleasantly through the casement. 
 
 The river in all his pride, danced and foamed with 
 ten thousand rippling waves upon his bosom; the 
 opposite banks — then one bower of gardens and trees — 
 were clad in their beautiful green of spring ; all nature 
 in her most festive trim seemed rejoicing, victorious 
 over sorrow, and shame, and pain. 
 
 The young lady’s heart trembled and sickened at the 
 contrast. 
 
 There they go,^’ thought she, “ that heretic and 
 idolatrous crew — rejoicing in their pride, and pomp, 
 and gladness — and not a cloud obscures the heavens, 
 or casts its shadow over them; not a moan or sigh 
 escapes from the soft wind; the sun, Hke a giant in his 
 strength, pursues his glad career, casting warmth, and 
 light, and joy, upon them all . . . The loud trumpets 
 are clanging in their triumph — the river dancing in his 
 strength — all is one bright scene of enjoyment: and 
 where art thou? 
 
 In thy dark, cold, solitary, pensive chamber — in the 
 Lollards’ Tower, shut out from all that should cheer 
 or support thy soul before the terrors that await thee ! 
 
 Who pauses to think of thee amid that giddy throng? 
 Who prays for thee, patient and holy sufferer — who 
 remembers the rack-house, the scaffold, and the butchers’ 
 knife? — Who mourns for thee? 
 
 Thou sun ! who pourest such floods of light upon 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 93 
 
 a world of shame and sin — upon the apostate, the 
 heretic, the schismatic and the atheist — visit him In his 
 house of sorrow !” 
 
 Then lifting up her hands she began a prayer — 
 passionate, despairing, as of one In deep agony, to the 
 Virgin Mother, and the blessed Apostles, Peter and Paul, 
 entreating their Intercessions In favour of the sufferer. 
 
 The door of the chamber suddenly opened, and a 
 young man entered Impetuously: he turned round, 
 however, and closed the door carefully after him, with 
 a caution that contrasted strangely with his ordinary 
 demeanour : he glanced hastily round the room and at 
 the ancient nun at the other end of It — who never once 
 lifted up her head : and then approaching the window, 
 knelt down on one knee, lifted one of the fair hands to 
 his lips, and kissed It. 
 
 But with a fervour, a depth of reverent devotion, such 
 as a pious Catholic might feel before the shrine of the 
 Virgin Mother. 
 
 The young lady withdrew her hand, and clasping the 
 delicate fingers together rested them once more upon 
 the window seat ; while Robert — for he It was — 
 drew a low wooden stool towards the opposite side of 
 the small oriel window and sat down. 
 
 “You have seen him T asked she, in a hurried voice. 
 “ You have seen him, and. ...” 
 
 “ And therefore am I here,” said he, his eyes darken- 
 ing with a strange sort of expression — “ Yes; I have seen 
 
94 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 him — I have seen him twice, the last time was in the 
 Lollards’ Tower.” 
 
 You have succeeded then !” casting upon him a look 
 of delight and gratitude, which he gathered up into his 
 heart, as the wayfarer in the desert gathers the dew of 
 heaven. ‘‘ By what means ? You have penetrated into 
 that dark and dismal chamber ! — Oh ! Robert ! and by 
 what means ?^’ 
 
 Ask me not the means,” said he, somewhat gloomily. 
 
 Henceforward ask me not of the means by which 
 I accomplish your biddings. Be satisfied, sweet saint, 
 that the end is accomplished .... I who would kiss 
 the dust beneath your feet, as if I traced the footsteps of 
 the Queen of Heaven, shall quarrel with no means by 
 which I effect thy purposes, Grace ! Accept the heart’s 
 offering but ask not after the peril — be satisfied I have 
 done it.” 
 
 ‘‘By no ill means, I will be thy warrant, Robert,” 
 said she, fervently. 
 
 “ Pledge not thyself for me, angel, said he, im- 
 petuously. Henceforward pledge not thyself for me : 
 the path I have entered will lead me far — but thou art 
 the pole star of my hopes — the guiding planet of my 
 destiny : whithersoever I wander thou shalt shine upon 
 me from above, and let my path lead Avhere it may — be 
 it to heaven or be it to hell — what reck I so it leads to 
 thee!” 
 
 She shrank back and looked alarmed and displeased 
 at this rhapsody, and gathering herself up with all her 
 accustomed coldness, said : 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 95 
 
 Will you never cease from these desperate and 
 impious speeches, so grievous and distressful to me ? . . 
 Is this a time, when the blood of the martyred spirits is 
 crying for vengeance, and tears of fruitless indignation 
 are blinding our eyes, is this a time to talk in such 
 a sort ?” 
 
 Yes,” said he, it is a time to talk in such a sort: 
 for the passion for vengeance, the fires of indignation, 
 are all raging in my heart, and minghng with my wild, 
 my desperate, my hopeless idolatry. It is one feeling. 
 Those scalding tears of thine drop like molten lead upon 
 my heart — they bid me be all thou wouldst have me 
 be: that influence withdrawn and what remains? — a 
 poor, careless sinner; incapable of right and indif- 
 ferent to wrong.” 
 
 He would have taken her hand again, and sealed with 
 his lips a vow — a vow of obedience to her commands ; 
 but she withdrew it, and looking down with that air of 
 extreme modesty which had for him such irresistible 
 attraction, said: 
 
 ‘‘ Tell me of AzW’ — 
 
 “ He is prepared for the worst.” 
 
 ‘‘ Hath he confessed ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Not a syllable.” 
 
 “ And those other poor men?” 
 
 “ I know not what the rack may wring from them; 
 but such horrors are powerless with /izm.” 
 
 She turned very pale. 
 
 “ You do not mean it! — they will not dare! — oh, 
 Holy Father!” and clasping her hands over her eyes she 
 
96 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 bent down her head and wept for a few moments with 
 much bitterness. 
 
 “ Be comforted, Grace ; do not weep so; Grace, do 
 not weep so ; Grace . . . Grace, you will make me despe- 
 rate; don’t weep so, Grace !” 
 
 Her tears soon ceased ; she had acquired an almost 
 supernatural power over her emotions : she sat a moment 
 or two, recovering herself in silence, then she said : 
 
 “ He remembers us in his prayers?” — 
 
 “ He bade me say — In torture and in death, on the 
 rending rack or the shameful scaffold, his first thought 
 and his last should be of thee.” 
 
 “ Oh why!” burst she out in lamentation, and almost 
 in the words of Job — “ Oh why I doth the sun shed 
 its light on such a day I Let this day be blotted out 
 from among the days; let it be darkened, let not the 
 light shine upon it I Let darkness and the shadow of 
 death rest upon it; let the blackness as of midnight 
 terrify it !” 
 
 And giving one other glance at the bright picture 
 of life and joy before her, she turned her head again 
 away, and again wept bitterly. 
 
 Her tears produced almost a terrific effect upon 
 Robert; he sat there by her side in one of those pa- 
 roxysms of suppressed emotions which drove him nearly 
 out of his senses; he rose up, he sat down again; he 
 stooped and wiped the tears as they fell upon her hands 
 .... murmuring 
 
 “ Weep not, Grace — weep not, holy creature — weep 
 not, Grace, if you would not drive me distracted/’ 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 97 
 
 ‘‘ Nay, let me weep,” said she, sadly; “ this is a busy 
 world, and there are few who have leisure to weep for 
 the righteous in his death .... Was there not that 
 pageant of some few short days ago ? W ere you not all 
 as gay, as thoughtless, as mirthful; was there one galliard 
 the fewer, one jest the less, because the holiest and the 
 noblest of the earth was even that very hour captured, 
 and in chains?” 
 
 “ Blame us not — ^blame us not,” said he, so heavily. 
 . . . Sweet Grace ; were you not there yourself?” 
 
 Yes, yes, I was there,” she said, with some im- 
 patience in her tone; “ I was there in obedience to him 
 who hath the right to enjoin obedience. But, oh ! far 
 rather would these bare feet upon the flinty stones have 
 paced a pilgrimage of blood and tears, than trod those 
 halls as I did to desecrate that day. And you !” added 
 she, in a sarcastic tone, which she rarely used, “you — 
 how did Robert spend the last hours of that night — -at 
 shuffle board? — at the dice ... ?” 
 
 “ Yes,” said he, with a strange expression of coun- 
 tenance, half desperate half in defiance, “ I was at the 
 tavern that night. Nay,” as she turned with an air of 
 disgust from him, “ blame me not, I left the tavern 
 before daybreak, and was afterwards employed staking 
 my soul in the behalf of those you love, Grace.” 
 
 She looked at him wondering. 
 
 “ Did you hear of a rescue in St. John’s Wood? at- 
 tempted — and attempted in vain !” said he. 
 
 “ Something of that sort I heard spoken of,” she 
 replied, with indifference ; “a mere attack of robbers, 
 they say.” 
 
 G 
 
98 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 There was a young man killed, however. But 
 what is the life of one man?” — eyeing her. 
 
 “ What have we to do with such things ?” said she; 
 what have these broils upon the queen’s high-road to 
 do with us? It was no rescue. — What is it to us?” 
 
 It was a rescue^ or should have been. . . . and I 
 was there.” 
 
 She started — and again looked at him with a mix- 
 ture of joy and approbation that was too potent, alas! 
 in its effect upon him. 
 
 You do not say so? I heard you passed that fearful 
 night in gambling, Robert. Oh I how unjust I was 1” 
 
 I was far better engaged,” said he, gloomily; I 
 was embruing my hands in the blood of an innocent 
 man.” 
 
 ‘‘But in what a cause!” — in a tone of remon- 
 strance, as if she, too, could not comprehend his 
 scruples. 
 
 “ Ay — ay, in what a cause ! — You say right, Grace, 
 and I will never lament over innocent blood again. 
 But come, let us have done with the subject. The 
 attempt failed — let us forget it; — forget all and every 
 thing, but that one look of thine, Grace, which can 
 make a demon or a martyr of me.” 
 
FATHEK DARCY. 
 
 99 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 “ I ■will believe, thou hast a mind that suits 
 With this thy fair and outward character.” 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 While such scenes were passing among one portion 
 of those whom we saw dancing in that hall of the 
 Palace of Old Westminster; others, in so far happier 
 that they had not as yet become involved in these dark 
 intrigues, were spending their thoughts and time in 
 a far different manner. 
 
 In not very magnificent but pleasant apartments look- 
 ing out upon the fields of what was then, as now, called 
 Bloomsbury; but which, as every one knows, was not 
 then, as now, a labyrinth of streets, but a pleasant country 
 parish of fields and hedges and gardens, overlooked 
 agreeably by the few houses standing in that direction ; 
 in these apartments Everard and his sister Eleanor, 
 having finished their breakfast, were sitting together. 
 Tlie young man, sunk into a deep reverie, sat watching 
 the pleasant moving of the trees as they swayed up and 
 down in tliis sweet morning, soothed by the distant 
 street cries, as they came in a sort of cheerful harmony 
 upon his ear. He was thinking of the last night’s 
 entertainment — of the bright and magnificent scene — 
 the music of which seemed to sound, and the lights to 
 a 2 
 
100 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 sparkle before bis fancy. Most of all, he was medi- 
 tating upon that pair of blue eyes which had met his 
 with such a sweet expression of confidence and pleasure ; 
 — of that very soft and yet clear and pleasant voice which 
 had conversed so simply, yet so well. And of that 
 father with his grave, anxious, but not severe brow, 
 who had seemed to have eyes for nothing in that scene 
 but his daughter. 
 
 He began to recollect every little sentence that had 
 passed between him and Mr. Mulsho. 
 
 This was not the first time, it is true, that they:had met; 
 but it was the first time that one so reserved and silent 
 in his habits as Mr. Mulsho, had happened to enter into 
 conversation with Everard, a man so much younger than 
 himself And Everard was wondering whether it was 
 a mere flattering delusion of his own too fond heart, 
 which led him to fancy that there was something in 
 Mr. Mulsho’s manner, which bespoke a more than ordi- 
 nary attention to, and interest in his answers .... was 
 he trying him ? And if so — how had he acquitted 
 himself ? 
 
 Such were the subjects of the young man’s reverie. 
 
 He was answered by a deep sigh from the other end 
 of the room. 
 
 He looked round ; it was Eleanor. 
 
 She, too, was sitting at the window, but she w^as not 
 gazing at the pleasant scene without ; she seemed in- 
 sensible to the glories of earth or sky. She was cast in 
 a desponding attitude, across her chair ; leaning against 
 the back of it, her hand over her forehead, her eyes 
 bent upon the ground. 
 
 He rose instantly, and went up to her with an ex- 
 
FATHER DARCr. 
 
 101 
 
 pression of kindness in his countenance, which gave a 
 peculiar charm to it. 
 
 “ My Eleanor, my sweet sister ! that was a very hitter 
 
 sigh.’^ 
 
 She started — looked up in a hurried manner at him, 
 like one just awakened from a dream — and passing her 
 hands swiftly across her hair, as if to arrange its dis- 
 order, said, in a hasty tone: 
 
 ‘‘ Sigh, Everard ! Avhat are you thinking of? I am 
 sure 1 did not sigh — what should I sigh for ?” 
 
 “Nay, what indeed, sweet girl,’^ said he, fondly — 
 “ what should my lovely Eleanor sigh for ? I am sure,’^ 
 he added, with a kind smile, “ I thought all the world 
 was sighing for you last night — you must leave it to 
 others to sigh ; but what was it ? Tell me, sweetheart; 
 for you did sigh.’’ 
 
 “ Mere weariness,” said she, looking another way — 
 “ I danced more than usual I believe. Was I not 
 fast asleep just now?” 
 
 “ Nay, Eleanor,” said her brother, with a somewhat 
 gentle gravity in his manner. “ Why should you hide 
 your heart from me? Have you not yet learned, foolish 
 sister, that you have in me, father, mother, brother, 
 friend, in one ? That is to say — orphans as we are, my 
 dear one ; your Everard would fain be all this to you. 
 Tell me, sweet love, for there is the line of sorrow upon 
 your cheek. I have read it more than once of late. Tell 
 me your secret, Eleanor.” 
 
 “ I have no secrets, Everard,” said she, slightly co- 
 louring, and rising from her chair. “ What should I 
 
102 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 have secrets about? I am very idle this morning’’ 
 
 going up to a table on which stood her working-frame 
 and her lute. ‘‘It is you, sir, who are lost in black 
 musings. Shall I play you a tune or sing you a song?” 
 And taking her lute, she began to tune, or attempt 
 to tune it. Crack went one string after the other. 
 
 He looked at her with anxious interest. 
 
 There was something enthusiastic in Eleanor’s coun- 
 tenance and manners, which was not restrained or mode- 
 rated by habits of self-discipline and sound principles of 
 action. She had not learned the necessity of such things 
 from her confessor. Her brother was at once interested 
 and alarmed by it. Though usually full of vivacity and 
 animation, there was that in Eleanor which seemed not 
 destined to be happy. 
 
 Come, come,” he said, “ put down that instru- 
 ment — either it, or you, are ill-disposed for melody to- 
 day;” and sitting down, and taking her hand, “ tell me 
 what it is that vexes my Eleanor.” 
 
 “How tiresome you are,” said she, turning petulantly 
 away from him. “ Why will you persist in asking what’s 
 the matter with me ? a bad headache after dancing, 
 that’s all. . . .1 wish you would not be so tiresome, 
 Everard — ” 
 
 He had the sweetest temper in the world — it seemed 
 as if nothing could irritate him. 
 
 “ Well — I will hope it is all as you say then. Only 
 remember, dear Eleanor — whenever you have really 
 cause to sigh, come to your brother.” 
 
 Another sigh seemed struggling for utterance ; but 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 103 
 
 she kept it down with strong effort, and walked away 
 to the window. 
 
 She made no return to his kindness ; but he never 
 heeded that — he sat down at the table, looking upon 
 the broken strings of the lute, and still pondering upon 
 this strange disorder : — something was the matter with 
 Eleanor — it was some time that he had observed this. 
 
 And then the thought came into his head — or rather 
 into his heart — that a girl of her age was not likely to 
 confide her little woman’s secrets even to a brother. 
 And first he sighed to think how lonely they both 
 were, and then he smiled and thought of Evelyn. 
 
 He followed her kindly to the window, where she 
 stood turning her back to him — it did not appear 
 whether melancholy or sulky, but looking very 
 gloomy : 
 
 Never mind, Eleanor — don’t think I can be hurt 
 at you — the time may come when there will be one here 
 so sweet and good, that my sister may find a pleasure 
 in opening her heart to her. — Do you love Evelyn, 
 Eleanor? I thought I saw you and she speaking together 
 last night as friends should.” 
 
 He thought to win her confidence by bestowing some 
 of his own, though rather against his inclination — for 
 he was one who loved to keep such feelings sacred. 
 
 She felt this kindness extremely — and quite subdued 
 by it, lifted up her head and said: 
 
 “Beloved brother! dear Everard! how gentle and 
 how kind you always are I and how petulant and unrea- 
 sonable I am I It is no wonder every one hates 
 Eleanor.” 
 
104 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 “Who hates my Eleanor?” said he, affectionately. 
 “ I am sure every one must love her — cannot help lov- 
 ing her.” 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 “ You should say that of Grace Vaux,” said she — 
 
 “ Ah !” said Everard, “ that is another thing; Grace 
 Vaux is a holy saint, Eleanor — we must none of us talk 
 of comparisons with such as she is.” 
 
 “ Of course not,” said his sister, deeply mortified at 
 this speech. 
 
 “ I wish,” pursued Everard, little aware of the pain 
 he had inflicted, “ I wish Robert could be persuaded 
 to think as you and I do upon this subject.” The 
 hand he held quivered and twitched as he spoke. “I 
 wish he would learn to look upon her as one set apart — 
 one devoted to Heaven — and endeavour to set his 
 affection upon other and more attainable things.” 
 
 She rose and hastily kissed his fair forehead. Whe- 
 ther he understood the full force of this remains doubt- 
 ful; but his reply to it was, 
 
 “ And I think that sooner or later he will. I have 
 had some talk with Father Darcy upon this matter, 
 for I am grieved for my friend. That Grace is devoted 
 to a life of religion he assures me; and that this brief 
 madness of Robert’s will not be lasting. Mr. Darcy is 
 rarely mistaken in any thing he asserts.” 
 
 “ He has told you this?” said she; — and oh ! how in 
 her inmost heart she blessed, and almost worshipped 
 Mr. Darcy. 
 
 “ His best endeavours will not be spared,” continued 
 Everard; “he is a judicious, sensible, and benevolent 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 105 
 
 man — ^lie is more tKan a spiritual father to us all; he is 
 anxious not only for the eternal, but for the temporal 
 happiness of his children. He will rescue Robert, I 
 doubt not, from the thraldom of this hapless passion, 
 for he has great power over his mind. Robert, through 
 his means, will learn sooner or later to be happy in the 
 way other people are.’^ . . . 
 
 As he spoke, her countenance became bright, her 
 eyes sparkled, and that smile of delightful animation 
 which he loved, played round her beautiful mouth. 
 
 “ I have been very cross this morning with my lute,” 
 said she, cheerfully. “ Come here, old fellow, and let 
 me put thee into better trim than I was in myself. And 
 now what shall I sing you? The doleful ditty of Lord 
 Thomas and the fair Emmeline — no, no; my best 
 Everard deserves something less melancholy than that.” 
 And striking the strings, she sang one of those pretty 
 simple madrigals which still have the power to please 
 so much. While he, thrown back in his chair and his 
 eyes half closed, abandoned himself once more to his 
 sweet dreamy fancies. 
 
106 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 “ Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
 Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, 
 
 Kissing with golden face the meadows green 
 Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.” 
 
 Shakspeare, 
 
 Among the many fine houses built during this 
 century, of which I have spoken in the opening 
 chapter, may be mentioned that of Goddeshurst, or 
 Goteshurst — ^now lost in the less significant name of 
 Gayhurst, in Buckinghamshire. It is a very noble 
 specimen of that beautifuj. style of architecture, which 
 bears such ample testimony to the magnificence and 
 fine taste of the Elizabethan period of our domestic 
 history. The many pinnacled points, the numerous 
 finely-proportioned windows, the handsome porch over 
 which the arms of the Mulshes are yet sculptured, 
 the large and yet just proportions of the whole edifice, 
 carry an appearance of chastened splendour, which is 
 rendered still more pleasing by the situation being 
 upon a gentle rising ground, and backed by the fine 
 woods which half surround it. 
 
 The sweeping hills and valleys of Buckinghamshire 
 and Northamptonshire lie round this mansion, in most 
 places now sadly denuded of trees, and waving in its 
 stead with seas of corn ; but in former days, the country 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 107 
 
 was more finely wooded, and those noble beech trees 
 which still linger in clusters upon its steeps, and nestle 
 in its secluded valleys, were more generally diffused 
 over the landscape. 
 
 A small church stands about a hundred paces from 
 the house with some fine old oaks hanging over it; 
 but it has been rebuilt in the taste of later times, and 
 offers little to memory or imagination. 
 
 Altogether, Gayhurst is still a very fine old place — 
 but it was far more attractive to a romantic taste 
 towards the end of the* sixteenth century, when it 
 became the inheritance of the lovely Evelyn Mulsho. 
 
 It is a fine morning, the sun is not yet risen above 
 the horizon, but the east is all bright with glorious 
 colouring, and the long, dark shadows are lying heavy 
 upon the grass, from which the very slight hoar frost of 
 the night has in most places already disappeared. 
 
 The noble trees that surround the mansion, and that 
 clothe the swelling banks beyond, are rich with all the 
 beautiful tints of the season. The sound of cheerful 
 business is in the air, for the hinds are already at 
 their work and the wains are winding down the 
 steep and narrow ways; the song of the milkmaid, as 
 she trips over the fields to her pleasant task, is heard. 
 All around speaks of ease, tranquilhty, and peaceful 
 industry. 
 
 But there is a considerable bustle in the court and 
 stablc-yard, on one side of the mansion, for it is a hunt- 
 ing morning. The bugles are sounding a lively reveilU; 
 
108 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 tliere is a noise of horses and hunters gathering together 
 in the court, and the deep baying of the slow-hounds 
 resounds at intervals from the more distant kennel. 
 
 Presently a hunting roundelay is heard from a couple 
 of minstrels with clear voices, who are joined in their 
 song by the deep bass of the rangers and falconers : 
 
 “ The hunt is up — the hunt is up, 
 
 Sing merrily ho, the hunt is up; 
 
 The birds they sing. 
 
 The deer they fling. 
 
 Hey nonny, nonny no!” 
 
 And now different groups are seen issuing from the 
 stable-yard, and beneath the lofty trees which separate 
 it from the lawn in front of the house ; they are assem- 
 bling upon the green, waiting for the master of the 
 mansion to appear. First come a number of yeomen- 
 keepers, leading the large slow-hounds by which the 
 deer were to be roused. Magnificent dogs, whose 
 voices were carefully matched, according to the practice 
 of those times, so as to produce the true concert of the 
 woods in harmonious perfection, of which we have at 
 present little idea. They had more of poetry in their 
 sports in Queen Elizabeth’s days than we have now; 
 who but remembers Shakspeare’s beautiful lines : — 
 
 “ My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind, 
 
 Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells. 
 
 Each under each.” 
 
 The low impatient baying of the dogs broke forth at 
 intervals^ as they strained against the leashes held by the 
 keepers; men dressed in Kendal green, with their bugles 
 and short hangers by their sides, and their quarter-staffs 
 in their hands. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 109 
 
 A numerous body of retainers in the livery of the 
 house of Mulsho, and bearing their crest — the wheatsheaf 
 — upon one arm , now crowded round the hounds and their 
 keepers, all impatient for the start. Soon the old hunts- 
 man in his suit of Kendal green, with his small cap on 
 his head, and his large hunting staff in his hand, rode 
 merrily forth followed by the squires and pages, leading 
 the horses of those gentlemen, who having shared Mr. 
 Mulsho’s hospitality the night before, were now pre- 
 pared to mount on this fine morning, and enjoy the 
 pleasures of that chase which he still maintained in its 
 full perfection, though he now never shared in it him- 
 self. He had, however, risen, and might be seen in his 
 suit of sad-coloured cloth, very richly embroidered, at- 
 tending his guests to the door, and looking with a calm 
 yet benevolent pleasure upon the animated crowd there 
 assembled. 
 
 The horns, sounding at intervals, were accompanied 
 by the cheering voices of the men, and the prancing 
 and neighing horses, the whole scene being illuminated 
 by the fresh beams of the rising sun, which shone full 
 upon them; the cooling air, the tempered blue of the 
 sky, the mist stillhanging between the trees, all united to 
 give that peculiar charm to the scene, which only accom- 
 panied the fresh and sparkling air of the early morning. 
 
 The huntsman gives the well-known signal — the 
 hunt sweeps away, and the blast of the horns and the 
 baying of the dogs are heard in the distance. 
 
 Mr. Mulsho remained upon the steps just in front of 
 his porch, watching the last of the horsemen and foot- 
 men, who, passing down the descent, were soon lost in 
 
110 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 the wooded valley below, and listening with pleasure to 
 the hoarsely-mingled voices of men and dogs^ as they 
 came mellowed by distance to his ear. 
 
 They have entered the thicket, the large tan-coloured 
 ban-dog tied in his learn or band follows his keeper 
 into the tangled brush- wood; his low baying is heard 
 at intervals . . . till the hart of greece is roused; a noble 
 stag breaks cover, and away sweeps the chase over hill 
 and dale. 
 
 Several gentlemen had by this time joined it from 
 the neighbouring country-houses, and followed on their 
 fine steeds, dressed in their rich hunting suits — a brave 
 and joyous company. 
 
 The deer went at first straight as an arrow forward, 
 but as the day advanced, exhausted and breathless, he 
 made a circuit and sought, in a sort of melancholy de- 
 spondency, the covert in which he had harboured in the 
 morning ; and his lips whitened with foam, his tongue 
 black with agony and thirst hanging from his mouth, 
 and the tears dropping from his eyes, rushed into the 
 still and tiny lake which lay in the valley below — over- 
 hung by the thicket from whence he started, and formed 
 by the accumulation of a bright sparkling stream that 
 went gurgling and playing through the trees. 
 
 The still and glancing water lay sleeping in the sun- 
 beams ; the broad leaves of the water-lily covering one 
 of its sides, whereon the little water-hens were tripping 
 daintily along, as if they walked the water. The Insects 
 were glittering and sparkling in the sun^ and Mr. Mulsho, 
 who had in the course of the morning walked down 
 through the thicket, was standing in his usual musing 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Ill 
 
 mood, gazing upon the pleasant scene, and enjoying its 
 beauty — when he again heard the sound of the hounds 
 and the hunters come echoing through the woods ; and 
 the whole chase burst upon him hurrying up the sides of 
 the valley. It was in that part considered somewhat dan- 
 gerous, from the rushy, boggy, and uncertain nature of 
 the ground of which it was composed : the stag, sweep- 
 ing by, rushed into the little lake, and laved his hot 
 and panting sides in the cool waters : the eager hunts- 
 men, cruel and pitiless in the passion of pursuit, stood 
 upon the slippery and uncertain bank, with their baying 
 dogs clustering eagerly round them^ ready to attack the 
 hapless animal as soon as he should reach the shore. 
 
 It was plain he intended to stand at bay, or rather to 
 make a rush at the hunters and fight his way bravely 
 for life and liberty ; but the crowd were only excited 
 to more eagerness by the spirit and fierceness of the 
 animal — all was hubbub and confusion. 
 
 Mr. Mulsho stood upon the opposite bank — which 
 was so precipitous, that it was impossible the deer should 
 escape on that side — watching the scene. 
 
 A remarkably handsome young man and very fine 
 rider, was distinguishable among a party of gentlemen 
 who had joined the chase from the house of the Lord 
 Vaux at Harroden Magna, situated it might be, going 
 straight across the country, about ten miles from God- 
 deshurst. 
 
 He had been riding gaily among the foremost all 
 the day ; filled with the wild dehght of the scene — but 
 
112 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 now, as lie saw the unhappy animal, who had so glo- 
 riously strained over the champaign in the morning, 
 harassed and spent with toil, and seeking his ac- 
 customed thickets, and after plunging into the water 
 preparing in desperation for a last struggle, — every 
 generous feeling in his nature was aroused, and 
 seeing Mr. Mulsho standing upon the bank, he rode 
 vehemently forward, and shouting till he was hoarse 
 entreated him to interpose his authority and save the 
 animal. 
 
 Mr. Mulsho — far from unwilling — gave the signal to 
 draw off the hounds, and the young man was riding 
 rapidly towards him, when forgetting the uncertainty 
 of the ground he was traversing, he plunged suddenly 
 into the midst of a green and treacherous bog, and there 
 continued struggling in the utmost peril of his life ; while 
 the stag he had rescued, released from the terrors of his 
 persecuting enemies, swam with a few bold strokes 
 across the little lake, and was soon lost to sight among 
 his native woodlands. 
 
 Much about the same time, or half an hour afterwards, 
 a very lovely young lady — whose sweet smile, soft coun- 
 tenance, and gentle blue eyes, you have not forgotten — 
 was sitting in her chamber in one of the projections on 
 the left side of the porch, busily employed at her em- 
 broidery. 
 
 The room is lofty and beautifully proportioned, and is 
 rich in internal ornament ; the ceiling is covered over 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 113 
 
 with a tracery of vine leaves and grape branches ; the walls 
 are hung with fine tapestry, which represents a scene 
 from the “Jerusalem” of Tasso; thetreesand flowersseem 
 to live upon the hangings, and the fountain to sparkle 
 with living waters, from whence the unhappy Tancred 
 fetches it in his helmet to baptise the dying Clorinda. 
 
 The chairs and stools of crimson in frames of gilded oak, 
 agreeably relieved this cool and pleasant scene, while 
 the wooing air blew fresh through the open casement, 
 and waved the locks of the fair creature who sat at work 
 within. 
 
 There was the reverend Mrs. Maude dressed in black, 
 sitting at a little distance : and a youth — as his smooth 
 countenance might lead one to believe, yet something 
 past a youth, as a brow not altogether free from wrinkles, 
 and an eye of strange meaning implied — dressed in a 
 fantastical many-coloured suit, leaning against the side 
 of the oriel window. 
 
 There was a table in the middle of the room, on which 
 several books in purple velvet bindings vrere lying — and 
 some in soberer garb seemed devoted to use as well 
 as ornament : a small triangular spinet or virginal, and 
 a highly ornamented lute, which lay upon a small 
 carved, what we should now-a-days call console, com- 
 pleted the furniture of the apartment. The young 
 lady was simply but richly dressed, and her fair hair 
 hung over and shadowed her face. 
 
 The fantastical-looking being, who was called Fabian, 
 kept twisting his legs and nodding his head in a strange 
 restless sort of manner, and singing in an under-tone 
 to himself. 
 
 n 
 
114 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 “ He had as antique stories tell, 
 
 A daughter cleaped Dowsabel, 
 
 A maiden fair and free — 
 
 She was her father’s only heir. 
 
 “ The silk well couth she twist and twine, 
 
 And make the fine march pine, 
 
 And with the needle-work — ” 
 
 At last lie stopped suddenly — ^and, looking at the young 
 lady, said. 
 
 Well, Madonna — and soCyoukeep your fair head bent 
 over that perking carnation there, which is as much 
 like a peony as a carnation, and don’t care to hear 
 how the hunt went, — or how the young gentleman’s 
 steed sank in the moss-bog by the brook there, and he, 
 poor cavaher, had his rich hunting suit be-plastered 
 over with a stygian sort of mud ; such as is, I verily 
 beheve, only to be found in that one spot of the drumble, 
 or by the side of that river of Acheron which flows by 
 Dan Pluto’s dwelHng.” 
 
 The young lady raised her head from her work, 
 smiled, and said, 
 
 ‘‘ The poor young gentleman ! — Did he take it much 
 to heart ? — A wet jacket is a huge disaster to a court 
 gallant — which he must of course be, and very ignorant 
 of wood-craft to boot ; or he would never have trusted 
 the treacherous moss, Fabian. — But why should I spend 
 my pearly drops over such disasters ? Tell me, good boy 
 — what was there in this besmirched gallant to engage 
 valuable attention ?” 
 
 “Was there any further mischief?” said the grave 
 Mrs. Maude. 
 
 “ Why, Mrs. Maude — I will tell of that by-and-by — 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 115 
 
 and how a raven sat and croaked upon a sere bough 
 for his brisket bone : for that small circumstance alone 
 would be sufficient to make a piteous tragedy of any 
 morning’s work for you — ” said Fabian. But first I 
 want to make the Madonna here, beautiful as we all 
 pretend she is, look ten times more so^ by the application 
 of a certain nostrum of my own, excellent as I have 
 before experimented, for calling roses into blow on cer- 
 tain delicate cheeks; — but don’t be afraid. Madonna, 
 it’s an innocent spell enough, and consists only of the 
 pronunciation of a few harmless letters. Shall I recite 
 them?” 
 
 Tlie young lady bent her head down, and began to 
 work her colours and compare her pattern ; and then 
 to undo what she had done as if she had not heard 
 one word that Fabian said. 
 
 “ Oh ! oh,” said he, “ say you so. — Aye, true — 
 
 ‘ My true love is sunk in the sea ; 
 
 But what is that to me, 
 
 Others as good remain, 
 
 Though Lord Thomas, he never come again.’ 
 
 Well, the sun is shining upon the weathercock at the top 
 of what was once ours. — I mean the church; and the 
 black gentry, with their short cloaks and foul yellow 
 wizened faces, are hastening up to prayers. And the Ma- 
 donna there doesn’t care for all the handsome huntsmen 
 in the world — swallowed up in bogs, or knocked on the 
 head by their horses’ heels — and I’m thinking the best 
 turn I can do for the family, is to perform their duty 
 for them, and show my face in the Madonna’s traverse 
 at church. And maybe the good souls will think my 
 H 2 
 
116 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 master and tlieirs — and the dainty Madonna herself, and 
 you, Mrs. Maude, are all behind, if you dared to show 
 your recusant faces. YouVe forgot your Sundays, fair 
 ladies; but I keep the reckoning — one, two, three, and 
 no church — four, and your twenty pounds.’^ — 
 
 ^‘You don’t say that the horse struck him, fool,^’ 
 said the young lady, now looking up; ‘‘ how could the 
 horse strike him, and he on his saddle?” 
 
 Saddles may turn when steeds are wrestling with 
 the death struggle in those bogs; and the best cava- 
 liers may be unhorsed. And when there comes a blow 
 from the hoof of the great horse — however thick our 
 skulls, saving your presence — there may be bloody cox- 
 combs : that’s all.” 
 
 The needle and silk fell from her hand; she rose 
 hastily, and went up to the youth, who still kept his 
 place, leaning against the window, his legs crossed, and 
 swinging his head up and down in a half-foolish, half- 
 ridiculous manner. 
 
 ‘‘ You don’t say any thing so shocking as that hap- 
 pened?” 
 
 “ Say an arm, will that do better. Madonna?” said 
 he, carelessly; ‘‘ or, say both; for you know you don’t 
 care a silver bodkin about the matter .... 
 
 ‘ For others will remain, 
 
 Though Lord Thomas he never come again.’ ” 
 
 “ I will brain you with a silver bodkin,” said she, 
 impatiently, ‘4f you don’t tell us what really did 
 happen this morning at the hunting.” 
 
 ‘‘ Why, the hounds did cry and make the welkin 
 ring again, and the stag ran, poor beast, for life and 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 117 
 
 limb, and the chase came clattering down the beech- 
 wood into the Drimy Hollow, and hart of greece crossed 
 the flashing stream, and the whole chase thundering 
 after him ; and I sat perched upon a tree, 
 
 ‘ As pure a black crow as your eyes might see, 
 
 And I croaked my evil song as the chase swept by. 
 
 And down went the bold huntsman — sing lullaby.’ 
 
 And now. Madonna, what’s the use of wasting good 
 breath upon needless words. You know as well as 
 if I had hallooed like Woodland Tom, the huntsman, 
 who it was that came dashing like a madman through 
 the mosses — and hallooing like a desperado to our 
 master, your honoured father — and all for what, think 
 you? To save the poor stag. — Tom the huntsman 
 thinks he well deserved what he got. — To save a poor 
 stag ! — As if any but fools and idiots cared for them — 
 
 poor innocent brutes ! And now the Madonna, perhaps, 
 
 guesses whose green jacket it was, embroidered with 
 silver, that came out smeared all over with the black 
 mud — for there is but one youth upon earth, I verily 
 believe, soft-hearted enough to care for a silly stag: 
 but don’t be frightened, the brave steed did not brain 
 him. And if you had not guessed that much already, 
 belike we should have found you on the floor by this 
 time. Ay, marry, should we — with as little blood in 
 your face, as he would have had brains in his noddle.” 
 The young lady, who had smiled with pleasant appro- 
 bation at the first part of his speech, now gave a signi- 
 ficant ‘‘ Pish,” and was returning to her seat. 
 
 ‘‘ Soft,” said he, “ there’s better news than you think 
 of for you. He’s broke his arm.” 
 
118 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 The young lady started, first turned pale, then red. 
 
 Call you that good news, fool ?” said Mrs. Maude. 
 ‘‘ Ay, marry, do I. And if the Madonna be of my 
 mind, she’ll make a silver crib and an ivory manger for 
 that sensible steed— who better deserves the name of 
 semi-reasoning brute, in my humble thinking — than 
 any elephant that ever carried an Emperor of Samar- 
 kand — clever beast — to vent his own ill-blood, serve 
 his master, and please the fairest Madonna in Bucking- 
 hamshire.” 
 
 “ But you don’t intend to tell us there really was an 
 accident, Fabian, after all ?” said the young lady. 
 
 ‘‘There’s an arm broken. Madonna; but it’s not a 
 sword-arm. Was there ever a beast hit a matter so 
 in the white had it been a leg, he might never have 
 danced galliard more. Besides, a limping lover ! Venus 
 forbid — and a sword-arm! — fie! Our good queen — 
 bless her royal humour — would have taken back his 
 knighthood, as they say she swears to do by the Essex 
 dubbed — if he’d lost his sword-arm.” 
 
 “ Lose his sword-arm I you are worse and worse — he 
 will not lose his arm, surely — ” 
 
 No — no — no — put your red in your cheeks again. 
 I only ofiered the inuendo of the thing — only the sup- 
 position bare: he’ll keep his two arms: put your red in 
 your cheeks again. Madonna — or I vow by Saint With- 
 hold I’ll never tell you a hunting history again.” 
 
 “ Well,” said she, recovering her spirits, “ you may go 
 on now, for you see I am as red as a rose ; — and I dare say 
 there is neither skull, nor limb, nor finger even fractured 
 but in your fantastical imagination — and the cavalier you 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 119 
 
 spoke of has ridden home with a spot of mud on his 
 doublet, which you have magnified into all this direful 
 history.” 
 
 And very much pleased a dainty young lady of 
 my particular acquaintance would look, if she thought 
 she was so well quit of it all; hut that’s not to he — 
 for the arm is broken and the arm is ^et, and the 
 cavalier is coming at a foot’s pace through the fields ; 
 and his valise is coming up upon the hack of one of the 
 chasers, and his serving men are sent for fromHarroden 
 Magna ; and the young gentleman is a prisoner here 
 for seven days at least, says Dr. Caius — and so. Madon- 
 na, I’m grieved and lament for you — hut remedy there’s 
 none, save in patience. 
 
 ‘ And heigh says she, and ho says she, 
 
 Was ever a fate like mine? 
 
 For the door is unbarred to the enemy; 
 
 And how shall I bide the time?’ ” 
 
 And now,” said grave Mrs. Maude, whose percep- 
 tions were rather of the obtuse kind — pray, fool, why 
 don’t you tell us the name of the young gentleman — be- 
 cause if you never tell us his name, how shall we know, 
 after all, who he is.” 
 
 “ Most true, my owl-crested Minerva in sables — 
 most true; the Madonna here has not an inkling of 
 who he is. Oh no — suppose” — looking archly in her 
 face — “his name should not contain the magical seven 
 letters. Suppose now it were — were — Robert — ” 
 
 “ Pooh !” said the young lady, colouring again and 
 looking vexed, “ is it he after all?” 
 
 “ After all! — No, no, catch Robert in such a quan- 
 
120 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 dary — catcli Robert a floundering if you can : Robert 
 will never be bogged, I’ll lay my bauble against your 
 gold aiglet there. Robert in such a mess — Robert — 
 forsooth ! — 'Robert !” 
 
 “ And why not Robert, as well as any other man?” 
 
 “Oh! are we there? — Come don’t be vexed. Ma- 
 donna; a man may be bogged, and no great shame or 
 sin — because he’s young and hasty, and don’t look 
 before his nose: but Robert’s a man of experience: 
 why, Robert’s not a bachelor — he’s a widower. Madonna 
 — aye, he’s known the shifting sands and rocks, and 
 whirlpools of a woman’s humour. Such things prac- 
 tise a man. A man who’s once been hooked to a 
 woman, never forgets to look before his nose again.” 
 
 “ What stuff is all this?” said she, “ get along, fool 
 — if your folly has no more wit or wisdom than that, 
 you may go down to your puritans below, for the bell 
 has done ringing.” 
 
 “ And all this time you go on maundering and maun- 
 dering, and never coming to the point,” reiterated 
 Mrs. Maude, “ and never telling us who the young gen- 
 tleman is.” 
 
 “ Ask the Madonna,” said he. 
 
 “ Nay, I am sure the fair Mistress Evelyn cannot pos- 
 sibly guess,” said she. 
 
 “ ‘ And aye to be sure, and no to be sure; 
 
 And how should I guess, said she; 
 
 But there came a sweet bird, and sang in her ear, 
 
 ’Tis he — ’tis he — ’tis he.’ ” 
 
 “ You heard it, didn’t you, Madonna; though Mrs. 
 Maude there is as deaf as a nut.” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 121 
 
 ‘‘I’m not deaf,” said she, angrily; “and I’m quite 
 certain you never did tell us.” 
 
 “I didn’t say I did — I said a bird did; which you 
 couldn’t, and didn’t hear, because you are as deaf as 
 a hollow nut. A hollow nut has not got a heart in 
 it, and that makes it deaf, Mrs. Maude — and that’s the 
 reason you didn’t hear that merry bird sing. Heigh ! 
 Madonna ! Is not that reasoned like the Stagyrite him- 
 self?” 
 
 “ Fool,” said she, “ I’ll tell my father you grow 
 tedious, and he’ll send you to drive the plough.” 
 
 Fabian only answered by singing, in an under tone: 
 
 “ ‘ And oh, the naughty hoy — 
 
 He sent his cruel dart. 
 
 And here it poisons all my joy. 
 
 And rankles in my heart. 
 
 “ ‘ The dearest friend of yore, 
 
 Is all indifferent grown; 
 
 The talk which pleased, can please no more — 
 
 For I love only one.’ 
 
 “ Nay, nay, don’t send me to plough — and I’ll tell 
 Mrs. Maude the name in seven seconds — E-ve-rard.” 
 “Sir Everard! — that very fair young gentleman, 
 whom we saw at the Lord Vaux’s last Martinmas!” 
 exclaimed Mrs. Maude. ‘^Nay, but in good sooth, I 
 hope that young cavalier hath not really hurt himself 
 to the breaking of a bone.” 
 
 “ He hath — he hath broken a bone — he hath frac- 
 tured his arm, for so I heard Dr. Cams decide.” 
 
 “ What a lamentable accident!” 
 
 “ Lamentable as an old love-ditty — ain’t it, Ma- 
 
122 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 donna?” again looking under ker face, as she bent 
 her head down to her work. 
 
 “ ‘ Nay crystal drops run do'v\Ti — 
 
 And pearl this cheek of mine ’ 
 
 But you needn’t cry, there’s no great harm done.” 
 
 He looked out of the window. 
 
 Now come hither, fair Maude — ^bring thy ve- 
 nerable beauty to the place wherein I stand, and descry 
 and say, who are those coming slowly up the bank 
 yonder. 
 
 “ ‘ The lady looked north, the lady looked south, 
 
 O’er hill, and stream, and tower, — 
 
 And she was aware of the goodly youth. 
 
 Coming sounding up to her bower.’ 
 
 Sounding won’t do though, say tottering rather.” 
 
 ‘^Nay, Madonna, never mind me — Pray make no 
 ceremonies — Come to the window — I don’t care a rush 
 whether I see him or not; — Why do you sit stitching 
 away there? — and all because you wouldn’t take the 
 poor fool’s place for the world, because he got it first: 
 don’t make bones of it, I pray — here — ^you’ll see him 
 very well.” 
 
 She lifted up her shoulder, and put up her lip, as if 
 his nonsense had at last got the better of her patience. 
 
 He saw that he had said more than enough, and 
 turning away from her, singing in a low, subdued voice, 
 
 “ ‘ Call unto his funeral dole. 
 
 The ant, the field mouse, and the mole. 
 
 To raise him hillocks that shall keep him warm,’ ” 
 
 he looked out of the window, where Mrs. Maude had 
 already planted herself. 
 
 ‘‘ He’s there for certain,” said the good lady, ‘‘ that 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 123 
 
 very same fair young gentleman that we met at 
 Harroden Magna last Michaelmas. And he’s just as 
 tall and slender, and handsome, as he was then; save 
 that he’s all covered over with mire, and he walks very 
 stooping, and as if he was all broken to pieces, and I 
 don’t think he^d stand if he hadn’t Mr. Mulsho’s arm.” 
 
 ‘‘ Is my father there?” said Evelyn. 
 
 Aye, marry is he^ lady, and many other gentlemen, 
 all a-coming slowly round the trees by the church,” said 
 Mrs. Maude. 
 
 While Fabian leaned out of the window as far as he 
 could stretch, a cheerful voice from below summoned 
 him; on which he drew in, and affecting to be in a 
 prodigious hurry, with as many grimaces as he could 
 possibly invent, scuttled out of the room. 
 
 When he was gone, and the door fairly closed after 
 him, and not till then, Evelyn rose from her chair, and 
 without moving from her place, endeavoured to catch a 
 glimpse of the group which was slowly advancing up 
 the lawn before the house. 
 
 Whether she succeeded in catching the figure of 
 Everard, as supported by the arm of Mr. Mulsho, he 
 with great difficulty made his way along, is not quite 
 certain. 
 
 Presently she sat down again, resumed her needle, 
 and asked Mrs. Maude to read to her from the ‘‘ Jeru- 
 salem” of Tasso. 
 
 Good old Maude began to read the scene of Erminia 
 among the Shepherds,” and while the young lady’s 
 fingers plied her work, she peopled those shades, so 
 
124 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 sweetly described, with figures of her own country. 
 Erminia was no longer alone. Under the wide-spread- 
 ing beech trees, which looked in her small picture 
 marvellously hke the beech woods of Goddeshurst, 
 there she sat, and there sat Tancred himself by her 
 side, with his fine oval face, his dark blue eye, his 
 sweet and truthful countenance — looking so wonder- 
 fully like Everard, that it would have been impossible 
 to have known them asunder. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 125 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 “ His qualities were beauteous as his form, 
 
 For maiden-tongued he was and therefore free ; 
 
 His real habitude gave life and grace 
 To appertainings and to ornament.” 
 
 The young man had certainly broken his arm, and 
 he had likewise been struck severely upon the chest, 
 before he could be disentangled from his terrified and 
 struggling horse; who, his beautiful white coat bespat- 
 tered with the mire, and his large full eye and nostrils 
 distended with terror, strove with chest and hoof to 
 disengage himself from the dreadful abyss into which 
 he was sinldng. 
 
 The young cavalier, unhorsed in the struggle, had 
 lain sometime almost under the feet of the animal, and 
 was with much difficulty rescued from destruction. 
 His head swimming, his arm broken, his frame too 
 exquisitely sensitive to physical suffering, all shaken 
 and in disorder, he was happy to accept Mr. Mulsho’s 
 invitation, and accompany him to Goddeshurst, that 
 being the nearest mansion at hand, and to put himself 
 under the cate of the venerable Dr. Caius. 
 
 Dizzy he was, and his thoughts a good deal confused ; 
 but not for that did he forget to whom Mr. Mulsho was 
 father; and his heart beat fast, and added considerably by 
 its agitation to the general disorder of his feehngs as he 
 
126 
 
 FATHEK DARCY. 
 
 approached that house where the divinity of his affec- 
 ' tions dwelt. 
 
 Everard was the grandson of a man who had distin- 
 guished himself in arms, and served under the two pre- 
 ceding reigns, and during the earlier years of the pre- 
 sent queen. His father had died without coming to the 
 succession, and Everard, still under age, found himself 
 the heir of a considerable property in Rutlandshire, 
 and the representative of a noble, time-honoured house, 
 which had maintained itself virtuous and respected 
 through successive generations, and through all the 
 struggles and contentions, political and rehgious, of the 
 two last centuries. When I say noble, I do not, how- 
 ever, mean actually belonging to the nobility, for of 
 that order he was not, though he might have well 
 adorned any order. 
 
 He was, as he has been described, remarkably hand- 
 some, of the gentlest and most engaging manners ; 
 accomphshed in all knightly exercises; able, judicious, 
 and temperate above his years, yet with a heart capable 
 of the most fervent affections; he was brave, generous, 
 disinterested, and good; sweet-tempered, and confiding 
 as a child. 
 
 Such was Everard — the portrait is no ideal one. 
 
 Such he was. 
 
 Such was the Tancred of our gentle Erminia. 
 
 An Erminia not unworthy of his choice. 
 
 The disposal of his fair and richly-endowed daughter 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 127 
 
 in marriage, liad lately, as lias been mentioned before, 
 become a source of very painful interest to Mr. Mulsho. 
 
 Among the young gentlemen with whom he came in 
 contact, he could not find one that at all fulfilled the 
 conditions to which he aspired. The tone of the young 
 people about him had evidently declined considerably 
 within the last few years, since the religious men from 
 the seminaries abroad had exercised such an evil in- 
 fluence over their education. 
 
 The system of concealment, of secret intrigue, of 
 falsehood and deceit, which was rendered necessary by 
 their practices against the existing government — the 
 loose ideas upon the most important principles of morals, 
 which were infused by their casuistical writers, espe- 
 cially those fundamental ones upon the subject of secret 
 assassination, and that disregard for the first principles 
 of truth which deform their writings — had given to 
 Mr. Mulsho a dread and distrust of almost every one 
 about him ; and it was not till he met with Everard, 
 that he had found one single person, in the least an- 
 swering his requisitions as to the character of the man on 
 whom he should bestow his daughter. 
 
 He knew him to be a personal favourite of that great 
 queen who so very rarely was mistaken in her favourites, 
 and that, though at present conforming to the CathoHc 
 religion of his house and family, he had been brought 
 up a Protestant; and he trusted that sound principles 
 must thus have been early imbibed, which might render 
 him proof against the dangerous casuistry, the secret in- 
 fidelity, or the wild bigotry and superstition which sur- 
 rounded him. It was with a smile of benevolent pleasure 
 
128 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 that he had seen him dashing forward with a sentiment of 
 humanity so little to have been expected at his age and in 
 his day, to rescue the poor jaded victim of the day’s sport; 
 and with considerable satisfaction, when he perceived 
 the extent of the accident, had he offered his hospita- 
 lity, and the best cares of Dr. Caius to the wounded 
 man. 
 
 And it would be difficult to say whether Everard, 
 sich and fainting though he was, the good and thought- 
 ful father, or the fair Evelyn herself, received the most 
 satisfaction, as the two gentlemen slowly mounted the 
 ascent and entered the hospitable door of Goddeshurst 
 together. 
 
 Day followed after day, and time with his lightest 
 footsteps glided by, and the intimacy between the young 
 people thus thrown together, was ripening fast into a' 
 far stronger and more enduring sentiment, while Mr. 
 Mulsho watched his guest with anxious attention; 
 but he found every day fresh reason, as he imagined, 
 to rely upon the favourable impression he had at first 
 received, and to rejoice in the happy accident which 
 had occurred. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 129 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Sweet be the bands, the which true love doth tie 
 Without constraint, or dread of any ill.” 
 
 There was a pleasant garden at tlie back of Goddes- 
 hnrst, situated upon the gentle hill w^hich rises behind 
 the house ; the huge oak and elm trees forming as it 
 were a frame for this wilderness of flowers, berceaus and 
 alleys of topiary work, that succeeded each other in such 
 pleasant confusion; and the birds were singing gaily, 
 and all nature in her most smiling trim, when Everard 
 and Evelyn, strolling through a little postern door, 
 walked there together. 
 
 Her fair head bending downwards, her eyes seeking 
 the earth, plucking a flower to pieces which she held 
 in her hand, she walked by his side and listened to his 
 pleasant talk. 
 
 He was telling her of what he had seen at the court 
 of the magnificent old queen, which she had but once 
 visited. Of the grand progress in which he had been 
 engaged to Kenninghall in Norfolk; of the splendour 
 with which the royal guest had been received; of the 
 masques and other diversions with which she had been 
 greeted, and of her affable demeanour and popular car- 
 riage to all. “ But it was marred at last to me,” he 
 said, “by what befel my poor friend Rookwood. 
 
 I 
 
130 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Does Mrs. Evelyn recollect young Rook wood, at Har- 
 roden: he is something perhaps of a simple youth, 
 and has certainly little of the courtier in his composi- 
 tion, but he did his best. The queen came upon him 
 all unawares; there was scarcely time for preparation; 
 but he made wonderful exertions, and we all thought 
 must have possessed the enchanter’s wand, or the won- 
 drous ring of Candace, so quickly did he gather all 
 providings around him. There was no scant of liberal 
 housekeeping at Euston Hall. The queen seemed 
 pleased with such entertainment as he could offer, and 
 my poor friend was in the seventh heaven — for few of 
 us can resist a royal smile, fair Evelyn — and what 
 royal smile is so benign, so gracious, as is hers — when 
 the sun shines? But what avails,” he continued, with 
 a generous indignation in his tone, her best inclina- 
 tions, when sneaking wretches are allowed to Topcliff* 
 zare about her, searching out all manner of occasions 
 to breed offence ; when it would be her royal pleasure 
 to wink at what she cannot but in her secret soul ap- 
 prove — adherence to conscience?” 
 
 ‘‘ I remember the young gentleman well,” said 
 Evelyn: “he was such as you paint him — somewhat 
 soft, and rather bustling, and of&cious in his manner; 
 but honest and good-natured, I thought.” 
 
 “ Poor Rookwood ! — I think I see him there, as he 
 knelt, cap in hand, before the grand old queen, in his 
 rich suit, which he had prepared for the occasion ; black 
 velvet, all slashed and garnished with cloth of gold; — 
 and her majesty standing before him in all her bravery; 
 — ^he looked as if he could barely support the glance 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 131 
 
 of her eagle eye: but he bent down his head and 
 kissed the fair hand all sparkling with jewels, which 
 she graciously extended to him, and she was cour- 
 teously thanking him for his good fare, while he 
 stammered out excuses for his ill house — when — my 
 heart really bled for him, Evelyn, it did in truth — 
 as we, on our parts, stood round rejoicing in this 
 good augury of reconcihation — as the queen passed on, 
 and poor Rookwood, colouring with pride and plea- 
 sure, was rising from his knee, comes up my Lord 
 Chamberlain looking pale with anger, and seizing 
 him by the shoulder as if he had been the veriest 
 caitiff upon earth, asks him before them all — ^how he, 
 being excommunicated for popery, dared to attempt 
 her royal presence? — adding, he was fitter for a pair 
 of stocks than for such honour as that, and commanding 
 him to leave the court, and not presume to appear 
 again before his queen. My heart was ready to burst 
 with rage and pity. But I held my peace : I knew it 
 was not the queen’s pleasure — and that these men 
 waited till she was gone before they dared to make so 
 barbarous a return for the poor fellow’s well-intended 
 hospitality.” 
 
 Alas !” said Evelyn, sadly, poor young gentle- 
 man ! But how comes this to pass. Sir Everard ; you, 
 and numbers like you, are allowed to pay your court; 
 what had this poor young gentleman done?” 
 
 “ I fear the poor fellow is given to old and useless 
 superstitions,” said the young man — “ but what of 
 that? Are the secret chambers of meffs homes and 
 consciences to be rifled at the will of any one who 
 
 I 2 
 
132 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 listens to the delations of that vile informer, Topcliffe, 
 creeping to men’s ears, and poisoning them with his 
 slanders ! I could have taken the wretch by the neck, 
 and twisted it with pleasure — forgive me,” said he, 
 endeavouring to restrain the heat into which he had 
 been betrayed, ‘‘ forgive me — but these things go hard 
 with us all.” 
 
 Evelyn sighed — then looked up at the face glowing 
 with generous indignation, and said — 
 
 “ If the evil but ended here ! I hope Mr. Rook- 
 
 wood will have patience, and forgive it. My father 
 says that we must all of us learn to practise that holy 
 command — and forgive, even as we would be forgiven.” 
 
 “ Fair virtue,” said he, “ thou sayest right — yet are 
 these injuries hard to bear. Methinks if this had fallen 
 upon a sterner or a wiser man I could have borne it 
 — upon our friend Robert, for instance — but in this 
 case it seems to me as if they had struck at a child. 
 Rookwood is so simple-hearted — could any thing be 
 more simple-hearted than his excessive ambition to en- 
 tertain this great queen at his house at Euston Hall: 
 which is to him like a new plaything. All the pains 
 he took — all the engines he set at work to carry this 
 grand object — he hoped it would be a means of bring- 
 ing him to court, poor fellow : and so it might have 
 been, had not that villanous spy found matter of accu- 
 sation against him, from his very frank-heartedness, 
 which led him to open his house to all. It is true 
 there were many things he had put away — which, per- 
 chance, had better never have been there.” 
 
 “ I hope,” said she, ‘‘ his afflictions ended with his 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 133 
 
 disappointment and mortification; and that there was 
 no further cause given for dissatisfaction to the Catholic 
 gentlemen.” 
 
 Unhappily — unhappily,” said he, shaking his head, 
 and walking faster, as if unable to resist the irritation 
 of his feelings — ‘‘ unhappily much more. Though for- 
 bidden the court, he was commanded to attend the 
 council’s pleasure — and at Norwich he was committed 
 
 for what reason I could not discover; it could 
 
 not be because, when the rabble rout scoured his 
 house, a silver image of the blessed Virgin was found 
 in his hayrick. . . . They could not commit him for that 
 — it might be madness and folly, in such times as these, 
 to harbour such a thing — but treason or disaffection it 
 could never be . . . There is something in all this, more 
 than I can understand.” 
 
 “ Yours is a painful conclusion,” said the young lady, 
 pensively, ‘‘ to a story that opened so pleasantly. The 
 queen’s progress must have had a gloomy termina- 
 tion.” 
 
 “ I think it had — and I hope it had. It is true she 
 suffered the figure of that blessed type of womanhood, 
 to be burned and insulted over by the common herd, 
 and that before her face — but, she looked, methought, 
 grave, dissatisfied, and displeased all the while ; and as if 
 she would have forbidden the profanation, could she 
 have ventured so to do. She, like the rest of us, must yield 
 to circumstances; and brave as she looks, I question 
 whether she can follow her royal will in all things ; 
 the times are too hard for every one.” 
 
134 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 !” said Evelyn, lifting up her sweet eyes to 
 him, ‘‘ when will these fierce contentions cease 
 
 They will cease, fair creature, when men become 
 wise, and temperate, and disinterested, as your honoured 
 father ; and women gentle, and rational, as his lovely 
 daughter,” said the young man tenderly— but alas ! 
 w^hen will that be ?” 
 
 You were staying at Great Harroden, were you 
 not, when you rode over to join this great hunting 
 match, at which your jacket suffered so terribly ?” she 
 went on to say. 
 
 ‘‘Yes.” 
 
 “Were they all there ?” 
 
 I do not know who you call «ZZ,” said he. “ There 
 was the usual family party — the beautiful Grace — and 
 my Lady Vaux, her mother ; and there was Robert 
 and Tresham, and Eleanor, and myself.” 
 
 “ And how is Grace, and how is Eleanor ?” 
 
 “ Grace is more beautiful, and more pensive, and more 
 silent and reserved than ever — and Robert is more des- 
 perate, and more in love ; — his wild pranks would exceed 
 your belief, fair recluse, for his passion shows itself in 
 the utmost extravagancies. Surely not the way to win 
 the gentle votary ^s heart.” 
 
 “ Grace is so pious — so self-denying — so excellent,” 
 said Evelyn: “ almost too excellent for this world my 
 father says : he warns me from being too much attracted 
 by this lovely devotee — and yet she is ver^ attractive.” 
 
 “ To me there is a chilling coldness about her,” said 
 the young man. “ I have no sympathy with such 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 135 
 
 thoughts. I cannot believe, and I do not believe, that 
 this beautiful world was created so full of enjo}nnent — 
 not to be enjoyed. When I contrast Goddeshurst and 
 Harroden Magna, the gloom and mystery which hangs 
 about the one, and the cheerfulness which animates the 
 other, I seem as if I were in two different worlds ; and 
 surely we are taught that the kingdom of light is the 
 kingdom of Heaven ; and that darkness is the inheri- 
 tance of the bad spirits. I do not know what there is 
 about Harroden Magna — but it is a region insupport- 
 able to me.” 
 
 “ I think I feel something in the same way,” said 
 she. “ I do not know how it is, but if I were as super- 
 stitious as poor Mrs. Maude, I should believe that house 
 was haunted ; and that a sort of malignant influence 
 was hanging over it. I, like you, cannot breathe easily 
 there. And I have heard such strange creeping sounds 
 behind the arras — ^low suppressed breathings, and 
 cautious footsteps — I could have fancied I know not 
 what. I hate that gloomy withdra wing-room, with its 
 dark tapestry, and its high narrow stained-glass win- 
 dows: and Lady Vaux is rather terrible: but then 
 Grace is a saint and an angel.” 
 
 He looked somewhat annoyed at the flrst part of 
 this speech, and as if he would fain change the con- 
 versation. 
 
 “ Grace is inconceivably beautiful,” he said, too 
 beautiful indeed — for she will prove the ruin I fear of 
 one of the noblest-hearted of human beings. Poor 
 Rookwood could scarcely have regarded his silver 
 
136 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Madonna with looks more adoring than Robert directs 
 to the object of his worship . . . But it is all in vain.’’ 
 
 ‘‘ You seem very much attached to Robert,” re- 
 marked the young lady. “ I suppose he possesses some 
 qualities that are altogether hidden from me. I should 
 say he was a, man rather to be feared than loved.” 
 
 You mistake him altogether.” 
 
 ‘‘ His countenance is so peculiar — there is something 
 so passionate, so determined in his brow and in his 
 eye — so very unlike other men — he makes me* shudder 
 sometimes when I look at him, as if some one had 
 walked over my grave.” 
 
 It is questionless a very remarkable countenance,” 
 replied Everard, ‘‘I never saw such another: but to 
 me it bears the grandest and most interesting of ex- 
 pressions — invincible force, and inexhaustible feeling.” 
 ‘‘And yet, he has such strange wild fits and humours. 
 Do you remember that terrible wild goose chase* which 
 he rode against Mr. Markham.^ I never saw any thing 
 so shocking I think. I never shall forget the horses as 
 they went out, and the poor creatures as they came 
 in. He rode quite savagely — it was a terrible sight — 
 and a horse, too, that had carried him for years, and 
 that so bravely and so well. How it arched its neck 
 and bent its beautiful head to his hand, as he patted 
 and caressed it ! — and when he sprang into his saddle^ 
 he stroked it quite fondly — and then — his spurs — to the 
 
 * The wild goose chase of that day was not like the steeple chase 
 of ours; it consisted in two horses starting together, and he who 
 proved the hindmost rider was obliged to follow the foremost over 
 whatever ground he chose to carry him. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 137 
 
 rowels — and off like wind down the steeps and over 
 the plain, as if he were the wild huntsman himself: 
 spurring and slashing: and that horrid Mr. Markham 
 after him, upon his fine horse too — but it was not such 
 a loving animal as Robert’s. Oh! it was a hateful 
 sight!” 
 
 I don’t like a wild goose chase myself, fair Evelyn 
 — but men will be men : we must allow something for 
 the immense excitement : and then Robert detests that 
 Markham, and he defied him to the match — because 
 Markham thinks he knows more of horsemanship than 
 all the rest of the world besides, and Robert, who does 
 all things well, and cares not for the distinction, was 
 nettled at the coxcomb.” 
 
 “ And so he killed his beautiful horse — his friend as 
 one may call it,” said Evelyn, with indignation. ‘‘ Oh ! 
 sir, even can you excuse such barbarity?” 
 
 “ Excuse it, no — I merely mean to say that I under- 
 stand it. I am not so good and gentle as you are — I 
 understand the feeling, but forgive me and don’t 
 blame me. I do not mean to justify it. I merely 
 mean to say that I understand it.” 
 
 “ Do you?” said she, slightly sighing, and looking at 
 him wistfully. 
 
 “ Nay,” said he, fondly bending over her, gratified 
 beyond measure at that little sigh — if you say it is 
 wrong — I will think it wrong, and even in Robert, I 
 will not attempt to excuse it.” 
 
 Even in Robert! — how strange — that the same 
 man should appear so differently to two people, who in 
 
138 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 many things think so alike — even Robert ! To me it 
 seems that with all his fine qualities, Robert has more 
 faults to be excused in him, than most of us.” 
 
 He is passionate and impetuous,” said his friend; 
 but he is ever noble, disinterested, and daring. He 
 is of the stuff of which the noble order of martyrs was 
 made,” added he, slightly crossing himself, “ and the 
 patron saints of England and of Spain.” 
 
 ‘‘ Spain ! oh let nothing we love be like Spain !” 
 cried Evelyn, with a slight shudder. 
 
 He looked at her surprised. 
 
 “ My father says,” she continued, ‘‘ that Spain has 
 been the greatest enemy our country or our holy 
 religion ever had — temperate as he is, my father almost 
 anathematises Spain.” 
 
 He assembled his tenants and retainers I know, 
 and came forth like a brave and a good man, to defend 
 his queen and country at the time of the Armada,” 
 said Everard. I was a mere child then — but I re- 
 member I prepared my little cross-bow, resolved to send 
 a bolt against the common enemy — ^but enemy as he 
 was to my country, I have ever thought the Spaniard 
 the bulwark of our holy religion.” 
 
 “ My father has taught me not to think so,” was her 
 only reply, for she was little skilled in and little 
 incHned to controversy; but she had heard of the 
 Inquisition, and she recoiled in secret at the very name 
 of Spain. 
 
 These two did not it seems think exactly alike, but 
 that appeared to be of no importance; they continued 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 139 
 
 to walk up and down together, and to exchange 
 their thoughts with all the sincerity of their age and 
 character. 
 
 The young man drinking in fresh draughts, as it 
 were, of love, from that gentle voice and those serene 
 eyes; and the young lady quite unsuspecting the danger 
 she was incurring, listening to his voice, and gazing hy 
 stealth at his animated and beautiful countenance. 
 
 Everard at different intervals spent much time at God- 
 deshurst, which seemed to him like a sort of sanctuary 
 of peace and happiness. The conversation and example 
 of Mr. Mulsho, were acting in the most favourable 
 manner upon his character; restoring him again to those 
 temperate maxims in which he had been educated ; and 
 renewing the feelings of attachment for his queen, and 
 the political institutions of his country, which certain 
 associations had of late considerably impaired. 
 
 In the meantime, the affection between himself 
 and the fair Eveljoi was rapidly increasing, though at 
 present he had not regularly disclosed it to her father : 
 — he was yet in his wardship, and felt that he was 
 still under the power of others; and he waited till the 
 few months should elapse, which must intervene before 
 he came of age, in order to declare his passion. 
 
 In the meantime, the other members of the house- 
 hold were not idle, as far as surmises, consulting of 
 oracles, and hints and inuendoes went. 
 
 Fabian amused himself, with the permitted imperti- 
 nence of his office, in tormenting the lovers, by his 
 endless odds and ends of rhyme and reason. 
 
140 
 
 rATHER DARCY. 
 
 And poor Mrs. Maude, wlio was tlie veriest slave of 
 superstition that ever lived in those most superstitious 
 days, tried to penetrate into the future, by every means 
 that charm, omen, or divination of any hind could 
 furnish. 
 
 The answers were such as to fill her sage mind with 
 uneasiness. Whatsoever the charm applied, the omen 
 observed, the divination consulted, the answers were 
 invariably sinister and alarming. 
 
 On these subjects she and Fabian, who was as 
 incredulous upon these matters as she was believing, 
 had numerous confabulations together. 
 
 She would bemoan herself incessantly about that 
 unlucky fall from his horse,* which had been the means 
 of introducing Sir Everard into the mansion ; and would 
 assert, that as she stood at the window watching his ap- 
 proach, she saw the brindled cat run across the walk just 
 before his feet, and pass between him and Mr. Mulsho.i" 
 
 “ And thou knowest, boy, though thou art but a 
 fool, that if a child or being in breath of life, pass 
 between two that are walking together, side by side — 
 such sign denoteth a division of friendship. And only 
 think ! it would break that dainty lamb’s heart, should 
 any thing fall out between them twain. He shed the 
 salt, too, as he was handing some to the fair Evelyn.” 
 He was certainly a whit awkward that day, and in a 
 greater hurry of the spirit than suits a gallant such as 
 
 * The fall from a horse before entering a house was considered 
 the worst of omens. 
 
 f A child or animal passing between two friends walking to- 
 gether was sure to betoken a division of friendship. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 141 
 
 he. Nevertheless, I’ll hold to the true divination of the 
 heart against all your foolish and heathenish charms and 
 omens, Mrs. Maude. 
 
 ‘ For St. George, St. George, our lady’s knight. 
 
 Whenever he walketh he walks aright. 
 
 He met the night-mare, and her nine fold, 
 
 Bid her alight. 
 
 And her troth plight, 
 
 And anoint thee witch, anoint thee.’ ” 
 
 ‘‘ What has that stuff to do with it?” said the old lady, 
 contemptuously: “besides, you didn’t hear what hap- 
 pened to them both yesterday.” 
 
 “Not I, mistress — I was out with Mr, Warner. 
 
 ‘ Let them that list these nonsens then pursue. 
 
 And on their crooked fancies feed their fill. 
 
 So I the fields and meadows green may view. 
 
 And by the rivers fresh may walk at will.’ 
 
 Marry, good Mrs. Maude, and it would be better for 
 you if your fair hand were angling 
 
 * For eager bite of barbel, bleak, or dace,’ 
 
 rather than hanging out baits for Satan and all his 
 imps to come and torment us in this fashion.” 
 
 “Very well,” said she, angrily; “and you don’t 
 choose to hear. I can keep my tale to myself.” 
 
 But Fabian was not quite so exempt from curiosity 
 as he affected to appear, and so he came close up to her, 
 fixed his sharp twinkling eyes upon her face, and pre- 
 pared to listen with a grotesque face of gravity. 
 
 “ I won’t speak to you, fool,” said she, “ while you 
 pull those ridiculous faces.” 
 
 “And pray, madam, what is my vocation in this 
 nether world, but to make a fool of myself ? Yet, still, 
 
142 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 if thy lamentable tale demand a lamentable face, here 
 goes . . . ’’And making as if he would be really dolorous, 
 he sat down on the ground at her feet. 
 
 You know the walk through the wood, and down 
 by the sleepy hollow,” began Mrs. Maude. 
 
 ‘‘ A very lonesome, ngly, dismal path, as ever I took 
 in my life ; and why and wherefore, when there are so 
 many paths to be chosen in life, some people must 
 always choose sleepy hollows, — I never could divine : 
 but go on. What did you find in the horrid hole ? 
 an old raven or a headless cow ? I wonder you go to 
 such bewitched places all by yourself, Mrs. Maude.” 
 
 I was not by myself. I was attending upon Mrs. 
 Evelyn, and the young cavaher.” 
 
 “ And what in the name of St. Withhold, led them 
 there ?” asked Fabian. ‘‘ Are they bewitched too — 
 that they must go into such wicked places as that ? 
 They may meet with something worse than headless 
 cows, and croaking ravens, if they go wandering about 
 in that foolish fashion.’^ 
 
 They were walking along side by side, and talking 
 in the way they are so wont to do.” 
 
 Aye, aye—” 
 
 ‘‘ And suddenly there was a rustling in the bushes, 
 and out steps before us, right in the middle of the 
 path, such a horrid, withered-looking hag ! Her face 
 was as tawny as an Ethiops, and hair all hanging in 
 black elf locks around her cheeks. She had on a 
 tattered dress, of as many colours as the patriarch Jo- 
 sephus coat: and she croaked like the night raven, as 
 she said — 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 143 
 
 ^ Should she tell them their fortunes?’ 
 
 ‘‘ ‘ Are you an Egyptian?’ asked the young gentle- 
 man; ‘for you look like one, and I have heard say 
 they can spell fortunes, and have skill in palmistry; 
 here’s a tester to cross your hand. Let us have the 
 young lady’s fortune first — won’t you, sweet Evelyn? 
 Indulge me. 
 
 “ She drew ofi*her glove, and exposed her pretty white 
 palm — and the old witch began to pore at it, and crumple 
 it in all sorts of ways. At first she smiled — and then 
 she fetched a sort of grOan, and she said — 
 
 “ ‘ What’s this?’ — looking at her more kindly and 
 sorrowfully than I should have thought such a witch 
 could have looked. ‘ There’s blood in your line of 
 life.’ 
 
 “Fair Mrs. Evelyn gave a little start — then coloured, 
 drew her hand away, and shut it close. 
 
 “ ‘ Let me see yours, young sir,’ said the witch. 
 
 “ He opened it to encourage Mrs. Evelyn, as I 
 thought, for he seemed sorry she had been shocked so. 
 
 “ ‘ You two must not come together,’ screeched the 
 beldame — ‘ there’s blood — again — your line of life has 
 blood in it.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Don’t have him, lady — Ay — ay’ — shaking her 
 head, ‘ you’ve a bonny bhnk in your fair blue eye — 
 but don’t have him, lady, don’t have him, lady — his 
 line of life is flooded with blood.’ And taking her 
 tester, she turned short round, and before we knew 
 where we were, she was gone into the thicket again.” 
 
 Fabian would fain have laughed, as was his custom, 
 at Mrs. Maude’s terrible stories; — but he could not — 
 
144 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 a cold sHver ran tlirougli his veins at these frightful 
 words. 
 
 Suddenly a loud noise, as of something falling over 
 head, was heard. 
 
 ^‘What’s that?” cried he, starting up. 
 
 “ A warning,” said Maude, turning very pale, “ that 
 chamber is empty, and here is the key.” * 
 
 * A noise, as of something falling in an empty chamber, was a 
 warning of coming death. 
 
FATHEK DARCY. 
 
 145 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 “ I would they were gone, 
 
 For among us is none 
 That ruleth but they alone.” 
 
 Skelton. 
 
 There is in the gardens of Goddeshurst a dark walk, 
 walled and roofed with close cut yew ; it leads from the 
 house to the more distant gardens. 
 
 Its green bowers effectually exclude the sun, and yet 
 the air penetrates through the leafy screen, and gives 
 a pleasant freshness ; rendering this kind of sylvan 
 gallery particularly grateful in this, our changeable 
 climate ; a shelter alike against the bleak east wind of 
 March, and the glowing mid-day beams of a July sun. 
 
 Mr. Mulsho was walking here with another gen- 
 tleman, who was considerably older than himself, and 
 evidently a churchman. There was something in the 
 appearance of churchmen in those days not easily to be 
 mistaken, even when they wore, as this gentleman did, 
 the secular habit. 
 
 The aged priest — for very aged he was — was one of 
 that description of churchmen before alluded to, as 
 known among the Catholics by the name of the 
 “ Old,’’ or ‘‘ Queen Mary’s Priests;” who formed a very 
 striking contrast in their views and principles to the 
 new men — the Seminarists and Jesuits, red hot from 
 Douay, and from Rheims. 
 
 K 
 
146 
 
 I^ATHER DARCY. 
 
 The views of Mr. Mulsho were so moderate, that 
 when, as was the case with many other gentlemen of 
 his persuasion, he attended his parish church in com 
 formity to the law ; it could scarcely be called an act of 
 submission upon his part. He was one who had long 
 in secret rejoiced in the emancipation of his country 
 from the thraldom of the Roman Pontiff — a thraldom 
 which had excited the jealousy of patriotic Englishmen 
 long before the Reformation was thought of. And 
 though he could not in all things conform to the doc- 
 trines of the newly established church, yet there was so 
 much in its discipline and opinions which he found 
 reason to approve, that he had never experienced any 
 conscientious difficulty in obeying the statute. 
 
 The old priest, Mr. Warner, had in great measure 
 adopted the principles of his friend. Peace between the 
 warring churches was the secret aspiration of his soul — 
 like Lord Falkland, he only sighed for peace. He 
 loved his country, he loved the old Saxon faith of his 
 ancestors, detested ultramontane and Spanish principles, 
 and sighed, as an old man sighs, over the torrent of 
 new teachers, new doctrines, and new ways of thinking 
 and acting, which, setting in like a floods threatened to 
 overwhelm society. 
 
 “ I confess, my friend,” Mr. Mulsho was saying, 
 
 the times appear to me to darken. I fear that hopes 
 which you and I, my venerable counsellor, have for so 
 many years cherished — hoping against hope — are about 
 to fade away. This old queen, who keeps us all in awe 
 and order, cannot last for ever— and after her what are 
 we to expect?” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 147 
 
 The old man made no answer for some time: the 
 lines of melancholy thought were on his brow, slightly 
 shaded by a few silver hairs, and his mild eye was bent 
 upon the ground he was pacing. 
 
 I could prophecy,” at last he said: “ it seems as if 
 in the twilight of age, shadows and forms of things 
 dimly appear, which are lost in the glare of day. This 
 church will not triumph — by ways so crooked, none 
 ever yet advanced: Jerusalem lies in ruins, and her 
 enemies count her stones ! who shall tell what is next 
 to succeed? The darkness is gathering — the wind is 
 howling — the sky is troubled — the tempest is at hand : 
 when extremes meet, when clouds from opposite quar- 
 ters of the heavens rush together, then the thunder- 
 bolt falls.” 
 
 “It is an ominous conjunction,” said Mr. Mulsho, 
 “ but I should give a less figurative account of the 
 catastrophe. When extremes in politics or religion 
 meet, the thing which perishes is principle, ‘ I saw, 
 Satan, as lightning, fall from Heaven’ — Your thunder 
 bolt, Mr. Warner.” 
 
 “ You are wiser than I am,” said the old man. “ I 
 am but a poor visionary after all. I have indulged 
 in dreams of unattainable good, and my hopes are 
 disappointed. I had hoped that men would, in spite 
 of their differences, learn again to love one another — 
 to regard each other as brethren — not as fellow com- 
 batants merely . . . What folly !” 
 
 “ A romance, indeed, I fear,” replied his friend, 
 “ to which that of Tristram, or the Lady of the Lake, 
 is as an every day tale.” 
 
148 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 “ All ! sir, wliat a scene of contention is tliis world 
 become,” said tlie old man, shuddering, ‘‘ the fires I 
 saw blazing in my youth, yet smoulder in their ashes 
 — and in other countries are blazing still. Sir, at an 
 auto-da-fe^ a few months only ago, at Madrid, sixty and 
 five human creatures perished at once. Oh ! sir, the 
 fires in England made me what I am — by their light I 
 learned to see what an accursed thing an exclusive 
 religion is. I learned to reverence ways of thinking 
 different from my own — when I stood by and wit- 
 nessed the martyrdom of those holy victims to sincerity. 
 But miserable as we are — sin is born of sin — cruelty 
 begets cruelty — ^barbarity is the offspring of barbarity. 
 Alas ! for our own government, so mild, so equitable 
 in the outset : so severe and cruel as it is become !” 
 
 “ Let us at least be just,” said Mr. Mulsho, with 
 the prophet of old let us say — ‘ Has there not been a 
 cause This last arrest, which has excited such fearful 
 resentment among our Catholic friends, what is it but 
 the bitter fruit of seeds of their own scattering.” 
 
 Mr. Warner sighed. 
 
 They will be condemned, it is said — and oh ! when 
 will the laws cease in their enactments to be so fearfully 
 cruel, as to excite the interest of all men on the part of 
 the criminal?” 
 
 “ When, indeed ! — But let us leave this painful sub- 
 ject: I wished to speak of matters nearer home — of my 
 daughter — of this young man. You should be better 
 acquainted with the tempers and characters of the young 
 Catholic gentlemen around us than I can be. Am I right 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 149 
 
 in my impressions? — Is he one to whom in these diffi- 
 cult times I can intrust my Evelyn ?” 
 
 “ My vocation is well nigh ended,” said Mr. War- 
 ner. I know nothing of the young.” 
 
 “ The more the pity.” 
 
 “ His grandfather was a brave and honourable man — 
 wise in counsel and mighty in battle ; he comes of a 
 good stock ; I have known them long and well.” 
 
 ‘‘ He looks as if he would be no disgrace to his 
 family,” said Mr. Mulsho. But the countenance of the 
 priest expressed a painful doubt and uncertainty. 
 
 AVe know little of any of them now,’^ he said. 
 ‘‘ Truth is become a jest — good faith a fable ; we know 
 not what any man really is now.” 
 
 The father’s heart sank within him. 
 
 “ And in such a world must I leave thee, my child?” 
 “ No, no,”. said Mr. Warner, ‘‘ the saints in heaven 
 forbid ! My task is well nigh ended; but may you, my 
 honoured friend, hve long, for thy poor child will need 
 thee.” 
 
 “ It will not be,” replied Mr. Mulsho. What I 
 say I feel to be a truth, my days on earth are counted ; 
 I must leave you all soon ; but before I depart, fain would 
 I place my Evelyn where she will be sheltered from the 
 storms which appear to me to be impending; and this 
 young man seems the only one on whom my thoughts 
 can rest with any satisfaction.” 
 
 To this Mr. Warner made no reply. 
 
 Another sigh from Mr. Mulsho. 
 
 He seemed oppressed with a vague presentiment of 
 
150 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 evil, but endeavouring to shake it off, he said, with an 
 endeavour to be more cheerful. 
 
 It would seem as if we had lost our faith in human 
 kind.’’ 
 
 Mr. Warner shook his head. 
 
 ‘‘ Trust me, sir, of the present way of teaching in the 
 church no good can or will come — as well expect to 
 gather figs of thistles. This generation will not pass 
 away without some fearful example of this truth — that 
 as is the tree so will be its fruit. Immure your daughter 
 in a convent if you will. Consecrate her to the services 
 of her religion, but trust her not among the sons of men 
 in the days wliich are before us. 
 
 ‘‘ My dear friend,” said Mr. Mulsho, for what ap- 
 peared to him as the almost unreasonable despondency 
 on the part of Mr. Warner acted, as such things most 
 often do, in making his own terrors appear unreasonable : 
 ‘‘ this is a serious view of things indeed, but on that 
 one subject my mind is made up. My child shall not 
 enter a convent — ^no, no. Times are bad, but not quite 
 so bad as you represent them. Shall we not trust this 
 young man? and moreover Evelyn — ” 
 
 “Loves him already,” said the old man: “ all is 
 voluntas deiP 
 
 And bowing his head with an air of submission he 
 went away. 
 
 He could no longer oppose a marriage, which to 
 all appearance was so advantageous in every respect 
 — ^yet he could not dispel the disquieting suspicions 
 which filled his old man’s heart: while Mr. Mulsho 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 151 
 
 remained, in spite of the determination to which he 
 had come, in a state of painful disquiet and dissatis- 
 faction^ which he vainly strove to overcome. 
 
 Such were the anxieties of those days. 
 
152 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 “ The trees of God, without the care 
 Or art of man with sap are fed ; 
 
 The mountain cedar looks as fair 
 As those in royal gardens bred.” 
 
 Ps. 104. 
 
 The next day was tlie first of May. 
 
 And a charming May-day morning it was. The sun 
 rose bright and cloudless, tinting the oak woods in 
 their new livery of green and crimson and gold : while 
 birds innumerable were warbling in the branches, and 
 the flowers were giving out their sweetest odours around. 
 
 Such was the morning when Evelyn Mulsho, like 
 Emily in the flower and leaf, rose with the dawn, pre- 
 pared to greet and do honour to the lovely May. 
 
 She, too, like every maiden high and low, in these 
 romantic times, must go forth early and gather 
 
 “ Flowers fresh, and branch, and blome. 
 
 The primrose, the violet, and the gold, 
 
 With fresh garlants, party- blue and white.” 
 
 Before daybreak there was a general stir in the 
 house ; every page and groom, every serving maid of 
 every degree, from the two young girls who attended 
 upon Evelyn, to the lowest scullion in the kitchen, all 
 must go forth upon the same pleasant errand. Fabian 
 might be heard parading the house, singing merrily 
 at the top of his voice, the madrigal by Morley : 
 
 ‘ Now is the month of Maying ; 
 
 And all the lads are playing ; 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 153 
 
 And every bonny lass, 
 
 Trips over the greeny grass. 
 
 “ The spring clad all in gladness, 
 
 Doth laugh at winter’s sadness ; 
 
 And to the tabor’s sound, 
 
 The nymph’s tread out the ground.” 
 
 The air, indeed, resounded with music. The merry 
 pipe and tabor, and the sound of the lads and lasses 
 singing, was heard in the woods and over the hills. 
 Nothing could be more full of those delights which a 
 communication with nature in all her freshness gives, 
 than May morning as it was kept by our ancestors. 
 Their passionate love for the fields and the woods, for 
 gardens, greens, and flowers, was on that day indulged 
 in its fullest extent. 
 
 Every one went out upon these occasions, from the 
 queen herself with the ladies of court to the humblest 
 of the peasant maidens : and each one returned home 
 loaded with the vernal spoils, with which they decked 
 their doors and windows, and made garlands to hang 
 upon the May pole. This last decked with abundance 
 of flowers, silver cups and tankards, and flaunting with 
 ribbons, was reared with many ceremonies upon the 
 village green, and stood there in all its glory, awaiting 
 the dances which were to celebrate its erection, as the 
 evening approached. 
 
 “ On the calends of May,” says a quaint author, 
 ‘‘ the juvenile part of both sexes were wont to rise a 
 little after midnight, and walk to some neighbouring 
 wood, accompanied with music and the blowing of 
 horns, where they break down branches of trees, adorn- 
 ing them with nosegays and crowns of flowers, — when 
 
154 
 
 FATHEB DARCY. 
 
 tHs is done, tliey return with their booty homewards, 
 about the rising of the sun, and make their doors and 
 windows to triumph in the flowery spoils. The other 
 part of the day is spent in dancing round a poll — which 
 is called a May poll, which being placed in a conve- 
 nient part of the village, stands there, as it were, dedi- 
 cated to the Goddess of Flowers.” 
 
 She had put on her hood and scarf, and followed 
 by her two maidens, trusty Mrs. Maude, and Fabian, 
 who never left her when he could help it, with a 
 little osier basket in her hand, was tripping gaily down 
 stairs, when she was met by Everard, who, roused by 
 the voice of the boy, had risen, and stood prepared to 
 attend his fair one upon her sylvan ramble. 
 
 He addressed her in the words of Herrick, a favourite 
 poet of the day, as he took her hand in his : 
 
 “ May I be of your company, 
 
 May I too come forth to see. 
 
 The dew drops spanghng flower and tree. 
 
 How flowers have wept, and bowed towards the earth, 
 It were sin ; 
 
 Na}% profanation to keep in.” 
 
 We are very simple people here, sir,” said she 
 gaily, “ and are content with mere rural pleasures; but 
 for a court gallant hke you — I am afraid spoiling my 
 father’s thickets and breaking down hawthorn bushes 
 will be but very small amusement.” 
 
 The young gentleman, however, looked quite young 
 enough to enjoy any mischief of the sort; and quite in 
 love enough he certainly was, to enjoy any thing with 
 her. 
 
 “ Let me carry this for you,” said he, taking her 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 155 
 
 basket, ‘‘ and then I shall appear, what in good truth I 
 am, your most devoted servant and slave.” 
 
 They salhed forth, followed by her attendants, and 
 were soon wandering among the pleasant woods and 
 copses which now resounded with the merry songs of 
 the revellers, and sparkled in the rising sun, every dew 
 drop being a tiny rainbow. 
 
 At first, they busied themselves hke the rest, gather- 
 ing fiowers, but they soon left this amusement to 
 others, and strolled together along the wide green 
 alleys cut for hunting purposes, never weary of that 
 sweet communion of feeling and exchange of thought 
 which forms the delight of lovers. 
 
 The dinner of the gentry was at that time served 
 about ten or eleven o’clock, those of the lower classes 
 dined later — about one. 
 
 The young people returned to dinner with Mr. Mul- 
 sho ; Evelyn and her maidens decked the porch and 
 windows with their spoils, till the great hall looked like 
 a bower of May fiowers. Fabian and Everard were 
 agreeably busied in assisting ; they made a sort of 
 canopy for Evelyn, and placed a gilt arm-chair for her 
 state. And there she sat, looking very lovely, amid the 
 showy hawthorn branches which hung about her. 
 
 . Everard sat at her feet and Fabian on the other side, 
 singing in an under voice his snatches of old songs, and 
 making those sly allusions to the present supposed si- 
 tuation of her heart — a tolerated liberty in those days, 
 but a species of jesting which would be deemed insup- 
 portable in these. 
 
156 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Mr. Mulslio and Mr. Warner, engaged in conversa- 
 tion, walked up and down the hall. 
 
 The good old priest, in spite of his forebodings, could 
 not help looking with pleasure at the little group ; and 
 as he walked up and down, his eyes fixed upon the 
 ground, his lips were murmuring invocations to all the 
 saints for their happiness. 
 
 Mr. Mulsho relieved — as all men more or less are 
 when they have come to a decision — smiled as he 
 watched them. 
 
 It was a pleasant day for them all. 
 
 He now came up to the place where his daughter was 
 sitting, laughing, and chatting in her pleasant way, at 
 some of the apothegms of a jester’s philosophy, which fell 
 from Fabian; while Everard, not engaged in the war of 
 wits, was gazing silently upon her face, wondering 
 whether any limner from Italy could do justice to its 
 colour or expression. 
 
 “ My dear,” said Mr. Mulsho, the clock has just 
 gone two, and it is time we should walk down and show 
 ourselves in the village. These good people, who are 
 tripping it so merrily round their May-pole, will be dis- 
 appointed if we do not as usual go down to the Morris 
 dance. Come, sir,” turning to Everard, “ are you for 
 Robinhood and Maid Marian ? I assure you you will 
 find Friar Tuck a pleasanter fellow than this googe 
 Fabian here, who grows tedious.” 
 
 “ Alas,” said the boy, the jester’s part is well nigh 
 played out, and that makes me lack-a-daisical nuncle ; 
 man grows duller and heavier as his race runs on, and 
 every generation is born, as I think, the father instead 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 157 
 
 of the child of that which went before it. Mrs. Evelyn 
 there is as wise as Mr. Warner, though she is but six- 
 teen, and already regards the toys of a poor jester’s 
 wit, as that wise man looks on a hobby-horse, 
 
 ‘And oh, and oh, the hobby-horse is forgot.’ 
 
 Men are getting too learned to be merry, and the black 
 cloak of the puritan will soon cover the gaud of the 
 fools.” 
 
 “You grow prosy, sir,” said Mr. Mulsho. “We 
 don’t use to have long sententious nothings from you 
 — your business is to be brief and pithy.” 
 
 “ Ay, like a puritan’s discourse in the pulpit — 
 heigh, master? — Well, well — we are but the children of 
 our day — the best of us: and the day of words is 
 coming : we are like to have more words than matter 
 by and by, sir.” 
 
 “Perhaps so,” said Mr. Mulsho; “but get along, 
 and open the door, and tell Mrs. Lettice and Mrs. Alice 
 to bring their young lady’s scarf and hood, and follow 
 us to the village.” 
 
 Tliey soon crossed the lawn and the few fields that 
 separated them from the little assemblage of houses, 
 where a merry scene presented itself. 
 
 The village consisted of various picturesque cottages, 
 of clay and timber, grotesquely ornamented on the out- 
 side with fantastical gables, odd little balconies, and 
 flights of stairs outside, leading from the upper stories 
 to the ground. 
 
 The gardens before most of them were enclosed with 
 rustic palings, and were gaudy with flowers, and several 
 
158 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 giant trees of the growth of centuries hung over this 
 little scene of peace and contentment. In the centre of 
 the green the tall May-pole was towering with all its 
 glittering and many-coloured ornaments; the pipe and 
 tabor were sounding merrily, and the clowns and maidens, 
 holding hands, were dancing round, much, it may be 
 supposed, in the fashion of those of Ostade and Teniers, 
 though with dresses somewhat less ugly and grotesque. 
 The more aged villagers, after the manner of sweet 
 Auburn, sat under the shade of the trees, talking and 
 laughing, while the horn of nut-brown ale passed soberly 
 from hand to hand — be it observed, in passing, that 
 till the reign of King James I., the habits of the Eng- 
 lish were exemplarily sober — their somewhat precise 
 and most thrifty-looking wives sat near them, and 
 little children laughed and frolicked around. 
 
 It was a very pretty scene. 
 
 At the top of the green, the Maurice dancers are 
 now seen approaching. 
 
 Our forefathers, in their overflowing hilarity, were 
 content with rather dull, and what we should esteem 
 very stale jokes. We might any of us find pleasure in 
 getting up very early, and gathering flowers on a plea- 
 sant May morning; but we should be rather puzzled 
 to raise a laugh at the hobby-horse every year of our 
 lives. 
 
 So it was not now. 
 
 Decked in all the gaudiest colours — ^green, yellow, 
 and scarlet, with scarfs, ribbons, and laces, “ hanged all 
 over” as one says, with gold rings, precious stones, and 
 other jewels, feathers in their hats, purses hanging to 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 159 
 
 their girdles, and numerous little bells to their garters, 
 and round their arms ; so they came jingling and 
 prancing along; — Maid Marian, a rosy lass of about 
 seventeen, in a watchet coloured tunic and mantle of 
 green. Friar Tuck, Robin Hood, Little John, and the 
 never-to-be-forgotten hobby-horse, who, made of paste- 
 board, and covered with a sweeping saddle-cloth of 
 scarlet, and mounted by a gaily dressed clown, pranced 
 and curvetted along, while the crowd shrieked and 
 shouted with laughter. 
 
 The party from the Mansion House, stood together 
 while the ridiculous group played their antics before 
 them. Everard, who was a little too advanced to 
 enjoy such foolery, had, however, left the place, and 
 wandering about amused himself with reconnoitring 
 the village. 
 
 His was a heart to sympathise with happiness in 
 every form, and he walked from group to group as 
 they sat there engaged in social talk; the various and 
 gaudy colours of their dresses, contrasting so pleasantly 
 with the verdure of the grass, and the soft growth of 
 the overhanging branches. 
 
 His eye followed the antics of the children gam- 
 bolling round the trunks of the trees, and the boys as 
 they scampered wildly about and made somersets on 
 the turf before him ; responding to their merry laughter 
 with his kind tranquil smile. 
 
 It was indeed a beautiful evening — an evening to 
 spread a sober tranquillity through every breast. 
 
 The sun, now slowly sinking in the west, poured 
 floods of radiance upon the scene, tinting the tops of 
 
160 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 the trees with a golden light, and flinging their long 
 shadows upon the grass. 
 
 The mingled hum of voices, the sounds of innocent 
 merriment filled the air, while the bells of the little 
 church gave from time to time a gladsome peal, as the 
 bell-ringers of the village exercised themselves in the 
 mysteries of their art. 
 
 Every human heart will respond by the recollection 
 of some scene of a similar description, to the sober 
 and tender feeling of happiness which pervaded the 
 young man’s spirits. 
 
 The day had been one of unmixed felicity to him, 
 from the first delicious hour of the morning, when he 
 gathered for her the hawthorn branches, clustered with 
 flowers and heavy with dew — till this last half hour, 
 when she had walked down to the village by his side, 
 prattling with that pleasant cheerfulness, that gaiety 
 yet solid good sense, which was to him so delightful 
 and so precious. And as he wandered along, his 
 thoughts were busy with these recollections — but the 
 day was to conclude less pleasantly than it had began. 
 
 At the upper end of the village green, somewhat 
 apart from the crowd, and a little sheltered from the 
 general eye by the heavy sweeping branches of a huge 
 lime tree, two gentlemen were standing. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 161 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 “ Oh what a crocodilian world is this, 
 
 Compos’d of treach’ries and insnaring wiles.” 
 
 Quarles. 
 
 The two gentlemen were dressed entirely in black, 
 with short cloaks, plain bands, and hats without either 
 feather or buckle; they seemed to be watching what 
 was going on with somewhat sour and sarcastic looks, 
 and every now and then they cast very inquiring and 
 inquisitive eyes at the party from the Mansion house 
 at Goddeshurst. 
 
 Everard was sauntering along, gazing idly about him ; 
 or most often not gazing at all, but musing rather than 
 observing; his mind filled Avith such idle fancies as 
 occupy a young man’s thoughts, who is very much in 
 love : when he was startled by the sound of a voice not 
 altogether unknown to him. 
 
 “ A good day to you, young sir,” said the first gen- 
 tleman, accosting him. 
 
 This gentleman, though dressed in the puritan garb, 
 looked not at all like a puritan, — his features were 
 singularly handsome, his complexion fair, his eye large 
 and of a dark gray, almost blue, and his brown hair 
 falling in soft curls upon his temples. His companion 
 was of a very different aspect; his complexion was 
 saturnine, his brow dark, his eye black and eager, his 
 hair jet, and hanging over his yellow cheeks with the 
 
 L 
 
162 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 true puritan precision of cut, and liis thin, wiry^ but 
 large and powerful frame, was in strong contrast with 
 that of the person he accompanied. 
 
 A good day to you, young gentleman. You are 
 come forth a Maying in pleasant company it seems, 
 if that pretty young lady who is standing by the vener- 
 able gentleman there be of your party.” 
 
 Everard started — turned round — seemed astonished 
 at the familiarity of the address: then he examined 
 the speaker in a doubtful, suspicious manner. 
 
 ‘‘ You have seen us before/’ said the elder gentleman 
 of the two, he of the blue eye and auburn locks. 
 
 And though maybe the creed we profess may render 
 us not so welcome visiters to you as we might perad- 
 venture prove to others, yet communication with those 
 engaged in his service ought never to be distasteful to 
 those who are seeking it.” 
 
 Everard, who had by this time recognised the speaker, 
 bent his head in a sort of reverential salute, but made 
 no answer. 
 
 This godless, heathen diversion of the May-pole,” 
 continued the first gentleman, ‘‘ seemeth to be much 
 encouraged by the lord of the manor here. And pray, if 
 it be not a question indiscreet to ask, who may that 
 venerable gentleman in sables be, who seems so intent 
 upon the marvellously ridiculous friskings of that fools’ 
 toy, the hobbyhorse ?” 
 
 His name is Mr. Warner, sir,” said Everard, in 
 the respectful tone of one who acknowledges a superior, 
 he is the priest at Goddeshurst.” The gentlemen 
 frowned. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 163 
 
 ‘‘ Young gentleman,” said the second, methinksyou 
 are marvellously free in your communications, consider- 
 ing whose livery we wear; the promulgating that a man 
 is a priest, is a service no gentleman will in these times 
 proffer you many thanks for rendering him ; but,” look- 
 ing at the other, “ your secret shall be safe with us.” 
 Our garb,^’ said the first, ‘‘ bespeaks our opinions 
 with regard to matters, on which men are perilling life 
 and estate; and Master Everard should learn, before he 
 speaks, to observe who it is that he addresses; he may 
 endanger his friends, even to the knife, if he be not a 
 little more circumspect in his communications. He 
 should regard the character represented by those he 
 addresses before he gives his tongue such liberty.” 
 
 I cry pardon,” said Everard, looking perplexed, 
 “ I thought I was addressing friends.” 
 
 And what should make you think so, young sir?” 
 said the first gentleman, with some severity. Men in 
 our garb are not wont to be friends with men who carry 
 secret dispositions such as yours.” 
 
 The young man coloured. 
 
 “ When was the Puritan a friend to the reconciled 
 Catholic?” added he, with a slight sneer. 
 
 ‘‘ But,” waving his hand, ‘‘ a truce to this subject; 
 let me only repeat my warning to you, young man, 
 for ’twere sin and pity to see so goodly and so godly a 
 youth fling himself into the den of lions through very 
 want of heed. Recollect the character of those you are 
 addressing, and you will speak more on the guard.” 
 That gentleman is, I think you said,” he continued, 
 for Everard made no reply, “ a friend of the family. 
 
 L 2 
 
164 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 I understood no more. Be under no apprehensions. I 
 douht not but that he is not the only friend of this de- 
 scription which the family hath.” Everard was still 
 silent. 
 
 The two strangers continued to watch the group for 
 a short time. You are not acquainted with us, fair 
 sir,” said the elder one again. You did us the honour 
 to claim a sort of acquaintance with us just now, but 
 please to recollect that we hold no communion with 
 relapsed papists T 
 
 Again the young man coloured; he looked up dis- 
 pleased, but his eye fell beneath the keen, penetrating 
 glance that was fixed upon him. 
 
 “ I believe I understand your meaning at last,” he 
 said. 
 
 ‘‘ My meaning, I should think, was easy enough to 
 understand,” was the reply. ‘‘ /have no riddles in my 
 speech, young gentleman; I leave riddles to those who 
 have any thing to conceal which they are ashamed of.” 
 Such I am not,” said Everard, with more spirit than 
 he had assumed before. 
 
 I am happy to hear it. — That seems a very fair 
 young lady,” continued Mr. Darcy, for he it was, turn- 
 ing and addressing his companion, Pray,” to an old 
 person who was walking slowly by, leaning on his staff’, 
 ‘‘ can’st thou name to me that young lady who seems to 
 take such an undue pleasure in these heathenish and 
 indecorous ceremonies, more suitable to the worship of 
 the Canaanitish divinity yclept Baal, than for a fair 
 Christian maiden’s pastime?” 
 
 “ Dost not know her said the old man. Sir John, 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 165 
 
 or Sir Oliver, or whatever may be thy name — for I 
 guess thou’rt of the cloth — that’s Mr. Mulsho’s only 
 daughter; that’s the heiress of Goddeshurst, and she’s a 
 pure one. I think her lips be like cherries, and her 
 cheeks like ripe currants and cream ; and she’s as dainty 
 as a queen, and as good as a sister of charity. Aye, aye, 
 she be a pure one, that she be.” 
 
 She’s an idolatress like them all, no doubt,” said 
 the gentleman, “ a black papist ; let her lips be what 
 colour they may. I’ll pledge my glove to that.” 
 
 Why,” said the old man, if she he a papisher — 
 which she hardly be — where’s the harm of that ? We 
 were all papishers, weren’t we, when I was a boy? I 
 don’t understand these cam jangles, not I; but she’s as 
 her father is. They comes to church once a month, and 
 says their prayers like other folk ; and if they have a 
 mass said at home in a corner by that worthy old father 
 Warner there, what harm is there in that, I wonder?” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, they come to church once a month, do they? 
 and that’s their idolatrous priest, is he?” said the second 
 gentleman: ‘‘ he looks marvellously unlike a priest in 
 my opinion.” 
 
 “ Aye, he be one of Queen Mary’s priests, one o’ the 
 old sort ; they’ll soon all be worn out now, I suppose, 
 and then we shall all go to church together again, as we 
 did afore these new fashions came in.” 
 
 Aye, aye,” said the first gentleman, but there are 
 those who may say a nay to that.” 
 
 “ So they say, so they say,” said the old man, eyeing 
 them in a suspicious manner, “ but /say,” striking his 
 
166 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 staff upon the ground, “ I hope well have neither this 
 P. nor that P. as the sajdng is; but the church as by our 
 good old queen by law established; for they tell me, that 
 be the true gold out of the wedge — ^the whole of it — 
 and Pm for the pure gold ; neither popish rubbish nor 
 puritan parings for me.” 
 
 The true gold out of the wedge — what is the old 
 gentleman talking about ?” said the second puritan, 
 contemptuously. 
 
 “ You never heer’d that fable, did you?” said the old 
 man; then 111 tell it ye. Why the true doctrine is 
 like, they say, unto pure gold what has been 
 mixed up by them papish priests during a long long 
 course of years I’m fain to suppose, with a huge 
 mess of dirt and rubbish which hath all got mingled 
 with it — and the confessors of our church they say 
 have purified this in the fire of their martyrdoms ; 
 and the pure gold hath left the wedge; and we 
 ha got it in a lump, and we’ve got all of it: but them 
 puritans are so deadly afraid of a bit of popish dirt 
 still sticking to the ore, that they are for throwing 
 away a deal of good stuff with the rubbish.” 
 
 The gentlemen smiled, and exchanged looks. 
 
 This was to be expected,” said one, ‘‘ doctors of 
 divinity in hodden grey — a sign of the times. Blessed 
 fruit of a blessed tree. But, sage sir, to leave con- 
 troversy and return to things more within our province, 
 at least. That handsome-looking gentleman in the 
 sad coloured satin suit, is, perchance, the father of the 
 young lady?” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 167 
 
 Aye, sir, Mr. Mulsho.” 
 
 ‘‘ And he — is he a recusant — a papisher, as you call 
 them?’’ 
 
 •‘I know not, sir; he goes to church every fourth 
 Sunday; he has done so ever since this queen came 
 in ; and he is not one to alter his fashions to please 
 these Jesuits and Seminarists which, bless your heart, 
 they say swarm through the land like the black flies of 
 Egypt, only a body can never see ’em. But none of 
 that cattle come to Goddeshurst — Goddeshurst it was, 
 and Goddeshurst it is — and the devil’s imps are not 
 going to be hidden in holes and corners there. Mr. 
 Warner will serve their turn, and our good old Bess 
 will never molest ’em.” 
 
 I am glad to hear you speak so heartily, good 
 man,” said the elder gentleman, though no friend to 
 our opinions, I see you are not in danger of relapsing 
 into the foul errors of papistry. And so that Mr. 
 Mulsho is really as rich as the world says he be.” 
 
 “ It’s a fine estate, sir,” said the old man, ‘‘ and hath 
 been well preserved by the master. He don’t go but 
 now and then to court, just to pay his duty, as one may 
 say. But since my lady died, it’s been quiet house- 
 keeping — he gives us a hunting-match now and then ; 
 — but he don’t go a hunting himself. It’s rather quiet 
 for the young gentlewoman, but she doth not seem to 
 heed it. And as for the young gallant, if he be but as 
 good, and as well to do in the world as he is handsome 
 and brave in his attire, he may suit us, may be, as well 
 as any other. But the hobby-horse has been kicking 
 his heels this hour, and my grandson, Perkin, is a 
 
168 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 riding on him ; and so, please your worships, 111 say 
 good evening to you — and wish you as much content- 
 ment in your way of taking things, as there is in mine/^ 
 
 And the old man hobbled away. 
 
 Everard had during the conversation rejoined Mr. 
 Mulsho’s party. 
 
 ‘‘ Are you acquainted with those two gentlemen ?” 
 said Mr. Mulsho. By their garb I guess they are of 
 a sort to take little pleasure in these diversions. I 
 wonder what brings them here ?” he added, rather 
 anxiously, for they were days of suspicion, to all of his 
 persuasion. 
 
 Everard did not seem to hear. 
 
 My father wishes to know whether you are ac- 
 quainted with those two grave-looking gentlemen,” said 
 Evelyn, ‘‘ they seem to stand there like dark spirits 
 scowling upon these poor merry people.” 
 
 I crave your pardon,” said Everard, as if recol- 
 lecting himself. 
 
 ‘‘ I saw you speaking to them. Have you ever met 
 with them before ?” said Mr. Mulsho. 
 
 “No” — said Everard, colouring deeply: “not in 
 that garb,” he mentally added. 
 
 Evelyn looked at him anxiously. Why did he 
 colour so deeply? the colour spread over his cheeks, 
 temples, and even his neck, as disclosed by his falling 
 collar. 
 
 He took out his handkercliief; seemed tormented with 
 a sudden and violent cough ; and turned hastily away. 
 
 Mr. Mulsho had not perceived his emotion, for his 
 eye was fixed upon the two puritans. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 169 
 
 He had no reason for any particular apprehension on 
 their account : his course had been such as to secure 
 him from the molestations and vexations which visited 
 so many of his persuasion. But the events of late years 
 had not only filled the land with numbers of dangerous 
 characters, whose conduct had inspired the government 
 with much well-grounded jealousy; but had likewise 
 given birth to swarms of greedy and unprincipled 
 informers, ever upon the watch to prey on the unwary; 
 and every Catholic gentleman, however moderate his 
 views or circumspect his conduct, felt as if his domestic 
 quiet rested upon a most insecure tenure ; and regarded 
 the approach of any stranger with distrust and anxiety. 
 
 Mr. Mulsho, therefore, continued to watch the pre- 
 tended puritans with uneasiness ; while Evelyn looked 
 with a sort of sad perplexity at her lover; who, now 
 seeming to recover from his spasmodic cough, had again 
 approached her side. 
 
 She did not allude to the subject of the strangers any 
 more. She could not bear again to hear those lips utter 
 what she felt convinced was not exactly true. Yet, why 
 disguise so very simple a circumstance as whether he 
 had ever seen those gentlemen before? 
 
 By-and-by the strangers making their way through 
 the crowd, approached the side of the green where 
 Evelyn W'as sitting upon a bench, her attendants upon the 
 grass behind her, Fabian at her feet; her father and Mr. 
 Warner standing on one side, and Everard, still discon- 
 certed and uncomfortable, upon the other. 
 
 “ Oh ! those black cattle,” said Fabian — ‘‘ if they be 
 
170 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 coming here I must run away, Evelyn. I never could 
 bear the black ox since I saw the fiend riding upon 
 one at Bartholomew fair. I always think I see his 
 cloven hoof — ain’t that a queer sort of shoe?” 
 
 ‘‘ Fie,” said she, they will hear you. Don’t be so 
 rude, Fabian : time was — as you said just now, and your 
 privilege of saying just what comes uppermost is well 
 nigh at an end.” 
 
 “ Aye,” said he, looking at Everard slyly: ‘‘ if I am 
 to follow the fashions of this world — I must learn to lie 
 with a circumstance.” 
 
 “Pooh — ^pshaw — nonsense,” said she, again observing 
 the deep crimson colour on Everard’s cheek as he 
 turned abruptly away. “ What nonsense you are talk- 
 ing, sir?” 
 
 “ Evelyn — when that young man tells you all manner 
 of foolish flattering tales,” said Fabian, “ you see you’re 
 not to believe him.” 
 
 She was distressed — she dared not speak again to 
 Fabian, she was afraid of some fresh home truth being 
 uttered. She turned away and began to talk to Mrs. 
 Maude of going home. 
 
 Everard, embarrassed by the jester’s plain speaking, 
 had moved a few paces away; he came up to where the 
 dancers round the May-pole, wearied with their gambols, 
 were standing in a group. A boy hastily left the crowd, 
 went up to him, pushed a scrap of paper into his hand, 
 and saying, “ You’re to read that in your chamber,” 
 made a somerset on the grass, and disappeared among 
 the crowd in a moment. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 171 
 
 Everard put the billet in his girdle, and returning to 
 the party, passed by the strangers; . . . they made him a 
 low, distant salute, and then walked slowly away. 
 
 They had, however, cast a cloud over the enjoyments 
 of the evening. 
 
 The commoner people followed them with that sort 
 of dislike and hatred^ which the puritans, especially the 
 Brownists, excited among those not belonging to their 
 sect ; Mr. Mulsho was anxious, Evelyn deeply grieved 
 and perplexed, Mr. Warner sad, and Everard miserable. 
 
 He felt that Evelyn had not believed him. He felt 
 that the suspicion of untruth was hateful to her. 
 
 He was wretched at the idea of having fallen in her 
 esteem, but it was impossible for him to explain ; he 
 could only endeavour to extenuate — extenuate, alas ! — 
 by using those casuistical sophistications of which he 
 was never meanf to be the dupe. 
 
 The sun had set, and the twilight was falling round 
 them as they slowly ascended to the house. The path 
 led through a coppice, and was narrow ; Mr. Mulsho 
 and Mr. Warner walked first, Evelyn and Everard fol- 
 lowed silently behind. 
 
 Without intending it exactly — for she felt she had as 
 yet no right to resent a deviation of this nature — there 
 was a certain coldness in her manner as she answered 
 some trifling question which he put to her. 
 
 ‘‘ Evelyn is displeased with me,” at last, he said, sadly. 
 
 “ I have no right to be displeased — I have no right 
 even to feel sorry; but I cannot help feeling sorry.” 
 
 “ Sorry ! Is Evelyn sorry when her friend performs a 
 painful duty?” said he in a low voice ; she should 
 
172 
 
 FATHEK DARCY. 
 
 rather rejoice when such victories over nature and incli- 
 nation are achieved. They are painful ones enough she 
 may rest assured, without the pain being increased by 
 her disapprobation.’’ 
 
 Victory!” said she, in a tone of surprise. “ Over 
 truth,” she inwardly added. 
 
 “Yes, victory!” he repeated, “and had I known 
 how dear that victory were to cost me, I should — at 
 least, I ought — to have been thankful that the occa- 
 sion was afforded for so great a sacrifice to good faith.” 
 
 “ I cannot understand it,” said she, as if to herself. 
 
 “ Can you not conceive an occasion, when a man’s 
 duty requires the sacrifice of that which is almost as 
 precious to him as life?” said he. 
 
 She felt confused; she could not quite unravel her 
 ideas ; he spoke with so much conviction that it was 
 evident the deep colour of his cheek had not arisen from 
 a dissatisfied conscience ; and yet a falsehood ! — for a 
 falsehood she was more and more convinced it was — 
 and she had believed truth to be the very strongest 
 principle of his nature I 
 
 She appreciated the full extent of the effort he must 
 have made to struggle against his natural sincerity; 
 and yet such a victory, she could not help feeling, was, 
 as indeed other victories have been said to be, worse 
 than a defeat. 
 
 She was young, but her understanding was quite 
 ripened enough for such reflections. 
 
 “ Can there be a duty more sacred than truth ?” at 
 last she said. 
 
 “ Are we to endanger others to gratify our own 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 173 
 
 natural love of trutli?” was the question in reply. ‘^Is 
 not that the highest virtue which requires in its exercise 
 the greatest sacrifice ; — and what sacrifice can be greater 
 than the immolation of one cherished principle for the 
 sake of another?” 
 
 She could not answer such casuistry — it silenced her ; 
 nay, it in some measure convinced her. She was so 
 glad to believe that Everard could not be wrong. 
 
 I judged unjustly — I believe — I hope — I think.” 
 
 “ Ah, sweetest Evelyn! Only believe my truth to 
 you, and what matters the rest to us ? There are 
 things in life most painful to be done. . , but let us 
 think no more of them. Shall we think no more of 
 them?” said he, sliding his hand to hers, taking it, and 
 pressing it with much tenderness. ‘‘ Will you forget 
 this short and painful moment, and confide in a heart 
 that will never play you false?” 
 
 Alas I poor simple Evelyn I Her tender heart 
 never thought of asking — where were the grounds for 
 confidence in the truth of one whom she had seen so 
 obviously committing a breach of it but a few seconds 
 before ? 
 
 She was so glad to be persuaded that it was better 
 to think no more of it. 
 
 And this was the first slight inroad upon the pure 
 integrity of her own character. She had made one 
 step. She had learned to forgive and forget the breach 
 of a great principle. 
 
174 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 “ For dissimulation there is a treatise of equivocation seen and 
 allowed by Garnet, wherein it is maintained under the pretext of a 
 mixt proposition, that it is lawful and j ustifiahle to express one part 
 of a man’s mind and retain another.” 
 
 Sir Ed, Coke on Garnet's Trial. 
 
 Ten o’clock was ringing on tke bell of the little 
 church, when Everard, who had passed an evening of al- 
 most exquisite delight by the side of his charmer, whom 
 this little misunderstanding of the evening seemed only 
 to have drawn more intimately and confidentially to 
 him — for the generous and kind nature of Evelyn 
 seemed impatient to make amends for the pain she 
 had given. ... It was ten o’clock when Everard, at- 
 tended by his page holding a lamp, entered his own 
 room. The window was open, and the night was 
 warm and pleasant, but it was almost perfectly dark; 
 for there was a sort of haze over the sky, which for- 
 bade the stars to glitter — a few small points of light 
 were all that could be observed in the heavens. 
 
 The page placed the light upon the dressing-table, 
 which was laid out with a rich toilet service in chased 
 silver, and the fine china bowl containing the posset 
 for the night was standing by it. 
 
 The young man took out his jewel-handled poig- 
 nard from his belt, flung his cloak to his page, and 
 then in a slow, absent manner, began to undo his girdle. 
 
 A paper fell to his feet. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 175 
 
 He had been so absorbed by the interest of making 
 his explanations — if explanations they could be called — 
 and in the joy of reconciliation with Evelyn, that he 
 had quite forgotten the little mysterious billet. He 
 Kfted it up and opened it. 
 
 A few words were written in pencil on a small 
 morsel of paper, as if torn out of some tablets. 
 
 “ At eleven o’clock — they will be all in bed by that 
 time — come down. I shall be behind the church.” 
 
 The young man gave an impatient shrug with his 
 shoulders, bit his lips, tore the note into atoms, and 
 saying to his page: I shall read to-night, boy. You 
 
 look sleepy — go to your bed — I shall want nothing 
 more:” placed a chair by the window, and his lamp 
 upon a small table near, and opening a drawer, took 
 out a little thin octavo volume, and began, or seemed 
 to begin, to read. 
 
 The book was one which had been put into his hands 
 by Father Darcy, though apparently intended more 
 particularly for the use of those aflSliated to the order 
 of the Jesuits; yet it was used as a book of instruction 
 for all Catholics without distinction, and on the first 
 page was written in the father’s neat and elegant hand 
 an extract from that particular bull of the pope, which 
 had so recommended the book: 
 
 Omnia et singula in eis contenta ex certa scientia 
 nostra approbamus .... hortantes plurimum omnes et 
 singulos, utriusque sexus Christi fideles,” etc.* 
 
 ‘‘ Approve, commend, and confirm this doctrine, and 
 earnestly exhort all Catholics, of both sexes, and in all 
 ♦ Urbano Papa 8. In Bulla Canonizationis Ignatii Anno 1623. 
 
176 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 countries, that they would use these documents and be 
 instructed by them.” 
 
 He began once more to read over and meditate upon 
 those pages which he had been taught to believe in- 
 culcated these just rules of the Christian life, and which 
 were henceforward to serve as the guide of an existence 
 which he so sincerely, so earnestly, so devoutly desired to 
 render the pattern of all that was honourable and excellent. 
 
 Again, with a painful revolt of nature, he considered 
 one or two of them more particularly applicable to his own 
 case^ and again endeavoured to submit his mind to max- 
 ims promulgated by an authority to him without appeal.* 
 Regula prlma : 
 
 Sublato o Mani judlcio,” etc. 
 
 “ They are to remove and reject all their proper judg- 
 ments, and always have a prepared and ready mind to 
 obey the church.” 
 
 Secundo : 
 
 ‘‘ Sic habet — Deteque ut ipsi,’’ etc. 
 
 “ And that we may be altogether unanimous and 
 conformable with the Catholic church, if she define any 
 thing to be black which our eye sees white, we are in 
 like manner bound to acknowledge that it is black. 
 Si quid quod ocuhs nostrl apparet esse album, nigrum 
 esse ilia definierit; Debemus itidem, quod sit nigrum 
 pronuntiare.” 
 
 Regula tertiusdecimus : 
 
 Ut obedientia sit perfecta quiquld nobis injunctam 
 fuerit, obeundo omnia justa esse nobis persuadendo,” etc. 
 
 * Exercitia spiritualia Ignatii Loyalae Antwerp, 1638. pag. 238, 
 &c. &c. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 177 
 
 They must reject all their own reason, and ac- 
 quiesce in the judgment of their superiors, who must be 
 submitted to and obeyed ; and persuade themselves that 
 all things are just and lawful which are commanded by 
 their superiors.” 
 
 On the wide margin of this page, in the same hand, 
 was appended : 
 
 “ Omnia ac singula in els contenta pietate et sanc- 
 titate plena et ad edificatlonem et splritualem perfectum 
 fideliam valde utilia.” — Dictae Ballae, p. 5. 
 
 Or in the English of that day: ‘‘ These rules are full 
 of piety and sanctity, and for edification and spiritual 
 proficiency very profitable.” 
 
 The young man sat leaning with his head upon his 
 
 hand reading these sentences with a feverish, restless 
 
 excitement. In vain the soft night wind blew upon 
 
 his cheek : in vain for him the still, holy calm of nature 
 
 that surrounded him : his mind was in a state of the 
 
 most irritating doubt and as^itation. 
 o o 
 
 He was vexed more than he dared to confess to him- 
 self at the manner and proceedings adopted towards 
 him ; and his spirit revolted against the assumption of 
 arbitrary authority Implied by the tone of the note and 
 the writer of it, at the casual encounter of the village. 
 
 The questionable nature of the interview, too, which 
 was demanded in a manner so brief and peremptory ! and 
 the disagreeable, painful task imposed upon him ! — that 
 of stealing out of his friend’s house in the dead of the 
 night, like a thief or a felon, in order to meet one, 
 whom only to be known to hold communion with, was 
 in these times so dangerous ! — 
 
 M 
 
178 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Should this proceeding of his be. by any accident, 
 discovered, in what jeopardy might it not involve Mr. 
 Mulsho’s family, merely to have harboured one engaged 
 in such connexions. And for himself, too, what answer, if 
 interrogated upon his absence, could he return ; was he 
 again to have recourse to those means which it still dyed 
 his cheek with the deep colour of shame only to think of? 
 
 He would not do it. These exactions of obedience 
 were carried too far: this species of tyranny must 
 be resisted. It was true, by means of Mr. Darcy he 
 had been reconciled to the religion of his fathers, but 
 was that argument sufficient for this species of blind 
 submission ? Mr. Mulsho was a Catholic like himself, 
 yet he was no slave. He would assert his liberty. He 
 would not go. 
 
 He rose from his seat, took two or three turns up and 
 down the room, — then returned to the window, opened 
 the book and read again.* 
 
 Valde necessarium est, &c.” 
 
 They must look upon their superiors as persons in 
 the place of Christ.” 
 
 “ Christi Vicarios et Christivicem gerentes Christi 
 partes agentes.” 
 
 ‘‘ In the place of Christ !” 
 
 And he looked up at a small ivory crucifix, which 
 was placed upon the table before him. 
 
 ‘ ‘ In thy place — Oh , crucified in thine agony — and shall 
 I murmur and disobey? Shall I hesitate at any sacri- 
 fice for thee? Shall I dare to resist those whom thy 
 holy institutions have placed as thy vice-gerents upon 
 earth — Ah, no !” 
 
 * Ex. spir. Ig. Loy. p. 3, cap. 1, p. 123. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 179 
 
 ‘‘And yet — these rules,” turning the leaves of the 
 book in his hand. “ What have I to do with them — 
 
 I am not professed of the order of the holy St. Igna- 
 tius — these rules are addressed to those who are, why 
 impose them upon me ?” 
 
 Then the notes introduced by Mr. Darcy struck his 
 eye : the recommendation of those rules to the whole 
 body of the Cathohcs : and again he felt doubtful and 
 irresolute. 
 
 He sat, the book in his hand, and his eye wandering 
 vacantly over the lawn before the house. There stood 
 the little church, shaded by the few ancient trees which 
 hung over it, faintly to be discerned in the dim twilight 
 of the half-extinguished stars. 
 
 The clock struck the half hour past eleven ; and as it 
 sounded, he saw a dark figure emerge for a moment 
 from behind the church, look round, as he thought, and 
 then retire again. 
 
 “ He is there, he is waiting for me. It is impossible 
 to let him remain thus any longer : I must go down to 
 him.” 
 
 He again clasped his girdle, replaced his polgnard in 
 its usual position, fastened his cloak, and taking the 
 lamp in his hand, prepared to go down. 
 
 He opened the door with great precaution, the hinges 
 shrieked and cried as he did so; he stopped, listened, 
 all was still but the beatings of his own heart. 
 
 “ What is this ? This is a new feeling for me,” he 
 mentally ejaculated. “ Am I become a coward? — Am I 
 starthng if a mouse creeps .^” 
 
 M 2 
 
180 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 He listened again, but all was perfectly quiet, every 
 one but himself seemed wrapt in peaceful slumber. 
 
 He passed along the gallery and descended the wide 
 oaken stairs ; there was a small door opening into the 
 garden, secured by only a single bar ; this he undid, 
 and stepped out into the night. 
 
 How holy is the night — how calm and still lay every- 
 thing around him. The dew was resting upon the 
 grass and flowers. The trees dark and mysterious, were 
 casting their black shadows upon the earth. The mist 
 had by this time begun to clear away, and two bright 
 planets were glittering over the dark branches, while the 
 vast heavens were alive with the innumerable host of 
 stars. 
 
 On such a night the radiant angels kept watch in 
 paradise pacing their majestic rounds — alas ! on such a 
 night the fiend o erlept the wall. 
 
 Pregnant, yet inexplicable mystery. 
 
 On such a night, while all in this abode slumbered in 
 peace — under the protection of that benign and mea- 
 sureless power which rolled those glittering orbs in their 
 several spheres — another fiend, a minister of the father 
 of deceptions, impositions and lies, was lying in wait 
 to delude one more young, generous, and innocent 
 heart, to the verge of deepest destruction. 
 
 The sweet influences of the hour calmed the agita- 
 tion of the young man. He gazed upwards, he gazed 
 around, his soul was in harmony with that vast infinitude 
 of creation which in such a night seems more parti- 
 cularly revealed to us. His heart swelled to that power. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 181 
 
 SO great, so infinite; and glowed with the fervent 
 devotion of truth and nature. 
 
 The feelings of irritation and anger died within him. 
 The love of all mankind was in his heart; the love and 
 obedience for Him, that divine one who died for all 
 mankind, was swelling in his bosom ; — and this simple 
 childlike obedience he felt so ready to pay, was about 
 to be transferred, alas ! — to a false, ambitious, and in- 
 triguing priest, whom he had been taught to regard as 
 the vlce-gerent of the blessed one. He approached the 
 little church, and passing round it placed it between 
 himself and the windows of the house. 
 
 On the wide path before it, wrapped in his dark 
 cloak, he whom he came to meet was slowly pacing up 
 and down. 
 
 He turned round, and seeing Everard, stood still, 
 and waited till he should approach him. 
 
 Everard came up. 
 
 “ I am afraid I have kept your reverence waiting,” 
 said he, with politeness: “ but if I may crave leave to 
 say so much — the command was sudden and unex- 
 pected, and obedience to it neither very agreeable, nor 
 perhaps very expedient.” 
 
 ‘‘ I pretend not to command” — said the gentleman, 
 in a calm, but somewhat cold tone of voice. “ My 
 province is to influence, rather than to dictate — I have 
 nothing to do with command. If obedience to my de- 
 sire be irksome to you, sir, you have only to return, 
 and leave me where I am.” 
 
 This speech at once changed the course of the young 
 
182 
 
 FATHEH DAKCY. 
 
 man’s feelings. The revolt and dissatisfaction of the 
 last half hour, now appeared to him as unreasonable 
 and unjust. There was no attempt to impose a law of 
 implicit obedience upon him — his liberty of action 
 was respected. Mr. Darcy made no pretence to that 
 arbitrary and tyrannical authority which he came pre- 
 pared to resist : he had simply made a request, as any 
 other man might have done. 
 
 •‘It is our misfortune, and not to be imputed to us 
 as our fault,” pursued the gentleman, as if divining 
 Everard’s thoughts — “ that the times are unhappily 
 such, as to render it necessary to enter into communi- 
 cation with our spiritual children at hours often most 
 unseasonable : it is our misfortune that to walk openly 
 as in the day, is rendered impossible by the tyrannous 
 cruelty that pervades this land. I crave your pardon, 
 sir, for disturbing your slumbers and inviting you, 
 this heavenly night, to take a quiet walk with me: 
 bestowing half an hour upon one, whose labours are 
 heavy, his hours counted, and his life in jeopardy.” 
 
 “ Indeed,” said Everard, who began to feel much 
 ashamed of himself, “ I crave your pardon — I am not 
 such a Sybarite, I hope, as to care for a little broken 
 rest. I was only afraid of disturbing the family of Mr. 
 Mulsho at this unseasonable hour.” 
 
 “ Mr. Mulsho !” — and his companion seemed to pause 
 and reflect as he pronounced the word — “ He is, per- 
 haps” — ^looking askance at Everard’s face — “ one with 
 little comprehension of the necessities of our condition, 
 and little sympathy with the dangers of our enterprise 
 — to affront danger and death, in order to carry the 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 183 
 
 light of salvation to the perishing flock, must appear 
 a strange, enthusiastic proceeding to a man of senti- 
 ments so reasonable — as I understand those of Mr. 
 Mulsho’s to be. But I am not ashamed to assert, that in 
 my opinion, such rigid reason is only a softer name for 
 infidelity and atheism.” 
 
 ^‘Infidelity! atheism!” cried Everard. “Pardon 
 me — far, indeed, from that — Mr. Mulsho is a most 
 devout and pious man.” 
 
 “ Something after the new fashion in these things,” 
 said the other, with a slightly sarcastic smile — “ one, 
 I understand, who reads his Bible ; attends the services 
 of the church, as by law established; and hears a mass 
 now and then in the corner of his drawing-room.” 
 
 “ He is a very sincere Catholic,” said Everard. 
 
 “ If by Catholic be meant universal,” — ^in the same 
 slightly sarcastic tone — “no doubt Catholic enough: 
 this way is a very broad and a very easy one to travel 
 — and some of us have heard where the broad way 
 leads.” 
 
 “ I thought that parable had reference to the moral 
 life,” said Everard. 
 
 “ I pray you take me with you, young gentleman,” 
 said the priest, in that sort of tone of indulgence with 
 which we meet the futile reasoning of an ignorant 
 child. “ Moral life ! The term is a happy one. Not 
 altogether new to me, though I am of the old leaning; 
 and leave matters of this high nature to the decision of 
 that church of which I am an unworthy member,” — 
 crossing himself; “ but the age advances. I was so 
 happy this evening as to be favoured with a short lesson 
 
184 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 of divinity at tlie hands of an old peasant, and my good 
 fortune, it seems, was not to end there.” 
 
 Everard felt abashed ; yet he scarcely knew why. 
 
 ‘‘ I do not pretend to meddle with divinity,” he said. 
 
 My presumption would be great indeed, were I to 
 enter into discussions of this nature with one like you, 
 sir.” 
 
 Like me ! , . . Nay, nay — make no pretensions to 
 superior wisdom. I aspire not to that privilege at 
 present claimed by every shallow brain in the commu- 
 nity — to think for myself. I am content to abide by 
 the teachings of that ancient church in v/hich I have 
 been reared. Of myself I am nothing,” with great 
 humility of gesture; but when I speak in her name,” — 
 elevating his head with much dignity, — then I claim 
 that authority as her minister, which far be it from me 
 to arrogate in my own person: and as such I exact 
 that unhesitating submission to her decrees, which Is 
 her due, as the sole, unchangeable, and unerring fountain 
 of Christian doctrine and spiritual truth.” 
 
 Seeing a somewhat dissatisfied expression still re- 
 maining in Everard s countenance, he resumed : 
 
 ^‘Nay, nay, young man, I cry your patience; but 
 it sorrows me to see one, so dear to my soul, thus rashly 
 dealing with these dangerous novelties.” 
 
 “I have no wish to be a dealer in novelties,” said 
 Everard, with humility. My desire throughout the 
 life I am now about to begin, is that I be governed by the 
 decisions of that holy church, which has so lately re- 
 ceived me into her bosom. In her I seem to find re- 
 stored that mother’s guidance which my youth has 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 185 
 
 wanted. But I have been troubled this evening. . . . 
 The demands made upon my fidelity have been great. 
 In conformity to the directions I had received — in con- 
 formity to the obedience I had vowed — for the first time 
 since I was born, I have told a deliberate Z/e,” and the 
 hot colour again flushed over his face. ‘‘ I would be 
 glad to be assured how to reconcile her voice, with that 
 loud clamouring voice within me, which declares I did 
 a mean, cowardly, and criminal thing.” 
 
 ‘‘ A lie !” said the Jesuit, looking exceedingly shocked, 
 “a lie ! Who instructed you, young man, to lie.^ Not 
 your holy church, rest assured. Impious blasphemy — 
 the church demand a lie !” 
 
 I was enjoined to keep my knowledge of "yourself 
 and Mr. Tesmond, a secret at any cost, and at any 
 hazard. I took the holy sacrament upon the promise 
 to deny my knowledge of you whenever I had reason 
 to believe that such was your desire. I took that oath 
 as many of those I loved did with me. I little thought 
 how soon I should be called upon to redeem my pro- 
 mise by uttering a dastardly lieP 
 
 “ Redeem your promise by uttering a dastardly lie !” 
 repeated the priest with considerable indignation in 
 his manner; “ are you aware of the import of what 
 you are saying, young gentleman? The necessity of 
 a He was imposed upon you ! Recollect yourself. What 
 can you mean?” 
 
 “ I was asked in direct terms whether I had ever 
 seen you before; there was no possibility of evasion.” 
 “Well?” 
 
 “ And I Hed.” 
 
186 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 ‘‘ Then you committed a deadly sin, sir; and with, 
 as it would appear, so criminal an indifference to the 
 sin you were committing, that it shocks and confounds 
 me.” 
 
 “ Heaven is my witness not with indifference !” 
 cried Everard, earnestly. 
 
 And what name does it deserve but that of the 
 most criminal indifference to evil — to commit a crime 
 of this nature when means so obvious and so easy exist 
 by which it may be avoided. Learn, at least, better 
 to comprehend the principles of that church into whose 
 sanctuary you have been admitted. She is the ten- 
 derest of nursing mothers to her spiritual children, and 
 provides with every imposed duty the means to faci- 
 litate its execution. Upon the secrecy of our friends, 
 not only our lives, but the very existence of the sacred 
 cause committed to us, depends. Such secrecy under 
 the most sacred obligations has been exacted. Provision 
 has also been made for the security of the conscience in 
 preserving it. — But these are the fruits of reasoning and 
 self-teachings. — ^You presume, sir, to forsake the sure 
 guides appointed for your direction in these things, and 
 think proper to judge for yourself. Had you not done 
 so, you might, perhaps, have recollected that the remedy 
 held out for such cases, is mental reservation.” 
 
 I made a mental reservation,” said Everard. 
 
 “ Then what do you intend by saying you lied? 
 These are strange contradictory assertions,” said the 
 J esuit. 
 
 ‘‘I felt the colour of shame fly over my face. — It 
 seemed to me .... and then there was another and” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 187 
 
 he hesitated; ‘Hhere was one standing by.... a se- 
 cond conscience .... a ... . which told me I had done 
 basely.” 
 
 ‘‘ Did she? — Did this second conscience know of the 
 reservation ?” 
 
 “No,” said Everard; “but had she, I felt that she 
 would have disdained the subterfuge.” 
 
 The gentleman he was addressing paused at this 
 speech, gazed at him ; measured him slowly, as it 
 were, from head to foot; sighed with a certain em- 
 phasis, if one may say so ; and then turning, walked 
 once or twice up and down the little terrace on which 
 they had been standing. He was, in fact, gaining a few 
 moments for consideration. 
 
 This was a case of difficulty. Here was one whose 
 adherence to the party he esteemed of the greatest con- 
 sequence — who appeared on the very verge, as it should 
 seem, of escaping from his influence. 
 
 A master in detecting the various workings of the 
 human passions, the Jesuit discerned at once the nature 
 of this second conscience which exercised so much 
 authority. 
 
 To learn the exact position of his disciple with respect 
 to the heiress of Goddeshurst, had been one of his 
 principal reasons for demanding the interview; for 
 much as he dishked the principles held by Mr. 
 Mulsho, and the party in the church to which he be- 
 longed — so great an accession of wealth as the mar- 
 riage would bring to one whom he still flattered him- 
 self to keep in his power, was not to be despised. 
 
188 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 But to learn something of the young lady’s dispo- 
 sition — something of the nature of Everard’s feelings, 
 under this intimate connexion, with what might be 
 esteemed a hostile house — was important; for in any 
 event, the power he possessed over the young gentle- 
 man’s mind must not be put in hazard. 
 
 After these few minutes spent in consideration, he 
 returned to where Everard was standing, and taking 
 his hand in an affectionate manner, said: 
 
 ‘‘ Whatever the influences to which you allude, Sir 
 Everard, suffer a friend — a more than friend, a father 
 — one whose heart yearns with more than a father’s 
 love towards you — to warn you against a weak sub- 
 jection to feelings — alas ! too powerful over the 
 heart of youth. Recollect how many of the strong, 
 the virtuous, the pious, and the wise, have, through 
 the excess of such influences, be^n shipwrecked and 
 undone. Hold fast, I exhort you, by the doctrines you 
 have received: anchor your faith on them. The church 
 hath decided these vexed questions by her doctors 
 and her ministers. In her decisions rest — let not the 
 cavilling spirit of these times induce you to despise 
 her provisions; if concealment be necessary for the 
 security of her holy confessors in this dark and blood- 
 besprinkled land — she has provided for them by her 
 system, a veil of impenetrable concealment, and a 
 shield of sure defence. Let not the deceitful smile of 
 beauty, Everard, persuade you to cast the veil and shield 
 aside, and by your weakness to endanger not your own 
 safety, for that I know you would scorn to regard — but 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 189 
 
 the safety of those, the martyrs to the faith, who are 
 ready to seal their labours and their testimonies with 
 their blood.’’ 
 
 Oh! how this sophistry confused this young man’s 
 heart and conscience; — this appeal to his feelings in 
 favour of those, whose very existence might depend 
 upon his secrecy; and whose generous devotion, as he 
 thought it, in a great and good cause, made his heart 
 glow with admiration. 
 
 The distrust of his own judgment, his secret con- 
 sciousness of the influence that fair girl exercised over 
 his mind, and the loud cries of a still unperverted con- 
 science, which could not away with deceit, distracted 
 him with doubt and perplexity. — He looked wretched 
 as he felt. 
 
 Like him who played upon the passions of the young 
 and ardent conqueror and king by the music of his 
 lyre ; so played this deep and dangerous man with the 
 feelings of those he purposed to subdue. 
 
 He discerned, as if written upon a tablet, all that 
 was combating in Everard’s heart; and he saw that it 
 must be by a long and persevering patience that he 
 could hope to bend it entirely to his hand. 
 
 He contented himself for the present with saying, 
 in a voice of much kindness: 
 
 “ I see how it is with one so young and unprotected 
 as you are, and so it must be for a season with all. 
 But believe one, not altogether unlearned in such 
 things — so long as nature, prejudice, fancy, passion, 
 and what you mistake for reason, are clamouring and 
 
190 
 
 PATHER DARCY. 
 
 contending witliin yon, so long shall your soul be as the 
 troubled sea, which cannot rest: but there is for the 
 wandering mariner one blessed guiding star,” and he 
 pointed to the pole star now glittering amid the 
 innumerable hosts of heaven, “ be that thy cynosure, 
 my son: so shall all these warring feehngs subside 
 into harmony, and peace shall rest upon your spirit. 
 Everard, let that blessing be your portion now — be 
 content, you have done well — you did well in that 
 you spoke the truth with a reservation, for in so doing 
 the truth you did speak . . . but time wears, let us end 
 this discussion — I came here to discourse of matters 
 more urgent than the sweet triflings of a young man’s 
 love.” 
 
 ‘‘ Have I said I loved?” said Everard, abruptly. 
 
 The priest smiled. 
 
 ‘‘ Confessed in every tone and gesture — but let that 
 pass; though of this among other matters, I had purposed 
 to speak to thee.” 
 
 “ Say on,” said the other. 
 
 “ May I venture so far ” — again approaching him, 
 and speaking in his softest manner. 
 
 ‘‘ What you mean is for my good, I know.” 
 
 “ This woman — this beautiful child of the world — 
 may she not prove to thee like those fair daughters of the 
 olden days, who beguiled the very angels of heaven to 
 ruin.” 
 
 She is a Catholic like myself,” was the reply. 
 
 “ The Holy Virgin forbid that it should be like your- 
 self — forbid that ever you should be as the daughter of 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 191 
 
 William Mulsho — a conforming Catholic. To wed a 
 declared heretic might prove less dangerous.’’ 
 
 Of these things I must be allowed to judge,” said 
 the young man somewhat impatiently. 
 
 “ And yet it is the part of friendship to warn and 
 advise.” 
 
 There are limits to the privileges of friendship — No 
 faith will be perilled by Evelyn’s side.” 
 
 ‘^Enough,” said the priest, for he found he had 
 already touched that limit, ‘‘ there is more urgent matter 
 in hand. The long delayed trial of the unfortunate 
 victims, our brethren in the faith, comes on to-morrow — 
 and they must die.” 
 
 “ They told me,” said Everard, with emotion, “ that 
 the sentence would be commuted: that they should 
 merely be carried out of the kingdom. This is strange, 
 unnecessary cruelty.” 
 
 “Unnecessary, you call it — oh! sir,” with a bitter 
 irony in his tone, “ have you yet to learn what hard 
 necessities lie upon the tender hearts of the queen’s 
 privy council — and what severe duties are imposed upon 
 the gentle queen herself, whose merciful intentions with 
 regard to her lieges we well know.” 
 
 “ There must have been some deeper offence given 
 than I heard of,” said Everard. 
 
 “ Treason,” said the other, “ a small matter of treason 
 cooked up for the occasion to entrap the poor Catholic. 
 Oh, sir I have you yet to learn that the council have 
 ever sufficient of treasons ready prepared to hang about 
 the neck of any wretched Catholic priest who may fall 
 into their hands . . . but no more of this, my purpose 
 
192 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 in coming here to-night was to learn how you stand at 
 present affected; and how the gentleman under whose 
 roof you abide, stands affected to the present govern- 
 ment — in short, whether, when we are counting upon 
 our supporters in a struggle, which may ere long take 
 place, we must remember or forget you.’’ 
 
 ‘‘ I love the old queen with all her faults,” said 
 Everard; she has ever been partial and kind to me. 
 Number me not among those who have aught against 
 her?” 
 
 ‘‘ And Mr. Mulsho?” 
 
 “ There is not a man more devoted to her service.” 
 
 I am answered,” said the priest. ‘‘ One word more, 
 and I have done. Our fraternity is closely watched ; 
 and to ovfn a truth, we have all had that part in the 
 late business whatever it might be, which would render 
 it easy for the government to take away our lives were 
 we but once in its power. I am as yet unassured what 
 your conscience will call upon you to do in such a case — 
 whether to betray to a barbarous death those who have 
 implicitly trusted you, or to shelter us by the means 
 which every faithful Catholic but yourself employs 
 without scruple. You were trusted, sir, in ignorance of 
 your newly acquired principles. My life is at this 
 moment in your hands, but I confide it to your honour, 
 with this observation, that to impart the secret to Mr. 
 Mulsho were to entail upon us certain destruction. 
 Doubtless, he would esteem it his duty to betray us to 
 tliis blood-thirsty woman .... But you must act as your 
 conscience directs you — we are at its mercy, sir.” 
 
 And with a salute rather more ceremonious than 
 
FATHER DARCY. 193 
 
 usual, lie turned away, and descending the hill, was soon 
 lost in the closing thickets. 
 
 He did not wait to receive the assurances which he 
 was certain Everard was hastening to make. He had per- 
 fectly well calculated the effect of this last speech upon 
 his temper. 
 
 N 
 
194 
 
 FATHEE DAKCY. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 “ This is not altogether fool, my Lord.” 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Father Darcy slowly proceeded down the wood, 
 till he came to a Httle open spot among the trees, near 
 which ran a wimphng brook, now ghttering in the star- 
 light. 
 
 A large oak cast its wide-spreading branches over the 
 turf which covered this little glade, and under it was 
 placed a rustic bench. On this Mr. Tesmond, his com- 
 panion upon the village green, was sitting expecting his 
 return. 
 
 The inferior Jesuit rose with an air of deference as 
 Mr. Darcy approached ; and though evidently impa- 
 tient to learn the result of the meeting with Everard, 
 seemed not to presume upon asking any direct question. 
 He resumed his seat by the side of his superior, and the 
 silence was unbroken for about a quarter of an hour. 
 
 Then Mr. Darcy spoke. 
 
 ‘‘Nothing could be less satisfactory than what has 
 just passed,’^ said he. “ Two points I have, however, 
 ascertained. He loves this young lady. He has no 
 reason to despair. The influence she exerts is great — 
 and our influence proportionally upon the decline.” 
 
 “ I should have thought,” said Tesmond, “ that his 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 195 
 
 was a nature so candid and simple, as to be easily go- 
 verned — and tbat he would be the last to dispute prin- 
 ciples which he must consider as resting upon such un- 
 questionable authority.” 
 
 I don’t know — I think I have usually found in my 
 deahngs with souls, that these simple, candid, ingenuous 
 sort of characters, are less easily brought to submit to the 
 influence it is our duty to exercise, than those of more 
 rash, haughty, and violent dispositions. Eobert for 
 instance — I am mistaken if he make not a more devoted 
 servant to the best interests of the Church than this 
 gentle Everard.” 
 
 “ Is it the intention of your reverence to allow of the 
 great accession of power and influence which would 
 accrue to a man of principles so equivocal, from a union 
 with their heiress? — Why not Eobert instead?” 
 
 Because Mr. Mulsho would sooner bestow his 
 daughter upon her grave I believe, for one reason — and 
 for another, that Eobert is devoted to the Lady Grace.” 
 
 “ But there are other designs for the Lady Grace.” 
 
 ‘‘ True.” 
 
 “ And therefore — ” 
 
 “ And therefore Eobert is ours. Trust me, Mr. 
 Tesmond, nothing will reduce Eobert so speedily as un- 
 happiness of this nature. Let be — let be — ■ things 
 cannot be in better train than they are in that 
 quarter.” 
 
 And Eleanor?” 
 
 “Let that pretty child alone too, Mr. Tesmond. 
 Your temper, with pardon, inclines you somewhat too 
 much to interference with the course of things. Let 
 N 2 
 
198 
 
 FATHEK DAKCY. 
 
 be — let be — it is a long and a strong chain that is linked 
 together by the human passions. Let the fair Eleanor 
 enjoy for a brief space the delusions of her sweet dream, 
 if dream it be. Nay, who knows? we may have need 
 of her to cement the friendship between Robert and her 
 brother : and the poor flutterer may after all be happy 
 in her own way.” 
 
 So they two discoursed, sitting under the shade of 
 that spreading oak-tree, the stars of heaven in their 
 mild and calm splendour glittering like thousands of 
 eyes upon them — and so they dealt with the destinies of 
 the human creatures confided to their care, as the chess- 
 player deals with his ivory pieces; and regulated their 
 proceedings with as little real sympathy for their joys 
 or sufferings, as the man intent on victory feels for the 
 interests of his bits of carved bone. 
 
 Devoted to the aggrandisement of the most ambitious 
 order in an ambitious church —hardened by that daily 
 handling of holy things, wdthout holy feelings, which 
 is the most perilous, perhaps, of all the temptations to 
 which man can be exposed — blinded by the pretence 
 of advancement for their religion, which hid their evil 
 purposes, in some degree, even from their own hearts — 
 separated by their religious vows from that domestic 
 communion with mankind, which awakens some gentle 
 sympathies even in the most insensible — they played 
 with the consciences, the morals, the feelings, the hap- 
 piness of the living beings confided to them, with an 
 indifference the most unprincipled and detestable. 
 
 ‘‘ Here we part,” said the superior to Mr. Tesmond — 
 ‘‘ my mission leads me south— to watch the progress of 
 
rATHER DARCY. 
 
 197 
 
 this terrific trial. It is a service of danger, but my 
 disguises are secure. There is also one at this moment 
 awaiting me in London with whom I have to confer 
 upon matters of the deepest import. This heretical 
 woman seems invulnerable to the influences of poison — 
 
 in vain the assassin’s knife is directed against her 
 
 It is determined .that no further attempts of this nature 
 shall be made — but as the great Achilles perished 
 through the one unguarded point, so there is that 
 in her which we may yet be able to pierce — her wo- 
 man’s heart: the next blow shall be directed there. 
 We shall not again, perchance, strike in vain. . . . Your 
 way, Mr. Tesmond, leads you to the circuit among our 
 friends — Coughton Ashby — Herlip — Stoneleigh — it is 
 some time since they have been comforted by a visit 
 from any of us. Let me recommend the closest dis- 
 guises : for as many eyes are abroad and on the watch, 
 as are now beaming upon our heads from the spangled 
 heavens. Ha! what was that? A hare or squirrel in 
 the bushes?” 
 
 ‘‘ No,” — said his companion, looking round suspi- 
 ciously — “ I distinctly heard a rush through the thicket 
 behind us — as of one moving rapidly away. — We have 
 been overheard ” 
 
 Not even in the wilderness is there security for us,” 
 said the superior, — who can have been on the watch 
 at this still hour of night? — Come, come, I think it was 
 an alarm without foundation — but whether' or not, we 
 are best separated. Farewell, sir, and safe be your pil- 
 grimage. If our next communication with each other 
 should be as prisoners, like that unfortunate man — our 
 
198 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 constancy, I trust, will not be unworthy of his. I 
 commend you to the protection of all the holy saints — 
 and let me have your prayers for the success of the 
 undertaking in which I am about to engage — and in 
 which your part shall, in due season, be assigned. 
 
 “Here we part, sir,” — seeing the other hesitate — 
 have I not expressed my desire that so it should be?” 
 
 “Adieu! and the saints in heaven protect your re- 
 verence,’’ said this large, dark, terrible-looking man, 
 bowing with the utmost submission to his mild and 
 almost effeminate-looking superior. 
 
 And so they parted. 
 
 The morning rose as sweet, as blithe, as smiling, as 
 if no dark intriguers steahng to men’s ears in the dead of 
 night had been preparing their cruel schemes to spread 
 discord, suspicion, and bloodshed, among a society of 
 men, sons of the same country, and citizens of the same 
 body politic. 
 
 And Fabian, the fool as he was called, was among 
 the first who sallied forth from the postern at Goddes- 
 hurst to enjoy the pleasant hour. 
 
 The youth whose strange destiny it had been to 
 become a jester, was any thing but the half-witted 
 simpleton which such a profession implied. The times 
 were rapidly approaching when his vocation, like so 
 many other vocations of those simple days, should come 
 to an end; and, himself already advancing with the ad- 
 vancing period, had begun no longer to have faith in his 
 own cockscomb and bells. He played his part awkwardly 
 and ill, for he felt that his part was out of date, 
 
FATHEE DAECY. 
 
 199 
 
 and he would gladly have exchanged his idle wander- 
 ing calHng for one of wholesome industry, had that 
 seemed possible ; but he was attached to the family in 
 his present capacity, and his rearing had rendered him 
 quite unfit for any other. He consoled a heart and 
 head intended for better things, by cherishing the most 
 devoted attachment to Mr. Mulsho and his daughter; 
 and, taking advantage of the universal licence in which 
 such as he were indulged, occupied his time in 
 watching the progress of any thing about which he 
 could hope to be of the least use or benefit to either 
 of them. 
 
 More especially he had constituted it his particular 
 province, to observe all that had reference to the im- 
 portant event of the fair Mistress Evelyn’s marriage. 
 It seems that his sage judgment was pretty well satisfied 
 with respect to her present suitor; though he shared to 
 its full extent with her father and the old priest in their 
 distrust of men linked to the intrigues of the day. 
 
 The fool was in general very well aware of every thing 
 that was going on, and understood the bearings of matters 
 better than many esteemed much wiser than himself. 
 He had attended Mr. Mulsho and his daughter upon 
 their visits at several of the Catholic gentlemen’s homes, 
 and he had peeped behind scenes where their eyes were 
 never allowed to penetrate. 
 
 He had watched the puritans speaking to Everard at 
 the village festival; and whatever Everard might pretend 
 to do, he for one felt certain that he had seen the fair- 
 haired gentleman before. 
 
 An “ O Lord !” with a strange grimace, behind Mr. 
 
200 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Mulsho’s back, and a sort of pirouette which con- 
 tinued some time, had been his way of expressing how 
 little faith he attached to Everard’s declaration that he 
 knew them not. 
 
 Fabian walked out this morning meditating with a 
 half wise, half vacant face upon these things, and he 
 wandered along without well knowing where he went, 
 till he had passed by the little church, and entered the 
 wood beyond. He took, without any particular inten- 
 tion, a narrow, unfrequented path, begirt with deep fern 
 and bilberry bushes, and overhung by the thick branches 
 of the trees ; it opened suddenly upon a little glade 
 formed by the wide-spread arms of the huge oak tree. 
 
 How sweetly sang the thrushes through the wood ; 
 how prettily fluttered the busy wild birds at their happy 
 toils ; he sat down upon the bench half occupied with 
 his own thoughts, half engaged in watching these glad- 
 some creatures. 
 
 It is a blessed world,’’ thought he, ‘‘ let them say 
 what they will about it; and what a pity that great evil 
 beast, man, was ever created to spoil this paradise. And 
 yet if they would only let him alone, evil beast as he is, 
 he’d not be so very bad neither. That Everard now, 
 he’s a good sort of youth, and a true; or would have 
 been, alack ! I had better say, for my baubfe to an old wife’s 
 distaff*, but that was a hugeous lie he told last night.” 
 Did you speak?” said a voice, close behind him. 
 
 He turned — a tall, dark-eyed woman in a tattered 
 garment stood there; she was yet young, her jet black 
 eyes glittered with a wild energy, and her long black 
 hair hung in elf locks round a face, whose beautiful 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 201 
 
 oval shape and finely-cut features bespoke her of the 
 mysterious gipsy race. 
 
 ‘‘ Jester, were you speaking to me ?” 
 
 “ Not exactly, mistress,” said Fabian ; “ I was speak- 
 ing, I believe, to a person far less worth speaking with ; 
 namely, my unfortunate and sadly jesting self, but 
 whence are you ?” 
 
 ‘‘ I slept by the wild fox’s lair, last night,” said she, 
 and I heard the owls screech and hoot to the weary 
 wandering moon. There,” pointing to a dry sandy 
 bank, where there did appear to be a fox’s earth, or a lair 
 of some wild animal, overhung with straggling brush- 
 wood, “ I came to sleep there ^ for I had had a battle 
 with Hugo, and he beat me. — The wild beasts of the 
 forest are less savage than man, so I came to rest there.” 
 Why, mistress, I think I saw you on the green yes- 
 terday spelling fortunes among the silly village maidens, 
 and I saw that fierce gipsy youth waiting for you, as 
 I thought, behind the holly bush. Did you quarrel 
 about the testers with which they crossed your hand?” 
 The testers ?”— contemptuously, — “ no, no, he was 
 not waiting or caring for me.” 
 
 “ Jealous !” said Fabian; “ does that civilised vice in- 
 fect you denizens of the woods? I thought you were free 
 of that at least.” 
 
 Her eyes sparkled. “ Those who have but one trea- 
 sure upon earth know how to prize it. No, no . . . you 
 may call the feeling what you will, but this I know, if 
 Hugo gave me cause, his life or mine, it would matter 
 little — but let our quarrels alone, they were never meant 
 to furnish matter for the mirth of fools. Look nearer 
 
202 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 home, there’s love more worth your thinking about going 
 on between the dainty mistress of the mansion and that 
 Everard/*’ 
 
 “ That Everard — and wherefore that Everard ? me- 
 thinks this is a mighty indecorous way of speaking of 
 him.” 
 
 He’s a handsome minion enough,” replied the gipsy, 
 ‘‘ to those who like such Saxon features — the children of 
 the sun for me. But there^s one I love and reverence 
 upon this earth, and that’s your master there at the 
 great house, and that youth is not dealing truly by 
 him.” 
 
 Fabian started . . . 
 
 “ Those men he spoke with, you simpletons take 
 perhaps for that which they pretended to look like — 
 godly puritans ! and you did not guess that I knew 
 them to be black Jesuits. Oh!” she went on rapidly 
 and bitterly, ‘‘I know them, and I watch them well 
 — the whole host of them — priests, monks, friars, black 
 white, and gray, and this last spawn of the evil 
 one the Jesuits. I was but a child — ^but it is burned 
 in here. The father who nurtured me — and the mother 
 who bore me — saw them both in their san benitos 
 there in the grand square at Madrid, the poor ignorant 
 gipsies — burnt alive by the black hideous Inquisition. 
 It fixed here. Oh, those priests ! those priests ! woe to 
 those who have dealings with them, and that Everard 
 has dealings with them. . . . Those two were last night 
 here.” 
 
 Fabian twisted and untwisted his legs, laid hold of 
 his lips with his fingers, and sat in that expressive atti- 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 203 
 
 tude which belongs to perplexity, vexation, and atten- 
 tion combined. 
 
 “ I lay under the greenwood bough last night, and 
 I was kept awake as I told you by the hooting owls, and 
 I saw a fair youth and a black priest talking under the 
 shadow of that little church there ; and after that, when 
 he was gone away, as I lay crouching in the thicket, 
 I heard those two evil ones settling their devil’s devices 
 by the light of the all holy stars. . . You go and tell old 
 Mulsho of this; let him beware what he does with that 
 sweet lamb his daughter. If sacrificed she must be, let 
 it be on the holy altar of God and not at an offering to 
 the evil one ; did I not tell them their line of life was 
 flooded with blood?” 
 
 And so saying, she turned abruptly away and was 
 gone. 
 
 The jester watched her as she plunged through the 
 thickets — then he took up his bauble, adjusted his 
 cap, and sauntered idly towards the house. 
 
 They were sitting at breakfast in the withdrawing- 
 room, as he came in. 
 
 The two young people side by side — Everard en- 
 tirely occupied with his Evelyn — and she with a look 
 more shy and conscious than before, was answering 
 him almost in a whisper, while her eyes were fixed 
 upon the table before her. 
 
 Mr. Mulsho and Mr. Warner were on the other side, 
 and Mr. Mulsho had what was called a news-letter in 
 his hand; a very rare and imperfect substitute for a 
 newspaper. 
 
 He read it, sighed, and laid it down. 
 
204 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 “ More guilt — and more cruelty,” was all lie said, 
 turning from his untasted breakfast. Read it, Mr. 
 Warner.” 
 
 The old man took the news-letter, and as he read it, 
 his countenance assumed a character of the deepest 
 sorrow. 
 
 Again!” he said; ‘‘oh! where will this end? 
 where can it end but in the destruction of our religion? 
 — or in the destruction of this kingdom so wisely go- 
 verned — so prosperous and so happy. . . . Villanous and 
 detestable practices — and bloody and fearful retribu- 
 tion I” 
 
 Everard lifted up his head, and begged to know of 
 what they were speaking. 
 
 “ Three more priests have been tried, found guilty, 
 and are condemned to death for treasonable practices 
 ; — and upon a fresh suspicion of attempted assassina- 
 tion.” 
 
 Impossible ! — what injurious suspicions — what bar- 
 barity and injustice V* 
 
 “ The suspicions are, I fear, but too well grounded. 
 These practices have been but too common. This royal 
 woman has but too often been exposed to the assassin’s 
 knife. It is a hateful subject . . . .” 
 
 Everard was silent. 
 
 He knew these men well whom a few days would 
 consign to the scaffold. 
 
 He believed them in this instance to be innocent of 
 the designs attributed to them. Suspicion was but too 
 well justified by the avowed principles of their party; 
 but then he had only known these men as the advo- 
 
FATHER DARCY, 
 
 205 
 
 cates of submission and promoters of peace. The one 
 •was a most accomplished scholar and polished gentle- 
 man; had devoted himself, as he believed, from prin- 
 ciples of the purest and most disinterested nature to the 
 English mission. He was beloved and respected, and 
 justly beloved and respected, in Everard’s opinion, by 
 the whole Catholic body, by whom he was regarded 
 with all the reverence due to a saint. 
 
 That there had been murderous designs going on, 
 might be too true, but this gentleman must be igno- 
 rant of them. He must have fallen a victim into the 
 snares laid for him by informers, and to the barba- 
 rous policy mentioned by Mr. Darcy. 
 
 The heart of Everard bled inwardy as he thought ot 
 these things. 
 
 There might be many at this time in England, who 
 well deserved the sentence of high treason; but this 
 man was assuredly not one of them. 
 
 It was a martyrdom and a sacrifice, and as such the 
 whole Catholic body must regard it. 
 
 “ Barbarous injustice !” he muttered again to himself. 
 
 You know him, then?” faltered Evelyn. 
 
 But he was silent. At that moment he feared by a 
 syllable to lead to the detection of some other connected 
 •with this business — ^he felt, what we should now call, a 
 nervous fear of compromising any one of that body of 
 religious professors, over whom this event threw, in his 
 imagination, a sort of sacred halo. 
 
 He thought of the conversation of last night, and 
 wondered at the indificrcncc to his party which he had 
 felt and displayed. 
 
206 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Communication with those who could so little share 
 his feelings was irritating to him; he rose from his seat 
 and wandered out into the garden. 
 
 Mr. Warner and Mr. Mulsho watched him, and then 
 looked at each other. 
 
 Evelyn, saddened and weary, retired to her own 
 room, where, incapable of employment, she sat down and 
 her head sinking upon her breast, remained insensible 
 to every thing but her own disquieting reflections. 
 
 ‘‘ He is one of them. There can be no doubt of it,’’ 
 said Mr. Mulsho, after a pause, and with a sigh. 
 
 The old priest could only repeat the sigh. 
 
 And truth, confidence, and plain dealing, are at an 
 end,” added his friend. 
 
 ‘‘ Nuncle,” interrupted the jester, looking in at the 
 window. 
 
 No foolery, good lad, to-day,” said Mr. Mulsho, 
 impatiently. 
 
 “ Mr. Mulsho,” said the youth, putting his head in 
 and looking cautiously round the room, ‘‘ there were 
 other disguises abroad yester even besides Friar Tuck 
 and Maid Marian.” 
 
 Have I not told you to forbear your foolery, young 
 man?” 
 
 ‘‘ Sir,” — and he sprang in through the window — 
 “have a care what you are about. Two faces under 
 one hood was never good heraldry. Have a care — 
 and ask that fine young gentleman what he was doing 
 when the clock struck twelve last night.” 
 
 “ What do you mean?” 
 
 “ He’s no better than the rest of ’em — that’s aU — 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 207 
 
 and can play hide and seek, and bo-peep for a wager — 
 fore-warned fore-armed, it is said, and so the fool’s 
 done a fool’s errand, and is gone.” 
 
 And he was hastening to make his exit by the way 
 he had entered^ but Mr. Mulsho stopped him. 
 
 “ Speak more plainly, Fabian,” he said, with a voice 
 of authority, this foolery is neither pleasant nor 
 timely, tell me at once what you mean — my anxieties 
 are not to be trifled with.” 
 
 ‘‘ My dear and honoured master, ”♦ said the boy, now 
 laying aside all his affectation, ‘‘ the Holy Virgin be my 
 witness, that I would not trifle with you for the world 
 — these are sharp times, and there are gins, snares, 
 and pitfalls spread for us on every side; I thought 
 you would have understood the poor jester at a word. 
 That young man is imposing upon you, sir; those 
 were not puritan divines with whom he exchanged 
 courtesies on the green last night. He knew what 
 they were well enough, and had seen them often and 
 often before — ^but ask me nothing more : they may be 
 laying hold of thee, mine honoured master, and who 
 knows — and thou wouldst be loath to betray the poor 
 fool to the question — ask nothing more of me — ask the 
 young man. — May I go?” 
 
208 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 “ Then as my gift, and thine own acquisition 
 Worthily purchased, take my child.” 
 
 Tempest 
 
 “You say you love my daughter — you speak of 
 presumption in aspiring to her hand — a young man, 
 such as I once esteemed you to be, Sir Everard, it has 
 been the ambition of my life to call son-in-law.” 
 
 “ thought !” 
 
 Mr. Mulsho took no notice of the interruption, but 
 proceeded : 
 
 “ In times so perplexed as these in which we live, 
 a man tottering upon the brink of the grave, with 
 one only object of interest left on earth — may hold 
 himself excused, if with anxiety he looks to the cha- 
 racter of those under whose protection his dearest 
 treasure shall be placed.” 
 
 There was a pause here — and Everard for the first time 
 observed that there was a slight difficulty and check of 
 the breath in Mr. Mulsho’s speaking. 
 
 “ Your life, sir, I hope will still be long and happy.” 
 
 “ Happy!” said Mr. Mulsho, “ it has not been to 
 be so called since the mother of my Evelyn died. — My 
 happiness will be in following her to that better world, 
 where, after the restless troubles of this, it is permitted 
 to us to hope for peace my life received a blow 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 209 
 
 wlien that tie was severed, what it has not and cannot 
 recover; but the love for my Evelyn has forced me to live 
 on — a truce, however, with so poor a subject as myself. 
 Tliere was a time when I thought iny task was well- 
 nigh ended: that in resigning her to your care, I 
 had found for her a shelter from those storms which 
 seem impending over our path, and which will rend 
 domestic life . . . but I was flattering myself.^’ 
 
 I cannot pretend — it would be rash and presump- 
 tuous in me, young as I am to vow .... but if a love 
 and tenderness the most sincere — if a desire the most 
 ardent, a resolution the most sacred, to preserve her from 
 every evil, and render her happy might avail . . ^ 
 
 Mr. Mulsho looked at his young, simple, and most 
 beautiful countenance, as he spoke with an earnestness 
 of purpose which could not be mistaken: he gazed 
 upon him a short time in his thoughtful manner, and 
 then at last said : 
 
 The desire of my life has been to unite my child 
 with one, a stranger to those principles, and to those 
 intrigues which have been lately to so fearful an extent 
 carried on among those — professing what was once the 
 Englishmans religion. Have I succeeded in this, Sir 
 Everard?” 
 
 Everard coloured deeply, and cast down his eyes : he 
 reflected a moment or two. 
 
 At last he seemed to have taken his resolution, and 
 said: 
 
 “ Where a full and candid avowal would be incon- 
 sistent with honour and good faith, the only course left 
 for a man to pursue, is to acknowledge that such an 
 
 o 
 
210 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 avowal cannot be made . . . These are questions, sir, 
 on which I must beseech your indulgence if I refuse to 
 answer, but they are questions between myself and my 
 own conscience, with which I trust the happiness of 
 others hath nothing to do.” 
 
 “Fatal exception! unnatural position! where the 
 deepest convictions of man’s heart are barred and with- 
 held from the partner of his life — when that which is 
 most interesting, most sacred for human nature, is a 
 theme upon which beings bound by the dearest and most 
 sacred of ties are not allowed together to enter. What 
 fatal disunions in states and in families ! what public 
 and what private happiness will be sacrificed to these 
 new and pernicious doctrines ! But I ask no further. Sir 
 Everard, one sentence is sufficient to explain your posi- 
 tion to me ; like others of your age and character, the 
 invisible snare has entrapped you. Alas! could the 
 spoiler not spare one !” 
 
 “ The times are so difficult,’^ said Everard, endea- 
 vouring to subdue the pain with which he listened to 
 this speech, the truth of which found but too just a 
 response in his own feelings, “that it is not easy to 
 discover where the true path of duty lies. The grievous 
 penalties imposed by the law upon certain acts of self- 
 devotion, which, I acknowledge that I reverence in the 
 very depths of my spirit, render secrecy the first duty 
 of every honourable and of every conscientious man. 
 
 I have been taught that such secrecy admits of no 
 exceptions, and that things which are to remain hidden, 
 must be repeated to no one — on many passages in my 
 past life, my lips are closed, but of the future it may be 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 211 
 
 allowed me to speak. Mr. Mulsho is mistaken if lie 
 believes it to be my intention to submit my life and 
 conscience, as many others have done, to the guidance 
 he deprecates. It is my purpose, and has been my 
 practice, young as I am, to ask questions of myself, and 
 as for the intrigues to which he alludes, it has been, 
 and is, my firm determination to keep aloof from them. 
 Common gratitude to the sovereign to whom I owe so 
 much, would make me a very unfit person to enter into 
 inquiries as to the validity of the title by which she 
 holds her sceptre : and as for those darker practices of 
 which men have been accused who are actually exposing 
 themselves every hour to martyrdom for the sake of 
 others, all I can say is, I know nothing of them, and 
 moreover I do not believe in them.’^ 
 
 The eye of Mr. Mulsho glistened as he again fixed 
 it upon the speaking countenance of the young man: 
 it was impossible for goodness, truth, and simplicity, to 
 be written in fairer or more unquestionable characters 
 on the human face. 
 
 “ Such as I am — such as I have been” — ^he continued, 
 with a spirit and dignity that was infinitely lovely, for 
 it was the unaffected dignity of a heart secure in the 
 rectitude of its own intentions: ‘‘ Such as I am — such 
 as I have been — it remains with you to say whether 
 your sweet Evelyn can be intrusted to my care. But 
 before I ask it, let me acknowledge what I think you 
 ought to know — and which I may, without injustice to 
 others confess. I was out great part of last night with- 
 out the knowledge of any one. Things insignificant in 
 themselves have in these times significance. It is 
 o 2 
 
212 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 not my intention to render any account of the causes of 
 absence — but I think you ought to be informed of it.” 
 
 ‘‘ I knew it before,” said Mr. Mulsho, ‘‘ and that was 
 the cause of the explanation of this morning, which has 
 led on your part, to the avowal o£an affection which 
 would do the daughter of any man honour .... 
 
 ‘‘ Upon one such as you are now” — endeavouring to 
 conceal his anxiety ; ‘‘upon one such as you still are, 
 Sir Everard — I would consider myself blest to confer 
 my child .... but hovr long — how long . . . ?” 
 
 “ Of the future it is vain for man to boast — ^into the 
 future it is vain for man to inquire too curiously : it is 
 your own sentiment, sir, which I repeat.’' 
 
 “ True — true” — and he sank back and seemed lost in 
 reflection. 
 
 Had it not been for the large estates which were to 
 accompany the gift of Evelyn’s hand, Everard would 
 have pressed his suit in a far more importunate 
 manner; and had not his own secret conscience ac- 
 knowledged the justice of Mr. Mulsho’s apprehensions, 
 he might have been hurt and offended at these hesita- 
 tions and uncertainties. 
 
 As it was he stood with his arms folded, and his head 
 bent down — gravely expecting the final decision of the 
 anxious father. But there was a strange contradiction 
 in his feelings. Loving her as he did — all his prospects 
 of happiness dependent upon her, and upon her alone — 
 what was it that had made the heart of Everard beat 
 with secret terror, and almost inclined him to wish that 
 his suit might be after all rejected? What was it that 
 hung like a cloud upon his mind, darkening the future 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 213 
 
 with indescribable melancholy? His purposes were 
 W'hat he had averred ; he never had taken part, and he 
 never intended to take a part, in those questionable in- 
 trigues which his reason and his conscience alike disap- 
 proved. What was there which hung as it were a dark 
 curtain between him and that future which every cir- 
 cumstance in life seemed calculated to render peaceful 
 and happy? 
 
 ‘‘ I honour your forbearance,” said Mr. Mulsho, 
 lifting up his head at length: your patience with the 
 
 hesitations and anxieties of a father are of a piece with 
 that temper which has appeared to me, ever since I knew 
 you^ as one of the most candid and indulgent that 
 ever graced a human being. Whence the strange re- 
 luctance arises with which I accede to a proposal which 
 seems to crown almost every wish I could form, I 
 cannot tell. Shall I own it? — for we have all our weak 
 and superstitious moments — I feel at this instant as if 
 my better angel were crying out and urging me in a 
 voice not to be resisted, to refuse your proffered 
 hand. And yet,” and he again cast his anxious in- 
 quiring eye upon that countenance, so full of tender 
 thought and the loveliness of truth and candour : And 
 
 yet . . . .” then rising and suddenly taking Everard’s 
 hand, ‘‘ away with these unworthy doubts and evil an- 
 ticipations ; let me frankly avow, you are the only man 
 upon earth on whom I could with pleasure bestow my 
 child — take her — she is yours. I ask no pledges — I sti- 
 pulate for no conditions — ^your conscience and your 
 heart will comprehend the full extent of the confidence 
 I repose in them. She is yours, Everard.” 
 
214 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Even at that very moment of joy, a sadness, as of 
 the grave — an inexpressible foreboding of sorrow — stole 
 like a dark cloud over the spirits of Everard. 
 
 Was it a presentiment of early death, such as it is said 
 sometimes possesses the soul, and is usually verified by 
 the result, or what was it ? But whatever the cause, 
 her happiness he vowed to secure — that precious deposit 
 he at least could promise himself to hold sacred — and as 
 for his own — why that must be as it must be. . . . 
 
 The contradictions within, the doubts and confusions, 
 the distracting uncertainties that beset him, troubhng 
 that sanctuary of the inner being, wherein if there be 
 not peace, httle avails the prosperity without, for- 
 bade this ill-fated young man to anticipate that happi- 
 ness which every external circumstance seemed to 
 promise him. 
 
 From that moment a tender melancholy seemed to 
 possess him. 
 
 The demonstrations of his love for the sweet young girl 
 bestowed upon him, had a softness, a sadness, and 
 tenderness all so exquisitively blended, that never did 
 lover seem to possess so magical a power over the 
 affections. 
 
 Evelyn began to love him with that devoted single- 
 ness of passion which is the blest possession of a heart 
 that has never loved but one; and which finds in that 
 one those depths of tenderness, which fill every desire 
 of the soul. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 215 
 
 This mystical and apparently foolish language will 
 be understood by some. 
 
 She lived in him and for him. To have him by her 
 side, silent as he now often was — for his heart was 
 full of all the deep sadness of such a love; — to walk 
 with him through the twilight shades of those yew-cut 
 berceaus, which they both seemed to choose in pre- 
 ference to the sunny walks of the garden ; her hand in 
 his, and pressed against his heart — not a look, not a 
 
 syllable exchanged all this filled the heart of the 
 
 young girl with a sense of exquisite felicity, of which 
 the world in general can perhaps form little idea. 
 
 That voice of his — that dear, dear voice when he 
 did speak. What music, what worlds of character in 
 its tones ! — It was like some sweet and mournful melody 
 to her ear, which we catch at intervals, and which 
 plunges the soul into a dreamy labyrinth of delicious 
 melancholy, far more dear to the heart than all that 
 mirth or laughter can bestow. 
 
 So passed the wooing time away — the marriage was 
 fixed, and very soon to take place : but the story leads 
 us now to sterner and darker matters. 
 
216 
 
 FATHER DARCT. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 “ The master-piece of knowledge is to know 
 But what is good, from what is good in show.” 
 
 Quarles. 
 
 A CONSIDERABLE time had elapsed since that royal 
 entertainment in the palace of Old Westminster^ which 
 all these young people with whom I have endeavoured 
 to make you acquainted, had met together to enjoy. 
 
 During that period, many events had happened 
 which were influential upon their future fate. 
 
 The first and most important was the trial and con- 
 demnation of the priests. 
 
 All eflbrts to rescue them, or to avert the terrific 
 sentence for high treason were of no avail. Mr. Darcy, 
 as some believed, had made unparalleled efforts in their 
 cause, for his wide extended secret influence put means 
 and engines into his power, of w^hich even his own 
 friends were little aware ; but whether his exertions were 
 as strenuous as he pretended, might be doubted by 
 those who knew him well. The man who was about to 
 suffer was his superior in rank, in learning and capa- 
 city ; and the Inffuence he exercised, more extended and 
 of a nature more flattering to self-love, than that pos- 
 sessed by Mr. Darcy himself. 
 
 How far he was engaged in the late conspiracies to 
 assassinate the queen, for which he suffered, did not 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 217 
 
 clearly appear; thougli doubtless deeply and ardently 
 engaged in those intrigues for securing a Catholic, and 
 if possible a Spanish successor to the throne, in which 
 the whole party were so deeply engaged. 
 
 The very imperfect manner of obtaining evidence in 
 matters of treason, and the very erroneous manner in 
 which conclusions were drawn, which would appear 
 monstrous in our present courts of justice, added to the 
 habit of substituting what might be considered well- 
 grounded suspicion on the part of the judge for a rigid 
 sifting of testimony, — had led in this case, as it had so 
 often done in others, to a sentence the grounds of which 
 were any thing but conclusive. 
 
 It cannot be matter of surprise, therefore, that, with 
 the disposition on the part of the Catholics to regard 
 every one of their party who suffered for treasonable 
 practices as martyrs to religion, these men excited 
 more than ordinary pity and reverence, and that their 
 condemnation to a horrible death excited the w’hole 
 party in an extraordinary degree. 
 
 The barbarous punishments of those days cast a 
 horror inexpressible over the sentences of the law, and 
 aided, as such punishments ever must, in maintaining in 
 the characters of men an indifference to, if not an abso- 
 lute thirst for cruelty. These terrible examples were as a 
 sort of dreadful education in barbarity ; and that passion 
 for revenge was kept alive, which furnished but too 
 powerful materials to the priests in their operations upon 
 the human mind. 
 
 The insensibility of the priests themselves to these 
 
218 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 dreadful scenes of crime and retribution in which they 
 involved so many, is sufficient to appal the mind. 
 
 The superior who was to suffer upon this occasion, 
 was, as has been said, most deeply reverenced and be- 
 loved, — and none had reverenced so deeply, honoured 
 so truly, or loved so devotedly, as the Lady Grace. By 
 him she had been reconciled and instructed ; by him her 
 late father had been maintained in that high spirit of 
 enthusiasm under the influence of which he had cheer- 
 fully suffered so much ; he was the friend, the adviser, 
 the instructor of them all; and it was he who had 
 cherished in her tender mind that disposition to severe 
 ascetic devotion and to heroic self-sacriflce, which was 
 soon to take so fatal a direction. 
 
 His condemnation to death had produced the most 
 fearful effect upon her character — it can only be com- 
 pared to that blast from the desert, which is said to 
 wither and destroy all the sweet refreshing influences 
 of life. That heart, with all its strong affections, lay 
 as a heap of ashes. It was not grief, it was not sorrow, 
 it was no feeling that deserved a name in which 
 softness or consolation could mingle — it was a deep 
 harrowing sense of despair, embittered by those harsh 
 demands for retribution and vengeance, which her 
 mistaken religious views had cherished even in her. 
 
 A something strangely determined, a something 
 almost desperate, might be read in the expression of 
 her face ; which spoke of excruciating grief, mingled 
 with the bitterest indignation. 
 
 The awful resolution to which all this led — partly 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 219 
 
 the effect of that agonising desire to share his cross — 
 partly of a passionate wish to attend his dread pilgrim- 
 age to the end — and partly of a resolution to honour 
 the martyr’s day of suffering by the self-devotion of 
 his friends — would be read with astonished incredulity, 
 did not the history of the past afford but too many 
 examples of the like nature. 
 
 I shall not attempt to work up the narration into this 
 history — I shall leave it as I found it, in all the rude 
 negligence of the original narrator, for I myself am 
 quite incapable of the theme. 
 
 Suffice it here to say, that from that day forward, 
 Grace Vaux was never the same — she became like one 
 blasted and stricken by the hand of God — a wanderer 
 upon the earth, and a stranger to every tender or fami- 
 liar sentiment that imites human society. 
 
 The Fragment, 
 
 He is about to die a martyr for his holy church — 
 
 and shall not I ! shall this cowardly flesh shrink and 
 
 quiver — shall this poor spirit faint merely at witness- 
 ing his sufferings? No, no, Kobert, with that holy 
 woman I will go — I will go.” 
 
 “ Yet hear me, Grace,” said he, looking at her with 
 that expression which a devout and fervent heart casts 
 up towards the blessed Queen of Heaven; “ hear me, 
 the heart of man dies within him, even at the bare 
 imagination of such a scene. How can you, saint and 
 
220 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 holy as you are — ^how can you hope to endure it and 
 live ?” 
 
 “ I shall live,” said she, with a beautiful and bitter 
 smile; “ I shall live, believe me — I am made of stern 
 stuff — I shall live, till I see judgment executed upon 
 this unholy and accursed race. Sooner or later, ven- 
 geance will overtake them. The cry of these mart3rrs 
 will reach to Heaven, and I shall live to see it.” 
 
 He looked at her again; she was hastily throwing a 
 coarse sort of brown upper garment over her fair white 
 dress; she had seized a pair of scissors, and was begin- 
 ning to cut off her beautiful hair; he caught her hand, 
 
 Not so — not so.” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes, let it be so,” said she, shaking him off. “ Yes, 
 let me mourn like the widows of Zion, over our pro- 
 phet and our saint. Shall I wear again these vain 
 fleeting ornaments — shall I take part again in this bad 
 and wicked world? Oh, holy Anne!” turning to the 
 aged lady who stood beside her, were this but the 
 altar, and this dress but the saintly veil, and this obla- 
 tion the completion of the sacred vow I” and as she 
 
 spoke, she severed all her beautiful flowing tresses short 
 oflT, close to her neck, and flung them disdainfully upon 
 the floor. 
 
 He offered no more to Interrupt her; he took up the 
 hem of her long hanging coarse brown sleeve, and 
 kissed it. 
 
 The aged nun stood looking mournfully on with her 
 dim and sunken eye, and her withered hands were 
 shaking and trembling with age and emotion, but she 
 
PATHER DARCY. 
 
 221 
 
 made no answer when the Lady Grace spoke. A vision 
 of the past was coming over her, and she thought of 
 those days when the convents had been there to afford 
 a safe harbour for the miserable, who could find neither 
 peace nor consolation elsewhere. 
 
 She had come up to London, old and feeble as she 
 was, with the Lady Grace upon this Christian errand ; 
 for she had belonged to an order of mercy whose part 
 it was to follow men to the fearful scafibld, and smooth 
 the dark passages to the grave. 
 
 They were now occupying a very small, obscure 
 lodging in the neighbourhood of Paul’s, for they wished 
 not their coming to be bruited abroad ; and here Robert, 
 on this fatal morning, had joined them, the two being 
 disguised in ordinary habits. 
 
 They had all three come up secretly on hearing that 
 
 the holy priest had been arraigned, and Robert, who 
 \ 
 
 had several friends among the great men at that time 
 at court, had contrived to be present at the trial in the 
 Star Chamber. 
 
 A strange perversion of justice that trial appeared to 
 many men, and most of all to him, to be; and yet there 
 can be little doubt that that which the queen’s majesty 
 put forth upon the occasion, was in the main true; and 
 that this able man, and holy saint and martyr, as he 
 undoubtedly was, suffered for his practices against this 
 great but heretical queen, who, it must in Christian 
 verity be owned, suffered none to be pursued on account 
 of their religion alone, but only for their attempts (in a 
 most just and righteous cause) against her person and 
 estate. Wherefore this holy priest is to be esteemed a 
 
222 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 martyr, although he suffered under the laws of this 
 country for treason. 
 
 Robert thought he had made a just and noble de- 
 fence, and his whole strong and fervent heart was in a 
 flame, as it were, of indignation at this cruel strain of 
 the laws in force against the Cathohcs; and his very 
 heart died within him as he thought of the cruel punish- 
 ment under such laws awarded. 
 
 But these two holy women, the one so old and reve- 
 rend being at least eighty years of age; the other so 
 young and fair, being but just eighteen; prepared them- 
 selves in courage and patience like the holy women in 
 Scripture — with reverence be it said — to follow the 
 disgraceful hurdle on foot, and to soothe the agonies of 
 the martyr. 
 
 He had endured the rack in the Tower, and his limbs 
 were weak and shaken by that cruel agony; but nothing 
 of those deep secrets in which he was involved, could the 
 torture wring from his firm mind. Nothing would he 
 avow, but that here into this darkened land he was come 
 to administer to his flock those holy sacraments, forbid- 
 den by an iniquitous law, and to sprinkle the blessed 
 waters of Christian baptism over their innocent babes. 
 
 And now he came forth dressed in a long brown and 
 loose gown, bound with a girdle of rope ; his feet, hands, 
 and head bare; and he was laid upon the hurdle, look- 
 ing calm and noble, and what he was, a great and good 
 man, whose vocation it was by nature and by choice to 
 rule, govern, and lead others, and direct their hearts 
 and consciences into the right way. 
 
 There were two other priests to suffer with him in 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 223 
 
 the same righteous cause, hut these were men of a differ- 
 ent sort from him ; of feebler intellect, and of less strong 
 and courageous hearts, and they held down their heads, 
 and their poor thin hands might be seen to tremble, as 
 they lifted them from time to time as if in prayer; but 
 he^ though in truth he had waxed deadly pale, preserved 
 a tranquil and unmoved countenance. 
 
 Many followed him in mournful procession; and, in- 
 deed, the pikemen who attended upon the sheriff in this 
 doleful march to Tyburn, were indulgent to the poor 
 sorrowing people, and they suffered some to come even 
 up to the hurdle. 
 
 And as the slow procession treading with heavy pace 
 proceeded along, they came opposite to Paul’s; and there 
 those two mournful but brave women and their companion 
 joined in. The holy priest happened to be looking that 
 way, when the young lady and the aged mother, with 
 Robert — his face all dark with a sort of troubled wrath, 
 which he mastered and kept down under a steady and 
 still carriage — approached the hurdle ; then the colour 
 flushed into that holy priest’s face, and his whole frame 
 quivered; and he bent his head a little towards that 
 side of the hurdle where they had placed themselves to 
 walk ; their heads bent gravely downwards, and their 
 eyes fixed upon the stones, as they moved solemnly 
 along. And he said, “ Ah, holy mother ! — not you !” 
 
 Tliat young lady lifted up her head and fixed her eyes 
 steadily upon his face, and then she gently shook her 
 head in a sort as if to show that her mind was made up, 
 and she was heard to say, “ Yes with this napkin will 
 
224 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 I wipe the death dew from thy noble brow, and the 
 blood drop from thy tortured breast.” 
 
 And so in passive calmness, grave and sorrowful, 
 walked she on ; but Robert’s brow grew darker and 
 darker, and there was the look there of that dreadful 
 angel of the Apocalypse who emptied the vials of wrath 
 upon mankind — so stern, so black, so cloudy was that 
 steadfast face ; but neither did he proffer a word, nor 
 make sign or gesture, save that once he lifted up his eyes 
 and met those of the priest; — and the meeting of those 
 eyes said more than ten thousand words could have 
 done.” 
 
 The Jesuit’s look expressed, “ My son, remember me,” 
 and Robert’s responded, ‘‘ While one drop of blood re- 
 mains in this heart, it shall be shed to avenge thee.” 
 They had, perchance, both of them forgotten the holy 
 text which I have read inscribed beneath that noble 
 picture in Venetia Digby’s Oratory, where the des- 
 troying angel waves the fiery sword, and it is written, 
 “ Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.” 
 
 No : this holy priest was for urging forward the hosts 
 of the Lord to take speedy and sharp vengeance on this 
 his judicial murder, as he esteemed it ; and Robert’s 
 heart was made of that bold and manly stuff which 
 would take wrong from no man, neither for himself or 
 others. 
 
 But aged Mother Anne was not of this way of think- 
 ing, but went slowly on, muttering her beads; and 
 praying for all the world — for him the martyr — and 
 for the conversion and salvation of her, the misguided. 
 
EATHEPw DARCY. 
 
 225 
 
 yet noble queen — but the Lady Grace prayed not ; her 
 whole heart was full; indignation and grief were bitter 
 there. She thought but of him, the martyr on that 
 hurdle; and though she lifted not up again her eyes, 
 she saw but him ; his face was before her — his face led 
 her on; there seemed to her neither saint in heaven, 
 nor brother on earth, but one, and that was him. 
 Even her church — that church for the restoration of 
 which, with so many other devout and holy ones, she 
 was ready to sacrifice all on earth; and hope of heaven, 
 if hope of heaven could be perilled by such deep 
 self-oblation — even her church was not in her thoughts. 
 It was not that heresy triumphed : it was not that the 
 misbelievers would, in this day’s work, destroy that best 
 hope on which the English restoration rested: it was 
 that he must die — that he, the image enshrined as with 
 a glory in her heart — that he must be no more — and 
 the glory departed. 
 
 Long, long was the dismal way; the day was beauti- 
 ful and bright, and the heavens serene and clear; and the 
 sun shone, gilding with his ascending beams this great 
 and glorious sacrifice. The crowd around was hushed, and 
 still as death. You heard only the hurdle grating against 
 the stones, and the tramp of the yeomen and pikcmen; 
 and you saw, but heard not, the foot-fall of those women. 
 
 At length they had passed the streets, and entered 
 the broad and dusty way, bordered by green hedges 
 and pleasant fields, which led to Tyburn tree: and 
 there stood the black gallows, high and threatening, and 
 the scaffold and the dismal fire, and the dark scowlins: 
 butcher who was to minister to the law. 
 
 r 
 
226 
 
 TATHER DARCY. 
 
 While the dreadful ceremony was consummating, 
 those women stood apart and prayed. And when all 
 was over, and his eyes were closing in death, then 
 they kneeled beside him; supporting, with pitying 
 hands, his fainting head ; and she did wipe the death- 
 dew from his poor pale face, and the blood-drops from 
 his tortured breast — while her dove eyes, patient, soft^ 
 compassionate, were bent on his; and as his closed in 
 death, their last slow, lingering, loving gaze was hers — 
 treasured in her heart for ever. 
 
 No, never — never ! — sleeping or waking, alone or in 
 company — sorrowing or suffering — it was always there. 
 
 It was over : with a sort of death shudder the soul 
 had departed. They all three stood some few mo- 
 ments, to be certain that all was indeed over; and then 
 they turned, and slowly took their way to their obscure 
 lodging again. 
 
 The tears dropped one by one upon the clasped 
 hands of holy Mother Anne, and upon the rosary 
 hanging between them, and low groans broke from 
 time to time from her aged heart; but that young lady 
 and that young man neither groaned nor wept; they 
 walked in silence, side by side, along the streets, with 
 firm, composed steps; their faces bore both the same 
 expression, though of so different a hue; for hers was 
 white and colourless, and fixed as statuary marble — 
 and his was all blurred over with patches, as it were, of 
 a lurid red; but they both looked stern, resolved — fixed 
 in purpose — and in that purpose you might see there 
 
FATHER DARCY. 227 
 
 would be no pity, there would be no flinching, there 
 would be no fear. 
 
 They had hardened to stone, as it were, in that dread 
 passage of their lives; and so they remained. 
 
 One passion alone disputed in the young man’s heart 
 the desire for revenge : but there was nothing to answer 
 it in hers. Mortal man existed not, who now could 
 move her heart to throb or falter. It was, indeed, as if 
 all soft affections had died or departed with Mm, 
 Robert knew this by that sort of divination common to 
 lovers : he submitted and adored in the deepest shrine 
 of his own dark and shrouded heart. At that mo- 
 ment he felt the same disgust against all the joys of 
 this world, that this pious creature did. 
 
 They came back to the small dark obscure lodging 
 that the two ladies had taken. It was one of those old 
 houses common in London; the upper floor overhung 
 the lower story — so that the lower rooms were rendered 
 very gloomy; indeed little light could penetrate at all 
 through those small leaded casements of glass. The 
 apartment they entered was very low overhead; the floor 
 was of stone; and the only furniture, a sort of dresser 
 and shelves for plate or pewters, and a few dark 
 wooden chairs. They all three walked in — and poor 
 old mother Anne, quite tired out, fainting with fatigue, 
 sank down upon a chair, and groaned with sadness and 
 with weariness. You should have seen how gentle was 
 that young lady’s demeanour. She still preserved her 
 passive composure, and she did not speak; perhaps she 
 could not do that; but she went up and took that 
 aged woman’s withered hand, and pressed it between 
 P 2 
 
228 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 both hers ; and she stooped down and looked tenderly 
 into those poor old dim eyes — and then she went to the 
 dresser, and poured out a little water, and then she 
 went into the kitchen close by, and fetched a little 
 can of milk ; and she brought the milk and the water, 
 and held it to the poor old lady’s lips, and made her 
 drink till she was refreshed. And good mother Anne 
 then said. 
 
 Drink, dear daughter, for thy lips are parched, and 
 thy tongue cleaveth to the roof of thy mouth.” 
 
 But she shook her head again in her own sad, quiet 
 way, and set the can down without tasting of it. 
 
 He was leaning against the wall in a dark corner of 
 the room watching her. Then he came forward, poured 
 out of the water, drank of it hastily, and returned to 
 the wall, against which he leaned. 
 
 And now the young lady looked down upon her 
 brown gown of serge, and there were blood stains upon 
 it; and she looked at them once or twice, standing in the 
 middle of the floor, little heeding, or quite forgetting 
 uny one was there bht herself ; and then slowly out of 
 her bosom she took her napkin ; of fair Flanders lawn 
 and lace it was, but it was stained with the death dew 
 and with blood. She looked at it ^wistfully, shaking 
 her head again slowly once or twice ; then her pale lips 
 began to look a little blue, and a blueness came over the 
 corners of her mouth, but not for this did she alter of 
 her quietness. But now she slowly and dehberately 
 took off her outer gown of serge, and folded it with 
 great reverence, and then she opened a small coffret or 
 trunk made of black velvet with studs and nails of gold. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 229 
 
 and in it slie placed the gown, but the handkerchief 
 she had replaced in her bosom, and then she stood up 
 again in her white garments, fair and spotless as a bride’s, 
 save that the dust of the way had somewhat discoloured 
 the skirts. And she passed her hand over her small, 
 beautiful head, cropped and shorn like that of a friar; 
 and took up a small sort of hood, such as our aged 
 women of the commoner sort wear ; it was of black silk 
 of Lyons ; and she took a large funeral looking black 
 cloak, and wrapped herself entirely up in it — and it 
 was as if the moon was shrouded in a cloud, only her 
 lily white small hand that held the cloak, and her pale 
 face above the velvet garnishing, were^to be seen, gleam- 
 ing in that dark room and then she sat down as one 
 in expectation: the poor aged nun seemed to have 
 sunk into a sort of doze. Then Robert moved across 
 the room, and sat down upon a chair near the Lady 
 Grace; but they never spoke to, or even looked at, each 
 other. 
 
 Presently a noise as of a carroch approaching, was 
 heard down the narrow street: and a grand stately 
 carroch was seen coming along, with four coal-black 
 horses, and liverymen, and all those grandeurs which 
 have been lately brought by our gallants from France; 
 and it stopped at the door. Then the young man rose 
 and took her hand, but she withdrew it, looking at the 
 nun ; and he quietly and reverently stepped up to her, 
 and tenderly roused her, and she made a little start, and 
 then she cast her eyes in a sort of mazed way about the 
 room, and seemed to expect that he should speak; but 
 he did not speak, he only signed to the window and to 
 
230 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 the carroch, which she understood well enough; and she 
 rose, and he took her by the arm and supported her to 
 the carroch, and lifted her in, settling her there as it 
 were comfortably, and then he returned to the room. 
 The young lady was already standing, but she pointed 
 to the coffret; on which he took it up in his arms, and 
 deposited it reverently in the carroch ; and then he came 
 back to where she stood in her dark black garment. 
 And oh ! but did not he long to kneel and to fall pros- 
 trate at her feet, and kiss the very ground on which 
 she trod. He hesitated — ^he trembled ; she withdrew 
 that other white hand from its sable covering, and she 
 gave it him ; and he pressed it, and held it one moment 
 to his lips, and she looked as a holy angel might on a 
 kneeling saint, with her calm, and sad, and bitter smile, 
 to which he responded by one as full of sorrowful 
 meaning; and then he led her to the carroch, and put 
 her in too, and the voiture drove away. 
 
 Here ends the Fragment. 
 
 It was gone — ^the little dark alley was silent again. 
 He stood some time lost in musing, his eyes fixed upon 
 that end of the little lane by which it had disappeared ; 
 the houses were toppling over head with their old, 
 crazy-looking peaked roofs, and small casemented, long, 
 low windows ; but not a face appeared at any of them. 
 The town was deserted, the crowd was at Tyburn. 
 These three alone had not remained to witness the last 
 ceremonies. Presently he turned round, locked the 
 door, and laid the key under a stone by the sill, that 
 the good woman who kept the house might find it on 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 231 
 
 her return; and he walked down this narrow alley, and 
 threaded many a close, narrow street, where the high 
 houses of black and white wood, arranged and orna- 
 mented in every imaginable grotesque variety, almost 
 met overhead. There were very few people to be 
 seen, for he kept to the more lonely and deserted parts 
 of the town; and at last he came to a large, gloomy, 
 ruinous-looking old house of six or seven stories high, 
 every story being unlike the other. The lower one was, 
 as usual, overhung by the others, and was gloomy and 
 unornamented. Of the upper ones, some ran in little 
 richly carved arches, with small window eylets be- 
 tween; some were one line of casements of diamond- 
 paned glass ; some were ornamented in roses and cor- 
 beils of black wood and plaster. It was all very rich, 
 very complicated, very gloomy, very ruinous, and very 
 old. The panes in the windows were many of them 
 broken. There was an air of loneliness and silence 
 about the whole mansion ; — something in its aspect 
 that made you feel sure not only that it was unin- 
 habited, but that it had been uninhabited for a very 
 very long time. 
 
 There was a low, heavy, richly-carved oak porch, 
 before the door; which door stood, indeed^ so far back, 
 that it was quite shaded in darkness ; so that you could 
 scarcely see from the street whether it was open or 
 shut. 
 
 Robert looked up the street, down the street, and 
 around all was silent and still; he slipped with a noise- 
 less step into the porch, took out a pass-key, and let 
 himself into the house. 
 
232 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 The house within was very noble and stately; there 
 was a very rich carded flight of oak stairs, which met 
 your eye as soon as you entered the hall; which hall, 
 being carved up to almost the very roof of the house, 
 though it was not very large, had a very grand effect. 
 It was almost lined with carved oakwork, which rose, 
 story above story, as it were, to the ceiling, all overlaid 
 with rich ornaments ; but the whole was so covered with 
 dust, so hung with cobwebs, that a more melancholy 
 and faded piece of magnificence cannot be well ima- 
 gined. There was not a living thing to be seen, or 
 sound of living thing to be heard : so still was it, that 
 the roar of the distant city was like the music of a 
 mighty cataract In the lonely woods, and only seemed 
 to make the gloom and silence more impressive. 
 
 The young man paused, lifted up his eyes to the 
 ceiling, then let them fall somewhat mournfully on the 
 cobweb tapestry of the rich carving; then he crossed 
 the hall, and approaching a panel amid the arches and 
 pilasters, touched a small piece of the ornament, which 
 yielded to the touch ; the panel opened inward, noise- 
 lessly he entered and it closed after him. A few steps 
 brought him Into a small apartment, surrounded by 
 plain white plastered walls, and lighted from above by 
 numerous little, almost Imperceptible, openings in the 
 roof, which, however, gave abundance of light into the 
 narrow chamber. 
 
 There was a table in the midst covered with small 
 books and pamphlets that seemed quite new, and as 
 if they had never been opened: two or three men 
 were sitting at this table writing in perfect silence: 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 233 
 
 you heard the quills against the paper, and that was all 
 you heard. 
 
 Of these men, two appeared of more consequence 
 than the rest; one of them, who sat at the head of the 
 table, was a small dark man with remarkably bright 
 piercing black eyes, rather sunken under his stern 
 projecting brows. The expression of his countenance 
 was very remarkable; there was a wily insinua- 
 tion in the smile of the lip, a slow turning of the bright 
 observing eye, that gave something of the sensation 
 that the glittering eye and creeping stealthy motion of 
 a snake produces on some people. In spite, however, 
 of the wily smile and slow turning of the eye, never 
 was countenance more marked with unflinching resolu- 
 tion than this was. It might have done for an inquisitor 
 — human pity or relenting had no place there. 
 
 The other gentleman, soft, fair, handsome, and insi- 
 nuating, was Mr. Darcy. 
 
 Both of these gentlemen now wore their priests’ 
 garments, and were tonsured. The stranger was the 
 celebrated Father Parsons, or Persons, from the semi- 
 nary at Douay, which he had been the means of 
 instituting, and whence he had despatched so many 
 young and hot-headed priests to England, charged to 
 scatter those seeds of disaffection, which it was hoped 
 might in time produce an abundant harvest: they were 
 commissioned, likewise, to bind together the catholic 
 gentlemen by secret oaths and engagements in one 
 great though hidden union. 
 
 Father Parsons had rarely visited England of late, 
 but he had now come over on account of a new, and, 
 
234 
 
 FATHEK DARCY. 
 
 as was at first thought, very promising afiair then in 
 agitation ; and which he and the principal Jesuits hoped 
 to make the foundation of most important changes. 
 
 This was the affair of the Earl of Essex : whose con- 
 duct for some time before that rash outbreak which 
 occasioned his destruction, had been so equivocal, as to 
 excite very great hopes on the part of both the two 
 great religious bodies then in opposition to the govern- 
 ment, namely, those of the puritans and the Catholics. 
 The latter, more especially, from his conduct in Ireland 
 and his deahngs with Tiroen or Tyrone, had been led 
 to conceive the most sanguine expectations, and to 
 enter into secret understandings with him. His own 
 objects, there seems little doubt, were merely to over- 
 throw the existing ministry — the cabal as he esteemed it 
 — of Eobert Cecil, Raleigh, and Compton (the old Lord 
 Treasurer Burleigh was now dead); and to force from 
 the queen those concessions to his ambition, which his 
 pride and obstinacy forbade him to obtain by more 
 gentle methods. 
 
 His views with regard to the Catholics seem to 
 have been limited to the obtaining for them toleration; 
 but their hopes were very far from being thus 
 bounded. Nothing short of the ascendancy would have 
 satisfied them ; and with their then principles upon the 
 subject of religious toleration, the consequences to their 
 fellow-subjects of such a return to power may be divined. 
 
 Essex had likewise attached to himself the puritan 
 party, that is to say, the party which then represented 
 what is esteemed the liberal party now with us. He 
 had become devout in spite of his dissolute habits, and 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 235 
 
 he had become a lover of liberty in spite of his greedi- 
 ness of power. A strange medley of the right and the 
 wrong; the just and the unjust; of romance and sober 
 sense ; may be discovered in his views. But this very ver- 
 satility enabled him, without the sacrifice of certain sen- 
 timents of honour and even integrity which he seems 
 to have possessed, to unite the most opposite elements 
 in his schemes. The union of opposite parties in de- 
 signs such as his, may be considered, as Mr. Warner 
 observed, ever as an evil omen for the public peace. 
 
 The Jesuits, whose vocation it was to fish in troubled 
 waters, had made themselves particularly busy in this 
 business, and Father Parsons, under the name of Dolman, 
 had lately published a book maintaining the title of the 
 Earl of Essex to the succession — a pretension so pre- 
 posterous, that it seems wonderful a man so acute 
 should attempt to support it. It is probable, however, 
 that the scope of the publication was directed merely to 
 the exciting fresh jealousies against the Earl, both in the 
 queen and in her privy council, and thus to widen the 
 breach already so large — and this part of the intention 
 of the writer was certainly not disappointed. 
 
 Books and pamphlets of the most inflammatory nature 
 (for the power of the pamphlet was by this time well 
 understood) intended for circulation among the mal- 
 contents, lay mingled with this publication, and together 
 with the Philopater’^ of Father Cresswell, a book of 
 most seditious description, covered the table. 
 
 It should be perhaps, added, that Father Darcy had 
 insinuated himself into great favour with the Earl of 
 Essex; whether under his own real character, or in one 
 
236 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 of his assumed ones, of private gentleman or puritan 
 divine, is not known. 
 
 But to return to Robert : who with a face pale with 
 suppressed passions now entered the chamber where the 
 priests were all busy with their pens. 
 
 The gentlemen at the head of the table lifted up 
 their heads as he entered, but the inferior priests con- 
 tinued their employment, never once raising their eyes 
 from the papers before them. 
 
 Neither of the superiors spoke at first; they sat there 
 in an attitude of expectation as if waiting till Robert 
 should address them, but he spake not. 
 
 ‘‘ The iniquitous and diabolical sacrifice is then com- 
 pleted ?” said Father Parsons, at length. 
 
 ‘‘ It is over,” was the answer. 
 
 ‘‘ You saw him die ? — you waited till the abominable 
 business had terminated?” said Mr. Darcy, and he 
 shuddered. 
 
 ‘‘ I saw it,” replied the young man, steadily: his eye 
 blenched not, nor did his colour change at the dire re- 
 collection. 
 
 He was hardened as steel that has passed through the 
 furnace. A man is never the same after such a scene as 
 he had witnessed. 
 
 ‘‘ Did any thing especially worthy of note occur, 
 young man?” said Father Parsons, again taking up the 
 discourse. ‘‘ Those who suffered with him were but poor 
 creatures, and it is likely they might through terror of 
 the torture, be led to make confessions, and declare 
 matters openly, unfit at present to be revealed .... But 
 it mattereth little to the great purpose how such conduct 
 
FATHER DARCY. 237 
 
 themselves — the popular eye is not long fixed upon 
 them.” 
 
 They died in silence — save some short declarations 
 that it was for the cause of religion they sujBTered,” said 
 Kobert. 
 
 And our brother 
 
 ‘‘As he had lived: courageously and nobly. He 
 made a short speech in which he declared that it was not 
 death he ever feared; and that, if to be of his religion, 
 constituted man a traitor, no greater traitor existed 
 than he; that here to this realm he came, as he con- 
 fessed in defiance of the statutes made and had by the 
 crowned queen of the kingdom, in order to minister the 
 sacraments and such spiritual food as was needing to the 
 true and faithful but famishing Church of Christ ; but 
 as far as disloyalty to the queen went, he would only 
 say, might her majesty never find cause to believe that 
 she had subjects less loyal than he.” 
 
 The two priests exchanged glances. 
 
 There was a pause, during which Robert seemed to 
 eye with some dissatisfaction the heap of books and 
 pamphlets with which the table was covered. And he 
 took up a paper which, prefaced by an extract from the 
 celebrated deposing bull of Pius Quintus, ended with 
 an exhortation on the part of the pope to all good Ca- 
 tholics to lend their assistance either by open force or 
 hidden conspiracy, to carry out its sentence into execu- 
 tion. 
 
 Such ways of assisting the great cause, such hidden 
 approaches to their purposes, were not at all ac- 
 ceptable to that bold and fiery spirit; he trembled with 
 
238 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 impatience to nnsheatlie the sword to avenge the 
 martyrs, and assert the cause of religion by bold de- 
 fiance and open battle. 
 
 ‘‘ You see, my brothers,” began the first priest, that 
 for the present the secular arm is too h^avy for us; and 
 though the purposes of those are to be respected who 
 have thus far adventured to deliver their brethren ah 
 hereticorum fyrannide^ yet things have not fallen out to 
 our expectations, for few are the souls we have been 
 able to rescue from the pit of Schism; and still less hath 
 been our success against this heretical woman, l3ung 
 under sentence of anathema, and most justly deposed 
 from the supremacy of these realms. It hath, therefore, 
 appeared good to us to adopt new measures, whereby 
 a double triumph may be achieved, and the hard impe- 
 netrable heart of that accursed one be reached by a 
 power which is more certain than the cup, and sharper 
 than the sword. 
 
 ‘^Hitherto she hath defied the secret messenger of 
 vengeance, and walked in security in the midst of dan- 
 gers ; but there is a force against which the panoply of 
 steel, and thousands of surrounding watchful guards, are 
 powerless. The heart may be reached by means more 
 subtle than mandragora or steel — and such power we 
 possess, and such power in due season will use .... For 
 the present it is my counsel,” addressing the company, 
 ‘‘ that ye separate, and disguising yourselves as best ye 
 may, repair to your several hiding places, in the remote 
 country houses of such noble gentlemen as still continue 
 faithful to the Church : there to remain secretly con- 
 fessing and exhorting as many faithful subjects of our 
 
FATHEE DARCY. 
 
 239 
 
 sovereign lord and father the pope as may be : admi- 
 nistering the divine sacraments, and preparing the 
 minds of the many for such fresh changes as time 
 may bring about: teaching that which the sovereign 
 authority of our common pastor in religion for the 
 saving of souls hath declared, and absolving all and each 
 one from their allegiance to this prime olfender against 
 religion; insisting upon, and repeating this declaration 
 so long set forth/’ 
 
 ‘‘ Why this is right,” said Robert, coming forward, 
 and stretching out his hand to take the paper, this is 
 a declaration of war — this is war to the knife.” 
 
 “ Patience, patience, my son,” said the Jesuit, drawing 
 back the hand which held the paper, “ the times are 
 not yet fully ripe .... we must have patience and 
 wait the hour.” 
 
 ‘‘ But how shall we have patience,” cried Robert, 
 “when this very declaration lays us under peril of 
 drawing down upon our heads the dreadful curse of the 
 Holy Father if we hesitate to obey its injunctions? — I 
 repeat it, this amounts to a declaration of open war. It 
 is a necessity laid upon us,” said he, more hotly, “ and 
 the holy virgin knows with what joy I hail it — oh ! let 
 me but once . . . .” 
 
 “ Gently, gently . . . my son,” said Father Par- 
 sons: he took up another paper, and read . . . . “ and 
 for the curse that is provided against the Catholic 
 people of this realm, — subject as yet according to the 
 civil law, and still more under the prevailing tyranny to 
 this unrighteous queen, they shall not in the cause of reli- 
 gion be held excommunicate for dissembling, and paying 
 
240 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 seeming obedience to sucli decrees, as she from time to 
 time may be pleased to promulgate, — always with a 
 mental reservation, attending upon every act of obe- 
 dience — ” 
 
 The young man turned impatiently upon his heel. 
 The father’s eye followed him with severity. 
 
 ‘‘ What is this?” asked he, with a stern voice, what 
 is this young man? — Can you presume? — do you dare 
 to dispute the authority of your Church? Are we, or are 
 we not to look upon you as one prepared to carry out 
 her holy purposes in Christian obedience — as a true 
 soldier of the Church Militant; or are we to regard you 
 merely as a hot-headed wrangler, ready to thrust his 
 head into every idle brawl?” 
 
 Your pardon, father,” said Eobert, in a submissive 
 tone, returning to the table, ‘‘ but my heart is all in a 
 storm, and it is calling aloud for vengeance.” 
 
 ‘‘ And thou shalt have it, my son,” said the Jesuit, with 
 a sinister smile, be sure, that in no very long period of 
 time, a swift desti;uction shall overtake them all ... . 
 the whippings, the famishings, the cruel oppressions, the 
 bloody martyrdoms, are all registered where there shall 
 be no forgetfulness and no remission. All — all shall be 
 brought to their heavy and bloody answer. Be ye sure 
 of it : this land shall be purged from the plague-spot of 
 heresy, and restored clothed in pure white garments of 
 sanctity, to the bosom of her mother Church: thou 
 shalt live to see it, and thy hand shall wave both sword 
 and brand when the day of her judgment shall come on. 
 All I ask, laying his hand softly on the young man’s 
 bended head, “is obedience, silence, and patience.” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 241 
 
 And dissimulation,” added Darcy, looking up at 
 tke still heated countenance of Robert, who started as 
 if stung by a viper at the word, and the priest s hand 
 fell from his head as he again lifted it up. 
 
 “Dissimulation,” repeated the Jesuit deliberately; 
 “and where lies the dishonour, or the sin? — with 
 our enemies : they by their violence rendering such dis- 
 simulation necessary — laying us under the obligation as 
 it were, of practising certain arts, for the disguising of 
 our proceedings: wdth whom lies the sin? evidently 
 with him who is its originator and primal cause. Will 
 you never learn, young man, that it is the end which 
 sanctifies the means? In a cause so holy as this, all 
 minor considerations lose their character, and merge 
 in the glory of the object proposed. 
 
 “ If,” pursued he, laying his hand upon the table 
 with emphasis, “the malice of mankind renders se- 
 crecy and dissimulation necessary, in order to effect the 
 grand purpose of the salvation of souls by reconciliation 
 to the church ; if the very end of such dissembling be 
 — finally to put an end to all necessity for future dis- 
 sembling by the establishment of our holy religion in 
 this realm; see you not that it is, indeed, to obtain a 
 victory over falsehood, thus to chain and force her to 
 minister to the progress of truth. It is, indeed, to 
 triumph over the kingdom of Satan, when his own 
 devices are employed to overthrow his empire.” 
 
 Robert looked rather impatient under this some- 
 what long discourse delivered in the father’s most bland 
 and insinuating manner. 
 
 Q 
 
242 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 “ And how far is this equivocating sort of obedience 
 to be carried?’^ at last he said. 
 
 “ Just as far as it is rendered necessary/’ rephed the 
 priest — so far, and not one jot further: for, mark me, 
 when circumstances cease to render any act of this 
 kind imperative, it instantly loses of its character, re- 
 sumes its ancient nature, and becomes a deadly sin?” 
 
 ‘‘ Amen,” said Robert, somewhat irreverently : 
 ‘‘ and the sooner the transformation is effected the 
 better. For me, my heart revolts at such measures, 
 and calls aloud for more vigorous action.” 
 
 “ And the call sh^ll be answered, fear it not, my 
 son,” said Father Parsons. ‘‘ All we ask at present, is 
 that reserve and caution which the matter in hand 
 renders necessary. There” — giving him a small sealed 
 paper — you will find written the name of the place 
 where, upon your departure from this, it is our desire 
 you should carry yourself. You will find an assembly 
 of friends impatient to receive you, and will perchance 
 hear news not altogether unacceptable to a brave and 
 generous spirit We will now, for the present, dis- 
 
 solve this meeting. You, gentlemen,” addressing the 
 priests, to your labour of love: our reverend father” — 
 pointing to Father Darcy — upon his mission .... and 
 you, sir” — addressing Robert, and glancing at the 
 paper — I cannot doubt, are willing and ready to obey 
 the request I have there ventured to make to you. 
 Gentlemen, good morning to you all, and a happy re- 
 union under better auspices.” 
 
 So saying. Father Parsons rose from his chair ; 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 243 
 
 and the company in the secret chamber prepared to 
 depart. 
 
 The priests rose from the table, took off their clerical 
 dresses, and opening some hidden recesses, assumed 
 their various disguises. The tonsure was easily hidden 
 by a small cap of hair affixed to the crown of the head ; 
 some assumed the dress of clowns, others of respectable 
 burghers or citizens. Father Darcy appeared still more 
 handsome than usual in a rich riding suit, and plumed 
 and jewelled hat, carrying his sword and dagger with a 
 grace and dexterity which might have well become the 
 character he affected. 
 
 The Father Parsons on the contrary, was clad in deep 
 mourning, and appeared like a decayed gentleman; he 
 was to cross the seas, and his dress insinuated, in a seem- 
 ingly careless manner, that there might be certain 
 domestic and financial reasons which might render such 
 a step necessary ; this likewise gave a colour to the con- 
 cealment and secrecy he found it necessary to adopt. 
 
 Before they parted, each gentleman took up from the 
 table a portion of the books and pamphlets, and con- 
 cealed them in various parts of their dress. 
 
 The evening was closing, as one by one the company 
 quitted the deserted house, and betook themselves to 
 their several lurking-places. 
 
 Robert stopped a few moments as he was crossing the 
 hall, to examine his sealed paper. 
 
 “ To Rushton Hall,” was written in it. 
 
 He tore the morsel of paper to atoms, flung them on 
 the ground, and then musing as he went on what was 
 Q 2 
 
244 
 
 FATHER DARCY, 
 
 next to be expected, crossed tbe tbresbold, and again 
 entering tlie dark and narrow streets, made his way to 
 the obscure hostelry where his horse was waiting, with 
 the purpose to ride immediately down to Northamp- 
 tonshire. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 245 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 “ Fond youth give o'er, 
 
 And vex thy soul no more 
 
 In seeking what were better far unfound; 
 
 Adas ! thy gains 
 
 Are only present pains 
 
 To gather scorpions, for a future wound.” 
 
 Quarles, 
 
 Robert, passing as has been said through several 
 obscure streets, at last arrived at the small house of en- 
 tertainment where his horse was standing. He entered 
 the little inn yard which was surrounded by old wooden 
 sheds rather than stables, of wretched appearance, and 
 forming, with their slovenly beggarly attendants, a some- 
 what strange contrast to two or three excellent horses 
 which were feeding within. Several young men, whose 
 clothing of the most ordinary description could ill 
 conceal their lofty bearing, were sauntering about 
 the little inn yard, apparently waiting till their horses 
 had finished the corn they were champing. But little 
 discourse passed between them : every countenance was 
 gloomy and preoccupied, and melancholy and defiance 
 darkened every eye. Robert hastily wrung the hand of 
 several as he passed; among others, a tall aristocratical 
 looking middle aged man saluted him, with whom 
 he did not as with the rest merely exchange a sentence 
 or so, but taking his arm they together entered the 
 stable where Robert’s horse was feeding. This gentle- 
 man, whose name was Thomas, you have been intro- 
 
246 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 duced to with the rest at the court ball. Even after 
 they had entered the stable some jealous feelings of sus- 
 picion seemed to render them cautious of appearing too 
 well acquainted; they appeared desirous of avoiding 
 any set discourse ; but as Robert approached the rack to 
 examine his horse’s provender, and appHed himself to 
 searching for his saddle and bridle, and preparing for 
 his departure — all which offices he performed with his 
 own hands — the discourse was carried on in a few 
 dropping sentences. 
 
 ‘•Where are you for?” asked Thomas. 
 
 “For Northamptonshire; there is nothing more 
 to detain me here; our orders are to bide our time; 
 I shall do so,” with a meaning look as he raised his 
 head from buckling his girths, and looked at his com- 
 panion — “and you, where are you bound?” 
 
 “My part carries me to Scotland,” said the other. 
 Robert made a gesture of contempt and dissatisfaction. 
 “Not so,” said Thomas. “There is good work to 
 be done in that kingdom ; our young one is a notable 
 piece of ware, that hath two sides like a shot silk, 
 — the apparent colours being as the sun may chance 
 to shine in one direction or the other. To have done 
 with my metaphor, and come to fact, if he had a heart 
 it would be ours.” 
 
 “ But if he hath not?” said Robert. 
 
 “ He has all sorts of prejudices and prepossessions 
 which will serve our turn, perhaps, as well; and a very 
 comfortable modicum of quiet hidden hatred against 
 certain persons, which may do better. If the young 
 grey beard cannot love his friends, he finds it very 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 247 
 
 easy to hate his enemies ; and rely upon it, however, he 
 may dissemble. The old cause of his mother is not 
 altogether a lost one.” 
 
 Mere wavering policy,” said Robert, disdainfully, 
 ‘‘ mere kingcraft, as he thinks. He has not, he cannot, 
 reared as he has been in the darkest pit of heresy — he 
 can have no reverence for this ancient and noble church 
 in whose cause we are enlisted.” 
 
 ‘‘ He may have seen and learned things in that 
 same pit of iniquity which even he might not have 
 stomach enough to digest,” said Thomas, “and trust me 
 he has. We must not look for a saintly hero in a 
 selfish bundle of protestant pedantry like this. Still 
 less is he inchned to forfeit the closed crown of Eng- 
 land for the crown of martyrdom. But I tell thee, 
 man, that thing they call the heart, such as there is of it, 
 belongs in secret to us, as in due time he will make 
 appear : never trust me if it be not as I say.” 
 
 Robert recollected what had dropped from the J esuit 
 as he enforced patience and dissimulation. 
 
 “ Bide the time,” added his companion; “ we shall see 
 other days in England yet. Our present virago is not 
 immortal — Rome is determined, and Scotland, » take 
 my word for it, sure. I ride down there, and start at 
 dusk. Farewell,” said he, again wringing his hand ; 
 “ we must drain the bitter cup to the lees, it seems. 
 But the banquet is only begun : we shall have a dessert 
 to this feast dressed more to our tastes, depend upon it, 
 and that ere long.” 
 
 “A fray? — retribution,” said the other, impatiently; 
 his head was full of the gloomy spectacle of the morn- 
 
248 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 ing; he had no desire but to see the shocking cruelty 
 which he had witnessed, avenged. 
 
 ‘•We shall have our turn for that too,’^ said Thomas, 
 cheerfully. “ Come, man, it was a horrid business, but 
 it’s over. Think no more of it.” 
 
 After a pause, as if endeavouring to change the sub- 
 ject, he said, going up to him. 
 
 “ And how go matters in another quarter, heigh ?” 
 
 “ She was in London,” said Robert, abruptly. 
 
 “ And what, in the name of the holy virgin, brought 
 her there just now?” 
 
 “ She was there cried Robert, his face flashing a dark 
 crimson, and with a gesture of ill suppressed passion. 
 
 “ Impossible !” 
 
 “ She was there — she held his head — she wiped away 
 the death-dew,” he seemed choaking with the recol- 
 lection. 
 
 “Holy angels! of mercy! — and where and how is 
 she now?^’ 
 
 “ On the way to Northamptonshire.” 
 
 “ The spectacle of horror did not kill her outright.” 
 
 “ The spirits of mercy do not die,” said Robert, fer- 
 vently, and in a softened voice; “the radiant angels 
 do not die ; they do not even droop when they shadow 
 with their wings the terrors of the valley of death. Oh ! 
 no — she left it to such as me to die,” said he, passion- 
 ately and mournfully; “ to die of intense and insatiable 
 desire for that which can never be mine.” 
 
 “ And how?” said his friend, in a sympathising tone. 
 
 “ I have a foreboding,” said Robert, more quietly 
 than was usual with him, “ that love and revenge will 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 249 
 
 alike be denied to me. But it is of no matter,” return- 
 ing to his usual reckless manner; “ the struggle at least 
 for both, I defy them to refuse me;” and springing upon 
 his horse, he rode out of the stable-yard, and pursued 
 his way northwards. 
 
 His friend gazed after him, his countenance filled 
 with a sort of admiring interest. He mused a little, 
 and then addressing himself to the saddling and bridling 
 of his own steed, mounted and rode away. He passed 
 through the dark, narrow, and devious streets, till he 
 came to the banks of the river, where, among many 
 other noble palaces, stood one pre-eminent among the 
 rest, which belonged to the noble and suffering house 
 of Northumberland. The wide gate was closed, and 
 a certain air of desolation pervaded the princely man- 
 sion. Thomas knocked at a postern-door, and giving 
 his horse to a serving-man who answered the summons, 
 he entered. He remained there till dusk, and then 
 about two hours after sunset he might have been seen 
 to ride out, followed by two servants in plain clothes, 
 and take the way which led to the great north road. 
 
 Kobert pursued his way into Northamptonshire. 
 
 It was a beautiful summer evening, and he entered 
 the wild and wooded country then lying round the 
 neighbourhood of Barnet : at that time the most beau- 
 tiful of sylvan wildernesses. The woods hung thick 
 and dark around his way : a narrow and somewhat 
 rugged path, over which the bushes nearly closed, 
 while the honeysuckles and wild roses straggling upon 
 
250 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 high perfumed the air. In opening glades the deer 
 were reposing or browsing quietly, their small flickering 
 tails glancing in the declining sunbeams. A brawling 
 brook every now and then crossed the road glittering 
 among the pebbles, from which the abundant trout and 
 grayling were springing. The blue and green dragon 
 flies were gliding from side to side ; the cuckoo hollow- 
 ing in the woods ; the blackbird whistling in the bushes, 
 — what a contrast to the scene of the morning ! — The 
 paradise of God, to the hell of man. The peace of 
 nature, to the horrible institutions of society. The bath-, 
 ing sunbeam — the sweet perfume — the soft brooding 
 sounds of peace — the holy calm — the tender shade : to 
 the wrangling crowd — the dust — the hot glowing sun 
 — the black threatening gallows ! 
 
 Alas ! the heart of the young man was like that dry 
 and burning sun — and black as that threatening tree. 
 His whole imagination was supped full of horrors; was 
 poisoned, crimsoned over with images of horror ! The 
 darkness unredeemed save by that white seraphic figure 
 which, collecting as it were all the light, shone like 
 some illuminating spirit in a dark Spanish picture of a 
 massacre. 
 
 The inspiration of the evening, the sweet perfumes, 
 sounds, and lights and shadows, were shed in vain for him. 
 His soul was in a tumult; for his heart was of that des- 
 perate and stormy nature, which it would have required 
 the mastery of the soundest and strongest principles of 
 religion and philosophy to regulate, and direct to those 
 high purposes for which nature seemed to have intended 
 him. But alas for him such influences were perverted: 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 251 
 
 and from him the words of gentleness and peace, which 
 dropped from the lips of the divine Master, withheld — 
 words with power to allay the tumult of the waters, and 
 say to the raging storm of passion, be still, And 
 there was a great calm....’^ Far indeed were such 
 effects from those intended to be produced by the 
 teachings of the men, to whom at present was almost 
 entirely committed the guidance and moral education 
 of this society. Far indeed from their intention by a 
 well-directed training, to render the characters of those 
 intrusted to their development well balanced and self- 
 governed. It was their business to excite and to main- 
 tain those stormy passions in the human breast, which 
 render man the inevitable prey of every one more 
 cool, more calculating, and more master of his passions 
 than himself. 
 
 So Robert rode on, and nature smiled on him in 
 vain. 
 
 On the second day he reached the wide valley of the 
 Nen : its meadows then, as now, rich and fertile, over- 
 spread with flocks of sheep and herds of oxen — its 
 steeps on the northern side covered with long lines of 
 sweeping woods, remains of those forests which had 
 sheltered the ancient Britons; the line of wood inter- 
 rupted by frequent open spaces crowned with parish 
 churches and peaceful villages. 
 
 He crossed the Nen by a ferry opposite to the town of 
 Wellingborough, and following the road to Kettering, 
 arrived ere very long at Rushton Hall, the magnificent 
 abode of Sir Thomas Tresham. This splendid mansion 
 had not then been long erected, and it stood white and 
 
252 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 shining amid the dark surrounding woods, like some 
 fair Italian palace of glittering marble ; so fair was the 
 stone of which it was constructed, so innumerable the 
 pinnacles and ornaments of every description with which 
 it was enriched; and so extremely beautiful the gallery 
 which crossing from one wing to the other, enclosed 
 the court within. 
 
 In the centre of this was a splendid porch, to which 
 Robert made his way. 
 
 Rushton Hall still exists in all its magnificence. It 
 is situated upon the edge of a wild and finely wooded 
 glen, through which rolls the river ; noble woods sur- 
 round it on every side, giving an air of almost monastic 
 seclusion to this place, rendered interesting by so many 
 memories. 
 
 In the woods, at a little distance from the house, the 
 celebrated triangular summer-house may still be seen, 
 remarkable by the councils, which in that place have, it 
 is said, been held. 
 
 The house was the abode of Sir Thomas Tresham : 
 a man, venerable for his inflexible adherence to his 
 religion, and interesting for the suflerlngs he underwent 
 in the cause to which he was devoted. 
 
 Many years of his life had been spent in confinement 
 in the eastern parts of England, and the unfortunate 
 man was at this very moment passing his melancholy 
 hours immured in the forlorn prison of Wisbeach ; 
 while these numerous young and hot-headed spirits, un- 
 restrained by his experience, were meeting under his 
 roof, animated by one common spirit of revenge. 
 
 Francis Tresham, the eldest son of Sir Thomas, a 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 253 
 
 man of a singularly calm and composed demeanour, 
 had, whatever his internal convictions might be, so 
 managed to preserve himself in good odour with the 
 reigning powers, that he had never got into either dis- 
 graces or difSculties. He frequented London and the 
 court, and, like Everard, was regarded even with a 
 certain degree of favour ; but his heart was deeply re- 
 sentful of the treatment his father had received; and the 
 desire of bringing down retribution on the heads of that 
 government which had been the source of his family 
 misfortunes, added fresh vigour to that deep yet restless 
 ambition which was the leading principle of his con- 
 duct. He was at this present time engaged in secret 
 but intimate connexion with the earls of Essex and 
 Southampton, and had become a principal medium 
 through which their communication with the Catholic 
 party had been carried on. 
 
 Rushton Hall, secluded as it was, and hidden from 
 observation by the thick foliage of its woods, was a 
 very convenient place of rendezvous for those indivi- 
 duals of the party, among whom it was thought desirable 
 that consultation should be held upon the present 
 occasion. 
 
 The principal personages with whom this story has 
 made you acquainted, wei’e at the moment of Robert’s 
 arrival assembled there. Everard had been invited to 
 attend, and answered the summons accompanied by 
 the beautiful Eleanor; wLo, little taught by the prin- 
 ciples she had imbibed to combat with or curb the 
 passions of her heart, yielded to the temptation of again 
 meeting one exercising so powerful a fascination 
 
254 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 over tier fancy, and whose presence was so dangerous to 
 her peace. She had made a pretence of a desire to visit 
 the Lady Tresham, who was at the moment residing at 
 Rushton Hall, in a sort of widowhood, separated from 
 her husband, and choosing to keep herself secluded from 
 the world. 
 
 Everard, ever kind and considerate of others, had 
 yielded readily to her wishes : ignorant as he was, of 
 the cause of those hurried spirits, those fleeting and 
 changing colours, and those deep and melancholy sighs, 
 which caused him so much uneasiness. 
 
 Robert flung himself from his horse, and passed 
 under the deep-arched porch; turned the gallery, and 
 was received in the hall into the embrace of Everard 
 — hands were wrung in silence ; and then Robert, 
 flinging down his hat, sword, and heavy travelling 
 cloak, followed Everard up the richly balustraded oaken 
 staircase, and entered a large with-drawing room upon 
 the first floor. 
 
 It was a beautiful room, its large oriel windows looking 
 down upon the terraced garden, laid out in all the 
 romantic and picturesque taste of that day, and com- 
 manding a view of the dark woody steeps, between 
 which the river gushed and played. A huge open 
 fire place, surmounted by a lofty carved chimney-piece, 
 in the centre of which were the arms of the family in 
 high rehef, occupied one side of the room. The walls 
 were set out with gilded chairs and dark hangings; 
 and a certain sober and severe magnificence pervaded 
 the scene, consonant to the taste of the unfortunate 
 man who had erected this dwelling for his family, in 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 255 
 
 those days of peace which had preceded the present 
 dissensions and jealousies. 
 
 An elderly lady of a dignified but gentle aspect, her 
 hair white as the snow, rolled back, but not altoge- 
 ther concealed under her black silk coif, was sitting 
 by one of the windows ; and by her side the beautiful 
 Eleanor was employed, according to the indefatigable 
 custom of the day, at her embroidery. A book bound 
 in purple velvet lay by her side upon the table : not a 
 dark breviary or manual of piety was this — it was the 
 “ Arcadia” of Sir Phillip Sidney. 
 
 Francis Tresham dressed in black, the livery both his 
 mother and himself had assumed since his father’s last 
 imprisonment, was pacing up and down the room. 
 
 The young lady started up from her employment as 
 the door opened, for she well knew whose arrival was 
 hourly expected ; she coloured — turned pale — and then 
 hastily resuming her seat, leant over her work; the 
 rich tresses of her auburn hair falhng thickly over her 
 face, and revealing its varying colours, as her heart 
 throbbed nearly to bursting. 
 
 Robert entered with Everard, but seemed scarcely 
 even to notice her presence, as Francis advanced to 
 meet him, holding out his hand, and Lady Tresham 
 saluted him with a serious but benignant air. The 
 three young men advancing to where she sat, imme- 
 diately entered into conversation ; while Eleanor sinking 
 with mortification, never once lifted up her head. 
 But not one word that fell from Robert was lost upon 
 her. 
 
256 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 “ Are they safely sped? have all who staid in 
 London to witness this fearful and barbarous ceremony 
 been suffered to return home without molestation?” 
 was Everard’s first question. 
 
 Tresham’s was, 
 
 “ How did the people take it? With their usual 
 savage indifference to such scenes — or are they begin- 
 ning to rouse? — Can any thing like a popular feeling 
 of dissatisfaction be detected at these things?” 
 
 “ Not they,” said Robert; ‘‘ they rejoiced as usual in 
 the sight of a tragedy — no matter to them what the 
 subject matter of the piece may be, so they do but get 
 a show.” 
 
 Tresham turned away with a disappointed look, and 
 resumed his walk up and down the room. 
 
 “ But were there any of our friends present excepting 
 yourself, and are they safe ?” said Everard. 
 
 “ Ask me not of it ?” said the other, with an expres- 
 sion of horror and disgust in his face. “ Nay, nay, if 
 you will know, it was a dreadful business.” 
 
 “ I have heard,” said Everard, that the Queen was 
 shocked at former barbarities, and had given orders 
 that such horrors should be remitted in future. I had 
 hoped . . . 
 
 She gives her orders to those who are very negli- 
 gent in obeying them then,” said Robert, with some 
 indignation. It is easy for those who stay away from 
 such scenes, to console themselves with these pleasing 
 ideas; but there are,” and his cheek kindled, “ who love 
 better to endure the distressing sight, and to support the 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 257 
 
 sufferer in his agony, than to amuse themselves with 
 sympathies and hopes that the she tiger will spare her 
 prey when she holds it between her fangs.’' 
 
 “ There aref' said Everard, taking no notice of the 
 rest of this speech, except to pity the irritation of his 
 friend. “ You are right, mine was indeed an idle hu- 
 manity, but wert thou alone in thy labour of mercy ?” 
 
 ‘‘ No, there were two others stood beside me.” 
 
 “ And who were they?” said Lady Tresham, for 
 it was in truth a most Christian and pious deed.” 
 
 “ Mother Anne — and — ’’ 
 
 “ Mother Anne! — ” 
 
 ‘‘ And Grace Vaux.” 
 
 Grace Vaux!” with a shriek from Eleanor, rising 
 hastily from her seat, and coming close up to where 
 Robert stood. 
 
 “ You cannot mean to say so — Grace Vaux 1” 
 
 “ There was one,” cried Robert, his whole face 
 kindUng as he spoke, “ whose soft feet disdained not to 
 tread those flinty stones, walking lowly by that hurdle’s 
 side. There was one whose hands wiped the dew of 
 death from that tortured brow: there was one whose 
 heavenly eyes bent over and hallowed that dread sacri- 
 fice : there was one whose heart received tliat martyr’s 
 parting sigh : yes, yes, there was one woman found on 
 earth who had courage and who had power to perform 
 this work of piety and of pity . . 
 
 They all looked aghast. But over the eyes of Eleanor 
 a dark cloud of jealousy and anger was gathering; for 
 he, thus excited to the highest degree by the recollec- 
 
 R 
 
258 
 
 rATHER DARCY. 
 
 tion of that dismal scene, with a glance at Eleanor, 
 had said disdainfully, 
 
 Other women are too dainty for such savage sights.” 
 And turning away, he went to the other end of the 
 room, where, sitting down upon the window seat, he 
 seemed lost in gloomy recollections. 
 
 Eleanor was left standing in the middle of the room, 
 her eyes bent upon the ground. 
 
 Suddenly she started as one from a dream, and passing 
 by the place where he was sitting, without so much as 
 looking at him, hastily left the room. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 259 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 “ Who loves, raves — ’t’is youth’s frenzy . . . 
 
 yet still it binds 
 
 The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, 
 
 Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds.” 
 
 Byron, 
 
 Eleanor went through the gallery, and then de- 
 scending a small flight of stairs, came to a narrow arched 
 door, which opened upon a green walk that led into the 
 terraced garden. The lowest terrace, which over-hung 
 the river, and was very broad and handsome, was termi- 
 nated at each end by a sort of arbour, or, more properly, 
 small chamber of yew, closely and quaintly cut, and 
 ornamented with various flgures in topiary work. The 
 unhappy girl, her heart almost breaking with passion, 
 traversed the terrace, and entering one of these arbours, 
 flung herself upon her knees, stretched her arms upon 
 the small sylvan table before her, and buried her face 
 between them. 
 
 She did not weep: for Eleanor seldom wept: but 
 stung and wounded to the quick by the words of 
 Robert, she lay in a sort of convulsion of grief and 
 passion, her bosom heaving as if her heart would 
 burst. 
 
 So she had remained for some time, her mind, as by 
 a succession of phantoms, filled with those distracting 
 images which rage, jealousy, and disappointment invoke, 
 R 2 
 
260 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 when a step might be heard coming along the terrace, 
 and soon after, Mr. Darcy, dressed in a riding suit, and 
 as if lately arrived from a journey, his riding rod still 
 in his hand, entered the little chamber. 
 
 He did not retreat on seeing it already occupied, but 
 advancing to the table against which she leaned, laid 
 his hand upon her shoulder, and in his softest tone of 
 voice, said, 
 
 “ And what ails the fairest Eleanor?” 
 
 She started, turned half round, though without rising 
 from her knees, and lifting up her head, displayed a 
 face all discoloured and blurred over as it were with 
 passion. 
 
 All the agony of love, jealousy, regret, and indigna- 
 tion was painted there ; her eye, which was daring and 
 desperate, turned resentfully upon Mr. Darcy, and she 
 said, 
 
 You let her go then.” 
 
 Her! — who? — where?” affecting not to understand 
 her, what does the beauteous Eleanor mean?” 
 
 ‘‘ Call me not beauteous,” said she, impatiently, irri- 
 tated beyond expression by the placid sweetness of his 
 voice. Call her beauteous who was allowed to figure 
 as the divine angel of mercy in that dreadful pageant, 
 and before his eyes. Why — why was it forbidden to 
 me? — why was it allovred to her and forbidden to me? 
 — am I less brave, less faithful than she? — does this 
 heart beat less warmly in this bosom? — why might not 
 I too have stood the dreadful trial? — why might not I 
 have shown what woman will dare for those she 
 loves?” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 261 
 
 And she flung from him, and again burying her face 
 between her hands, sobbed with convulsive passion. 
 
 The Jesuit stood coldly by, watching the agonies of 
 this ill-mastered and ill-disciplined nature : a slight smile 
 of satisfaction just visible on his lip, as he contemplated 
 that vehemence of weakness — if I may say so — which 
 rendered mankind his prey and his slave. 
 
 Well he knew that he who cannot command himself 
 is the bondsman of him who can ; and well he counted 
 upon this impetuous girl as among the most obedient 
 and servile of his tools. 
 
 But he now assumed the tone and dignity of the 
 office of director of the heart of man, and said in a 
 grave and somewhat severe voice, 
 
 “ These are strange words — when the child dares to 
 arraign the decisions of her ghostly father.” 
 
 But why? — why?” — again lifting up her head — 
 “ Why did you mislead me? I had, you know I had, 
 heard of this intended doleful pilgrimage. I prayed to 
 be one : you forbade me — and assured me that others 
 should be forbidden too: I had your faith upon it: 
 and now, and now, not only she went, and he ,, ,, but 
 he scorns me and despises me for my selfishness and my 
 indifference ... he ... he .. . you played me false, father,” 
 in a tone of indignation, you know you did.” 
 
 She had lifted up her head, and her eye was sparkling 
 with rage. 
 
 “ False !” he said. What do you mean — Rocollect 
 yourself if you please, young lady, before you again dare 
 to address me; I command you to retract that offensive 
 
262 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 word. What do you mean by daring to apply it 
 to me.” — 
 
 “ I had your promise,” — said she rebelliously. 
 
 ‘‘ iUfy promise?'’ 
 
 ‘‘ Yes, your promise. In this very place, in this very 
 room — ^you promised me if I would be patient and 
 quiet, the project should be abandoned by all.” 
 
 “ Promise ! ” he repeated — and if promise it were, 
 do you think me so weak, so idle, as to be bound by 
 the superstitious obligation, of what you are pleased to 
 call a promise, when the interests of the Church of God 
 are concerned? — ^Promise! — to a worm of earth — when 
 the honour of the highest may be in jeopardy ! ” 
 
 She looked hard at him — and began to wonder at 
 her own presumption. 
 
 He went on : 
 
 I should indeed be a miserable and contemptible 
 being, unworthy to hold the place I occupy in the 
 community of holy church,” here he crossed himself, “ if 
 ties like these could bind me, when in 'warfare for her. 
 Know, like the strong man of old, such things are but as 
 fetters of tow, when the might of the all-powerful is 
 upon me. And what I pray are you — that you should 
 be the Dalilah to bind a Sampson?” 
 
 Turning from her with contempt, as from one guilty 
 of the vainest presumption. 
 
 She was accustomed to the blandest flattery from his 
 lips: she was astounded, confused, and very much 
 frightened. 
 
 “ I am sure,” said she, rising from her knees and fol- 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 263 
 
 lowing him in a deprecating manner, as he paced with 
 an offended air up and dow'n the little apartment — I 
 am sure — I am grieved : I entreat your pardon, reverend 
 and holy father — on my knees : from my heart I crave 
 your pardon if I have offended, — ” 
 
 ‘‘Offended!” said he, coldly, “that is a very soft 
 term — yes,” vrith a haughty and imposing air, which 
 gave a very extraordinary terror to his blue eye and soft 
 features. “ You have offended — not me: I repeat it — I 
 am the humblest of the servants of the church, not 
 worthy to kiss the dust beneath the feet of the divine 
 Master of us all: but as her minister I grasp her terror 
 — and partake of her glorious privileges and dignities. 
 And it is in her name, young creature, that I speak, 
 when I say, that you have grievously and heavily 
 offended.” 
 
 She was quite subdued now; she had not a doubt 
 that she was greatly in fault; he had broken the most 
 solemn assurances and promises in the most flagrant and 
 daring manner; but she had not a doubt that she alone 
 was to blame — and heavily to blame. 
 
 She dared not now her storm of passion had subsided, 
 question the propriety of his actions, even in the most 
 secret recesses of her own mind. 
 
 “ I humbly crave your pardon,” she kept repeating 
 as he suffered her to follow him up and down; not 
 deigning by look or gesture to signify whether he heard 
 her or not. 
 
 “ I humbly crave your pardon,” she repeated, 
 weeping: for she was altogether subdued, all her 
 jealous rage had yielded to the master’s hand. She had 
 
264 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 forgotten every thing but the dread of having displeased 
 him. 
 
 He suffered this scene to continue some time. He 
 knew well that to have humbled itself, and humbled 
 itself long and in vain, breaks and degrades the spirit; 
 more especially when such humility and such submission 
 is the result of the tyranny of others, and not the effect 
 of the honest conviction of the contrite heart. 
 
 So he let her go on for some time; and at last coldly 
 turning round as if wearied with her importunity, he 
 said, 
 
 “Enough ! my time is precious — ^youhave saldenough. 
 It was a childish outbreak — I will impose a slight penance, 
 and let us say no more of it. My conduct,” he added 
 severely, my actions, the measures I may think 
 proper to adopt, are not to be handled, criticised, and 
 judged of. It is sufficient that by the great leaders in 
 this holy cause” — ^liere he crossed himself again — “ I, a 
 servant of servants, have been selected to the high place 
 of their vice-gerent. F or what I do” — looking sternly at 
 the now trembling young girl, “ for what I do, I am 
 accountable but to one — the head of the holy commu- 
 nity to which I belong. Once embarked In this perilous 
 contest, think you not we are indifferent to the mise- 
 rable insects that hum about our path — indifferent to 
 their insignificant censures: indifferent as far as we 
 ourselves are concerned I mean — for in them it Is a 
 heinous and a deadly sin.” 
 
 She was by this time quite pale and trembling. 
 
 Seeing which, with an air of the most winning kind- 
 ness, he took her hand and said : 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 265 
 
 Sweet Eleanor — It grieves me sorely thus to remind 
 you of your errors. Sweet penitent daughter, lovely, 
 beautiful Eleanor, my heart is grieving for thee, even 
 in correction my child, for it reads thine. Thou did’st 
 then think it grievous, that before his eyes thou wert 
 not allowed to shine in the hallowed light of piety, and 
 self-devotion: — ^be comforted my child; is not for 
 him ; and her path will lead to far other courses. 
 
 ‘‘ She Is formed of other clay than the sweet Eleanor,” 
 said he, in a flattering tone: “ her vocation is for the 
 sainted sisterhood — the vocation of hearts insensible 
 to the force of sweeter and tenderer affections. Eleanor 
 was born In a happier hour. The joys of this life are 
 for her. Fear not, sweet maid, this rival of thine is but 
 as a cold moonlit shadow, which shall cross and darken 
 thy path for a while : then shall she vanish from thy 
 life’s scene. And this man shall awake from a vain de- 
 lusion, to worship a fairer idol and be blest in a happier 
 love.” And he pressed her hand gently, while the 
 colour flew across her cheek, her eyes were bent upon 
 the ground, and the sweetest smile of recovered hope 
 played about her lips. 
 
 She felt as if she could have fallen at his feet, and 
 adored Mr. Darcy in gratitude for his consolation. 
 
 “ Be constant, and be secret,” he continued, ‘‘ and 
 trust your happiness to time and to your best friend,” 
 with an affectionate smile. One thing only, let me 
 counsel — that your brother shall be kept at present in 
 ignorance of all this. Your maidenly pride, no doubt,” 
 he continued, as the colour mantled to her cheek, 
 “ would lead you to hide this secret from all, save he 
 
266 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 who is your bosom confessor and guide. Your brother 
 is young and rash, and has his own peculiar and original 
 ways of thinking : it might possibly seem to him 
 advisable to Insist upon a separation in this case, from 
 the object of so much interest — and thereby entirely 
 to defeat any plan your best friend may have formed 
 for ensuring your happiness . . . 
 
 Her brother ! Their confidence had been till of late 
 uninterrupted, for there had been no desire on the 
 part of the father director to interrupt it: — ^but since 
 the new views which had opened upon Everard’s 
 mind, since the connexion with Mr. Mulsho^’s family, 
 the Jesuit had begun to distrust him, and to adopt the 
 usual system employed by his order in such cases, of 
 weakening the family ties, and placing himself, the 
 father director, between, as it were, those most closely 
 and dearly connected in blood and friendship. 
 
 The secret conscience of Eleanor was at the moment 
 telling her that what the priest was saying was true. 
 That, were Everard aware of the nature of her feelings, 
 he would think he best consulted her dignity and 
 happiness, by insisting upon a separation. Her heart 
 told her that so it ought to be; inclination pleaded, 
 as in such cases it ever does plead, for delay and indul- 
 gence ; and the subtle priest knew well the strength of 
 that power, which binds us to those who foster our 
 inclinations. 
 
 I have said, that he had as yet formed no de- 
 cided plan with respect to the fate of Eleanor; but 
 so long, he well knew, as she was the slave of this 
 unresisted passion, so long she was his slave, to be 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 267 
 
 employed or not as circumstances might admit. She 
 might serve to strengthen the tie which united Robert 
 to his party ; or she might assist in vanquishing the 
 secret revolt of Everard. 
 
 The fate of the young creature whose peace he thus 
 trifled with, was, as he had once said before, indifierent 
 to him as that of the leaves which were whirled and 
 scattered by the wind. 
 
268 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 “ Go up, my soul, into the tribunal of thy conscience.” 
 
 S. Augrist 
 
 Mr. Darcy had returned to the house, leaving Eleanor 
 in the arbour, indulging in all those fond and dangerous 
 reveries which are the disturbers of woman’s peace. 
 He with Tresham, Robert, and Everard, were now 
 sitting round a table in a small secluded apartment, and 
 several letters, mostly written in cypher, were lying 
 before them. 
 
 There is a curious crew embarked in this same 
 ship of yours, Tresham,” said Robert, after he had 
 thrown down a paper which he had been perusing: 
 “ the gallant Catholic gentleman hand in hand with 
 the black visaged, preaching, praying puritan — it is a 
 coalition between fire and water.” 
 
 ‘‘ Two powers of force almost equally extensive, 
 engaged to advance one great purpose,” said the Jesuit; 
 “ and why not, sir?” 
 
 “ And this Scottish king, — my heart misgives me 
 with respect to him . . . .” 
 
 Thomas, just now returned to the north, has al- 
 ready paid a visit there ; he has seen him, and has sounded 
 him,” said Mr. Darcy; “ and the assurances, which, 
 under the seal of the closest secrecy, have passed from 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 269 
 
 tlie royal lips, are quite sufficient to convince even the 
 most distrustful, of the strength of his real sentiments. 
 The outward demonstration must, we all know, depend 
 upon the tone of those circumstances, and the strength 
 of those interests, which can be brought to bear upon 
 it. It must be our work, gentlemen, so to strengthen 
 our party, by union among ourselves; and by a close 
 alliance with any whose views coincide with our own ; 
 as to render it the interest of this Scottish pedant to 
 declare openly for us. But time is invaluable, his pre- 
 sent inclinations may change. The sooner the royal 
 school-boy comes to the throne the better for us all. 
 This old woman is very long in getting out of the way.’’ 
 ‘‘ One is wearied of her,” said Tresham. 
 
 ‘‘ And sick of attempts to get rid of her,” added 
 Kobert, with disgust : for his heart revolted against the 
 shedding of any further blood, except in open battle : 
 he had not yet recovered from the effects of his first 
 adventure of that terrible kind: ‘‘ I hate and detest 
 these cowardly attempts at opposition, which result 
 only in the shame and scandal of our party.” 
 
 “We will have no more of them,” said the Jesuit, 
 looking at Tresham — and then turning to Robert: 
 “ Did you not hear it said that there was a more de- 
 cent, and quite as effectual a way — I suppose it little 
 matters, as far as the life of the individual may be con- 
 cerned, whether a heart be poignarded or broken.” 
 Evcrard sat all this time, his elbow resting on the 
 table, and his hand supporting his head, gazing fixedly 
 at the speaker, who did not seem to attend to him. 
 
 “I have heard,” said the Jesuit, after a pause, in 
 
270 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 wliicli Robert stood in wsilent expectation of what was 
 next to come, ‘‘that a wound a parent receives from 
 the band of a child is incurable. This noble lord has 
 been as a sort of pet child to this royal and loving lady.” 
 And his ingratitude will break her heart. Is that 
 your meaning, father?” said Robert, bluntly. 
 
 The Jesuit looked his assent, but did not speak it. 
 
 I should have thought,” said Robert, that his own 
 heart had been made of better stuff.” 
 
 Better! you call it — well — let it pass.” 
 
 ‘‘He is entirely alienated,” said Tresham: “this 
 last refusal on the part of the queen, to restore him the 
 farm of the sweet wines, has done the business. They 
 say she scorns to purchase his love by such indulgences, 
 and expects a free return of his heart and loyalty un- 
 influenced by consideration of interest.” 
 
 “ The old woman is as romantic as a girl of fifteen,” 
 muttered the father sarcastically, between his teeth. 
 
 “ Our noble earl has lived a little too long in the 
 world,^’ pursued Mr. Tresham, “ to be caught by chaff: 
 especially when enemies so powerful as Cecil, Ra- 
 leigh, and Cobham bear rule in the council. The truth 
 is, he has resolved to submit to their power no longer.” 
 “ And the old doting girl,” said Darcy, “ who is 
 ignorant what is for her own good, must be gently 
 coerced to adopt it. No treason, gentlemen, I pray 
 you to observe : we merely seek to change her coun- 
 sellors.” 
 
 “ And what has all this to do with King James and 
 our redemption?” said Robert, somewhat impatiently. 
 
 “ See you not that King James is to be acknow- 
 
PATHER DARCY. 
 
 271 
 
 ledged at once tlie successor, so soon as tliis noble earl 
 shall have seized upon the reins of government. Nay, 
 the old woman may chance to get a blow, or something 
 of that nature in the hurry of the business — who knows? 
 Such accidents are often unavoidable on such occasions. 
 The Scottish king has given his secret pledges, that 
 the Catholics shall immediately be recompensed by a 
 general toleration .... and trust me, gentlemen, there 
 is an old proverb about letting a finger enter, or some- 
 thing of that sort, if I recollect right : I think we shall 
 find means to verify it.” 
 
 I thought,” said Eobert, ‘^you intended to have 
 no killing, or any thing of that kind, in this business.” 
 
 Did I say so ? ... I believe I did, and in truth, 
 though I spoke of an accidental blow or so, it was with- 
 out much purpose of the sort ; we aim at the heart; 
 and, trust one who knows something of the workings of 
 that Httle organ, let but that woman see the man she 
 loves in arms against her power, and triumphant over 
 her authority, and pride and love will do our business 
 in less than a week: or I know nothing of such 
 things.” 
 
 “ It were to seethe a kid in the mother’s milk,” cried 
 Everard, rising from the table in great agitation, “ you 
 do not, you cannot mean any thing so barbarous — so 
 treacherous — so cruel! Robert, what are you about? 
 How can you for one instant Hsten to such cold-blooded 
 maxims? Draw your sword hke a man if battle there 
 must be, but have nothing to do with designs such as 
 these.” 
 
 And he laid his hand upon his friend’s shoulder. 
 
272 
 
 rATHER DARCY. 
 
 ‘‘You forget that I am a desperate man, Everard,’^ 
 said Kobert, turning away; “carry your pacific and 
 tender-hearted councils to men that have any feeling 
 left for such things ; my heart has been seared with a 
 hot iron, and I care not.” 
 
 “ Sir Everard,” said the Jesuit, haughtily, “we want 
 no young Daniel to come to judgment here. If the 
 force of a passion for one little better than a heretic 
 and an infidel, has thus far opened your eyes with 
 respect to the duties called for by a great cause and 
 party, I think it might have become a young gentle- 
 man of such nice honour to abstain from councils which 
 he may share perhaps only to betray.” 
 
 “ I am not about to betray the councils of any man,” 
 said Everard, “ and as for abstaining, Tresham assured 
 me that our consultation would have reference only to 
 the insuring the succession to Eng James; and the tole- 
 ration of our religion as the recompense of our services. 
 You ought to have told me that designs against the 
 queen were to be agitated ; you know my obligations to 
 her; you ought to have believed that I could never be 
 the man for such a purpose.” 
 
 “We ought to have known you 'better^'' said the 
 Jesuit, wfith a sneer, “ I confess it, sir — I confess it: 
 I cry peccav] — I ought never to have expected manly 
 determination, or faithful co-operation from such as — ” 
 and he turned away, evidently disappointed to so great 
 a degree, as to be in danger of suffering his usually im- 
 perturbable temper to be rufiled. 
 
 Robert stood in profound silence during this outburst, 
 looking at Everard with a certain approbation, through 
 
FATHEE DARCY. 273 
 
 whicli, however, the most dogged determination to ad- 
 here to his own purpose might he detected. 
 
 ‘‘ I ask you, Mr. Tresham,” said Everard, ‘‘ by what 
 right you deceived me as to the purpose of this meeting, 
 and led me into this hateful alternative — either to be 
 treacherous to my sovereign, or to betray my friends?’^ 
 
 “ I’ll tell you what, Everard,” said Tresham, assuming 
 an air of candour, you know my principles in these 
 things: I never pretend to be. such a fanatic for truth, 
 as not to use a little innocent deception to forward a 
 noble cause. Nay, you may look as indignant as you 
 please: I tell you these are my principles, and every 
 man has a right to act in accordance with his prin- 
 ciples.” 
 
 ‘‘It is news to me,” said Father Darcy, “ that the 
 romantic feelings of a superannuated old woman, who 
 would in her grand climacterick act the love-sick girl, 
 are to be set against the interests of a great party and a 
 great religion. Such superstitious observings may suit 
 young gentlemen, who, having secured large estates, 
 may find it convenient to abstain from taking part in 
 the troubles of the times, but will scarcely be received 
 as an excuse for their cowardly abandonment of a 
 righteous cause and of an oppressed and suffering people. 
 But I am sorry the young gentleman has been led by 
 Mr. Tresham into a case of misprision of treason; 
 and that he has run his own head into danger, in 
 spite of his known prudence.” 
 
 Everard was astonished at his own audacity, and at 
 his own emancipation from the influence of such reason- 
 ings: but a few months ago, and the arguments and 
 
 s 
 
274 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 the sarcasms of the holy father would have been all- 
 powerful over his mind — but the force of truth and 
 right thinking on the part of Mr. Mulsho, had worked 
 the happiest effects upon his temper. The Jesuit saw, 
 as he had done once before, that his power was for the 
 present at an end ; he did not however, feel the slightest 
 distrust of being at some future period able to recover 
 it; and whatever he might affect, he had not the 
 slightest apprehension that Everard would betray his 
 friends. 
 
 “ I am sorry,” said Everard, endeavouring to com- 
 mand his temper, “for what has been done, and for 
 what I have heard : more however of these schemes I 
 must be excused from listening to: Tresham, I will join 
 your Mother and Eleanor — but be under no uneasiness, 
 gentlemen, your secret is safe Avith me.” 
 
 And he left the room. 
 
 “ Safe enough, I will pledge my life,” cried Robert, 
 again coming forward from the place where, a little apart, 
 he had stood, listening to what was going on; “ there is 
 peril to his own head and to his own estates in what 
 might undoubtedly be construed by our sage lawyers 
 into misprision of treason : and that will be argument 
 enough with Everard for incurring the danger. 
 
 “ Thou art a good fellow, Everard,” he went on, “ let 
 Tresham and Father Darcy think of thee what they 
 will; but take my advice, Tresham, and let him listen 
 to no more of these schemes. The times are not ripe for 
 such men as he is — ^let him alone — let him go and be 
 happy with her he loves. Father Darcy, you must look 
 kindly upon him : Everard is a pearl of a man : though 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 275 
 
 not in the humour to rouse himself at this moment, and 
 in a questionable affair such as this : but rely upon it 
 when the time comes — if come it should — Everard will 
 respond to the call. For me,” said he, resuming his 
 wonted air of careless defiance, ‘‘ I am a man ship- 
 wrecked and miserable, and just that sort of stuff from 
 which you and Tresham make your tools.” 
 
 And they continued in secret council upon a sub- 
 ject, which finally resulted in the strange outbreak of 
 the Earls of Essex and Southampton. 
 
276 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 For love it knows it is a greater grief 
 
 To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury.” 
 
 Shakspeare, 
 
 A DESPERATE man Robert felt himself to be, and in 
 a state of miiid which fitted him for desperate enter- 
 prises. 
 
 In this state of mind Grace Vaux had been in- 
 structed to maintain him : or rather her heart had been 
 schooled, and manipulated, if I may use the strange 
 expression, till she regarded it as her highest duty to 
 neglect every consideration of the happiness of others, 
 and devote herself to that religious life towards which 
 the natural bias of her character inclined her. 
 
 It was not by direct instructions that it was the practice 
 of Mr. Darcy to work. This arch intriguer was accus- 
 tomed sedulously to prepare his instruments, and then 
 leave the proposed end to be worked out by the opera- 
 tions of their own passions. 
 
 On leaving Rushton Hall, Robert had ridden to 
 Harroden Magna; led as he thought by the resolu- 
 tion to learn his fate at once — really impelled by his 
 intense desire to see Grace Vaux again; and still in- 
 dulging a faint hope that he might find her less 
 
FATHER DARCY. 277 
 
 impenetrable tlian she had appeared under the gloomy 
 despair of their last meeting. 
 
 She was walking in a grove of high trees which lay 
 to the south of the house, to which place she had been 
 accustomed to resort for prayer and meditation, and to 
 which place he had followed her. 
 
 But Grace Vaux was greatly changed since she was 
 first presented to you. 
 
 The anxieties she had suffered, and the anticipation 
 of the miserable fate awaiting one whom she reverenced 
 so deeply, had well nigh broken her heart before ; but 
 the horrible scene which her love and her devotion had 
 led her to go through, had turned that heart, as she 
 thought and felt, to stone. 
 
 A dreary, desolate, horrible sort of despair had taken 
 possession of her mind. Her dreams were darkened by 
 the dreadful images of the past; her da)^s rendered in- 
 tolerable by harrowing recollections which made the 
 sound of mirth, or even the mere voice of cheerful in- 
 difference, insupportable. It seemed to her as if the 
 wliole earth ought to mourn in sympathy over such a 
 fearful sacrifice ; and her heart, revolting from the 
 society of those who witli — shall we say, tlie happy 
 versatility of mankind — had already turned their 
 thoughts to other things, she sought in deep solitude 
 and the most severe religious exercises, some rehef for 
 her lacerated feelings. 
 
 The poor mother Anne, exhausted by fatigue and 
 suffering, lay stretched upon her sick bed, unable to 
 minister advice or sympathy, or soothe by her gentle 
 goodness the agonies of this ulcerated heart. To 
 
278 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 wander alone in tlie darkest shades of this gloomy 
 grove, was the only alleviation of her sufferings which 
 the unhappy Grace Vaux allowed herself. 
 
 And it was here that pale, and melancholy, cold and 
 calm, and sad as Milton’s divine image of religious 
 thoughtfulness, Robert found her. 
 
 He had given his over-ridden horse to the stable- 
 servants, and followed the path which he had been 
 told the Lady Grace had taken. 
 
 As he suddenly turned by a large, thick holly-bush, 
 on the side of which a little knot of mountain ash was 
 hanging in all the beautiful lightness of its pendant 
 branches, he beheld the unhappy woman walking slowly 
 along the winding path at some little distance before 
 him. The leafy trees and verdant copsewood formed a 
 sylvan arch over her head : she appeared like some beau- 
 tiful and saintly image, under a dark and venerable 
 Gothic shrine. 
 
 As usual, she was dressed with the utmost simplicity, 
 and the thick folds of her almost monastic garment, 
 shrouded, though they could not deform, the fair and 
 pure outline of her most lovely figure. 
 
 She was walking with a very slow and thoughtful 
 step, her hands were clasped across her breast, and her 
 head bent in an attitude of despondency towards the 
 ground. 
 
 He stood for a few moments and gazed upon what 
 was to him the image of all that men worship upon 
 earth. 
 
 His heart, that wild impetuous heart, beat in a tu- 
 multuous transport, as he gazed; while that excited 
 
PATHER DARCY. 
 
 279 
 
 imagination and desperate force of sentiment wliicli he 
 possessed, gave an exultation to his ideas and feelings 
 which approached to insanity. 
 
 To gaze upon her thus, was a rapture almost too 
 great for his powers of endurance : but such rapture he 
 did not allow himself long to enjoy. He had come 
 with the determined purpose to learn his fate at once 
 from her own lips; to obtain her for himself; break 
 through as it were that holy circle of religious self- 
 devotions which enclosed her, and bear her away to 
 plunge with him into the mid-torrent of ecstatic joy: 
 or, if that were not to be, he came resolved to break 
 the bond which yet united them ; to forsake her, his 
 better genius as he felt her to be ; sever himself from all 
 those divine and softening influences which her presence 
 inspired; and cast himself headlong without pilot, with- 
 out compass, upon that raging sea of life, which he felt 
 to be, after all, his natural element. 
 
 With purposes which, to his excited imagination 
 took this sort of wild poetic form, he had come: 
 and there he stood pausing, hesitating, gazing, before 
 the fatal scene should be opened, the fatal words spoken, 
 which were to decide his destiny for ever. 
 
 The winding walk which she slowly pursued, at last 
 hid her from his view; then, as the beauteous image 
 disappeared behind the meeting branches, he started 
 from his reverie, rushed forward, and was at her side. 
 
 His rapid footsteps aroused her: she paused, and 
 listened, without turning her head : he was by her side, 
 and had laid hold of her arm. 
 
 ‘‘ Grace — Grace Vaux !’^ 
 
280 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 “ Is it you, Robert?’’ she said: and the arm he held 
 shghtly trembled within his grasp, while a faint colour 
 spread over her cheek and temples. “ Why are you 
 here? I thought you had been with the others, at 
 Rushton Hall?” 
 
 “So I have been, Grace. I rode from thence this 
 morning. There are things in contemplation, Grace, 
 as perhaps you know, that may result in strange 
 changes:” he bent his head to her, speaking rapidly 
 and earnestly, and still grasping her arm. “ This blood 
 of mine may have to be offered — or these hands may be 
 again embrued in blood. I have got hardened to the 
 thought of either event: I am an apt scholar: I am 
 learning fast,” with a rough laugh, “ to value the life 
 of others, as little as I have long learned to value my 
 own. But, before I plunge once more into these des- 
 perate and dangerous courses, of the good success of 
 which I, for one, have little expectation — one thing I 
 have resolved upon : I will have my final answer from 
 you, Grace.” 
 
 “ What do you mean by your final answer, Robert ?” 
 endeavouring still to withdraw her arm, but he Tvould 
 not let it go; “ answer to what? . . . you are so impe- 
 tuous . . . what is it you mean?” 
 
 “ You know Avell what I mean — or ought to know, 
 Grace, though perhaps a sort of reverence, a sort of fear 
 of wounding or offending you, has witliheld me from 
 declaring my purpose and my wishes in set terms. But 
 that feeling of fear which I felt on approaching you, 
 seems to have vanished with all other sense of fear. I 
 am determined to be happy or miserable at once, Grace. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 281 
 
 — To have thee for mine own, or to have done with 
 thee for ever.’^ 
 
 She shivered a little, but said nothing. 
 
 “ Grace/’ he said, with increasing fervour, ‘‘be mine.” 
 
 Again the arm gently struggled to release itself. 
 
 “ Nay, nay, listen to me — you must, you ought, Grace, 
 to listen to me — you know how I love you. If thou 
 dost not know,” with a certain solemnity, vain it were 
 for me to attempt to paint it. If thou dost not know 
 the passion with which my soul is knit to thine, thou 
 never canst comprehend, for vain were human language 
 to express it.” 
 
 His voice faltered, he let go her arm, and turned a 
 moment away. He was overcome with the image of 
 his own thoughts and feelings as thus presented : his 
 heart bled in self-pity. 
 
 He returned again, and again grasped her arm. 
 
 “ Dost thou understand, Grace, this heart? It is capa- 
 ble, my soul knows it, of great and noble, and generous 
 things : it is of the stuff — for once, think me not weakly 
 vain to own it — of which saints, and heroes, and martyrs 
 are made : but there is that within also ... I shudder 
 sometimes at my own thoughts . . . there is that within 
 at which the demons in hell might tremble and look 
 pale. I know not well how it is with me,” he con- 
 tinued with increasing vehemence, “ I feel that I am 
 bom to figure among the best and the greatest, or to be 
 held up as a monster among men ; a monster at whose 
 name from generation to generation the human blood 
 shall curdle, and the very Innocent child learn to tremble 
 and stand aghast.” 
 
282 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 She now raised her head, and looked fall at him with 
 a wondering and anxious eye; she seemed reading the 
 expression of his countenance, as if she could not com- 
 prehend his words. 
 
 You do not understand this — ^how should you?” 
 again relinquishing her arm, and walking by her side, 
 speaking as if talking to himself. “ You, predestined 
 for heaven — already an angel, pure, fair, spotless, saintly 
 image of the good — how shouldst thou comprehend the 
 struggle, the fierce war of elements, when Christ and 
 Abaddon are fighting for the human soul.” 
 
 She said nothing, but looked at him stiU with a sort 
 of wondering interest. 
 
 He walked by her side in silence a few moments 
 more, then again, almost fiercely, he seized her arm, and 
 said. 
 
 Speak then — will you never speak? Shall it be 
 Christ or Abaddon to whom you will surrender me? 
 Speak !” 
 
 I cannot speak, you frighten my spirit from me : I 
 do not know what you mean : I scarcely know what you 
 are saying.” 
 
 “ Do I frighten you?” said he, and his wonderfully 
 expressive eye changed from the fiery violence of pas- 
 sion to an expression so deeply, so penetratingly, so 
 mournfully tender, that every feeling of that beauteous 
 creature’s heart vibrated in reply. 
 
 Do I — do I frighten thee, mine angel — my sweet, 
 my guardian angel? Nay, Grace, that was far from my 
 intent in coming here. Not to thee ! oh, not to thee ! 
 should the raging demon within this heart appear. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 283 
 
 Listen to me, my love — I want thee, Grace, to be my 
 love; I want thee to come and hallow my domestic 
 hearth ; I want thee to illuminate by thy divine and 
 beaming goodness, my darksome, lonesome home and 
 heart; I want to have little prattling children — thy 
 children and mine, Grace — climbing round my knee ; 
 I want to have their cherub kisses on my cheek; I want 
 to be happy, softly, innocently happy with thee, my 
 Grace ; I want to have the blessing of God descend like 
 dew upon this burning brain — Grace, I want to be 
 among the blest; I want to be with God; I want to be 
 with thee, my sainted angel mistress.” 
 
 Robert, Robert,” and her colour came and went, and 
 the beauteous eyes were seeking the earth, shunning his 
 deeply, deeply loving gaze. 
 
 Is not that a picture, Grace, even to win thy soul ? 
 Peace, love, piety, devotion, children, little children, 
 Grace, reared to serve that Church to which we both 
 adhere. Goodness — an example set which shall adorn 
 our creed, so that our very enemies shall bless us. A 
 life of tender protection and assistance to those on whom 
 oppression lies heavy. A life of persevering endeavour 
 in support of a righteous cause; a life of paradise ! Two 
 hearts, two souls in one — as one, minghng in every 
 thought, action, feeling; a life! Nay, my Grace — nay, 
 my sweet Grace, turn not your head away,” and bending 
 down he impressed a kiss so pure, so tender, on her 
 cheek, that the angels of heaven might have envied it. 
 
 But she started at the touch, snatched her arm from 
 him, and turned terrified and oilcndcd away. 
 
 ‘‘ You have dared 1” 
 
284 
 
 PATHER DARCY. 
 
 ‘‘ Nay^ Grace, sweetest Grace/' 
 
 Stand off, Robert. Touch me not. Have done with 
 your beguiling, dangerous words. Let me alone, de- 
 ceiver and betrayer." 
 
 “ Forgive me, sweetest, dearest Grace, I meant not 
 to offend you, I call heaven to witness. Oh forgive me, 
 forgive me this once." 
 
 And he kneeled down imploring, and took hold of 
 her garments. She shook him off as if he had been a 
 serpent, her soft eyes almost flashed with a wild and 
 desperate expression. 
 
 ‘‘ Touch me not, speak to me not. — Why have I 
 listened? What have I been about? Dreadful, dreadful! 
 The spouse of my redeemer 1 and I have listened, listened, 
 aye, Avith pleasure, to the deceitful Avords of a perishing 
 man. Oh Robert, Robert, Avhat haA^e Ave been about ? 
 Pity me and forgive me, for my sin to thee and to him 
 hath been great. Thou must not speak to me of home 
 and hearth, and sweet affection, and prattling faces and 
 pleasant confidence. Oh, no, no, no; I am an affianced 
 bride — the affianced bride of him the bleeding redeemer 
 of us all, and what haA^e I to do with thee, Robert, 
 Robert?" 
 
 He rose at once from his knees, folded his arms, 
 with a sort of desperate calmness: and fixing upon 
 her his eye which had again lost all the feeling 
 tenderness of its expression, and assumed one of deep 
 gloom and dark, concentrated rage and disappointment, 
 said — 
 
 “ I thought I had your promise, not that I own, but 
 your tacit — your understood promise, that my plead- 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 285 
 
 ings should once be heard before your resolution was 
 taken.” 
 
 It was so,” said she — and her woman’s nature here 
 gave way, the tears ran down her cheeks, and she 
 sobbed like a chidden child. “ I had given you reason, 
 Robert — I own it — I had given you reason to believe 
 that I would hear your pleadings before I bound my- 
 self irrevocably. I yielded to my weakness, Robert. 
 This heart — this heart ! — Ah, this heart !” pressing her 
 two hands against it, as if to still its beating. Shall 
 I own it? Those pledges were too — too — that promise, 
 ah, believe me ! it was but too sweet, too dear to my 
 soul to keep it — and therefore,” said she, her voice 
 steadying as she went on, “ the sacrifice was the more 
 worthy and complete with which I offered my promise 
 — my good faith to thee — that which was most precious 
 in mine eyes — with this bleeding, bleeding heart — to 
 him who claims our all.” 
 
 Your promises — your good faith !. . . .” 
 
 ‘‘ You know,” said she, now approaching him with 
 the gentlest pleadings of what appeared to her unan- 
 swerable reason — we are commanded to hold all vows 
 — all faith, light and valueless, in comparison with the 
 one great claim.” Then sobbing again: “ I own it, 
 Robert, when that man — that man whom I loved and 
 honoured, as child on earth never loved or honoured 
 
 earthly father I vowed a vow — If the holy virgin 
 
 by her efficacious intercessions, would save him, that 
 before her shrine I would sacrifice all worldly hopes 
 and joys: that I would devote myself a virgin for her 
 holy sake — and forget — thee — and thy — thy foolish- 
 ness, Robert.” 
 
286 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 He gnashed his teeth. 
 
 ‘‘ The holy virgin refused the offering/’ — he said, 
 roughly. 
 
 Alas ! — Alas ! But Robert ” and she laid her 
 
 cold hand upon his. “ The offering \vas powerless to 
 save — but when I came back home, my heart tortured 
 by his tortures; my flesh chilled with horror as it still 
 is, Robert; my very soul darkened with the shadow of 
 his dismal death; in that agony — where should I fly 
 but to his feet, what offer in my despair but life, 
 and what was far dearer than life — I felt it then — I 
 feel it now. Could I — would I taste of joy, when he 
 lay festering in his bloody grave? Such joy as it would 
 have been — to be ... . with thee, Robert — No, no, no.” 
 
 A flood of tears burst forth — but checking her emo- 
 tion, though still sobbing bitterly, she went on. 
 
 ‘‘ At least the hours of pain, which, righteous as 
 he was, all mortals must endure, in the dread passage 
 to the heavenly mansions — at least the oblation, poor 
 as it was, might serve to soften them ! Would I with- 
 hold it? — Would you have had me, Robert? My 
 faith imphed to thee — Oh! — Oh! — the stronger the 
 bond; the hoher at that very moment was the force 
 wliich rent it asunder.” 
 
 This speech broken with sobs and tears, was poured 
 forth without any interruption from him, with an air 
 of humlhty and gentle depression, which would have 
 touched a heart of stone. 
 
 He neither moved, nor did the expression of his eye 
 melt; it still was flxed darkly, gloomily, steadily upon 
 her. And he said — 
 
 “ Then am I to understand, that you have pledged 
 
FATHER DARCY. 287 
 
 yourself by the eternal vow, and separated us in this 
 world and in the next?*’ 
 
 She bowed her head in sign of assent, but it 
 seemed as if she could not speak. 
 
 And who received that vow?” he said, sternly. 
 
 “ Father Tesmond: Father Darcy had always warned 
 me to be cautious in imposing such an obligation upon 
 my soul. But the passion of my sorrow would brook 
 no delay, and Father Tesmond received my vows — seal- 
 ing them with that holy sacrament, which . . . .” 
 
 “ Enough,” said he, turning away, “ say no more: 
 complete the sacrifice. You have oflfered our lives, now 
 offer my eternal soul — for that was lost when thou didst 
 this awful thing.” 
 
 ‘‘Robert — Robert!’^ and she, in her turn, fell upon 
 her knees and embraced his, lifting up her beseeching 
 face in passionate ecstasy. “ Robert, Robert — let me 
 hear other words from thee — Oh, my despair ! my des- 
 pair! Offer thyself, my Robert, my Robert — offer 
 thyself, as I, poor wretch, have done — complete the holy 
 sacrifice: a fellow labourer at the same altar: Oh! 
 Robert ! Robert ! — don’t look in that dark and dreadful 
 way, cast off the fearful demon that possesses thee, 
 turn to the virgin mother — Robert — Robert !” 
 
 I have nothing to do with thee, woman !” said he, 
 shaking her from him. “ Henceforward we are twain — 
 thy path is towards heaven — mine lies no longer that 
 way — ” 
 
 “ Robert — Robert ! ” still holding him and kneeling. 
 
 “ Have done,” said he, fiercely, “ for to the dark 
 demon thou hast sacrificed a soul.” 
 
288 
 
 TATHER DARCY. 
 
 And snatching his garment from her hands, he rushed 
 away, while she fell prostrate wdth her face upon the 
 earth. 
 
 Long so she lay, her face buried in the dust, her arms 
 stretched out before her on the ground, in an agony of 
 despair and grief too vast for utterance. The sacrifice 
 she had made, when she immolated her life and heart, 
 still filled with the image of one far dearer than ever had 
 been confessed in her most secret musings, seemed re- 
 jected. She had scattered desolation where she might 
 have conferred so much happiness. She had changed 
 into a wilderness that garden of life, which, as he had 
 painted it, bloomed with such lovely flowers. From 
 the holiest, the purest of motives, the most fervent and 
 generous self-devotion, she had done this — and alas! 
 where was her recompense? 
 
 She had lost his soul — 
 
 His soul — 
 
 With those of her way of thinking, few sins are more 
 deadly than that of final despair. And final despair is 
 a dreadful sentiment of the heart to which their erring 
 religion is apt to lead. That careful training which 
 ^ accustoms the spirit to submission to the ways of God, 
 is wanting. And the feeling of revolt once excited 
 leads to desperation. 
 
 She saw all the dark powers of that invisible and 
 mysterious world, to which she had been taught to give 
 form and personal existence, arrayed against him — and 
 he, forsaken of his better angel, rushing down, circle 
 after circle, to the lowest pit. Alas I her imagination 
 only gave form and colour to the actual fact. He 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 289 
 
 was deserted by his better angel ; and all the wild forces 
 of his character, no longer harmonised and softened 
 by the heavenly sweetness which breathed in her looks 
 and accents, were rushing into the disorder of chaos. 
 
 Sacrificed he had been — and to what? 
 
 Alas ! had it been to duty — to conscientious, indis- 
 putable duty — they had both found consolation. 
 
 But it was to a superstition ; a mere idea after all to 
 which they had immolated their mutual lives ; and what 
 shall mitigate the bitterness of his disappointment, or 
 of her despair? 
 
 So she lay long — groaning as if her heart would burst 
 asunder. At last she rose from the earth, shook the 
 dust from her soiled and disordered garments, and with 
 dry eyes, that had already begun to assume a somewhat 
 stony expression, so changed, so cold did they hence- 
 forth from that day become^ she walked to the house, 
 and went up to the room she called her own. 
 
 The chamber was simply arranged; but the view 
 from the open casement was pleasant and cheering; a 
 little bird, a bullfinch, on which Grace Vaux had ex- 
 pended, as she thought, most innocently, some of that 
 overflowing love which her poor heart was forbidden 
 to bestow upon others, whistled cheerfully in its cage. 
 
 It was all so pretty, so simple, so cheerful, so pure, 
 so fair in this little cell. 
 
 A few days afterwards, and how was it? 
 
 The bed had disappeared ; a hard straw pallet on the 
 floor supplied its place; the little ornaments, few and 
 simple, as they were, had all been taken away; the 
 closed casement was darkened by a sort of screen or 
 
 T 
 
290 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 blind, whicli excluded altogether the pleasant view. 
 The little bullfinch was gone, and the pale, hollow- 
 eyed creature who walked in deep melancholy up and 
 down that dreary apartment, was already beginning 
 to suffer from the slow and wasting fever of decay, 
 as the hair-cloth she wore macerated her delicate flesh : 
 rendered more susceptible to pain by the nervous ex- 
 citement produced by her lengthened fasts and her 
 unwearied prayers — by her mortifications and suffer- 
 ings to atone for his crime. ^ 
 
 It was all she could do for him now — and human 
 passion and heavenly yearnings led her, poor forlorn 
 and mistaken one, both one way. 
 
FATHEE DARCY. 
 
 291 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 “ In this world is much treachery, little truth ; here all things 
 are traps ; here every thing is heset with snares.” 
 
 S. Bern. 
 
 “Father, you have acted by me wisely, kindly, 
 faithfully,” said Robert, extending his hand to Mr. 
 Darcy, “ I thank you for it ; but your benevolent 
 intentions have been frustrated and she is lost to me. 
 I am yours, therefore, body and soul ; do with me 
 what you will, for I have henceforward nothing within 
 me to call my own.” 
 
 “Father Tesmond is pious and well meaning, but 
 rash and superstitious,” said Darcy, with a satisfied 
 smile. “ I lament, for your sake, sir, that our important 
 affairs should have detained me at Rushton just at this 
 juncture; though — ” and he corrected himself, “ excuse 
 me, much as I love you, if her vocation were a real one^ 
 sacred duties would have forbidden . . . . ” 
 
 “ Say no more of it,” said Robert, “ I understand all 
 that very well: I thank you for what you did: let us- 
 not talk of what you might have done. You are a man 
 to be trusted, Mr. Darcy, and will demand no vain and 
 fanatical sacrifices from any of us.” 
 
 The father looked as if he did not exactly know how 
 to take this equivocal compliment. He liked that a 
 man of such a bold way of thinking as Robert should 
 T 2 
 
292 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 esteem him for his freedom from superstition and preju- 
 dice: and yet, the destruction of prejudice and super- 
 stition was the destruction of his empire. 
 
 “ I confess to you/^ said Robert, “ that if a soul is lost 
 — a partisan is gained; with her, I should have become, 
 I feel it now, unfit for much of the sort of work 
 that seems wanted; quite the wrong sort of man for 
 you, Mr. Darcy. Now^ if you want any one to forfeit 
 his head, or any such trifle — by giving a quietus to 
 an old woman, or matter of that kind, you have a 
 man ready to your hand. I know no one fitter than I 
 am — in my present humour.” 
 
 The Jesuit smiled. This was exactly the humour 
 into which he had trusted by persevering endeavours to 
 bring him ; it had been done to his hand in a manner 
 as unexpected as agreeable ; he blessed Father Tesmond’s 
 zeal in his heart, and cast about in thought how best to 
 reward him for it. 
 
 But what he said was — 
 
 “No such desperate enterprise as that — we shall leave 
 our best friends, the earls of Essex and Southampton, to 
 provide what is fitting for her grace; but we may count 
 upon you now, I conclude, to join in our councils at 
 Drury Lane, and reckon upon your sword if swords 
 should be rendered necessary.” 
 
 “lam your’s or any one’s: dispose of me as you 
 will : I have told you I have broken from my anchorage, 
 and am tossing upon the ocean of life, ready to 
 follow in the wake of any who thinks it worth while 
 to take such a water-logged vessel in tow. But I would 
 rather it were you than any other, because I honour 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 293 
 
 your enterprise, admire your genius, and thank you for 
 your services.” 
 
 The triumph of Mr. Darcy over the mind of Robert 
 was now complete. It is impossible to describe the 
 gratitude that was excited by this sacrifice, as he thought 
 it, on the part of Father Darcy, of religious prejudices 
 and opinions for his sake. 
 
 He was quite a man to value, as the highest mark of 
 friendship, a deviation in his favour from! what was 
 right. 
 
 We, who esteem the conduct of those who would 
 have endeavoured to restrain Grace Vaux’s religious 
 self-devotion within due bounds, as just and wise, can 
 form little idea of the strange effect which this conduct, 
 which he considered as a great deviation from the duty 
 of a priest, exercised upon Robert’s mind. 
 
 But the priest had not quite done with the subject. It 
 may be thought that to so deep and sagacious a politician 
 — one engaged in intrigues on which the fate of nations 
 depended — would scarcely have found leisure for, or felt 
 interest in, those domestic passions which in the compa- 
 rison appear so trifling. But it is the favourite policy 
 of these reverend fathers to rule mankind by their weak- 
 nesses. And among human weaknesses, what so fruitful 
 of consequences as this master passion of youth — and the 
 host of passions which thence take rise. The fate of em- 
 pires, the triumph or defeat of a widcly-influential prin- 
 ciple, has depended upon a smile. And the fathers of 
 St. Ignatius were far too discerning to neglect the use 
 of such means. So Mr. Darcy said. 
 
 You are indifferent, it would seem, to those consola- 
 
294 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 tions and compensations which ordinary men usually 
 seek under your circumstances . . . 
 
 Yes — consolation I despise : in compensation it seems 
 to me like blasphemy to believe. No, father, I am one 
 of those who risk their whole upon one die ; and never 
 throw twice.’^ 
 
 “ And yet — but I am as an innocent child in these 
 things,” said Mr. Darcy, checking himself; “ I know 
 not ... Yet this I know, that I am perhaps of too com- 
 passionate and soft a temper, and — I confess my weak- 
 ness — when I see a sweet young creature fading in 
 silence for want of one comfortable word, I cannot resist 
 a desire that such a word should be spoken.” 
 
 Robert coloured at this, and said — 
 
 “ I have always considered it extremely dishonourable 
 in such case to offer the vain incense of words when I 
 had nothing else to offer.” 
 
 And yet, if that which you call vain incense be as 
 the spirit of life to the one who shall inhale it .. .if it be a 
 healing medicine to a sore and wounded heart ... if all 
 that heart asks is but some kind influence of this sort to 
 soothe its agonies? . . . .” 
 
 ‘‘ Father !” said Robert, with some surprise. 
 
 ‘‘ Nay — nay, do not misunderstand me — I want no 
 sacrifice of that truth, that sincerity as you deem it, in 
 which the fond heart of youth delights almost to fanati- 
 cism. Such incense, as every man of your age is held 
 bound to offer to every beautiful woman of hers, I should 
 have thought need not in common kindness and good 
 manners have been withheld. It is enough to treat her 
 like the rest of the world. I should have thought not 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 295 
 
 with slights and contempts such as no woman expects 
 to receive from any man.’’ 
 
 “ I never intended it — 1 never did it. Truth to tell, 
 I have thought little about it. My heart has been 
 deeply engaged with another .... I have thought little 
 of her, I own it. . . . but — ” 
 
 ‘‘It is that of which I complain. It appears to me, 
 a mere looker on as I am at that game of human life 
 which others are engaged to play, it seems to me some- 
 thing like the wanton cruelty of a school-boy, to kill 
 with careless neglect that which we hold in our power 
 — but the subject is beyond the limits of my preroga- 
 tive, you will say, and say truly — let us speak of some- 
 thing of higher import.” 
 
 “ Ay, let us speak of something else — for that work 
 is also done.” 
 
 Robert stood with his eyes bent upon the floor, and 
 a flood of recollections passed through his mind. He 
 had, as many men might have done, in spite of his de- 
 votion to Grace, felt a secret inchnation to gratify his 
 vanity, and to indulge a hidden pleasure at having 
 inspired a beautiful young creature with a passion like 
 this. He had responded to it with some of that vain 
 flattery of words and attentions, which he knew to be 
 the most effectual means of maintaining his power: but 
 he lately resisted this inclination. He loved Everard, 
 and he felt that it was to wrong the confidence of his 
 friend; he loved Eleanor, too, as a brother might have 
 done, and he felt it was to trifle with her heart. He 
 had therefore been rude, negligent, according to his 
 usually exaggerated way; nay, almost brutal in his 
 
296 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 manner to her, in order to avoid the shadow of oJ0fending 
 against the rule he had laid down to himself. 
 
 But now all these vain delusive arguments with which 
 the inclinations besiege the human mind, weakening one 
 by one the bulwarks of virtue — were backed and 
 strengthened by the casuistry of the priest, and seemed 
 to acquire a force which was quite new. He began to 
 recollect, with a certain secret joy, all the proofs of 
 hidden passion which he had observed, and to look with 
 contempt upon his own well-principled reserve. And, 
 strongest of all temptations, the thought arose that 
 through Eleanor the heart of Grace Vaux might yet be 
 touched — ^be wounded : revenge was a master principle 
 in Robert’s nature — revenge was always sweet. 
 
 Withdrawn from the softening influences which the 
 presence of Grace Vaux had invariably exercised over 
 him, his heart filled with bitterness against her, and for 
 her sake, against her whole sex. To revenge himself 
 upon her cruelty through another, was a gratification 
 which added force to his other wayward and unprin- 
 cipled inclinations. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 297 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 “ 0, how art thou betray’d, thus fairly driv’n 
 In seeming triumph to thy own confusion.” 
 
 F. Quarles, 
 
 Some space of time has elapsed. 
 
 It is the 8th of February: a dark gloomy morning, 
 London is enveloped in a cold damp fog which rises from 
 the river, and the courts and gardens of Essex House 
 look blank and miserable enough, in spite of their mag- 
 nificence. 
 
 The great gates of the court are closed^ a man stand- 
 ing at the small wicket admits one by one, those who 
 knock for entrance. 
 
 The court within is one agitated mass of waving 
 feathers, it is filled with gentlemen — a mob, if it may be 
 so called, of gentlemen all richly dressed according to 
 the fashion of their times, their swords and rapiers by 
 their sides or already drawn and in their hands. There 
 is a hubbub of many voices, a going to and fro, up and 
 down the flight of steps by which you ascend to the 
 great hall. Every one seems excited ; every one busy ; 
 yet all is confusion. There appears to be little direction 
 or purpose ; all these turbulent spirits are got together, 
 and being got together; they seem scarcely to know 
 how to proceed. 
 
 Among the gentlemen present, and the most busily 
 engaged of the whole, you may note the young and 
 
298 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 captivating Earl of Southampton. The Earl of Rut- 
 land, the Lords Sandes and Monteagle, Sir John Davies, 
 Sir Gilly Merick, and, of the Catholics, Sir Christopher 
 Blount, Sir Edward Baynham, Tresham, Robert, the 
 two Wrights, strange ill-looking men of considerable 
 estate ; above three hundred gentlemen of various de- 
 grees and of all sorts of opinions, are likewise there. 
 Several Catholic priests in secular clothes, are strangely 
 mingled with puritan divines, in their short black 
 cloaks; some of the priests are probably wearing the 
 garb of the very men whose principles they most abhor. 
 Such are the strange devices of faction. 
 
 Mr. Darcy has however taken care to keep himself 
 aloof upon this occasion. It is not according to his 
 course of policy to take a prominent part in any of the 
 enterprises he is so busily engaged in prompting. And 
 of the result of this enterprise, in truth, he has but 
 doubtful expectation. ^ 
 
 He considers it as it is, as the ill-considered outbreak 
 of a rash, and ambitious, and disappointed man — one 
 whose character, a confused composition of good and 
 bad elements, renders him equally unfit to be the head 
 of a government, or to be the leader of a successful 
 revolt : for Essex is at once unguarded and dissembling, 
 ambitious, and generous, grasping and disinterested, 
 affectionate and ungrateful, religious and dissolute : a 
 lover of liberty, yet aspiring to arbitrary power, his 
 whole life is one great inconsistency ; and he was perhaps 
 best understood by that royal mistress whose conduct 
 with regard to him appears at the first glance so unac- 
 countable. , 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 299 
 
 Divided as she was between lier partiality for the man 
 whose energy and originality of character interested her 
 so much — and indignation at the ungrateful treachery, 
 and the mean and grasping covetousness, which lay 
 concealed under such noble and generous dispositions. 
 — her steady resolution to punish the state criminal was 
 not suffered to yield to the melting pleadings of her 
 heart for the man. 
 
 The Jesuits did not calculate ill when they used their 
 influence to foster this idle revolt. They had aimed in 
 vain at the royal heart with their poignards ; they 
 changed their tactics, and struck home. 
 
 The share they had in this strange business, in spite 
 of the httle scruple their writers display in colouring 
 history, may be easily detected by numerous slight 
 indications. 
 
 That Essex was not only instigated but betrayed by 
 the priests, his own exclamations would lead one to 
 suspect: and the secret unknown delator, whose con- 
 fession ruined him, was probably in his view when he 
 made the accusation. Certainly, nothing can strike us 
 as more strange, than the motley assembly at Essex 
 House upon that fatal morning. 
 
 From the Puritan ministers preaching to the crowd, 
 to Tresham holding the door where the queen’s ofiicers 
 of state were conflned — from Essex rushing forth into 
 the streets to denounce the danger of a Spanish suc- 
 cessor, to Tesmond and Winter with the very party 
 with whom he is in league, at that very moment in 
 Spain, engaged in promoting the infanta’s interests — all 
 is one inexplicable confusion. 
 
300 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Numbers of this very party too, as it is well known, 
 being in correspondence with King James, till the 
 roads were covered with those who went to and fro 
 from Scotland. 
 
 That the claims of the infanta were held over King 
 James’s head, to engage his support of the Catholic 
 party, is the probable solution of this last contradic- 
 tion. A plan which seems to have produced its due 
 effect; for until the Spanish peace had effectually se- 
 cured the king from such competition, he evidently 
 kept terms with the Catholics, to break with them 
 afterwards in the most insulting manner. 
 
 The clamour and noise in the court bids defiance to 
 all counsel or well-ordered endeavour; every one is 
 speaking and arguing, swords are glittering, serving 
 men running to and fro, a few gentlemen at the 
 head of the flight of steps deliberating — if delibera- 
 tion that can be called, which is only a successive pro- 
 posing and rejecting of measures the most dangerous 
 and irrational. 
 
 If you look among the agitated crowd which sways 
 to and fro — ^you may see Robert, splendidly dressed, his 
 poignard stuck in his belt, and his small dress rapier 
 undrawn by his side : he is walking from one noisy 
 excited group to another, with a smile of contempt 
 upon his lips. 
 
 Such are not the methods by which he would carry 
 out a rebellion, if such were intrusted to him. 
 
 Such woman’s means, such noise of tongues, such 
 empty boasting in words, and such irresolutions in ac- 
 tion, are not to his taste. He stands idly by (for he 
 
father DARCY. 
 
 301 
 
 had pledged himself to be present upon this celebrated 
 Sunday morning), anticipating the result of eflTorts so 
 feeble and •vacillating; and regarding his own im- 
 prisonment and probable death as a traitor, with that 
 sarcastic indifference which was a part of his character 
 when not excited by some strong passion. 
 
 Everard is not there. He is at Goddeshurst, enjoy- 
 ing all the delights of his Evelyn’s society^ or at Dry- 
 stoke, preparing for his approaching nuptials. The 
 wdse counsels of Mr. Mulsho, and the influence of Mr. 
 Warner, have effectually weaned him from the prevail- 
 ing spirit. 
 
 Who knocks at the wicket, and demands admittance 
 on the part of the queen ? 
 
 It is the Lord-Keeper — the Lord Chief Justice of 
 England — and two other noblemen of weight and ex- 
 perience, whom the queen has despatched to remon- 
 strate with the still secretly beloved child and favourite, 
 and endeavour to reduce him to submission before it 
 is yet too late. 
 
 They are after a short parley admitted, but without 
 their servants; and they stand defenceless among a 
 crowd of young men, excited almost to madness, and 
 all in confusion. 
 
 ‘‘Kill them ! — kill them!” resounds on all sides. 
 These gentlemen seem scarcely of the generous blood 
 of Englishmen; but still there are those among them 
 who will not permit an outrage like this. 
 
 Essex and Southampton descend the steps hastily, 
 and followed by a crowd of the better order among the 
 mob of partisans, speedily surround the captives. 
 
302 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 These grave counsellors, sensible of the dignity of 
 their embassage, and undismayed by the shouts and the 
 tumult which surround them, deliver their message with 
 a manner as composed as if they were seated in the 
 queen’s council chamber; saying that, ‘^they arQ charged 
 with a message from her majesty’s grace to learn where- 
 fore this disorderly and tumultuous assembly of men ; and 
 what are the grievances of which the earl and they have 
 to complain; promising that if they will disperse as 
 loyal subjects ought to do, at her majesty’s command, 
 she will listen to their complaints, whatever they may 
 be, and see indifferent justice done to every man.” 
 
 The answer to this grave and dignified address is the 
 long and reiterated cry of Traitors ! traitors ! We lose 
 time — Throw the great seal into the river — Stop their 
 mouths — Down with them — Kill them, kill them.” 
 
 Essex like many a leader of such an assembly before 
 him, and many, and many, and many a one after him, 
 finds himself already no longer master of the storm he 
 has conjured. He with some difficulty, assisted by his 
 friends, rescues these hostages from the clamouring mul- 
 titude ; they ascend the steps and enter Essex House ; 
 there they are strictly confined under the care of Francis 
 Tresham, who, his drawn sword in his hand, as pro- 
 tector, or as gaoler, guards the door of the chamber in 
 which they are shut up. 
 
 And now what is to be done? Something must be 
 done. What cry can be raised against a government 
 ■which promises a hearing and equal justice to all mal- 
 contents, and which is known to be faithful to promise^ 
 and equitable in judgment. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 303 
 
 Wliy a cry about the infanta and a plot against the life 
 of Essex — A cry without enthusiasm, an accusation in 
 which no one believes — And with that a sudden outbreak 
 and rush into the city : a rush made, not from that irresis- 
 tible impulse of sudden passion, which impels men to 
 follow and sweeps them forward in its wild career, but 
 as an expedient, because there is really nothing else to 
 be done. 
 
 They sally forth, some with swords drawn, some with- 
 out swords at all, and give the. intended cry r but the city 
 is cold — the city is still. No cry of — Clubs ! — Clubs ! 
 rings through the streets to rouse the combative appren- 
 tices; the master tradesmen close their doors; the autho- 
 rities of the city preserve order without the slightest 
 difficulty; and the mortified lords, with their followers, 
 return to Essex House again, with the last sad determi- 
 nation of the defeated, to sell their lives as dearly as 
 ^ they can. 
 
 Robert was not among those who had rushed for- 
 ward into the city ; the outburst had appeared to him 
 all through like mere child’s play. Neither was he 
 among those who, during the earl’s absence, stole away 
 by degrees and abandoned the hopeless enterprise. 
 
 He remained with his usual resolution to await the 
 event, and was among the first to meet the fugitives on 
 their return with the intelli^^ence, that the hostasres 
 had been set at liberty by Sir Ferdinando Gorges and 
 were gone back to the place whence they came. 
 
 The sudden change to be read in the countenance of 
 Essex ; the glance of pity and tenderness which he cast 
 for one moment upon the young and beautiful South- 
 
304 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 ampton — victim of his brainless enterprise; told at once 
 that all was lost. 
 
 The spirit of the earl sank at once into despondency, 
 and he was for a surrender, but urged by the represen- 
 tations of the gentlemen around, that it was better to die 
 in their own defence than by the hand of the execu- 
 tioner, he prepared at length to defend his house to the 
 last extremity. Leaving his friends to strengthen the 
 defences, he retired to his chamber, where he burned 
 several papers: those very papers, in all probability, 
 which would have revealed the full share our friends 
 had in his plot. 
 
 The subsequent attack and the subsequent surrender 
 are matters of history; the earl and all his friends yielded 
 at discretion, and were cast into various prisons; Essex 
 and Southampton and others of note received the 
 honours of the Tower. The other gentlemen are lodged 
 in different dungeons and strong places in the city. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 305 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend ; 
 
 More hideous than the sea-monster.” 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 The enterprise had failed. — 
 
 Had resulted merely, as it would appear, in the de- 
 struction of the once flourishing favourite, and the 
 utter dispersion of his party. 
 
 Essex perished on the scaffold. Sir Christopher 
 Blount, Sir Charles Davies, Sir John Danvers, and 
 several others, the leaders of the conspiracy, shared his 
 fate. But the government was extremely lenient with 
 regard to the rest. After imprisonments, various in 
 duration and severity according to the prominence of 
 the part they had taken In the outbreak, they were 
 all dismissed, and returned to their own homes. The 
 internal dissensions of the party, which arose between 
 the English secular priests and the seminarists and 
 Jesuits, occupied the short remaining period of the 
 queen^s reign; and there was a cessation of the plots 
 against her life. 
 
 Men’s minds now turned to the successor : and the 
 political intrigues of the Catholics were directed either 
 to obtain those pledges from King James, and submis- 
 sions to Rome on his part, which might insure their 
 ultimate ascendancy — or else, to secure their purpose by 
 
306 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 opposing his claims, setting the infanta upon the throne 
 of England, and thus finally establishing the Spanish 
 influence. 
 
 The enterprise, as far as Essex was concerned, had 
 failed. 
 
 But not so the schemes and purposes of the Jesuit. 
 He had succeeded ; he had pierced that royal woman to 
 the heart ; and the short remaining period of her life 
 was but a record of that secret and rapid decay which 
 follows an incurable wound. 
 
 From that hour, when the axe of the executioner, 
 under her warrant, had severed the head from the 
 quivering frame of him she loved best — perhaps now 
 loved alone upon earth — the days of that unhappy 
 queen became one series of struggles between the 
 pride of a high and haughty heart, endeavouring 
 vainly to disguise its own weakness, and the irreme- 
 diable sorrow which festered within. 
 
 From the trembling fingers playing on the virginals, 
 on the morning of the fearful execution — till the day 
 when, after splendid pageant had succeeded to pageant, 
 progress to progress, banquet to banquet, the body 
 sinking under the increasing effort to conceal the bleed- 
 ing heart with an appearance of gaiety — the fainting 
 woman asked for a staff to ascend the Lord Bathurst’s 
 stairs — all had been the last effort of her expiring 
 energy to support the dignity of her sceptre and the 
 majesty of her sword of justice, by concealing the im- 
 mensity of the cost at which such dignity and such 
 majesty had been maintained. 
 
 Far more painful, and quite as severe as the assassin’s 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 307 
 
 knife, was the wound thus inflicted: the insidious 
 enemy sat concealed in mystery, smiling at the certain 
 result of his designs. 
 
 There sat that aged queen, her figure attenuated and 
 reduced almost to a skeleton, her face shrunk, withered, 
 and covered with wrinkles, her bright eye quenched, a 
 monument of mortality. 
 
 She was sitting upon a few cushions, raised from the 
 floor so as to form a sort of divan ; and supported by 
 others which propped up her sinking frame on all sides. 
 There she sat in melancholy silence, and mused upon the 
 ingratitude of friends : upon the fading nature of human 
 greatness: the empty vanity of human popularity: 
 upon the fallibility of human councils : the uncertainty 
 of human principles — upon the short dream of feverish 
 existence, which with her was now fast drawing to a close ; 
 darkened by the final triumph of evil over her best con- 
 sidered plans, and by the baseness and inconstancy of 
 mankind. 
 
 Sorrowful food for her far-searching and reflecting 
 mind; cultivated by philosophy — habituated to rumina- 
 tion — and in spite of many foibles and many faults, pos- 
 sessed of perhaps the most penetrating genius, and one 
 of the loftiest and most affectionate spirits, that ever 
 adorned her sex. 
 
 She looked round. 
 
 Her friends, where are they? — They arc all gone. 
 
 The cold grave has closed over the faithful and de- 
 voted servants of her youth; those who had stood by 
 u2 
 
308 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 and struggled for her in the turmoil and heat of the day, 
 Burleigh, Walslngham, Hatton ; Sidney, the delight of 
 the human race ; and Leicester, the too fond delight of 
 her own heart. The grave has swallowed them all. 
 
 Those whose councils had animated, whose wisdom had 
 aided, whose affectionate devotion had cheered her in 
 that long and terrific struggle, maintained for the rights 
 of the human conscience, and the emancipation of the 
 English crown and English people from the dreaded 
 Roman sway — they are all gone. 
 
 Those who remained, Raleigh, Cecil, Cary, what are 
 they all engaged in? — intriguing with her successor, 
 counting with impatience the few weary days in which 
 the sceptre of England shall yet be grasped by her once 
 mighty hand. 
 
 ‘‘ Gone to salute the rising morn.” 
 
 And the solitude and the darkness of deserted old age, 
 descend upon her in all their bitterness. 
 
 And he, the child as he might be called of her old 
 age, the loved, the indulged, the petulant, yet the most 
 interesting of beings — where is he? Alas ! he is sleeping 
 in that bloody shroud to which her own hand has con- 
 signed him. 
 
 She had doted with the blindest partiality — And yet 
 with the strong determination of the lion-hearted, she 
 had vindicated the authority of that sceptre which she 
 had herself warned him, in all his eccentricities, to forbear 
 to touch. She had vindicated the sceptre : and broken 
 her own heart. 
 
 Yes, and bitter was the thought, the powers of dark- 
 ness had triumphed. Those ambitious iron-hearted 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 309 
 
 priests, those cruel and conspiring adversaries, those 
 deep dissemblers, those equivocators, those liars, those 
 enemies of conscience and of truth — yes they have 
 triumphed, she feels that they have. 
 
 They have seduced from her side that last heart on 
 which she could have leaned ; they have wounded her to 
 the life ; they have struck through Essex. 
 
 ‘‘Ah, bitterer than a serpent’s tooth, it is to have a 
 thankless child !” 
 
 A thankless child, — and a thankless people. 
 
 He whom she had treasured as the secret darling of 
 her aged heart, had ridiculed, insulted, and betrayed 
 her; had aimed at her crown, perchance at her life; and 
 had fallen before the unflinching sentence of the law. 
 
 And her people ! 
 
 Her people! her loved people! for whom she had 
 suffered, toiled, struggled, agonised — cheered by whose 
 love she had triumphed over her foes, the haughty, im- 
 perious Spaniard, and the insidious Frenchman! 
 
 Where are those loud clamours of welcome which 
 saluted her, when with all her queenly magnificence, 
 but with eye most loving, and voice most gracious and 
 benign, she came among her people, young, prosperous, 
 beloved, and happy? 
 
 Now they receive their aged worn-out queen with 
 sullen silence; that cold, disapproving, awful silence 
 which makes the heart of the boldest to tremble. 
 
 They are weary of this long and prosperous reign. 
 
 The very ass shall spurn at the hoary lion. 
 
 These base, vain, idle, inconstant hearts, arc gaping 
 after a successor. He is a new man — there will be a 
 
310 
 
 FATHER DARCT. 
 
 reign of new tilings: the old ones are worn out — we are 
 weary of them. Men are impatient to receive with a 
 servility an adoration approaching almost to blasphemy, 
 the successor — and what a successor ! 
 
 She had penetration enough not only to comprehend 
 the full force of her present situation, but to anticipate 
 with something of the spirit of prophecy, the events 
 that should succeed when her weary head should slum- 
 ber in the grave, and she return, to render her account 
 to the Master of all men. 
 
 The deep and profound melancholy into which the 
 queen at last fell, was the last proof she gave of that 
 strong sensibility which has been grievously misunder- 
 stood; of that affectionate and feeling character, that 
 ready susceptibility to impressions, which, subdued and 
 restrained at times by her sense of dignity and policy, 
 at others would break out in defiance of all; — to be cen- 
 sured, nob as the frailty and imperfection of a too sensitive 
 woman’s heart and nerves — for after all Elizabeth was a 
 true woman — but to be branded as the heartless hypocrisy 
 and barbarous caprice of a ruthless tyrant. 
 
 Yes, even her good name ! 
 
 Her malignant and unsparing enemies shall rob her 
 even of that — 
 
 Shall blacken her memory, load it with their calum- 
 nious lies, distort every feature, misrepresent every 
 action — and be believed. 
 
 And she has to savour this cup and drink it to the 
 dregs. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 311 
 
 She has to anticipate in bitterness the darkness which 
 shall hang round her memory. Her great sun goes 
 down in clouds. 
 
 There she sits, a melancholy monument of the in- 
 stability of human things : a worn-out labourer robbed 
 of his reward. 
 
 In vain her ladies endeavour to soothe her ; to per- 
 suade her to take refreshment ; to rest her weary limbs 
 in her royal bed. 
 
 That couch is haunted by strange spectres, and she 
 dares not lie down. 
 
 In vain they endeavour to lead her to speak, to un- 
 burden her bosom of its sorrows. The desire for human 
 communication is at an end: the gay spirit which 
 animated her is extinguished, she only wishes to be left 
 to the gloom of her own thoughts. 
 
 Thus her beloved godson, Harrington, found her on 
 one of the last visits which he paid her ; the passage is 
 well known, and yet I cannot resist the temptation of 
 inserting it here. 
 
 “ I find some less mindful of what they are soon to 
 lose, than of what perchance they may hereafter get. 
 Now on mine own part, I cannot blot from my me- 
 mory’s table, the goodness of our sovereign lady to 
 
 me her watchings over my youth, her liking of 
 
 my free speech, and admiration of my little learning 
 and poesy which I did so much cultivate at her 
 command, her bettering the state of my father’s fortune 
 (which I have, alas ! so much wasted), have rooted such 
 love, such dutiful remembrance of her princely virtues, 
 that to turn askant from her condition ^ith tearless 
 
312 
 
 FATHER DARCr. 
 
 eyes, would strain and hurt the spring and fount of 
 gratitude.'^ 
 
 She was, as I have said, lying upon the raised 
 cushions, still dressed in her close and uneasy dress of 
 state — supported as best she might be; her melancholy 
 eyes fixed upon the ground, her finger upon her lips, 
 lost in thought, when her godson, so honest and affec- 
 tionate of heart and so cheerful of aspect, entered. 
 
 “ I found her in a most pitiable state — she bade the 
 archbishop ask me if I had seen Tyrone? I replied, 
 with reverence, that I had seen him with the Lord 
 Deputy (Essex). She looked up with much choler 
 and griefe in her countenance, and saide — 
 
 “ ‘ Oh now it mindethe me that you was one who 
 saw this man elseiohere' 
 
 “ And hereat she dropped a tear, and smote her 
 bosom. She held in her hande a golden cuppe, which 
 she often put to her lippes, but in sooth her heart 
 seemeth too full to lack more filling. 
 
 ‘‘ Her majesty enquired of some matters which I had 
 written, and as she was pleased to note my fancifull 
 brain; I was not unheedfull to feed her humour, and 
 read some verses; whereat she smiled once, and was 
 pleased to say — 
 
 ‘‘ ^ When thou dost feel creeping time at thy gate, 
 these fooleries will please thee less. I am past my relish 
 for such matters — thou seest my bodily meat doth not 
 suit me well. I have eaten but one ill-tasted cake since 
 yesternight.’ ” 
 
 The powers of nature were fast giving way under 
 the weight of years, and that melancholy inexpressible 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 313 
 
 ^ whlcli attends upon old age — that melancholy without 
 alleviation as without hope — the melancholy of de- 
 ceived expectation and disappointed kindness. 
 
 Oh, grave ! — oh, death ! — thou whom the sprightly 
 prince of courtiers* in his graver moments considered, 
 not as the spectral king of terrors, but as a grave ma- 
 jestic woman opening her kind arms to shelter the 
 unhappy — Oh, death! — take the aged to thy bosom 
 before the illusions of the heart are altogether dis- 
 pelled. 
 
 Why dost thou linger? Take this royal sufferer- 
 take this mournful woman — take this feeling heart 
 which now overflows with bitterness — take her, take to 
 thy rest. 
 
 * The Prince de Ligne. 
 
314 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 “ Nothing can come of nothing.” 
 
 K, Lear. 
 
 It is over — she is gone. 
 
 She lies cold and statue-like upon her bier. Like 
 many wise, many great, many good, she is gone; and 
 the world, the careless, thoughtless, heedless world, 
 unmindful of its treasures as they disappear, of its 
 heroes as they sink behind the dark curtain, turns 
 gladsome and full of acclaim to salute the successor. 
 
 “ For time is like a fashionable host ; 
 
 That lightly shakes the parting guest by the hand, 
 
 And with his arms outstretched as he would fly, 
 
 Greets the new comer.” 
 
 James is coming — 
 
 A new king is coming — a young man instead of an 
 old woman is to reign over us. 
 
 It is sufficient that he is new — why do you trouble 
 yourself about his other qualities? 
 
 The noise of his gratulation spreads from the silver 
 Tweed to the surging Thames. All England is aroused 
 — all England is in an ecstasy and delirium of hope and 
 joy — and for what? 
 
 They might have asked themselves for what. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 315 
 
 The narrow-minded, pedantic, precise, learned, selfish, 
 vicious, weak old youth — for though young in years and 
 wisdom, he is old in craft, he is like an old child — has 
 in his miserable self-opinionated wisdom, bound himself 
 by promises to all parties. 
 
 What matters good faith? — What matter pledges 
 given and received? — To secure a crown ! — A wise man 
 well practised in kingcraft, will twist all these people 
 round his little finger, to secure his crown ! 
 
 The Catholics, the Puritans, the English church, all 
 are glad and satisfied. 
 
 The church of England was the only member of the 
 party who found reason to continue so. She had taken 
 care to demonstrate to his kingship, that whatever his 
 predilections might be, there was no security for his 
 crown out of her pale. 
 
 The Catholics, however, had, as they thought, sure 
 grounds to expect that their condition would be greatly 
 alleviated: the time was arrived, the hour had struck, 
 when such alleviation would have been both politic and 
 safe. Attached to him for his mother’s sake, there was 
 a bond of affection and old reminiscence between them 
 and their sovereign — an advantage, which had his prede- 
 cessor possessed she would have found means to turn 
 to good account. 
 
 They had, moreover, as he had led them to believe, 
 his positive assurances that such should be his course of 
 proceeding, and that their turn was coming at last. 
 
 Animated by such hopes nothing could exceed the 
 joy and exultation with which they received the new 
 monarch. It was an honest joy, and an exultation, but 
 
316 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 too natural after all wliicli they had undergone. They 
 began to breathe, and they were allowed to breathe in 
 peace ; for their priests and directors, influenced by the 
 persuasion that the new king was in his secret heart a 
 Catholic, and a Roman Cathohc, indulged them for 
 once in the delight of being loyal. 
 
 They were permitted to enjoy for a brief space the 
 healthful, happy feeling of adherence to the govern- 
 ment of their country : for a short space they were 
 spared the harassing injunctions to separate them- 
 selves virtually from the society to which they belonged, 
 and to carry their allegiance in secret to a stranger- 
 They were no longer commanded to cherish a hidden 
 hatred against their government, to be concealed aliens 
 and traitors in the bosoms of their homes; they were for 
 once allowed to cherish the constitution and be faithful 
 to the king. 
 
 Loyalty is the natural leaning of the Catholic heart, 
 however distorted and perverted by the evil influences 
 of their priests it may become. It is the natural growth 
 of their warm and devoted feelings of religion ; of their 
 loyal allegiance to their hierarchy and their church. 
 Woe to the false prophets that pervert and mislead 
 them. 
 
 The merry bells are rin glng gladly, sounding from 
 steeple to steeple throughout the towns and villages of 
 England : bonflres are blazing in the streets : the walls 
 of the houses are hung with wreaths and garlands of 
 flowers : the people, in their holiday dresses, have set 
 out their tables before the doors, and are feasting with 
 their neighbours and friends. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 317 
 
 They are all friends now. 
 
 Sir Thomas Tresham, released from prison, has pro- 
 claimed the king in Northamptonshire. The Catholic 
 gentlemen in the several counties have come forward 
 to tender their allegiance. All is harmony, hope, and 
 
 joy- 
 
 Robert and a few others are still moody and dis- 
 trustful : but Thomas Percy, who knows the king well, 
 who has often visited him and been honoured with the 
 most confidential communications, labours hard to re- 
 assure them. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 C. WUITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE, STRAND, 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
FATHEK DAECY. 
 
 BY THE 
 
 AUTHOR OF “MOUNT SOREL,” AND THE “TWO OLD 
 MEN’S TALES.” 
 
 Oh Ballard, Ballard!— What hast thou done ?— A sort of brave youths 
 otherwise endowed with good gifts, by thy inducement hast thou brought to 
 this utter destruction and confusion.” 
 
 The Lord Chancellor Hatton's Address — State Tryals, 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 CHAPMAN AND HALL, 186 , STRAND. 
 
 1846 
 
“ What the loftinesse of the argument requireth, I confesse with 
 sorrow I have not performed: yet have I willingly bestowed what 
 pains I have been able. I have neither in other works, nor yet in 
 this, in any sort satisfied myself. Neverthelesse, I shall hold myself 
 recompensed to the full, if by my ready willingnesse to preserve the 
 memory of things, to relate truths, and to train up men’s minds to 
 honesty and wisdom, I may find a place for a time, amongst the 
 petty writers of great matters.” — Camden, Introduction to the Annals. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I have read in the marvellous heart of man, 
 
 That strange and mystic scroll, 
 
 That an army of phantoms vast and wan 
 Beleaguer the human soul.” 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 How beautiful were once the midland counties of 
 England ! They are beautiful still, in spite of the ter- 
 jible rage for agricultural improvements, which, like so 
 many other most excellent improvements, will end at 
 last, I fear, in driving the lover of simplicity and nature 
 well nigh distracted. 
 
 How beautiful were those high wild hawthorn, maple, 
 and hazel hedges, with their shaws, and their wild 
 flowers, toppling fantastically round the rich pasture 
 fields — one mass of flowers. How beautiful those lon^: 
 deep grasses — I suppose we ought to call them coarse — 
 all golden with king-cups, and gleaming with white 
 and purple orchises, cowslip, and fcatliercd meadow 
 sweet; and those large hemlock kcxes, as some call 
 them, spreading their white umbels to the wind ! 
 
 In many parts of the country these beauties have 
 altogether disappeared. The hedges are trim and com- 
 pact, the fields arc covered with fine well-weeded turf ; 
 
6 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 the cows are majestic and plump; the sheep of the im- 
 proved Leicester. It is all very much as it ought to be : 
 but that wild fantastic charmer, Nature, is sadly spoiled 
 to some of us, under this her new character. Yet the 
 midland counties are excessively lovely, and in 1603 
 they must have been more wild and lovely still. There 
 lived one, who had left her father’s home not many 
 years before, the happiest of brides ; and was now the 
 happiest of young wives, living with the tenderest and 
 kindest of husbands, at his family abode of Dry Stoke, 
 or Stoke Dry, as it is now called, upon the borders of 
 Rutlandshire and Northamptonshire. 
 
 J ourney ing along the last-mentioned beautiful and well- 
 cultivated county — its fertile valleys smiling with plenty, 
 its steeps crowned with long sweeping lines of woods — 
 you arrive at last at a range of hills, crowned by the 
 majestic edifice of Rockingham Castle, which wall in, 
 as it were, Rutlandshire ; and look down upon the little 
 romantic county beneath you — with its small bare hill& 
 intersected by basins and valleys, in which diminutive 
 towns, surmounted by their little churches, are nestling, 
 mostly surrounded by trees, and looking like so many 
 oases amid the bare green hills. 
 
 Upon a high hill opposite, as you descend the steep 
 road which traverses the small town of Rockingham, 
 stands now the village — and in 1603 stood the fair front 
 of the mansion of Dry Stoke — with its pretty little 
 church placed in a sort of duteous attendance by its side. 
 
 Carry your fancy back: imagine it to be a sweet 
 evening in May, when you descend the road which in- 
 tersects the little town of Rockingham — standing as it 
 
rATHER DARCY. 
 
 7 
 
 stood then ; with its low hump hacked cottages, built of 
 clay, and held together by huge beams of native oak ; 
 clustered over with wild briar and honeysuckles ; the 
 little primitive gardens around laid out with “ Cockle 
 shells and muscle bells, and daisies all in a row.” 
 
 Every thing about these little dwellings bespeaks the 
 character of the times ; imaginative, not luxurious; 
 thrifty, industrious, persevering, and simple. The long 
 reign of peace under which England has flourished, has 
 diffused abundance and comfort among these little habi- 
 tations. 
 
 Of the mansion of Dry Stoke, save a small portion of 
 the stabling, scarcely a wreck remains. 
 
 Of the house, the fair proportions of which may be 
 guessed at by the character of a few remaining frag- 
 ments of walls, hardly one stone lies upon another; 
 its gardens, its terraces, may be imagined rather than 
 traced ; the besom of destruction hath swept over what 
 was once the abode of the brave and the good, and the 
 wise ; and dark traditions of desperate crime, and 
 dreadful retribution, hang round its yet existing monu- 
 ments. 
 
 In the little church hard by, may still be seen the 
 magnificent tomb erected to the memory of the grand- 
 father of Everard, who was the immediate successor. 
 And in a little deserted chapel, all broken and defaced, 
 a marble effigy, with a horrible tradition attached to it is 
 said to be his own — but that is, I believe, a popular 
 error. His dust is resting elsewhere. The handsome 
 features and fine proportions which characterised the 
 
8 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 DIgby family, may be traced in the magnificent-looking 
 warrior, extended upon the grandfather’s monument 
 in the church. 
 
 The house of Dry Stoke, when it existed, crowned the 
 hill, and looked upon the opposite steeps of Rockingham 
 Castle. There is still remaining one of those lonof 
 
 o o 
 
 underground passages, used for communication between 
 the different houses of the Catholic families, to aid in 
 the concealment of their priests : it is said to communi- 
 cate with the mansion called the Holt, about two miles 
 distant, which is still in the possession of the ancient 
 Catholic family of Nevil, 
 
 The large manorial pigeon-house which belonged to 
 the domain, was, some few years ago, still in existence; 
 and if we may believe the report of the country people, 
 testified to the magnificence of the house to which it once 
 belonged. 
 
 We must not, however, imagine it to have been as 
 splendid as those of Goddeshurst or Rushton ; for the 
 fortunes of this branch of the Digby family, though 
 plentiful, were not magnificent. Every thing around 
 the domain, however, was handsome, and bespoke that 
 sense of good order, dignity, and propriety, which 
 seemed to attach as an hereditary distinction to their 
 race. 
 
 Everard, in the bloom of opening manhood, and in 
 the enjoyment of the highest domestic felicity with his 
 Evelyn, had commenced a career of active duty and 
 generous benevolence, which has rendered his memory 
 still dear. The sweetness of his temper, the kindness of 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 9 
 
 his heart, the purity of his conduct, and his deep sense 
 of religion, rendered him a mark for the love and vene- 
 ration of all mankind. 
 
 His happy wife, thus writing to a beloved friend of 
 her youth, describes life as it fleeted peacefully by at 
 Dry Stoke. 
 
 “It is a strange fantastic old hall, that which 
 we live ; but it is full of charms for me. The house 
 may be called modern in comparison to some we 
 know, though ancient when contrasted with Goddes- 
 hurst. It is a quaint peaked sort of a thing, with such 
 an innumerable quantity of windows of all shapes and 
 sizes, that, when the sun glitters upon it, it looks like a 
 coronet of jewels. It is rich and somewhat grave, but 
 not gloomy, an amiable sort of looking home after all. 
 
 “ The interior is a complete wilderness ; one ought to 
 have it regularly mapped; I, for one, do not attempt to 
 understand it; such intricate narrow passages, such little 
 cells of rooms, with huge projecting chimneys, which 
 perplex me beyond measure. Many of the rooms 
 seem really half wall. People must have had a dreadful 
 fear of being overheard when they erected such prodi- 
 gious barriers between their apartments. These thick 
 walls are the only things I really dislike about my new 
 home; one hears such strange creeping noises, as it were, 
 within them from time to time. I used to complain of 
 these odd disquieting noises at Harroden Magna, and 
 I remember that Grace Vaux always looked displeased 
 
10 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 and embarrassed when I spoke of them. One could 
 almost be led to believe in ghosts. 
 
 ‘‘ Rats and mice, they say; but this odd stealthy foot- 
 step sort of noise, is not like those little tripping beasts 
 at all. I could fancy I hear garments rusthng in a 
 strange, mysterious manner when I am alone in the 
 house, my husband out, and Fabian not at hand to 
 make me laugh at such things. I wander about, looking 
 at the ancient pictures, and the grotesque old furniture 
 of this palace of ours, till I could fancy these fine old 
 ancestors of Everard’s were steahng about and whisper- 
 ing behind the arras. 
 
 “ It would be really frightful — if it were not in truth 
 so evident a fancy of my own after all; for if I once 
 seriously set myself down to listen, nothing can I ever 
 hear, but the wind swaying among the oaks and elms, 
 a cuckoo calling, or a blackbird whistling. Indeed, I 
 have only to open my window and look out, and all is 
 as cheerful as May-day. It is such a pretty sort of 
 view, quite different from Northamptonshire. Such a 
 tiny miniature imitation of a wild country, in these 
 little hills swelling around with their pretty valleys, and 
 nesthng villages. Then the sound of bells from the 
 different churches comes up so cheerily — and the whole 
 scene is so full of that rural life which is my delight. 
 Sometimes I see the plough with its heavy yoke of 
 noble oxen slowly plodding over the fields, the little 
 ploughboy whistling as he smacks his huge whip ; or I 
 hear the milkmaid merrily singing as she trips along, 
 her full pail carried daintily upon her head ; now a 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 11 
 
 heavy wain comes thundering down this hollow way 
 through the village of Dry Stoke, then cocks are 
 crowing, and dogs are yelping, and herds are lowing — 
 it is so cheerful and so pretty ! 
 
 “ Oh ! it^s a lovely — lovely, happy world; and I, the 
 happiest, and most blest of created beings within it; 
 sent here, it would seem, by the great Creator, to be 
 set forth as a type and example of his graciousness and 
 his goodness; and think you not I am grateful? Do I 
 not? — in truth I do — offer my heartfelt thanksgiving 
 to him, the dread Almighty, and would fain enlist 
 every holy saint in the calendar, and implore the virgin 
 mother herself, to bear the incense of this grateful heart 
 to his awful and mysterious throne. 
 
 But, sweet Alice, I rave of all these outward things^ 
 and why do I not tell you of him, the lord and master 
 of this foolish heart ? the Adam of this earthly paradise 
 — Adam, no — for he fell; say rather, the angel of this 
 Heaven upon earth. My brave, my beautiful, my wise, 
 my honoured husband ! He is so beautiful that men 
 forget to speak but of his beauty; he is so gentle, kind, 
 and good, that hearts dwell only on his goodness; he is 
 so brave, that one forgets every thing, but pride in 
 that; he is so temperate and wise, that everybody seems 
 to seek of him advice. And then he loves me ! this 
 man — this angel, loves his poor Evelyn to doting — to 
 folly — ah ! no, no, no — never will I give him cause to 
 love his Evelyn so. 
 
 He is, as I have told you, of a lofty presence, tall, 
 and nobly formed, yet not awful looking; his hair is 
 
12 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 of a beautiful brown ; his large pure gray eye^ deep and 
 gleaming; his tone of voice is like music; every one 
 reveres and honours him, yet no one seems afraid of 
 him. As for me, I sit by his side his arm over my 
 shoulder, and prattle to him by the hour; the talk, 
 indeed, is all my own — a thing I fear we foolish 
 women love too well; for his words are few, fall- 
 ing now and then like water drops, as if just to keep the 
 clack of the wheel agoing ; but then there is such gentle 
 love in his eyes — Oh ! I am only too exquisitely happy. 
 
 ‘‘I hope, I hope he is happy too; but he is of a 
 more serious temper than I am, naturally thoughtful, 
 perhaps somewhat of a melancholy turn — silent, reflect- 
 ing, and tranquil; but -when the talk turns on brave 
 and generous deeds, on self-sacrifice or martyrdom, in 
 the cause of the suffering and the oppressed — then, you 
 should see his eye flash, and his cheek kindle ; though 
 he rarely even then says any thing ; and perhaps these 
 flashes of the spirit are only revealed to eyes observant 
 as mine. 
 
 Indeed, since we have been married, and things 
 have gone on so much in many ways as my father and 
 Mr. Warner would have desired, my Everardhas seemed 
 rather like one who has done with the perplexing business 
 of this world, and who has taken up the part of quiet 
 observer. 
 
 “ Do you know, foolish that I am, there are moments 
 when I could almost regret this. So great a favourite 
 as he was with our poor old queen — and so well fitted as 
 he is to adorn a court, and advise a government, I could 
 
FATHER DARCT. 
 
 13 
 
 almost wisli he would put himself forward before this 
 new king, and assume the place that befits his genius. 
 
 “ But he only smiles in a sort of doubtful, half serious 
 manner^ when I say so; and bids me mind my nursery. 
 We do not, indeed, often talk of those points which 
 occupy the minds of so many. My lamented father 
 and dear, good Mr. Warner — the peace of Heaven be 
 with them both — brought me up to think in many 
 things differently from most of my Catholic friends; 
 and though Sir Everard agreed with them in much, 
 yet there was always a reserved corner, as it may be 
 said, in his mind. Some would not like this, but to 
 me there appears a dignity in this reserve ; and a 
 mystery which adds a strange and deep interest to my 
 passionate affection. 
 
 “ My father and Mr. Warner were both anxious at 
 first, I know, with respect to Sir Everard’s opinions; 
 but the more they knew of him the more they loved 
 him; and when, soon after our marriage, we together 
 closed my honoured father’s eyes, his last look, and his 
 last breath were full of blessings upon us both, and of a 
 calm satisfaction as to the hands into which he had 
 committed his too tenderly prized daughter. 
 
 “ Sir Everard, I believe, views many things in a 
 different light from that in which my father instructed 
 me to regard them ; but if it be so, he preserves a silence 
 upon these matters. Perhaps he thinks it an honourable 
 engagement to my father not to interfere with my 
 ways of thinking in such things : however it may be, 
 this comer of his heart and counsels is a sealed chamber 
 
14 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 to his Evelyn ; and Heaven forbids he should too curi- 
 ously desire to pry into that -which it is his wish to 
 withhold. 
 
 ‘‘ We do not see much of company in this dear home 
 of ours; Everard takes little part in the festivities and 
 sports which interest all the young gentlemen around; 
 much feasting, and above all drinking, are his abhor- 
 rence. A very few gentlemen, old friends of his, are 
 the only people that visit us. 
 
 “ Of my own old friends, the beauteous Eleanor (of 
 whom more anon) is very much with us; but Grace 
 Vaux we seldom see. She has taken a part — a saintly, 
 holy part — which all ought to reverence if they cannot 
 imitate; and, disdaining the idle toys of life, and reject- 
 ing its sweetest and dearest enjoyments — alas ! poor Grace 
 — ^is devoted to the service of the suffering church. She 
 and Mother Anne are seldom seen; their hours are 
 employed in secret ministrations, the object of which I 
 do not quite understand — but of which, all who do 
 speak, speak with awe and reverence. As for Eleanor ! 
 — that is a piteous tale — I do not know what to say. It 
 is not for me to judge — indeed, so closely does she 
 shroud her heart in silence, that it is wrong perhaps to 
 attempt it. There is one comes here — that dangerous, 
 that strange, and fascinating man . . . The influence 
 he exercises over all, is inexplicable — is frightful: he 
 seems to bewdtch every one who approaches him, but 
 me. When he enters, first the colour flushes to her 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 15 
 
 very foretead, then it dies away till even her lips are 
 white — nay blue. 
 
 “ And yet, let him but go up to her; speak to her 
 in that strange, interesting manner that he has — Oh, 
 the dissembler ! — the dignified, the noble dissembler ! — 
 No being upon earth but my watchful self, could dis- 
 cern what is passing within her heart. Soon he turns 
 away, careless as one intent upon far deeper and more 
 serious things; and she retreats to the window, where 
 she sits in the deep recess, pretending to be busily 
 employed on that cushion which she is working for me ; 
 but I can see her hands tremble, and sometimes almost 
 could fancy I heard her heart beat. 
 
 ‘‘ Alas, poor Eleanor ! — what a wreck she has become. 
 — She who used to be as blooming as a rose — is pale, and 
 wan, and thin, and feeble; and then her brother’s ten- 
 derness — as he places her sick hand upon his arm, with — 
 
 “ ‘ What ails my Eleanor — who vexes my sweet 
 Eleanor?’ 
 
 “ And she who used to be so petulant you know at 
 times, seems now all gentle sadness, and kisses his hand 
 with a sweet humility, and bids him not heed her, 
 for it is only her way — she cannot help it. 
 
 ‘‘ In vain I try to win her to confession, that is the 
 only thing that makes her angry — she vows, so so- 
 lemnly, Alice — (if she be net sincere, it is sad to hear 
 the young creature say it) — vows so solemnly that 
 there is no cause for all this hidden sorrow — that I 
 cannot, ought not I should say, to disbelieve her. 
 She one day, by her vehement entreaties, wrung from 
 me a promise that I would never mention my suspi- 
 
16 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 cions to her brother ; she told me that to know he 
 entertained them, was all that was wanting to kill her. 
 
 “ I was forced to pacify her by this promise — so 
 there is another little confidence prevented between us; 
 but- we speak of her fading health together, and plan 
 all that can be thought of for her restoration. But 
 alas ! alas ! — Let us say no more of this. 
 
 I cannot think it right or justifiable in Robert — 
 Mr. Catesby as we should call him. He ought to be 
 more circumspect : he ought not to come to Dry Stoke 
 so much, if he suspect — and can he help suspecting the 
 true state of things. I wish Sir Everard were not so 
 bound to Mr. Catesby, and yet can I marvel ? Even 
 I — had I not my own secret reasons to the contrary, 
 should find it impossible to resist the charm which 
 hangs round this strange, mysterious man. 
 
 “ Mr. Catesby is a very different person from the 
 Robert we used to meet at the Lord Vaux’ years ago. 
 Then, you recollect what a wild, spirited, reckless sort of 
 person he was — extremely clever, but so impetuous and 
 so violent! So young of his years we thought him 
 then — for he is really at least ten years older than Sir 
 Everard — but Sir Everard was more subdued in his 
 manner, and appeared to have more reflection, one 
 should almost say experience of men and things, than 
 he; but now he is very much altered; Mr. Catesby 
 looks old of his years, his brow is thoughtful, and his 
 manner grave ; he seems, indeed, much occupied by 
 his own thoughts. Speaks little — and when he speaks 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 17 
 
 it is in an abrupt, somewhat rough manner — still there 
 is so much character, so much plain manly strength in 
 every thing he says, that, I believe for that reason, 
 his roughness seldom displeases. You recollect how 
 much feeling there was at times in his face, even in 
 those wild days. There is at times the same character of 
 deep, deep feeling still : though it is very seldom called 
 forth. He loves Everard very much I believe, and 
 Everard loves him, with all the love of a brother. 
 
 “ As for poor Eleanor . . . but I have said I will 
 have done with that painful subject. 
 
 “ You know Francis Tresham of old. He is one who 
 ^comes much to this house — and the two Mr. Wrights 
 of Plowlands, Mr. Winter, and Mr. Rook wood. 
 These two last I like exceedingly. Mr. Winter is a very 
 complete gentleman, much practised in the world’s 
 affairs, and yet extremely simple and affectionate in 
 his manner: you could scarcely imagine he had ever 
 been a courtier. Mr. Rookwood, too, is very much 
 respected. But I do not like the two Mr. Wrights; 
 there is something very coarse and vulgar in their 
 countenances; and Christopher is such a huge, rough, 
 disagreeable sort of a man ! 
 
 “ However, altogether, with a few others, they make 
 a very pleasant party. Sometimes one or two gentle- 
 men, strangers to me, join us ; they are assuredly 
 men of exquisite address and manners, who have evi- 
 dently seen a great deal of the world; and they seem 
 €0 clever, and there is something so insinuating in 
 their tone, that it is impossible not to feel flattered 
 VOL. II. B 
 
 f 
 
18 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 by their attentions. Many of them speak with a slight 
 foreign accent — I have my thoughts upon these sub- 
 jects, but I keep them to myself; and did I not send 
 this by a sure hand, and were not better times opening 
 upon us — I would not venture to go thus far with you. 
 
 ‘‘It is remarkable, that distinguished as these gentle- 
 men are by the sweetness of their manners, they have 
 mostly such common names; none of them seem to be 
 men of family ; though there is one to whom all pay very 
 great respect^ I perceive. He is a very fair and hand- 
 some man, with a smooth and pleasant address, and 
 pays most particular attention to me as mistress of the 
 house. Whenever he is here, Eleanor seems to be 
 happier, and a little better; and to rouse from her 
 deep despondency; but then when he is gone, she is 
 worse than ever. Almost all the gentlemen, and my 
 husband among the rest, are in high spirits at the new 
 prospect of things. King James is expected to cross 
 the border to-morrow, and vast preparations are making 
 wherever he is to pass by. The bells in the little 
 churches around are ringing merrily: and there will 
 be bonfires and pitch barrels upon all our Rutlandshire 
 hills to-night. 
 
 “ They talk openly now of religion, and of the holy 
 sacrifice of the mass ; and seem to think that the 
 priest’s chamber over the porch of our little church 
 will soon have a new inhabitant. In short, that those 
 churches which belong, as this does, to the estate of a 
 CathoHc gentleman, and which have been erected by 
 his own ancestors, shall be restored to the true faith. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 19 
 
 ‘‘ I know not how this may he — but this I know — 
 my heart shall bless God when all is open and above- 
 board, and there is an end to a sort of cloudy mystery 
 that hangs over things, I can’t quite explain to myself 
 where or how.” 
 
 My sweet Alice — is it possible? Another anniver- 
 sary of my wedding-day. 
 
 What a happy year this has been; it has been like 
 the restoration of poor pent up prisoners to light and 
 air. It seems to me as if every bosom breathed more 
 freely — every heart beat lighter. 
 
 Those terribly oppressive fines which lay so heavily 
 upon those whoso consciences would not allow of 
 attendance at the heretic worship, have been all re- 
 mitted; mass is celebrated in the gentlemen’s houses — 
 not altogether openly it is true, but still as it used to 
 be at Goddeshurst, and as I have never till lately seen 
 it here ; without terror and precaution — but in confi- 
 dence that it will be connived at. 
 
 “ The anxious brow of my Everard seems to have 
 resumed more than its first serenity. He is cheerful 
 and satisfied — and we are so happy. 
 
 I wish you could see your Evelyn sitting upon the 
 old seat beneath the aged oak; her husband is sitting by 
 her, his head bent down intent upon his book ; at his feet 
 sits a little cherub — our boy, such a lovely creature ! — 
 and Everard loves him so. However deep in thought, 
 however occupied in study, he will have his little 
 B 2 
 
20 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Kenelm with him. The little fellow sits at his feet busy 
 with his play; then gets up, and clasps his father’s knees; 
 his father looks down at him, then on the other baby 
 in my lap, which turns his large blue eyes upon him ; 
 then he stoops down and kisses them both, presses my 
 hand, smiles with his own sweet serious smile, and to 
 his book once more. 
 
 I had forgotten one in our family group — EverarTs 
 brother, J ohn Digby. He is quite a youth, and but 
 lately returned from the place, I know not exactly 
 which, where he has been educated. John Digby is as 
 remarkable as the rest of this noble family. He is not 
 nearly so handsome as his brother, nor has he so sweet 
 and tender an expression of countenance, nor so much 
 elegance of form ; but there is a plain and manly sim- 
 phcity in his face and bearing, which pleases me ex- 
 ceedingly. 
 
 I have observed one or two things. 
 
 I don’t think he seems to be such a favourite with 
 those strangers I spoke of as the rest of them are. 
 And I observe when they are here he is extremely re- 
 served and silent; says scarcely a word, but seems to be 
 very attentive to all that falls from them. 
 
 “ I often catch him fixing his eye uppn that gentle- 
 man I described to you particularly, and whom they 
 call Mr. Darcy; and when the latter observes this, he 
 will suddenly turn round and look at John Digby in a 
 haughty manner that is quite remarkable ; it seems to 
 say, ‘How dare you presume to watch me?’ John 
 Digby turns away; but his countenance does not 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 21 
 
 change as I observe some of the others do, when Mr. 
 Darcy fixes that extraordinary blue eye of his upon 
 them. 
 
 “ As regards Mr. Catesby, there seems some feeling 
 of the same sort. Mr Catesby, who is so adored and 
 listened to by all the rest, does not seem to please John 
 Digby; but it is true he seldom addresses or notices 
 him — they rarely exchange a word together. 
 
 “ Now, farewell sweetest Alice. My messenger is 
 about to depart; rejoice with your Evelyn in the bright 
 days which lie before us; rejoice for each family of this 
 long divided land. We are now all once more to be 
 united in union and peace, and the dissemblings and 
 the dissensions, and the anxieties and the distrusts, are 
 henceforward and for ever at an end.” 
 
 So fondly believed the gentle enthusiast — but, alas ! 
 how vain and futile were her dreams. 
 
 The passions and prejudices of men were not so 
 easily to be allayed. That toleration for which she with 
 the good and amiable among her party sighed, was 
 denied by the fears and the prejudices of a rival 
 church. But even had it been granted under the 
 evil Influences which then prevailed among the Ca- 
 tholics in England, it would have been powerless for 
 the establishment of peace. 
 
 The Jesuits and the priests from the continental 
 seminaries, with the principal among the Catholic 
 young men who, having there been educated, had iin- 
 
22 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 bibed the like dangerous maxims, looked to nothing 
 less than an absolute supremacy for their church ; and 
 cherished the expectation, not only to be allowed the 
 free exercise of their religion, but to triumph and to 
 persecute in their turn. 
 
 The fierce spirit of their religion was as yet little soft- 
 ened; and their ideas on the subject of liberty of 
 conscience, as little enlarged. To recover the sceptre 
 of England, and to repeat the Marian persecution, was 
 the secret aim and hope of a great number of Catholic 
 gentlemen, and of almost the whole body of the priests. 
 
 Such views on their side justify in some degree the 
 jealousy of the English church, and their policy with 
 regard to their new monarch; but nothing can justify 
 the odious, deceitful double-dealing of the king himself. 
 His conduct excites detestation as unmixed as that of 
 the designing and cold-blooded priests. 
 
 We are now going to leave Dry Stoke, the peaceful 
 abode of domestic love and happiness, as displayed by 
 the artless pen of its good and innocent mistress, and 
 change to a very different scene. I am going to intro- 
 duce you to Ashby St. Legers, the abode of Mr. Cates- 
 by, 'whom you have already no doubt recognised as the 
 Robert of the former portion of this story. 
 
 King James has been in England not quite a year; 
 and certain rumours have been gathering with regard 
 to a change of measures speedily to be expected. 
 
 The Catholics, awakening from their security, begin 
 to look around with apprehension upon what is coming 
 next. While the bigots of the other party, for in all 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 23 
 
 religious dissensions there are bigots upon every side, 
 are rousing themselves from their state of inactivity, and 
 preparing for fresh persecutions, delations, and violences. 
 
 There is a house in Northamptonshire still exist- 
 ing, and externally very much in the same state, pro- 
 bably, as when it was inhabited by those I am about to 
 describe. 
 
 It is situated in the neighbourhood of a small village, 
 and surrounded by well- wooded hills and pleasant little 
 dales, but the house itself has an aspect somewhat 
 sinister and mournful; at least so it seemed to me when 
 I visited it. The gardens, which are upon a perfect 
 flat, and which still retain vestiges of their ancient walks 
 and terraces, and the large fish-ponds and stews, lying in 
 a meadow below, are all heavily overhung with trees ; 
 and the old ruinous gatehouse in black and white wood, 
 the little ancient church, where the brass monument of 
 the Catesby of Richard III.’s time is still in existence, 
 all carried to my imagination a something sorrowful and 
 gloomy; perhaps the result of those associations with 
 which my thoughts peopled a place, which by the po- 
 liteness of the present inhabitant I was allowed to visit. 
 
 The house itself appears to be of the same date with 
 many of the other handsome houses built by the Catholic 
 gentry, namely, about the middle of Queen Elizabeth’s 
 reign. It is handsome though not very large, irregular in 
 its shape, and adorned with those beautiful oriel windows 
 and ornamented chimneys, which render the architecture 
 of that period so rich and picturesque. But the rooms arc 
 
24 
 
 FATIIEK DARCY. 
 
 inucli less lofty and more gloomy than is usual in the 
 mansions of this date. There is likewise to be observed 
 that irregularity of shape in the exterior, those strange 
 projections and immense prominent chimneys, which 
 furnished the means for contriving those secret chambers 
 and hiding-places with which the house of every Ca- 
 tholic gentleman built at that time was provided. 
 
 The arms of the Catesby family are still to be seen- 
 over the porch and over the chimney-piece in the hall. 
 
 The crest a falcon, and the motto vae victis^ might 
 almost be thought prophetic of the destiny of the last- 
 of this ancient and renowned family. 
 
 The hall is wainscotted with dark oak, the panels of 
 which are filled with rude sketches of saints and martyrs^ 
 drawn in a sort of terra sienna colour which give it a 
 very lugubrious character. 
 
 Altogether, few things can be imagined more gloomy 
 and oppressive than was the appearance of Ashby St. 
 Legers in February of the year 1603-4.* 
 
 The evening was dark and stormy; the wind rushed 
 in loud blasts through the ancient trees which hung in 
 heavy masses over the garden ; the rain fell in torrents 
 and pattered heavily against the small diamond paned 
 and heavy stone mullloned windows; and the sun might- 
 be seen setting behind the church, just shewing one line 
 of golden lights under the blackest and most threatening 
 pile of clouds that ever obscured an evening of this 
 description. 
 
 It was almost twilight in the low gloomy chamber 
 into which I am going to introduce you. The room was 
 
 * The year then began in March. This is 1604 of our period. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 25 
 
 hung with very dark arras, against which, as if to add 
 to its melancholy, were suspended several pictures in the 
 very darkest Spanish manner, and in ebony frames : re- 
 presenting the tortures and martyrdoms of the various 
 saints of the Roman calendar. There was a black cloth 
 laid over the floor, in place of the carpets which were 
 by this time becoming pretty nearly universal; and 
 curtains of a purple, almost approaching to black , gave 
 a sombre richness to the apartment. A fire of immense 
 logs of wood was smouldering upon the hearth. 
 
 There were in the room a stern looking lady and two 
 young children. 
 
 The lady was clothed in deep mourning, and her silver 
 hair — silvered it would seem rather before its time — was 
 gathered under a dark hood ; her dress was severe in its 
 extreme simplicity, yet the materials were extremely 
 rich and handsome. 
 
 Her face had once been beautiful, in a grand and 
 haughty style of beauty ; her nose was prominent and well 
 outlined, her brow broad and expansive, her eyes large 
 and serious, her mouth rigid and firm, her chin, scarcely 
 so well pronounced as the rest of her features, straight, 
 but well formed; the expression of her countenance 
 at once terrible and interesting. The traces of deep in- 
 effaceable suffering and of anxious care, were there — 
 which might have rendered it almost sublimely inte- 
 resting, but for the stern endurance rather than 
 patience, the deep resentment bitter and ineffaceable as 
 had been the suffering, and the proud, haughty, unpl- 
 tying expression to be read there. 
 
 Tall and rigid in her figure ; her hands thin and de- 
 
26 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 licate, veined and sinewed in large knots and tendons^ 
 were clotked with a sort of black velvet mitten, which 
 displayed one large mourning ring upon the right hand, 
 and a small one encircling the wedding finger on the 
 left. 
 
 She was sitting in a large chair covered with black 
 leather by the side of the window, reading, in a book 
 bound, as such books then were, in black, richly orna- 
 mented with gold. 
 
 From time to time, the book, and the hand which 
 held it^ would sink into her lap — while her large melan- 
 choly eyes were fixed upon the dark heavy plumes of 
 some immense and gloomy fir-trees, swaying and heav- 
 ing in the wdntry wind. 
 
 The two little children that were in the room with 
 her were tw’o little boys, her grandchildren. Their 
 mother was dead; their father, the son of this lady — 
 was Robert Catesby. 
 
 The little creatures looked pale, and their features 
 were sharp and sickly; their large eyes were encir- 
 cled with that dark black ring which is a symptom 
 of early suflfering and decay; they were not clothed 
 in black as was the lady, but in little coats of dark 
 maroon colour, ornamented with silken fringes; and 
 their small open collars were of rich needle-work. 
 
 Their appearance was that of children carefully at- 
 tended to : but their looks were dull and almost terrified. 
 They sat crouching together in a corner of the room, 
 near the fire-place, playing at some little quiet game 
 they had found for themselves; whispering to each other 
 when they spoke ; and every now and then casting a 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 27 
 
 sort of fearful glance at the lady, and round the room, 
 which was now being wrapped in the fast closing 
 shadows of that dark and dismal evening. 
 
 The lady never turned her head to look at the 
 children, nor did she call for lights; she sat, as was 
 her custom, lost in her own melancholy and bitter 
 reflections, watching the gathering shadows of the 
 night that was stealing on. 
 
 She was a Throckmorton by birth: two near rela- 
 tions had been hers — loved and venerated with all 
 that force of affection which belongs to ardent tem- 
 peraments — the feelings strengthened by solitude, and 
 excited by the deep mysteries of religion. 
 
 Where were these loved ones now ? 
 
 They did not even slumber in a hallowed grave. 
 Tlieir severed heads, and mangled limbs, were yet 
 blackening in the winter’s rain and wind, upon the 
 battlements of the bridge of London. 
 
 Lingering imprisonment — a death under the horrid 
 sentence for treason — had been theirs. 
 
 And for what? 
 
 For rebellion — as that heretical government, admi- 
 nistered by a miserable, a godless usurper had styled 
 it: for glorious martyrdom, to the only true church 
 of Christ — as she esteemed it. 
 
 Never since that fatal day, though years and years 
 had since rolled by, had the rain pelted or the wild 
 winter’s wind howled round her roof, but that lady 
 had thought of those poor bodies of clay refused 
 a slicker in the earth’s kind bosom. It was a strange 
 perversion of feeling, but so it was. She shuddered 
 
28 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 for tliem, as if still sensible to disgrace and suffering; 
 and her never dying and bitter resentment, was fed 
 by tlie presence of tbe miserable recollections thus 
 presented to her mind. 
 
 Her husband, too! Sir William Catesby I — what an 
 existence had been his I — what years of imprisonment 
 in dark unwholesome prisons, exhausted by disease, 
 wretchedness, and misery I What years had been hers ! 
 — devoted as she was to that faith to which she clun^ 
 with a vehemence and tenacity only increased by what 
 she had suffered in its cause. She had lived oppressed 
 and impoverished, under the power of those whom she 
 had been taught to look upon, and did look upon, as 
 themselves only worthy of the torturing fire and stake 
 upon earth, and of the everlasting fires hereafter. Every 
 day brought its fresh source of sorrow and irritation, to 
 a mind neither chastened nor softened by sorrow — 
 alas I in what a different school from that of the man 
 of sorrows had she been reared! — every additional 
 suffering only gave fresh force to that deep, that in- 
 tense, that unmitigated thirst for retribution, call it 
 revenge rather, which agitated her bosom. 
 
 Her son, too, had disappointed her. 
 
 Vehement, passionate, desperate^, determined, as was 
 Robert's character, he had not appeared to sympathise 
 in his mother’s feelings. The early years of his life 
 had been passed in what appeared to be an utter in- 
 difference to all religion, and as an outwardly con- 
 forming Protestant. 
 
 The wild sports and extravagant excitements of that 
 still semi-barbarous age, seemed to occupy him entirely. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 29 
 
 The mother’s tears, remonstrances, and reproaches had 
 alike been unavailing. He was reckless and daring, 
 and there was a frank defiance of the opinion of others 
 in his disposition, which had early emancipated him 
 from all domestic control. 
 
 He ran his wild career, beloved, admired, and even 
 honoured by all his companions, for he had a high and 
 generous heart. His sword was ever ready at a friend’s 
 service — his purse was at every one’s command. 
 
 His eloquent tongue was prompt to resist oppression, 
 and assert what he thought the right. The influence he 
 exercised over those around him, amounted to a species 
 of fascination. He was adored by his intimates: and 
 few among them but would have been ready to lay 
 down their lives in his behalf. 
 
 Such gifts, had they but been tempered and disci- 
 plined by right principles of action, what might they 
 not have effected ! Alas ! how different had been his 
 teaching ! Of the reformed religion, though brought up 
 in outward conformity to it — as had been so many of his 
 day, and his father before him — he had, in fact, learned 
 nothing. It had proved but a species of atheism, as far 
 as regarded himself ; and as such he was easily taught 
 to esteem it with respect to others ; looking upon its 
 professors as, at best, but a set of heartless unbelievers, 
 such as he himself had at one time been. But his soul 
 was not of a nature thus to be satisfied ; he longed for 
 spiritual food : it was the passionate want of the spirit 
 in his day. Mistaken religion it might be, but religion 
 was still the leading interest of men’s lives. After the 
 first effervescence of youth was over, Robert Catesby 
 
30 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 had awakened to this want, this yearning, this hunger 
 and this thirst of the spirit — at first roused, it is true, by 
 the voice of that beauteous saint whom he adored — and 
 under a sense of his miserable deficiency, he had sought 
 Mr. Darcy, and from his lips imbibed — what should have 
 been the word of salvation, and the fountain of living 
 waters to his perishing soul. Unhappy man ! 
 
 He was reconciled to his religion, and had imbibed 
 all the false, casuistical, cruel, revengeful maxims, 
 which under that name of infinite power, had corrupted 
 and vitiated so many lives. And yet, even yet — the 
 mother was disappointed. 
 
 Though he had engaged in the conspiracy with 
 Essex, yet he had, during the last years of the old 
 queen, refused to lend his aid to any fresh plan of vio- 
 lence ; and, busied in the secret intrigues to which allusion 
 has been made, his confidence had been bestowed on 
 one only; and lately he had, following the injunctions of 
 his ghostly advisers, awaited in patience the accession of 
 the man from whose secret inclinations such vast hopes 
 were entertained. 
 
 Toleration — remission of the penal acts and of the 
 fines for recusancy — had been tacitly promised; and 
 larger indulgences, if not the restoration of their reli- 
 gion to the ascendency, implied. The’exact extent to 
 which the expectations of the Jesuits were carried is 
 doubtful; and it remains impossible now to decide how 
 far they were misled by the royal dissembler — or what 
 grounds they really had for believing th^t James, like 
 so many of his descendants, was in secret attached to 
 the Roman religion. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 31 
 
 However that may be, one thing is certain, that for the 
 last two years of the old queen’s reign, and the first of that 
 of James, the Catholics remained comparatively quiet. 
 And those who had suffered in their purses, or far more 
 severely in their dearest affections, under the late go- 
 vernment, awaited in a sort of gloomy patience, till 
 the miserable woman, and cruel usurper and persecutor 
 as they deemed her, died quietly in her bed; and they 
 were baulked of what they thought their just revenge. 
 
 Lady Catesby had felt this bitterly: her religious 
 principles had taught her to cherish, not to discipline 
 such sentiments. She indulged them with all that 
 pride of self-esteem which her mistaken views tended 
 to cherish. 
 
 The two little children who were now sitting in this 
 gloomy room with her, were those of Robert by his 
 early marriage : a union entirely formed upon motives 
 of family arrangement, and soon terminated by death. 
 The cljildren had remained in the care of the grand- 
 mother, and the heart of Robert devoted itself to Grace 
 Vaux. 
 
 The lady sits there at the window, watching the 
 heavy clouds rolling over the now darkening sky; 
 the night closes in, the wind again rises in its fury, 
 and roars round the house in the large open chimney ; 
 the rain again falls in torrents as if the heavens were 
 opened for another deluge; the poor little boys creep 
 and cower together; the lady, stern and melancholy, 
 heeds them not. 
 
32 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 An ancient gray-headed serving-man, walking with 
 a slow and cautious step, now half opens the door, and 
 looks in. Not a word is exchanged on either side, but 
 the lady responds to his mute questioning with a glance 
 — he retreats, goes outside the house, fixes the heavy 
 shutters, and bars them. The noise of closing windows 
 and doors, chains, bolts, and heavy bars of iron falling, 
 is heard through the house. 
 
 Then he enters again. 
 
 All is safe, madam, for to-night. I have sent 
 Richard with, the great ban dog to make his rounds. 
 Shall I bring the lamp, and summon you when all is 
 ready?” 
 
 Dt) so — set the lamp do\^Ti there.’’ 
 
 The small lamp casts a feeble light on that side of 
 the gloomy chamber, and falls full upon one picture, 
 u, horrible one, of a martyrdom of St. Bartholomew. 
 The poor little children, to whom that picture is almost 
 like a dreadful reality, look up at it with eyes terrified 
 but tearless, and then glance at the pale, awwful face 
 of their grandmother, which is to them almost equally 
 terrific: from time to time they cast fearful glances 
 into the corners of the apartment, shrouded to them 
 in what seems an infinite darkness. They have done 
 their little quiet play; they sit there motionless. But 
 when a loud sweep of the wind batters at the windows, 
 and roars down the chimney, then they start, crouch 
 together, and shudder. 
 
 Come here, both of you,” says the lady, in a deep, 
 awful voice. 
 
 They came creeping to her, and stood one on each 
 side of her knee. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 33 
 
 “ You know,” slie says, looking at tkem in a stern, 
 threatening manner, ‘‘ what is the punishment of those 
 who tell secrets? They go into a dark, dismal, black 
 pit, at the bottom of which are seething flames rising 
 and falling; and black devils with great wings and 
 great claws of iron are sailing up and down in the air; 
 the souls of wicked children who have told secrets, 
 are in their claws, and they plunge them down that 
 black pit straight into the fire. Do you know the 
 pain of fire?” and seizing each little trembling hand, 
 she held them to the fire till the children flinched, but 
 durst not move or cry out. 
 
 As soon as the pain was acute enough to make an 
 impression, she took them away, and sitting down 
 again, each hand in hers, said: 
 
 “ You are going with me to-night for the first time, to 
 hear the holy service of the blessed Virgin ; — the blessed 
 Virgin who loves little children if they are secret and 
 good, and sends a beautiful guardian angel with golden 
 wings to take care of them.” 
 
 The poor little children’s countenances brightened 
 up a little at this. 
 
 But j/',” in an awful tone, “ they are bad, and tell 
 secrets, she sends a great black devil to sit upon their 
 bed, and glare at them with his fiery eyes.” 
 
 “We won’t tell: indeed we won’t tell nothing,” 
 said the poor little ones, shuddering and shaking. 
 
 “ Suppose somebody asks you what you did to- 
 night?” 
 
 “ What must I say?” 
 
 “ You must say — ‘ I played with brother, and then I 
 VOL. II. C 
 
34 
 
 FATHER DARCT. 
 
 went to bed^’ — and if they say, ‘ Did you do anything 
 else?’ you must say, ‘ Notliing else,’ boldly, in a loud 
 voice — and to yourself you must say ‘but go with 
 grand dam’ — because nobody has a right to ask you but 
 granddam what you do : and so you are not to answer 
 them in any other way. Do you understand, you little 
 fool?” said she harshly to the younger one, who was 
 gaping and staring with all his eyes. “ You must say 
 as brother says.” 
 
 Say as brother says,” repeated the little innocent, 
 quite bewildered; — but the elder one understood liis 
 grandmother perfectly well. 
 
 And he said, 
 
 “Yes, granddam: and then that great black devil 
 shan’t get at us — ” 
 
 “ Not if you do as I bid you.” 
 
 “ That I willj granddam — ” 
 
 “Then there’s a brave boy: and here’s a picture 
 book for you — but you’re only to have it now and then 
 — I must keep it : for if the king should find out you’d 
 got it, he’d hang you upon his great black gallows: but 
 you may look at it now — there — there’s a picture of 
 that wicked queen, all in flames and screeching out for 
 a drop of water to cool her tongue — but she’ll never 
 have one single drop for ever, and ever, and ever. 
 Wouldn’t it be better to have your head cut off and 
 be a good boy, than to be like that wicked queen? ” 
 
 “ Wicked queen !” said the little one — “ look, brother, 
 at her ugly face, how funny she looks, ha, ha — ” 
 
 “ Ha, ha,” responded the other child. 
 
 “ There’s another. Who’s this gruff-looking fat man, 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 35 
 
 granddam, that the devils are pulling and hauling 
 about?” 
 
 He’s a dreadful wicked heretic, and his name’s 
 Martin Luther, — you’ll hear more of him when you are 
 older. See, he doesn’t hke to go — they’re pulling him 
 into the fire — ” 
 
 Oh how he kicks and jumps about — they’ll never 
 get him into the fire. I’m afraid. Oh ! I’m afraid 
 they’ll never get him in — all heretics must be burned, 
 mustn’t they, granddam? — Did they ever get him in, 
 granddam ?” 
 
 The little one was turning over the pages — he gave 
 a scream of joy — Oh! there’s one in; look, brother.” 
 
 The door opened again — 
 
 All is ready,” said the serving-man. 
 
 “ That will do;” and the lady, closing the book, said, 
 
 If you are very good and quiet and stand stock still, 
 while the very, very good gentleman you are going to 
 see is talking, then you shall see some more pretty pic- 
 tures to-morrow.” 
 
 So saying, and opening a secret drawer, disposed in 
 the window-sill so as to escape observation, she depo- 
 sited the book of pictures there ; then she took up her 
 breviary, placed it in a small pouch depending to her 
 girdle, and taking a child in each hand, left the 
 
 room. 
 
36 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 “ My hopes all flat, nature within me seems 
 In all her functions weary of herself; 
 
 My race of glory run, a race of shame 
 And I shall shortly be with them at rest.” 
 
 Milton, 
 
 They crossed the low and irregularly shaped hall, 
 dimly lighted by the lamp held by the old serving-man ; on 
 one side of it were two very heavy low-arched iron doors, 
 which opened upon steps leading to the vaults beneath. 
 
 As the black depth yawned before their eyes, the 
 poor children, relapsing into all their terrors, shrank 
 and held back; but the lady, grasping their little hands 
 as if in an iron vice, led them forward. Then giving 
 the hand of the youngest to the old man, and still 
 retaining the other in her grasp, she descended into the 
 gloomy cavity below. One small wax candle was burn- 
 ing before another low door, which, opening slowly, 
 displayed a large cellar, perfectly dark, except at the 
 further end, where was raised a temporary altar upon 
 which six wax candles were burning. The desecrated 
 crucifix — that pathetic emblem of the faith of every 
 Christian man, which priestly barbarity has rendered al- 
 most the revolting type of cruelty — stood in the centre 
 of the altar; an image of the virgin in silver below, and 
 a few small vases filled with everlasting flowers on each 
 side ; these were the sole ornaments. 
 
 No priest as yet appeared ; but the old serving-man, 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 37 
 
 relinquishing the hand of the little boy, who crept fear- 
 fully up to his grandmother and laid hold of her gown, 
 prepared to serve the mass, as it is called. Every part 
 of the large cellar, except what was just within the 
 range of the illumination from the altar, was in pitchy 
 darkness ; but in the doubtful twilight which skirted this 
 darkness, figures of men and women might be dimly 
 discerned, glaring like shades in the obscurity; which 
 however, was such, that it was impossible for any one to 
 recognise another. The lady with the two children ad- 
 vanced at once into the broad light in front of the altar; 
 
 ' she was the only person present, save the old servant, 
 that could possibly have been denounced by a secret 
 enemy, had such been present. 
 
 The blood of the Throckmorton ever despised danger. 
 The lady scorned to appear to seek darkness herself, 
 though the security of others compelled her to adopt 
 this means of celebrating the ceremonies of her faith. 
 
 It was a scene for a Rembrandt. 
 
 The broad light of the holy candles fell upon the cru- 
 cifix, the flowers, the silver image, and the velvet bound 
 mass book, all crossed and garlanded with gold ; upon 
 the rich carpet of crimson, blue, and gold, which co- 
 vered the two small steps which led to the altar ; upon 
 the bending figure of the gray-haired attendant, now 
 clad in the Levite’s black dress ; upon the tall dark lady, 
 with her black hood, silver hair, and large sparkling 
 eyes ; and upon the sweet faces, sliining curls, white 
 collars, and gold and maroon dresses of the two little 
 boys, who, pressing up against her black velvet gown, 
 
38 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 cast tlieir bright blue eyes with mingled terror and 
 curiosity around them. 
 
 There was a pause of a few moments. 
 
 Then — as if arisen from the earth, comins: no one 
 knew from whence — the priest, in his rich dress of 
 scarlet and gold, suddenly appeared on the steps of the 
 altar ; the voice of the droning serpent was heard issuing 
 from the darkness behind; and the mass was sung. 
 
 The service over; there was a sort of hustled rush of 
 garments, as of spirits sweeping by in the night wind j 
 the priest disappeared from before the altar in the same 
 mysterious manner in which he had entered; another 
 man dressed in black, the performer on the serpent pro- 
 bably, came forward, and every candle but one was 
 immediately extinguished. 
 
 The carpet on the steps was folded, the altar cleared 
 of its ornaments, every vestige of the ceremony disap- 
 pearing with the most astonishing celerity ; at last the altar 
 itself receded, and seemed to vanish into space; the steps 
 were taken up, and nothing but the one candle re- 
 mained, of what had seemed to the senses of the asto- 
 nished children more like the pageant of a dream, than 
 a substantial reality. 
 
 Their eyes were fixed upon the candle while their 
 little hearts beat fast with terror, panting with anxiety 
 to leave this den of darkness ; but they dared not utter 
 a word ; at last, after a few minutes had elapsed, a fresh 
 apparition presented itself — a fair and handsome gen- 
 tleman dressed in a riding dress of murrey velvet, with 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 39 
 
 high boots, and a high liat, tlie band of which was 
 fastened by a rich clasp of jewels, and ornamented with 
 a black feather, appeared standing upon the side of the 
 lady, and with an air of the most insinuating respect 
 ofiering her his arm. She accepted it without hesita- 
 tion; he took the hand of one little child, she of the 
 other; lighted by the serving-man, they again traversed 
 the vault, ascended the stairs, and entered the hall. 
 
 The children were here dismissed, and, attended by an 
 aged attendant, almost as terrible a looking person as 
 the lady herself, were carried off to darkness and their 
 little beds, — to lie, their hearts palpitating with fear, 
 their limbs bathed in a cold sweat, in all the agony of 
 terrified childhood, the dreadful denunciations of their 
 grandmother ringing in their ears, and the sketches she 
 had represented, dancing before their eyes : while the 
 lady and gentleman entered a small room very differ- 
 ently appointed from the one she ^:;ad been sitting in 
 before. 
 
 A large wood fire of cedar logs, then considered as 
 the greatest of luxuries, was, blazing in the open chim- 
 ney ; several sconces filled with wax candles burning on 
 all sides, filled the room with a beautiful white light, 
 under the influence of which, the rich hangings dis- 
 played their deep-toned colours to the greatest advan- 
 tage. A small sideboard of chased silver and gold 
 plate stood on one side; a small table covered with a 
 napkin of the most delicate whiteness, in the centre; a 
 plate of silver and one cover was laid upon it, and in 
 the middle of the table, as if preparatory to the coming 
 
40 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 supper, stood — a great delicacy then — a small salad, in 
 an elegant basket of crusted silver. 
 
 Two arm-cliairs were placed by the fire, covered with 
 dark green velvet. 
 
 The wind raged and roared, sweeping in gusts round 
 the house ; the rain still fell in torrents ; a flash of light- 
 ning once or twice shot through the shutters of the 
 hall^ and the thunder clattered round. 
 
 It was a night to enjoy the comfort of perfect secu- 
 rity, though the tranquillity which had been lately 
 experienced, was already somewhat disturbed by the 
 obscure rumours that were afloat; yet, upon such a night 
 as this, most assuredly no one would come near them. 
 
 The gentleman cast a glance of considerable satisfac- 
 tion round the apartment, and then sitting down by 
 the fire, took off his hat, and displayed a head well 
 covered with fine brown curls, and the regular features 
 and remarkable blue eye of Mr. Darcy, alias Farmer, 
 alias Whalley, alias Garnet. 
 
 He sat down in the chair prepared for him, almost 
 without waiting for an invitation from the lady, who 
 with an air of reverence and deference contrasting 
 strangely with her usual high and haughty deportment, 
 seemed to await his pleasure as if he were a being 
 belonging to a separate rank in existence to that occu- 
 pied by herself or those around her. 
 
 ‘‘ You have been more than enough careful for the 
 toil-worn wanderer,” said he, as he sat down, my ho- 
 noured lady — such preparations would be, methinks, 
 more befitting the felicitous heir of these highly-favoured 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 41 
 
 realms, tlian a poor, hard-taxed labourer in tlie church’s 
 desolated vineyard, like myself.” 
 
 My poor endeavours,” said the lady, are only such 
 as it is my duty to offer, when he, who perils life in the 
 holy cause, deigns to honour my poor house with his 
 valued presence. Oh sir ! it has been but seldom that, 
 favoured by the warring elements, and under the curtain 
 of the pitchy night, you have been suffered to wet your 
 lips with the waters of refreshment. Such I humbly 
 now offer, for you to snatch at, in this short interval of 
 danger and of toil.” 
 
 The speech seemed rather long and formal to Mr. 
 Darcy, who, to own the truth, having ridden many miles 
 that bad day, was exceedingly hungry, and most impa- 
 tient for his supper — the opportunities for ease and en- 
 joyment such as this, were certainly few in the life to 
 which he had devoted himself; and interruptions which 
 might drive him to his cold, narrow, and inconvenient 
 secret chamber, might arrive at any moment. He was 
 quite prepared to snatch the pleasures of life when they 
 presented themselves, though to do him justice, not 
 sparing of himself when called upon to endure its 
 sufferings or its labours. The various disguises which 
 he had found it prudent to affect, and the relaxation of 
 discipline necessary to maintain such disguises, had a 
 good deal secularised his feelings; and like a man some- 
 what more politic than devout, he considered it wise to 
 husband his strength and spirits by taking advantage of 
 every comfort and luxury whicli opportunity might 
 present, leaving the self-denying and ascetic course for 
 
42 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 superstitious zealots, whose genius fitted them for no 
 more important part. 
 
 So, dropping that air of dignity which became the 
 priest, he at once assumed that of the travelling country 
 gentleman whom he at the moment personated, and with 
 an easy air of gaiety and politeness said : I am greatly 
 
 beholden to your kindness and to this roaring night 
 likewise; but shall be equally so to the reverend Am- 
 brose, if he will please to let me taste of your hospitality, 
 for I own to the hunger of a wild huntsman.’* 
 
 The lady took the hint, stepped to the door, and 
 hastened the preparations of her household. 
 
 The Jesuit stretched himself before the fire; rubbed 
 his white hands; and inhaled with something like a 
 rapture of epicurean delight the comforts of a warm 
 blazing hearth, after a day such as he had passed. 
 
 The lady speedily returned, followed by her serving- 
 man ; a small supper consisting of all that she esteemed 
 as most delicate — and they were not ill cooks at that time 
 of day — was laid upon the table ; the hospitable hostess, 
 according to the fashion of the times, pressed and smiled. 
 Yet, even her smile of welcome had a something pain- 
 ful in it: pain mingled with every thing she thought 
 or did. When her guest was served she replaced her- 
 self in the arm-chair, opposite to him. 
 
 “ Does the Lady of Aslity take nothing this even- 
 ing?” said the guest, bowing courteously. “ Is ither plea- 
 sure that her grateful guest shall eat alone? — Will she 
 not render her excellent fare doubly excellent, by doing 
 him the honour to partake with him?” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 43 
 
 I have supped,” said the lady, your reverence will 
 excuse me. The bread on which my life is supported is 
 bitter. None of my friends will press me unnecessarily 
 to partake of it.” 
 
 Still upon the same theme,” said he, compassion- 
 ately, let the dead sleep, dear lady. The grave has 
 received its own, and better days may be approaching.’^ 
 “ The grave is hungry,” said she, it hath not re- 
 ceived its own. It yawns and gapes — the ravenous maw 
 of the sepulchre opens in vain. They have no grave. 
 Earth, holy earth, hath never received their ashes; they 
 are bleaching in the wind — the earth cries out for ven- 
 geance of the blood which she hath opened her mouth 
 to receive ; but there is no vengeance.” 
 
 Lady,” he said, the blood of the martyrs is the 
 seed of the Church ; they shall have better than ven- 
 geance — they shall have glory. Their blood hath watered 
 and we shall reap ; be comforted, lady,” he added in Latin 
 from the 37th Psalm: “ Wicked doers shall be rooted 
 out, and they that patiently abide the Lord, they shall 
 inherit the land.” 
 
 “ That bad woman died in her bed,” she answered 
 bitterly, “ and the excellent and beautiful of the earth 
 were mangled upon the cruel scaffold. Their spirits 
 seem to call upon me, they seem to haunt my footsteps, 
 
 crying, ‘ How long Lord, how long !’ While she 
 
 lived,” added she, “ there was a hope her blood might 
 yet atone for her cruelties ; but she has died in her bed, 
 and there ends retribution.” 
 
 “ And how did she die?” asked he, ministering to, in- 
 stead of correcting — oh false and blind leader of the 
 
44 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 blind — these criminal feelings. “ And how did she die? 
 Of a deep eating melancholy — a slow, agonising, consum- 
 ing poison — with a heart disappointed, an old age rendered 
 desolate by ingratitude and desertion. All her labours in 
 an unrighteous cause, which she covered with hypocriti- 
 cal pretences — vain. Her best friends impatiently look- 
 ing for a successor : her most faithful counsellors in the 
 grave before her : the blood of her best beloved streaming 
 from the scaffold. ‘ J ustus es Domine. God is a righte- 
 ous judge, strong and patient; he hath prepared instru- 
 ments of death, he sendeth forth his arrows against the 
 persecutors.’ Be comforted, lady, he that is mighty hath 
 laid his hand upon her. What would the assassin’s knife 
 have been in the comparison? When we torture on the 
 wheel,” with a dreadful sort of smile, ‘‘ the coup de grace 
 is the boon of mercy.” 
 
 She looked somewhat .... comforted ! 
 
 He took a glass of wine, lifted it to his eye, drank it 
 off, and then changing the subject, said, 
 
 I was somewhat surprised to see such young chil- 
 dren intrusted with the secret of our mass, to-night — I 
 would be loath to question your discretion ; but was this 
 exactly according to your usual prudence?” 
 
 ‘‘ Depend upon it,” said she, sternly, ‘‘ they will not 
 dare to utter a word — I have terrified them into silence. 
 Terror locks a child’s lips more securely than bars of 
 brass could those of riper years — I did it, and I had 
 resolved to do it : they shall not be brought up as their 
 father hath been, woe’s me ! — They shall not torture 
 this heart by their relapses into the deep darkness of 
 heresy — by the wild courses of their youth — or the 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 45 
 
 indifference of tlieir manhood. Father^ let them he 
 early reared in the sacred practices of their religion : 
 let their infant minds be filled with her terrors, and 
 dazzled with her glories. Oh! had his Father, — had I 
 done so with Robert I . . . . 
 
 She went on : 
 
 “ You, holy father, also understand so well the 
 rearing of youth — you know the necessity of early 
 habits of submission and piety. These little ones shall 
 suck in their religion as their mother’s milk : and learn 
 — if perish they must — to perish on the scaffold hke 
 the brave and the good before them: but never to 
 betray their teacher.” 
 
 “ You think so?” 
 
 ‘‘ Only try them, father — try them in every way 
 you can devise, and see whether even you — wise, able, 
 experienced in the human heart, as you are — can draw 
 one syllable from their lips beyond that which I have 
 permitted them to utter.” 
 
 “ I will try,” said he, as if satisfied with the idea, — 
 ‘‘ I will prove them — if they fail, one sharp punish- 
 ment, and to refrain from further confidences, will 
 suffice.” 
 
 “ They will not fall, and I shall have the satisfaction 
 of rearing them^ at least, in those practices I most desire. 
 The time may come, you would have me hope, when 
 these concealments will be at an end; and the church, 
 restored triumphant, will open wide her everlasting 
 gates, and receive her children ; then shall these little 
 ones walk with me, before the face of day, in the path 
 which I have chosen for them. But enough of them. 
 
46 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 May I crave your indulgence whilst I ask, wliat news? 
 for little reaches my secluded hermitage, and yet my 
 heart is wearying for intelligence.” 
 
 “ My informations have been for some weeks sus- 
 pended, many occasions having led me to the north; 
 the ways have been obstructed by the late snows : no 
 intelligences from the great city have as yet reached 
 me: but I go to Harroden as to-morrow, and shall 
 there learn how matters stand.” 
 
 His brow was contracted with a certain anxiety, as 
 he kept repeating, It is impossible to say — that king 
 is after all a poor, weak, conceited puppet — and 
 can faith be reposed in these fair hopes? Besides 
 I cannot gather there was any absolute promise 
 — which is a pity; for they say he is one who 
 holds by the fond superstition of a promise,” with a 
 sort of equivocal smile, yet, I cannot learn that he 
 actually gave one. But we must have patience and 
 watch the bearings of the times; something we may 
 hope must be done. He would scarcely dare — his min- 
 isters would scarcely dare, to add the exasperation aris- 
 ing from hope and good faith betrayed, to that accu- 
 mulation of wrongs with which we have at times been 
 rendered — almost — as those who have been drunk with 
 much wine — 
 
 ‘‘ Yes,” said he, taking up the fire tongs, and moving 
 the logs so as to increase the bright and beautiful 
 blaze, which gave to him, after his cold wanderings of 
 that day, a most exquisite sense of comfort; still speak- 
 ing as it were half in soliloquy to himself. 
 
 Yes, that is a secret, which, with all their political 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 47 
 
 craft, they have yet to learn — the power that lies hidden 
 in that very cup of bitterness which they have mingled 
 for us — that is our secret. They think the draught they 
 administer is a poison unto death — they know not that 
 it hath a faculty to excite the brain to frenzy. 
 
 “ But,” turning to the lady, who looked much ex- 
 cited, and whose eyes gleamed with a terrible inner 
 fire — “ patience — patience — it is the part of the church 
 to endure — and of her children to make their toilful 
 pilgrimage over the rough stones and brambles of this 
 mortal life, in silent submission to evils not without 
 violence to be removed.’^ 
 
 The lady seemed stung to the quick at this speech; 
 the mention of patience and submission to injuries, ex- 
 cited her to the last degree ; she with difficulty abstained 
 from a reply. The profound reverence with which she 
 regarded her guest, prevented such an indulgence. To 
 have given vent to her feelings in words, might have 
 tended to soften their intensity; this relief denied, they 
 seemed only the more deeply concentrated. 
 
 That was one other of these pregnant secrets pos- 
 sessed by the Jesuit. Lord Bacon has told us of the 
 perilous effects of sadness not communicated ; the mas- 
 ter in human nature now before us, understood as well 
 the terrible force of rage and hatred repressed, but not 
 corrected. “ We shall get something,” he said, with a 
 gentle suavity, which excited in his hearer something 
 of the feelings of the she-tiger, when she flings herself 
 against the bars of her cage, lashing her tail wdth 
 impotent rage; and with that we must learn to be 
 content. The fines for recusancy which pressed so 
 
48 
 
 rATHER DARCY. 
 
 heavily upon you all, have been remitted. And some 
 of the old mortifying and capricious statutes may be 
 repealed. Our part, it is true, will remain without 
 alleviation: the same toils, the same wanderings, the 
 same debasing concealments, the same perils by sea 
 and by land shall be our portion : but heed it not so 
 long as the flock is spared, heed it not so his will 
 be done.” And he bent his handsome head, and 
 devoutly crossed himself. 
 
 The lady looked at him with reverence and ad- 
 miration, but the hot colour was yet burning on her 
 cheek. 
 
 ‘‘ And vengeance ...” said she. — 
 
 “ Leave that to the higher powers — again I repeat it 
 — vengeance shall swiftly pursue them. ‘ The wicked 
 shall be turned into hell, and all the people which 
 forget God. Upon the ungodly he shall rain snares, fire, 
 and brimstone, storm and tempest; this shall be their 
 portion to drink.’ 
 
 But when?” casting up her eyes in a devout aspira- 
 tion — how long shall his vengeance be delayed?” 
 
 ‘‘ We do not know — we cannot tell. Perhaps not 
 in this world — but if not in this, rest contented. In the 
 next, swift destruction shall assuredly overtake them.” 
 With such consolation she was obliged to rest content- 
 ed; for the father, satisfied and replete with the good 
 things he had enjoyed, seemed more inclined to repose 
 himself in his arm-chair, and enjoy the genial warmth of 
 the fire, than enter into further colloquy with one, 
 whom he was rather apt to consider as a very narrow- 
 
 * Ps. ix. 17. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 49 
 
 minded, bigotted, and tiresome old woman. For be it well 
 understood, that though it was Mr. Darcy’s vocation in 
 life to provide the souls of others with a proper portion 
 of superstition and fanaticism in matters connected with 
 religion, yet he most carefully, in this instance, practised 
 the abstemiousness to which he laid claim in others, 
 and refrained from tasting of the exciting potion 
 himself. 
 
 The supper things had been cleared away speedily ; 
 for there was always a certain dread of surprises, and 
 every appearance of preparation for a solitary guest was 
 likely to create suspicion, and give rise to disagreeable 
 inquiries as to whom that guest might chance to be ; 
 but the hour was early, and the pair still continued 
 sitting by the fire ; the increasing violence of the storm 
 without, giving to the father a feeling of security from 
 interruption, for this one night at least, which was exces- 
 sively delightful. The weather indeed was so bad, that 
 he began to indulge the idea of enjoying a comfortable 
 night’s rest in one of the guest chambers, instead of 
 retreating to his narrow and miserable truckle bed in 
 his close and inconvenient priest’s hiding-place. 
 
 There was a blast like that of a tornado, which swept 
 round the house, and roared with inexpressible fury 
 among the branches of the huge pine and oak trees of 
 the garden. With that came a pelt of rain as if it would 
 drive the windows in. 
 
 The father listened with satisfaction to the wild 
 
 VOL. II. D 
 
50 
 
 rATHER DARCY. 
 
 uproar of the elements, and gently rubbing his hands^ 
 said: 
 
 “I crave your pardon, my honoured hostess, but I 
 will take leave just to hint, that a bed In the eastern 
 guest chamber might be ventured upon, perchance 
 
 if . . . 
 
 Hark,” said she, starting, ‘‘ what is that I hear — ” 
 
 He lifted up his head, and listened anxiously. 
 
 The blast swept again, surging loud and vehement as 
 the roaring sea past the clattering windows, but amid 
 the tumult, the voice of the large ban-dog, uttering 
 short watchful barks as if disturbed and restless, might 
 be faintly heard. 
 
 What is that ? — do you hear it?” 
 
 Tlie lady turned paler than ever, and rose hurriedly 
 from her chair. 
 
 The priest remained seated, still listening anxiously. 
 
 Again the furious blast shook the windows, but as it 
 subsided, the sound of distant horsemen might be heard, 
 and the ban- dog burst at once into a loud passionate 
 bark. 
 
 “ Even on a night like this,” cried she piteously,, 
 clasping her hands. Oh ! when are these persecutions 
 to cease? Even on a night like this, may we not rest 
 secure from the spoiler? Even this one night,” looking 
 at the priest, ‘‘ may not that reverend head be allowed 
 repose ?” 
 
 The galloping of horses was now distinctly heard, 
 and the huge bell over the porch rang violently. 
 
 “ Oh they come ! they come,” cried the lady, trem- 
 
‘ TATHEE DAKCY. 
 
 51 
 
 bling excessively, in spite of her known firmness and 
 courage. ‘‘Escape while there is time, this way; this 
 way the panel opens. The passage leads to the small 
 summer-house at the end of the garden, by that to the 
 fields; here is the key, lock it behind you when you 
 have passed through. Oh woe is me ! woe is me ! that 
 I am not allowed to offer shelter to that sacred head 
 even for this pitiless night.^* 
 
 The bell again rang passionately, violently, while the 
 blast swept hurriedly by ; but the bark of the ban-dog 
 had ceased. 
 
 “ List/' said the priest, “ the dog has ceased to bark, 
 he knows these comers, they are no strangers." 
 
 “ Oh trust it not, trust it not; escape and spare thy 
 precious, precious life. Hark, they are unbarring the 
 doors. Escape ! escape ! escape ! they cross the hall — I 
 hear the footsteps of men. Oh Holy Virgin ! it is too 
 late !’’ — the door opened. 
 
 “ It is my son !" 
 
 He came in, wrapped in his dark heavy riding cloak ; 
 his hat, in which was a jewel of great value, flapped 
 over his face. He threw off his dripping cloak hastily, 
 and flung it to the serving-man, displaying his rich dress 
 beneath; he then went up to his mother, saluted her, 
 and turning round, beheld Mr. Darcy; he advanced, 
 took his hand, pressed it, and said : 
 
 “ I expected to find you here." 
 
 He was greatly, greatly altered in the course of these 
 last three years; his fine expression of generous energy, 
 D 2 
 
52 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 thougli somewhat too whld and reckless, it is true, had 
 been exchanged for a strange and sinister expression, 
 which it was difficult exactly to comprehend. Force — 
 indomitable force was characterised in every feature; 
 but the eye that flashed so wdldly and so beautifully, 
 had assumed a dark and gloomy expression ; the brow 
 was cloudy, and the cheek pale. Great masses of 
 hair hung round his head ; cut, however, short, where 
 they touched the collar; and the lower part of his face 
 was entirely enveloped in his thick and neglected beard. 
 His dress was as usual, extremely rich and handsome; 
 though not fantastically cut and trimmed, as was that of 
 most of the gallants of his time. 
 
 The evil influences of those false principles of reli- 
 gion and morals, which he had imbibed, with all the 
 ardour of his vehement, not to say desperate temper, 
 were never more signally displayed than in the case of 
 this unfortunate man. 
 
 Resolute and determined as he was — by temper, a 
 daring despiser of the ordinary maxims which held in 
 check the men of his age, as far as civil society was 
 concerned — yet, did he possess a heart capable of all the 
 warmest and tenderest affections, and a conscience feel- 
 ingly alive to the suggestions of duty. The anxiety 
 wdth which it is known that he consulted his spiritual 
 advisers as to the justice of the steps he afterwards pur- 
 sued ; and the wicked policy with which they tampered 
 with, and misled that inquiring conscience; rest upon 
 evidence it is Impossible to refute. 
 
 His love, too, for Grace Vaux! — that tender and 
 gentle influence of natural affection which, if it had 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 53 
 
 been suffered to take its free course, might have harmo- 
 nised all the jarring elements within — how fatally, under 
 the management of these designing men, had it acted 
 upon his character. 
 
 Disappointed in his best affections — ^the tie which 
 bound this violent and energetic character to the huma- 
 nities of life, ruptured in the most cruel manner — he 
 had become what the Father Darcy had calculated 
 that he would become. Heart-sore, heart-hardened, 
 Robert Catesby had flung himself headlong into the 
 sea of political and religious strife and intrigue which 
 was then raging, and the dark waters had submerged 
 him. 
 
 Catesby had not shared in the hopes which had for 
 the present tranquilised the majority of the Catholics; 
 he had always distrusted the good faith of the king ; 
 he had always anticipated, in spite of the expectations 
 held out by James, and in all probability by Robert 
 Cecil, what the very reply on record of Bancroft, then 
 Archbishop of Canterbury, to the Catholic petitioners 
 implies: That the idea of toleration being extended 
 to the Catholics had only been entertained by the go- 
 vernment, under the apprehension that it might prove 
 too weak to maintain itself without their co-operation. 
 
 The claim of the infanta, supported by so powerful a 
 body, was a difficulty of considerable importance, to 
 obviate which was the principal motive for the king’s 
 duplicity. But all danger upon this head being done 
 away with by the treaty with Spain, which was at 
 length brought to a conclusion, tlic king found himself 
 at liberty to sacrifice their Interests, which he appears to 
 
54 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 have done without remorse, to the jealousies of the Puri- 
 tans and high church party in England. 
 
 What a spectacle is here ! — What a mystery of iniquity ! 
 
 A faithless king — a lying government — and, opposed 
 to them, a duped and desperate party and priesthood, 
 carrying on under the cloak of religion, a system of hid- 
 den revolt, maintained by equivocations, falsehood, ca- 
 suistry, and crime. 
 
 Oh, glorious truth ! — light of the world — sanctuary 
 of virtue — pure fountain of spiritual life — ^guide of the 
 human footsteps — strength of the human heart — sacred 
 candlestick in the temple of God — where wert thou 
 then to be found ? 
 
 The candle was extinguished, the light of gospel 
 truth obscured, and men were wandering darkling and 
 confused in that labyrinth of error into which their 
 faithless shepherds had conducted them. 
 
 Let one short reflection be permitted here, upon the 
 subject of persecution : with the practice of which those 
 of the reformed religion (though in a greatly modified 
 degree), have, by the Roman Catholics, been, alas ! too 
 justly charged. 
 
 We must not forget that the sixteenth century was the 
 offspring of the centuries before ; and that the sins and 
 errors wfliich stained the Reformation, must justly be at- 
 tributed to the false bias on the subject of the rights of 
 conscience, which centuries of misrule and false teaching 
 on the part of the Catholic Church had engrafted into 
 the minds of men. 
 
 The Catholic Church, which exclaims so loudly 
 against the persecution with which she was visited, 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 55 
 
 was herself drunk with the blood of the saints — she 
 had ever taught, and she still continued to teach, 
 doctrines the most exclusive ; and to sanction them by 
 the practice of barbarities at which the heart recoils; 
 and, while the reformers were struggling for existence, 
 this error in principle was not altogether exploded. Nay 
 is it altogether yet exploded, in spite of the efforts of the 
 wise and good ever since? 
 
 But let not the Catholics complain : so long as this 
 principle of exclusion is maintained in its full force 
 by themselves, they have no right to murmur if the 
 prudence of mankind hesitates to extend to them a 
 freedom, which, once restored to the ascendant, they 
 would be but too ready to deny to the rest of the 
 world. 
 
 A victim to these exclusive principles, to these 
 false views of Christian duty and Christian honour, 
 now stands before us : an example held out in fright- 
 ful notoriety to the shuddering ages. 
 
 Jealous, irritated, and impatient, he has ridden 
 down from London wdth his usual desperate speed, 
 to meet the priest whom he expected to find that 
 evening at his house, in order that he might be the 
 first to communicate the news with which his heart was 
 bursting. 
 
 The priest had risen, as I said, from his chair, and 
 had exchanged a greeting; he now resumed his place, 
 his eye fixed upon Catesby, with its usual expression of 
 calm but penetrating observation, studying his counte- 
 nance; much as a pilot questions the different lights 
 
56 
 
 FATHEPw DAPwCY. 
 
 and landmarks wliich are to guide him in his dubious 
 course. 
 
 The Lady Catesby, albeit she had little of the 
 tenderness of the mother in her composition^ observed 
 the rich sleeves of his dress to be dripping with the 
 rain, his cloak not having proved defence sufficient 
 during his rapid career. She laid hold of his arm. 
 
 “ You are wetted,” said she, ‘‘ let Ambrose look out 
 another garment, and shift yourself before you sit down 
 to your supper.” 
 
 He shook off her hand without speaking, approached 
 the fire, planted himself full in front, with his back 
 towards it, and turning to the priest, said — 
 
 I have news for you, father.” 
 
 Sq I anticipate, my son: you have ridden hardy 
 your news is of weight.” 
 
 “ News did I call it?” continued Catesby, bitterly. 
 
 Old news ! — For it will be old news to you, father — 
 Whalley, Darcy, Garnet, whatever your name be now.” 
 
 “ Darcy,” said the priest, appearing not to notice his 
 rudeness, for he well understood the man he was 
 dealing with. 
 
 Catesby went on — 
 
 “It is news, old as the hills to hear — that the 
 Catholics — the Papists^' with a bitter emphasis on the 
 word — “ are deemed unworthy to be treated with the 
 commonest good faith, or the commonest humanity; 
 are only to be flattered and betrayed like children; to 
 be kicked and spurned like degraded curs; that govern- 
 ments are treacherous — and kings as false as hell !” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 57 
 
 ' Tlie lady approached the fire-place, and stood in- 
 tently gazing, and the priest riveted his eye upon the 
 passionate speaker; both, however, continued silently 
 attentive. 
 
 “ Hear it!” he cried, ‘‘hear the intentions of our 
 most righteous, most sapient, most religious, most 
 honourable^ most trustworthy monarch, the spawn of 
 a beggarly Scottish nation, abandoned to atheism and 
 idolatry.”* 
 
 He tore rather than pulled a paper out of the 
 pocket of his doublet.f 
 
 “ Observe,” he said, with bitter irony, “ these 
 righteous intentions are declared in council published 
 by the Star Chamber, and signified to the good City 
 of London by means of her most worthy and worshipful 
 recorder and mayor. ‘The king’ — nay, mark me, I be- 
 seech you — ‘ The king had never’ — no, never I — ‘ the 
 least intention — not the intention of granting tole- 
 
 ration or indulgence to the Catholics.’ The damned 
 liar, the cursed hypocrite and deceiver 1 
 
 “ Not the least intention I Oh, Tom 1 — oh, Percy ! 
 wLere art thou, honest lad? What 1 thou wert a mere 
 schoolboy in the hands of this crowned rascal-pedant — 
 thou oughtest to have been flogged, my heart I What I 
 couldst thou not read dissembling and falsehood in his 
 very eye — his small odious animal eye — and in that 
 shuffling gait and lolling tongue of his? Thou oughtest 
 to have deciphered him on the first glance at his double 
 
 * The charge of idolatry we find perpetually urged by the Catholic 
 writers against the reformers — why, it might be difficult to say. 
 
 t “Butler’s English Catholics:” from Wiuwood these proclama- 
 tions are taken. 
 
58 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 countenance, a murrain on tliee, poor dupe, as thou 
 art, honest Tom T 
 
 ‘‘ Go on,” said the priest, calmly, I am anxious.” . . . 
 
 ‘‘ Aye, I cry your reverence’s mercy. I am become 
 a fool, I think, prating like an old scold; but — only 
 call on me !” 
 
 And an expression fierce and fiery agitated his fea- 
 tures for a moment; then he became more calm, and he 
 read on : 
 
 ‘‘ ‘ If he thought his son,^ our dainty Prince Henry, 
 that fiower of chivalry, ‘ if he thought his son would 
 condescend to any such course, he would wish the 
 kingdom forestalled to his daughter.’ To Elizabeth 
 II. W e are not worthy, it seems, to be ruled by men 
 — we must have women set over us. We have not 
 had enough of one she-devil, it seems.” 
 
 Go on,” said the priest; read on, I pray you.” 
 
 ‘ That the mitigation of the payments of the recu- 
 sant Catholics, was in consideration that not any one 
 of them had lifted up his hand against the king at 
 his coming in.’ The dupes ! — the fools ! — the asses ! — 
 the idiots! What measure can be meeted to them 
 that they do not richly deserve? ‘ At his coming ini’ 
 Oh I where were we then — when we might have 
 whipped that rascally king and his ragged troops 
 of beggars back to starve upon their hills I Fools! — 
 idiots ! — fools !” 
 
 I beseech you, Mr. Catesby,” said the father, as- 
 suming a certain quiet authority in his voice and 
 manner; ‘‘ let a truce be put to these passionate denun- 
 ciations of feeling, more worthy of some stage-player 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 59 
 
 in a tragedy, than of a Catholic gentleman and states- 
 man, and soldier. The night wears; the moments are 
 precious; invective is not action. Had there been a 
 few more silent but resolute thoughts in place of so 
 many vain and irritating words, we might have met 
 with different treatment; we might have imposed the 
 law we now receive. Of words come nothing — still 
 waters alone are deep.’’ 
 
 Catesby had long ceased to colour at the father’s 
 reproof, like a lectured schoolboy ; but at these words 
 the hot blood rushed for a second to his cheek, then 
 as suddenly subsided. He bit his lip under the thick 
 moustache which covered it ; — then gently crossed the 
 room; reached himself a chair; sat down by the priest 
 and in a tone as cool and subdued as it had before 
 been vehement, finished the reading of the paper he 
 held in his hand. 
 
 “ ‘ His hand against him on his coming in,’ — where 
 w^as I? — ^and so he gave them a year of probation to 
 conform themselves ; which seeing ii had not wrought 
 that effect — here he lifted up hisr head, and ex- 
 changed a sarcastic smile with the priest — ‘ which, 
 seeing it had not wrought that effect, he had fortified 
 all the laws that were against them — ’ ” 
 
 The lady shrank back, and cast up her eyes to the 
 ceiling in a sort of wild adjuration. Even the priest, 
 passive as he was, started. 
 
 Catesby, this time, was the least demonstrative of 
 the party; he read on, “ ffortijied all the laivs that 
 were against them^ and made them stronger (saving 
 
60 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 from blood, from -whicb lie lias a natural aversion),’ ” 
 — the priest and the reader once more exchanged a grim 
 smile — “ ‘ and commanded that they should be put into 
 execution to the uttermost^ ” 
 
 He folded the paper, replaced it In his pocket, still 
 maintaining the Impassive manner, which, at the reproof 
 of the priest, he had assumed. 
 
 The lady clasped her hands in anguish, looking round 
 the room in a sort of wild dismay. 
 
 The priest said — 
 
 And I hope all the Catholic nobility and gentry of 
 this land will find patience sufficient to bear these addi- 
 tional inflictions; that such may be the case, shall be 
 the object of my daily and nightly prayers.” 
 
 And he bowed his head. 
 
 But it was impossible to discern from the tone of his 
 voice whether he spoke ironically or not. 
 
 “ But our very existence is at stake/’ cried the lady, 
 in a deplorable voice, “ so bravely as we have struggled 
 against the overwhelming waters ! The vessel is finally 
 wrecked ! — and the cause irretrievably ruined !” 
 
 So many poor creatures, too, on whom these fines 
 press so heavily — indulgently as, w^e must confess, they 
 were in general exacted under the old rule — they will 
 now be deprived of their very bread,” said the priest, 
 compassionately. 
 
 But the eye of Catesby was flashing fire. 
 
 “Let them take the purse,” cried he, “mother! let 
 them take the purse ! who is base enough to regard 
 such considerations? No! if to save all that is dear to 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 61 
 
 me I were asked once to cross the threshold of one of 
 their cursed assemblies, perish house — perish estate — 
 perish all — they should go.” 
 
 Then turning to the father. 
 
 As for those miserable impoverished creatures of 
 whom you spoke, means may be found to sustain them, 
 that is, if they show blood enough, and feel their in- 
 juries as they ought; but I have more news for you, 
 holy father; will you hear it, or have you had enough?” 
 Nay, my son, I detest disguises,” said this prince of 
 deceivers, “ let there be no secrets between me and thee.” 
 ‘‘Nay, the matter is no secret, for it relates to another 
 proclamation of our Scotch Solomon, or Aristides; I 
 forget me which is the term in fashion at present, but 
 he merits both .... 
 
 “ They are at fisty-cuffs, as usual, in his own most 
 reformed church as it seems. But tliats not news to 
 you, or to me either; the establishment and the dissenters 
 are brawling, but our sapient monarch hath no fear but 
 by his wisdom he shall compose such immaterial diffe- 
 rences. ‘ But’ — saith this proclamation,” taking out a 
 second printed paper, and bending down to sec it by 
 the light of the fire, so that his face was concealed from 
 the priest. “ ‘ But a greater contagion to the national 
 religion than could proceed from those light differences, 
 was imminent by persons common enemies to them 
 both — namely, the great number of priests, both semi- 
 narists and Jcsulsts, abounding in the realm; partly upon 
 a vain confidence of some innovation in matters of reli- 
 gion to be done by him ; which he never intended, nor 
 (jave any man reason to expect'* 
 
 ♦ This proclamation is given by Butler: it is not in Winwood. 
 
62 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 ‘‘ I am not going to curse him again — the reptile!’’ 
 said Catesby, lifting up his head, “ I have nearly done. 
 ‘ He therefore commands all manner of seminarists, 
 Jesuits, and other priests whatsoever, to depart from the 
 realm, and never to return on pain of being left to the 
 penalty of the law without hope of favour or re- 
 mission.’ 
 
 “ I hope you are satisfied^ madam,” now turning to 
 his mother. Our new most gracious majesty, whom 
 preserve, will not be behind his predecessor of glo- 
 rious memory, in paternal care for his most godly king- 
 dom. . . . This will not take one jot of colour from 
 your cheek, sir,” turning to the Jesuit. 
 
 He spoke true ; the priest preserved all the usual 
 untroubled gravity and dignity of his demeanour. He 
 was a man of courage, and a gentleman; so far he did 
 no discredit to the very high place he held in his order. 
 
 But the lady looked at him anxiously, cast a hurried 
 glance round the apartment as if danger were already 
 approaching, and started and turned pale as the wind 
 shook the window shutters. 
 
 ‘‘ One thing more, and my story is ended,” said her 
 son, drawing his chair nearer to the fire, and extending 
 his feet towards it. 
 
 “ Tresham and Digby, and some of our more influ- 
 ential people (I myself never hoped any thing from 
 measures of this kind), persuaded us at a meeting we 
 held at Tresham ’s house on the Strand, that it might 
 not be without use to present a petition to Bancroft — 
 late nominal Bishop of London, now of Canterbury. 
 Every man has his own ideas upon such subjects; I am 
 never for useless humiliations, but I was overruled ; so 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 63 
 
 •we drew up a most loyal and must humble petition, and 
 went in a body to Lambeth to present it.” 
 
 The priest now for the first time began to look fidgetty 
 and uneasy. 
 
 Tresham and Digby !” repeated he. ‘‘ Those young 
 men are lukewarm enough in the cause, very fit instru- 
 ments for so extraordinary a proceeding.” 
 
 “ Tresham is as cold as an icicle in December, and 
 calculates every step he makes in life with the precision 
 of a posture-master. Digby is of too sensitive a conscience 
 as he calls it, and is influenced by his wife, old Mulsho’s 
 daughter, quite of the bygone school — but he’s a fine 
 fellow — a noble, warm-hearted, high-spirited fellow, 
 and I love him as my brother.” 
 
 The priest took not the slightest notice of this little 
 outbreak of affection, but said: 
 
 “ You went to Lambeth, I conclude?” 
 
 ‘‘We did so, all in a body ; and I do think the Catholic 
 body, take it in the mass, is composed of the very sim- 
 plest ninnies. -A man might drive them or lead them 
 hke a flock of sheep.” 
 
 The priest smiled inwardly at this remark ; he knew 
 well this sheep-like quality of his spiritual children, quite 
 as w^ell as the unsuspecting bell-wether of the flock who 
 had made the notable discovery. 
 
 “ Really, Mr. Catesby, your digressions to-night — ” 
 
 I crave pardon, but there was something ridi- 
 culous enough to make your reverence yourself laugh, to 
 see us all going so good and so humble to his reverence, 
 the pretensed archbishop of these realms. There was his 
 wife’s coach w^aiting at the door, if I recollect right, or, 
 
64 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 stay, was it the children’s waggon? I cry your mercy, 
 hut I clean forgot I was in a holy archbishop’s house, 
 when I saw the women servants, and the lady, and the 
 nurses, and the little ones.” 
 
 You didn’t surely, Robert,” said the lady. This 
 is your idle talk.” 
 
 May be so,” said he, carelessly; for when we 
 were at length admitted to the right reverend presence, 
 had he been the holy father himself, instead of the mi- 
 serable bastard bishop that he was, he could not have 
 demeaned himself more proudly. 
 
 He looked at us, and we well deserved it ... at all 
 these Catholic gentlemen of birth and blood drawn from 
 veins that were knights in the battle field, when his 
 miserable ancestors were scullions. . . . He looked upon 
 these gentlemen as if they were scarcely worthy to kiss 
 the dust beneath his feet. And in answer to our humble 
 petition, which Digby read in a voice and manner — I 
 wish you had heard that, father,” turning to the priest — 
 he was pleased to say, 
 
 ‘ That the measures of Elizabeth, which these gen- 
 tlemen were pleased to deem severe, would be found 
 mild in comparison with those which were soon to be 
 passed and executed in earnest !....* You must be in- 
 structed, sir,’ ” turning again to the priest, ^ that in the 
 latter part of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, it had been 
 thought advisable to pursue a middle course in their 
 regard, inclining rather to mildness than severity; not 
 amounting to absolute impunity, nor yet to punishment 
 equal to their merits ; this conduct being adopted by 
 
 * Butler, E. C., from Bartoli, lib, iv., c. 3. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 65 
 
 her majesty’s ministers, because they could not foresee 
 what would take place at her decease ; for if the wrath 
 of Heaven should then have placed a popish king upon 
 the throne’^ — you mark that reverend father — ” 
 
 The priest bent his head significantly. 
 
 ‘ He might retaliate upon the Protestants.’ ” 
 
 ‘ He might retaliate upon the Protestants tliat perse- 
 cution which they had inflicted upon the Catholics 
 during the reign of her majesty^ in like manner as they 
 had revenged the sufferings of the Catholics in the reign 
 of that pious child, Edward VI., upon the Protest- 
 ant subjects of Mary. But thanks be to God,’ con- 
 cludes the pious archbishop, ‘ these apprehensions are 
 at an end; the king, his most sacred majesty, is firmly 
 seated upon his throne, and is blessed with issue who 
 arc our security for the future. Thus the time is come 
 when we may act against the Catholics with due seve- 
 rity,’ — ergo, without mercy — in other words, extermi- 
 nate them. . . . 
 
 “ I never spent morning in which I learned so much, 
 as on that visit to his grace, the married Archbishop of 
 Lambeth, and,” he concluded as he folded the paper, 
 “ and,” with a dark vengeful look that gave a dreadful 
 expression to his countenance, “ I for one am not going 
 to forget it.” 
 
 The answer of the priest to this last speech, was to 
 repeat, in a monotonous manner, the following passage 
 of Scripture from the Vulgate: I give it you in the 
 English version : 
 
 ‘‘ ‘ And the congregation of Israel came to Rchoboam, 
 .and said. Thy father made our yoke grievous, now, 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 E 
 
66 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 therefore^ make thou the grievous service of thy father 
 and his heavy yoke which he put upon us lighter, and 
 we will serve thee ; and the people came to Rehoboam 
 the third day, as the king had appointed, saying unto 
 them, come to me again the third day; and the king 
 answered the people roughly, after the counsel of the 
 young men, saying, my father made your yoke heavy, 
 I will add to your yoke : my father chastised you with 
 whips, but I will chastise you with scorpions,’ Fiat 
 voluntas dei !” 
 
 Catesby turned angrily from the priest, whose air of 
 tranquillity drove him, as it was intended to do, well- 
 nigh distracted, and said in a cross, hasty manner to 
 his mother, 
 
 ‘‘lam raging with hunger, and you will not give me 
 any supper.” 
 
 “ I crave pardon, my son, your news has confounded 
 my senses, I think : I will see to your providing directly.” 
 
 And she left the room. 
 
 Then Catesby turned to the priest, and fixed his eyes 
 upon him with almost stern severity, saying, 
 
 “ And is it always to be thus ? — are dust and ashes 
 for ever to be thrown upon and smother the flame? 
 Such smouldering eats into the very heart of life.” 
 
 The priest hfted up his head, and eyed him with a 
 keen, meaning, half reproachful glance, as much as to 
 say, 
 
 “ Even you ! — do you not understand me?” 
 
 And then bending his eyes upon the floor, his coun- 
 tenance resumed its accustomed expression of serenity. 
 
 “ Only satisfy me that it were not wrong ...” said 
 the other, warmly. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 67 
 
 “ What wrong? — To struggle for a sinking cause, to 
 peril life and estate for a perishing faith, as so many holy 
 martyrs have done before you. If you mean that — 
 who said that was wrong 
 
 ‘‘ To shed blood though/’ said the other, roughly, 
 ‘Hhe blood of one’s fellow-creatures — is that wrong?” 
 
 ‘‘ Distinguo^' said the priest, undoubtedly, to shed 
 blood, save in a just cause, is wrong — ^nay, is a sin unto 
 death: but who declares it wrong to shed blood in 2, just 
 cause? Every child can answer you that. The cause 
 in which blood is shed, constitutes the action a glorious 
 deed of heroism, or a cruel murder. The man who 
 sheds blood in self-defence, is acquitted ever, by the 
 rude jurisprudence of human institutions — how much 
 more, in the higher court of conscience. The man who 
 sheds blood in defence of another, is not only acquitted, 
 but honoured as a hero — the man who sheds blood in 
 defence of our holy religion, is considered as a sainted 
 martyr.” 
 
 And having pronounced this decision, as if answering 
 some indifferent question in metaphysics, the father 
 sank back in his chair, and resting his folded hands 
 against his bosom, began very composedly to turn his 
 thumbs, as if lost in meditation. 
 
 Robert rose and paced the room with quick and impa- 
 tient steps : nature pleaded against the sophistry of the 
 casuist. The abhorrence of bloodshed is common to all 
 who are unaccustomed to it : he remembered the only 
 occasion on which he had committed an act of violence, 
 and he shuddered still at the recollection. 
 
 ‘‘ The casuists,” continued the father, as if speaking 
 E 2 
 
68 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 to liimself, ‘‘have been much divided upon tlie subject 
 of assassination, or more properly abstraction of life 
 without open battle ; for that term assassination is a mere 
 vulgarism, derived, I know not from what fable of some 
 old Eastern shiek or man of the mountain, as he is called. 
 Abstraction of life without open battle may, probably^ 
 for there is a probable opinion on both sides, be justified 
 by various reasons, under given circumstances: though 
 questionless in ordinary cases, it is a crime of the 
 deepest dye.” 
 
 “ Thou shalt not kill — ” shouted a voice within 
 Robert s heart, as if from some supernatural source. 
 
 He started as if he had really heard it. 
 
 But the commandment, sir,” said he, approaching 
 the priest. 
 
 “ Oh, sir !” said the Jesuit, bending his headin ironical 
 submission, “I cry you mercy: when did you set up 
 for a doctor in Israel, an expounder of these matters?” 
 
 Catesby shrank back abashed. 
 
 Nothing could appear to one of his habits of mind 
 more offensively presumptive and absurd, than for him 
 to set himself up as a judge or arbiter in things apper- 
 taining to moral philosophy or religious doctrine, he 
 continued his w^alk, and the priest his soliloquy. 
 
 “ The commandments taken in thelrfirst apparent and 
 abstract and unmodified sense are evidently inadequate 
 for our direction in the various contradictions of life : we 
 must take them with allowances — with exceptions — with 
 such allowance and with such exception as men called 
 upon by holy church for our instruction in such matters 
 have decided upon. Abstraction of life without open 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 69 
 
 battle — evidently justifiable, provided the cause be just 
 — palpably justifiable in cases where open battle is a 
 thing altogether unattainable, impossible, or the pre- 
 cursor of a manifest defeat^ — as in contests between in- 
 dividuals and wicked governments for instance, &c. &c.’’ 
 
 He closed his eyes here, as if lost in his own medi- 
 tations upon the subject, leaving the sentence to sink 
 into the heart of his auditor. 
 
 No more was said, for the door opened, and the lady 
 and Ambrose, bearing a supper hastily got together, 
 entered : but had there been no such interruption, 
 more would not at this time have been uttered: the 
 Jesuit knew well where to stop — he was one who un- 
 derstood the full force of the reiterated maxim of the 
 wise king, 
 
 “ There is a time for all things.” 
 
 The table was spread, — a rude repast in comparison 
 with the one lately set before the priest. It might be 
 that time pressed, it might be that the lady was indif- 
 ferent in providing such things for the lay wayfarer, 
 even though her own son. 
 
 But it mattered not: the appetite of Catesby was 
 gone. Thoughts, that it sickened him to dwell upon, 
 were rising and combating in his heart: the voice of 
 honest, good, simple nature was crying within against 
 the sophistications of fanaticism and passion. 
 
 His cheek paler and paler — his eye beaming with a 
 deeper and more restless fire — there lie sat — endeavour- 
 ing to touch the ungrateful food; while the priest, his 
 eyelids so far dropping that it was difficult to say 
 
70 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 whether his eyes were closed or not, watched him with 
 his wily glance. 
 
 At length Robert pushed the viands away, and filling 
 a large beaker with wine, drank it off; then resuming 
 his place by the fire, and lost in a sort of sullen contem- 
 plation, he looked upon the decaying embers of the 
 cedar wood wliich were now dying into blackness. 
 
 The storm had ceased; an awful stillness pervaded the 
 house ; the low breathings of the priest, who, wearied 
 with his toil, had sunk to sleep in his chair, were 
 all that was heard. While Catesby sat in dark and 
 gloomy rumination, pondering upon things which had 
 never before presented themselves to his imagination. 
 
 At last he rose, asked his mother to give liim a lamp, 
 stole up the dark and narrow staircase which led to his 
 room, as if accompanied by some fearful apparition ; his 
 face pale, his eye filled with horror: and rushing to his 
 apartment, flung himself weary and exhausted upon 
 his bed. 
 
FATHEK DAFvCY. 
 
 71 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 “ Ma voi prendete I’esca, si che Tamo 
 Del antico avversario a se vi tira; 
 
 E pero poco val freno, o richiamo.” 
 
 Dante. • 
 
 The priest had sunk to rest the moment his head 
 touched his pillow of down. 
 
 Well satisfied with what had passed, the measures 
 which had thrown his scholar and friend into such an 
 agony of disappointment and passion were rather agree- 
 able than otherwise to this cold-hearted, calculating, 
 and ambitious man. The termination he most depre- 
 cated to the dark story of a century of religious 
 dissensions so lately closed, was that of an equitable and 
 peaceful arrangement between the parties ; nothing 
 less would satisfy him, or the party with which he 
 acted, but a return to the old spiritual despotism of 
 the priesthood and of Rome, as the head and keystone 
 of that priestly domination, which mankind had ex- 
 pended such oceans of blood and tears in the vast 
 effort to overthrow. Any thing like an equitable ar- 
 rangement of the contending claims was abhorrent to 
 his thoughts: and if he insisted upon the demand being 
 limited, at present, to that of toleration, he knew well — 
 or thought he knew — under the at present unsettled 
 state of men’s minds, what use the crafty and able body 
 
72 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 to wliicli lie belonged, would soon be able to make of 
 the opportunities that would be thus aflforded them. 
 
 It is certain he had, like others less penetrating than 
 himself, been disappointed in the king; he had be- 
 lieved, and perhaps with very great reason, that his 
 secret inclinations went with Rome, but he felt that 
 this imprudent and insulting defiance of the whole 
 Catholic body, was the next best thing to an open and 
 determined support of them. The impending peace with 
 Spain too, had occasioned him very great annoyance; 
 he dreaded that some connivance at the private celebra- 
 tion of their religious rites by the Catholics, might have 
 been made a condition of it; a connivance, which by 
 satisfying every conscientious wish on the part of the 
 conscientious members of that body — unquestionably 
 the lai;ge majority — might have reconciled them to the 
 existing order of things, and restored the peace and 
 tranquillity of tlie first years of Elizabetli. 
 
 His business and that of his followers was to profit 
 by the contentions of mankind. 
 
 The downfall of their influence in England he 
 regarded as the inevitable consequence of a good un- 
 derstanding between the well-intentioned and the 
 government, from the provisions of which his turbu- 
 lent, ambitious, and dangerous order should alone be 
 excepted. 
 
 The news brought by Mr. Catesby entirely dissipated 
 all such apprehensions; it was plain the government 
 had resolved upon driving the Catholics to extremity; 
 it was equally plain, for he knew them well, that there 
 
FATHER DARCY. 73 
 
 were abundance of fiery and higb-spirited men who 
 would not submit passively to this new indignity. 
 
 There would be no necessity for him, or his fellow- 
 labourers in the work of mischief, to take any promi- 
 nent part in the threatened movement. The lever was 
 at work; they had only to stand by and remove any 
 obstacles which might interfere to diminish its full 
 operation. 
 
 To preach peace as a matter of expediency, was the 
 way, he well knew, to exasperate to the highest de- 
 gree these impatient spirits. 
 
 To preach peace as a matter of principle; to allay 
 the heat and violence of his party by the divine doc- 
 trine of finally overcoming evil with good ; tliat was, 
 indeed, as far from his design, as was every feeling of 
 his heart and principles of his mind from those of the 
 divine and lowly prince of peace. 
 
 lie was perfectly satisfied with the effect at present 
 produced upon the fretful and seething mind of Catesby. 
 He sat by as a cold and heartless spectator, watching the 
 struggle between a naturally honourable and generous 
 nature and the dark effects of his deceitful and wicked 
 doctrines. He measured the agonies of disappointed 
 hope; the passionate cry for vengeance; the restless 
 heavings of that wild and agitated spirit ; with the 
 calm calculation of one intent upon his object — and 
 perfectly indifferent as to the means by which it should 
 be attained. He had gauged the depth of passion : he 
 had calculated the strength of the character as coolly 
 as an officer of excise, to use a base simile, might a 
 cask of spirits: he found it proof ^ and was satisfied. 
 
74 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 The part that remained for him to play was easy; 
 to stand aside, and, unseen, to watch the wild effects of 
 these agitated fears; gently directing, stimulating, or 
 restraining, as occasion might require. 
 
 It was a long time since Mr. Darcy had tasted such 
 sweet repose as he enjoyed that night; but before day- 
 break he had departed, and threading the deepest and 
 most retired lanes, in the most secluded part of the 
 country, made his way, first towards Henlip, the seat of 
 the Abingtons, where he administered the rites of his 
 religion in the same secret and mysterious manner as he 
 had done at Ashby St. Legers : thence, in the same 
 wearisome manner, he proceeded to Coughton, the seat 
 of the Throckmortons, at both places carrying dismay 
 into the hearts of all his friends, by the disastrous intel- 
 ligence he had to convey. 
 
 He travelled, disguised as a pedlar, with a light pack 
 upon his shoulder, filled with such wares as Autolycus 
 carried; he travelled on foot, now through the deep 
 lanes of the country, now winding over the heathy 
 moorlands ; now obtaining a lift on a pack-horse, now 
 in a countryman’s wain; musing with great satisfaction 
 on what had passed, and anticipating with a pleasing 
 sort of curiosity what form the efiervescence would 
 next take. 
 
 But alas ! for Robert. 
 
 Thrown upon his restless bed, a prey to every agitat- 
 ing passion that can distract human nature, his heart 
 writhing with hatred, his soul burning for vengeance — 
 pity, but such a strange pity ! not melting, but raging 
 within him, for the unhappy sufferers, the first victims 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 75 
 
 of these new exactions. And pictures of blood and 
 horror alternating with his other visions, he tossed 
 in fevered agitation from side to side. 
 
 Alas! was there no one to minister peace to this 
 restless, and too ardent, and too enthusiastic spirit; to 
 bid the waves of passion be still, to tell him of one the 
 despised and rejected of men, who came as a sheep to the 
 slaughter to promote and proclaim the reign of peace. 
 
 Where were the divine words, the ineffable teach- 
 ings, which should have guided one whom nature had 
 gifted so gloriously ? Hath the great master died in 
 vain? Are all his divine lessons becoming no avail? 
 
 Alas I — alas I — he had never even heard of them. 
 
 He knew nothing of religion but the cloudy idol- 
 atry which his priests had taught him, and nothing 
 of Christian morals, but a casuistry which found ex- 
 cuses and palliations for the indulgence of every pas- 
 sion to which his vehement nature was but too apt to 
 prompt him. 
 
 And oh ! the weeping and gnashing of teeth in this 
 outer darkness of the soul — this wild contention of 
 fierce elements — this storm of thunder, and lightning, 
 and hail, and fire running along upon the ground. 
 
 At last nature yielded, and he sank into an uneasy 
 slumber. 
 
 Mr. Catesby might have dosed and slept about 
 two hours, when he was suddenly roused by a loud 
 
 noise. 
 
76 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 The bells in the little church, close by the garden, 
 were ringing for morning prayers as he started from 
 his bed, and gnashed his teeth at a sound, which he 
 never could hear without the most violent feelings of 
 irritation. 
 
 It was his own church, the church belonging to his 
 family, where his ancestors slept entombed close to his 
 garden wall, a part as it were of his house — thus 
 desecrated by the worship of these detested heretics: 
 but that was not the sound which had aroused him — 
 the loud confused noise of an approaching multitude 
 was heard rolling and raging through the air ; a dread- 
 ful surging sound, to which that of the roar of many 
 vraters is as nothing. 
 
 He started up, he had thrown himself down in his 
 clothes, and hastily going to the window looked out. 
 
 The intelligence of the late proceedings in London, 
 had already, it would seem, reached the country ; and 
 the rage for searching out concealed priests was again 
 excited, in all the fury with which such a species of 
 chase was sure to inspire the ignorant vulgar. 
 
 The court-yard and garden in front of the house 
 were filling with a crowd of rude people, armed 
 with pitchforks, rakes, spades, scythes, or any thing 
 they could first lay hand upon, and the pursui- 
 vants and men-at-arms were already thundering at 
 the door. 
 
 The first thought was for the safety of Mr. Darcy. 
 Relying upon the storm of the night for protection, he 
 knew that he had ventured to sleep in the guest 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 77 
 
 chamber, where was he now? Had he concealed him- 
 self? — Had he departed? or was he still slumbering, 
 ignorant of this approaching danger? 
 
 Mr. Catesby hurried down stairs — as he passed, he 
 heard the screams and cries of his little excited and 
 irritable children, in agonies of terror, which neither 
 words nor blows could suppress. 
 
 No tender father, but irritated to madness by these 
 sounds, he hurried down stairs, and to the room the 
 priest had occupied ; he was gone, but his mother, her 
 hands shaking wdth haste and agitation, was tearing 
 off the sheets, with the assistance of her own woman; 
 hastily folding them, to be deposited in a chest in the 
 room ; and endeavouring to efface every trace of recent 
 occupation. 
 
 All this time the pursuivants were shouting at, 
 and shaking both doors; cursing and swearing in the 
 most blasphemous manner at the popish curs; and 
 calling to them to unbar the door, or they would batter 
 it about their ears. 
 
 Is he safe, mother?” cried Catesby, tell me is he 
 safe, or I will hold the door at the peril of my life.” 
 Alas! alas! how should I know? Ask Ambrose, 
 where is Ambrose? The bed was empty, and the bed 
 was cold. Oh! holy virgin mother! let him but be 
 safe.’' 
 
 The battering at the house door, the shouts, the 
 cries, became more desperate and impatient. 
 
 “ What do you mean, you dogs, by keeping the 
 door?” cried the pursuivants. “ The black vermin are 
 escaping into their holes — unbar the door — unbar the 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 78 , 
 
 door — or we will break it to pieces, which may do to 
 light your Smithfield fires. There goes, my lads.” 
 
 The door burst open, and the pursuivants, followed 
 by the crowd, rushed madly in. 
 
 Scent about, my lads. — This way, Tom — that way, 
 Hugh. Scent the rats out — let us hunt these Douay 
 rats out of their holes. This way, that way, keep the 
 doors ! Ay, ay ! keep the holes ! — Look to the garden 
 door !” 
 
 On they rushed, streaming through the house ; up the 
 stairs, into the bed chambers; down stairs into the 
 cellars; pulling open cupboards, running their swords 
 into beds, tearing down shelves and wardrobes, drag- 
 ging out curtains, and bed stuff of every sort, and 
 casting them on the floor; and committing every 
 species of violence and devastation. 
 
 They rushed up into the chamber, where the terrified 
 children, almost in convulsions of fear, were roaring 
 and clinging to their pale and screeching nursery maids; 
 they rushed into the guest chamber, where the lady 
 and her serving-woman were still standing: but here 
 they were confronted by Catesby. 
 
 He had drawn his dagger, and stood resolutely at 
 the entrance of the room, demanding of the pursuivant 
 what he meant by disturbing a peaceable family in this 
 manner. And how he dared to admit a herd of unau- 
 thorised plunderers into his house? 
 
 “ Do you know, you rascaille, that you have broken 
 my door — and that your vile carcase may hang for it? 
 Get out of my house this instant, with all your rap- 
 scallions. If you choose to make the search the law 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 79 
 
 allows — make it as the law allows — or by all the holy 
 saints of heaven 111 make a law for myself, and drive 
 this dagger to the hilt in your heart.” 
 
 The pursuivant retreated a few paces, and turning to 
 his men said: “ The black ox lies stabled there, take 
 my word for it ; or we should not have Master Catesby 
 making such a coil.” 
 
 “ Place sentinels round the house and upon the stair- 
 cases.” 
 
 “ Very well, sir: keep the chamber door as long as 
 you like, but unless your holy father can fly out in a 
 puff at the window, as witches have aforetime been 
 known to do — well catch him, make you sure of that.” 
 ‘^My son,” said Lady Catesby, who was trembling 
 like an aspen leaf, in spite of all her courage ; not, how- 
 ever, altogether from terror, but partly from excessive 
 indignation: ‘‘let the gentleman search the chamber 
 if he please. No priest harbours here, he will find.” 
 Catesby felt the utter uselessness of opposing his single 
 strength to the torrent that was sweeping like surging 
 waters through his house ; — with his usual exaggeration 
 of feeling, he at once exchanged the attitude of resist- 
 ance for one of sullen indifference, and sheathing his 
 dagger, retired into the embrasure of an oriel window, 
 and sitting down upon the window seat, folded his arms 
 across his breast, let his head sink down upon it, and 
 with his limbs extended kept drumming with his feet 
 against the floor, disdaining to look up, or make the 
 slightest effort to save his house or property. 
 
 The lady stood erect as a statue — a statue she might 
 have represented of haughty and proud indignation — 
 
80 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 recovered from her first alarm, by the conviction that 
 the priest must have escaped — she, too, stood perfectly 
 passive, now scornfully regarding the outrages that were 
 committed upon all sides of her. 
 
 The bedding was torn down ; the bed ripped up and 
 scattered upon the floor; the hanging at the back of 
 the bed rudely rent asunder, in case a priest should 
 have harboured behind ; the chests and wardrobes 
 pulled into the middle of the room, were ransacked 
 from top to bottom and all their rich contents littered 
 upon the ground; the men passed their swords in 
 various places through the tapestry which covered the 
 walls; sounded them with mallets, to discover whether 
 they were hollow, and whether some secret door might 
 not be detected — but all in vain. There teas a secret 
 door leading by a narrow staircase to a small vaulted 
 passage, which communicated with the summer-house 
 at the corner of the garden, but it was so beautifully 
 contrived and fitted that it escaped discovery. 
 
 They were disappointed in their search, but far from 
 satisfied; for a pair of sheets which had been found 
 among a quantity of rich silks in the chest; and the 
 presence of the master and mistress of the house in this 
 particular chamber, had convinced them that a priest, 
 as had been reported, had slept there that very night. 
 A pursuivant now went rudely up to Catesby , saying : 
 
 “ 111 trouble you, master, not to sit kicking your 
 heels in that fashion — and just covering, maybe, the 
 very hide we are in search of. Get up, if you please, 
 and let s have a look at whafs under you.’’ 
 
 “ Aye !” said the other — ‘‘ have at it, Tom. Sure as 
 
FATHEK DARCY. 
 
 81 
 
 you are alive — that’s the hide, and he’s gone down 
 there : up, up, with you, my master, and it please you. 
 We are not very much upon our ceremonials with your 
 Catholic cattle. We know you to be a pack of liars of 
 old — up, up, with you, sir.” 
 
 Catesby had lifted up his head, and he now stared at 
 the men without moving. There was something in 
 this brutal insolence which confounded even him. 
 
 He ! commanded by a base clown ! ordered about by 
 a reptile such as this ! 
 
 ‘‘ Do you know who you are speaking to sirrah?” — he 
 said, at last. 
 
 Ay, ay — we know well enough — one master Catesby 
 of Ashby St. Legers, and as black a papist as ever lent 
 a faggot to burn a true man. Will it please you to get 
 up, or must we make you?” 
 
 A struggle so degrading was not to be endured. 
 
 He rose Hke a scowling mastiff from his lair. 
 
 The men laughed and sneered. 
 
 ‘‘We thought we’d rout you out easy enough, 
 master — ay, ay, now for it.” 
 
 And falling to work with vehemence, they soon 
 wrenched down the window-seat; nothing was seen 
 below, however, nothing but the bare brick walls. No 
 hidden outlet was to be discovered there. 
 
 The men went maundering and grumbling out of the 
 room, to commit fresh outrages in another place. 
 
 Catesby remained standing where they had left liim. 
 
 His countenance had by this time assumed a fearful 
 expression, but he spoke not a word. 
 
 While the lady almost sobbing with rage, reiterated, 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 F 
 
82 
 
 FATHER DARCT. 
 
 “ Saints above! saints above! — is it a Catesby! — a 
 Catesby thus insulted under his own roof!” 
 
 But presently mastering her passion^ she came up to 
 him and whispered: 
 
 He must have escaped — he must be, by this time, 
 far from hence.” 
 
 But he seemed not to heed her, he stood like one pe- 
 trified with astonishment and indignation. 
 
 At last these few ominous words dropped from his 
 lips. 
 
 “ If I could blow up these walls, and all that is within 
 them, and bury these rascals, and the evidences of my 
 disgrace in one common ruin !” 
 
 He looked pale, he looked livid as he said this. 
 
 “ Shiver all to atoms with this desecrated house of 
 my fathers !” 
 
 How the children are screaming,” said the lady. 
 
 Ah, poor little fools — and they too — ay, ay — all of 
 us — poor little wretches how they scream ! they will go 
 mad with terror.’’ 
 
 ‘‘ Heigh, my boys ! heigh, children !” running hastily 
 up the nursery stairs, and flinging open the door with 
 his usual impetuosity, “What’s the matter now? what 
 are ye afraid of ?” 
 
 The screaming children ran to him, and clung to his 
 garments; they were usually very much afraid of their 
 father, but in the present agony, such fears were for- 
 gotten. 
 
 “ Poor little wretches, I was wishing to have blown 
 you up too, was I ?” said he, touched by the confiding 
 manner in which their poor little hands clasped his 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 83 
 
 knees, and their little beseeching, agonised countenances 
 were lifted up to his. 
 
 “ Come, come, don’t be afraid, Tom, don’t cry. Jack ; 
 wait till thou’rt a big man, and thou shalt run a dagger 
 through such curs, or thrust ’em out of the house, that 
 would be better still.” 
 
 ‘‘ Or poke ’em into the great fire,’^ said the little one. 
 
 ‘‘Ha! ha! ha! the great fire! — the great blast! — 
 the great explosion ! — why, lad, your wits jump with 
 mine. Yes, blow up Ashby St. Legers to the heavens, 
 and let the last of the miserable and insulted house of 
 Catesby perish in its ashes !” 
 
84 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 “ I dare do all that may become a man, 
 Who dares do more is none.” 
 
 Macbeth. 
 
 After committing every possible outrage upon the 
 house and furniture that could be perpetrated in the 
 space of a few hours, the pursuivants, mortified and dis- 
 appointed at their defeat, retired, followed by the 
 whooping, insulting crowd, who consoled their vexa- 
 tion by reiterating their promises to the master and 
 mistress of the house that ere long they should see them 
 again. 
 
 The rude laughter, the insolent jest, the blasphemous 
 curses were gradually sunk in silence as the crowd dis- 
 persed among the different taverns in the village hard 
 by, to drink and guzzle, in imitation of their good king, 
 and of those captains from Flanders, who had unhappily 
 imported this vice into a once sober country. Yes, let 
 me observe by the way, the men who fought at Crecy 
 and Agincourt, the men who withstood the Spaniards 
 and blasted the Armada, belonged to a nation remark- 
 able for its sobriety; and if any one doubts it, let him 
 look into his Camden. 
 
 The day was soft and calm, a still, sweet morning, at 
 the latter end of February. There was that delicious 
 mildness in the air, that promise of the coming spring 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 85 
 
 which renders some days in February so inexpressibly 
 delightful: the tall pines were giving out their liveries, 
 the woodbine opening its soft green buds, the robin 
 hopping along the walks, turning his head and his 
 bright, merry, impatient eye upon the passenger: all in 
 that shrouded and quiet garden, was still and pleasant. 
 
 Catesby, little soothed by the soft influences of na- 
 ture, was pacing up and down the green terrace which 
 still subsists, immersed in troubled and stormy thoughts. 
 His mind, indeed, seemed almost overthrown with the 
 violence of his rage and despair. After the pause that 
 had been permitted, after the relief from these revolting 
 and most unwise persecutions — to be exposed to them 
 again, and with a degree of insolence far exceeding any 
 he, at least, had ever experienced before ; and all 
 through what ? through the heartless treachery of that 
 faithless king, and his deceitful ministers, and the cruel 
 indlflerence of a nobility and gentry, whose abject 
 flattery, and base subserviency to their new idol, filled 
 his heart at once with the bitterest contempt and disdain. 
 
 “ What a generation of vipers!” thought he, “ what 
 a hydra brood of oppressors I What matters it to cut off* 
 one, — two, — three — even; fresh and fresh, and worse 
 and worse would succeed. ‘ He hath chastised you with 
 whips, but I will chastise you with scorpions,' — had it 
 not proved so with them as regarded that old queen, 
 once so hated, and now so regretted? But with such a 
 nobility, such a gentry, ready to pander to every wish 
 of the faithless pedant whom they delighted to honour 
 — what was to be expected? Must then the old time- 
 
86 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 honoured Catholic race of England be gradually extir- 
 pated, trampled into dust, by a base, rascally crew like 
 this?*’ 
 
 He paced up and down hke a tiger in his cage : 
 no hope of emancipation, no room for his fatal spring : 
 fettered, imprisoned, barred in ! A miserable assassi- 
 nation or so — what a base and dastardly revenge ! for 
 let Mr. Darcy say what he would, assassination was a 
 miserable and despicable revenge after all; dastardly 
 and unmanly ; might suit the Stories and such vagabonds, 
 but unworthy of a soldier and a gentleman. 
 
 He paced up and down like a lion behind his bars; 
 he looked this way, he looked that; he looked at his 
 house, his insulted, outraged, defaced, and ruined home; 
 he recollected his wish to have blown it into atoms, 
 and to have perished with his enemies in its ruins. 
 
 Aye, he and his, and that swarm of filthy vermin, 
 which, hke the obscene fi:ogs of Egypt, had entered into 
 his chambers, and upon his beds, and upon the houses 
 of his servants . . . Aye, all of them, every one of them 
 at once, and himself, and his children, and his mother, 
 and all he loved, perishing in one loud explosion. 
 
 Suddenly a new and strange expression was seen in 
 his face; his eye burned — his eyes looked hke hving 
 coals; his hvid cheek became of a deep crimson, his brow 
 dark as a thunder-cloud; his breath came thick and 
 hard, he clutched with his hand that held his cloak, he 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 87 
 
 drew it sharply round him — he strode like a maniac up 
 and down that terrace. 
 
 Then he plunged into the deep shade of a thicket of 
 dark yew and fir trees, through which a narrow walk 
 was winding, and where no eye could follow him. 
 
 And where no eye but one did follow him : but that 
 never-sleeping and all-seeing eye penetrated the black 
 and sullen shade, and watched that wretched and that 
 desperate man — his agonies and his resolves. 
 
 When Catesby returned to the house, he found it 
 wearing an appearance of desolation, which well suited 
 to the gloom and sullenness of his mind. 
 
 His mother, proud and resentful as himself, had felt 
 the insults offered to her family with equal bitterness, 
 though she manifested her feelings in a less wild and 
 desperate manner. 
 
 When their persecutors had disappeared, and her 
 son had left her to take his solitary walk in the garden, 
 the servant had begun the task of endeavouring to re- 
 store order to the confusion in which the whole house 
 was thrown. 
 
 The destruction was shameful ; chests’ lids torn off, 
 doors of wardrobes and cupboards rent from their 
 hinges; chairs and tables broken and thrown in heaps; 
 the oak panelling of the walls stripped off and scattered 
 in various places, and the rich tapestry and arras hang- 
 ing in shreds from the walls. 
 
 The lady, seeing the servants sorrowfully preparing 
 
88 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 to remedy in some degree these disasters — to nail up 
 the pieces of ragged tapestry — to restore the panels to 
 their places — and to mend the fractures in the furniture 
 — sternly forbid any attempt of the kind to be made. 
 
 “ Range the rooms, if you will, in their accustomed 
 order,” she said, but no servant of mine shall spend 
 his pains to conceal the scandalous and disgraceful 
 ravages that have been made: there let them remain, 
 a testimony of the tender mercies shown by a heretic 
 government to its unoffending subjects. Nay, good 
 Ambrose, let be,” as the old man was endeavouring to 
 replace the fractured back of a rich velvet chair, before 
 he restored it to its place: “ let us remain surrounded 
 with ruins, a type of the forlorn and broken condition 
 of our violated church.” 
 
 She sat down sullenly in the forlorn-looking apart- 
 ment, which but the evening before had been so rich, 
 so well ordered, though so gloomy; and watched the 
 tall, dark figure of her son as he paced the terrace, of 
 which she commanded a view. 
 
 When he returned to the house, there was a some- 
 thing in Iris expression which she could not exactly 
 comprehend. She looked at him with a mixture of 
 interest and awe. The whole man seemed absorbed 
 in some fixed idea. His gestures were no longer free, 
 his voice no longer clear and energetic ; nor his speech 
 animated and eloquent. He seemed lost in thought; 
 gave few and short answers to the questions she from 
 time to time put to him ; and paced the room, or sat 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 89 
 
 tnusing in silence, with an expression of fierce but 
 gloomy exultation upon his face. 
 
 Every now and then he glanced upon the tattered 
 remnants of the walls, and upon the broken furniture, 
 with a certain air of sullen satisfaction. 
 
 ‘‘ I bade them leave them as they were,’’ said the 
 lady. 
 
 “ Aye, aye, where are my boys?” 
 
 The two children were brought to him. 
 
 He took up the eldest, placed him upon a table, and 
 scanned his features with his deep and searching eye : 
 
 ‘‘ You were frightened, John,” he said, sternly and 
 gravely; ^‘you were a fool to be frightened; boys 
 must learn to fear nothing — don’t you know that?” 
 
 “ Fear God and holy church,” muttered the younger 
 one. 
 
 ‘‘ Fear nothing. Do you hear, John?” 
 
 The boy fixed his eyes in grave attention upon 
 Catesby’s face ; he seemed to comprehend that something 
 of weight, something far beyond what was common, 
 was in his father’s meaning. 
 
 The father’s eye softened at the brave child’s steady 
 and earnest look. 
 
 “ You’ll remember this, John, when your father has 
 been cut into pieces by these bloody heretics. You’ll 
 remember that you are to revenge him.” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes,” said the boy, gravely; ‘‘ strike again. When 
 they’ve cut you in pieces, cut them in pieces; and so 
 I will when I’m big enough to have a sword.” 
 
 He did not embrace him — he did not kiss him — he 
 
90 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 did not place his hand upon the little head to bless 
 him ! Blessings would, indeed, have stuck in his throat. 
 
 He set him down gravely on the floor, and said: 
 That’s right.” 
 
 Then he ordered the children to be taken away, and 
 resumed his walk. 
 
 The door was again opened, and by a shrewd, rather 
 rustical-looking youth, who attended upon Catesby as 
 his servant. 
 
 His features were vulgar, his lips thick and coarse, an 
 immense shock of hair covered his head — but his eye 
 was quick and shrewd, and his expression of countenance 
 honest and good-tempered. He was the son of the old 
 butler, who had lived from childhood in the family, and 
 was treated with the most unreserved confidence; and 
 Thomas, who had ever proved himself faithful, and was 
 of a quick wit and penetration, was a favourite with, 
 and enjoyed much of the confidence of his master. 
 
 He now opened the door looked round the room, and 
 seeing no one but Catesby, and the lady, said — 
 
 ‘‘ Here’s a cousin of mine, sir, just come in — son, I 
 believe, to my aunt Margery — if as how you ever heard 
 of her. May I ask him to take dinner and a bed here, for 
 he’s come far, the ways are foul, and he is very weary?” 
 Do as you please,” said his master, carelessly. 
 
 My aunt Margery’s son, I said, sir,” repeated 
 Thomas, coming up to him and speaking in a sort of 
 managed voice which could be heard by the person ad- 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 91 
 
 dressed, but with difficulty followed by any one. 
 “ My aunt Margery, and please you, sir, who’s very like 
 Noah’s fourth son — may I venture to bring him up — 
 after all this gallimaufry, or had he better be put in still 
 at once?” 
 
 Catesby started. 
 
 ‘^You don’t say so — what?” 
 
 “ The tall dark bony one.” 
 
 Let him be your cousin still — we have spies in the 
 house — (louder) — yes, I have some business with him; 
 give him something to eat in the pantry, and when I 
 call send him up to me.” 
 
 Thomas disappeared. 
 
 It is — it must be Tesmond,” said Catesby, going up 
 to his mother, and speaking in a very low voice: ‘‘the 
 very man of all men upon earth that I wished to see.” 
 He pursued his walk, however, and waited full three 
 quarters of an hour before he again summoned Thomas, 
 and then he called out loud enough to be heard 
 throughout the house — Is that your cousin come up 
 from Gravesend, with news of our last venture? Is he 
 below? Send him up to me.” 
 
 A tall dark man, so thin that every muscle of his 
 face stood out in bold and knotty relief under his olive 
 skin — with eyes large, dark, and eager — hair jet — and 
 limbs bony — now entered the hall; and’ taking off his 
 cap, stroked down the long lank hair over his forehead, 
 as a countryman might, and “ hoped he saw his honour 
 well.” 
 
 “You come from Gravesend, Thomas tells me; my 
 
92 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 good friend, you are welcome. Have you tasted of the 
 Lady Catesby’s beef and ale?’ 
 
 I thank your honour — freely, freely.” 
 
 ‘‘ How are the ways?” 
 
 ‘‘ Deep and difficult enough, please your honour, and 
 I have been delayed a couple of days, for the floods 
 below are out.” 
 
 “ Have you letters for me?” 
 
 Yes, please your honour, and a letter of credit, too, 
 if your honour will be pleased to read it. There are 
 particulars about the carach, which is safely arrived at 
 last, too tedious to write : my letter of credence will 
 inform you that I am competent to give your honour 
 every information, might it please you to grant me a 
 short audience.” 
 
 ‘‘ Come in here,” opening the door of the apartment 
 where the lady was sitting; “ you may come in, there 
 is no one but my mother here.” 
 
 The door was opened. As he ushered the stranger 
 in, the lady cast a hasty glance through the window; 
 old Ambrose was in the walk before it, which was 
 shaded from the rest of the garden by a thick planta- 
 tion of trees, employing himself with a pruning hook ; 
 through the other window, Thomas might be seen 
 
 rakino' a border, 
 o 
 
 Having satisfied herself by this hasty glance, that 
 there was sufficient protection against a sudden surprise ; 
 she rose hastily, and approaching the stranger with 
 eagerness, exclaimed — 
 
 “ You ! — have you ventured to our unhappy house?” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 93 
 
 ‘‘ Madam,” said the dark stranger, looking round, 
 “ it was because the news of this morning’s outrage had 
 reached me where I was journeying, that I came to 
 what you are pleased to call your unhappy house — but 
 which I designate as your glorious! your honoured 
 house I for blessed is he who is thought worthy to suffer 
 in this cause.’ 
 
 “ You see how it has been with us to-day,” — said she 
 glancing round — but the seed was not in it.’ In 
 vain did their malice rage against him, the holy friend 
 of the Church; her brightest candle in this benighted 
 land was bestowed elsewhere.^’ 
 
 ‘‘ He had been here then?” 
 
 He departed this morning.” 
 
 “ You take this patiently, sir,” said Father Tesmond, 
 for he was no other, turning round to Catesby, after he 
 had himself taken a chair by the lady, who had resumed 
 hers. 
 
 “ I am commanded so to do,” was the reply. 
 
 “ There are commands unto which nature finds it 
 almost impossible to yield obedience. The breach of 
 such is a venial sin — for who can resist the force of 
 nature? I am glad, very glad however, to find you 
 so patient.” 
 
 ‘^Ay,” said the lady, looking reproachfully at her 
 son, “ we ought to be glad to find a Job, where we had 
 reared, as we thought, a Judas Maccabeus.” 
 
 It is the better part — the better part — no doubt, 
 lady,” said the father: “ but there are women in this 
 land — women in this church — who would find it easier 
 to play the part of a Jacl or of a Judith, than to imitate 
 
94 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 that patient and much enduring man. Either part is to 
 choose; probabilities lie on both sides; and it is allow- 
 able to speculate where it may be doubtful how to act; 
 you, madam, I see for one jwould incline to the less 
 patient scale.” 
 
 I own it, I have no patience,” said she, bitterly, 
 a man ! and submit to such affronts as these ! — a son ! 
 and see the gray hairs of his mother insulted before his 
 eyes. A father ! and see his little ones distracted with 
 terror .... And his revenge — his noble revenge — shall 
 be — to take a few turns, sullenly, on the shady terrace 
 in his garden — and to tell his little one — ^to fight 
 some time.” 
 
 The cheek of Catesby did not kindle at this taunt; 
 not one drop of blood hurried faster in his veins; he 
 looked unmoved as he had done before; he fixed his 
 eyes upon the priest as if waiting his reply. 
 
 ‘‘ Time,” said the Father, ‘‘ some time — yea — when 
 the work is finally consummated, and the sanctuary in 
 ruins. I fear me, it will then be too late : this land 
 will be like the howling wilderness, abandoned to the 
 obscene creatures of the desert — ‘and the great owl 
 shall lodge there, and satyrs shall dance there.’ But 
 we have had martyrs enough : the land is reeking with 
 their blood, and sick with cruelty : let us He down and 
 humble our heads and die.” 
 
 “ And is it you I hear speak thus?” said the lady, 
 with a scornful accent. “ Is this your teaching?” 
 
 “ I am a man of peace,” said the Jesuit, bowing his 
 dark head with a strange, unnatural affectation of hu- 
 mifity, “ but were I not ! — ” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 95 
 
 And his large eye kindled. 
 
 Catesby still continued as calm as if it were impossible 
 to excite him to feeling or to action. 
 
 Were you not — what then ? — ” 
 
 Very slowly and quietly. 
 
 I would shew myself a man” said he sternly. 
 
 “ I would be bound you would,” cried the lady. 
 
 “ What man dare, I dare,” said Catesby, in the 
 words of Macbeth, but this is forbidden to us ... ” 
 And he turned away and walked again up and down 
 the room. 
 
 The lady watched him with angry, contemptuous 
 glances. The priest looked vexed and perplexed: so 
 ready a submission to these peacable injunctions, was 
 what he least expected or wished to find. 
 
 “ Have you heard, then, Master Catesby,” at last he 
 said, what has been doing in London — that mother 
 of iniquities — during the last few weeks? News travels 
 slowly at this time of the year: have you heard?” 
 “You have nothing to tell me,” said Catesby; “I 
 came down here last night.” 
 
 The dark countenance of the priest grew darker, he 
 almost scowled upon him, and he said, 
 
 “ And it is your resolution, for your part, to submit 
 without opposition to all this?’^ 
 
 “ So I am commanded,^^ was the reply. 
 
 Tlie priest again bowed his head, and then he sighed, 
 and turning to the lady, said, 
 
 “ Tlien prepare — for persecutions and ruin are threat- 
 ening our unhappy party: our watchers are sleeping, 
 and our strong men have delivered themselves to 
 
96 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 the power of the enemy. Mr. Catesby has no doubt 
 his own good reasons for keeping terms with this 
 execrable government — ^let Ashby be bestowed, as so 
 many other estates have been, and will be, on the 
 infidel and base Scot, to levy the fines now heavily 
 due. We must tolerate much, madam, and be content 
 to sleep in a whole skin.’’ 
 
 Catesby gave a shght start, and the colour rose 
 to his cheek at this reproach, but he spoke not. 
 
 The lady continued her taunts, the priest his inuen- 
 does, but he bore it all wdth astonishing patience. The 
 evening had long closed in, the shutters were again 
 fastened, the lamps upon the table lighted, and the same 
 dark and misty gloom hung over the chamber, the 
 same Rembrandt character of deep shadow, all save 
 where the light fell bright upon the place where the 
 lady and the priest were sitting. 
 
 The priest seemed to grow more and more heated 
 and impatient; indeed, he appeared scarcely master of 
 his vexation and disappointment at this unexpected 
 ejBfect of Father Darcy’s teaching, so exactly the reverse 
 of what had been calculated upon. 
 
 The lady looked coldly and haughtily displeased, 
 but Catesby still preserved his impassibility, though it 
 was evidently with increasing difficulty. 
 
 At last she rose to take her lamp and to retire, 
 saying, ‘‘ The priest’s chamber is prepared for you, 
 dear sir, it grieves me that I dare offer you no better 
 accommodation.” 
 
 “ Madam,” replied he, ‘‘ with such an example of 
 unparalleled submission to injuries before his eyes, who 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 97 
 
 would not learn to be patient? The holy virgin have 
 you in her keeping, good night.’’ 
 
 He opened the door to let her pass, and then with a 
 mingled expression of vexation, perplexity, and ill- 
 repressed rage upon his countenance, resumed his 
 chair. 
 
 Catesby came up to him, planted himself directly 
 before him, fixed his eyes sternly upon his face, and 
 said: “ I understand your dark speeches full well, do I 
 not? And now I put this one question : If by the per- 
 petration of a tremendous crime the Church could be 
 emancipated, say, ought it to be done?--— Say it ought 
 to be done; and it shall be done.” 
 
 “ I know you again now,” said the priest, ‘‘ you speak 
 like Catesby now ; but why say crime ? — Can that be 
 called a crime of which the results would be so glorious? 
 Can there be crime when the holy Church planted in 
 this land shall be rescued from destruction?” 
 
 “ I speak of a dreadful, a tremendous crime,” said 
 he, fiercely; but say, and it shallha done.” 
 
 “ But will the result of what you call a crime be the 
 deliverance of the Church?” said the priest. ‘^Assure me 
 of that, and I repeat it,” his eyes sparkling, “ it would 
 be a great and glorious deed of heroism, and most as- 
 suredly, be the action what it might, no crimed 
 
 ‘‘ Deliverance! Aye, aye! deliverance sure enough,” 
 said the other; “but I repeat it, it would be a dreadful, 
 a tremendous crime.” 
 
 “ You speak in riddles,” said the priest, “ I do not 
 understand you, but this I say — to dare bravely for the 
 Church, to peril life and fame and estate in her cause, 
 VOL. II, 
 
 Cr 
 
98 
 
 TATHER DARCY. 
 
 is great, is glorious ; but to peril the soul,” his eyes flash- 
 ing with enthusiasm, “ oh, that is the part of an arch- 
 angel.” 
 
 ‘‘ You think so?” cried Catesby, eagerly, his eye now 
 flashing bright, as we imagine that of the angel of 
 darkness when he first defied the omnipotent to arms. 
 
 “ You think so ! To peril the soul ! — Aye, aye, and 
 house and estate, and life and fame, gladly ! willingly ! 
 Yea,” with wild enthusiasm, “ and the immortal soul 
 to boot, if so it must be !” 
 
 The priest regarded him with almost equal enthu- 
 siasm. 
 
 ‘‘ There spoke my heart,” he cried, with energy. 
 “ Yea,” his dark eye lighted with a sudden fire, yea, 
 in that cause I have suffered, laboured, anguished, bled. 
 In that cause I am ready to die, to be imprisoned, de- 
 graded, hanged, butchered. In that cause, were it 
 needful, I, too, am ready to peril my immortal soul, 
 aye, and go down into the pit, if so it must be.” 
 
 This man was a sincere man ; he was a sincere though 
 a desperate fanatic; he mistook the promptings of am- 
 bition and revenge for those of generous self-devotion, 
 but he was not urging others to a course in which he 
 never intended to venture himself; he had not the wily 
 prudence of his superior ; he was a desperate, daring, 
 and determined man, and mistaken religious zeal had 
 set his whole inflammable nature on fire. 
 
 “ Do you speak as you feel?” said Catesby, with 
 emotion. Then hell is yawning, and I have entered 
 upon the way: but before we descend into the pit to- 
 gether, we will kindle a fire which shall blow the whole 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 99 
 
 cursed generation, among whicli it is our miserable fate 
 to Kve, into ten thousand thousands of atoms.” 
 
 Your words are wild, your threatenings tremen- 
 dous, my son, but of great words great deeds are seldom 
 born .... these promises are vast indeed.” 
 
 “ Trust me, they shall be redeemed,” cried he, with 
 a sort of wild defiance, oh, trust me, they shall, every 
 jot of them be redeemed ! You keep but your promise 
 to accompany me to the bottomless pit, of which I shall 
 well deserve to be the tenant, and I’ll pledge myself to 
 the event.” 
 
 ‘‘ Your words are still wild and wide,” said the Jesuit, 
 now resuming that more calm and insidious manner 
 wliich he had endeavoured to attain as a second nature, 
 and which yielded rarely, though it did at times, to the 
 vehemence of his natural temper, ‘‘ you speak reck- 
 lessly of crime and of my participating in crime, but 
 let us consider the matter coolly; if it were a crime, the 
 Holy Virgin forbid that I should be a sharer in it; but 
 I repeat, nothing can be called a crime that leads by its 
 consequences to the deliverance of the mourning and 
 sorrowing church of Christ — nothing a crime which 
 saves the thousands of perishing souls, now hastening 
 to destruction in this land forsaken of God. We are 
 taught to purge the sin of heresy by fire as gold is se- 
 parated from the dross, and save the soul by suffering, 
 
 which otherwise would perish everlastingly ” 
 
 “ You speak of the Inquisition,” interrupted Catesby, 
 “ but her fires consume the guilty only; the miserable 
 heretics to whom such discipline is a mercy. I did not 
 mean to call that a crime. But where the righteous 
 G 2 
 
100 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 and tlie wicked, tke innocent and tlie guilty, the babe 
 of yesterday and the hoary sinner of sixty years, where 
 they shall all, all perish at one blow, I call that an 
 enormous crime. Nay, nay, father, it is a crime, but 
 only say it, only say an enormous crime may be lawful, 
 only speak, and it shall be done.’’ 
 
 ‘‘ I dare not speak,” said the father, shuddering in 
 spite of himself, ‘‘ I only can give you assurance that 
 in this noble cause of Christ’s own church — all things 
 are lawful, if all things are not expedient.” 
 
 I am answered — all things are lawful.” 
 Unquestionably: the end justifies the means: it is 
 the foundation stone of all our doctrines.” 
 
 “ The end!” with his wild eyes sparkling terribly; 
 the end 1 Oh, it is indeed a noble, glorious end I 
 Deliverance I — final, absolute deliverance 1 — Triumph 
 unimaginable, unassailable triumph. A wild but cer- 
 tain justice, a fierce but righteous revenge 1 — wicked- 
 ness, and tyranny, and blasphemy, and lies, swept 
 away from their habitation — ‘ for a desolation of deso- 
 lations is determined.’ ^ Then shall he build again the 
 sanctuary in Zion — and thy God shall return to thee, 
 oh Jacob !’ ” 
 
 And tears — believe it or not as you will, tears 
 blinded those dark and beautiful eyes — tears of enthu- 
 siastic joy and thankfulness. 
 
 The priest was a determined and ardent character, 
 but he was quite incapable of mounting to a pitch of 
 enthusiastic fanaticism like this; he gazed at the 
 excited, the almost inspired countenance, with adora- 
 tion; as tears large and slow clouded over the bril- 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 101 
 
 Hant eyes, and fell drop by drop upon tire glowing 
 cheek and rugged beard. 
 
 Softened for a moment — the woman melted within 
 him ; a vision as in a dream came over him ; he saw 
 the wild destruction he was meditating, effected; he 
 heard the loud burst of that unearthly thunder as 
 if rending in one tremendous crash the heavens — 
 he saw the multitudes blown up to shattering destruc- 
 tion — houses nodding around him, and the screams 
 of terror, and the wail of unappeasable and ineffectual 
 lamentation, seemed ringing in his ears from every 
 side. 
 
 Oh, had but his better angel ! — had but some monitor 
 whispered him, is this well? — Oh, had the divine 
 voice of the heavenly master been but once allowed 
 to echo in his heart . . . . ! 
 
 But it was written — there lie stood^ the accursed, the 
 awful warning to an execrating world : an example of 
 religious fanaticism, and perverted morality : wretched, 
 miserable man — let not the lesson of this dreadful but 
 over true tale be lost. 
 
 Tears — tears of pity filled his eyes for a moment 
 — he dashed them desperately away. He rejected the 
 pleadings of pity — the whispers of conscience : his 
 resolution was taken. That which he had to do — his 
 church — the voice, at least that represented the church 
 to his mind — had declared was lawful. 
 
 The priest, still in the dark as to the exact nature of 
 the design, regarded with much satisfaction the ex- 
 pression of stem resolution which soon succeeded upon 
 that varying countenance to tenderness and pity. That 
 
102 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 some great enterprise was in contemplation, he felt 
 sure ; and such was his confidence in the skill and 
 courage of Mr. Catesby, that he doubted nothing of a 
 successful result. 
 
 In this persuasion he retired to the priest’s chamber; 
 and little accustomed to enjoy, and as little desirous of 
 enjoying, any of the indulgences of daily life, slept 
 upon his hard pallet in this horrid cell, as the weary 
 labourer in the mine slumbers upon his rocky pillow. 
 
 Neither was Catesby’s couch restless as the night 
 before ; wearied with excitement, he fell into a deep 
 death-like slumber, which lasted till daybreak. 
 
FATHER FARCY. 
 
 103 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 “ Present fears 
 
 Are less than horrible imaginings.” 
 
 Shakspeare, 
 
 It was a morning in the latter end of March, when Mr. 
 Catesby, taking leave of his mother and children, 
 and followed by his rustic servant, Thomas Bates, 
 set forward, riding with his accustomed speed to 
 London. 
 
 The ways were foul, and the deep lanes excessively 
 heavy, so that it was with great diflS.culty that the 
 powerful black horse he bestrode could plough through 
 the mire and clay at the rate to which he was urged by 
 his impatient master. The dark and lowring sky, the 
 close gloomy lanes they travelled through, the cold and 
 searching wind which penetrated his breast, were in 
 unison with his thoughts : all, as it were, in a sort of 
 stormy chaos. 
 
 His follower meanwhile spurred his hackney forward, 
 and breasted the bitter wind, thinking within himself 
 that he had seen his master in many a rage, and many 
 a quandary, but never in such a strange pass as this. 
 That fresh cause for agitation among the Catholics had 
 arisen, he would not have been slow to observe, even if 
 the outrage of the fatal morning had not been suf- 
 ficiently significative. And that his master had some 
 
104 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 notable enterprise in band he felt assured; and being 
 a prying and shrewd fellow enough, he resolved not to 
 rest till he had made himself acquainted with it. Not, 
 however, through the slightest evil intention, but 
 merely through that desire to share in the councils, 
 enterprises, and dangers of their superiors, which was 
 common to the dependants of those days; who seem 
 to have been habituated from their infancy to live 
 rather in others than for themselves; and who, with a 
 generous and simple loyalty which it is impossible to 
 help loving, flung away their lives almost without con- 
 cern, to rescue or shield those esteemed by them as of 
 far more account than themselves. 
 
 They reached London in three days. 
 
 London was all bustling and riotous with the new 
 court, from which the magnificent decorum of the stately 
 old queen had altogether vanished. Her grave mag- 
 nificence had been succeeded by scenes of drunkenness, 
 riot, and low debauchery, disgraceful to the times and 
 to the nation. The infection rapidly spread down- 
 wards ; drunkards and roisterers filled the taverns ; and 
 numbers of swashing blades, to use the language of the 
 times, infested the streets — among whom the insolent 
 Scotch favourites played an obvious part : puffed 
 up as they were by the wealth they had already ac- 
 quired, and looking back with equal contempt upon 
 their own countrymen still starving on the mountains, 
 and upon the fat and somewhat stolid aspect of a na- 
 tion whom they seemed called upon to over-reach and 
 pillage at discretion. Catesby riding up to the Strand, 
 dismounted at a moderately sized house, and inquiring 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 105 
 
 whether Mr. Winter was at home, was immediately 
 admitted; leaving Bates to conduct his horses to the 
 nearest hostel. 
 
 Mr. Winter, a man of family, and many accomplish- 
 ments, was fair and handsome, with blue eyes, a hooked 
 nose, and something peculiarly sweet and engaging in 
 his countenance; not in the least intended by nature, 
 as it would seem, to play the part of a dark conspirator; 
 he had proved himself a most active and able man of 
 business, and had, with the assistance of Father Cres- 
 well, been the chief medium through which the Ca- 
 tholic negotiations with the court of Spain, with re- 
 ference to the succession of the infanta, had been car- 
 ried on. 
 
 It is needless to say, that all hope of establishing a 
 Catholic successor upon the throne of Elizabeth, had 
 been latterly abandoned; and that the implied pro- 
 mises by James had been effectual in defeating every 
 scheme in agitation for resistance to his succession. 
 The triumph of his kingcraft was so far complete; he 
 had settled himself quietly upon the throne of England ; 
 and all the difficult negotiations in which Mr. Winter 
 had been engaged had fallen to the ground; but he was 
 not a man to resent such a result of his efforts. So long 
 as things went well with his religion and party, he was 
 perfectly indifferent with respect to his own place and 
 importance. 
 
 He was now sitting with his Avlndow open, which 
 looked upon a small but green and pleasant garden, 
 and commanded the usual view of the Thames, with 
 
106 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 their opposite banks now bursting into green, and the 
 Surrey hills swelling behind them. He was writing at 
 a small table^ and from time to time laying down his 
 pen, passed his hand across his brow, with an appear- 
 ance of trouble and perplexity; then he took a few 
 turns in his chamber, and then returning to his table, 
 resumed his task. 
 
 The door opened, and Catesby entered. The two 
 friends were in each other’s arms — there was the fervent 
 embrace of brothers ; and then Catesby, taking a chair 
 opposite to that on which Mr. Winter had been seated, 
 sat down. 
 
 Not a word had as yet passed between them, but the 
 eye of Catesby was fixed upon the pleasant and cheerful 
 countenance of his friend. 
 
 With an expression almost of reproach, it might be 
 said, he looked upon him, it might be, with something 
 of that feeling, with which men gnawing their tongues 
 for pain, in the agony of some deep internal misery, 
 have been known to curse the light of the cheerful 
 day. 
 
 Winter answered the look with one of affectionate 
 and anxious interest, and breaking silence, said. 
 
 You have sent me a very urgent message, Robert, 
 requiring me to meet you without delay in town — here 
 I am — wherefore come, I have to learn; but your sum- 
 mons would lead me to fear something in your own 
 peculiar had befallen you, still more poignant than the 
 general wound.’’ 
 
 My mother and children are well,” said Catesby; 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 107 
 
 ‘‘ Everard and his wife are well; beyond them, and Tom 
 and thee, the world holds nothing whose weal or woe 
 touches me personally.” 
 
 I am glad to hear it,” said Winter, I am glad all 
 old wounds are healed, Robert, and that you have 
 forgotten what had best be forgotten, and are your own 
 man again.” 
 
 She is dedicated to her God,” said Catesby, with a 
 slight tremble in his voice, for not yet could he allude 
 to that subject without emotion, and I have dedicated 
 myself also. Winter, but it is to another deity.-” 
 
 ‘‘ How, another ?” asked Winter, eyeing him with 
 considerable interest and curiosity, for there was so 
 great a change in the expression of his face since they 
 had last met, that it seemed scarcely the countenance of 
 the man with whom he had spoken but some few weeks 
 before. 
 
 “ Dedicated to another ! — how so? you speak riddles 
 Robert, you cannot mean . . . and yet I wish it were 
 so — that Eleanor . . .” 
 
 Pshaw !” contemptuously and impatiently. ‘‘ I hate 
 the thoughts of such things. Is this a time to be 
 marrying and giving in marriage, when the flood is 
 rising which is to overwhelm us all?” 
 
 Dedicated ! you said.” 
 
 “ Ay, ay; I said Grace Vaux was dedicated to the 
 holy service of God, did I not ? a God of mercy and 
 peace — and I have dedicated myself to another god — 
 the god of wrath and vengeance, that^s all: it may be the 
 same divinity, what do I know ? That is my dedication, 
 Winter; and as that saintly virgin made a holocaust of 
 
108 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 my happiness at the altar of her devotion, I have pre- 
 pared a holocaust of another sort to celebrate mine. 
 Nay, start not, nor look so strangely at me, the vow is 
 registered in heaven, and the holy sacrament has been 
 taken upon it — you look upon one professed, as well as 
 the — ha ! ha ! you are thinking I have neither the air 
 of a begging friar nor a learned monk, nor a subtle fol- 
 lower of St. Ignatius — may be not, but I have my 
 calling and vocation, nevertheless,” and he laughed in a 
 strange, unnatural manner. 
 
 “ I hardly know thee, Robert, this morning; I am 
 used to see thee in strange veins, man, but this tops all : 
 what ails thee, Catesby?” he added, more seriously, 
 ‘^something more than common is amiss with you; I 
 never saw you thus before.” 
 
 “ I should think not,” said his friend, but to see 
 you so much the same. Winter, in spite of all, is perhaps 
 a greater marvel than to see me changed.” 
 
 I don’t know what should change me,^’ said Winter, 
 quietly, ‘‘ you know I never expected much from this 
 base king of clubs, and his scoundrel bare-legged Scots- 
 men, spawn of John Knox and his wretched, beggarly 
 creed : my views led me to a loftier banner, and the race 
 from which emperors and conquerors have sprung ; but 
 it was not so to be — all has come to pass as I expected, 
 and fiat voluntas must be my motto, perforce.” 
 
 Why perforce?” said Catesby, bending forward over 
 the table, and fixing his darkly, deeply meaning eye 
 upon his friend. Why perforce ? with cowards and 
 with sluggards it is always perforce, with men never^ 
 
 “ Why, what is to be done? The old childish plan of 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 109 
 
 assassination is at an end. It was always a means 
 utterly abhorrent to me, and now it would be ridiculous 
 — what more so, than to strike the old serpent, when a 
 young cockatrice, with ten times his virulence, is ready 
 to spring from his blood: you cannot kill them all.’’ 
 
 “ Why not?” said Catesby. 
 
 “Pooh! pooh! man, we never could succeed even 
 with the old woman, ‘ there’s such divinity doth hedge 
 a king,’ saith the poet— and besides, granted — what it is 
 impossible to grant — that you destroyed the Avhole brood, 
 what would it help us? No, no, this cursed Protestant 
 government is too firmly established; its basis is too 
 broad. Are there not the two houses and cousins of 
 royal blood, enough to furnish an interminable Pro- 
 testant succession: this makes them so secure, man — 
 they may trample upon us at their pleasure : it’s idle 
 to attempt to overturn a pyramid.” 
 
 A strange expression again crossed his companion’s 
 face. 
 
 “ There have been ways found to shatter even pyra- 
 mids,” he said. . . “ What if the pyramid thou speakest 
 of, were torn up from its foundations, and scattered to 
 the winds; what then?” 
 
 “ ’Tis idle to talk of it,” said Winter, with the tone 
 of a man not to be imposed upon by impossibilities. 
 
 “ But what then?” said Catesby, more earnestly, his 
 gleaming eyes still fixed upon Winter’s face, “ answer 
 me at once. Suppose this pyramid of theirs shattered 
 to its very foundations ; suppose kings, princes, lords, 
 parhamcnt, annihilated at one blow. Imagine such a 
 
110 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 catastrophe, and tell me what then? Might not something 
 he builded up thenT 
 
 ‘‘ My dear Catesby, when the Spanish Armada failed 
 before this kingdom in arms, that business was decided 
 — there will never be flood powerful enough, nor force 
 strong enough to sweep away this government. To 
 speak plainly — I tell you it is based upon too wide a 
 foundation. It is idle to talk of upsetting the houses of 
 parliament, even if you could command the means for 
 a work bloody enough to call down the execration of 
 mankind upon our heads. I wonder, Catesby, to hear 
 you, a man of sense and action, talk in tliis wild and 
 romance-like manner.” 
 
 “We will have no blood,” said Catesby, in the same 
 strangely quiet manner. “What happens when it thun- 
 ders and lightens — men are scorched and blackened, 
 but there is no blood.” 
 
 Winter looked impatient, as one who hears non- 
 sense. 
 
 Catesby stretched out his hand across the table; took 
 hold of that of his friend, and held it with a grasp as of 
 an iron vice ; his own was cold as death. 
 
 “ There was an accident, on the 13th of April last, 1 
 think it was : some gunpowder exploded, and thirteen 
 men were killed — do you remember it?” 
 
 “Well enough,” said Winter, “it was a shocking 
 business.” 
 
 “ Suppose these thirteen had been the sovereign and 
 the estates and nobility of England, what then?” 
 
 And loosing the hand he held, he rose from his seat, 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Ill 
 
 and took two ou three turns up and down the apart- 
 ment, while the eyes of Winter followed him. 
 
 At last he came hack, and throwing himself into a 
 chair close by Winter, said, in a hoarse, low voice, 
 
 “ I am going to put my hfe into your hands; and if 
 you like sacrifices as well as some do, send up your 
 old friend Robert Catesby to propitiate the tyrant.’’ 
 Speak out,” said Winter, ‘‘distrust of me! that is 
 unworthy of you, Robert.” 
 
 “ I have no distrust of thee,” throwing his arm round 
 his shoulder affectionately, and speaking close to his 
 ear; “we will blow up this rascally, oppressive, ty- 
 rannous parliament, and this base perjured Scotsman, 
 and his spawn, and their spawn, and all who have had 
 or will have a hand in these cursed laws — ^blow them 
 heels upward to the skies. We will purge this land of 
 these abominations — that we will.” 
 
 Winter turned round and stared him in the face, as 
 one looks at one suddenly seized with unexpected 
 frenzy. 
 
 “ Nay, I am not mad,” said Catesby, withdrawing 
 his arm, “the thing is easy enough; half-a-dozen resolute 
 men, and we would blow this damned crew beyond the 
 limits of the earth’s sphere.” 
 
 But Winter made no answer. 
 
 “ In that place the mischief hath been done, and 
 perchance, in that place God hath assigned them their 
 punishment. 
 
 “ Well, Winter .... speak — ” 
 
 “ It is true,” began the other, who by this time was 
 pale as death, “ this would overturn the pyramid, and 
 
112 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 root out the evil at once; the re-estabhshment of the 
 Roman Catholic religion must be the inevitable con- 
 sequence of such a convulsion ; when all the leaders of 
 the Protestant church party had perished, the way 
 would be clear for us, but,’^ and he shuddered, this is 
 an awful remedy.’’ 
 
 ‘‘ The nature of the disease requires sharp remedies,” 
 said Catesby, firmly. 
 
 ‘‘ But yet consider, should it fail, with what new and 
 unheard of obloquy should we cover the Catholic 
 name : for ourselves I heed not, but the dishonour to 
 our church ! • . .” 
 
 “ It shall not fail,” said his friend, in the words and 
 spirit of Macbeth’s wife. And when did successful 
 rebellion ever miss of its reward, the approval and sym- 
 pathy of mankind. This is a grand and noble en- 
 terprise, all others have been mere idle tampering with 
 danger, but here, at one blow! One ten minutes’ 
 work, and all is over .... the yoke broken from the 
 shoulder, the fetters from the hands, and our church 
 restored ascendant to her throne. The giant of the 
 hosts of Israel pulled the temple and the wrangling 
 nobles of Philistia, upon his head; but we will do 
 better than that, Thomas, we will fling them up 
 to the angry heavens, and live ourselves to enjoy our 
 triumph.” 
 
 Winter’s heart was beginning to beat fast : the pros- 
 pect of a final victory was intoxicating even to him, 
 temperate and humane as he naturally was : and such a 
 victory I over those whom he had accustomed himself 
 to regard with all the contempt and bitterness engen- 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 113 
 
 dered by religious hatred; and by his abhorrence of 
 those, whom, according to the teachings of his church, 
 he was accustomed to designate by the term heretic. 
 
 “ The grand objection,” he said, after some moments’ 
 consideration, “ and the one that weighs with me, is, 
 that among so many guilty, false, and cruel, who 
 well deserve the doom they are bringing upon 
 their heads, so many innocent must necessarily suiFer. 
 Have you thought upon the wide destruction you 
 are about to scatter? How many domestic hearths 
 must be shattered, surrounded by the harmless com- 
 moner sort who are as guiltless of these barbarous 
 executions as the babes unborn.” 
 
 I have thought of that,” said Robert, while an ex- 
 pression of very great pain was visible on his counte- 
 nance. “ I have consulted, Father Darcy — Garnet — 
 you know who I mean. It would be painful, no doubt, 
 very painful to see the mnocent share the doom of the 
 nocent; but he has instructed me that in all important 
 enterprises such accompanying accidents are inevi- 
 table. He instanced the sacking of a town, or a signal 
 victory in arms. All great actions, he observed, would 
 fall to the ground, did men too nicely consider them. 
 I have his ghostly word for it that in this glorious deed 
 we shall go up absolved, nay, more than justified, in 
 the eye both of God and man. And besides, will it 
 not be the same to them all fifty years hence ?” 
 
 Winter shook his head somewhat sorrowfully. 
 
 “ And you arc determined ?” 
 
 “ Nay,” said Catesby, “ I have made only one vow 
 — alone, unassisted, unsupported, so help me all the 
 VOL. II. H 
 
114 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 paradise of saints, I will do this thing. If there be 
 not a friend on earth to share the toil and dare the 
 peril — alone, like the old prophet of God, will I affront 
 the danger, and succeed or perish in the attempt. Fare 
 thee well. Winter. I could find in my heart almost 
 to rejoice that thou didst refuse to go art and part 
 with me in this — honest, dear Winter. Thou hast la- 
 boured long and well — this is too much to tax thy 
 friendship with — but let me have thy secrecy and thy 
 prayers.” 
 
 And rising up, he turned to go away; he was per- 
 fectly sincere in what he said; he was generous enough 
 to rejoice in the failure of his attempt to win a con- 
 fidante to his dangerous scheme in the man he loved — 
 but his tone of affectionate sadness, so sincere and 
 imaffected, went straight to the heart of his friend. 
 
 He rose, and embraced him, saying: 
 
 Stay — that shall never be said— that Winter suf- 
 fered his friend to seek danger alone. There’s my 
 hand, Catesby — you say true — we must not inquire 
 too curiously. That which my friend dares I am ready 
 to dare. Command me as thou wilt — I am thine. If 
 to victory, I will follow to swell the general voice 
 which shall applaud thy courage and aid thy success. 
 If to death, why let me share the gallows and the 
 bloody knife with thee !” 
 
 One of those sudden revulsions of feeling — one of 
 those sharp pangs of remorse — which visited him at 
 invervals throughout those fearful days, shook Catesby, 
 as Winter spoke these words; but he resisted the feeling 
 with all his strength, and while the very pulses of life 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 115 
 
 seemed freezing with a strange horror, he returned in 
 silence his embrace; and thus was this dreadful com- 
 pact of affection sealed between them. 
 
 In this nlanner was the accomplished, the polished, 
 the much loved|and esteemed Thomas Winter, engaged 
 to the fatal conspiracy. 
 
116 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 “ Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.” 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Catesby at this time occupied a small obscure 
 house which he had taken at Lambeth, pretty nearly 
 opposite to the Parliament stairs. 
 
 Lambeth was then a scattered village, surrounded by 
 fields, high hedges, and trees — and this house lay con- 
 veniently out of the way of observation. It may seem 
 perhaps strange, that he should have planted himself so 
 near the abode of the Archbishop, his detested adver- 
 sary ; but houses were so scattered, and many of them 
 so lonely, that little observation was possible ; and the 
 last thing that would have entered into the heads of 
 the government, would have been to search for the 
 abode of any of the more rich and eminent Catholic 
 gentry in so obscure a place. 
 
 Here he was joined by John Wright, of Plowlands 
 in Holderness, who had already taken a part in the 
 Essex rebellion. It is probable that Catesby had 
 secured his co-operation, before applying to Thomas 
 Winter. Wright was a man of harsh and coarse 
 countenance, and of a rough temper ; accounted the 
 best swordsman of his time; ready for any enterprise; 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 117 
 
 and little troubled with those questions of an unsatisfied 
 conscience, which perplexed and tormented the rest. 
 
 In him, Catesby found at once, what men engaged 
 in enterprises, desperate and fearful as his was, most 
 desire : a somewhat stolid head, and ready hand. One 
 easily led, yet enterprising when in action — ^lie had 
 arranged with this invaluable associate, that, leaving 
 his home he then occupied, at Twigmore in Lincoln- 
 shire, he should betake himself to a place called Lap- 
 worth, in Warwickshire, the property of Mr. Catesby, 
 which would bring him into the centre of the Catholic 
 gentlemen of that neighbourhood, all so closely con- 
 nected with each other by ties of blood and similarity 
 of views and interests. 
 
 The ways were so bad, and travelling, except in the 
 most frequented roads, so difficult, that a hundred miles 
 of distance was a very serious obstruction to any thing 
 like confidential intercourse. 
 
 These three gentlemen now sitting in a little dark 
 back parlour in Catesby ’s obscure lodging at Lambeth, 
 discoursed of what was next to be done. 
 
 The pale cheek and faded brow of Winter, bore 
 testimony to the night of fearful doubt and agony 
 which he had passed ; his mind divided by contend- 
 ing feelings, and his imagination filled with images of 
 dread and horror. 
 
 The once fresh and pleasant blue eye was dim and 
 clouded; the cheerful smile exchanged for a look of 
 harrowing anxiety. While Wright, hard and indif- 
 ferent, spoke as men accustomed to warfare speak of an 
 expected battle. And Catesby, whose resolute temper, 
 
118 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 had triumphed already in great measure/ over those 
 gentle weaknesses and tendernesses of nature which 
 still disturbed his companion, spoke as of a thing 
 necessitated by destiny, in the carrying out of which 
 he considered himself but as a passive instrument. 
 
 Winter hesitating, as men do whose nature revolts at 
 the action in which they are about to be engaged, dis- 
 covered innumerable difficulties. 
 
 Where were they to find a house from whence to 
 carry out the mine.^ Who was to be engaged in the 
 labour — the very noise consequent upon which must 
 attract the attention of the neighbourhood, and speedily 
 lead to a discovery. 
 
 Catesby read in his friend’s trembling, hesitating 
 voice, and changing colour, the agonies of his irreso- 
 lution — the remorses of his conscience — and compre- 
 hended the strength of that friendship for himself, 
 which could lead him into an engagement evidently 
 abhorrent to him. 
 
 “ Let us make the attempt only,” he said; we 
 shall have satisfied conscience and honour by having 
 done our best to redeem our suffering brethren. If 
 the first commencement fail — we will pass no further.” 
 
 Wright nodded assent. 
 
 Winter still looked anxiously irresolute, and from 
 time to time a shudder passed over him, while Catesby 
 stood a few moments looking steadily at his friend. 
 
 Fallen as he was, he was not yet so utterly lost to 
 right and generous feeling as to contemplate the 
 action he meditated without repugnance, or the 
 misery of his friend (thus debating with a conscience 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 119 
 
 that would not and could not be satisfied) without 
 sympathy. 
 
 They had been all three standing round a small table, 
 and speaking low to one another. 
 
 Catesby said at last : 
 
 ‘‘ You are right, Thomas, this is an awful exertion of 
 the divine justice, nor ought it to be attempted till 
 every other means has failed. We will leave no 
 peaceable and quiet way untried. The constable 
 Velasco is now in Flanders, awaiting the time to cross 
 over to England, in order to conclude this peace be- 
 tween the rival powers of England and Spain, A 
 conjunction which bodes us little good I fear^ yet still 
 let all fair means be tried. 
 
 ‘‘ It is for thy sake,” added he, going up to Winter, 
 and laying his hand afiectionately upon his shoulder. 
 “ I see thine honourable heart yet revolts at these dark 
 and hidden courses, to which my spirit has been 
 broken and brought down. It were better, far better 
 done, in the way of open and honourable dealing.” 
 
 “ Oh, Robert! and without such fearful massacre,” 
 said Winter, and again he shuddered. 
 
 Thou shall yet try thy hand at negotiation, Thomas, 
 though as yet we have been unlucky enough in such 
 things: but thou shalt cross the seas once more, wilt 
 thou? See this constable ; beseech him to solicit his ma- 
 jesty upon his coming here that the penal laws may be 
 repealed, and we admitted to the privileges of our fellow 
 citizens.” 
 
 Winter shook his head doubtingly, but his counte- 
 nance cleared, as he said: 
 
120 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 “ I accept the mission with joy. Be it as you say — 
 let nothing be left first untried.’’ 
 
 “ And if every thing, after being tried, fail,” said 
 John Wright, roughly— then are we to pursue our pur- 
 pose ? or are we to let that die away in a few old wives’ 
 scolding words, as so many noble enterprises have eva- 
 porated before now? We have had flashes in the pan 
 often enough,” he added, with a hoarse sort of laugh — 
 “ I arn for an explosion at last.” 
 
 Catesby glanced at him, and then said: 
 
 ‘‘ Let us understand each other, Thomas Winter. 
 Should this negotiation with the constable fail, what 
 am I to expect as to your purpose? Shall this noble 
 plot go on — shall one generous efibrt be made to rend 
 asunder our chains at once and for ever, or shall we lie 
 down like felons and die in our fetters?” 
 
 “ Catesby,’^ said Winter, you have my pledge. I 
 thank you for this concession to my feelings — this last 
 attempt, and the necessary delay. I only repeat what I 
 said yesterday — where thou leadest I will follow — 
 where thou dost triumph, I will glory — and where thou 
 diest I will die.” 
 
 Catesby wrung his hand — and again an expression 
 of mingled tenderness and remorse passed over his face. 
 It was this extreme susceptibility of feeling, added to 
 the determined resolution of his temper, which gave this 
 extraordinary man such strange power over the affec- 
 tions of all around him. 
 
 “ There is a gentleman,” he went on, resuming the 
 subject] in a few seconds with perfect tranquillity — 
 whom we are all more or less well acquainted with: a 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 121 
 
 brave and gallant soldier, and well able for this business, 
 Mr. Fawkes. You will meet with him in Flanders, 
 Winter, for he is at present serving as a volunteer in the 
 Archduke’s army. That gentleman will serve our pur- 
 pose well should our negotiations fail. Open the mat- 
 ter to him. Say there is much effectual work to do 
 in England, and the bold heart and the ready hand are 
 ours.” 
 
 “ He is a very religious and honourable gentleman,^’ 
 said Winter. ‘‘ I know him well. But think you 
 this dark and underground work will suit with his 
 temper?” 
 
 ‘‘Fear it not,” answered Catesby, “ I know him too 
 — a man determined in his purposes, and unflinching as 
 to his means. There has been some practice in these 
 Flemish wars — and gentlemen volunteers have learned, 
 among other things, not to be chicken-hearted in the 
 performance of their duties. He will see the scope of 
 this business at once. Guido Fawkes will be one for 
 such an enterprise^ make you sure of it.” 
 
 Again Winter sighed. 
 
 “ I shall see him doubtless,” he said. “ I will set 
 forward to-morrow. The wind sits fair for Dunkirk.” 
 
 “ The constable is now at Bergen, as I understand,” 
 continued Catesby — “ in a week or two we may look 
 for your return.” 
 
 All this time Wright stood by eyeing the two friends 
 in a wondering sort of manner — their susceptibility of 
 feeling was quite a matter unintelligible to him ; and to 
 see Catesby appear to falter in his purpose, after the 
 
122 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 vehemence with which he had pressed the matter upon 
 himself, astonished him. 
 
 He walked to the window, looked out, put his hands 
 into his pockets, whistled a tune, returned to the table, 
 and said at last: 
 
 “We have been in council long enough to-day, to 
 awaken the suspicions of half London — would it not be 
 better to have done? When Mr. Winter has executed 
 his commission you’ll maybe summon me to London 
 again. In the mean time I take my leave. I am for 
 the country : any commands to Lincolnshire, gentle- 
 men? If there be any work on hand, summon me: 
 John Wright’s sword is at the command of his party.” 
 
 And so saying, he went away, leaving the two toge- 
 ther. 
 
 “ That is a resolute fellow, at least,” said Robert, who 
 began to feel almost ashamed of his own hesitations : 
 “ Father Darcy would have done better to put this 
 work into his hands than into mine.” 
 
 His work ! — nay, I had thought it was only yours, 
 Robert.” 
 
 “ His, or mine — it’s the same thing,” said the other, 
 carelessly. “ And yet — but you will see the constable: 
 this is after aU a horrible business better spared — ^better 
 spared: you will see the constable,” and he turned to go 
 away, but returning, said, “ you will see Fawkes — mind 
 you see Fawkes — you will open yourself to Fawkes. 
 That Wright is but a brute beast after all — but Fawkes 
 is a brave soldier — we shall hear him speak upon this 
 business. Yet stay — open nothing as yet. Say he is 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 123 
 
 wanted in England ; that an honourable enterprise for the 
 relief of the suffering Catholics is afoot, and calls for the 
 services of brave and gallant men. Say no more — ^we 
 will proceed no further in this till you return.’^ 
 
 Such were his hesitations. 
 
124 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 “ There in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 
 Burns the slow flame, eternal — but unseen; 
 
 Which not the darkness of despair can damp. 
 
 Though vain its ray as it had never been.’' 
 
 Byron, 
 
 Winter has sailed to Flanders, and Catesby is at 
 Dry Stoke, with his dearest friend Everard, for Everard 
 is the man he loves best of all. 
 
 His mind, under the reaction following those desperate 
 sentiments and fiery purposes which had agitated him, 
 had sunk into a melancholy which led him to seek that 
 abode of peace and affection ; and, with his usual care- 
 lessness of others^ to endeavour in the tenderness of 
 Eleanor to find relief from the horrible excitement of 
 thought under which he had been labouring. 
 
 He asked himself no questions, still less did he inquire 
 how far his uncertain and capricious pursuits were in- 
 flicting injury upon her. He knew that she loved him ; 
 and under the restless misery of his own distracting 
 thoughts, and with that desire of relief at any cost, 
 which resembles the raging thirst of fever, he came to 
 her in search of it. Evelyn and Everard were both 
 struck with the change that has taken place in him. 
 It has been coming on by degrees for the last two 
 years, it is true; but never has it been so evident as now 
 that the fiery impatience and almost capricious intem- 
 perance of his charact^ had disappeared; he was no 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 125 
 
 longer abrupt, animated and energetic, as of old; he 
 was quiet, grave, and gloomy, and nothing in the sweet 
 retirement of Dry Stoke seemed to soften him. But to 
 Eleanor this change was ecstasy. 
 
 In spite of the contemptuous manner in which he had 
 spoken of her to Winter, what heart of man, when the 
 days of darkness come on, and the hours in which it 
 shall be said there is no pleasure in them,” can resist 
 the solace of a woman’s alFection, especially when it is 
 lavished as this was by the too incautious girl, heed- 
 less, nay, hopeless, of an equal return. 
 
 To have him sit by her, as he now constantly did ; 
 even though, absorbed in his own dark thoughts, his 
 face averted and resting upon his hand, he never 
 uttered a word for hours ; was happiness enough for her. 
 
 Their humours sympathised indeed strangely; if he 
 was gloomy, she was serious and sad, and a sorrowful 
 foreboding of evil hung over her spirits; she asked no 
 questions of herself ; she felt as if the future was all one 
 shadowy twilight, through which strange spectres were 
 gliding; but what mattered it? her devoted woman’s 
 heart was satisfied, he had sought her — he was by her 
 side — it was enough. 
 
 The cheerfulness of that pleasant home, which had 
 been animated by the bright spirit of Evelyn, was in- 
 deed at an end. The anxiety which visited every 
 Catholic hearth under the present aspect of political 
 affairs, was felt more peculiarly here. They were both 
 of them, both Everard and his Evelyn, sensibly alive to 
 the sorrows and sufferings of others; and though their 
 own position rendered the heavy fines which seemed to 
 
126 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 be threatened a matter of comparative indifference, they 
 could not look without anguish on the suffering pre- 
 paring for so many, or without dismay upon the dan- 
 gers which surrounded themselves. For by this time, 
 it is proper to state, those severe measures announced 
 by Catesby had begun to be carried into execution; 
 the offensive visitation of private houses again became 
 general, and the fines for recusancy were levied with a 
 severity which threatened to plunge the poorer mem- 
 bers of the society into utter ruin ; for not only was all 
 hope of remission for the future taken away, but the 
 arrears for the past, which had been allowed to accu- 
 mulate, were now exacted with the utmost rigour; and 
 to increase the indignation of the party thus betrayed, 
 the unfortunate victims were handed over by the king 
 as a sort of present to his Scottish followers, who exer- 
 cised their power in the most oppressive and pitiless 
 manner. A law, too, was promulgated, forbidding pri- 
 vate families to employ the service of a Catholic tutor 
 in the education of their children. 
 
 Where were any members of the party to seek for the 
 consolations of their religion ? Who were to educate their 
 children? The penal laws against the priests, the terrible 
 enactions against private worship, which had slumbered 
 in Queen Elizabeth’s time, were hanging over all, and, 
 as the king’s proclamations led them to believe, were 
 to be carried* out in their utmost severity — it was for- 
 bidden either to send their children abroad, or to have a 
 tutor of their own persuasion at home. 
 
 Of the seminaries abroad, Everard, it is true, had not 
 much opinion; but the law which forbade the Catholic 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 127 
 
 families to select for themselves those to whom they 
 would entrust their children, was cruel in the extreme. 
 
 Everard, endowed by nature with a reflecting mind 
 and most feeling temper, pondered over these things 
 in bitterness of spirit, while the society of Robert, with 
 whom he had been accustomed to discuss such interests 
 in the confidence of friendship, afforded him little or 
 no consolation. 
 
 Absorbed in the contemplation of that vast secret, of 
 which he did not give the remotest suspicion to his 
 friend, he was reserved in speaking upon such subjects 
 to a degree, which astonished as much as it mortified 
 Digby. 
 
 Evelyn in the midst of all her anxieties would smile 
 at times and say cheerfully to her husband, ‘‘ Depend 
 upon it he is in love, he is subdued at last ; our sweet 
 Eleanor has played the conqueror.” 
 
 “ You women understand these things better than we 
 do,” was her husband’s reply, “ but I tremble for 
 Eleanor. Robert deeply resents the wrongs of himself 
 and his party ; he seems to find a certain want of sym- 
 pathy in me, though heaven knows I feel these things 
 bitterly enough ; but Eleanor responds to every feeling 
 of his in his own way ; it is the flattery of affection — 
 the sweetest of flatteries — such as you administer to me, 
 sweet wife — but perhaps not without danger to our 
 Eleanor.” 
 
 Fabian was of the same opinion. 
 
 The jester was no longer a jester — the anxieties of 
 the times had extended even to him ; no one now was 
 ready to listen to his drolling — no heart light enough 
 
128 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 to engage in the playful strife of repartee. His own 
 heart, too, was sinking with him, for he, like the rest — 
 like all, had friends — had, through those friends, to suffer. 
 
 He had an aged father with small means, a mother 
 sick and infirm, two sisters whom he tenderly loved, 
 and all trembling under what was impending. Should 
 these arrears for recusancy, as it was threatened, be ex- 
 acted rigorously from them, they must all be irretriev- 
 ably ruined. The little stipend a jester received, his 
 fool’s coat, his cap, and no longer tinkling bells, would 
 be all they could call their own. He was a close ob- 
 server, as has been said, and was accustomed to read 
 those small indications by which the real tendencies of 
 the character and inclinations are best perhaps dis- 
 covered. 
 
 Fabian silent and musing, as he wandered about the 
 terraces and orchards of the gardens at Dry Stoke, ob- 
 served and reflected upon the situation of these two, 
 now scarcely ever separated ; he remarked the fleeting, 
 hectic colour of Eleanor, and the dark thoughtful coun- 
 tenance of Robert. 
 
 “ No, madam,” — ^it was no longer madonna, in his 
 old playful familiar way — “ it’s not love, depend upon 
 it.’'* 
 
 He still retained so much of his vocation — this sort of 
 humble friend of her youth — ^it may be seen, as to ven- 
 ture upon subjects on which no other of his rank would 
 have been allowed to touch. 
 
 “ No, madam, it’s not love; love, as I have heard, is, 
 
 “ ‘ A thing made up of sighs and tears, 
 
 That lives upon a smile for years.’ 
 
FATHEE DAECY. 
 
 129 
 
 I never heard Robert Catesby slgb — no, not once — 
 though the sweet Eleanor sighs maybe enough for two. 
 I wish that day had never come in the calendar,’* he 
 added, ‘‘ that brought Sir Everard and Robert Catesby 
 acquainted,” 
 
 “ Why so ?” said she, not choosing to acknowledge 
 how truly she shared in a feeling — perhaps, unjust. 
 
 “ Madam, there is in that man’s countenance, what 
 our great poet says of the lean and hungry Cassius’. 
 There used to be a vast deal of pother and smoke as I 
 thought without great flame, and perhaps not much real 
 heat. It’s now a fiery furnace smouldering under ashes, 
 never believe me else. Why does he come here?” 
 
 ‘‘ Why, indeed?” her heart responded. 
 
 “ You see, madam — there are troubles hanging over 
 us all: but you and Sir Everard are just and righteous 
 people, and the wise medium chosen by your father and 
 poor old Mr. Warner is the path you have selected for 
 yourselves : that must be a bad government indeed, 
 which would disturb such peaceable subjects — so long 
 as your noble husband can be kept clear of those dan- 
 gerous intrigues in which too many lose themselves, 
 and pull down ruin not only upon their own heads, 
 but upon those of others” .... and he sighed. ‘‘But to 
 enter such a paradise of peace ! . . . Hark ye how the birds 
 arc singing this pleasant morning, and the flowers send- 
 ing up their incense to God; listen to your pretty chil- 
 dren on the terrace below — look out upon the pleasant 
 hills; all this is sweet, let man rage as he will — your 
 hues have been laid in pleasant places. Why docs that 
 dark and turbulent man come here?” 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 I 
 
130 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 ‘‘ He will not disturb us in our paradise,” said she, 
 endeavouring to shake off the strange foreboding of 
 evil whicli oppressed her, “be and my husband talk 
 little of affairs now, Fabian; Mr. Catesby is grown 
 melancholy, reserved, and silent; Sir Everard and he 
 scarcely speak of any but the most general matters — 
 this subject is too painful to them both.” 
 
 “ The less the better/’ said Fabian; “ and were it not 
 well to warn that fair maiden, that men may be false 
 and maids heart-broken?” 
 
 “ I will speak to her,” said Evelyn. 
 
 “ Nay, my Eleanor, do not frown at me — do not 
 look so displeased at your true friend. Have a care, 
 sweet Eleanor, his company is too dangerous to your 
 peace.” 
 
 “ My peace,” said she, in a hollow voice, which told 
 as a sort of passing knell, of the dire havoc made 
 by passion unrequited, yet unresisted in her bosom, 
 “don’t speak to me of peace, Evelyn, — my heart 
 is his — my being is his — I am his slave. When he 
 allows me in humble duty to attend his pleasure, then 
 only have I a moment’s ease. It is too late : time was, 
 when to fly might have been safety, but it is now too 
 late: yet blame me not — I cannot tell you — I had 
 wished — I desired to strive — I have striven against this 
 fatal weakness — but — ^but — ” 
 
 “ Sweet sister, it is not yet too late; leave this place, 
 trust yourself not in his dangerous presence ; go to 
 Harroden — go to Goddeshurst — any thing — any 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 131 
 
 where — but shun him, for he is destructive to your 
 peace.” 
 
 “ He loves me not, you think, my Evelyn, said she, 
 mournfully, ‘‘ I know that — do not believe my fond 
 vanity deceives me ; he loves me not — he never did — 
 he never can. But he is wretched ; my presence 
 soothes him ; and let me die as I have wished so often 
 to die, so I may minister to him.” 
 
 My sweet one, this is a strange idol that you have 
 created ; this man is strong of heart, he is sufficient to 
 himself ; your sweet ministrations are thrown away ; 
 his thoughts are far from us all.” 
 
 “ I know it — I know it — ^his thoughts are with his 
 sorrowing church and with the suffering fathers of that 
 church ; he is not like the rest of us, Evelyn ; there is 
 no peace in Robert’s heart when others are wronged.^’ 
 
 “ I know not how that may be,” said the young 
 wife, but there is one I know of, too, who never sees 
 sorrow, without the tender desire to relieve it — ” 
 
 “ And I know one wffio never sees wrong, without 
 the noble resolution to revenge it.’^ 
 
 “Ah, that revenge! When — when will there be 
 peace? Never, while all are so prompt to revenge, and 
 so few patient to endure. ‘ Why do you not suffer 
 wrong patiently?’ was what Mr. Warner used to say; 
 but from his lips there were always flowing sweet words 
 of calmness and content. I do not know what is be- 
 come of all that now,” said poor Evelyn, “ I never hear 
 such sweet sentences from any one now.” 
 
132 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 “ Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands, 
 
 Showing an outward pity; yet you Pilates 
 Have here deliver’d me to my sour cross, 
 
 And water cannot wash away your sin.” 
 
 Hichard II, 
 
 Dressed like a travelling gentleman of some con- 
 dition, liis servant being the unhappy man called 
 Owen, or by some little John, — Mr. Darcy, Whalley, 
 Roberts, Farmer, Garnet, for such was the list of names 
 under which he passed himself at different times, arrived 
 one morning at Dry Stoke. It was now the end of 
 April, and the return of Winter from the Netherlands 
 was daity expected. 
 
 Mr. Darcy, as you by this time very well know, was a 
 man of wide spreading intrigues and extended views, — 
 one who never neglected any means however remote 
 or insignificant, which might by any possibility forward 
 his purposes one of these, it long had been, to gain fa- 
 vour with Evelyn, to confuse the clear perceptions of 
 her understanding, and to overcome the repugnance 
 she at first nourished against himself and his party. 
 
 The provincial, with his accustomed sagacity, had 
 perceived the influence that the clear-sighted head, and 
 cheerful, affectionate heart of his wife exercised over 
 Everard; and how necessary it was to captivate her 
 good opinion, if he were to be master of his. 
 
 Nothing could be further removed than was Mr. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 133 
 
 Darcy’s present manner from any thing that men have 
 been usually accustomed to associate with the idea of 
 an intriguing cathohc priest of those days. Frank, 
 cheerful, and affectionate, his conversation most easy 
 and engaging, he won his way to the heart by the 
 attraction of his gentleness ; and certainly there was 
 something irresistibly pleasing in the tranquillity and 
 repose of Mr. Darcy’s countenance. While every one 
 around with the exception ofEverard, breathed nothing 
 but murmurs or threats, he preached invariably of 
 peace. He exhorted to that same gospel peace which 
 Evelyn had been accustomed to hear advocated by her 
 venerated Mr. Warner. 
 
 He sat by her in the large withdrawing room, where 
 she was at work; the window was open, and looked out 
 upon the terrace, where Catesby, his arms folded, was 
 walking in moody silence, while Eleanor, sitting with 
 Everard on a bench under a large elm tree, watched 
 him anxiously. Everard was, as usual, engaged in 
 reading, his little boy sitting upon his lap ; the head of 
 the child covered with its beautiful curling hair, nestling 
 in his bosom. 
 
 Evelyn let fall her needle, and was gazing at the 
 group. 
 
 Mr. Darcy’s eyes were turned the same way. 
 
 “ It reminds me,” he said, as if addressing her 
 thoughts, “ of pictures I have seen at Rome. The rare 
 masters in Italy have realised beauty in a way which 
 escapes our more literal painters ; the beauty of that 
 group however, would require no addition of this kind, 
 it is all-sufficient; whether we regard the pure outline 
 
134 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 of tlie father’s countenance, the ineffable beauty of the 
 cherub child, or the sweet maiden with the troubled 
 eye that sits beside them ; or contrast it, if contrast be 
 wanted, with the dark countenance of that extraordi- 
 nary being, whose restless spirit was never intended to 
 trouble this peaceful Eden.” 
 
 She looked at liim with some surprise. 
 
 ‘‘ I understood that Mr. Catesby had the honour of 
 the Father Provincial’s friendship and esteem.” 
 
 Perhaps, you should rather say, admiration, lady: 
 yes, doubtless, I do admire Mr. Catesby: there is some- 
 thing in indomitable force, that all men, even men of 
 peace, cannot but admire — there is that in the headlong 
 torrent, the roaring tempest, the surging sea, that all 
 men admire in trembling — but esteem ! No,” turning 
 his eyes to the peaceful group beneath the elm tree, ‘‘ I 
 have been reared under the teaching of a school which 
 enjoins love, gentleness, forgiveness — and promises in 
 return that peace which passeth understanding. With 
 spirits such as these, I would fain have alone to do.” 
 Evelyn respected his abilities, and estimated his 
 authority as a man high in office in her church, and 
 among her party; but she had been led by what she had 
 heard from her father, and Mr. Warner, to suspect the 
 Jesuits of fomenting all sorts of dangerous and treason- 
 able intrigues, and of encouraging the vengeful and 
 violent feelings of party in every way : to hear these 
 sweet words of peace and conciliation fall from his lips, 
 was an unexpected comfort. She had fancied that some 
 new scheme might be in agitation : her anxiety was 
 relieved : she turned upon him her clear blue eye, with 
 
PATHER DARCY. 
 
 135 
 
 an expression that at once assured him that he had made 
 the impression he intended ; the ingenuous young crea- 
 ture was too sincere of heart herself, to gauge the un- 
 fathomable depths of his duplicity. 
 
 ‘‘ I have ever preached patience/’ he continued, 
 quietly, and in times far worse than the present, but 
 there are spirits to whom such doctrine is most unsa- 
 voury. That proud and dauntless spirit chafes under 
 the idea of submission to evils, at present past remedy. 
 He will not possess his soul in patience ; he understands 
 not the wisdom of biding the time ; and the commands 
 and injunctions of his ghostly advisers on this head 
 irritate, instead of subduing his soul ; but patience, 
 sweet lady,” with a kind, indulgent smile, this passion 
 proceeds but from the excess of a bold nature, and let 
 Mr. Catesby but once be convinced that a peaceable 
 course is the best to be adopted for his unhappy church 
 and her suffering children, and a man of his deep 
 sense of piety, will not be slow to adopt it.” 
 
 Are such the commands of his ghostly advisers?” 
 she asked in a dubious, hesitating manner. 
 
 “ Doubt it not, lady,” and he drew from a concealed 
 pocket of his riding dress some papers, which contained 
 the injunctions of the pope and Father Parsons and 
 the superior of the Jesuits abroad, that peace should be 
 preserved, and the government adhered to. It was true 
 these had been issued at the time when the holy father 
 had but too much reason to believe that it was the inten- 
 tion of James really to become what he had once signed 
 himself, Beatitudinis vestree ohsequentissimus Jilius: how 
 far plans were changed since the obsequious child had 
 
136 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 become so recalcitrant, lie did not think it necessary to 
 ■inform her. 
 
 She began to call herself to account for the unjust 
 suspicions she had harboured against the holy fathers of 
 St. Ignatius: for here was the principal of the society in 
 England, In secret correspondence with the authorities 
 at Rome, and their letters breathed nothing but patience, 
 resignation, and Christian peace. 
 
 Evelyn seemed to breathe more freely; she took up 
 the papal brief in her hand, and reverently kissed it ; 
 then turning to Mr. Darcy with a more open and con- 
 fiding expression of countenance than he had ever met 
 with in her before, she said : 
 
 ‘‘And do you think, reverend father, that your 
 authority and influence will be sufficient to diffuse this 
 best of spirits am^ong us?” 
 
 “ I have not the slightest doubt of it. The autho- 
 rity confided to me — unwortliy — by the church, is su- 
 preme in this country; and much as they may re- 
 gret the course I adopt, they will none of them dare 
 to resist my commands. Therefore let your gentle 
 spirit rest. Lady Digby. Whatever you may observe, 
 however restless and discontented the Catholic gen- 
 tlemen around us may appear, be assured on my priestly 
 word that no scheme whatsoever is in agitation among 
 them (‘ with which I am not acquainted’, mentally). 
 And that I will invariably resist, as it is my duty to 
 do, every seditious purpose of every sort against the 
 government, (‘ unless I approve of it’).” 
 
 She took up his hand, and under a sudden emotion 
 of fervent gratitude, pressed it with reverence to her lips. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 137 
 
 How I have wronged you,” she said, with sim- 
 plicity. 
 
 “Have you?” said he, with an indulgent smile ; 
 “nay, blame not yourself, sweet Lady Digby, for a 
 mistake in judgment which you share with many 
 others. It is my misfortune to be little understood ; but 
 our praise is not of men, but of God. 
 
 “ I believe,” he continued, “ that much of that which 
 has been in secret carried on, and which I deeply dis- 
 approve, and ever have resisted, has been laid at my 
 door. But this is indifferent to me ; my vocation is 
 to pursue through good report and evil report, the sole 
 end for which I am sent here — the salvation of the 
 perishing members of Christ’s church. And yet human 
 infirmity is great, and the desire of a good name, the 
 last weakness that clings to the heart. Other things 
 I have foregone for this cause; but the esteem of the 
 noble and virtuous I would still retain — it is my infir- 
 mity — I thank you for your restored good opinion.” 
 
 “It is a noble infirmity,” said his companion. 
 
 “It is nobler even to vanquish that,” was his 
 reply, “and yet in one view it is better I should be 
 understood by those whose purposes are righteous and 
 peaceable as my own. We should be fellow- workers 
 in this cause ; and believe me, there is much to be 
 done.” 
 
 The tall, dark figure of Catesby crossed the window 
 as he spoke. 
 
 “ The fearful angel of the Apocalypse,” said the Je- 
 suit; “yet let not Dry Stoke banish him from its 
 
138 
 
 PATHER DARCY. 
 
 pleasant halls. He loves your husband ; and the sweet 
 influences of the Lady Evelyn, and those of the fair- 
 est of maidens, will allay the storm that rages with- 
 in. You must accustom him to love this place, lady, 
 and Robert Catesby will learn to love peace and righte- 
 ousness for your sakes; and to forget those dangerous 
 purposes, and those vain attempts which have agitated 
 him, and through him, all of us so long. It is written 
 — the church — the woman of the seven radiant stars 
 shall be driven for a time into the wilderness. The 
 punishment for our sins, no doubt. It is our part to 
 submit.” 
 
 “ I thought,” said she, hesitating, ‘‘ a different lesson 
 had been taught some few years ago.” 
 
 ‘^That heretical woman was excommunicated,” said 
 he, in a tone of awe ; to such an one we dare not preach 
 submission — obedience to the holy father forbids it. 
 But this king is not excommunicated — there is no 
 longer any difficulty in reconciling our duties.” 
 
 So much for the Lady Digby. 
 
 Thus it was, as Catesby and Mr. Darcy rode the 
 next morning towards Harroden Magna, which they 
 intended to take, Catesby on his way to London to 
 meet Winter and Mr. Fawkes, Darcy on one of his 
 progresses. 
 
 They were riding through the deep solitary lanes 
 together, and at such a distance from their servants that 
 they could not be overheard; no occasion could be 
 more favourable for confidential discourse. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 139 
 
 ‘‘ I marvel at you,’’ was Darcy’s reply to wliat 
 Robert Catesby had last said; “ at these hesitations and 
 uncertainties in a man of your resolution. I thought 
 you had been made of sterner stuff, and possessed a 
 bolder, not to say braver spirit.” 
 
 “ I would do much for the cause,” said Catesby, 
 with a sorrowful gravity which was now becoming habi- 
 tual to him; ‘‘I would peril my life, my estate, my 
 posterity. The injuries we have endured have eaten 
 like iron into my soul, and to punish this base king 
 and his profligate sycophant ministers, I would risk 
 all. But this is a fearful business : in the heat of pas- 
 sion it seemed to me but a light thing — but in the 
 calm reflection of Dry Stoke, it has assumed the form 
 of a hideous spectre.” 
 
 “ No unusual eflect of quiet and green trees,” said 
 the Jesuit, somewhat contemptuously; ‘‘with some 
 men 1 have observed this kind of chameleon turn of 
 mind — coloured by every accident of the moment. It 
 is not so with me — what I esteemed just and right, and 
 appropriate to the time, yesterday, I esteem so to-day, 
 and shall do to-morrow. I cannot learn to be less 
 sensible of the wrongs, or more deaf to the groans of 
 the miserable and oppressed — because the blackbirds 
 and thrushes happen to sing sweetly at Dry Stoke. I do 
 not think a wicked government and an heretical as- 
 cendancy less monstrous evils — because the cows are 
 lowing as peaceably in the meadows, and the sheep 
 bleating as quietly under the trees, as if this were a 
 world in which violence and wrong were unheard of. 
 No, Mr. Catesby, such is not in my temper — and there- 
 
140 
 
 FATHER DARCT* 
 
 fore you must pardon me for not sympathising with it 
 in others.” 
 
 “ But the means,” said Cateshy, gloomily — I have 
 never discoursed to you of the means — I want your 
 ghostly comfort and your spiritual counsel as to the 
 means — I feel that I do : my soul is all at war with itself.”^ 
 
 “ I have already told you, Mr. Cateshy, that a man 
 of peace — such as I profess myself to be — has nothing 
 to do with the means by which contests against wrongs 
 are maintained ; that matter is in the province of those 
 whose profession it is to wield arms. I have begged 
 you more than once to arrange your plans as may best 
 suit with your knowledge of such things — things of 
 which I hold myself, and choose to hold myself, ig- 
 norant. I am not like that militant bishop of whom 
 the story runs — but were such my profession,” he 
 added, I hope I should not be found wanting either 
 in spirit or perseverance to carry out well-advised plans 
 — I trust a little natural horror at bloodshed would not 
 be suffered to arrest my hand when it was raised to 
 rescue many suffering and innocent from the gripe of 
 the oppressor — I trust the cowardly whispering of an 
 irresolute temper would not be allowed to ruin any 
 good cause committed to me.” 
 
 ‘‘ I may be a coward,” said Catesby, with the careless 
 indifference of one who knows of that he could not 
 be suspected: “ I may have a womanly repugnance to 
 shedding blood — I confess it is so when my own blood 
 is not up — but this plan of mine .... it haunts me .... it 
 is a scheme so fearful — and yet so grand — so effectual ! — 
 insuring the restoration of the Catholic church in Eng- 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 141 
 
 land — tlie deliverance perhaps of all Europe from he- 
 resy — the destruction of so many worthless tyrants at 
 a blow ! — Every thing seems so certain, so inevitable, a 
 consequence of the enterprise — ^yet my mind is harassed 
 by uncertainties — so many innocent must perish with 
 the guilty.” 
 
 “ Do you suppose when the walls of Jericho fell be- 
 fore the blast of the trumpet — that the innocent did 
 not perish with the guilty ?” 
 
 “But that was by the express command of God — in 
 his hand are the issues of life,” said Catesby. 
 
 “ And is there no voice of God yet sounding upon 
 earth, to issue his commands — think you, young man — 
 If the too often erring church in the wilderness had its 
 Urim and its Thummin, on which the commands of 
 the Most High were inscribed ; think you his glorious 
 church of Christ shall be left without a testimony ? I 
 tell you, Mr. Catesby, that there is a voice yet sound- 
 ing throughout all lands and demanding the obedience 
 of all Christian men — and I think it would be well to 
 see men listen to that voice, instead of parleying with 
 and asking questions of their own ill-instructed minds.” 
 
 They rode on a little further, and then the priest, in 
 a solemn voice, said — 
 
 “ Robert Catesby, listen to that voice through me, 
 her appointed messenger. Go forward, and that which 
 is in thine heart, cZo.” 
 
 “ But you cannot guess at what is in my heart?” 
 said Robert. “ I defy mortal man to imagine the 
 monstrous thing that is in my heart. If it were al- 
 lowed me to consult with a ghostly father — to consult 
 with you !” 
 
142 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 I have already said,” answered Darcy, with some 
 impatience, ‘‘that with the means I have nothing to 
 do — it does not become me to enter into consultation 
 upon that which is so totally foreign to my habits of 
 mind. I can enlighten you as to principles — and upon 
 that head the subject does not admit of a question. 
 But I have said enough : I would rather you sought 
 assurance from other hands. Seek the proper remedy; 
 go to confession ; go to Tesmond, he is lying some- 
 where about London ; to Gerard, to any of them. 
 Open your heart before them : if they absolve you not, 
 then let me hear of you again. By this time Mr. Win- 
 ter will have returned from abroad — but take one 
 counsel with you, Mr. Catesby; whatever you deter- 
 mine upon, confide your secret to few. Be resolved, 
 be silent, be speedy — and rely upon it the matter once 
 well begun, your priests and your party will take heed 
 for the rest.” 
 
 They "were mounting the hill which led to Harro- 
 den. It was long since Eobert had passed that way: 
 never since the fatal morning which had separated him 
 from Grace Vaux for ever: he had never seen her 
 since then. 
 
 Deep ineffaceable regret, mingled, as all his feelings 
 were, with a bitter and passionate resentment, had 
 forbade him even to mention her name. He never 
 inquired for her; he knew not well whether she were 
 living or dead ; abroad or in England. 
 
 But now he lifted up his head, and with a melan- 
 choly gravity gazed upon that well-known place : the 
 Jesuit followed his eye, and answered to the expression 
 of his countenance. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 143 
 
 There is one — a holy virgin saint on earth, to 
 whom it will be glad tidings that Robert Catesby hath 
 vowed himself to the deliverance of his fellow-suffer- 
 ers,” said he. 
 
 Robert started, and changed colour. 
 
 “ Her prayers will rise to heaven for so holy an enter- 
 prise; her tears will wash away the traces of blood 
 and purify the deed ; her agony of thanksgiving will 
 and shall sound in your ears; when such a deed is 
 done — and by you.” 
 
 By me ! — No, no, she has forgotten me.” 
 
 Forgotten you! — But it was not my doing — and 
 if that cheek is wan and colourless, and those dark eyes 
 are dimmed with many tears ... it was not my doing — 
 what remains to console her for the sacrifice, but the 
 triumph of that cause to which she has devoted her life. 
 Aye, aye, one thing, and one alone, can repay to Grace 
 Vauxthehours of anguish which have desolated her life.” 
 
 ‘‘ You do not mean . . .” 
 
 “ She loved you, Catesby, then — she loved you even 
 at the moment of her righteous self-sacrifice — she took 
 up the bitter cross, and hath borne it ever since. 
 Ennoble it, sir — teach her to glory in him for whom she 
 so long hath sorrowed. Restore a holy joy to that 
 forlorn and desolate mourner, and when you have 
 redeemed the captivity of Zion — come to Gracei Vaux 
 for your reward.” 
 
 They were at the gates, and here they parted ; the 
 Jesuit rode in, and Catesby pursued his way to Wel- 
 lingborough. 
 
144 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 “ ‘ Brief then; and what’s the news ?’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night. 
 
 Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible.’ ” 
 
 King John, 
 
 Catesby rode to liis old lodging at Lambeth, and 
 dismounting, found Mr. Winter already arrived, and 
 accompanied by the gentleman whom he had himselr 
 invited over — Mr. Fawkes. 
 
 The two gentlemen were sitting in the small back 
 room; Winter leaning on the window-seat, and looking 
 upon the view, it would seem, which was rendered 
 beautiful by the abundance of fine trees in the neigh- 
 bourhood. It was now the month of May, and this 
 year in all her glory. The cheerful sun was careering 
 through the glad heavens, and tinting every leafy 
 branch, as it fell upon the fresh, yellow, transparent 
 oak-leaves, and the green softness of the young beech 
 branches; birds were singing in every brake, and the 
 fields were yellow with king cups, and spangled with 
 cropines and daisies. 
 
 Nautre in all her wealth, as poured out by the great 
 and beneficent father, was spread before him — and man ! 
 Alas for ,the mystery of iniquity, which renders what 
 should have been the prime ornament of this beautiful 
 creation a blot, and a scandal, and a deformity, and a 
 misery ! 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 145 
 
 Mr. Fawkes was a tall, spare man, of a lofty, military 
 carriage, with high features and dark complexion, and 
 an expression of stern gravity. Trained among the 
 Spanish bands, then esteemed the first soldiers of 
 Europe, and associated with those stern and pitiless 
 fanatics who had fought with Pizarro and Cortes in the 
 new world, and under the ruthless Alva in the old, he 
 was deeply imbued with religious impressions of the 
 darkest and most unmitigated character; and habituated 
 to carry out every most barbarous measure of war, not 
 only as an act of military necessity, but as a religious 
 offering to the glory of God, in thus avenging him upon 
 his enemies. Unsoftened by any of those gentler 
 touches of nature which visited the rest, but which he, 
 reared in camps, had never known, he was still a 
 brave, and in a certain view, an honourable man, 
 ready to sacrifice life and liberty upon the altar of reli- 
 gion or military duty. Such was Guido Fawkes; who 
 now in this fatal hour came — with his unflinching sense 
 of military duty, his unmodified detestation of heresy, 
 his pitiless indijBTerence as to means, acquired in that dire 
 contest to which he had been habituated — to infuse 
 a fresh element of resolute, unflinching, persevering 
 determination into the hearts of his brother confederates. 
 It is more than possible that the compunctious visitings 
 of the others might otherwise have availed to defeat the 
 horrible design. 
 
 Fawkes was as yet ignorant of the precise nature of 
 the attempt contemplated ; he had only heard from 
 Mr. Winter that a great scheme was in agitation, and 
 that his assistance was wanted by his friends among the 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 K 
 
146 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CathoKc gentlemen in England. He had already been 
 connected with Winter, Catesby, and all thosfe engaged 
 in the Spanish intrigues, and had, in the capacity of a 
 sort of emissary, on their account, visited Madrid. 
 Though ser\dng under the Spaniard, his heart was still 
 with his own country ; his desire to see her rescued 
 from that deadly heresy with which she was overspread, 
 intense; and his contempt for the present government 
 equalled that of any of the others. 
 
 Dressed in a plain suit, his hat without feather or 
 jewel, his large military boots, black leathern belt and 
 long Spanish sword, bespeaking his profession and 
 giving a peculiar character to his appearance — he was 
 walking up and down the little apartment, his face 
 severe and serious, and apparently engaged in thought; 
 utterly insensible, as appeared, to all those sweetcharmsof 
 the morning let in by the open window, while the 
 gentler Winter, leaning on the window sill, inhaled the 
 air that played upon his cheek, with a melancholy 
 pleasure. 
 
 The conversation of Mr. Fawkes had however already 
 exercised considerable influence over his mind. Uncon- 
 scious himself of the astounding nature of the scheme 
 to a share in which he was invited, he unfortunately 
 was not withheld, by a sort of natural horror which the 
 others had found irresistible, and which even he could 
 not have altogether escaped — from insisting in the 
 strongest terms upon the necessity and duty of resist- 
 ance against the heretical government of their common 
 country. 
 
 His mind in fact pictured a general rising throughout 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 147 
 
 the kingdom, like that of the North in Queen Elizabeth’s 
 days; he had not the slightest suspicion of the real 
 nature of the enterprise resolved upon. 
 
 Catesby now entered: he, too, was a tall and lofty 
 figure, and his countenance was strong and energetic; 
 but how different were these two conspirators from each 
 other. 
 
 The one a gloomy, bigoted fanatic, with few ideas, 
 and those of the most uncompromising nature. The 
 other, of a mind all genius and intelligence, and of a 
 sensibility the most acute — a questioner of all things ; 
 doubting, hesitating, agitated by those doubts which 
 will perplex a man capable of viewing a question in all 
 its bearings ; yet, once resolved, as daring in his con- 
 tempt of means as the old war-hardened veteran of 
 the Spanish bands. 
 
 The door opens — see Catesby enter; see Fawkes turn 
 round in his walk, stride along the floor, and lock the 
 hand of the other in his iron grasp. Both men had the 
 highest esteem for each other; the energy and resolution 
 of their characters, were understood by a sort of mute 
 sympathy. 
 
 ‘‘ You are welcome to England, Mr. Fawkes,” said 
 Catesby; “ I did not deceive myself in my impression 
 that when a gallant enterprise was on foot, we might 
 depend upon your co-operation — but what news from 
 the Spaniard, Winter ?” as Mr. Winter rising from his 
 seat, came forward, “ may we find reason to hope that 
 our object can be attained peaceably under the protection 
 of a friend, such as his majesty of Spain hath ever 
 proved to the English Catholic?” 
 
 K 2 
 
148 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 His majesty of Spain is no longer the great and 
 resolute Philip, son of Charles,'’ said Mr. Fawkes, 
 ‘‘ the unsparing adversary of heresy, and advocate of 
 Christ’s church and the glory of God, by fire and 
 sword.” 
 
 ‘‘ The English Catholics must look around for another 
 friend,” said Winter. “ I saw the constable as you 
 desired, Catesby; I met with abundance of fine cour- 
 tesies, but I could not even obtain good words — cheap 
 as that commodity usually is in the mouths of states- 
 men. Assurances of good will, if those be good 
 w^ords, I had, but his reliance upon his majesty. King 
 James’s justice and clemency, it seems is such, that he 
 cannot do better for his Catholic friends, in England^ 
 than recommend them to the tender mercy of their own 
 sovereign.” 
 
 Fire flashed in the eye of Catesby, but he suppressed 
 any demonstration of feeling. 
 
 ‘‘ I understand,” said he, after a few seconds of re- 
 flection; ‘‘what the' Spaniard desires, at present, is 
 peace with this country ; and the Catholics, bound hand 
 and foot, are to be thrown into the king’s hands as an 
 earnest of his good faith ! But what said the Arch- 
 duke? you saw him?” 
 
 “ Much the same; he acknowledged that his govern- 
 ment was so desirous of peace, that nothing which 
 could in any way retard the impending negotiations 
 could be listened to. He exhorted us to patience, and 
 enlarged upon the excellent disposition of our new 
 king.” 
 
 “ Humph,” said Catesby. 
 
FATHEK DARCY. 
 
 149 
 
 Then turning away and addressing Fawkes, 
 
 ‘‘It is well — we must henceforward rely upon our- 
 selves.” 
 
 “ Upon ourselves, and the mighty arm of God, 
 the avenger,” was the reply. 
 
 “ Mr. Catesby,” continued Fawkes, “you have long 
 known my thoughts in this matter; I ever mistrusted 
 these pacific measures, this temporizing with atheists 
 and heretics. There is but one way — I have ever 
 believed — to deal with the enemies of God: the sword 
 of the Lord and of Gideon.” 
 
 A strange mysterious expression stole over the coun- 
 tenance of Catesby as he spoke, 
 
 “ When a town is beleaguered,” he said, “ men first 
 make a breach in the defences, and then they draw the 
 sword — is it not so? There may be certain measures 
 necessary before a general rising would be useful or 
 possible: there may be measures which would render 
 success certain, and failure impossible.” 
 
 “Whatever measures have suggested themselves to 
 Mr. Catesby,” said Fawkes, with a soldierly sort of 
 salute, such as men give to a superior officer, ‘^I for 
 one shall be ready to adopt them. My confidence in his 
 talents and energy is unlimited; I am here to be as a 
 mere arquebusse in his hands; a passive weapon of 
 offence or defence, to be made use of as he shall in- 
 struct me.” 
 
 Catesby and Winter exchanged glances of satis- 
 faction. 
 
 “ Upon one principle my mind is made up,” con- 
 tinued Mr. Fawkes, “ that every mode of warfare is le- 
 
150 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 gitimate, employed in a cause so holy, and against an 
 enemy so detestable, both in the eyes of God and man. 
 When, we war against powers and principalities, and 
 the rulers of darkness in high places, any means are 
 accounted justifiable — any species of offensive warfare, 
 honourable.” 
 
 “ Mr. Fawkes, you do not disappoint the hopes I 
 had entertained of you,^^ said Catesby, taking and 
 pressing his iron hand once more, “ I thank you, sir. 
 This,” he continued, “is, however, a solemn business; 
 we are on the eve of a great enterprise, undertaken at an 
 enormous cost ; let us begin it as Christian gentlemen 
 and soldiers should. Bind ourselves by a sacred oath 
 of secrecy, to be true and faithful to each other; and 
 receive the blessed sacrament upon our promise to de- 
 vote life and estate to this great purpose. After that, 
 you shall be made acquainted with the plot, more in 
 detail.” 
 
 He was interrupted by a low knock at the outer door. 
 Bates opened it, and a gentleman was heard to enter 
 the house ; presently the door handle of the room in 
 which they were assembled turned. 
 
 “ Come in, whoever you may be,” said Mr. Catesby. 
 
 The door opened, and Thomas Piercy appeared. He 
 was a tall man with high cheek bones, hooked nose, 
 and a strange and somewhat forbidding cast of coun- 
 tenance ; his eyes somewhat prominent, rolled round in 
 a disagreeable manner ; and his hair being snow white, 
 he had the appearance of a man older than he really 
 was. He had not that courtly aspect which seem pro- 
 perly to have belonged to a kinsman of the noble Duke 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 151 
 
 of Northumberland, a gentleman pensioner of the guard, 
 and frequenter of the court of Queen Elizabeth : there 
 was something rough and abrupt in his tones and ges- 
 tures, which contrasted unfavourably with the appear- 
 ance either of Catesby or Winter. ^ Honest Tom’ the 
 former was accustomed to call him ; for he loved the 
 downrightness of Piercy’s character. A man, who 
 never, to use the vulgar phrase, minced a matter ; but 
 spoke out and to the purpose, whatever that purpose 
 might be. 
 
 After an exchange of the usual salutations, and a few 
 inquiries had been made and satisfied as to the expec- 
 tations that might be entertained with regard to 
 assistance from the Spaniard — mingled with sundry ex- 
 pressions of contempt and dissatisfaction with respect 
 to the conduct of both governments, but more especially 
 their own : 
 
 “ Well, gentlemen,” said Piercy, in his usual abrupt 
 manner, “ are we always to talk and never to act? For 
 myself^ I could be well contented to execute justice 
 myself upon this Scotch liar, who, not contented with 
 compromising his own honour, has cast a stain upon 
 mine, by showing me up as a betrayer of the interests of 
 my own party, to whom I stood pledged for his 
 scoundrel promises. What say you, Catesby? Shall 
 execution be done? I would (touching the hilt of his 
 poignard) as soon pass this dagger through his base 
 Scotch heart, as cut the side of a venison pasty. Wliat 
 say’st thou, man? Shall execution be done? Speak, 
 Robert Catesby, what art pondering on?” 
 
 ‘‘No, no, Tom” — said Catesby. “What’s one man? 
 
152 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 His son would be ready to slip into the father’s vacant 
 chair, and say that vile renegade Cecil — say that car- 
 ried pretensed bishop Bancroft, were made away 
 with — think you numbers might not easily be found, 
 members of a lying priesthood, or a debauched nobility — 
 ready to carry on the system? No, no, Piercy, I have 
 a better plan than that in this head of mine. So be it 
 you are ready to join heart and hand, with a set of 
 honest gentlemen whom oppression has rendered des- 
 perate, and who are determined upon revenge.” 
 
 ‘‘ I am glad,” was Piercy’s reply, “ that the noble 
 heart of Catesby rings true to his party and his country. 
 Robert, I know thee well — whatever thou hast planned, 
 will be above the common. I am thy slave thou kno west 
 of old — my life I hold at a penny fee, my estate is 
 but the younger son of a younger brother’s inheritance, 
 but were I the heir of Northumberland, I would 
 peril all in any enterprise of thine. Thou knowest I 
 would, Catesby — thou knowest that I love thee. Do 
 what thou wilt with Piercy, his heart was ever thine, and 
 his sword at thy command.” 
 
 “ I may need more than thy sword, Piercy,” said 
 Catesby, the dark expression again overcasting his coun- 
 tenance. “ I may demand more than it can enter into 
 thy heart to conceive. Take back thy words if they 
 were pledged too hastily : for I shall tax thy friendship, 
 it may be too far.” 
 
 “ Were it to toil chained at the oar — or in the bowels 
 of the earth, deep plunged in the darksomest mine, I 
 could do it for thee, Robert.” 
 
 “ The mine ! — ha !” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 153 
 
 “ Aye, like the poor Indian they tell of — for I am 
 sunk in my own opinion, by thus having lent myself as 
 bait to the trap which has caught my party; and any 
 slavish part, so it be in the service of the cause, is only 
 too good for Tom Piercy.’^ 
 
 Catesby crossed the room, seized his hand, and said — 
 “ Let it be to-morrow then. To-morrow, gentlemen — 
 you all know the lone house in the fields, at the back of 
 St. Clement’s Inn, which our reverend fathers are wont 
 to inhabit wLen in London. It is secret and secure — it 
 has never been foiled by the least suspicion. At eleven 
 o’clock to-morrow night, these streets may be securely 
 traversed. There let us meet ; Thomas, we have agreed 
 for our mutual security, that before the purpose be re- 
 vealed, an oath of secrecy shall be taken, and confirmed 
 by the holy sacrament upon it. The reverend father in 
 God, Gerard, acting under the authority of our Father 
 Provincial, will be ready to administer the blessed mys- 
 tery. At the back of St. Clement’s Inn then, and 
 to-morrow, an hour before midnight.” 
 
154 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 “ Oh, holy night! with what pure dignity 
 Walk’st thou thy vigil through the starry air; 
 
 When winds no longer whispering— breezes die. 
 
 And sleep and silence watch this world of care.” 
 
 All was profoundly still; not one single cloud ob- 
 scured tbe deep serene of the immeasurable depths of 
 air. The stars shining in all their glory spangled the 
 mighty face of heaven, eternal eyes keeping watch over 
 the slumbering world; not a breath was stirring, but 
 every herb, and flower, and tree, were sleeping motion- 
 less in the dew of that most lovely night. Through 
 the narrow lanes enclosed with high hawthorn hedges 
 now in full bloom, and breathing sweetness; under the 
 shade of the magnificent oaks and elms which shot their 
 broad branches across the path, while the stars glittered 
 and glistened in calm splendour above, and nature in 
 all her glad beneficence breathed peace on earth beneath ; 
 these unhappy men, wrapped in their dark cloaks, were 
 advancing separately with stealthy pace to the solitary 
 house in the fields at the back of St. Clement’s Inn, 
 which had been agreed upon as the place of rendez-vous. 
 
 It was not without emotion that he, the prime leader,, 
 the Satan of this dread conspiracy, — looked above, and 
 around, and received the painful, yet awful influences 
 of the hour, upon his susceptible imagination. 
 
 Like that of his dread antitype, his eye showed 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 155 
 
 signs of remorse and passion — ‘‘ and care sat on his faded 
 cheek.” 
 
 The soft influences of the hour fell upon him — all so 
 peaceful, tranquil, and still — the very spirit of that in- 
 effable love which fills the wide extended universe, dif- 
 fusing itself on all things round. 
 
 And what a hell within his breast. 
 
 What a blast! — what a storm! — what a wild de- 
 struction ! — what a massacre of guilty and innocent ! — of 
 hoary old age ! vigorous manhood ! virgin beauty and 
 infant smiles ! All within was a dreadful - confusion of 
 slaughter and crime ; all without^ reposing beauty and 
 majestic order. As the stars, those mighty watchers, 
 walked in their silent courses — while all the busy race 
 of men lay sunk in silent repose. 
 
 He walked slowly along, wrapped from head to foot 
 in the folds of his long Spanish cloak, and with the flap 
 of his hat pulled low over his contracted brow ; no 
 longer with the bold, energetic bearing of the fearless 
 Robert, but creeping stealthily along, with the footstep 
 of the midnight assassin. 
 
 Oh, foul conspiracy ! 
 
 From time to time he lifted up his eyes to where the 
 pale and beautiful planet was slowly sinking in the 
 west ; at times he gazed upon the glittering wheels of 
 the mighty northern wain slowly traversing the sky ; 
 on the glittering hosts of heaven, shining in uncounted 
 numbers over head. Then mingling as in a dream, 
 came over his spirit the vision of one clad in white robes 
 
156 
 
 FATHER DARCr. 
 
 wltli long and flowing hair, and eye and gesture as of a 
 seraph, and the innocent passion of those days of ardent 
 resolution and sinless love seemed revived. He saw her, 
 the loved, the lost ; again he thought of a home rendered 
 a holy paradise of love with her ; again that dream of 
 prattling voices, of music, woods, and breezy flelds came 
 over him ; and then he recollected who he was, and for 
 what purpose he came there, and his clenched fist struck 
 against his breast as he strode rapidly onward to the 
 fearful place of meeting. 
 
 It was a low obscure house, standing at the end of 
 one of those deep, close lanes which were so narrow as 
 only to admit the passage of a horse or beast of burden. 
 It was surrounded on all sides by thickets of underwood 
 which completely hid it from the eye of any one over- 
 looking the country; and before it lay a small green 
 with a little clear, sparkling brook running rapidly and 
 glittering in the starlight; tall trees stood in the hedge- 
 rows, and overtopped the underwood around; and the 
 voice of the screech owl like that of some one lamenting 
 and crying for help, broke at intervals upon the ear. 
 The rest was in perfect silence. 
 
 The door was fastened within; but at a well-known 
 signal it was opened by a very ancient woman^ dressed 
 according to the country fashion of the day, but in 
 whose appearance something quite unhke the usual 
 character of a country woman’s countenance might be 
 detected; her features were high and delicate, her eye 
 large and noble, and her cheek, faded as it was, still 
 retained the traces of extraordinary beauty; there was 
 something also in the disposition of her head gear which 
 
FATHER DARCY. 157 
 
 reminded you of the religious orders, to one of which, 
 like Mother Anne, she had in truth belonged. 
 
 At the dispersion she, like so many others in the same 
 situation, had continued to live a recluse in the busy 
 world to which she had been restored, and had, upon 
 the arrival of the Jesuits and seminary priests upon the 
 island, devoted herself to their service. The keeping 
 these lone houses for their use was one in which they 
 rendered great assistance to their party; their obscurity 
 rendering them secure asylums to which they could re- 
 treat when any pressing search was made among the 
 houses known to belong to the Catholic gentry. 
 
 Catesby saluted the ancient dame in silence, and en- 
 tered. She closed the door noiselessly after him, and 
 with his assistance, lifting a heavy bar, carefully ad- 
 justed the screw which fastened it. 
 
 When this was done, 
 
 “ Father Gerard is here?” asked Catesby. 
 
 “ Yes, sir.” 
 
 ‘‘ And all things in readiness?’ 
 
 ‘‘ All.” 
 
 ‘‘ The rest are come?” 
 
 “ Four of them.” 
 
 ‘‘ Right — where are they?” 
 
 She made a motion of her hand and pointed to a low 
 door of black oak at the farther end of the small hall 
 or entry ; he advanced, and lifting up the latch entered 
 the apartment. It was a small room, oak wainscotted, 
 and without the slightest relief of ornament; at one side 
 was a second arched door; in the centre of the room 
 stood a heavy carved table on which lay a black bound 
 
158 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 primer, on each side of which stood two candlesticks 
 containing large holy candles such as are used in the 
 solemn Catholic ceremonies, and a richly chased antique 
 silver gilt cup filled with holy water. 
 
 Mr. Winter, Mr. Piercy, Mr. Wright, Mr. Fawkes, 
 were already assembled, and stood in a sort of awe-struck 
 expectation, leaning against the wall in different atti- 
 tudes. Their tall figures (for Mr. Piercy and Mr. 
 Fawkes were remarkably tall, and the other men above 
 the ordinary size,) were wrapped in their long black 
 cloaks, their large rapiers protruded, and their flapped and 
 high-crowned Spanish hats were pulled over their eyes. 
 
 They looked, as in truth they were, like dark, mid- 
 night conspirators arrayed for some fearful design ; and 
 the grave expression of each gloomy countenance gave 
 a certain awful solemnity to the scene, as the light from 
 the two large candles fell in bright masses on their 
 faces, leaving the remoter parts of the room in heavy 
 shadow. Catesby, with a face from which the warm 
 colour had long departed, and which was now of an 
 ashy paleness, passed his hand to each one of the gen- 
 tlemen in turns ; he then walked to the low casemented 
 window, shook it as if to examine the fastenings, and 
 listened for a few seconds, but all was silent without; 
 he could only hear the thick breathings of his compa- 
 nions. 
 
 He returned to the table; and taking up the primer, 
 sprinkled it with holy water from the vase, and held it 
 forward; and then, one by one, the conspirators ap- 
 proached the table, kneeled down, and Catesby admi- 
 nistered the fearful oath of secrecy; each man received 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 159 
 
 it in his turn, laying his hand upon the primer, and 
 then rising resumed his attitude of mute attention, 
 leaning against the wall. 
 
 The ceremony over, Cateshy took Piercy by the cloak, 
 as did Wright and Winter by Fawkes, and in a low, 
 whispering voice, rendered hollow and faltering by their 
 emotions, revealed the dreadful purpose of the con- 
 spiracy. 
 
 Fawkes, it is believed, met the avowal with the 
 greatest hardihood. Piercy, deeply offended as he was 
 by the manner in which the king had treated him, and 
 little accustomed to scruples, yet shuddered at the dread- 
 ful recital. He, like Winter, looked upon it at first 
 with natural abhorrence, and it required much reasoning 
 on the part of Catesby to reconcile him to the idea. 
 The arguments used need not be repeated here; the 
 sophistry of the casuists — belonging principally to the 
 order of St. Ignatius, is accessible to all those who de- 
 sire to learn for themselves, to what extent the perver- 
 sion of holy things to unholy purposes has been carried. 
 
 Strange to say, Catesby, though he had himself 
 required so much persuasion to reconcile his conscience 
 to the commission of so fearful a crime, argued the 
 matter with Piercy as earnestly as if his own convictions 
 had never wavered. He succeeded in bringing him 
 over to his wishes, partly by the effect of those max- 
 ims then at the service of any one who had reasons for 
 blinding the human conscience, but more by the effect 
 of his own extraordinary personal influence over his 
 friends; who one and all agreed in assigning as the main 
 reason for their entering into this accursed plot, the 
 great love and reverence they bore to Mr. Catesby. 
 
160 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 The assurance that the spiritual fathers whom he had 
 consulted had approved of the scheme, and that one of 
 them was at this very moment waiting in an adjoining 
 room to administer the holy sacrament in confirmation 
 of their purposes, had also very considerable effect in 
 outweighing the scruples of Mr. Piercy. 
 
 In whatever manner convinced, it appears, however, 
 as in the case of Winter, that once resolved, he was 
 not again visited with misgivings upon the subject* 
 
 After about half-an-hour thus spent, the door at the 
 further end of the room opened, and the droning voice 
 of the serpent as the mass was about to begin, was heard. 
 Led by Catesby and Winter, the gentlemen entered 
 another small apartment, where a temporary altar was 
 erected; the room was low, and lighted by the six 
 candles upon the sacred table, which was arranged in 
 the humblest manner consistent with the services of the 
 religion. 
 
 The five gentlemen, kneeling side by side upon the 
 steps of the altar, received the host with the deepest 
 reverence, and then rising, returned in silence to the 
 apartment they had quitted. 
 
 Mr. Gerard, who had now put aside his ceremonial 
 robes, soon followed them ; before he entered it, how- 
 ever, the religious woman had withdrawn the primer, 
 the vase, and the holy candles, and a single lamp was 
 alone burning upon the table. Nothing in short re- 
 mained which could connect the Jesuit with the cere- 
 mony of the oath. 
 
 Father Gerard was a small, well-made little man, with 
 a pair of remarkably bright piercing eyes, and a coun- 
 tenance Jiriy as the French would say, but pleasant and 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 161 
 
 engaging. He entered cheerfully into conversation, as 
 if his heart were entirely free from the weight of that 
 fatal secret which oppressed the others — or^ as it should 
 rather be said, attempted to enter into conversation, for 
 his guests were moody and thoughtful, with the excep- 
 tion of Wright, who talked away in his usual rough, 
 coarse manner^ apparently indifferent to what had just 
 passed. The father, with the good breeding common 
 to those of his order, employed himself in doing the 
 honours of his poor house as he called it ; pressing the 
 gentlemen to be seated, and to taste a glass of sack 
 or wine before supper, which would be served in a few 
 minutes. 
 
 But they all refused, and continued to walk up and 
 down the room, now and then exchanging a sentence 
 or two, but their thoughts, it was evident, were far 
 otherwise engaged. 
 
 Presently one of the boys who had attended at the 
 mass, dressed in a short, full jerkin, little knee-breeches, 
 high shoes, falling collar, and leathern belt, the usual 
 dress of young boys at that time, announced that supper 
 was ready. And the gentlemen were ushered by the priest 
 into the comfortable little room, where stood a table hos- 
 pitably spread Several bottles of wine were on the 
 table, and tall Khenish glasses, with their long and 
 slender stems, set as at present before every cover. The 
 table-cloth was of the most delicate texture — the dishes 
 of silver — the plates of treen, but elegantly cut. 
 
 At the polite entreaty of their host, the five gentle- 
 men sat down, but to eat seemed impossible. One or 
 
 VOL. II, 
 
 L 
 
162 
 
 FATHER BARCT. 
 
 two glasses of wine they hastily swallowed, for their 
 throats were parched, and their lips black and dry; 
 that is to say, again with the exception of Mr. Wright, 
 and, indeed, of Mr. Fawkes. Mr. Wright eat, drank, 
 and pledged the priest as usual. Mr. Fawkes, whose 
 habits were to the last degree abstemious, swallowed 
 some morsels of bread, and one huge bumper of 
 wine. 
 
 The priest eat sparingly, but drank a good deal of 
 the wine ; and finding it vain to attempt to rouse the 
 spirits of his guests, soon rose from table. 
 
 They now all rose to take leave, for there seemed a 
 general desire to separate. Tliey resumed their long 
 cloaks, hats, and rapiers, of which they had disen- 
 cumbered themselves before entering the chapel; and 
 bidding the priest adieu, and silently wringing hands 
 one with another, mounted their horses, and without 
 further colloquy rode severally away. 
 
 During the absence of Mr. Winter in Flanders, 
 Catesby had employed himself in making inquiries for 
 a house adjacent to the houses of Parliament, from 
 which the mine might be carried out. One of pretty 
 considerable size, which abutted against one of the 
 walls, belonging to Whyniard, a person holding some 
 insignificant employment about the palace, was pitched 
 upon by Bates, Catesby’s servant. 
 
 It was now in the possession of a man called Ferris. 
 Piercy, whose employment as gentleman persuiver, led 
 
rATHER DARCY. 
 
 163 
 
 him to be mucli about the court, was commissioned 
 to obtain this, as it lay conveniently for him, and his 
 possession of it would excite no suspicion. The house 
 at Lambeth, occupied by Catesby, which was at no 
 great distance from the river, was selected as a proper 
 place wherein to collect the necessary stores, and where 
 
 it would be easy to convey them by night across the 
 river. 
 
 Mr. Fawkes, whose face was not known about town, 
 assumed, as will be remembered, the name of Johnson, 
 and personated a servant of Piercy’s. The house, not 
 without considerable difficulty, was at last obtained; 
 and the gentlemen had repeated meetings at different 
 places, in order to concert their future measures. Having 
 learned, however, that Parliament was prorogued till 
 the ensuing February, 1604-5, aware of the increased 
 chance of discovery to which a commencement of the 
 work earlier than was absolutely necessary, would 
 expose them, and probably not sorry to delay their 
 fatal undertaking, they resolved to separate, and 
 betake themselves to their various country houses ; 
 meeting as little as was possible in the interim, and 
 avoiding even the slightest allusion by letter to their 
 conspiracy. 
 
 In the meantime, a person named Robert Keyes, the 
 son of a Protestant clergyman, had been admitted into 
 the plot. He appears to have been a person of obscure 
 condition, and was the only one among the conspirators 
 whose fortunes were at a low ebb: for though the 
 funds provided by Robert Catesby and the others were 
 L 2 
 
164 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 exhausted in tlie course of their proceedings, they were 
 all, with this exception, persons of property. 
 
 He had been sworn upon the primer, and had re- 
 ceived the sacrament in confirmation of his oath at a 
 house in the neighbourhood of St. Clement’s, belonging 
 to Mr. Piercy ; to which place Mr. Catesby had at pre- 
 sent removed, taking up his lodgings with his friend. 
 
 In the care of Mr. Keyes, who was a man quite un- 
 known about town, they left the house at Lambeth, 
 with directions during their absence to employ himself 
 cautiously in the purchase of powder, which he was 
 in that place to stow away. 
 
 They then betook themselves to their several country 
 houses: Mr. Catesby, attended by Mr. Fawkes, went 
 first to Ashby St. Legers. 
 
 There is an old gateway at that place, above which 
 is a small black and white building containing two 
 rooms upon each floor; one with a large open fire- 
 place of considerable size, the other almost a mere 
 closet. It was here that Mr. Fawkes took up his resi- 
 dence for the present; for, it being the desire of all 
 parties that he should remain absolutely unknown, and 
 his face be as little seen as possible, it had been deter- 
 mined that he should not inhabit the dwelling-house, 
 and be exposed to the observation of casual visitors. 
 Some old furniture was then in this gate-house, a 
 truckle bed, a table, and a few wooden chairs; and 
 here the ascetic took up his abode, living several weeks 
 entirely secluded from society; save the cautious and 
 occasional visits of Robert Catesby. 
 
FATHEK DARCY. 
 
 165 
 
 Mr. Catesby had not thought it proper to acquaint his 
 mother with the design. Fanatic, revengeful, devoted 
 to the church as she was, there was yet something so 
 violent and ungoverned in her temper and feelings, that 
 he feared she might, under the influence of any excite- 
 ment, be led to cast out distant hints at leasts which 
 might lead to dangerous surmises: he bore, therefore, 
 all the irritating and exasperating sarcasms in which she 
 indulged at his supineness and indifference, in obsti- 
 nate silence, and thus only angered her the more.' 
 They had never been upon happy terms, this stern 
 mother and this determined son ; and now every hour 
 seemed still further to alienate them from each other. 
 
 The two poor little boys, moping in melancholy 
 silence about the house and the dull and gloomy 
 garden, obtained very little of his attention; his time 
 was chiefly spent in reading those books of casuistry 
 published by the Jesuits — Suarez, Bellarmine, Escobar, 
 &c. &c., in which palliation, excuse, defence, and even 
 inducement may be found held out for every crime. 
 
 Ambrose, the old serving-man, and Bates, his son, were 
 alone entrusted with the secret of Mr. Fawkes’ residence 
 in the gate-house ; by them he was supplied witli food 
 and other necessaries; and late in the evening, through 
 the dusky twilight, the trembling children from their 
 nursery window might descry a tall dark figure, in 
 company with their awful father, slowly perambulating 
 the terrace in the centre of the garden. 
 
 Their terrified imaginations filled with all sorts of 
 fantastical images of good and bad angels, devils, and 
 
166 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 demons, — they shook with terror as they beheld that ap^ 
 pearance ; and secretly, with their nursery maids, believed 
 that the dismal figure that came and vanished in a 
 manner so mysterious, was the great parent of evil, in 
 league with their dark and terrible father. 
 
 At other times, Catesby and Fawkes, seated in the 
 melancholy chamber over the gate-house, would discuss 
 their projects. As yet, however, except the hiring of 
 the house and the purchase of a little gunpowder, 
 nothing had been done. -As yet, the wdiole scheme 
 remained under the category of “ speculation a position, 
 in wliich their instructions had taught them to believe 
 it was justifiable to dwell upon, and plan the bloodiest 
 crimes. 
 
 The conscience of Catesby, as vrill be readily sup- 
 posed, under this course of thought, became gradually 
 more and more habituated to the idea of his plot; and 
 more and more hardened against those compunctious 
 visitings, which had at first occasioned such doubts and 
 hesitations. The conversation, too, of Mr. Fawkes, 
 who, possessing all the prejudices and habits of a soldier 
 of the old Spanish infantry, was accustomed to look 
 upon the most cruel barbarities of war with perfect cool- 
 ness and indifference; and who regarded this affair just 
 as he would any desperate military attempt; served 
 more, perhaps than either his casuistical books or the se- 
 vere t instigations of Garnet or Tesmond to accustom him 
 to the idea. He began to look upon it in much the same 
 light as some Catholics have learned to look upon the 
 horrible massacre of St. Bartholomew, when they call 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 167 
 
 it ‘ tlie battle of Paris !’ Hearing Mr. Fawkes plan the 
 mine, calculate expansive forces, resistances ; talk of the 
 excavations at the siege of Antwerp ; and of this project 
 precisely as if of the sarae description ; it will not sur- 
 prise an observer of human nature, to find how far the 
 voice of conscience was stifled. 
 
 Great is the power of names in eflfacing the true 
 character of deeds. 
 
 I 
 
 And why is my poor Fabian so melancholy?” said 
 the kind and gentle Evelyn, ‘‘ look up, boy; why it is 
 days since one saucy sentence hatli passed thy lips. 
 What is it, poor youth? Nay, for that matter, we are 
 all sad enough ; but thou shouldst have a little nonsense 
 under thy cap and bells, to make my noble husband 
 smile.” 
 
 “ Madam,” said the Jester, whose pale cheek an^ 
 faded eye spoke the anxiety of his mind, I have told 
 you that my vocation was ended ; the fools coat serves 
 me no longer, the voice of the jester is about to be 
 silenced in the miseries of those of the ancient religion, 
 the long age of tears is come. Turn me out, madam,” 
 said he, attempting to smile, but it was a sad and bitter 
 smile, and hie thee to the court, to provide thyself 
 with another — motley is the only wear there, they 
 tell me.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ I will have nothing from that bad court,” said Evelyn, 
 no, not even a fool; and I will not part with thee, my 
 Fabian, for thou art rare at one thing, thou canst 
 •take the hue of thy company.” 
 
168 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 ‘‘ Madam, it must needs be, that he should be of the 
 chameleon order, who would make his part good among 
 his betters ; but the hue of your poor reptile is darker 
 than that of the field he traverses. I shall only,’^ said he, 
 gravely, “add trouble to those whose troubles will come 
 upon them ere long; let me go home, madam, for why 
 shouldst thou grieve for the poor clown?” 
 
 “ Nay,^’ said she, kindly, “ I will share thy sorrow, 
 Fabian, for hast thou not ever taken part in mine? My 
 loy, my sorrow, have ever met an answer in thy heart, 
 poor fellow ! Hast thou not joined in grief with me over 
 my father’s hallowed cofl&n? and thy tears of rapture 
 coursed down thy cheeks with mine, wFen my Kenelm 
 was first placed in his father’s arms. Tell me, boy, 
 what is it then?” 
 
 The jester’s face grew paler and paler, till his lips 
 were almost white, and then he said, “ My brother was 
 among those at Llanchester.” 
 
 “ The heavens have pity upon thee, then, poor 
 fellow,” said she, with a trembling voice; “for it was 
 but this hour ago, that my husband, half smothered 
 with grief and indignation, told me ...” 
 
 “ That their doom is sealed — that they are no more,-’^ 
 said Fabian: “ I know it.” 
 
 “ Was he a priest?” whispered Evelyn. 
 
 “Iso, madam, a poor simple lay man — only, for har- 
 bouring of a priest, and suffering of Catholic ceremo- 
 nies to be carried on in his house — hiding of ‘ Agnus dei,' 
 and certain books, which touched, indeed, at the king’s 
 title; but he is no scholar, poor soul, and knew not what 
 
FATHEPw DARCY. 
 
 169 
 
 stuff it was that in obedience to his ghostly father he had 
 sewed in the mattress of hJs bed . . . He Avas but a poor 
 simpleton. — He was innocent as that baby there, point- 
 ing to the cradle, and they have murdered him.” 
 
 And turning his face to the -wall, he sobbed bitterly. 
 
 The tears of Evelyn fell fast upon her bosom. Sir 
 Everard had that morning receiA^ed the intelligence of 
 this barbarous execution. Six persons, one of whom 
 was a priest and the others lay men, had been a few 
 days before executed under the penal statutes at Man- 
 chester. A sacrifice in all probability on the part of the 
 king to the cruel prejudices of the high church party 
 and the puritans; whose distrust of James, in spite of 
 the unprincipled breach of his implied promises, seemed 
 to be hourly increasing.* 
 
 This was the most shocking of all those j udiclal pro- 
 ceedings, upon account of religion, which had yet oc- 
 curred far exceeding in severity any thing done In the 
 late queen’s reign. None but those conAucted of treasons 
 against the state, had ever suffered under her govern- 
 ment; but here were men found guilty and executed for 
 merely having harboured Jesuits and priests in their 
 houses, without any evidence of treasonable practices. 
 However dangerous the character of the men they had 
 concealed, the punishment so far exceeded the offence, 
 that it raised a feeling of almost universal rage and 
 despair among the Catholics. More especially as the 
 peace with Spain had been ratified Avithout the slight- 
 
 • See a letter upon this subject from a dignitary of the church in 
 JVinwood. 
 
170 
 
 FATHER DAKCY. 
 
 €st remission of severity being obtained for tbeir 
 party. 
 
 They could not disguise from themselves that they 
 had lost their only protector, when Phillip became 
 an ally of James. They now looked upon then^selves as 
 abandoned to their fate, and wholly in his power; and 
 were persuaded that, for some cause or other, whatever 
 his secret sentiments might be, he had resolved with re- 
 gard to them^ upon a course of the most unmerciful 
 policy. 
 
 Everard had received the intelhgence of the cruel 
 execution, with an indignation which he found it im- 
 possible to control : his cheek grew pale with anger, his 
 eye darkened, and a deep feeling of resentment — to 
 which, till then, he had been a stranger — glowed within 
 his heart. A burning thirst for retribution — for it 
 shall not be called the thirst for vengeance — a desire to 
 see justice executed upon those cruel murderers, took 
 possession of him. Mingled with an intense wish, 
 proper to a character so benevolent, so made up of love 
 and pity as his was, that something might be done — 
 something at least attempted — to wrest from the govern- 
 ment some sanctions, which might shelter his unhappy 
 bretliren from the capricious persecutions to which they 
 were exposed. For it was not so much upon the great 
 and powerful, that this present oppression fell ; not as in 
 former times, chiefly upon a few eminent families, called 
 upon as it might seem, to stand forward and suffer for 
 the rest ; but it was upon the weak, the defenceless, the 
 poor in spirit, and the low in purse — ^now abandoned as 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 171 
 
 a prey, like a flock of timid skeep, to these reckless 
 spoilers — that these accumulated fines were levied, the 
 payment of which with their scanty means was nothing 
 less than beggary and starvation. 
 
 His heart bled for the sufferers; his appetite left him, 
 sleep forsook his pillow ; he would rise in the night, 
 when his innocent Evelyn slumbered quietly, in happy 
 ignorance — as he had kept her, of the true state of 
 affairs — would descend into his garden, — and there, 
 while the full moon shone cold upon those Rutlandshire 
 hills, and gleamed upon the distant towers of Rock- 
 ingham Castle, while the autumn wind whispered low 
 among the branches, and the dying leaves swept 
 before his feet, when all was silent save the dis- 
 tant yelps of some dog in the distance, or the clock in 
 the little church tolling one — would Everard, another 
 unhappy victim of the mistakes and violences of the 
 times, pace that terrace in the eastern front of Dry 
 Stoke, meditating bitterly upon the prospect before him. 
 Vainly looking around for consolation — hope or con- 
 solation there was none. 
 
 Every month as the year advanced, only brought 
 the news of some fresh instance of oppression ; some 
 imexpected evil, unknown even in the darkest of the 
 preceding years. Where was this to end, and what 
 was to become of them ? 
 
 The provincial, true to the character he had assumed 
 of a man of peace, spoke only of submission, and the 
 hope that something might be granted to the inter- 
 cession of the holy father; artfully, at the same time, 
 
172 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 p-ivlns: it to be understood tliat from such intercession 
 he himself had little expectation. Still his words 
 breathed nothing but patience. He knew well that 
 the idea of a treasonable resistance to the measures of the 
 government, would have been abhorrent to Digby’s 
 principles ; and he did not attempt to combat this 
 opinion; on the contrary, he rather exaggerated upon 
 it ; till Dlgby himself became impatient, and tormented 
 by the idea that something must or ought to be done. 
 
 They had that very evening been arguing the matter 
 together. Digby had heen led under the exasperation 
 of the moment to propose various plans, for obtaining 
 relief. But Mr. Darcy had found objections to them 
 all. His objections were, perhaps, just; the persuasion 
 he expressed of the utter hopelessness that any good 
 consequence could from such proceedings arise, were 
 probably well-founded ; but whether well-founded or 
 not, he was secretly resolved that no attempt, of this 
 nature should at present be made. His whole mind was 
 absorbed in the vast enterprise of Catesby, the success ot 
 wliich would render the triumphant ascendancy of his 
 church an absolute certainty. 
 
 But not one syllable of this did he breathe to any 
 livino* beinsr. In contradiction to the most striiment 
 
 o o o 
 
 regulations of his order, he, on an occasion so import- 
 ant, ventured to dissemble even with his superiors. 
 His letters to the pope, to the General of the order, 
 to Father Parsons, which are preserved, are all filled 
 with assurances that the Catholics are quiet, and that 
 he is using every exertion in his power to keep them so. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 173 
 
 Many of these letters being written while there is historic 
 demonstration that he was acquainted with the minutest 
 details of the Plot. 
 
 At present, as we have seen, he had not allowed him- 
 self to be made acquainted with any of these details; 
 relying implicitly on the spirit and ability of Catesby. 
 He kept himself as much as possible aloof, and em- 
 ployed himself in preparing the minds of such men as 
 Digby, Tresham, and Ilockwood, in his usually artful 
 manner, against the time, when circumstances might 
 call upon them to take part in the grand enterprise. 
 
 His proceedings had completely blinded these inge- 
 nuous young people. The confidence of Everard, which 
 he had once been in danger of forfeiting, was now 
 restored. The advocate of simple piety, unblemished 
 truth, charity, love, and harmony, was Mr. Darcy, 
 in the quiet halls of Dry Stoke. 
 
 Evelyn, as we have seen, began to love and trust 
 liim, and Everard to consult him. 
 
 Evelyn went up to the poor weeping jester, and 
 laying her hand affectionately upon his shoulder, 
 said — 
 
 “ Do not weep so, Fabian — wo must all die — and 
 blessed are those who die martyrs in a just and holy 
 cause !” 
 
 ‘^You say well, madam,’’ said he, drying his eyes, 
 but continuing to sob like a child : but that is not 
 
 all.” And then the colour rose crimson over his checks 
 
174 
 
 rATHER DARCY. 
 
 and forehead, as turning his face, he muttered, ‘‘lam 
 about to be a beggar, Madonna.” 
 
 “Do you want to beg a largess from me, Fabian? 
 Nay, make not so much ado about it — you know we 
 both love you. It is but miserable pelf, after all. We 
 have more than enough — only tell me what you want. 
 Nay, nay, do not be ashamed to ask of Evelyn — I shall 
 be offended if I see you do so.” 
 
 “ My widowed mother ” said he. 
 
 “What of her, dear Fabian? I have often asked 
 you of her; and you have often, in your quaint way, 
 told me of the pretty cottage, and of the lime-trees 
 in flower, and the swallows sailing before the door; 
 and of their pretty households in the roof; and of 
 the jackdaw — and of her tortoiseshell cat — and her 
 flowers and her bees ; and I know not what. You 
 should have told me, dear Fabian, if there was any 
 thing wanting — your pictures were too pretty — how 
 could I guess it?” 
 
 “ It’s all gone,” said he, and the tears burst out, and 
 ran over his poor cheeks again. “ They broke into that 
 neat, quiet, pretty house; they have rifled her of her 
 son, and he is dead; they have terrified the poor girl, 
 my sister, into frenzy; and they have turned the poor 
 helpless widow out of doors. It was broken into and 
 ransacked, searching for the priest first — and then came 
 the fines — and all, all is sold. The trees are cut down 
 — the cottage is another’s — she is lying djdng at Mr. 
 Pound’s. You must let me go to her, madam, and you 
 must give me gold. HI news, they say, travels fast ; 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 175 
 
 but tills has been a sore long time in reaching me. I 
 want gold to buy my brother’s body, and see it laid in 
 holy earth; and to bury my poor mother by his side — 
 for she will not live long after him.” 
 
 The kind heart of Evelyn beat fast at this description ; 
 she felt all a woman’s passion rising within her breast; 
 she began to feel that resentment of wrong which has 
 animated so many of her sex, and made them enthu- 
 siasts in the cause of resistance to oppression. 
 
 A few evenings afterwards, Everard and Evelyn sat 
 together under the well-known oak-tree, both silent 
 and absorbed. That child, on which the father doted 
 so tenderly, was upon his knee ; fixing his large beau- 
 tiful eyes in grave astonishment upon his father’s face ; 
 he had, young as he was, an obscure sympathy with 
 his father’s feelings, and wondered why he neither 
 talked with him nor played. The little infant was 
 slumbering on its sweet mother’s bosom. Deeply 
 Everard sighed, as he gazed upon those loved ones 
 of his heart. A heavy cloud — a dark foreboding 
 of evil to come, was gathering over his spirits — and he 
 was already, with all a father’s anxiety, considering 
 how he should secure the future prospects of his family, 
 amidst the destruction which seemed impending over 
 aU. 
 
 Rehef had been abundantly administered to the poor 
 jester, and he was gone; but that very morning had 
 brought news of the punishment of that aged Lancashire 
 gentleman, Mr. Pound, for merely presenting a petition 
 in favour of one unfortunate man, condemned to death, 
 
176 
 
 PATHER DARCY. 
 
 as lie declared illegally, for harbouring a priest. This 
 intelligence seemed to cut off all expectation of effecting 
 any thing by the means of petitioning, upon which 
 Everard had built some hopes; and justified the indig- 
 nant contempt with which Mr. Darcy treated any such 
 idea. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 177 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 “ Nois em venuti al luogo ov’io t’ho detto 
 Che vederai le genti dolorose 
 Ch’hanno perduti il hen dell’ inteUetto.” 
 
 Dante, 
 
 So the year had passed away. 
 
 The events to which we have alluded, had, as it will 
 be supposed, greatly exasperated the feelings of the 
 conspirators; and strengthened the determination of 
 the Jesuits to encourage them in their resolution. 
 And in this the fathers had so well succeeded, that 
 by the time appointed for the commencement of ope- 
 rations, the scruples of those engaged appear to have so 
 far yielded, as to enable them to begin their work with 
 a resolution, and to labour in it with a perseverance, evi- 
 dently based upon the conviction, that their enterprise 
 was just and praiseworthy; and one, in the support of 
 which, the whole body of Catholics, if intrusted with 
 the secret, would unite. 
 
 In justice, however, to that body, it should be said 
 that this persuasion was entirely unfounded — The guilt 
 of the conspiracy rests upon the heads of the conspira- 
 tors, and of the Jesuits alone: no other Catholic, either 
 layman, or churchman, appears to have had the least 
 hand in it. 
 
 It was early in December, as it should seem, that 
 Catesby finding it necessary to employ Bates in various 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 M 
 
178 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 pieces of business connected with the conspiracy, 
 and seeing him to be a prying sort of fellow, who would 
 certainly make out some part of the truth for himself, 
 thought it safest to intrust him with the secret, and 
 to bind him by those oaths of fidelity and secrecy, 
 which had been administered to the others. 
 
 The unfortunate young man, therefore, took the 
 oath at Catesby’s house at Lambeth; in the presence 
 of Mr. Winter; and afterwards, in company with that 
 gentleman and his master, receiving the holy sacrament 
 in confirmation of it. His conscience, however, was very 
 ill at ease upon the subject; and he could not rest 
 until he had, with Catesby’s permission, disclosed the 
 matter in confession to a priest, and received absolu- 
 tion. The permission was accorded, upon condition that 
 Mr. Tesmond, otherwise Greenway, of whom mention 
 has been so often made before, should be the person 
 selected for the purpose. 
 
 He, of course, received the confession without mani- 
 festing the least surprise: and the scruples of Bates 
 were soon satisfied by the assurances of the Jesuit, that 
 the cause was a good cause, and that he had only to obey 
 his master’s directions and to conceal it, ‘‘which would 
 be not dangerous to his soul ; seeing that the matter so 
 nearly concerned the welfare of the holy Cathohc 
 Church.” He was specially forbidden to reveal the 
 secret, even under the seal of confession to any other 
 priest; and upon his promising so to do, he received 
 absolution ; and in the simplicity of his ignorant heart, 
 never seems to have been troubled with any further 
 feelings of compunction upon the subject. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 179 
 
 And now the dark and short days of December, with 
 their fogs, and their rains, and their storms, set in ; 
 and taking advantage of the long nights — the con- 
 spirators having laid in a provision of hard boiled eggs, 
 cold meats, pasties, &c., entered the house, shut them- 
 selves up, and began upon their fearful task. 
 
 Mr. Fawkes, whom they had succeeded in keeping 
 entirely out of sight and unknown, assumed the name 
 of Johnson, and personated a servant of Piercy, with 
 whom the charge of the house, during the supposed 
 absence of the master, appeared to be left. He occu- 
 pied the room in front on the ground floor; frequently 
 going out, leaving the door locked behind him, to 
 watch on the outside — to gather rumours, and to observe 
 any thing going forward which might excite suspicion. 
 
 It was a dark, moonless, winter midnight, when 
 wrapped in heavy cloaks which concealed the mining 
 tools each man carried, and with their hats flapped 
 over their faces, the gentlemen, one by one, stole 
 like criminals to the appointed house, and were severally 
 admitted by Fawkes. 
 
 Resolute men they were all, we know ; and yet, as, col- 
 lected in a little dark parlour at the back of the house, 
 they looked round upon each other, and realised for the 
 first time the dreadful undertaking which they were 
 about to commence ; each cheek grew pale, their limbs 
 trembled, and when they spoke the tones of their voice 
 sounded so hollow, hoarse, and unnatural, that they 
 involuntarily recoiled as it were from each other. 
 
 For their consciences would make themselves be 
 heard, and their hearts were knocking at their ribs; 
 
 M 2 
 
180 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 ‘while their countenances assumed a peculiar expression, 
 which they ever from that time in some degree retained, 
 and which struck terror into those who afterwards 
 beheld, and have described them. 
 
 After a little hesitation, and a few sentences ex- 
 changed in whispers, they left the house, and, pre- 
 ceded by Mr. Fawkes, crossed the garden to a small 
 shed intended for the keeping of garden tools, which 
 leaned against the wall of the parliament-house. 
 
 The garden was surrounded by high walls, and not 
 commanded at a single point by any window. No situ- 
 ation could be more favourable for their purpose. As 
 they crept stealthily along, each man cast his eyes around 
 as if to assure himself that this was the case. The tall 
 black walls rose high over head, canopied by the pitchy 
 vault of night. A very small dark lantern held by Mr. 
 Fawkes shed a small ray of light across the obscurity. 
 
 They entered the shed one by one, led by Catesby; 
 each one holding a mattock, pick-axe, or spade, over 
 his shoulder ; and there they stood, looking alternately at 
 each other and at the wall before them — but no man 
 uttered a word. Until Fawkes pointing with his hand, 
 said at last in a low voice, that there it were best to 
 begin.” 
 
 But they stood motionless — frozen as it were with 
 awe and expectation. Scarcely appearing to breathe, 
 while the hoarse winter’s wind swept, loudly lament- 
 ing, by. 
 
 At last Catesby, who had stood as one transfixed with 
 horror — his eyes starting from his head — gazing mechan- 
 ically upon the wall before him — ^roused, as if from a 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 181 
 
 dream; reverently crossed himself; and heaving his 
 mattock high above his head, struck with the full 
 force of his powerful arm one blow against the wall, 
 — a large fragment fell to the ground : it was enough : 
 — As in other cases of desperate assault and crime, the 
 first blow did the work. The example was immediately 
 followed by all the others, who now plied their dreadful 
 task with the greatest enthusiasm and emulation. 
 
 Fawkes had left them to return to the house and 
 discover whether the noise of the working could be 
 heard from without. A quick, dull, beating sound, as 
 from within the bowels of the earth, was all he heard; 
 and he 'was satisfied that during the night it would ex- 
 cite no attention. 
 
 So he watched, walking up and down in the front 
 rooms of the house, while they laboured with a sort of 
 desperate violence, until, ‘Hhe toil drops fell from their 
 brows like rain.’^ 
 
 “ They were all gentlemen,’’ said Fawkes in his con- 
 fession, “ of name and blood; and not any was employed 
 in or about this action, (no, not so much as digging and 
 mining) that was not a gentleman ; and we all lay in the 
 house and had shot and powder, and resolved to die 
 before we were taken.” 
 
 They had evidently, by this time been wrought to 
 such a pitch of fanaticism, as to consider their purpose 
 one far too holy to be desecrated by being committed 
 to inferior hands: but notwithstanding this horrible 
 perversion of sentiment, honest nature would even yet at 
 times be too strong for them ; and strange indescriba- 
 ble horrors would visit their minds. They worked at 
 
182 
 
 rATHEK DAECY. 
 
 their mine however, without intermission, every night; 
 and during the day, employed themselves in spreading 
 the earth, and burying the rubbish in the garden. 
 
 One night while they were toiling with an intensity 
 of labour that was astonishing in men reared in ease 
 and delicacy, and unaccustomed to efforts of this nature ; 
 striving in emulation as it would seem of one another, 
 and heavy blow following blow with astonishing 
 rapidity ; they were suddenly startled by a sound which 
 seemed like the deep reverberation of a bell — It was 
 like the slow, solemn tolling of a passing bell; and 
 seemed to proceed from the centre of the thick wall 
 which they were mining. It is impossible to describe 
 the dread and horror with which they were seized. Each 
 arm was arrested; and in a kind of mute dismay they 
 stood staring at each other, listening to the solemn, un- 
 earthly sound.^ 
 
 Toll— toll— 
 
 The deep, melancholy toll of a funeral bell. 
 
 It was impossible to be mistaken — Deep, slow, myste- 
 rious — from the very centre of the wall, the sound pro- 
 ceeded : It seemed like the knell sounding, solemn and 
 awful, for a soul in the departing agony. 
 
 They stood for some time with pallid cheeks, and 
 shuddering hearts listening attentively. At last, each 
 man, as if by common consent, laid down his tools; and 
 without speaking, they crept severally out of the shed, 
 and sought shelter with Fawkes in the house. He, 
 they well knew by experience, was little subject to those 
 fits of horror which distracted the spirits of the rest — 
 
 * Historical. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 183 
 
 Stern and determined, lie ever supported the resolution 
 of his companions. 
 
 He was standing at the window of his front-room, 
 looking into the street ; where all, however, lay 
 wrapped in the silence of midnight ; when they entered 
 confusedly, and stared at him, hut without speaking. 
 
 ‘‘Well, gentlemen — what now?” was his address as 
 he turned round to them. 
 
 Come this way,” muttered Catesby. 
 
 He followed to the garden. 
 
 “ Do you hear it?” 
 
 The deep measured tolling at slow intervals continued : 
 Fawkes heard it distinctly as the others, and even the 
 dark features of that iron-visaged man underwent a 
 change. 
 
 He stood some time perfectly still, as did the rest, 
 who looked almost petrified with amazement ; listening 
 to the slow, measured sound. At last, turning away, he 
 disappeared ; but he was not absent long ; when he re- 
 turned, he had a cup containing holy water in his hand; 
 with this he plentifully sprinkled the wall and floor — 
 and the unearthly sound, as it is reported, immediately 
 ceased. 
 
 They looked at each other, and began to breathe. 
 
 “ Whatever demon hath conjured this sound in order 
 to thwart your enterprise, gentlemen,” said Fawkes, “ it 
 is plain his devices avail not against the powers of 
 Holy Church — Ave Maria — In the name of the blessed 
 Virgin, continue.” 
 
 And he turned away with an expression in which 
 something bordering upon contempt might be detected. 
 
184 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Catesby took up his mattock without saying a syllable, 
 and plied his work more vigorously than before — his 
 example was followed by all the rest. 
 
 When their spirits had become a little accustomed to 
 their employment, they began to discuss their ultimate 
 plans, and the steps to be taken when the great blow 
 should have been struck. They had thought but little 
 of these things till now ; the desire of vengeance and the 
 thirst for victory, had seemed to rest satisfied with 
 the idea of the wide-spreading destruction that they 
 were about to scatter. 
 
 That there would be a universal rising of the Ca- 
 tholic gentry so soon as the explosion should have 
 taken place, none of them seemed to doubt; nor that 
 Mr. Fawkes, who was immediately after the event to 
 proceed to Flanders, would be able to obtain large 
 assistance from the Archduke. Little or no resistance 
 could be anticipated on the part of the English Pro- 
 testants, thunderstruck by the blow, and deprived at 
 one stroke of every leading man of their party. But the 
 late conduct of Spain had alienated their minds, and 
 they abandoned all idea of placing the infanta upon the 
 vacant throne. It was agreed that one of the king’s young 
 children should be chosen for the purpose, who should 
 be carefully reared in due habits of obedience to the 
 Roman see. That Prince Henry would perish with his 
 father at the opening of parliament, seemed certain; 
 whether the Duke Charles would be present at the 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 185 
 
 ceremony, doubtful. In case he should not, Piercy, 
 whose place of gentleman pensioner afforded him free 
 access to the court, engaged to seize upon him ; whilst 
 some of the Northamptonshire gentlemen were to get 
 possession of the young Princess Elizabeth, the king’s 
 eldest daughter, then residing at the Lord Harrington’s 
 / in that county. 
 
 At this time, too, not as yet hardened and indifferent 
 to the consequences of their crime, the conspirators dis- 
 coursed much of the friends whom they should attempt 
 to save; and of the various expedients to be adopted in 
 order to prevent their attendance upon parliament ; but 
 as time accustomed their consciences to the idea of these 
 horrors, these plans appear to have been abandoned. 
 
 Thus in alternations of excessive labour, anxious 
 discourse, visitations of conscience, paroxysms of super- 
 stitious horror, or of deep enthusiastic devotion, did 
 they ply their task, from the 11th until the 24th of 
 December. 
 
 The parliament being again prorogued till the ensuing 
 Michaelmas, they interrupted their work ; and once more 
 separating, retired for a short time into the country, to 
 refresh their strength and spirits. 
 
 Catesby came down to spend his Christmas at 
 Harroden — a man scarcely retaining a trace of the 
 animated Robert of earlier days. 
 
 Stern, gloomy, thoughtful when alone; in society 
 he assumed the careless air of one indifferent to the 
 passing affairs of the world; and so completely de- 
 
186 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 ceived all his friends, that they marvelled at, and 
 censured his insensibility. 
 
 At Harroden, a Christmas party was assembled, in 
 order duly to celebrate the solemnities of that great 
 festival. The Catholic families around assembled at 
 this place, in order to impose^ by their numbers, upon 
 the public; and prevent, during this holy period, any 
 disturbances from those intolerable visitations which 
 have been so often alluded to. They intended 
 likewise, by concentrating attention upon the rich and 
 great, to divert it from the houses belonging to the less 
 formidable private gentlemen around. 
 
 To Harroden came Mr. Tresham from Rushton; 
 Catesby, Sir Everard and Lady Digby, with Eleanor; 
 and here came Darcy and Tesmond; and in their 
 train, as it were, those women devoted to pious ofl&ces, 
 Grace Vaux and her sister Mrs. Brooksby; and Mother 
 Anne, that aged nun, who was stiU living. 
 
 To this assembly, which the stem Lady Catesby had 
 disdained to join, did the Jesuit preach patience, sub- 
 mission, and peace, with a zeal which deceived the 
 too credulous Evelyn — filled the mind of Everard 
 with a sort of angry impatience — and excited the highest 
 admiration in Catesby, who well understood his meaning ; 
 while the pale cheek of Grace Vaux grew paler, and 
 her thin wasted hand trembled with emotion, as she 
 beheld what seemed the reckless indifference of him, 
 once too dear, to the general distress. 
 
 She was grown extremely thin, wasted almost to a 
 shadow; and her once beautiful eyes gleamed with 
 an unnatural brightness, which spoke the fever within. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 187 
 
 Intense devotion — constant habits of ascetic discipline 
 — and the irritating sense she entertained of her 
 church’s sufferings, added to what she believed to be 
 the culpable insensibility of her party, were wasting her 
 away. 
 
 Catesby said little, and when he did speak, it was in 
 a strange careless sort of manner; never failing to 
 second Darcy in his arguments, in favour of passive 
 submission ; till the whole assembled company were 
 fretted with a sort of vexatious feeling of disappoint- 
 ment, though they scarcely knew what it was they had 
 hoped or expected from him. 
 
 But they had long been accustomed to regard him as 
 the leader of the flock — the one whose genius and 
 spirit were to direct them all : and to see a man, once so 
 full of enterprise, and so fertile in expedients, now 
 sullenly inactive, filled the whole body with a sentiment 
 of despair: a feeling upon which the Father Superior 
 calculated with security — as a means to make them 
 embrace with enthusiasm any plan which time might 
 bring forth. 
 
 Catesby, however, was not much in the company 
 of an]| one. The effort at dissimulation was too great 
 for his harassed spirits. He spent most part of his time 
 in solitude; wandering in those cold, clouded winter 
 days, amid the leafless trees, the snow crushing under 
 his feet, or the bitter wind blowing on his cheek; 
 insensible to external things, and lost in the indulgence 
 of his sullen melancholy. 
 
 He rarely accosted Grace Vaux, and her presence 
 seemed to have lost its influence over his feelings; in 
 
188 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 truth, compared with the dreadful reality which occu- 
 pied his thoughts, all other sentiments, however in- 
 tense, had shrunk into insignificance. It was with 
 Eleanor that he talked and laughed, when he was 
 endeavouring to maintain that indifferent carriage which 
 he affected in general society. 
 
 But far was his notice now from affording the un- 
 happy girl any consolation ; there was something almost 
 contemptuous, almost rude in his very attentions, and 
 the bitterness witliin seemed for ever prompting his 
 tongue. Those who saw him devoted to her in the 
 mixed general society assembled, little understood the 
 excessive unhappiness which his inexplicable manner 
 excited in her. 
 
 Every sentiment of woman’s pride, of woman’s ten- 
 derness was outraged, and yet she did not complain. 
 She concealed her feelings from Everard — according to 
 that fatal habit, imbibed under the infiuence of her con- 
 fessor, of hiding from this honest and kind friend, her 
 genuine sentiments ; and when she once hinted at them to 
 Mr. Darcy — who alone possessed her real confidence — 
 he treated the idea with a ridicule so nearly approach- 
 ing to anger, that she dared not allude to the |ubject 
 again ; but submitted in silence to this fresh misery. 
 
 The snow had now fallen heavijy, and the company 
 were confined chiefly to the house : it was very large, 
 and contained an intricate succession of passages, and 
 numbers of different rooms, among which, during the 
 tedious w^inter day, the guests dispersed; to pass away 
 as best they might, the time not occupied in their reli- 
 gious ceremonies. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 189 
 
 One day Catesby was sitting in a remote apartment 
 musing over the embers of a decaying fire ; and indulg- 
 ing in those dark reveries which were now his usual 
 occupation when alone; his mind still at war with it- 
 self, and distracted between his resolutions and his 
 scruples. 
 
 The door was gently opened — he turned round — and 
 through the deepening twilight of the apartment saw 
 Grace Vaux enter, clad in those sober garments which 
 she now constantly wore. She did not seem to be 
 aware that any one was in the room, for he was shaded 
 by the dark shadow which fell upon the corner of the 
 chimney which he occupied: but walking slowly up 
 to the window, she clasped her hands, gazed stead- 
 fastly at the darkening sky, and sighed heavily. 
 
 The snow had ceased, but the gloomy leaden clouds 
 rolled heavily along, and the wind wailed among 
 the tossing branches and drove the drifting snow before 
 it. It was a pitiless night. She stood there quite still 
 as if watching the melancholy scene, her hands clasped, 
 and again she sighed — it was such a heavy sigh ! 
 
 He sat watching her. 
 
 He was no longer capable of feeling any of those 
 emotions which had once agitated him when Grace 
 Vaux was present; his heart lay cold and heavy as 
 a stone within his breast; but the spectre-like ap- 
 pearance of the unhappy victim before him had still 
 power. There seemed to be a sort of dreadful sym- 
 pathy between them — she looked like the inhabitant of 
 the sepulchre restored by some strange charm to earth, 
 
190 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 and his imagination was filled with visions of death and 
 graves. 
 
 You sigh,” at last he said, in a low voice. ‘‘ Grace 
 Vaux sighs. Why should she sigh? Her heart is in 
 Heaven, where her resting-place shall be. — ^Why should 
 she sigh over the wretched destiny of those who belong 
 to lower worlds?” 
 
 She started a little, and turned round as he spoke; 
 then in her melancholy voice said — 
 
 I did not see you — I thought I was alone — I very 
 seldom sigh — it is an indulgence.” 
 
 “ I never sigh, said he. And it was true; this with 
 other expression of human sympathies had left him. 
 ‘‘ But I can laugh.” 
 
 ‘‘I know it,” said she. ‘‘I have heard you laugh 
 several times since I have been here — I do not love 
 laughter now.” 
 
 “ No one loves such laughter as mine,” he said; but 
 it will do well enough for the company I shall keep 
 by-and-by.” 
 
 The company you shall by-and-by keep,” advancing 
 from the window, for she understood his meaning, and 
 a slight shudder passed over her. ‘‘ Ah, Mr. Catesby ! — 
 why ? — why ? — What company should you keep ? Alas ! 
 why should you be an alien and a lost one to hope: 
 why abandon yourself to that sin which is a sin unto 
 death — the sin of final despair.^’ 
 
 ‘‘ Nay,’’ said he, sarcastically, what is Grace Vaux 
 thinking of ?— I am going to be canonised and a saint 
 in Heaven.” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 191 
 
 ‘^Alas! liow wildly you talk. Yes, Mr. Catesby, 
 there was a time when the church marked you as one of 
 her most devoted servants — there was a time when life 
 and estate would have been cheerfully perilled for her 
 service — but now — in these days of misery, when she 
 lies wretched and defenceless, at the mercy of the 
 oppressor — Robert Catesby is careless and at ease.” 
 
 He rose from his seat, grasped her firmly by the 
 wrist, led her to the window, fixed his two glaring 
 eyes upon her face — shining as those of the basilisk are 
 said to do — and with a strange, Satanic smile, said : 
 Careless and at ease — that is how you think of me, 
 is it?— be it so ” 
 
 She looked steadfastly upon his face, seeming to 
 peruse it with intense interest — then a gleam of some- 
 thing like pleasure spread over her own ; and a faint 
 vision of that once more than human beauty passed be- 
 fore him, as, slowly dropping on both her knees at his 
 feet, her head bent reverendly upon her breast, she said, 
 “ Blessed Virgin I praise thee — I glorify thee — Oh, 
 holy Queen of Heaven ! my prayers are heard.” 
 
 Then rising again, she took his hand, once more 
 fixed her eyes upon his face, and said : 
 
 “ I have had my suspicions ; I have had my hopes ; 
 my heart has whispered me that all this was but a hate- 
 ful mask which hid Robert Catesby's real countenance, 
 — and that behind that mask. . . .” 
 
 Woman,” he said, almost fiercely, “ what was there 
 behind ?” 
 
 ‘‘Devotion, heroism, martyrdom, and — Heaven!” 
 with enthusiasm. 
 
 He groaned. 
 
192 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 A voice within replied, ‘‘ Conspiracy, treachery, mid- 
 night murder^ and — hell !’' 
 
 ‘‘ Nay, I ask to know no secrets,” said she, as he 
 turned away. ‘‘ I ask not to share your counsels, even 
 in my prayers ; but my prayers shall be with you — for 
 well I know that whatever your enterprises in behalf of 
 our religion may be — they will be righteous and holy.” 
 “Do you believe this of me, saint ?” said he, with 
 somethin oj of a return of his old tenderness — “ and shall 
 your prayers be with me? Then my purposes must be 
 holy. I will esteem them so. But, Grace,” he con- 
 tinued, after a few moments’ reflection, “ this visor 
 which you have, as you think, penetrated, is raised, as 
 you will understand, for no eye but yours. Whatever 
 my course may be, know nothing. You see what I am 
 below,” he added, with a tone of levity: “a preacher 
 of peace: We must all preach peace you understand : 
 Father Garnet is never wearied of preaching peace.” 
 She sighed and said — 
 
 “ The ways of the Holy Father Superior are mysteries 
 to me, which I attempt not to penetrate.” 
 
 “ Attempt to penetrate nothing; but of this be sure — 
 you shall yet hear of Robert Catesby before you and I 
 are gathered to the grave, Grace. And when you 
 hear of him,” with some return of his former passion 
 he went on, “ believe you hear of one, who, living or 
 dying, carried one image ineffaceable on his heart. 
 Nay, fear not,” as she drew back. “ All things are har- 
 dened within me — my heart is hard as iron, now — 
 but one image is engraved and has hardened upon 
 it. When I am dead, Grace, you will pray for me?” 
 She understood little of all this; but she compre- 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 193 
 
 hended that things were not going on so quietly as they 
 seemed to choose to make appear, and this poor maiden's 
 heart — ah sad perversion ! beat with a terrible pleasure 
 at the idea that destruction was still preparing for the 
 enemies of God. 
 
 Everard meanwhile made no attempt to disguise his 
 melancholy. The sufferings of so many whom he 
 knew and loved; the additional severity wdiich was 
 expected from the measures of the present parlia- 
 ment; the doubt and obscurity hanging over the pros- 
 pects of every one who had remained faithful to the 
 party — aggravated by the inexplicable indifference and 
 inertness of those whom he had been accustomed to 
 regard as the leaders and defenders of the flock — filled 
 him with grief and anxiety; and a fervent desire was 
 rising in his young and generous heart, to be himself 
 the champion of this cause, and the means, some way or 
 other, of rescuing the hapless society to which he be- 
 longed, from some portion, at least, of the impending 
 danger. 
 
 Meanwhile, the restless expression of Digby's eye; 
 the manner in which he would rise with a kind of 
 irritated impatience from his chair ; walk to the window, 
 look out ; turn over the leaves of the book he held with- 
 out reading it; listen with the utmost anxiety for 
 intelligence from without, and receive the various 
 sinister reports with a heavy sigh ; were all marked by 
 the Provincial with satisfaction. 
 
 When not employed upon those religious ministrations 
 
 VOL. II. N 
 
194 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 wHcli occupied mucli of his time, there he sat by the 
 noble, blazing, Christmas fire; imbibing its warmth with 
 sensations of comfort little alloyed by those questionings 
 of conscience, or generous sorrows for the suffering of 
 others, which embittered every enjoyment to the rest. 
 
 Do you see him there? 
 
 The cheek of many a one of that company has faded, 
 and many a form has become extenuated, under the in- 
 fluence of the intense feelings which agitate them; 
 but the bland. countenance of the reverend father is 
 unaltered; nay, is somewhat rounder and softer than 
 before. 
 
 There stands Catesby in a remote corner of the room ; 
 his form thin and gaunt, his cheek hollow, his brow 
 lowering, his eye sunken, his lips withered and thin; 
 talking in a strange, ambiguous way to Eleanor, on whose 
 thin and wasted cheek a hectic flush is burning ; while a 
 sort of hurried trembling in her limbs, and an affectation 
 of mirth in her hollow laugh, bear evidence of what 
 time has been doing with her. 
 
 There walks Everard pacing the room; his eyes cast 
 moodily upon the ground, his hair with that sort of 
 faded tint the result of feverish nights and restless 
 days, his cheek sallow, and his brow contracted. 
 
 And there sits Evelyn, with her two little boys upon 
 her lap ; casting melancholy glances from time to time 
 first at her husband and then at them again, while her 
 sweet, composed, and cheerful smile is .exchanged for one 
 of gentle, subdued sadness. 
 
 And there sits the Father Superior, looking remark- 
 ably handsome and well; he eats, he drinks after the 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 195 
 
 labour of the day — and though he complained after- 
 wards of his restless nights, under the pressure of the 
 tremendous secret with which he was burdened, there 
 is no appearance of any such thing. He is somewhat 
 more embonpoint than he used to be ; and his generous 
 manner of living has a little deepened the colour 
 of his cheek. 
 
 You might perhaps think he is dozing in his chair, 
 for his eyelids are dropped, but not altogether so as to 
 close his eyes. He is watching ivith his wily, serpent- 
 like gaze the young man, who, so restless and uneasy, 
 still continues to pace the room. Most of his victims 
 are already safe in his toils: it remains but to secure 
 this one. The father has already his mind filled with 
 the most glorious visions, though he has not yet per- 
 mitted himself to be entrusted with the exact details 
 of the plot. But as he has received the assurance of 
 Father Tesmond (who he has reason to believe is en- 
 tirely in the confidence of the conspirators,) that a matter 
 far more efficient than any scheme ever before contem- 
 plated, is in hand : that not one member of the existing 
 government — not one person whatsoever of eminence 
 among the professors of the Protestant religion will escape 
 to oppose the re-establishment of Catholicism in these 
 islands: he is well satisfied. Sometimes the gentle 
 father’s visions are of Sicilian vespers. Sometimes of 
 the night of Bartholomew. Sometimes of an old scheme 
 once in agitation before, connected with gunpowder. 
 At all events, he is quite satisfied with Mr. Tesmond’s 
 report in these matters. He knows that holy father to be 
 of an ardent and daring temper, and a most sincere 
 N 2 
 
196 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 despiser of half measures. He knows him, moreover, 
 to be a very clever and sagacious man; and he rests per- 
 fectly content with his assurance that the matter in hand 
 is certain and secret, and as widely and utterly destruc- 
 tive as the necessities of the case can possibly require. 
 
 That money will be wanted, and in profusion, he 
 who knows the world so well, has little doubt. The 
 reckless wastefulness of Mr. Catesby in former years 
 has rendered him, though very far from a needy man, 
 yet one who cannot command any very great sums of 
 money. The same may be said of all the conspirators, 
 with whose names, persons, and circumstances Mr. 
 Darcy is perfectly well acquainted. He has long, 
 therefore, pondered upon the means of increasing the 
 resources of the party in this respect. Tliey must ap- 
 ply to those among the intimates, and under the in- 
 fluence, of Mr. Catesby, whose affluence will enable 
 them to give the necessary assistance. Digby, whose 
 wealth is considerable, has long been singled out as a 
 prey; and Francis Tresham is another. 
 
 Tresham Is a man of a cold, reflecting temper, and 
 the father regards him with a certain distrust and sus- 
 picion ; but in the generous enthusiasm of Digby ’s feel- 
 ing he reads the fit preparation for his designs. And 
 so there he sits with his half shut eyes watching him. 
 Opposite to the Father Superior you may see Father Tes- 
 mond, the tall, thin, sinewy, dark man, with that daring, 
 burning eye, and thin, wily mouth — false yet fierce his 
 countenance is — it is excessively disagreeable. He is 
 lost in thought too, but his black eye is fixed upon 
 the fire. He is full of his own plans and expectations. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 197 
 
 He is not one who watches the effect of things upon 
 others ; he is too much absorbed by what passes with- 
 in himself. At last Everard takes a chair, draws it 
 close by the Father Superior, and in a low voice, says, 
 “Parliament, I hear, is prorogued again.” 
 
 “ So they say.” 
 
 “ This bodes, I fear, no good for us — but it is some 
 delay at least.” 
 
 The father shook his head. 
 
 “ What do you anticipate?” said Everard, anxiously, 
 “ tell me the worst at once, sir. Your desire to keep 
 the party quiet induces you, perhaps, to conceal the 
 extent of your apprehensions ; but let it not be so with 
 regard to me. My wish is to know the worst, that I 
 may prepare myself and friends accordingly.” 
 
 “ Yourself and your friends. Sir Everard ! I hope I am 
 not to understand by that any intention on the part of 
 yourself and your friends to make the slightest stir at this 
 present time. I assure you no possible good, but very 
 much evil might arise from any such rash and ill-timed 
 efforts. The only possible result would be what we 
 have seen to be the consequence of the preposterous 
 plot of Watson, and that other priest, namely, to fur- 
 nish pretences to the government for measures of a still 
 more oppressive nature than the worst we have seen, or 
 the worst we have reason to fear. I have already made 
 you acquainted with the injunctions of his Holiness, 
 and of the most eminent fathers of the Church upon 
 this subject. Let me beseech you to patience. Though 
 that the parliament is prorogued for no good purpose, 
 I have reason to know. For I have secret intelligence 
 
198 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 'which assures me that measures, 'whose severity exceeds 
 the worst apprehensions of the most despairing, are in 
 agitation. Your kinsman, Lord Salisbury, seems little 
 inchned to spare your friends.” 
 
 The colour rose to Everard’s temples at the mention 
 of this connexion. He, in common with the rest of 
 his party, looked upon Eobert Cecil with a mixture 
 of distrust and indignation amounting to abhorrence. 
 
 “ The measures of the Earl of Salisbury — my kins- 
 man, as your reverence is pleased to call him, would 
 be matters of great indifference to me in any other 
 case ; but I cannot rest contented in this present distress 
 till I know at least what we have to expect — the worst 
 we have to expect.” 
 
 What think you of a fine upon recusancy in wives, 
 and the argument by wliich the justice of such a mea- 
 sure is supported. Merely because, forsooth, if Catholic 
 gentlemen chose to marry recusant ladies, knowing them 
 to be such, it were but just their purses should answer 
 for their wives’ delinquencies. Or should they on the 
 other hand think fit to take wives from among the Ca- 
 naanitlsh women, and afterwards suffer them to be ex- 
 posed to the influences of those belonging to holy church, 
 and so they be converted — it is held but just that the 
 husbands should suffer who had exposed them to the 
 influence of such evil teachers. You see the force of the 
 argument, sir,” with a sneer; the lamb stood below 
 and troubled the stream for the wolf’s drinking. This 
 will press hea'vily upon some of our less wealthy brethren 
 I fear. Happily the heiress of Goddeshurst has where- 
 withal to pay for her own backslidings.” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 199 
 
 will be insupportable!” cried Everard, with 
 his cheeks burning; it will consummate the spectacle 
 of ruin and misery we see around us.” 
 
 Nay,” said Mr. Darcy, “ there is one thing wanting 
 to complete the matter. I have heard that it is intended 
 in future that merely to be a Catholic shall expose every 
 man to the penalty of a praemunire.” 
 
 Everard started back with dismay written in every 
 feature. 
 
 ‘‘ Then there is neither mercy nor pity to be expected,” 
 said he; unhappy I unhappy England! .... Sir, if 
 we are to submit to this, the Catholic religion in this 
 country is annihilated, and the lamp of truth extin- 
 guished : but I cannot believe it.” 
 
 ‘‘ Wait, and you will see,” said the priest, in a com- 
 passionate tone, watching the agitated countenance and 
 changing colour of the young man with secret pleasure. 
 
 My intelligence may be premature. I would wish not 
 to be the bearer of ill news. Only have patience, the 
 mind of his gracious majesty may alter.” 
 
 Everard gnashed his teeth. 
 
 “ I am sorry, sir, to see you so discomposed,” said 
 Mr. Darcy; “this is a world in which we must all 
 learn to submit to injustice with patience, since it is for- 
 bidden to us to contend.” 
 
 “ There are limits to submission,” said the young 
 man. 
 
 The Jesuit lifted up his blue eye, looked at him, let 
 it fall, and said nothing. 
 
 Everard’s eye glanced at Catesby. He was accus- 
 tomed to look to him in every period of emergency. 
 
200 
 
 FATHER FARCY. 
 
 At last, rising hastily and putting back his chair, he 
 approached his friend. 
 
 “ You have heard the last news,” he said, addressing 
 him, and interrupting a sort of bantering sarcastic con- 
 versation, which he was carrying on with Eleanor. 
 
 Parliament is prorogued.” 
 
 Is it?” said Catesby, with indifference. 
 
 ‘‘ And have you learned what measures are in prepa- 
 ration immediately upon its meeting?” 
 
 Catesby looked up in his face — it was a quick, suspi- 
 cious, inquiring glance ; but the expression of Everard’s 
 countenance satisfied him. 
 
 A strange smile stole over his face, and he said : 
 
 No — let me hear.” 
 
 Everard repeated the account which had distressed 
 himself so exceedingly. 
 
 “ I doubt it not,” said Catesby: ‘‘ there will be very 
 severe and effectual measures taken at the meeting of 
 Parliament. But you hear what the Father Superior 
 says — there is nothing for it but patience.” 
 
 ‘‘ My patience is well nigh exhausted wdien I hear 
 Robert Catesby preaching it,” was his friend’s reply. 
 
 ‘‘ Oh ! I am an altered man,” said the other, mockingly. 
 ‘‘ I don’t know what is come to me — but I am as a 
 mere lamb. We have all of us changed characters — ^it’s 
 a sort of pantomime life at the best — a mere stage, where 
 we take our parts at the commands of the great ma- 
 nager — destiny. I am grown tame and Everard is grown 
 cruel ; and the young Eleanor of other days is pleased 
 to play the sorrowful. Nay, I saw you look sad and 
 sorry — never deny it,” turning abruptly to her; ‘^and 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 201 
 
 you need not be sorrowful. It is forDigby and me, with 
 our poor disinherited boys, to sigh, Eleanor, The world 
 lies before you. Marry a nobleman of the right side, 
 and then you need not look so woe begone.” 
 
 Insulting !” said the proudly swelling heart ; and she 
 turned away, and, her breast heaving with passion, and 
 the tears blinding into her eyes, went and sat down by 
 Mr. Darcy. 
 
 What are Robert and Digby speaking of ?” said he, 
 gently taking her hand — ‘‘and what has Robert been 
 saying to the lovely Eleanor? Has that proud heart 
 of his at last confessed itself vanquished? I saw you 
 long talking together.” 
 
 “ Mr. Darcy,” said she, “ do not deceive me : you have 
 long consoled my pride by such assurances : my whole 
 weak, erring heart has been exposed to you — not only in 
 confession, but as to my adviser and my friend.” 
 
 “ Your best and truest friend — is it not so?” 
 
 She could almost have said, “ I doubt it,” but re- 
 pressed the thought as impious. 
 
 “ Doubtless, you have others both lovers and friends — 
 but all have their own cares and their own affections to 
 divert the current of interest from one like the lovely 
 Eleanor. She is but second in the regards of those who 
 have tenderer relations.” 
 
 He touched upon the right string. Her faulty passion- 
 ate nature was a prey to jealousy. She had ever felt in- 
 clined to be jealous of the affection of Everard for Evelyn; 
 and the faithless director had stimulated instead of cor- 
 recting the fault. It was his part to loosen all the do- 
 mestic ties that could interfere with his own influence. 
 
202 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 ‘‘ I have a heart unoccupied with such things: it is 
 emptied of self and its affections to receive those of my 
 children in the church,” said he with unction. 
 
 Mr. Catesby,” she said, abruptly — for there was 
 something in his softness strangely disaccordant with 
 her wretched feelings — “is become so strange, that I am 
 
 at a loss to know what to think of him Unless, 
 
 indeed, he is hatching some new plot; and that is what 
 occupies him so entirely.” 
 
 The father started in spite of his habitual self-pos- 
 session. 
 
 There was no time to be lost in diverting her mind 
 from this dangerous suggestion ; and he hesitated not in 
 his choice of means. 
 
 “ What absurd and romantic notions fill young women’s 
 heads,” he began, with considerable asperity in his tone, 
 “ and how strangely careless they are as to the mischief 
 they may do, by the wanton and idle use of their tongues. 
 Mr. Catesby, let me tell you, young woman, is too 
 good a Catholic to incur the censure of the holy 
 Father by carrying on any such schemes as you suppose; 
 being, as he is, enjoined to remain quiet. Pray let me 
 hear no more of such nonsense ; if you would not bring 
 a man into trouble — who, if he finds it impossible, after 
 all, to love you,"at least deserves some gratitude at your 
 hands by the pains he has taken to endeavour at it.” 
 
 She turned pale with anger at this speech. 
 
 He saw this, but he had suddenly changed his plan of 
 proceeding : he saw it was impossible to impose upon 
 Eleanor so far as to persuade her to attribute to passion 
 for herself the change in Catesby’s deportment towards 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 203 
 
 her : yet the danger of allowing her suspicions to travel 
 the right way was imminent — so without deigning to 
 cast a thought of compassion upon the heart he was 
 about to crush, he said : 
 
 As you are pleased to give any interpretation save 
 the true one — however false or however dangerous such 
 interpretation may be — to a demeanour that does not 
 quite satisfy’your vanity ; it may be as well 'to open your 
 eyes at once, and make you see — ^if those who will not 
 see can be made to see — that there is a hidden grief, 
 an ill-suppressed and now guilty passion, which keeps 
 Mr. Catesby in that unhappy state of mind which 
 your wicked insinuations would render a misfortune 
 indeed ! I wished to keep the unwelcome truth from 
 you ; I hoped that time, the great healer, might change 
 one of you^ or both of you; but in that I have been 
 deceived. You will persist, in defiance of all a woman^s 
 best pride, in nourishing a passion for a man who cares 
 not for you, and whose heart is with that sainted angel 
 with whom you indeed do well to put yourself* into com- 
 parison. Let us have no more of those pretences and delu- 
 sions with which mankind ever seek to cover unpalatable 
 truths. %hearn like others to look evil in the face; and 
 be pleased to put a rational construction upon the varia- 
 tions of Mr. Catesby ’s humour.’' 
 
 She opened her eyes with astonishment, she could 
 not believe her senses. This from him ! 
 
 He did not seem to perceive her emotion ; but turning 
 on his chair, he stretched out his hand, took up a book 
 which lay upon the table near him, opened it, and began 
 to read, or pretend to read. 
 
204 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 The pulses at her heart were beating as if it would 
 burst. She wanted him to speak, she wanted the con- 
 solation of a few more words ; she felt that irresistible 
 necessity to unburden her heart, as if without relief it 
 must break at once. 
 
 He understood pretty well what she was sujBTering, 
 but he was resolved to say no more. It was a relief to 
 him to be no longer under the necessity of feigning an 
 opinion which he did not really hold. He had all along 
 been aware of the indifference of Catesby’s heart to this 
 young creature ; he had flattered her into a belief of 
 his partiality as a means of maintaining an influence 
 over her mind, which might be made of service in 
 influencing other members of her family ; the necessity 
 for this was now at an end. Evelyn was now the 
 medium through which to get at Everard; and as for 
 Catesby, there was no further necessity for intriguing 
 with regard to him. He knew she would not venture 
 to utter a complaint against him to any living creature; 
 and were she even to venture to accuse him of having 
 misled her, how easy to deny the accusation, and 
 throw the whole upon the weakness of her own self- 
 delusion ! 0 
 
 , So he continued to read with a calm, unruffled coun- 
 tenance ; while she, after having gazed at him wistfully 
 for some time — hoping he would raise his eyes, see and 
 pity her anguish, and vouchsafe at least one word of 
 comfort — seeing him continue his occupation as if 
 nothing had occurred of the least moment or interest, 
 turned at last away, and quitted the room. 
 
 And then that poor creature retired to weep in silence 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 205 
 
 in the most secluded corner of that large and gloomy 
 house, like some poor wounded bird that steals into a 
 thicket to die. She had been so accustomed to reserve 
 all her secret confidence for this man, that she had lost 
 the habit of opening her heart to others : it was become 
 almost impossible to her. She felt totally alone and 
 deserted in the world, and as if forsaken by all mankind ; 
 and she had been so accustomed to his flatteries and his 
 sympathy, that the shock she had sustained was as if 
 the ground had vanished from under her feet. She had 
 not been taught to seek for support in the strength and 
 fortitude of her own heart — still less from an appeal to 
 Him, the pitying father of every sufferer — far had it 
 been from the policy of the Jesuit to raise the mind to a 
 tone such as this. He had rested every thing upon him- 
 self, and now he rudely — without preparation as with- 
 out remorse, destroyed the very foundation of her mind. 
 
 Alarmed at the direction in which the suspicions of 
 Eleanor had pointed, he had hastily substituted a new 
 and most agonising feeling, which he felt assured would 
 distract her attention, and suffer her mind to dwell upon 
 no other. 
 
 It fell out as he Intended. 
 
 The heart of the poor young creature was crushed, 
 and her spirit broken at once ; and she never through- 
 out the ensuing awful year, troubled Father Darcy with 
 her surmises, or Mr. Catesby with her conversation. 
 
 She retired with her brothers and sister to Dry 
 Stoke, uttering no complaint which could betray her 
 secret, while she faded before their eyes like a snow 
 wreath. 
 
206 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 “ Driven forward like a wither’d leaf, 
 
 Yea, like a ship at random blown, 
 
 To distant places and unknown.” 
 
 Wordsworth, 
 
 It was in February that the conspirators met again, 
 purposing to renew their work at the mine. ^ 
 
 But when they had arrived at a certain depth a new 
 difficulty arose ; water flowed in upon them in so con- 
 siderable a quantity, as threatened to put a stop to their 
 operations. One evening as they were labouring they 
 were startled by the loud noise of something falling over 
 head. Fawkes, as usual, going out to inquire, learned, 
 as is well known, that the noise proceeded from some 
 coals that were in course of removal from a cellar exactly 
 under the parliament-house, which cellar was now to 
 be let. Those who understand the characters of the men, 
 will not be surprised to hear that not only were they 
 relieved from all further anxiety as to the issue of their 
 plan by this discovery, but that they looked upon it as 
 a signal interference of Providence in favour of their 
 undertaking. Their spirits animated by such conside- 
 rations, they took measures to obtain possession of the 
 cellar. The cellar was hired by Johnson in the name 
 of Piercy, to contain fuel for the use of the house close 
 by which he occupied; and with more cheerful feelings 
 than they had as yet known, they employed themselves 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 207 
 
 in the dead of the night in conveying the twenty bar- 
 rels of gunpowder which they had accumulated at 
 Wynyard's house into the cellar; covering them, with 
 five hundred billets, and as many faggots, so as to ef- 
 fectually screen them from casual observation. 
 
 It seems extraordinary that they were able to effect 
 all this, without exciting the slightest suspicion in the 
 neighbourhood : but when it is recollected that people 
 went early to rest in those days; that the streets were 
 perfectly dark, not illuminated by the slightest lamp of 
 any kind; and that the passing of a solitary cart at mid- 
 night now and then up the street, would not be attended 
 to; the matter may be easily accounted for. 
 
 During the month of January Mr. Catesby had 
 visited Oxford, and there had opened the matter to 
 Robert Winter, of Huddingstone, elder brother to 
 Thomas, with whom you are so well acquainted ; 
 and to John Grant, of Norbrook. Robert Winter had 
 married a daughter of John Talbot, of Grafton — a gen- 
 tleman of great wealth and influence in the county of 
 Worcester, and held in singular esteem by the Catholics. 
 Robert Winter does not appear to have been visited by 
 those scruples of conscience which perplexed the others ; 
 his objections seem alone to have arisen from conside- 
 ration of the disgrace and ruin which a failure would 
 inevitably entail upon the whole Catholic body. 
 
 “ The estate of the Catholics,^’ was Catesby^s an- 
 swer, cannot be rendered worse, for it is already des- 
 perate;” repeating it as a fact with which he was well 
 acquainted, that such laws were undoubtedly to be 
 
208 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 made in the ensuing parliament as should bring all Ca- 
 tholics within a praemunire at the least. 
 
 “ God forbid,” was Robert Winter’s reply. 
 
 He then suggested that foreign aid, and the support 
 of some of the great men of the kingdom^ should at 
 least be obtained. But Catesby assured him, that 
 for foreign aid, that had been looked to : but as for his 
 countrymen, “ there was not one rascal lord among them 
 all, to whom he dare entrust so mighty a secret.”* 
 
 John Grant, of Norbrook, was a man of the utmost 
 fanaticism in matters of religion, and was still less scru- 
 pulous than Robert Winter. He looked upon the plot in 
 the light of an heroic effort for his rehgion ; acceptable 
 in the eyes of God, and glorious in the eyes of man. 
 
 But when, in the beginning of May, 1605, the pre- 
 parations were all completed — the twenty barrels of gun- 
 powder placed, and covered with stones and bars of iron 
 to increase the effect of the explosion — the door closed 
 and locked — Fawkes despatched to^ Flanders to obtain 
 foreign aid — and the conspirators having separated, 
 Catesby had returned alone to his melancholy house at 
 Ashby; to the company of his severe mother and of 
 his poor little children — the agonies of remorse and 
 irresolution which had been suppressed by the presence 
 of the more unhesitating tempers which surrounded 
 him, awoke again with all their horror. 
 
 He, the leading conspirator — ^he, on whom the whole 
 responsibihty of this dreadful undertaking lay — ^he, who 
 had silenced the scruples of the rest — the piercing cries 
 of his own conscience drove him almost to distraction. 
 
 ♦ Historical. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 209 
 
 Until all was actually ready, the enterprise seemed 
 still to lie in that region of speculation, which his mas- 
 ters in the dangerous art of casuisty had taught him was 
 open to all men. But now that the preparations were 
 completed, the conspiracy, leaving those dim regions of 
 thought and imagination, began to assume the nature 
 of an absolute fact. 
 
 Men were to die — hundreds of living beings, many 
 of whom had never injured himself, his religion, or 
 his party; numbers of familiar faces — those whom he 
 had known for years; some even of his own reli- 
 gion; his intimate acquaintance, and household friends, 
 — real, actual, living, breathing men, were to be scat- 
 tered by this blast of destruction to the elements: 
 shattered, maimed, slaughtered, while the ruins of peace- 
 ful homes, the streaming blood of Innocents without 
 number, should accompany the mighty ruin ! 
 
 The man who had felt with so much intensity, the 
 event of that evening when by his pistol a fellow man 
 fell dead ; whose imagination had been so much struck 
 by the mere picture of the body so recently instinct 
 with the breath of life, swinging helpless over the 
 saddle; he, who never since that time had shed blood, or 
 made progress in the dreadful indifference to human 
 life consequent on deeds of violence — he recoiled witli 
 horror from that which he was about to do. 
 
 Often when the restless day had been succeeded by 
 the heavy slumber, consequent upon total exhaustion 
 both of body and mind, would the meditations of the 
 day take form in the dread visions of the night. The 
 toppling houses and churches — the maimed and shat- 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 O 
 
210 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 tered bodies of the slain would be present as in a 
 terrible reality; and then a wild and piercing cry as of 
 universal horror and detestation, would suddenly awaken 
 him; the cold sweat bathing his limbs, his hair standing 
 on end ; — then would he start from his bed, suffocated as 
 it were in his chamber, would hastily throw his clothes 
 over him, and rush forth into the night. 
 
 There, in the silence of the midnight hour, the stars 
 in their glittering courses keeping watch as the sentinels 
 of heaven. Cast upon the earth, his thoughts all in 
 confusion, would he again revolve the enterprise before 
 him. 
 
 On the one hand, the magnificence of the plot, which 
 should at a blow emancipate the suffering church, and 
 avenge her upon her enemies — the wickedness of the 
 times — the desperate prospects of the Catholics — excited 
 in him all the enthusiasm of a hero and a martyr : On 
 the other the streams of blood, the wide spread ruin, 
 the shrieks of the innocent, and the dread judgment of 
 God upon the murderer, appalled his trembling soul. 
 
 These agitations, these contrasts of feeling, became at 
 last insupportable : he must have complete satisfaction 
 — it was impossible to endure his state of mind longer : 
 He must have more than the sanction of, and absolution 
 from the hands of the inferior ministers of his church ; 
 these intolerable alternations must be resolved by a 
 higher authority. 
 
 Father Tesmond, it was true, had received his confes- 
 sion. Father Tesmond had heard the minutest details of 
 the plot, and from his hands he had received absolution. 
 But Father Tesmond was a desperate and a violent man ; 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 211 
 
 he was not wanting in a certain ability; but his views of 
 morality were coarse and undistinguishing, and a mind 
 like Catesby’s found it impossible to rest satisfied with 
 his decisions alone. 
 
 The Superior — the man of extended views, of great 
 abilities, and extraordinary powers of argument, had, 
 it is true, given his opinion in favour of any attempt 
 which carried with it a fair chance of success, even 
 though some innocent must perish with many nocent;’' 
 but that opinion had been given under equivocal 
 circumstances : with the details, even with the most ge- 
 neral outline of the plan, he had distinctly refused to be 
 made acquainted. It would seem by expressions which he 
 let fall, that all he contemplated was a rising, like that of 
 the North ; and his decision might have reference only to 
 the necessary violences of men engaged in open warfare. 
 
 The insupportable weight of responsibility attached to 
 this new and unheard-of scheme. Father Darcy had not 
 chosen to share ; and now new and still more harassing 
 doubts suggested themselves — Was it not possible that 
 the Father Provincial might after all condemn the 
 scheme, if made aware of its exact nature? 
 
 Father Darcy, or more properly Garnet, and Father 
 Tesmond were together at White Wcbbes, the lone 
 house upon the borders of Enfield Chase, which has been 
 described early in this book as the place to which the 
 Catholic gentlemen retired, after the ineffectual attempt 
 to liberate the captive priests. 
 
 It was now ihe middle of summer, of July; in all its 
 O 2 
 
212 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 glory. The Chase was one maze of wild roses and fox- 
 gloves, intermingled with the heavy green of the 
 embowering thickets. The sky was blue and cloud- 
 less, and the sun pouring down his rays with a bright 
 intensity, not common in this climate. The two priests 
 had retired to this secluded spot, to enjoy some refresh- 
 ment after their various journeys ; and were sitting in the 
 little parlour with its high windows which excluded 
 all view of the glorious face of nature without, still 
 engaged at their mid-day repast. On the table there 
 were some plates of fine fruit and confections, and 
 a couple of bottles of excellent wine — for in this respect 
 the Father Superior was a true epicure. 
 
 And he was sitting at his ease, lifting the glass in which 
 the bright liquid was sparkling, from time to time to his 
 eye, and swallowing it with a gusto that was any thing 
 but edifying. Father Tesmond meanwhile with a dis- 
 turbed and anxious countenance, sat picking his fruit in 
 silence. 
 
 There was the noise as of a galloping horse ap- 
 proaching at a prodigious rate ; both the priests started, 
 looked at each other, and listened. 
 
 The ban-dog who lay chained close by the entrance, 
 dozing in the sun, and snapping from time to time at 
 the summer fiies, started up and gave one fierce and 
 savage bark; but the bark was succeeded by a low 
 whining growl, as the dog appeared to resume his 
 slumbers : it was evident that a friend was approaching. 
 The heavy house door was slowly unbarred, opened, 
 carefully barred again ; then there was a knock at the 
 door of the room in which the priests were sitting ; the 
 
FATHER DARCT. 
 
 213 
 
 latch was lifted, the face of the old servant-man ap- 
 peared, and close behind him in stalked the tall figure 
 of Mr. Catesby, 
 
 They had not met for some months, and Garnet could 
 not help starting back with surprise as he fixed his eyes 
 upon him, so much was he altered in that brief space. 
 His face had assumed an ashy hue ; the cheek bones 
 stood sharp and prominent, a crimson spot of fevered 
 excitement upon each ; his brows were scowling, and his 
 deep, sunken dark eye glowed with a strange unnatural 
 light ; while his thick and neglected hair and beard fell in 
 thick masses upon the large white collar of his rich but 
 soiled dress. His whole appearance was that of one 
 utterly indifierent to all those minor details and pro- 
 prieties of life which occupy a mind at ease. 
 
 He flung his richly jewelled hat upon the floor, and 
 -drawing a chair without speaking, sat down, leaned his 
 arms upon the table, and fixing his eyes upon the two 
 priests, gazed alternately at one and the other with a 
 steady, determined air. 
 
 The Father Superior was beginning to address him 
 in his usual courteous manner, but Catesby haughtily 
 and rudely interrupted him. 
 
 “ My mind is like a burning hell within me,’’ said he ; 
 
 the tortures of doubt and irresolution are no longer 
 to be endured ; I have ridden day and night from Ashby 
 for satisfaction — satisfaction I will have, and that im- 
 mediately.” 
 
 Tlie two priests could only look on him with a sort of 
 wondering astonishment ; as on one wlio has suddenly 
 lost his senses. 
 
214 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 ‘‘ I do not go with you altogether, Mr. Catesby,” at 
 last Garnet began. ‘‘ Excuse me, I do not understand 
 the cause exactly, either of your hurried and heated ap- 
 pearance, or of your strange and somewhat uncourteous 
 address. Satisfaction ! has any thing been omitted that 
 could add to your satisfaction? I am ignorant of the 
 cause of these proceedings on your part.” 
 
 ‘‘ That is why I am come,” said Catesby, bluntly, 
 you are ignorant, and I will suffer you to be ignorant 
 no longer.” 
 
 The priest drew himself up. 
 
 Any confidences Mr. Catesby may be pleased to 
 make under the seal of confession, I am bound by my 
 ghostly character to receive. As for any other confi- 
 dences with which he may desire to honour me, he 
 must be pleased to suffer me to judge how far the 
 reception of such may consist with my principles as 
 a preacher of peace.” 
 
 Catesby frowned impatiently. Tliere was something 
 terrific in his frown, and the heart of the priest, who 
 was not remarkable for personal courage, beat fast as 
 he saw the cloud gathering over his countenance. 
 
 ‘‘ Peace !” he said, “ What has any man to do in these 
 days with peace? No, Mr. Darcy — -Farmer — Garnet 
 — whatsoever your proper name for the present may 
 chance to be, you are not to retain that portion for 
 yourself at the expense of the souls and consciences of 
 others. My mind is dreadfully troubled. Except in 
 general terms, you have till now refused to listen to the 
 secret which oppresses me. I tell you at once, my con- 
 science will not be satisfied ; it is hke a raging wild 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 215 
 
 beast, and is tearing my heart to pieces: you shall hear 
 all — I will learn, and from you^ whither this road on 
 which I have entered be leading — whether the sugges- 
 tion be of God or of the devil — I will have satisfaction 
 — and you shall give it me.’’ 
 
 ‘‘Sir,” said the Jesuit, “your language is violent 
 and impetuous in the extreme : not such as I am ac- 
 customed to allow to be used to me.” 
 
 “ I cry peccavi,” said Catesby, scarcely deigning to 
 soften the harsh tones of his voice in the slightest 
 degree, “but the occasion is extraordinary, and de- 
 mands extraordinary proceedings. The question relating 
 no less than to the slaughter of hundreds, may be 
 thousands, of human beings totally unprepared — they 
 may be guilty — may be innocent — may be righteous 
 — may be criminal. The matter being, in brief, the 
 explosion at once of some scores of barrels of gun- 
 powder.” 
 
 The Jesuit clapped his hands to his ears: 
 
 “ Silence !” said he, in a terrible voice, “ or I in- 
 stantly quit this room and this house ; and never, while 
 you breathe, will hold commerce with you more.” 
 
 And quite red with sudden passion, he was rising 
 from his chair and about to leave the room. 
 
 But Mr. Tesmond, usually so hasty and violent, now 
 assumed the part of mediator : 
 
 “ Reverend father ! — Holy father !” he began, “ Have 
 patience — Mr. Catesby — Mr. Catesby — you must not, 
 indeed, do this violence to our reverend Superior’s deter- 
 minations — be seated I pray you, father. — Mr. Catesby ! 
 
216 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 I am ready, as you well know, to listen to your con- 
 fessions, and resolve your doubts.” 
 
 I have found it so,” said Catesby, steadily, but with 
 less violence, as the Father Superior, yielding to the 
 earnest pressure of Father Tesmond’s hand, resumed his 
 seat. “ I have had my doubts resolved by you, father, 
 as far as you are able to resolve them. But you, I have 
 long looked upon as one of us — your views may be 
 biassed as my own may be. You are a bold and daring 
 man, Mr. Tesmond, and I honour you for it: but the 
 Father Superior is a man of peace. He has only heard 
 in the general of some stir which we are about to make 
 — ^liis approbation is of no authority, it being given in 
 ignorance of the fact — I must have his opinion — I 
 must and will have my doubts resolved : or I cross the 
 seas, join the Archduke, and leave this country to her 
 fate.” 
 
 My son,’' said Mr. Darcy, who had now recovered 
 his self-possession, and whom the last threat aroused at 
 once to a sense of the necessity of the case, ‘‘ though I 
 do hold it a thing unlawful and inconsistent with my 
 ghostly vocation, to enter into the details of warfare, 
 however just and righteous the war carried on, yet for 
 the satisfaction of one so justly esteemed as Mr. Catesby, 
 I am willing to waive the point — but it must be on 
 certain conditions: let the Father Tesmond, to whom 
 you have opened yourself, consult me in this matter, 
 sub sigillo confessionis : I will resolve the difficulties 
 which may arise in your mind. Let it be so, my son, 
 in the first instance,” he continued, observing the im- 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 217 
 
 patient, dissatisfied expression of Mr. Catesby’s counte- 
 nance; ‘‘afterwards, if you do not receive complete 
 satisfaction, we can discourse of the matter as in the 
 general, and yet you will knowhow to give just weight 
 to my opinions.’^ 
 
 Why may it not be from myself?’^ said Catesby, 
 bluntly. Why all this intermediate agency?” 
 
 So it shall be,” said Garnet, laying his hand with a 
 pacifying gesture upon the twitching arm that lay upon 
 the table, “ should you still continue to desire it, I said 
 I would receive your confessions, if you persist in de- 
 siring it — though not your ordinary confessor, I may be 
 consulted as one extraordinary. But first let me hear 
 Father Tesmond. Come, sir, shall we walk?” with a 
 significant glance at the other priest, who rose imme- 
 diately, and they quitted the room. 
 
 It had been Father Garnet’s determined resolution to 
 listen to none of the details of the plot directly from 
 Catesby or any of the conspirators : his knowledge of it 
 he had from the first resolved should remain a thing 
 incapable of direct proof: he would not put it into the 
 power of any lay man breathing, to tax him directly 
 with it. As for the confession of the priest, though he 
 would willingly have escaped that also, yet it was quite 
 a dififerent matter; the principles of the order rendered 
 a system of lying and equivocation to shelter the pro- 
 ceedings of each other, a matter of such common every- 
 day occurrence (though they might have startled the 
 conscience of almost any lay man breathing), that he 
 had no fear of being betrayed in that quarter. 
 
 These two priests then entered the WDod, and walk- 
 
218 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 ing up and down one of the sweet secluded glades, where 
 the dappled deer were browsing peacefully, while the 
 dechning sun threw a golden gleam upon the forest 
 trees — here, wdiile the merry insects buzzed and drum- 
 med, and the voice of the all-wise and all-good was 
 whispering to the swelling heart in nature’s gentlest ac- 
 cents — those two priests, desecrating what they ought 
 to have considered as one of the most sacred sacraments 
 of their religion, discoursed upon this hideous con- 
 spiracy. 
 
 Mr. Garnet expressed neither surprise, nor horror, 
 nor repugnance at wdiat he heard. It is probable that 
 he had approached the truth before this full develop- 
 ment of the scheme; but the certainty that his sur- 
 mises were verified, and above all the assurance that 
 the necessary preparations had already been completed, 
 was received with the greatest possible satisfaction. 
 The only anxiety that remained with him was to main- 
 tain the susceptible mind of Catesby at the sticking place 
 — to tranquillise his scruples, and confirm his resolution. 
 
 The enterprise, as now revealed to him, surpassed, it 
 is true, the father’s most sanguine expectations as to 
 extent. The complete destruction, in one instant of 
 time, of the whole frame of society as then constituted, 
 was a scheme so gigantic in the conception, yet appa- 
 rently so certain in its results, and so inevitably entailed 
 the ultimate triumph of the CathoHc ascendancy, that 
 the father took several turns up and down the little 
 green glade where they were walking, before he could 
 sufficiently master his exultation so as to give words to 
 what was passing in his mind. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 219 
 
 It is a grand — a sublime idea’’ — at length he said, 
 worthy of the man who has devised it. A genius so 
 powerful and original as his, I have rarely found — but 
 minds of -this high order I have also observed to be 
 usually a prey to certain dehcate susceptibihties of na- 
 ture, which arrest the progress, perplexthe ideas, enfeeble 
 the resolution, and disorder the whole plan of action. 
 These wide-seeing natures cannot rush bhndly hood- 
 winked forwards, like such men as Wright, Piercy, and 
 Fawkes — ^but such hesitations and uncertainties are 
 merely morbid — we shall find means to remove them. 
 As for you, Tesmond, rest satisfied with the assurance 
 that I most entirely approve of all that you have done 
 — and rely upon me, I will take care so to make this 
 thing appear at Rome, that we shall all go up justified 
 — nay, glorified. 
 
 “ Persevere in your endeavours to keep all these souls 
 of whom you have charge to the point: I will deal 
 with Mr. Catesby.” 
 
 Catesby had risen from his chair after the departure 
 of t]|p two priests, and his head resting upon his breast, 
 and his arms folded over his bosom, continued pacing 
 up and down the room, awaiting their return. 
 
 An hour had nearly expired before the door opened 
 again, and Father Darcy entered. There was a se- 
 rene gravity, an authority, upon his face, which w^as 
 very imposing: — he possessed the power, wdicn he 
 pleased, of throwing into his countenance and figure a 
 something gentle and mild, yet dignified and lofty, 
 
220 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 wliicli excited universal reverence and admiration. 
 Catesby, as be lifted up his head, was struck with the 
 air of seeming interest with which the father advanced 
 towards him. His expression so grave and fervent, 
 and imposing, as taking hold of his hand, he said, 
 solemnly, in the words of the cxliv Psalm : 
 
 ^ Benedictus Domine . — Blessed be the Lord my 
 strength, who teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers 
 to fight. 
 
 ‘‘ ‘ My hope and my fortress, my castle and deliverer, 
 my defender in whom I trust : 
 
 ‘ Bow thy heavens and come down : touch the 
 mountains, and they shall smoke. 
 
 ^ Cast forth thy lightnings and tear them : shoot out 
 thine arrows and consume them.’ 
 
 This is a great and dangerous enterprise — but it is 
 one holy and glorious in the sight of God. ‘ Exurgat 
 Deus . — Let God arise, and let his enemies be scat- 
 tered.’ Your irresolutions are but too natural, the flesh 
 is weak, the spirit strong. But go on, Robert Catesby 
 — and the blessing of the holy Catholic Church, as ex- 
 pressed by my voice, be upon thee, and hallow thee to 
 this great sacrifice.” H 
 
 Robert was silent: awe-struck by the air of the 
 priest, all his reluctance and his hesitations seemed at 
 once to vanish. Again he looked as one inspired by 
 the prospect of a great and saintly enterprise ; again the 
 fire of courage and genius flashed from his dark and 
 terrible eye; again the deliverance of his holy Church 
 at the peril of all he held dear in life, elevated his soul 
 to a sort of rapture. As Judith when she raised the 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 221 
 
 glittering treaclierous sword — as Jael when she struck 
 the fatal nail and violated all the sacred rights of hospi- 
 tality — so he must have felt. His excited feelings had 
 undergone a complete reaction, the opinion of the 
 Father Darcy as thus delivered, sounded to him as the 
 voice of God. 
 
 “ I marvel not at the reluctance, the hesitations, you 
 have experienced,” continued the priest; the deed 
 though glorious, is terrible. You did well to consult the 
 voice of your Church, Robert Catesby, and in her name I 
 declare — not only that this undertaking is one of noble 
 daring such as immortalises the conqueror, but it is right- 
 eous, holy, sacred, in the eyes of God and the innume- 
 rable host of heaven. Go forward then in faith ; and like 
 the mighty king of old, hallow the new temple erected 
 to the honour of God, by the sacrifice of thousands of 
 thousands.” 
 
 He then, with almost touching solemnity, adminis- 
 tered the rite of absolution, and mingling his tears, his 
 prayers, his blessing — yea his tears, for he had tears at 
 will, and in good truth his own heart was greatly excited 
 by the magnificence of the prospect before him — dis- 
 missed Catesby confirmed in his resolutions, and his heart 
 lightened for the moment of an insupportable burden. 
 
 His feelings might yet vary with his varying spirits ; 
 but this and succeeding interviews with Mr. Darcy, 
 who was now unremitting in his exertions, conspired to 
 maintain him at the true pitch : till the habit of regarding 
 the whole business as a righteous judgment upon heresy 
 and treachery, and a most glorious example of self-sacri- 
 fice in a hallowed cause, became almost confirmed in his 
 mind. 
 
222 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 “ Cio mi tormenta piu che questo letto.’* 
 
 Dante, 
 
 Mr. Darcy had suffered himself to be made ac- 
 quainted with the details of the plot, and he now bent 
 the whole force of his powerful mind toward forward- 
 ing it in every possible manner. 
 
 More given to reflection than Catesby, more accus- 
 tomed to consider the issues of things, he was not inclined 
 to abandon the results of this terrible blow when 
 eJSected, to the chances of accident; as the conspirators, 
 in their blind reliance upon the support of the Catholic 
 body, and in their now enthusiastic persuasion of the 
 righteousness of their cause, and of the special protection 
 of Heaven, seemed inclined to do. 
 
 Of the special protection of Heaven, Mr. Darcy 
 thought little enough, and of the righteousness of the 
 measure, he did not choose to think at all; his mind 
 had been too long filled with schemes of mere worldly 
 policy to be open to any genuine sentiments of religion 
 or morahty. His own moral sense had been totally 
 blunted and destroyed by his casuistical habit of deahng 
 with the consciences of others according to circumstance, 
 instead of according to principle ; and his religion had 
 been destroyed by the fatal habit of assuming to himself 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 223 
 
 spiritual powers wliicli tie knew did not really exist ; and 
 of teaching to others many things, in which it was impos- 
 sible a man of liis enlightened turn of mind should 
 himself believe. The pernicious institution also of au- 
 ricular confession, whatever its effects may be upon the 
 penitent, must inevitably produce the most baneful 
 results upon the character of the confessor himself; and 
 tend almost entirely to obliterate the finer sense of truth 
 and sincerity, if not to destroy the principle altogether. 
 To be every day of a man’s life in the habit of hearing 
 that which is never^ under any condition, to be revealed : 
 to know one thing, and have to act, and speak, and even 
 look, as if under the firm conviction of another; — to be 
 privy to so much secret crime, and have to wear the 
 face of outward approbation, to be conscious of so much 
 evil, and not to be allowed to move a finger to avert it; 
 what dangerous perplexities, and conflicting duties, 
 must from such a situation arise ! But, above all, the 
 fatal habit of tampering with his own mind, and classing 
 circumstances and the obligations thence arising, not 
 according to their intrinsic importance, but according to 
 their revelation in or out of confession, must disorder 
 the whole system of moral fife within the bosom of that 
 unhappy victim to false views of religion, the Catholic 
 priest. 
 
 We may, however, spare ourselves from any useless 
 pity for Mr. Darcy. He was a man of far too clear a 
 perception, and too strong a character to be perverted, 
 had he not chosen to pervert himself. But he had early 
 surrendered his soul to the things of this w’orld, and 
 made his spiritual character a mere cloak for the most 
 
224 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 unbounded ambition and the most selfish personal 
 indulgences. He had never been a good man : but he 
 was by this time become a thoroughly bad one. 
 
 He now, as has been said, employed the whole force 
 of his intellect in the furtherance of the mighty revo- 
 lution he contemplated. And though he would not 
 even now, as there is reason to believe, suffer Mr. 
 Catesby to enter upon the subject of the plot itself 
 with him — yet of the proceedings that would be neces- 
 sary after the blow was struck, he discoursed freely, and 
 with his usual ability. 
 
 It appeared to him imperative, that before the event 
 some store of arms, ammunition, and above all of great 
 horses (which must mean horses of sufficient power 
 to carry men in the heavy armour it was yet the 
 custom to wear), should be provided; and a pretence be 
 framed for collecting such military provision as could 
 not be got together without exciting attention. 
 
 Mr. Fawkes had already crossed over to Flanders, to 
 endeavour to obtain the co-operation of the Archduke, 
 through the medium of Sir Wilham Stanley and Owen, 
 to both of whom, under the seal of secrecy, he was 
 allowed to open the business. Sir Wilham Stanley he 
 did not see; with Owen he entered into a complete 
 understanding; but he had no encouragement to depend 
 upon the assistance of the Spaniard, who seemed, at 
 present, determined to maintain the treaty of peace. 
 But what the resolutions of Spain might become, after 
 the catastrophe had taken place which would anni- 
 hilate the Protestant government, remained to be seen. 
 Mr. Fawkes returned to London about the end of 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 225 
 
 August; parliament having been again prorogued from 
 the third of October to the Jifth of November, 
 
 In the meantime, Garnet had written to Baldwin, 
 the Legier,* as it was called, Jesuit in the Low Countries 
 — to move the Marquis Spinola for a regiment of horse 
 to be given to Mr. Catesby ; under pretence of levying 
 men and horses, for which military provision might be 
 made and men enrolled, who would be in readiness 
 when wanted. 
 
 These arrangements furnished a plausible excuse for 
 the occupation, in which, with his usual ardour, Mr. 
 Catesby immediately engaged. But the preparations 
 consumed what little money he had left, after the large 
 expenses already incurred; and yet the necessity of 
 being well provided with funds, when the actual rising 
 should take place, was evident to all. 
 
 Father Garnet, Mr. Catesby, Winter, and Piercy had 
 numerous interviews at their various secret haunts to 
 discuss this subject. Piercy, who was in the habit of 
 receiving the rents for his kinsman, the Duke of 
 Northumberland, proposed to detain the money that 
 should next come to hand, and held out an expecta- 
 tion of being able to contribute four thousand pounds 
 and ten galloping horses to the service. 
 
 But what was wanted was an immediate supply to 
 complete the expensive preparations for Catesby’s regi- 
 ment. He proposed to apply to his mother : she had a 
 very large jointure upon his estate, the Midsummer 
 instalment of which had just become due. She had 
 
 * Legier— resident, representative, and agent at a foreign 
 court. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 P 
 
226 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 likewise a considerable property in jewels and plate, 
 which was in her son’s possession. He made little 
 doubt, though he and his mother were on somewhat 
 indifferent terms, that he should be able to persuade 
 her to assist him under pretence of the raising his 
 regiment. As to giving a person so violent and un- 
 guarded the slightest suspicion of the matter really in 
 hand — that was not to be thought of. 
 
 But he found himself entirely deceived in his ex- 
 pectations. 
 
 His mother had never loved him. There was some- 
 thing in the excited, susceptible, and highly imagina- 
 tive character of her son, his uncontrollable spirit, 
 and reckless conduct, in violent contrast to her own 
 ideas and feehngs. Rigid, stern, and cold in her 
 exterior; narrow in her views; and accustomed to pre- 
 serve the habit of austere and monotonous order in 
 all her proceedings, though of a deep sensibility to 
 wrong and suffering; there was nothing of sympathy 
 between them. 
 
 And the harshness of her voice and manners — the 
 indifference to his feelings and comforts which she 
 showed whenever he happened to visit his gloomy home 
 — ^had aided that severance from all the love and tender- 
 ness of domestic Hfe, which, beginning with the bitter 
 disappointment endured from the rejection of the Lady 
 Grace, was completed by this alienation from his 
 mother. 
 
 His home was to him joyless and indifferent. When 
 at Ashby, . his time was chiefly spent in moody, soli- 
 tary contemplation; rarely exchanging a word except 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 227 
 
 at meals ■with his mother, whose dissatisfaction was only 
 increased by his want of confidence. But now it w^as 
 become necessary to discuss the subject of the accom- 
 modation required, and he returned home to Ashby to 
 enter at once upon the business. 
 
 He arrived one fine evening in August, traversing a 
 country covered with corn-fields ; and where the harvest, 
 so joyous an event in those jocund days, was going on. 
 The golden sheaves stood in ranks upon the rich fields, 
 or nodded in the huge wains as they tottered heavily 
 laden along ; the laugh and the song resounded from 
 the merry lads and lasses employed in reaping ; and the 
 sharp sounds of a fiddle from the neighbouring barn, 
 the property of some itinerant musician, showed that 
 preparation was already making for the rustic dance, 
 which was to conclude the toil of the day. 
 
 “ The valleys,’’ to use the emphatic language of a 
 Scripture, are covered over with corn, they shout for 
 joy, they also sing.” 
 
 While Catesby, intent upon his fearful purpose, and 
 heedless of the happiness of a society he hoped to rend 
 asunder, galloped in his usual impetuous manner through 
 the lanes, and between the embowering hedges that 
 bordered them. 
 
 It was evening when he arrived, and crossed the 
 brook and the green, round which the little cottages 
 of the village of Ashby lie scattered. The men were 
 playing at quoits upon the green; the young women 
 with their scarlet top-knots and gay laced bodices ■were 
 smiling, coquetting, and looking on ; and there were 
 matrons knitting and spinning under the trees, while the 
 
 P 2 
 
228 
 
 FATHEK DARCY. 
 
 cliildren, busy at play, sailed their boats of leaves upon a 
 little lake formed by the pratthng stream. 
 
 The bells of the little church were ringing merrily 
 for some holiday festival or other; as this man of misery, 
 casting a hurried glance at the cheerful scene, hastened 
 by, and arrived at his own door. 
 
 The low gloomy hall was wrapped in twilight; the 
 thick trees obscured the rays of the sinking sun; and 
 the strange figures painted upon the walls looked hke 
 lurid spectres, as the uncertain light now played, now 
 retreated : he opened the door of the dark parlour — in 
 melancholy contrast with the rich gladness of nature 
 without — and there, in gloomy opposition to the scene 
 of healthful enjoyment which he had just passed, were 
 his mother, and his two little children. 
 
 The lady was engaged spinning at a wheel of wood 
 as dark as ebony; and the monotonous hum of the 
 wheel was the only sound to be heard; the two little 
 boys, wrapped in each other’s arms, had fallen asleep. 
 They were both resting against the huge ban-dog, whose 
 services had rendered him a permitted guest in any apart- 
 ment in the house; and who was the kindest and almost 
 the only friend the poor little fellows possessed. One 
 little arm of each was thrown over the sagacious crea- 
 ture’s neck, whose huge ferocious looking head reposed 
 between them. The d og opened his large intelligent eye as 
 Catesby entered; gave him one of those strange, meaning 
 .looks by which dogs convey so much, seeming to say, 
 You see what I am in charge of;” and then closing 
 Ills eye-lids without moving a muscle, continued to doze 
 between the slumbering children. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 229 
 
 Catesby bent one knee to the earth, and kissed the 
 forehead of each little sleeper : he loved them both in 
 his way — but his cares for their welfare or happiness 
 were slight. He never even observed their pale and suf- 
 fering faces; the only feeling of compassion connected 
 with them arose, when he remembered that he was 
 putting the inheritance into jeopardy, which was to 
 devolve upon the elder; but his confidence in the ulti- 
 mate success of his undertaking was so complete, that 
 such thoughts merely glanced at intervals across his 
 mind. 
 
 He now went up to his mother, whose droning 
 wheel had already ceased. She had arisen from her 
 seat at his entrance, and a cold greeting was exchanged 
 between them. 
 
 She reseated herself, while he drew a chair, and sat 
 down at some little distance. 
 
 I hope I see you well, son,” began the mother, with 
 some formality. “ This is an unexpected pleasure, the 
 seeing you to-night. 1 thought you had been too busy 
 with your warlike preparations^'^ with a sort of ironical 
 emphasis, ‘‘ to come near me.” 
 
 ‘H am sorry,” he said, “ my warlike preparations 
 as she pleases to call them, are so unpalatable to 
 my mother; but I should have thought that when 
 there w^as no enterprise in which a gentleman of 
 honour could engage on this side the water — she 
 would have been pleased to see her son preparing to 
 serve in a Catholic army, and under a Catholic leader, 
 upon the other.” 
 
 “ Under the reign of the noble Phillip of pious memory, 
 
230 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 •when the Spaniard was the bulwark of the Church — under 
 the generalship of the heroic Alva, when the demon 
 of heresy was trampled under foot — when the Catholic 
 scorned to show mercy to the impious, or hold out the 
 right hand of fellowship to the enemies of God’s holy 
 Church — then, whatever the work left unattempted at 
 home, the widow of the sainted Sir W illlam Catesby 
 might have rejpiced to see his father’s son fighting under 
 such banners — but now 
 
 “ It is still a Catholic and a Spanish army,” said her 
 
 son — and the Marquis Spinola and the Archduke ” 
 
 Mention not their names to me! — Presume not to 
 speak of them to me ! The Spaniard has entered into an 
 unholy league with this arch-traitor, this deceitful chief 
 of a set of beggarly Scotch adventurers. Oh unworthy 
 son of the sainted Mary I” lifting up her eyes, Spain has 
 lent itself to all the grievous oppressions, robberies, and 
 outrages that this rascally bare-legged fellow’s crew have 
 inflicted upon us, and has not even once raised a voice 
 for our relief. Talk not to me of the Spaniard ! he is 
 henceforth to be regarded as a mere spiritless time-serv- 
 ing renegade — and my son expects me to rejoice that 
 he is about to enlist under such banners 1” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Mother^ you were ever hasty in judgment, and impa- 
 tient under suifering,'’ said Catesby, with some irrita- 
 tion; ‘‘ the widow of Sir William Catesby might have 
 learned to bide the time” — but, interrupting himself — 
 
 What is there better to be done? There is no stir to 
 be expected in England. Are we not commanded to re- 
 main in peace? Such inaction is death to me; and I 
 have no resource but in the foreign wars.” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 231 
 
 ‘‘Commanded to remain in peace!’’ in a sarcastic 
 tone. “ The blood from whence you sprang, young man 
 — the blood that flows in the veins of Throckmortons 
 and Catesbys — was not wont to be so acquiescent in 
 peaceable suggestions.” 
 
 “I repeat it/’ said he; the dark colour rising to his 
 hollow cheek; and with that feeling of violent irrita- 
 tion which the slightest contradiction now produced, 
 “that there is nothing to be done in England. T re- 
 peat it” — laying his wasted, sinewy, fevered hand upon 
 the table before her, “ that the life I at present lead is 
 killing me by inches. To raise a regiment and serve 
 imder Spinola is what I have resolved to do — and I 
 am come to ask you whether you will assist me with the 
 means.” 
 
 “ No/’ said she, bluntly but decisively, “ that will I 
 not. You have chosen to waste your patrimony in a 
 life of riot and disorder, and it is bootless to come to 
 me. For the cause of God in England, every penny 
 in my possession, ay, the very bread that was actually 
 between my teeth, should have been offered as freely as I 
 would offer a pin 1 But for the service of the treacherous 
 Spaniard I no I — did I possess mountains of untold gold, 
 not one poor mite should all your prayers or your re- 
 proaches wrest from me.” 
 
 He turned from her with a gesture of rage and con- 
 tempt, which was not lost upon her. 
 
 ‘‘You understand me, I hope,” said she, still more 
 angered, by his manner. “ Not a doit, not a penny- 
 weight, not a grain of gold, need Robert Catesby look 
 for from me.” 
 
232 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 I was but a fool to ask any thing of any kind from 
 such a mother as mine,” said he; ‘‘ but, madam, I have 
 been taught, perchance by you, or it may be by others, 
 that where the necessity of the case justifies it, the old 
 obsolete superstition of the rights of meum and tuum 
 must be dispensed with. I do not very well see the 
 justice of your receiving the better half of the rents of 
 what is left of my father’s estates: to spend, I know not 
 how, and care not how. The honour of his son is en- 
 gaged for the proper ordering and furnishing of this re- 
 giment which he has pledged himself to raise ; and the 
 half year’s rent now received from the .tenants, and 
 which I was about to ask of you as a loan, to be repaid 
 in due time, may . . . .” 
 
 “ A loan to be repaid in due time ! — aye — aye — aye; 
 the offspring of Catesby and Throckmorton no doubt, 
 is about to become a robber- soldier; to fatten his purse 
 and retrieve the waste made during his scandalous and 
 disorderly youth, by filching velvets and point laces* 
 from the burghers of the rich German towns. Will yon 
 set up shop and sell by the yard? How much an ell,, 
 good gentleman— cutpurse — soldier? How much an ell 
 for Flanders lace? . . . .” 
 
 Catesby bit his lips — he looked at her sternly, then 
 he said — 
 
 Very well, madam, as it is not to be a loan, it may 
 as well be a robbery at once. You will not look for your 
 rents this midsummer: I have need of them. The 
 offspring of the noble houses of Catesby and Throck- 
 morton will not go like a base beggar to these wars, 
 let it be how it may. Certain jewels and plate too, that 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 233 
 
 were never justly your own, are needed — Believe me, 
 good mother, they will look better sparkling in the sun 
 on the steel-clad breasts of brave men, than ever they 
 did locked up in the strong-room at Catesby.” 
 
 “ Take them if you will,’' said the lady, scornfully, 
 and spend them in rioting with the mercenary soldiers 
 of Spinola; I am told there is no stint either of wine pr 
 of dice in his camp. If by stretching out this fore- 
 finger I could snatch them out of your hand, I would 
 not deign to do it. But as for these Midsummer rents, 
 which you are pleased to make so sure of, they have, 
 during your absence on some of your wild goose 
 schemes, been all paid in to me. I have already said it. 
 Not all your prayers shall wring one ducat from me 
 in such a quarrel. I have said it, and the tortures of 
 the rack, or the slow fire of the stake, should not draw 
 a penny’s fee from me. Go your ways, Mr. Catesby; 
 forsake your country ; despise the holy cause of your 
 religion and your God. My gold at least shall go for 
 a better service, where these poor withered arms are 
 useless.” 
 
 The crimson of rage forsook his cheek ; he looked 
 pale with anger, as between his shut teeth he mut- 
 tered : 
 
 You have got it aH then?” 
 
 Every stiver of it.” 
 
 ‘‘ And you positively refuse,’^ violently seizing her 
 arm, “ to assist your son?” 
 
 ‘‘ Have done, sir,” wresting her arm from his grasp. 
 “ Son! No son of mine! I have ever despised, and 
 now I—” 
 
234 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Madam,” said he, dropping his hold, and his man- 
 ner suddenly changing to a sort of mournful solemnity, 
 if you were about to curse your son, you may spare 
 yourself the pains — that is done already. I — ” 
 
 Then turning away — 
 
 I want nothing from you ; I will now accept nothing 
 from you. Keep your miserable gold, yo ur hoard of 
 plate and jewels; other means shall be found.” 
 
 And kneeling down, he kissed his slumbering children, 
 whom, under the softened feeling of the moment, he 
 could not help regarding as innocent victims about to be 
 offered up for a cause, in devotion to which he was at 
 that moment rending asunder the dearest ties of na- 
 ture. Twice he stooped and kissed them, while his 
 parched lips seemed striving to mutter a blessing — the 
 little ones moved, but he started away, and without 
 looking again at his mother, abruptly left the room. 
 
 The noise of his horse’s footsteps was heard echoing 
 under the gate-house. 
 
 He never saw his mother or his children again. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 235 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 “ I thought of thee, my partner and my friend, 
 
 As being cast away — Vain sympathies!” 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Money — money!” repeated Mr. Darcy, “ is indis- 
 pensable. To attempt to raise it by a general contribu- 
 tion from the Catholic body would be to betray our 
 secret; upon the absolute preservation of which the 
 whole success of this great enterprise depends. 
 
 There is no help for it,” he continued, after a little 
 consideration, ‘‘ one or two more, and these from among 
 the most wealthy, must be called in — Men who will be 
 able and willing to assist us in the present emergency. 
 The blow once struck, and the whole Catholic body in 
 arms, neither men nor money will be wanting, but 
 money must be raised now. I repeat it — one or two of 
 ' the most wealthy must be called in.” 
 
 Winter, who was looking out of the window, now 
 turned round and said — ‘‘ There are few or none of 
 those that are wealthy, and consequently well known, 
 who would choose to have their names handed loosely 
 about among the present confederates. Where such 
 men as Keyes and Bates, and John and Kit Wright take 
 a part, men will be distrustful — though we know them 
 better.” 
 
 “ There is no necessity for their being in this intelli- 
 
236 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 gence/’ said the priest. “ Let Mr. Catesby call secretly 
 on one or two — such as I will name to you by-and-by, 
 without communicating the matter to the rest.’’ 
 
 “ That would not be honourable,” said Winter. 
 ‘‘ That would be inconsistent with our oath.” 
 
 The father looked somewhat contemptuously at him, 
 as men of energy and action are wont to look, when^some 
 unexpected obstruction to their plans arises, from what 
 they regard as mere childish scruples. But he knew 
 Mr. Winter’s plain way of thinking too well to venture 
 to contradict his sentiments; he only said, “ their con- 
 sent might perhaps be obtained.” 
 
 ‘^Many,” added Catesby, ‘‘may be content that I 
 should know — who would not, therefore, that all the 
 company should be acquainted with their names.” 
 
 “ It were a thing most easy to obtain that consent,” 
 said Winter, now coming up to the table, “for such 
 is the opinion all these gentlemen hold of Mr. Catesby, 
 that they love and respect him as their own life.” 
 
 And he looked at his friend with that honest pride 
 and affection which filled his heart. 
 
 Catesby made no reply to this remark; but a slight 
 suffusion passed over his cheek, as he thought of the 
 friends who so dearly loved him, and of the gulph 
 into ^ which he was about to lead them. He only said, 
 addressing himself to Father Darcy, 
 
 “ You, sir, are well acquainted with all the more 
 eminent and wealthy members of our party. Who 
 would you recommend to be dealt with. There is Mr. 
 Talbot of Grafton — the Lord Windsor. . . .” 
 
 The priest shook his head negatively. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 237 
 
 ‘‘ I doubt whether your influence or mine, Mr. 
 Catesby, would be sufficient to engage these gentlemen. 
 I doubt not of their support in the sequel; but it is 
 better to forbear handling the matter with them for 
 the present. The fewer the better, for the plot hath 
 already a somewhat too wide basis. I have thought of 
 three — Ambrose Rookwood, Francis Tresham, and 
 Everard Digby.” 
 
 ‘‘Digby!’’ exclaimed Catesby, ‘‘alas! no!’^ 
 
 “ Rookwood,” continued the priest, paying no atten- 
 tion to the exclamation, “ is ripe — his family have never 
 forgiven the insult offered to one of its members in 
 the time of the late queen. Mr. Catesby, this will be 
 acceptable news for him, take my word for it. As for 
 Francis Tresham, he is more doubtful. There is a cau- 
 tion about that young man which I do not quite 
 understand ; but his ability is great, his principles un- 
 questionable (witness the late admirable book he has 
 published upon some of the bearings of this question) ; 
 he has a long account of his father’s. Sir Thomas 
 Tresham, to settle with the government, and Francis 
 is a pious son. Aye, aye, Francis is pious in his 
 way. He is, moreover, very rich, and no niggard. 
 As for ” 
 
 “Digby!” again exclaimed Catesby, “let us have 
 nothing to do with Digby.” 
 
 “ And pray why not, sir?” said the priest, quietly; 
 “ what has Sir Everard Digby done, that he should 
 be refused a share in this important matter? Why is 
 Everard Digby to be excluded from participation in 
 that crown prepared for those who greatly suffer in 
 
238 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 the cause of heaven? You mistake the bent of Digby’s 
 mind altogether, Mr. Catesby. I have sounded its 
 depths and shallows; he is greatly angered -at the late 
 proceedings, and at sundry cases of particular hardships 
 which have fallen within his own observation. He is 
 ripe for any enterprise, and will esteem it no proof of 
 friendship on your part, Mr. Catesby, that he should be 
 excluded from this. Besides, Tresham will never stir 
 without Digby.” 
 
 A picture of that terrace at Dry Stoke, as he had 
 last seen it; the sun sinking behind the Rutlandshire 
 hills ; the blackbirds and thrushes singing in the brakes ; 
 and that bench under the large lime-tree ; where 
 Everard sat with Evelyn, her head leaning upon his 
 shoulder, while he with his sweet tender eye was watch- 
 ing his little children at play — passed before the mental 
 eye 'of Catesby, with all the distinctness of actual vision. 
 And then the scene as suddenly changing, he saw his 
 friend pale and faded; the gaping crowd, the gallows, 
 the execution, the fire, the knife; and he turned away 
 and again repeated, “ Not Digby.” 
 
 But he, who could have been persuaded, or have per- 
 suaded himself to what he had already done, was not 
 long proof against the artful suggestions, special plead- 
 ings, and subtle insinuations of the priest. 
 
 Catesby was led to consent to the [sacrifice of his 
 friend — the sacrifice of his friend, we call it; but he 
 had been persuaded into looking upon it in a somewhat 
 different light. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 239 
 
 It was a weeping day — a cold, cloudy day, at tlie 
 very beginning of September. A sort of portentous 
 gloom hung over the heavens. It rained heavily at inter- 
 vals ; at intervals the vrind moaned gloomily round the 
 house at Dry Stoke, while the dark inky clouds sailed 
 slowly above the Rutlandshire hills; but the gloom 
 without was only in too just accordance with the 
 melancholy within. 
 
 In a small parlour which was appropriated to Evelyn’s 
 use, the family were assembled. Everard was sitting 
 moodily over the fire, a book in his hand, reading; 
 while at times, his finger in the pages, and the book 
 on his knee, he seemed lost in meditation upon its 
 contents. The book was a casuistical production, written 
 by Francis Tresham; its title being De Officio Prin- 
 cipis. It was a defence of rebellion against heretical 
 governments, and treated of the duties, or rather how 
 to dispense with the duties, of allegiance. 
 
 The sentence he was at that moment pondering over, 
 was this : 
 
 “ Si princeps hccreticus sit, et obstinater ac pertina- 
 citer intolerabilis, summi Pastoris divina potestate des- 
 sonatur, et aluid caput constituatur, cui subdite sejunganty 
 et legitimo ordini et authoritate amoveant. Princeps indul- 
 gendo hcereticus non solum Deum offendit, sed perdit et 
 regnum et gentemP 
 
 Almost distracted by the increasing misery he saw 
 around him, his thoughts running incessantly upon the 
 means of relief, he had already begun to tamper with his 
 long maintained principles of allegiance ; and now his 
 faded, anxious brow, and restless, painful expression of 
 
240 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 countenance, betrayed the internal contest at work 
 within. Leaning in his accustomed attitude, against 
 the side of the window, was Fabian; his countenance 
 had not entirely lost its peculiar expression of mingled 
 silliness and sharpness, but there was a grave earnest- 
 ness in it now, which almost redeemed it from the first 
 characteristic, as his eye travelled from one group in the 
 room to another. 
 
 The gentle Lady Digby, now grave, sad, and serious, 
 was sitting upon a low chair, one little child upon 
 her lap, the other standing against her knee. She was 
 engaged in showing the little ones pictures of such 
 pleasing natural objects as delight the childish eye; for, 
 unlike the method pursued with the unhappy inmates at 
 Ashby St. Legers, she wished to fill their young minds 
 with pleasant ideas, and to excite their infant attention 
 to the wonders of the beautiful world around them. 
 She spoke in a hushed voice, and the little ones in 
 whispers. Now and then she lifted up her head, and 
 watched a figure, which rested upon a low couch stand- 
 ing near the chimney, where blazed a large fire. 
 
 In the face of the unhappy victim of disappointment, 
 now apparently sinking into a slow decline, you could 
 scarcely have distinguished the once beautiful and 
 blooming Eleanor. 
 
 Her wasted form, her faded cheek, her failing spirits, 
 all spoke the dire effect of that secret anguish which was 
 wasting her away. 
 
 The blow which the priest had struck with so much 
 indifference, had told but too well, and the information 
 that Robert Catesby was raising a regiment of horse and 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 241 
 
 was about to depart for Flanders, had completed the 
 catastrophe. The fond hopes she had till then cherished, 
 vanished altogether; and she had sunk rapidly. 
 
 Everard was sitting by her side ; every now and then, 
 as she moved, he turned towards her to smooth her pil- 
 low, or arrange the cloak that was laid over her. At 
 the back of the couch leaned John Digby. 
 
 The wind howled and roared, and now and then a 
 splash of sudden rain beat with violence against the win- 
 dow ; the sufferer shivered and started. The affectionate 
 brothers bent over her, and again wrapped the cloak 
 more closely ; while Evelyn would raise her head, watch 
 anxiously till she composed again, and then, casting a 
 glance at the storm without, would stoop down and 
 press her little ones closer to her. 
 
 The window looked out upon the front of the house ; 
 the bell at the large gate rang, the large gate banging 
 and shaking in the wind was opened, and a man mounted 
 upon a powerful horse galloped up to the door. 
 
 He was speedily admitted into the hall, the door of 
 the sitting-room opened, and the serving-man without 
 further ceremony ushered in Mr. Catesby. 
 
 He had not visited Dry Stoke for some time. 
 
 He came in as one assured of a welcome from his 
 friend, but shaking with a strange sort of hurry and 
 trepidation; and his face, whether heated by his ride or 
 from some other cause, was all blotched over and dis- 
 coloured. He wrung the hand of Everard with more 
 than his usual feeling ; gazed round the room ; started as 
 he saw the figure of Eleanor extended upon the couch ; 
 and his countenance assumed a still gloomier expression, 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 Q 
 
242 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 as lie looked upon Evelyn and her little children. She 
 had risen, and stood, her infant in her arms, and her 
 little boy clinging to her robe, holding out her hand 
 to welcome him. That he was the friend beloved by 
 Everard, was sufficient to insure him a welcome from 
 Evelyn. But John Digby fixed his black eye in an 
 interrogating manner upon his face ; and Fabian, whose 
 presence no one seemed to perceive, watched every 
 gesture with an air of most anxious interest. 
 
 Will you not sit, Mr. Catesby?” said John Digby, 
 presenting a chair, while the lips of Eleanor grew white 
 as death. ‘‘What is the matter, Eleanor?” bending 
 down over her. 
 
 “ Oh nothing, nothing,” in a low, hoarse voice, “ take 
 no notice of me — I was only startled at his sudden 
 entrance : take no heed of me, dear John.” 
 
 Catesby took no further notice of her presence than 
 was indicated by his first start as he entered the room ; 
 his mind was raised to far too high a pitch to be 
 sensible to the common interests of life. 
 
 He placed his hands upon the back of the chair which 
 John Digby had offered, but did not sit down; he kept 
 standing, and looking at Everard, and from Everard to 
 his wife and children. That fiery eye melted to softness 
 as he gazed ; and while he suppressed a heavy sigh, the 
 last cooling drop that ever was known to visit them^ 
 swelled between the eyelids as he gazed. 
 
 His manner was so strange, that both Everard and 
 Evelyn stood watching him without speaking, waiting 
 what should come next. 
 
 The pause might be for about three minutes; at last 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 243 
 
 he suddenly roused and seemed to recollect himself, and 
 shaking off the sort of dreamy visionary feeling that had 
 overpowered him, seated himself abruptly in the chair, 
 and turning to Everard, said : 
 
 It is a rough day, but I want you to ride with me.” 
 
 Eveljoi cast her eyes in a sort of dumb remonstrance 
 upon the window. 
 
 Everard was, as I have said, of a frame exquisitely 
 susceptible to physical expressions. He had never been 
 able to harden himself as other young men do, even to 
 the action of the elements. 
 
 But he said at once : 
 
 ‘‘If it be upon business of any weight, you know, 
 Robert, I do not heed a wet jacket.” 
 
 “ A mutual friend of our’s desires a conference, and 
 is not able to come to you. Will you ride with me, as 
 soon as my horse has baited? We shall be at Rushton 
 Hall before night. It is Francis Tresham who wants 
 to see you.” 
 
 It is a very bad day,” said Evelyn. 
 
 A fresh gust of wind and the clatter of rain pelting 
 against the window. 
 
 Just such a day as Robert desired. He was anxious 
 that his motions in connexion with Rushton Hall and 
 Dry Stoke should be as little noticed as possible. 
 
 “ Everard has a cloak, I suppose,” he said, bluntly. 
 “ The ride is not a long one; Francis has some business 
 of importance on which he wishes to consult him ; he is 
 very urgent to sec him this night at Rushton. You 
 shall have him again. Lady Digby, to-morrow, we shall 
 not detain him lon^:. Everard,” with a stern and almost 
 Q 2 
 
244 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 contemptuous smile, ‘‘ it would be new to see you dis- 
 regard the call of a friend.” 
 
 ‘‘ I go with you,’^ said Everard. John, will you 
 have the kindness to see to my horses?” 
 
 You will want no attendant,” said Catesby, ‘‘ I 
 came here alone, you had better do the same. The less 
 display of ease or wealth the unfortunate Catholics make 
 under their present miserable circumstances, the more 
 likely are they to escape unnoticed, and thus preserve that 
 peace,” turning to Lady Digby, ‘‘ upon which the 
 Father Superior’s heart seems set. But if Everard will 
 lend me one of his galloping horses^ it might be as well, 
 for my jaded steed will scarcely carry us fast enough 
 through the rain.” 
 
 ‘‘ Well thought of,” answered Everard, cheerfully; en- 
 deavouring to shake off the extraordinary weight almost 
 like that of some incubus, which the arrival of Catesby 
 seemed to have cast on the spirits of all; I will go and 
 give orders. You shall ride Black Merlin, and I will 
 mount the bay mare — we shall be at Rushton by ten at 
 night, and I will be with you again^ my Evelyn, in the 
 morning, none the worse I warrant me for this gallop.” 
 ‘‘ I will go with you and look at your horses,^’ said 
 Catesby, who seemed to feel the very air of the chamber 
 oppressive; and they left the room together. 
 
 Fabian meantime had been humming in a low voice 
 as to himself, the following lines : 
 
 “ Tlie mystic clouds that fall sometime, 
 
 And overcast the skies ; 
 
 Are like to troubles of our time, 
 
 Which do not dim our eyes. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 245 
 
 A glass wherein you may behold 
 Each storm that stops our breath, 
 
 Our bed the grave — our clothes like mould, 
 
 And sleep like dreadful death.” 
 
 The Lady Digby looked at him and said: ‘‘ Those 
 verses are melancholy, Fabian. You know I do not 
 like such.” 
 
 “ Unhappy man! that runneth on thy race. 
 
 Not minding where thy crazed bones must rest ; 
 
 But woe to thee that doth forget the place 
 Purchas’t for thee to live among the blest.” 
 
 Don’t let Everard go with him, lady.” 
 
 I cannot interfere with my husband’s purposes.” said 
 she, gravely; but a strange feeling of terror was creeping 
 through her nerves. Nor do I understand what reason 
 you have, Fabian, for your evil-omened songs. Pray 
 let me have no more of them.” 
 
 “ I saw his face,” said Fabian, that is enough for 
 me. Forgive me, madam, I have ever had the same 
 foreboding about Mr. Catesby; he is the evil genius of 
 my honourable master, who hath never reaped satisfac- 
 tion, nay, rather, careful and anxious debatings within 
 himself, from communication with that gentleman. And 
 why should he come with that dark troubled visage of 
 his to tempt my master to ride in such weather as this ? 
 Depend upon it, madam, there is evil abroad. 
 
 “ ‘ Leave in the world to looke for any love. 
 
 For on this earth is little faith to find;’ 
 
 May our good, our best master, never live to rue the 
 day he trusted to the love of Mr. Catesby.” 
 
 He was interrupted by the re-entrance of Everard. 
 He came, as was his custom, to bid adieu to his wife, to 
 
246 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 kissliis children, and embrace his sister, before he rode 
 forth for any time. 
 
 The expression of his countenance was sweet and 
 cheerful; he did not seem to be infected with the fore- 
 bodings of the others ; he was not sorry to dissipate the 
 restless cogitations of the morning by a brisk ride upon 
 a stormy day. It was toucliing to see the sweet, tender 
 serenity of his countenance. His wife felt reassured by 
 it ; her melancholy dissipated ; and she sat down cheer- 
 fully with her httle ones again, to renew her talk with her 
 clever little Kenelm. Eleanor again closed her eyes^ 
 and seemed to doze. But the jester turned his face to the 
 window; and as he saw Everard mount his horse and 
 ride forth with his usual spirit and alacrity, while the 
 dark figure of Catesby might be seen issuing from the 
 gate upon liis coal-black steed — following liim hke some 
 evil destiny — ^large tears, for which he might have found 
 it difficult to render a reason, coursed hke the rain drops 
 down the window pane against which he was leaning. 
 
 The wind lulled, though the rain continued to fall 
 heavily; the fire blazed cheerfully; the httle children 
 slumbered in their beds ; the tender Evelyn sat holding 
 Eleanor’s hand till she seemed composed and slumbered 
 too ; the clock ticked in the hah, the church beh tohed 
 eleven. 
 
 Then all retired to rest in that household, blessed of 
 God and beloved of man ; and the angel of peace, for 
 the last time, brooded over it with his shrouding wings. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 247 
 
 In the woods at Rushton stands a small, triangular 
 summer-house. 
 
 It has stood there for centuries, it stands there still. 
 It contains a room of a moderate size, and from within 
 that room a subterranean passage descends, which com- 
 municates with the adjoining country. 
 
 Robert and Everard had ridden at the utmost speed 
 to which they could urge their horses ; Robert, it will 
 be remembered was a desperate rider, and now he 
 hurried on like the spectre horseman in the German tale. 
 He clattered down the steep stony descent from Dry 
 Stoke, crossed the valley, mounted the precipitous ascent 
 by Rockingham Castle, and avoiding the great roads, 
 by hollow and secluded lanes, pushed forward, until 
 they arrived at a little brambly wood, so thick and so 
 pathless, that it would seem no one had visited it for 
 years. On the outside of this was a lonely field, in 
 which stood a small, ruinous, wooden barn. 
 
 “ Were you ever here before?” said Catesby, breaking 
 silence now for the first time during a couple of hours. 
 
 “ No,” said Digby, “ I thought you wanted me at 
 Rushton.” 
 
 Those are the woods of Rushton,” said Robert, 
 pointing to a long line of woods at no great distance ; 
 discernible by the pale light of a crescent moon wading 
 among the black and lowering clouds. “ Do you know 
 where you are?” 
 
 “ Not in the least, that is to say, I never certainly was 
 here before, but I suppose we must be on the skirts of 
 Rushton Park. Why all this mystery in your proceed- 
 ings, Catesby?” 
 
248 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 He made no answer, except by saying, We bad 
 better leave our horses here.” 
 
 And opening the gate, he led the way to the barn. 
 It was an old, decaying place, which even the rats 
 seemed to have deserted; fodder or provision there 
 was, however, in some coarse rough hay. 
 
 Catesby shook down a little before the horses, and 
 having fastened them as well as he could, he went out, 
 carefully closing the door after him ; then springing over 
 a hedge which enclosed the thickets^ he entered the 
 wood, and began to force his way through the brambles 
 and bushes, Everard following. 
 
 They proceeded about half a mile through this 
 thicket, then they came to a very large holly tree, whose 
 branches falling close to the ground, covered a very 
 considerable extent. Catesby lifted up the branches, 
 and made way for Everard to enter; there was a vacant 
 space underneath the tree, covered with dead and 
 decaying leaves. Having hastily cleared away some of 
 these, a flat stone became visible ; with some little diffi- 
 culty Catesby lifted it up, and a flight of very narrow 
 stairs, just broad enough for one man to pass down, ap- 
 peared, leading to what seemed a dark vault beneath. 
 
 We shall be better without a light,” said Catesby; 
 ‘‘ go you down first, you cannot miss your way, for it 
 is a narrow way enough ; I will only close the trap, and 
 follow you ; when you come to a door, stop.” 
 
 Everard did as he was directed, and Catesby, having 
 carefully closed the trap, followed immediately. Some 
 few small concealed openings in the roof of the passage 
 admitted the faint light of the moon, serving but to 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 249 
 
 show the narrow dimensions of this low underground 
 passage. Robert and Everard were both tall men, and 
 could not walk upright in it. 
 
 Go on/' said Catesby. 
 
 ‘‘ Here is the door/’ Everard replied. 
 
 ‘‘ Is it fastened?” 
 
 Yes.” 
 
 ‘‘ Knock then.” 
 
 He did so. 
 
 A voice behind the door was heard. “ Who’s there ?” 
 
 “ Answer,” said Catesby; say Dry Stoke.” 
 
 The door was unclosed noiselessly, and they entered 
 by what seemed a panel of the wall into the small apart- 
 ment. The room was without lights, and would have 
 been perfectly dark, but that through the trees and 
 shrubs that hung around the window, the moon shed a 
 pale reflection upon the floor; and by it the eye which 
 had been accustomed to a yet deeper obscurity, might 
 discern a small table standing in the centre of the room, 
 with a book and a silver cup containing holy water 
 upon it; three chairs were placed round, one of which 
 was already occupied. 
 
 “ I have not ventured to bring a light,” said the voice 
 of Francis Tresham, for the window of this summer- 
 house is to be seen from many places ; what we have to 
 do, requires none. All that is necessary is, that Mr. 
 Catesby should be satisfied that the book which lies 
 upon the table is a primer, and that no deception shall 
 be put upon him with regard to the oath he is about to 
 administer.” 
 
250 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 The contempt depicted upon Catesby’s countenance 
 at this speech, would have been visible enough had 
 there been a light; he took up the book, however, and 
 walking to the window, by the faint light of the moon, 
 satisfied himself that it was the book in question. 
 
 Then returning to the table, he said, with some 
 solemnity : 
 
 ‘‘ Everard, I have loved thee as my own soul, and 
 thou hast loved me— and now I am about to share with 
 thee and with Tresham, the most tremendous secret that 
 ever was imparted by man to man. But first you must 
 swear never to betray, by word, look, or deed, the trust 
 reposed in you ; as I am ready to swear that your par^ 
 ticipation in this matter is known to no human being 
 but Thomas Winter, Father Darcy, and myself*^ 
 
 The oaths were then administered by Catesby to 
 Everard and Tresham, and by Tresham to Catesby. 
 
 “ Now let us sit down,” said Catesby. 
 
 They all did so. 
 
 And then one of his cold fits of remorse again stole 
 over the wretched man, as he thought upon this young, 
 noble, and confiding being, standing on the brink of 
 that pit into which he was about to betray him; 
 and a foreboding of the fate which awaited them all, 
 sickened his heart. Not for himself, let justice be done 
 even to him — but for his friends. Once or twice he 
 looked wistfully at Everard, on whose face the beams 
 from the moonlight were then falling, displaying the 
 calm, gentle, and somewhat melancholy expression of a 
 countenance, which was to Robert Catesby so dear and so 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 251 
 
 interesting; and then again liis heart smote him, and dire 
 visions of future anguish passed before him, and starting 
 hastily from his chair, he rushed out into the night. 
 
 Loud roared the wind, the trees rocked and screeched 
 in the gusts as they swept by, chasing the black heavy 
 clouds across the heavens and over the face of the pale^ 
 sickly moon. A dreary night, black, and threatening, 
 and in sympathy with his secret horror. 
 
 He hurried along, lifting up his clenched hands and 
 haggard face from time to time, as if imploring Heaven — 
 passionately imprecating from the Holy Virgin and sacred 
 company of saints a something — he knew not well what 
 he asked — a help in this hour of agony — then, as he ve- 
 hemently offered up the sacrifice of this his last and 
 dearest earthly friendship, once more, to his enthusiastic 
 and excited fancy, the aspect of his purpose changed, the 
 horror passed away, and was lost in a sort of glorious 
 confusion of ideas of heroism, martyrdom, and victory. 
 And so he returned to the summer house, where, his eyes 
 darting with almost preternatural lustre, his heart 
 trembling with agitation, but his cheek glowing with 
 renewed colour, he prepared to vanquish by his reasonr 
 ings the scruples of his friend. 
 
 What arguments he used to reconcile a heart so 
 good, an understanding so clear, a temper so humane, 
 to the dreadful scheme, remains a mystery. Some 
 slight indication may be gathered from the letters and 
 speeches of the unhappy victim after the catastrophe. 
 His mind seems to have been blinded to the iniquity 
 of the plot, by the persuasion that it would meet 
 with the universal approbation and applause of the 
 
252 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Catliolic body; and most especially and particularly of 
 the priests; that it was a thing acceptable to God; 
 and that this one effort, tremendous as were the means 
 employed, would rescue the whole suffering body of the 
 Cathohc Church from the dreadful oppression under 
 which they laboured, and restore the true religion to 
 his country. 
 
 In spite of the excessive anxiety he shows to com- 
 promise no one, by his confession there can be no 
 doubt but that the name and authority of Father Darcy 
 were made powerful use of, to reconcile him to the 
 scheme ; but even the effect of this influence, great as 
 it was, was small in comparison with the unaccountable 
 personal influence exercised by Robert Catesby. The 
 effect of which remains, alas ! unquestionable. 
 
 The hazard he was incurring both for himself and 
 those he loved, seems to have been present with him 
 from the first; and the generous disinterestedness with 
 which he risked every thing most dear for an object in 
 which he had so little personal interest, appears to 
 have blinded him in the most infatuated manner to 
 the horrible iniquity of the deed. 
 
 Unhappy man ! 
 
 Human life under some of its aspects exceeds the 
 wildest creations of romance; and it is with a sort of 
 shuddering incredulity that we consider a heart such 
 as this, betrayed by false views and evil principles of 
 religion into an abyss of crime so frightful. 
 
 Yet such is the o’er true tale. 
 
 The pen drops from my hand; I despair of deli- 
 neating the picture. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 253 
 
 I would rather you should follow him home, op- 
 pressed by the weight of his tremendous secret, and his 
 heart bleeding inwardly at the thought of the perils to 
 which he was exposing all those he so tenderly loved. 
 I would wish to show him — his soul elevated almost 
 to delirium with the enthusiasm of self-sacrifice, while 
 his bosom is melting and overflowing with pity and 
 tenderness. His wife, his loved, his idolised Evelyn, 
 the tender partner of his bosom’s cares, is now no longer 
 allowed to share his thoughts. He is silent and re- 
 served, and she feels that some important secret is with- 
 held, and the first breach in their mutual confidence 
 made. And yet how exquisitely sweet are his tones; 
 how exquisitely tender that melancholy look of interest 
 and love with Avhich he regards her; how earnest the 
 pressure with which he strains her to his bosom. His 
 shoulder is watered with her silent tears — but his eye, 
 alas ! is never, never visited by one. His countenance 
 is wasted as with intense but hidden fever : his eye has 
 a wild distraction in it; and there is a dreadful expres- 
 sion upon his brow — strange visitant there ! — that dark 
 expression which is the seal of crime. 
 
 When his children are fondling at his feet, he often 
 snatches one or other up, huddles it to his bosom, 
 puts it down, turns away, and walks hurriedly up and 
 down the room. Sometimes he sits by the side of 
 his suffering Eleanor, soothing her by his words of inef- 
 fable kindness and affection; or more often lost in 
 thought, and insensible to the presence of all, he 
 is thrown back, his face covered by his hand, in his 
 large elbow-chair. With his brother, John Digby, 
 
254 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 there seemed at this time no exchange of sympathy or 
 of affection; that calm, sober, reasonable JohnDigby. 
 
 Everard at once reverences and envies him. 
 
 The Fool was a witness of all this. His suspicions 
 approached as nearly to the truth as was within the 
 limits of possibility, but he dared not breathe a syllable 
 upon the subject. One single hint, in the then state of 
 things, might have sufficed to bring down the dreaded 
 ruin at once upon their heads. 
 
 He used to lie by himself upon the floor of his httle 
 upper room, wrapped in his mantle, blubbering and 
 sobbing like a child for hours. 
 
 “ Weepe not, but weepe, stint tears, shower cries, 
 
 Cease sorrowes, yet begin lament — 
 
 Weepe for your children and allies — 
 
 Weepe not for me, ’tis tears misspent; 
 
 Bewaile the offspring of your woombe; 
 
 Sentenced, succeeding vengeance, doome.” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 255 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 “ Cerbero, fiera crudele e diversa, 
 Con tre gole — ” 
 
 Dante. 
 
 A FEW days after the fatal journey of Everard to 
 Rushton, the Father Darcy again appeared at his table. 
 He was this time as before dressed in the secular habit, 
 and was attended by his servant Owen, or Little John, 
 as he was sometimes called; a small, sharp, desperate 
 looking, restless sort of fellow, who seemed as if he cared 
 not very much for any thing in this world or the next, 
 except it might be for bodily pains and privations, hunger 
 or thirst. To the little power he possessed for enduring 
 such things, it is perhaps owing that the world is in pos- 
 session of the true character of Father Darcy alias 
 Garnet, and is not to be deceived by the false lustre 
 with which numbers of his party have endeavoured, not 
 altogether without success, to illustrate his name, and 
 blind the searching eye of history. 
 
 Evelyn had long learned to rejoice, like others, in the 
 appearance of this man as the harbinger of peace and 
 consolation — shall it be said of flattery? For exempt 
 as this young creature was from self-conceit or arro- 
 gance, she was perhaps the less likely to stand proof 
 against the adulations, insinuated rather than expressed, 
 of a man so highly regarded and esteemed by every 
 
256 
 
 FATHER FARCY. 
 
 one around her; both on account of his intellectual 
 qualities; and exemplary piety. 
 
 The Father, who had been apt to forget himself at times, 
 we have once or twice seen, and to make a step in the 
 wrong direction, had taken some pains also to efface 
 from the mind of Eleanor, the recollection of the cruel 
 conversation at Harroden. But, with all his art, he 
 had not altogether succeeded. Eleanor was of a deeply 
 resentful temper. She had been accustomed to look up 
 to her director as her best and only friend; to derive en- 
 couragement from the false hope he held out, and con- 
 solation from his flatteries; and the sudden and unex- 
 pected tone of severity in which he had indulged, had 
 told with a force of which he was little aware. For he 
 was of too cold a temper himself to calculate to its full 
 extent the power of genuine and enthusiastic passion. 
 
 He had long held, as he thought, all these young 
 hearts like wax in his hands, to mould them at will to his 
 purposes — but there were moments when honest nature 
 was too strong even for him, and by her revolt avenged 
 her violated rights. 
 
 Ever since that day, therefore, Eleanor had received 
 Father Darcy with gloom and sullenness; her manner, 
 though submissive and reverential, was cold. She 
 answered when he spoke with a certain forced deference, 
 but her replies w^ere brief, her words pointed, almost 
 sarcastic. Evelyn and Everard remarked this change 
 in her behaviour, but attributed it to the caprice of 
 illness — to the true cause of which they were stiU 
 blinded ; attributing it to that fever on the spirits, or 
 one of that long category of nervous diseases, as to the 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 257 
 
 nature of which men were then so ignorant that the 
 best informed most often could attribute them, only to 
 the influence of the demon, or to witchcraft. 
 
 Mr. Darcy continued to conduct himself under these 
 circumstances, so as to insure the esteem of the friends 
 he desired to please; and while Eleanor, in spite 
 of all her feelings of rebellion, trembled and shook 
 with terror when she caught, unperceived by others, 
 the stern look of the unpitying director — Evelyn and 
 Everard were both the dupes of his apparent gentle- 
 ness and tender concern for the sufferer. 
 
 It was late in the evening when the father made his 
 appearance — about eight o’clock — when the family were 
 about to sit down to supper. The night was dark, and 
 he entered at a postern-gate, so that he was ushered 
 into the parlour without being expected. 
 
 Everard, his head resting upon his hand, his eyes 
 fixed upon the table, lost in one of his late deep fits of 
 musing, sat with his supper untasted before him ; his 
 affectionate wife, equally anxious and still more rest- 
 less, had fixed her eyes upon him, and was watching 
 him with a look of the tenderest interest. 
 
 John Digby and Eleanor were both finishing their 
 meal in silence when the father entered. 
 
 Evelyn had been used of late to receive his visits 
 with joy; he always appeared to succeed in soothing 
 the troubled mind of her husband ; and with a slight 
 exclamation of pleasure and surprise, she rose from her 
 seat and offered him her hand. 
 
 But the face of the father was darkened, his brow 
 clouded, and his eye filled with unusual melancholy 
 
 VOL. II. R 
 
258 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 and sadness. Evelyn dropped his hand as the rest 
 approached to salute him, and disappointed returned 
 to her place at the table. 
 
 It is kind of you, Mr. Farmer,” for that was the 
 name by which he was known among the servants at 
 Dry Stoke. “ It is very kind of you, Mr. Farmer,” 
 said Everard, endeavouring to assume an air of easy 
 hospitality before his household, ‘‘ to call in upon us 
 this night. Your affairs, no doubt, lead you into 
 Yorkshire, where I am told the cattle fairs will be 
 better attended than usual this year. Have you large 
 orders on the part of the lords and gentlemen at present? 
 The passion for hunting, which seems to engage his 
 majesty, will make the courtiers turn all their arable 
 land into forest, or deer park, it is said, before long.” 
 
 ‘‘ In consequence of which,” replied the father with 
 a smile, taking his seat by Everard, at the bottom of 
 the table, ‘‘ I have large orders. There is such wassail 
 kept at the court of our royal and royally carousing 
 king and master, that beef and ale will be at a premium 
 in London this year. Nothing is to be heard talk of 
 but feasts and junkettings, and carousals loud and 
 long — from which banquettings the beauteous sex,” 
 turning to Evelyn and Eleanor, “ is not excluded. 
 What think the fair saints of Dry Stoke, of queens 
 and ladies rolling in their cups upon the floor? Our 
 importations from Scotland, whether of men or of 
 manners, are rare in all ways — ^but the droves of High- 
 land beeves which come to the Yorkshire markets, are 
 some compensation to men of my calling.” 
 
 While the servants continued in attendance, such 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 259 
 
 was the talk; and Mr. Farmer affected an ease and 
 cheerfulness, which harmonised very ill with the ex- 
 pression of his countenance. As soon as they were 
 gone and the door closed, he turned to the two ladles 
 and John Dighy, and said significantly : The secrets 
 
 of my trade, you know, are not to be lightly commu- 
 nicated to those who are without. I have some talk 
 to hold with Sir Everard, on the subject of these 
 Highland droves that are constantly crossing the 
 borders to graze in the fat pastures of England. May 
 I/’ with a polite bend to Evelyn, ‘‘ in indulgence to 
 the peculiar occasion, crave the use of this parlour for 
 ourselves — 'a space?” 
 
 They all rose and left the room. Evelyn retired to 
 her children’s apartment, Eleanor and John went into 
 the hall, and began to walk up and down it together. 
 
 ‘‘ How I detest,” said John Digby, ‘‘ all this system 
 of pretendings and deceivings. How can Everard 
 lend himself to such things? Does he think to de- 
 
 o 
 
 ceive his servants by these tricks? As if every one 
 of them did not see through it all as clearly as 
 crystal. — He ! a Yorkshire salesman ! Why that ex- 
 tremely delicate white hand of his which he is so fond 
 to display, with its jewel upon the little finger, would be 
 sufficient to betray him. Eleanor, my flesh creeps at 
 that man — and what you can all see in him I cannot 
 guess?” 
 
 ‘‘ Hush — hush!” said she, looking in a fearful man- 
 ner round, if he should hear us I” 
 
 ‘‘ And what if he did ? — What harm could he 
 do us ?” 
 
 R 2 
 
260 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 She again looked round and trembled a little. 
 
 Ah, holy saints! How daringly you talk; hath 
 he not the power of the keys?” 
 
 No,” said John, bluntly, the keys are in the 
 hands of one only — the holy Roman father. These 
 men take too much upon themselves.” 
 
 She again looked round — during the whole of the 
 ensuing conversation, she spoke and acted like one 
 in terror of some invisible power that was present in 
 all places, and could listen even in the most secret 
 chambers. 
 
 “For the love of the Holy Virgin I take care what 
 you are saying, John — this man can read the inmost 
 secret of the heart — and where he thinks fit to punish 
 for presumption I — Oh Queen of Heaven !” 
 
 “ He is your director, Eleanor — thank Heaven he is 
 not mine. I am in the hands of a plain old fellow of the 
 other party, and of the days gone by; but when he is 
 dead, and he cannot last long, what is to become of 
 me? I must put myself under the care of some of these 
 new priests, sooner or later; but Farmer, or that black- 
 visaged Tesmond, or that little sharp knave of a Father 
 Gerard, or any one among them all, of those that come 
 here, it shall never be — of that you may make sure, 
 Eleanor.” 
 
 Take care — take care what you say,” in a low, 
 trembling voice. 
 
 “ I defy them all,” said John, and I only wish . .” 
 ‘‘ What — what?” 
 
 Why, that the laws of our good queen of glorious 
 memory had run their course, and that we had never 
 seen Jesuit or missionary priest in the land.” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 261 
 
 The answer was a heavy sigh. 
 
 Then she said in a whisper : 
 
 “ John, what did you think of Robert Catesby^s 
 hurried visit the other night?” 
 
 “ What the Fool did,” said John. 
 
 “ Don’t give me such answers,” said she, rather im- 
 patiently. “ Why will you make sport of me? I am 
 in no humour for nonsense.” 
 
 “ It’s no nonsense; the Fool has the best head amongst 
 us; I would rather follow the Fool than the Jesuit any 
 day, or than the Jesuit’s dupe — our loved, our ho- 
 noured, our excellent Everard,” added he, with a slight 
 change in his voice. 
 
 “ And what says the fool?^’ 
 
 “ ‘ The fortune of a stage (like fortune’s self), 
 
 Amazeth greater judgments; and none knows, 
 
 The. hidden causes of those strange effects ; 
 
 That rise from this hell, or fall from this heaven.’ ” 
 
 ‘‘ That is like all Fabian’s dark sentences,” said she, 
 contemptuously, “ it just to me means nothing at all.’' 
 
 “ Do you understand this better, then?” said her 
 brother. 
 
 “ ‘ Then for thy partners’ and thy children’s sake 
 Tender my suit : bequeath not to their lot 
 The shame, that from them no device can take. 
 
 The blemish that will never be forgot.’ ” 
 
 “ Not one whit better,” said she. 
 
 “ Then take it in plain prose. — God send Everard a 
 better counsellor.” 
 
 The result of the conference between Father Darcy 
 and Everard was a determination on his part to leave 
 
262 
 
 FATHER DARCr. 
 
 Dry Stoke wltli his family, and repair to Goddesliurst, 
 as lying more conveniently in the way for carrying out 
 the part allotted to himself in the undertaking. 
 
 The father had spared no pains to encourage Everard 
 in the course he had adopted; he praised his generous 
 resolution, exhorted him to perseverance, and assured 
 him the undertaking was one that would find favour 
 in the eyes of God and man, being entirely justified 
 by the necessity of the case. He inveighed with a 
 force and an asperity which their conduct but too well 
 justified, against the tergiversations of the leading Pro- 
 testant noblemen, against their base subservience before 
 their odious and contemptible king, against the gross- 
 ness and dissoluteness of manners now prevailing, till 
 he wound up the susceptible mind of his hearer to a 
 pitch of the most indignant abhorrence. 
 
 He did not forget to enlarge upon the dangers the con- 
 spirators incurred; nor upon the vengeance that would 
 be heaped upon them by an enraged government if dis- 
 covered ; and dwelt upon the noble sacrifice of life and 
 estate, and house and family, for a cause in which they 
 had no private interest, nor the slightest personal object 
 in view; till the heart of Everard beat high with 
 generous ardour, at the idea of the disinterested sacrifice, 
 and of sharing the dangers of Robert Catesby. 
 
 My love for Mr. Catesby, whom I honoured and 
 loved more than any man living,” he acknowledged 
 afterwards to have been one principal motive which im- 
 pelled him to this fatal crime. 
 
 But Father Darcy had yet another object to accom- 
 plish in this visit to Dry Stoke. 
 
FATHER DARCT. 
 
 263 
 
 Parliament had been prorogued to October 3rd ; on 
 that day it was expected to meet. Plis intention was to 
 hold himself apart from the immediate scene of action 
 at the time ; thus retaining to himself the power to ac- 
 knowledge or deny the share he had taken in it as cir- 
 cumstances might render advisable. 
 
 There appears to have been policy on his part, rather 
 than superstition, in the plan he at the moment formed 
 for a solemn pilgrimage to St. Winifred’s Well, in Flint- 
 shire, to be undertaken by the principal Catholic ladies. 
 He probably thought it prudent to occupy some in this 
 way, whose restless zeal and curiosity might render them 
 dangerous observers at such a moment ; when to prevent 
 the slightest suspicion and keep every thing profoundly 
 quiet, was the great object to be pursued; for nothing 
 but imprudence on the part of some who were in the 
 secret, or some uncalled-for display of sentiment on the 
 part of any of the general body of the Catholics which 
 might excite extraordinary vigilance on the part of the 
 government^ could now, as he thought, prevent the 
 well-planned conspiracy from taking effect. 
 
 Things will, however, take wind. 
 
 In spite of every precaution a slight smoke will arise 
 where there is much fire : yet never, perhaps, in the 
 history of man had conspiracy been so long and so success- 
 fully hidden as this. It was now eighteen months since 
 the design had first been agitated ; nearly twelve since 
 the mine had been begun ; and yet, save some vague 
 rumours of a stir that might be expected among the 
 Catholics, which had reached them from Flanders, not 
 
264 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 the slightest suspicion of the truth had visited the 
 Council : nor, except a sort of vague hope and expecta- 
 tion that something after all would be attempted, had 
 spread among the Catholics themselves. 
 
 But husbands had been of late admitted into the 
 secret, men tenderly attached to and under the influ- 
 ence of wives ; and those wives being sincerely devoted 
 to the Catholic interest, their presence was at that mo- 
 ment, perhaps, only the more dangerous. 
 
 The judicious Father Darcy would have more wil- 
 lingly trusted the discretion of these young men had 
 their wives been Protestant, and manifestly inimical to 
 the great cause : but he knew human nature well, and 
 the excuses it can render to itself for what it is tempted 
 to do. And to open the heart to those who so sin- 
 cerely sympathised in all their religious and political 
 feelings, was a species of indulgence apparently as con- 
 sonant to reason as to inclination. So the father deter- 
 mined upon persuading all these ladies to the pilgrim- 
 age. 
 
 The next morning he explained to Evelyn the cause 
 of her husband’s melancholy, and of his own gloom 
 and uneasiness; attributing it to the shocking bills, 
 which he assured her he knew from unquestionable 
 authority, were to be presented to the ensuing parlia- 
 ment. He preached submission as usual; but sug- 
 gested, that by a general act of humiliation, and by 
 the performance of pious ceremonies, the impending 
 wrath of Heaven (called down, perhaps, by a too ge- 
 neral neglect, among the English Catholics, of such 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 265 
 
 observances,) mlglit be averted ; and the saints be 
 moved to assist with their prayers their suffering bre- 
 thren upon earth. 
 
 Unhappiness is apt to engender superstition. 
 
 Evelyn, educated though she had been in the liberal 
 and just views of her father, began, anxious and 
 wretched as she felt, to ask herself whether such views 
 as his were altogether right. Whether, in his opposition 
 to the general voice and practice of the church for 
 centuries, in his contempt for agnus dei relics, pilgri- 
 mages, things which Mr. Darcy and those who acted 
 with him regarded as so efficacious and holy, his ideas 
 might not have been in some degree misled by the 
 teachings of that old school of Anglo-Catholic divi- 
 nity, the doctrines of which w^ere now by the universal 
 church regarded as verging upon heresy. 
 
 She was unhappy : she had no brave mental coun- 
 sellor to bid her have faith, to bid her lift her eyes to the 
 Father of all, and stand courageously by the offering 
 of an honest heart, purged from such vain devices. 
 She suffered; and her ideas were all in confusion. 
 
 She felt quite alone, as if a mysterious veil had fallen 
 and separated her, as it were, from her husband’s heart. 
 She was bewildered — she was miserable. Might not 
 a humble pilgrimage to the consecrated well — her feet 
 cut by the flinty stones, her tears falling humbly on the 
 dust — move the pity of that heavenly mother, so gentle 
 and pitying to sorrow? Should she be absent when 
 so many other Cathohe ladies, her friends and her 
 usual companions, were uniting in this peaceful offering 
 of humble piety 
 
266 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Father Darcy prevailed. 
 
 And the daughter of Mr. Mulsho undertook a pil- 
 grimage to St. Winifred’s Well. 
 
 The pilgrims were to assemble at Goddesliurst, and 
 orders were give for the family of Sir Everard Digby 
 to remove there in two days. 
 
 His eye was bent fondly upon her, as they walked 
 up and down the sitting-room. She had been telling 
 him of her determination; had confessed her anxieties; 
 acknowledged her superstition, and her weakness; and 
 her desire to make one in this pilgrimage. 
 
 ‘‘ i\ye, go,” he said, my sweet one. It may be — 
 who can tell? the simple, humble piety of innocents, 
 like thee, may yet move the host of Heaven, and 
 this cup,” he said, in a tone of the deepest melancholy, 
 may be passed from us ; but,” he added with solemn 
 fervour, in the awful words of Scripture — ‘ If this cup 
 may not pass from me unless I drink it, thy will be 
 done.’ ” 
 
 Everard,” said Evelyn, lifting her head from his 
 bosom on which it was resting, disengaging herself from 
 his arms, and looking at him steadily and seriously: 
 something more than common is the matter with 
 you. You have a secret, and you keep it from your 
 wife.” 
 
 He answered the expression of her eye with a certain 
 air of stern determination, such as never had met an 
 appeal of hers before. 
 
 And had I so? Does it belong to the wife of an 
 honourable man to endeavour to read it? I have loved 
 you, Evelyn ; I have trusted you,” said he, gravely ; “ but 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 267 
 
 take care how you endeavour to pry into that hidden 
 chamber, if such there be, of which your husband with- 
 holds the key. Your curiosity is womanly and weak. I 
 will not gratify it so far as even to declare that I have 
 no secret. Your discretion should prevent your urging 
 your husband even to the necessity of an avowal such 
 as that.” 
 
 He turned away from her, and without uttering one 
 word more left the room. 
 
 While she, amazed and bewildered at this new and 
 unexpected reproof, stood trembling and changing 
 colour in the place where he had left her. 
 
 But the severity, if severe he were, was but the se- 
 verity of a moment. With the gentle kindness of an 
 angel did Everard from that moment strive, as it ap- 
 peared, to atone for the momentary harshness. Evelyn, 
 even during her exquisitely happy life of marriage, 
 seemed yet to have been a stranger to the full treasures 
 of tenderness possessed by that heart. 
 
 The sweetness of these last hours of affection seemed 
 rendered still more deeply penetrating, by the profound 
 melancholy which seemed to lie at the root of it. 
 
 “ Oh happiness, enjoy’d but of a few ! 
 
 And if possess’d, as soon decay’d and done. 
 
 As is the morning’s silver melting dew, 
 
 Against the golden splendour of the sun.” 
 
268 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 “ But thou, my sister, doomed to be 
 The last leaf which, by Heaven’s decree, 
 
 Must hang upon a blighted tree, 
 
 Be strong” 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 How holy is autumn ! — ^holy as old age. What a calm 
 and religious stillness pervades the woods ! — when the 
 busy life of the summer is over, and in all the calm 
 serene beauty of its decay, the year prepares to sink 
 into the wasting arms of death. 
 
 How pure and still was the air ! how lovely the 
 face of nature ! how imposing the brown horrors of 
 those fading woods, through which, in her coach with 
 her husband, and her two little children, Evelyn pur- 
 sued her way to Goddeshurst. 
 
 Ah! often, in the dark terrors of those miserable 
 nights which she, unhappy one, was afterwards des- 
 tined to spend, would she start from her troubled 
 slumber; those words, that hour of peace, had been in 
 her dreams; that hand had pressed hers — those looks of 
 sweetest tenderness and aifection had met hers; the little 
 children lay asleep in their arms; they passed amid those 
 lonely hills, and through those brown and quiet woods 
 — and her faltering heart kept asking, why was she not 
 happy? — And then a horrid change comes over her 
 dream — the trampling crowds, the black, threatening 
 scaffold — and he, the adored, the idolised of her heart I — 
 
FATHEK DARCY. 
 
 269 
 
 Oh, Father of Heaven! — oh, Christ! — oh, Virgin 
 Mother of God — oh, mercy — mercy — mercy ! 
 
 There was a large company assembled at Goddes- 
 hurst. Father Darcy was there to direct and accom- 
 pany the pilgrims — that tender, pious, and fatherly 
 man. His heart seemed unruffled by the vain anxieties 
 of this short fleeting world. With the simplicity and 
 innocence of a child was he endeavouring to direct the 
 hearts of his flock to that better country, where all the 
 hopes of the children of God should rest. 
 
 He spoke of the worthlessness of sublunary things ; 
 of the debasing nature of earthly cares ; of that peace 
 which visits the heart of the just; and of that devotion 
 which offers to Heaven its all — not only its heart, its 
 life, but all those smaller acts of piety and observance, 
 which the Lord of the Universe condescends to accept 
 from his children. He spoke till the hearts of his au- 
 ditors were rapt and melted within them ; he spoke till 
 the sweet colour glowed on the faded cheek of Grace 
 Vaux, as her eyes were rivetted upon the speaker; 
 till the worthy and simple-hearted Mrs. Brooksby, sister 
 of that beauteous votary, burst Into tears ; till the eye 
 of Evelyn kindled, and her heart beat high. 
 
 And he all this time, if we may believe himself, suf- 
 fered agonies under the weight of his insupportable se- 
 cret; and awoke in the mornings bathed in a cold sweat, 
 from those frightful visions of the night which had 
 displayed the coming destruction in all its terror. A 
 destruction which he — certainly little blinded by rcli- 
 
270 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 gious zeal — of wMcli lie possessed no great share — never 
 moved a finger to avert. 
 
 The rest were animated by an almost delirious pa- 
 roxysm of enthusiastic self-devotion; he knew of no 
 such things. We did observe,” said a witness 
 upon his trial, who had Hstened to his conversa- 
 tions with Oldcorne, another Jesuit, when imprisoned 
 under charge of high treason in the Tower, “ that from 
 the beginning to the ending of the conference, neither 
 of them named God, or recommended their cause or 
 themselves to God, but applied themselves wholly to the 
 matter.” 
 
 Grace Vaux, perhaps one of the most deeply to be 
 lamented of the numerous victims of this false shepherd, 
 was now become a mere visionary devotee. In com- 
 pany with her sister, Mrs. Brooksby, and her sister’s 
 husband, she waited upon and attended Garnet in all 
 his journeys and different sojourns, whether at the houses 
 purchased by the Jesuits, or at those of the Catholic 
 gentry; ministering to his comforts with a duteous 
 observance which could have rivalled that of the 
 most pious of daughters. Her natural feelings diverted 
 from their true course, all her strong and ardent affec- 
 tions were devoted to the ghostly father of her spiritual 
 life, whom she regarded with a reverence approaching 
 almost to idolatry. 
 
 The father, who little practised the self-command he 
 exacted from others, had not been proof against the 
 temptation of confiding to Grace Vaux that some tre- 
 mendous conspiracy was in agitation ; nor could he resist 
 the pleasure of allowing her secretly to participate in his 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 271 
 
 triumphant anticipations when any new act of oppres- 
 sion on the part of the government excited the mut- 
 tered execrations of his party. At those times It was 
 a gratification to be able to exchange looks of meaning 
 with this “sister in the church/" as he called her; 
 while she, the once tender Grace Vaux, her character 
 all perverted, felt her heart shudder with unhallowed 
 pleasure, as she thought of the dreadful day of rec- 
 koning. 
 
 The pilgrims consisted of a company of about thirty 
 persons in all. They were to proceed by Daventry to 
 John Grant’s, at Norbrook, thence to Robert Winter’s, 
 at Huddington, and so by Shrewsbury, to Flintshire. 
 
 The houses of all the conspirators were thus cleared 
 of their female relations ; a few of the more weak and 
 violent among the men, among their intimate con- 
 nexions, being also of the party; and thus were the rest 
 left at liberty to spend the time together, and ripen their 
 plans at each other’s houses, without being exposed to 
 the dangerous casualties of domestic life. 
 
 The pilgrims, unlike the pilgrims of Chaucer, tra- 
 velled in their coaches till they reached Holt, in Flint- 
 shire, from whence the real pilgrimage began; and 
 with bare bleeding feet the remainder of the way was 
 completed. 
 
 Many a heavy heart was there, and many a tear of 
 deep devotion shed; and, with the spirit of many a 
 poor simple creature consoled by this romantic act of 
 
272 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 piety, after tlie absence of about a fortnight they re- 
 turned home. 
 
 In the meantime, how had it been with the others? 
 Ever since that evening when they had met in the 
 summer-house at Rushton Hall, how had the world 
 changed its aspect to many of them ! 
 
 Catesby, ever since that fatal hour when he had 
 brought Digby and Tresham into the conspiracy, was a 
 changed man — a foreboding of disaster, it is said, from 
 that moment haunted him ; his imagination was filled 
 with the direst images, and at times he was a victim of 
 the most miserable despondency. A deep-seated distrust 
 of Tresham, and bitter regret at having intrusted him 
 with the secret, was what he confided to Winter, as the 
 cause of his uneasiness; but the demon of remorse that 
 haunted him arose from the recollection of Digby. 
 Of Everard — the excellent Everard, betrayed through 
 the influence of a devoted attachment to himself into so 
 dreadful a situation ! The simple faith in the merito- 
 rious nature of the action which led Everard, once en- 
 gaged, to enter into it with his whole heart; this contrast 
 between the simple confidence of his friend and his own 
 irresolution, hesitations, and remorses, moved him 
 deeply. He felt the remorse of one who had betrayed 
 an innocent child. 
 
 Everard’s simple security; his faith in the purity of his 
 own motives; his faith in the righteousness of the cause 
 in which he was engaged ; his confidence in the recti- 
 tude of his friends — in the approbation of the whole 
 
FATHEK DARCY. 
 
 273 
 
 Catholic -\vorld; contrasted but too sadly with his own 
 uncertain motives — the pride, the revenge, the ambition, 
 the love of violence, which mingled with his better 
 purposes. But he strove to harden his heart against 
 such reflections. Much of his time was spent in the 
 secret consultations at the house on Enfield Chase, 
 where so many meetings had before been held. There 
 Catesby, Winter, Fawkes, Sir Everard and the others 
 met repeatedly, and discussed their future proceedings. 
 Fawkes, whose tried courage and unflinching resolution 
 had inspired his companions with the utmost confidence, 
 volunteered, and was accepted, as the person best fitted 
 for the perilous enterprise of firing the mine. A train 
 was to be laid, which he calculated would allow him 
 one quarter of an hour to escape ; he was to immediately 
 go on board a small ship waiting in the Thames, and 
 thence directly sail for Flanders to procure succours. 
 
 On the 5th of November — the fatal day — Sir Eve- 
 rard was to assemble as large a party as possible of his 
 friends at D unchurch, under the pretence of a grand 
 hunting match on the wild heath of Dunsmoor. Thence 
 they were to proceed to raise the country, and to seize 
 upon the Princess Elizabeth then residing at Lord 
 Harrington’s in the neighbourhood. They were after- 
 wards to proceed in a body to Warwick Castle; take 
 possession of the horses there; and thence to Whewell 
 Grange, in Worcestershire, the house of the Lord 
 Windsor, where there was a large store of armour, and 
 arms, and ammunition. 
 
 ‘‘ And by that time,” said Catesby, “ I hope some 
 friends will come and take our parts.” 
 
 VOL. II. S 
 
274 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 While Cateshy, Winter, Fawkes, and the two 
 Wrights thus settled the plan of* proceedings, sitting 
 round the little oaken table in that twilight parlour at 
 White Webbes, Everard, his hat pulled over his brows, 
 paced up and down the room in thoughtful silence. 
 At last he came up to the table and said. 
 
 However well my conscience has been satisfied 
 with the respect to the destruction at one blow of this 
 unrighteous king and most wicked government — ^yet I 
 am uneasy at the very great peril into which some of 
 our best friends. Catholic gentlemen of high blood and 
 great piety, shall be placed. You have said that ‘tricks 
 shall be put upon them all’ to prevent their attending at 
 this parliament — ^but how and they should fail? It seems 
 to me that the blood of one of such men were more 
 than enough to extinguish the whole glory of the en- 
 terprise . . . .” 
 
 The gentlemen present looked significantly at each 
 other. Fawkes said — 
 
 “ Sir Everard Digby hath not served, it would ap- 
 pear, or he would know that many are commanded to 
 the inevitable breach who are from among the most 
 gallant of the army. What is human life of account, 
 except to be perilled in enterprises of moment! And 
 yet, methinks, the Lord Montague should be spared; 
 he is a nobleman of great worth and courage, and the 
 loss of his services would be fatal to the cause.” 
 
 Piercy spoke for his kinsman, the great Earl of Nor- 
 thumberland; Keyes for Lord Mordaunt, his friend and 
 patron; most of them for the young Earl of Arundel. 
 While Everard shuddered to see the question of the life 
 
FATHER DARCT. 
 
 275 
 
 and deatli of men so revered, thrown into the balance 
 and weighed against other considerations, when he was 
 for saving every one of them. 
 
 But Catesby, irritated and angry, said in a low tone 
 to Winter, “ That he made as much account of the 
 nobility, one and all, as of so many atheists, fools, and 
 cowards,’’ adding, looking round him, “ that lusty bo- 
 dies would be better for the commonwealth than they.”* 
 Whatever their own secret intentions, they contrived, 
 however, to soothe and pacify the scruples of Everard, 
 Divers were to have been brought out of danger . . . ” 
 says he, in a letter to his wife. ‘‘I do not think 
 there would have been three worth saving that ■would 
 have been lost.” But when Everard had quitted the 
 company to return homewards to Goddeshurst, the con- 
 spirators came to very different resolutions. The mani- 
 fest risk of discovery which would arise from any thing 
 like a general warning being given to the Catholic 
 members of both houses, decided them against any 
 attempt of the kind. ‘‘ We durst not forewarn them,” 
 said Fawkes, in his confession, for fear we should be 
 discovered; we meant principally to have respected our 
 own safety, and would have prayed for them.” 
 
 They however, it appears, agreed among themselves 
 to dissuade such of their friends as they could privately 
 influence, to forbear attendance upon this parliament; 
 under pretence that little good could be done by so 
 small and uninfluential a body in resisting the intended 
 enactments. 
 
 ♦ Historical. 
 
 S2 
 
276 
 
 PATHER DARCY. 
 
 Sir Everard had left White Wehbes satisfied that 
 every exertion would he made to save, not only the 
 personal friends of the conspirators, hut every man un- 
 concerned in those persecutions for which he considered 
 this tremendous blow in the light of a righteous judg- 
 ment and punishment — hut not so Tresham. 
 
 He was an older and a more experienced man than 
 Everard; and of a temper far less simple and confiding. 
 At a second meeting at White Wehbes, where were 
 present only Catesby, Thomas Winter, Fawkes, and 
 himself, he passionately enlarged upon the tremendous 
 destruction awaiting those of their own faith and party; 
 and insisted vehemently that warning should he given to 
 the Lord Mounteagle, his kinsman — an old associate of 
 their own—who, it is certain, had entered largely into 
 the former transactions with Spain, in regard to the suc- 
 cession of the Infanta. 
 
 Terror for himself — for the risk he ran in his own life 
 and fortunes — ^had mingled with the natural horror 
 which the whole scheme upon reflection excited in his 
 mind. The very coldness of his temper led him to per- 
 ceive its full enormity; a thing hidden from the rest, 
 by their ardent fanaticism and excited imaginations and 
 passions. He stood at the head of the table arguing and 
 representing, with a vehemence and earnestness of emo- 
 tion common to men of cold tempers when once 
 thoroughly aroused. He painted in the most alarming 
 ^colours the perils of the enterprise, the frightful de- 
 struction which would ensue, and the detestation which 
 would pursue their names and memories to eternity. 
 
 “ Besides,” he said, “ the money that I have promised 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 277 
 
 to advance, and which is indispensable to the further- 
 ance of this enterprise, cannot possibly be forthcoming 
 at the time. I must dispose of the outlaying estates in 
 Northamptonshire, and these times are unfavourable. 
 There is a rumour of discontents afloat, which dis- 
 inclines men to be purchasers: better delay this en- 
 terprise till a later day. Why not the day of proroga- 
 tion or dissolution instead of that of the opening of 
 parliament? Retire to Flanders; my purse, my in- 
 terest, shall be yours, Catesby; draw upon me for what 
 you will.” 
 
 ‘‘ It was the only way I could resolve on,” as he after- 
 wards confessed, ‘‘ to save their lives, and to preserve my 
 own fortunes, life, and reputation.” 
 
 The three gentlemen sat observing his passionate ges- 
 tures, the tears starting into his eyes ; and they listened 
 to his broken and earnest discourse in profound silence. 
 
 The eyes of each were fixed upon the speaker with a 
 *sort of gloomy attention — they listened, but the expres- 
 tsion of their countenances showed that they were not in 
 the least persuaded. 
 
 The face of Catesby grew darker and darker. A sort 
 •of heavy cloud of settled despair was gathering slowly 
 over his brow and eyes — but it was a dogged despair; 
 there was nothing in it of relenting or hesitation. It told 
 that he was beginning to look upon his enterprise as 
 lost; but that he did not on that account, in the least 
 degree, waver in his resolution. What love and pity 
 for Everard had been powerless to eflect, it was not 
 given to the eloquence of Tresham to accomplish. 
 
 When Tresham ceased — 
 
278 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Robert turned to Winter, and said, in a voice tbat 
 was almost a whisper — 
 
 ‘‘You see how it is: my heart foreboded it: that man 
 is to me as the evil genius of Brutus : we shall meet him 
 again at Philippi.’^ 
 
 The mournful expression of Winter’s eye, spoke 
 compassion for his friend; he never seemed to think 
 of himself. Fawkes fixed his stern gaze upon Tresham, 
 as if he would dive into his heart; and once or twice 
 his right hand fumbled with the hilt of his poignard. 
 
 “ I thank you, Mr. Tresham,” said Catesby, at last 
 breaking silence, “ your offers are liberal. When lam 
 inclined to take refuge in Flanders, as my purse is 
 emptied of its last rose noble, I may perchance try 
 what may be found in yours. For the present, however, 
 my purpose varies not. I have enlisted with a few 
 other generous spirits in the cause of God and his holy 
 church — honoured as the minister of His sharp ven- 
 geance on impiety and tyranny. When I undertook this 
 championship, I set aside all other regards. We have 
 put our hands to the plough — we cannot look back.” 
 
 “ Yet listen to reason, Catesby,” Tresham again began. 
 
 “ My conscience has been satisfied, and that is enough * 
 I leave reason to cowards and traitors.” 
 
 “ That will I be never,” said Tresham, “you know 
 me better, all of you; yet if I might be heard — if pity 
 for yourselves, for your families, for your children, 
 Robert Catesby — ” 
 
 “ Poor little wretches.” 
 
 “ You have no children, Mr. Winter, it is vain to 
 appeal to such affections in you.” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 279 
 
 “ I have a friend said Winter^ stretching out his 
 hand^ and with a look of ineffable affection laying it on 
 that of Catesby. A fervent grasp was exchanged be- 
 tween them ; then their countenances settled again, and 
 they sat as if prepared to hear with passive indifference; 
 whatever more Tresham had to urge. But he had done : 
 overcome with a variety of feelings, the cold, cautious, 
 Tresham sank down upon a chair, and covering his face 
 with his hands, abandoned himself to his emotions. 
 
 In a few moments, however, he conquered his agita- 
 tion, and rising from his seat, left the room. 
 
 “ There goes a traitor,” said Mr. Fawkes. 
 
 But neither Catesby nor Winter spoke. 
 
 Catesby was lost in his own thoughts He saw before 
 his mental eye this edifice of his pride, his passion, and 
 his fanaticism, to which he clung with an obstinacy and 
 pertinacity which increased with the difficulties which 
 surrounded him, levelled to the dust, and all his slaugh- 
 tered friends and associates scattered round it. 
 
 While Winter, in the destruction they both antici- 
 pated, seemed to see but one figure; and that was the 
 hero of his imagination, the idol of his soul, the friend 
 of his heart, all blackened and bleeding, expiring upon 
 the ground. 
 
 Filled wdth such forebodings, they separated. 
 
280 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 “ Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I; 
 
 It is some meteor that the sun exhales.” 
 
 Shahspeare. 
 
 The 26th of October, 1605, was a calm and pleasant 
 day, a separate sweet, sober. Autumn day, and the Lord 
 Mounteagle summoned his page into his closet, where he 
 had been writing since the morning, and told him that as 
 it promised to be a fine evening, and might be the last 
 which the season would allow him to enjoy, he would 
 spend it at his country-house at Hoxton. Where,” said 
 he, I have not been for a month; so order a man and 
 horse to set off* forthwith, and apprise my housekeeper 
 there, that I shall expect to find a supper prepared for 
 me at eight o’clock, and to taste of Dame Margery’s 
 best syllabubs and junkets; for I am weary of much 
 thought and much writing, and pant for the shade of 
 my walnut trees, and a mouthful of fresh air. My 
 secretary and ordinary gentlemen in waiting will attend 
 upon me, but they need expect no other guests.” 
 
 The page made his obeisance and disappeared; and 
 the earl, having carefully folded the papers on which 
 he had been engaged, and placed them in his strong 
 iron chest, which he locked, deposited the key in his 
 pocket, rose from his seat, and going to the window, 
 threw it up, and looked out. 
 
FATHER DARCY, 
 
 281 
 
 His house commanded a view of the busy and opulent 
 city; and the stirring sounds of commerce, the rolling of 
 drays, the noise of the carters’ whips, and their voices 
 as they cheered their horses, and all the various hum of 
 busy industry, rose to his ear. In spite of the contests 
 of religious parties, and the wrongs and injuries by so 
 many endured, it could not be denied that the country 
 was in a flourishing condition. This Scotchman and 
 his ministers after all, with their Spanish peace, and 
 their abhorrence of war, its expenses and its dangers, had 
 not done so ill. So this nobleman had long thought; 
 and had abjured all his Spanish intrigues, and had given 
 his adherence with unfeigned sincerity to an adminis- 
 tration, which he was persuaded, upon the whole, was 
 pursuing the best interests of the country. 
 
 The Lord Mounteagle understood the position of 
 things, and the difficulties with respect to religion — 
 difficulties which so greatly embarrass governments, and 
 expose them to the censure of men at too wide a dis- 
 tance from affairs to calculate the perplexities, and the 
 contradictory nature of the duties of those more closely 
 engaged in them. 
 
 He had become considerate and temperate, while so 
 many of his former friends and associates had become 
 exasperated to desperation; and in spite of his very 
 near relationship to the families of some deeply en- 
 gaged, had been kept in total ignorance of what was in 
 agitation. 
 
 So on the 26th of October he was calmly meditating 
 upon the advantages of peace, the rewards of commerce, 
 
282 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 and tlie benefit of good order and quiet submission to 
 the existing government; as he rode through pleasant 
 lanes, and between well enclosed and cultivated fields, 
 and, accompanied by his secretary, Mr. Ward, and a few 
 other of his gentlemen, at length reached his house at 
 Hoxton. The house was handsomely built in what was 
 quite the modern taste of that day; the halls were 
 lofty and airy, and paved with many-coloured marbles; 
 and the supper-room, where was a handsome repast 
 served upon gilt plate, and already lighted by nume- 
 rous wax candles, displayed the wealth and easy habits 
 of the possessor. The gentlemen sat down, my lord at 
 the head of the table, and began sociably to discuss the 
 viands before them ; the glass circulated, and the talk 
 was cheerful and animated; they spoke of the ensuing 
 meeting of Parliament, and of the measures to be agi- 
 tated; and of their good hopes, by a well-concerted 
 opposition and peaceable exposure of their grievances, to 
 obtain by degrees from the government such conces- 
 sions as were wanting. 
 
 They spoke as those speak of persecution and oppres- 
 sion which they have no apprehension will extend to 
 themselves; and with that tranquil sense of the inju- 
 ries of others, which visits men vrho have not had much 
 reason to smart for their own. But still they did 
 discuss the subject; and they did intend to use their 
 best exertions in the cause; and they had good reason 
 to hope not without success — that is, the great lord 
 spoke of his own intentions, be it understood; for 
 the gentlemen who attended upon him, though they 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 283 
 
 would have ranked as men of independence in our 
 own days, were then but as small satellites that inva- 
 riably followed in the track of the superior planet. 
 
 The gentleman called Mr. Ward, who was high in 
 the Lord Mounteagle’s confidence, did not mingle 
 much in the conversation. Whilst that nobleman 
 spoke of the extraordinary tranquillity maintained by 
 •the Catholics, and praised their patience and their 
 prudence ; accompanying his observations with the most 
 sanguine anticipation of the good recompense which 
 should finally attend upon such conduct, if they had 
 the virtue to persevere; Mr. Ward kept his eyes fixed 
 upon his plate, and continued his supper in profound 
 silence, every now and then drinking large beakers of 
 water, as if tormented by a grievous thirst. 
 
 He sat on his lord’s left hand, who, however, seemed 
 not to observe his behaviour. 
 
 There were a number of pages in waiting at this 
 supper. My lord asked for a glass of sack ; and on its 
 being presented by a handsome young gentleman of 
 about twelve years of age, who, being something new 
 in the service, spilled a little wine upon the silver salver 
 in the haste and hurry of presenting it, — he demanded 
 where was Roland, who was in the habit of serving 
 him with wine, and giving the little boy a fillip with 
 a good-natured smile at his awkwardness, told him to 
 go and fetch Roland, and tell him to pour out for him 
 a cup of Malvoisie. 
 
 “ For the sack is naught, after all,” he said; and 
 I wish what you have spilled, you young caitiff, were 
 all that I have tasted.^’ 
 
284 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 The boy went out, and on the instant Roland re- 
 turned. 
 
 He had a letter in his hand. 
 
 Where hast thou been, boy?” said my lord, with 
 some little displeasure in his tone; “I do not use to 
 want your services at supper — choose some other hour 
 in the day for your amusements. You have twenty 
 out of the twenty-four, I bethink me, to idle or sleep 
 at your pleasure.” 
 
 ‘‘ May it please your lordship,” said the boy, with 
 much respect in his manner, but his face was flushed 
 and his voice hurried ; ‘‘one called me out from the 
 supper-room to speak with a fellow who stood without 
 at the postern-door. He said he had a message for your 
 lordship, and would deliver it to none but the page 
 who waited on your lordship’s own person.^’ 
 
 “ Didst thou go? It was an idle foolery of some 
 of the scullions, no doubt to get thee a whipping for 
 thy officious pains.” 
 
 “ So I thought, my lord, but I went nevertheless; 
 I don’t know well why I went, but I did go. There was 
 no one at the postern when I got there.” 
 
 “ I could have told thee so,^’ said my lord, laughing 
 good-humouredly, 
 
 “ Phillip told me that certainly one had knocked 
 at the postern, and when he answered it there stood a 
 strange man there, who spoke in haste, but with a 
 sort of solemness which made Phillip believe that 
 there was more than foolery in the matter. He bade 
 him call one of your lordship’s pages, and tell him he 
 would be waiting for him in the street.” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 285 
 
 “ So you went into tlie street, and found as mucli 
 as at tlie postern, I will warrant you,” said my lord. 
 
 ‘‘ No, my lord^ I found the man; he stood outside the 
 stable-yard gate ; but it is pitch dark to-night — I could 
 just see one huddled up in a dark cloak, standing in a 
 corner of the wall, so that passers-by would have not 
 discerned him. He said he had a message for your 
 lordship, and asked how he was to come at the speech 
 of you. I told him your lordship was at supper, and 
 must not be disturbed, but that I would mention the 
 matter, and doubted not in the morning, at a proper 
 hour, you would be pleased to grant him an audience. 
 The matter was pressing, he said, and vrould not brook 
 delay, ‘ But this/ said he, ‘ as if speaking to himself, 
 ‘ may do as well; nay, it is the better way,’ and stretch- 
 ing his hand from under his cloak, he gave me this 
 letter, charging me to deliver it into my lord’s own 
 hands, ‘ as it contains piatters,’ said he, ^ of importance.’ ” 
 “ Poor devil!” said my lord, ‘‘important enough to 
 him. I’ll be bound — the usual petition. Some mise- 
 rable caitiff recusant obliged to fly from inability to pay 
 his fines, and craving assistance. Here, Ward, it seems 
 written in a strange crabbed hand, and marvellously ill 
 / spelt, if one may guess by the superscription. 
 
 ‘ To the right honourable the lord mowteagle^ 
 
 “ Your eyes are better than mine: read it aloud. It 
 seems written in a woman’s hand after all.” 
 
 Shall I give you the well-known letter in its original 
 form and spelling? 
 
 ‘ My lord out of the love i beare to some of youcr 
 frends i have a caer of youer preservacion therefor i 
 
288 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 would advyse yowe as yowe tender youer lyf to devyse 
 some excuse to shift of youer attendance at this par- 
 leament for god and man hath concurred to punishe the 
 wickedness of this tyme and thynke not slightlye of this 
 advertisement but retyere youreself into youre countri 
 wheare yowe maye expect the event in safti for thoughe 
 theare be no apparance of anni stir yet i saye they shall 
 receyve a terrible blowe this parleament and yet they 
 shall not seie who hurts them this councel is not to be 
 contemned because it maye do yowe good and can do 
 yowe no harm for the dangere is passed as soon as yowe 
 have burnt the letter and i hope god will give yowe the 
 grace to make good use of it to whose holy protection i 
 commend you.” 
 
 Mr. Ward’s cheek was as pale as death ere he had 
 finished, but not much paler than that of my lord and 
 his company. 
 
 Lord Mounteagle took the letter from his secretary’s 
 hand. 
 
 ‘^What is the meaning of this?” said he. He examined 
 the hand- writing with the closest attention. Is it — 
 
 no, it cannot surely be — it cannot be Grace Vaux?” 
 This is evidently a disguised hand,” remarked Mr. 
 Ward, now speaking with some difficulty, and evidently 
 struggling hard to preserve an appearance of indifference. 
 
 Mrs. Vaux, had she any communication of import- 
 ance to make to your lordship, being of kin to your 
 kin, might surely have found some better manner of 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 287 
 
 conveying It. This is, after all, as your lordship’s pe- 
 netration at first conjectured, merely a trick to fool your 
 lordship’s pages : and look/’ said he, endeavouring to 
 laugh, but it was a very hollow laugh, “ the planner 
 has succeeded; for not only the pages, but the whole 
 company seem struck dumb, and look as white as 
 corpvses.” 
 
 He was going to take the letter as if to tear it with 
 contempt. 
 
 But, hold, Mr. Ward,” said Lord Mounteagle, 
 ‘‘ these are not times in which such warnings should be 
 dismissed so easily. I think with you the hand- writing 
 is not that of Mrs. Vaux, but be it hers or not I 
 shall hold myself bound to lay this before the Privy 
 Council immediately.^’ 
 
 ‘‘ You will not surely, my lord,” said Ward, pressing 
 his hand upon the paper, in his earnestness, as it lay 
 upon the table before him. ‘‘ Pardon me, my honoured 
 lord, you would not surely disturb the minds of the 
 government with such an unauthorised and unauthen- 
 ticated paper as this ! Consider how prone they are to 
 suspicion on the lightest grounds. How much ill blood 
 and ill disposition . . . . ” 
 
 “ Take your hand off the paper, so please you, Mr. 
 Ward,” said the nobleman, eyeing him sharply, ‘‘ and 
 mind your own business. When I run my neck into a 
 case of misprision of treason it will be time enough to 
 look upon me as incapable of managing my own affairs. 
 Order my horses, Roland,” turning to his page, “ I re- 
 turn to London to-night.” 
 
 Mr. Ward withdrew his hand from the paper, and 
 
288 
 
 rATHEK DAECY. 
 
 bowed in submission to bis lordship’s decision. Once 
 he lifted up his eyes and endeavoured to meet those of 
 his patron, but they were fixed upon him in such a 
 scrutinising manner that his sank before them. 
 
 ‘‘ I.suppose Mr. Ward knew nothing of this letter ?” 
 said the nobleman, at last, in a tone of inquiry ; while 
 his eyes seemed as if they would pierce his inmost 
 thoughts. 
 
 ‘‘ How is it possible my lord should suspect me of such 
 an impudent piece of presumption as to attempt to play 
 upon his credulity? Moreover, his lordship may be 
 pleased to call to mind that I was about to undo my own 
 foolish plot — for it was I who counselled him to pay no 
 regard to this ill-spelled, ill-penned, and ill-expressed 
 attempt at a mystery.” 
 
 ‘‘ True — true,” said Lord Mounteagle, taking his 
 eyes from Mr. Ward^ and once more scrutinising the 
 letter, every sentence of which, obscure as it was, 
 seemed big with meaning — real, serious meaning. 
 
 ‘‘ This is no jester’s letter,” said he, to himself. “This 
 is the writing of one deeply in earnest.” 
 
 The horses were announced, and Lord Mounteagle 
 carefully depositing the letter in his own pouch, mounted, 
 and accompanied by his gentlemen, returned to town. 
 
 He rode straight to Whitehall to the lodging of 
 Robert Cecil, now Lord Salisbury. A Council is sum- 
 moned hastily in the dead of the night, and the mys- 
 terious and terrible paper laid before them. 
 
 They were all men of courage and sense, and pos- 
 sessed that contempt for idle mysteries and rumours 
 of imaginary dangers which marks the man practised in 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 289 
 
 the affairs of the world ; but there was something in this 
 paper which seized upon the imagination of them all. It 
 commanded attention. There they sat, with their strong 
 countenances agitated by a sort of vague terror, their eyes 
 rivetted upon the terrible morsel of paper — that small 
 ill-written, ill-spelt morsel, which still exists, and upon 
 whose brief words depended the fate of a nation, of a 
 monarchy, of a religion, and the lives of thousands 
 and thousands of innocent creatures. 
 
 The king was hunting at Roys ton. 
 
 Hesitating between the terror which the anonymous 
 letter inspired, and that fear of the ridiculous which 
 leads men to hold in so much dread the apprehension of 
 having been led to give undue importance to anonymous 
 threats of this nature, the Council at last came to the 
 decision to await his majesty’s return, lay the letter 
 before him, and take his directions upon the subject: 
 or, in other words, if rash confidence there were, or 
 groundless apprehension, to throw the whole respon- 
 sibility of it upon him. 
 
 The very next morning Thomas Winter was in 
 possession of the fact that the letter had been delivered. 
 
 Mr. Ward called upon him and made the communi- 
 cation. It is not probable that Mr. Ward was in the 
 secret of the plot; but he had, like many other Catho- 
 lics, an impression that some stir, as it was called, was 
 in agitation among the partisans of the cause; and he 
 lost no time in conveying the intelligence of what had 
 passed, to liis acquaintance and friend. 
 
 VOL. II. T 
 
290 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Thomas repaired immediately to the small obscure 
 lodging, still occupied by Catesby, at Lambeth — he 
 was at home. Thomas knocked at the door of the small 
 back parlour which he usually occupied, and was imme* 
 diately admitted. 
 
 He found his friend standing by the window, looking 
 out upon the country which lay before him. The day 
 was perfectly still, but it was dark and cold, and heavy 
 lowering clouds obscured the face of the heavens: 
 the trees were bare of their leaves, the aspect of nature 
 dreary and sad: but what was that, compared to the 
 deep shadows of inexpressible melancholy which clouded 
 the countenance of the wretched man. 
 
 His haggard and sallow cheek was overhung by 
 brows which were shaggy, savage, and lowering; his 
 eye burned within its socket like a fiery coal; his lips 
 were nearly concealed by his rough unshaven beard; 
 and his hair of amazing thickness, but all neglected,, 
 hung over his rich embroidered collar. His dress was 
 handsome as it had ever been — but all faded and in dis- 
 order. Never was misery, never was remorse, never was 
 despair, written in characters more dismal upon a human 
 countenance: but it was the misery, the remorse, the 
 despair, of the for ever lost. 
 
 There was not the slightest sign of occupation to be 
 seen in the room ; no pens or papers upon the table — 
 no books or writings; he seemed so absorbed in his 
 own miserable thoughts, as to have found all employ- 
 ment irksome and insupportable. He was standing with 
 his face leaning against the panes of the window, when 
 his friend knocked — he turned round and bade liim 
 
 enter. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 291 
 
 Thomas Winter liimself was much changed ; his 
 cheek was pale and extenuated, and his pleasant blue 
 eye had lost its lustre: but he, like the subject angels 
 of the gloomy pit, suffered far less in spirit than did 
 the unhapf>y leader. He had flung his conscience as 
 it were, into the keeping of his friend, and to follow 
 him, whatsoever the enterprise, had in it something of 
 satisfaction. He was spared, by this submission of the 
 understanding, all those agonies of remorse which 
 agitated the desperate contriver of this dreadful plot. 
 
 ‘‘ Did you dream bad dreams, Robert, last night?” 
 was Winter’s first address, as he looked upon his 
 friend’s haggard face; ‘‘ or have you already heard 
 what I come here to tell you?” 
 
 “ I cannot very easily have bad dreams,” said Robert, 
 ‘‘ for it is long since I have known what it was to 
 sleep. The Innocent sleep,” said he, with a sort of pas- 
 sionate melancholy of tone — “ Sleep, is for the inno- 
 cent — or for the indifferent — which is it? — for to tell 
 truth. Winter,” putting his hand to his brow, “ things 
 get confused here; and I scarcely know whether to 
 detest myself as a monstrous criminal, or glorify my- 
 self as a martyr — whether to despise or to envy most 
 those who are contented to sit still under their injuries. 
 But your eye is more troubled than usual to-day : what 
 news?” 
 
 The news will soon be abroad,” said Winter, 
 endeavouring to recover his spirits, “ ‘That God and 
 man have conspired to punish the wickedness of these 
 times ; and that they shall receive a terrible blow this 
 parliament^ and yet tliey shall not see who hurts them.’ 
 T 2 
 
292 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 That is the intelligence now lying before his majesty’s 
 most honourable privy council ; and perhaps it might be 
 as well, Mr. Catesby, before amusing ourselves with the 
 old chapter of the casuists which I thought had de- 
 cided the question in our favour long ago — to consider 
 what were best to be done to save our own heads ; and 
 whether we had not better try the air on the other side 
 the water.’’ 
 
 During this speech Catesby had stood perfectly still, 
 his eyes fixed upon Winter’s face. 
 
 ‘‘ Explain yourself,” he said. 
 
 The narration was soon made. 
 
 I have thought so from the first,” said Catesby, 
 after he had stood some time motionless and perfectly 
 silent. “ Tresham has betrayed us. I have long 
 thought, Thomas Winter,” taking his friend’s hand 
 and wringing it in his — ‘‘ that I was a doomed man: 
 That not the deliverance of my church and party, but 
 the destruction of all who have loved and trusted me, 
 was to be my portion. The infatuation which led me 
 to confide in Tresham seems fatal. But, so help me 
 Heaven,” said he with a strange fervency, as I per- 
 severe to the last. This news will soon get abroad ; and 
 some cravens of our league, will in all probability 
 desert us — but I have put my hand to the plough — and 
 I will not look back. If all the horrors of my own 
 thoughts have been without power to shake my resolu- 
 tion, neither shall the fear of what man can do. 
 What say you, Thomas Winter — will you try the air of 
 Flanders? Do so, and leave me to fire the mine with 
 this hand.” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 293 
 
 ‘^The secret of this letter lies at present between us 
 twain,” answered Winter — ‘‘ and the thing is after all 
 perhaps not lost. It is certain that the Lord Mount- 
 eagle himself, was strangely puzzled with regard to the 
 letter; and knew not whether to look upon it as a trick 
 or as a warning. His majesty’s honourable privy 
 council maybe will think^themselves too great and 
 wise to be moved by such stories. Come, man, let us 
 take heart. I spoke of the air of Flanders — for, Catesby, 
 there is that about you, which all men hold precious, 
 and desire to save — but if you peril your life, much 
 better may I mine. I shall follow your path, lead where 
 it may — be ye sure of that — never call Thomas Winter 
 friend else.” 
 
 Catesby answered this effusion with a pressure of the 
 hand. He looked some time at his friend with a strange 
 sort of melancholy tenderness and admiration. 
 
 “ Well” — with some effort collecting his spirits, 
 “you say well. This business may, after all, end here 
 — and at present we had best keep the knowledge of it 
 to ourselves, we may else discourage our friends. Our 
 part is to lie perdue, and watch the course of events. 
 But most of all it imports to confer with that miserable 
 traitor, Tresham, and learn from him how far he has 
 been privy to this letter, and how far he has betrayed 
 us to the government. He is now down in Northampton- 
 shire ; in three days we may expect him in town ; send 
 him word to meet us at White Webbes, and let us search 
 to the bottom of this secret. If my suspicions prove 
 just,” said he with a terrible smile, and putting his hand 
 
294 
 
 TATHER DARCY. 
 
 upon the hilt of his dagger — “ the wood is very thick 
 round White Webbes; and it is the fashion of the place 
 to look to the keeping of secrets.” 
 
 Winter nodded assent. 
 
 It was upon the 30th of October, that in that small 
 room, so often described at White Webbes, these three 
 met. They had sent to Tresham to meet them at this 
 secluded house, on the pretence of discussing important 
 business^ and had agreed to regard his refusal to obey 
 the summons as full confirmation of all their suspicions. 
 
 But Tresham came. 
 
 The room, as I have told you, was lighted only by 
 windows at the top of the high walls. No one could look 
 from within upon what passed without — no one from 
 without could observe what passed within. The two 
 friends sat upon the oaken benches by the side of the 
 fire, for the weather was very cold and chilly. They had 
 laid aside their swords as cumbersome, but each had 
 his hand upon the hilt of the sharp, long, bright dagger 
 which was stuck in the girdle. 
 
 The noise of a horse approaching was heard. 
 
 “ He is come, however,” said they. 
 
 The door opened, and he entered. 
 
 There was neither embarrassment nor hesitation in 
 feature or gesture — neither hurry nor reluctance: he 
 entered wfith his usual cold, reserved air, and coming 
 up to the fire where the others were still sitting, for 
 they did not even rise to receive him, asked what 
 they would, and what was the news now. 
 
 Their eyes were fixed sternly upon him, watching 
 every look and motion ; but he appeared quite uncon- 
 
FATHER DARCY. 295 
 
 cerned, and drawing a clialr, sat down between them, 
 saying, 
 
 ‘‘ What is the matter now? You look strangely upon 
 me, both of you. Tell me, is there any thing new of 
 moment happened, for I am but just returned?’’ 
 
 Only,” said Catesby, his dark, threatening eye fixing 
 his, “ that some villain has betrayed us; and Tom and 
 I here are meditating upon the proper method of 
 stopping his mouth.” 
 
 And Ills hand significantly pulled at his dagger, 
 and displayed a few lines of the shining blade. 
 
 “ I wish you would explain yourself a little more 
 clearly, Mr. Catesby, when you are speaking to me,” 
 said Tresham: my genius does not lie in expounding 
 
 dark speeches. — Cannot you or Mr. Winter here, tell 
 me in one word what has happened ; and in what fresh 
 peril your life, and the lives of all of us who have trusted 
 you, are placed?” 
 
 “ The Lord Mounteagle was sitting at supper . . .” 
 began Catesby, still sternly eyeing him. 
 
 But Tresham altered not a feature, he looked simply 
 attentive. 
 
 ‘‘ And his page delivered a letter — ” 
 
 Still no variation of colour or expression. 
 
 ‘‘ It warned him not to attend in his place in par- 
 liament, and it came from your 
 
 And starting up, he grasped him by the collar with 
 one hand, while, with the other, he drew from its 
 sheath his glittering dagger, and flashed it before his 
 eyes. Tresham raised his hand quietly, and put aside 
 the blade : 
 
296 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 ‘‘So help me all the holy ones of Heaven, as I am 
 ignorant what you are speaking of,” said he, solemnly. 
 ‘‘ If you think, Robert Catesby, because I have pleaded, 
 even to tears, to persuade you to abandon this matter 
 and save your own lives, and the lives of so many 
 brave men and innocent fellow-creatures as this busi- 
 ness will put in jeopardy — if you think that there- 
 fore I would betray your secret and break my sacra- 
 mental oath — you know me not. Here,” rising, for the 
 hand of Catesby had relaxed as he spoke, and loosened 
 from his collar, “ here,” rising and sinking on one 
 knee, “ 1 solemnly invoke all the saints of Heaven as 
 witness of my oath — I have not uttered word nor written 
 line that could betray you ; though I would lay down 
 life to dissuade you from this perilous, and I doubt 
 devilish enterprise.” 
 
 He rose from his knees. 
 
 “ Poignard me, if you will,” he said, with his usual 
 coldness, “ but I warn you, if you do— that you will 
 slay an innocent man.” 
 
 The dagger of Catesby fell into its sheath, the hand 
 of Winter loosed the handle of his. 
 
 “ Then who can it be? — »” 
 
 “Nay,” said Tresham, “you know best who is in 
 the secret of this business. For me, I think you might 
 have supposed that to a kinsman like my Lord Mount-^ 
 eagle, I, for one, need not, had I been so inclined, have 
 risked myself by a dangerous letter — ^half-a-dozen syl- 
 lables spoken in the ear would have sufficed.” 
 
 “ True,” said Catesby and Winter at once — and they 
 resumed their places. But vain was conjecture. The 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 297 
 
 determination to punish perfidy with which they had 
 come to White Webbes, was rather diverted, than their 
 suspicions altogether allayed : they still looked at 
 Tresham suspiciously, and seemed to avoid conversing 
 before him of any of their plans. He perceived this, 
 and rose from his chair, saying, with some dignity, 
 ‘‘ Is this all you had to say to me? If so, let me be 
 gone. Not that I wish to depart, if you have still any 
 doubt remaining which I can clear. I tell you both, 
 you are mistaken in this matter, and I offer to purge 
 myself by any oath you can devise — but before I go, 
 let me repeat, for I am not afraid to repeat — that you 
 are in a dreadful conjuncture, Robert Catesby; that this 
 is an awful and a horrible business ; and that neither God 
 nor man, neither Catholic nor heretic, as you will too 
 late find, but will curse the memory of the man whose 
 evil brain conceived of it. Abandon it, Catesby. Go 
 to Flanders; my purse is yours — live upon my purse. 
 Do what you will with me — but for the love of all 
 that is good on earth, or sacred in Heaven, have done 
 with this dreadful matter.” 
 
 But his words fell as water upon marble, or rather 
 as water upon fire, which it is powerless to extinguish, 
 and only serves to feed. The opposition of Tresham, 
 quite ineffectual to move, only hardened Robert in 
 his dogged determination to persevere in his crime. 
 
 “Thank you, Tresham,” he said, “I will think of 
 what you say; perhaps it may be as well — who knows? 
 — Let us not, however, keep you here any longer : your 
 purgation of yourself from this charge is a great satis- 
 
298 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 faction, both to Mr. Winter and myself: as to your 
 advice, we will think of it.” 
 
 “Think of it! Ay, so we will,” said Catesby, in 
 a tone of exulting defiance, as Tresham left the room : 
 “ we’ll think of it — we’ll think of it when all these 
 villanous thieves and tyrants are blown upward with 
 their heels to the sky; and a Catholic parliament is ab- 
 rogating all their accursed laws. Yes, we’ll think of it 
 then* Master Tresham — and till then, think you as little 
 of us as may be. His purse, indeed I A dependant 
 upon the purse of this pitiful miser, with heart no 
 bigger than a sparrow’s egg I Flanders 1 Ay, ay I the 
 descendant of Richard Catesby starving in Flanders! 
 No — no — no — honest Tom — we’ll play them a match 
 yet, shall make all Europe tremble at the rebound. 
 This government is too wise to be frightened at sha- 
 dows it seems. The letter to my Lord Mounteagle is at 
 the back of the fire by this time : and Master Tresham 
 will take care, I think, how he indites another. I am 
 my own man again. Winter, at last. Come, Tom, let 
 us up and be doing — Six more days ! Come — come” — 
 And his cheek coloured, his whole frame dilated, his 
 eye spoke exultation and assurance; it seemed as if 
 every doubt and apprehension had vanished — such were 
 the alternations of his excited mind. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 299 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 “Pape Satan! Pape Satan! Aleppe!” 
 
 Dante. 
 
 It is Allhallows-day, the 1st of November, 1606 ; 
 and parliament is to meet upon the 5th. 
 
 Coughton, near Alcester, in Worcestershire, the seat 
 of the Throckmortons, is a long, long way from liondon, 
 and what is done there on the 1st, will never be visited 
 by punishment — for the whole frame of government 
 will be destroyed upon the 5th. 
 
 And Father Darcy and Father Tesmond, already ex- 
 ulting in the success of their long-concerted plans, are 
 celebrating openly the magnificent rites of that religion 
 which is soon to establish her unquestioned sway over 
 this benighted land. No longer concealed in secret 
 apartments, no longer hidden in vaults and cellars — 
 the large hall at Coughton is decorated before the 
 open face of day for the imposing ceremony. 
 
 The high altar is erected at one end ; over it hangs a 
 magnificent picture of the annunciation ; the tabernacle 
 for the host below is of richly sculptured gold, and blazing 
 with jewels ; the altar is decorated with its spotless 
 drapery — and covered with rich vases of silver and 
 silver gilt filled with artificial flowers of extraordinary 
 beauty; the immense candlesticks support a multitude 
 
300 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 of blazing wax candles; the steps of tbe altar are co- 
 vered with rich carpets — and Father Darcy, in a 
 splendid dress of crimson embroidered with gold, assisted 
 by tliree other priests, Tesmond, Gerard, and Hall, and 
 by a number of young boys in their white dresses of 
 lawn and rich crimson sashes, waving censers, which 
 scatter incense from their hands — is celebrating high 
 mass in all its ancient splendour. 
 
 I said in broad day — for in broad day were all these 
 preparations made; but it is now a dark November 
 evening, and the shadows fall heavy round the house 
 without^ while the blaze of light within is only the 
 more resplendent for the contrast. 
 
 Do you hear the grand burst of voices that swells 
 under the lofty roof of that magnificent hall? The 
 deep roll of the organ — the voice of exulting triumph, 
 with which the whole assembled multitude unite to 
 utter the sacred hymn — 
 
 “ Gentem auferte perfidam 
 Credentium de finibus ; 
 
 Ut Christi laudas debitas 
 Persolvamus alacriter.” 
 
 It rings through the vaulted roof, that loud song of 
 victory ; it sounds through the long galleries and passages 
 of that ancient mansion — it echoes trembling in many 
 a devoted heart. 
 
 There is Grace Vaux kneeling not far from the altar, 
 her eyes in an ecstasy of thankfulness lifted up to 
 Heaven, her face no longer pale, emaciated and spiritless, 
 but bright, and illuminated with exceeding joy. 
 
 There kneels Evelyn, her eyes bent to the earth in 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 301 
 
 deep and devout thankfulness. And Eleanor, in a sort 
 of passionate rapture, is kneeling too ; but her thoughts 
 are still on earth, still hover round the man, the leader 
 as she doubts not, of this sacred band which is to 
 emancipate them all. 
 
 For they were now made aware that some great 
 enterprise for which their prayers were requested, was 
 afoot, which was to result in the final triumph of their 
 Holy Church. But they were still kept in profound 
 ignorance as to the exact plan with all its frightful 
 details. And Father Darcy, as daring and insolent in 
 success as he had been reserved and timid in danger, 
 now summoned them all to unite in that holy service 
 which should insure the co-operation of Heaven, and 
 the prayers of the hierarchy of saints, for the success 
 of the glorious undertaking. 
 
 And there he stands at the front of the altar, in his 
 magnificent robes of purple and gold, supported by the 
 priests in dresses almost equally rich and gorgeous ; he 
 dares to lift an eye unabashed to the great heavens ; he 
 dares to elevate the Host, the awful sacrifice of the 
 Redeemer of all mankind, the Lord of love, and Prince 
 of peace ; and his heart — black with deceit and treachery 
 — to consummate the awful sacrifice of the mass, while 
 the assembly are humbly and devoutly kneeling around. 
 The marble floor is covered with their sweeping gar- 
 ments; all eyes are bent to earth, all heads are bowed 
 in deep and grateful reverence : and then he gives out 
 another psalm. Again their choral voices swell to the 
 gilded roof ; and this is the psalm he bade them sing. 
 
302 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 (Psalm Ixxix. Deus Venerunt Gentes.) 
 
 Oil God ! the heathen are come into thine inheri- 
 tance, thy holy temple have they defiled, and made 
 Jerusalem a heap of stones. 
 
 The dead bodies of thy servants have they given to 
 be meat to the fowls of the air, and the flesh of thy 
 saints unto the beasts of the field. 
 
 Their blood have they shed like water, and there 
 was no man to bury them. 
 
 We are become an open shame to our enemies, a 
 very scorn and derision unto them that are round about 
 us. 
 
 Lord, how long wilt thou be angry: shall thy jea- 
 lousy burn like fire for ever? 
 
 Pour out thine indignation upon the heathen that 
 have not known thee; and upon the kingdoms that 
 have not called upon thy name. 
 
 “ Oh! let the vengeance of thy servants’ blood that 
 is shed, be openly showed upon the heathen in our 
 sight. 
 
 ‘‘ And for the blasphemy wherewith our neighbours 
 have blasphemed thee, reward thou them, oh Lord ! 
 sevenfold into their bosom. 
 
 ‘‘ So we, that are thy people, and sheep of thy pasture,, 
 shall give thee thanks for ever : and will alway be 
 showing forth thy praise from generation to generation.” 
 
 Everard is present, he is kneehng, his httle son is 
 kneeling by his side, he has a hand in his, and the in- 
 nocent eyes of the child are lifted to his face, filled 
 with a sort of marvelHng admiration, at this unwonted 
 splendour. Tears — the tears of enthusiasm stand in liis 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 303 
 
 eyes, and his countenance is lighted up with a sort of 
 wild expression of passionate self immolation; he feels 
 the little soft trembling innocent hand in his ; he hears 
 the loud bursts of music; and his heart swells to the 
 great sacrifice he is about to make in the cause of that 
 holy ancient church, now once more revealed in all her 
 splendour before his eyes — The church no longer suflFer- 
 ing — the church no longer militant — the church tri- 
 umphant ! The new Jerusalem as a bride coming down 
 from Heaven ! And even these little innocents, whose 
 soft hands are grappling at his father’s heart — even they, 
 yea, they — yea, all he loves, if so it must be, shall be 
 offered up for such a cause. 
 
 For an offering he feels it to be. He knows not why, 
 but rejoicing, as he does, in a victory for his church, he 
 has never once anticipated his own. 
 
 From the first moment of his accession to the con- 
 spiracy, he felt himself a devoted being — the melancholy 
 foreboding was invincible. Was it destined that 
 his heart, that heart so good and generous, should even, 
 while plunging into this abyss' of crime, remain un- 
 stained — that not one sentiment of interested ambition, 
 hope of personal reputation, or purpose of private re- 
 venge, should mar the purity of the hapless victim? 
 
 This disinterestedness it was which so fatally blinded 
 him to the enormity of the crime he was about to com- 
 mit: and when in his last agonies, as the executioner 
 pronounced ‘‘ this is the heart of a traitor,” and the 
 dying man rallying his fleeting spirits exclaimed, “ Tliou 
 liest,” — this was the recollection which supported him. 
 
 And now the ceremony is ended, the tables are 
 
304 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 spread, and all this assembled company, filled with ex- 
 ulting hopes, are feasting and toasting the success of 
 the yet undivulged enterprise. 
 
 Father Darcy sits at the head of the table by the 
 Lady Throckmorton ; he is no longer in his secular 
 habit ; he ventures to wear his Jesuit’s dress as do the other 
 priests — and who so bland, so gentle, so engaging as he 
 on that eventful evening. Could you believe that 
 mild, benevolent blue eye — that persuasive smile — that 
 meek and lowly, nay, almost too humble manner — 
 covers a heart exulting in the possession of the direst 
 secret, and rioting in the anticipation of gratified ambition 
 and revenge? Every now and then he starts and turns 
 and looks round him ; in fancy he hears a loud explo- 
 sion, and the wailing shrieks and cries of thousands. 
 Then, in truth, his cheek does turn pale, and a slight 
 shudder passes over him ; he looks round with a suspi- 
 cious, cautious glance ; but no one has heard the phantom 
 sound except himself, and he resumes his supper, and pours 
 out glass after glass of sparkling wine. The table is sur- 
 rounded by gentlemen and ladies of family and conse- 
 quence, and the talk is of the cheerful future. But of 
 the means which were to secure that prosperous future 
 not one, but the two Jesuits and Everard, had the most 
 distant suspicion. It is but justice to them to repeat 
 this, and their subsequent conduct supports the 
 conclusion, that had they suspected the nature of the 
 plot it would have been rejected with horror. 
 
 But a stir ! as the phrase was — open rebellion, their 
 arms in their hands — was what most among them would 
 have regarded only as an honourable resistance to op- 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 305 
 
 pression ; for so they had been taught ; and this was 
 what they expected — and the exultation which beamed 
 from every feature of the man in whose sagacity they 
 all placed implicit reliance, was received as an earnest 
 of coming success. 
 
 Grace Vaux was certainly no partaker in the feast. 
 
 Her feelings little inclined her to such celebrations. 
 She is kneeling before a crucifix in a small secluded 
 oratory, pouring out her fervent heart in prayers for the 
 success of the great enterprise ; her heart glowing with 
 rapture at the thought of those by whom the great un- 
 dertaking was conducted ; as she already^ in her ex- 
 cited fancy, beheld them adorned with crowns more 
 glorious than earth could bestow; and with palms in 
 their hands receiving from the redeemed multitudes that 
 worship which was offered to the heavenly saints. 
 
 Neither were Everard or Evelyn to be seen at that 
 supper ; they were walking together under certain clois- 
 tered arches on one side of the mansion, which com- 
 manded a view of the surrounding country; their little 
 children were with them. 
 
 The cloisters were now deserted, and except the 
 fountain splashing into the basin in the centre, all was 
 still. But the wind might be heard in sullen blasts, 
 which portended approaching storms and rain, raving 
 amid the tall woods; and the shrill scream of the vane 
 at the top of the stables as it whirled in the wind, 
 seemed to give a wild lamenting sound. 
 
 This is Friday, it is a day of evil omen; on Sunday 
 they are to part. Everard has assembled a large hunt- 
 ing party to hunt on the dreary wilds of Dunsmoor; 
 
 YOL. II. U 
 
306 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 they are to meet at Dunchurch ; and he is to take leave 
 of her and to ride to Goddeshurst upon the Sunday 
 night. He has told her this evening that so it must 
 he, and he has not concealed, now so much is known, 
 that this is hut a pretence to assemble all his friends, 
 and that on the Tuesday, November the 5th, they 
 are to declare themselves openly. 
 
 He has been giving his wife directions what trunks* 
 are to be forwarded after him; and she has already 
 made an inventory of the coats of armour, of the rich 
 suits, and of the moneys which her steward is to des- 
 patch from Goddeshurst to Dunchurch, or to Ashby 
 St. Legers, or to Mr. Talbot’s at Grafton, or to the 
 Lord Windsor’s, as the case may be. 
 
 She has done all this with an air of cheerful alacrity, 
 in spite of her anxious feelings; for to support his 
 spirits in every circumstance, is the principal object of 
 her being. She sees the cloud of melancholy that 
 hangs over his brow, and she encourages him to hope 
 the best, and to dare all in a cause at once so pious and 
 so noble. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! she little knew . . . 
 
 She thought, like the rest, of a manly open opposi- 
 tion to tyranny and misrule ; little dreamed she of black 
 conspiracy, and hateful, treacherous, secret crime. 
 
 Everard smiled sadly as Evelyn cheered. Sadly he 
 
 * “ Besides the trunk of armour which was sent to Mr Catesbye’s, 
 I did carry hut one other trunk with me which had in it clothes of 
 mine. . . . My desire is that one Andrew Knight, of Newport, shall 
 have power to sell such goods as shall be necessary to defray the ex- 
 penses of my wife and children .” — Letters of Sir E, Dighy from the 
 Tower, 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 307 
 
 smiled upon her as upon one by anticipation already a 
 victim ; he saw as with a spirit of prophecy those 
 sweet eyes all darkened with horror, and tears in rivers 
 rolling down pale extenuated cheeks, now so sweetly 
 rounded with health. Sadly and tenderly he smiled 
 upon the kind comforter, and sadly and mournfully he 
 from time to time glanced at his little children. 
 
 On Sunday evening the parting was. 
 
 The great hunting match on Dunsmoor, was to begin 
 on the Monday morning. Evelyn stood at her window 
 and watched the train as they disappeared behind the 
 rising ground. 
 
 Everard was at the head; he rode gallantly forward 
 on a fine spirited horse, but he paused, and turned, and 
 looked back, and again and again waved his hand in 
 farewell. Even at that distance she fancied she could 
 discern the fond tender expression of his countenance. 
 Her heart yet thrilled with the memory of his last affec 
 tionate embrace — her two little children stood at her 
 knee watching with her. 
 
 Father is gone, — quite gone’’ — said the eldest, as he 
 disappeared. Evelyn sighed, and shut the window. 
 She turned with her usual patient fortitude away. 
 
 She never saw him more. 
 
 “ Wc have doffed our black robes, Evelyn, and are 
 come out all glorious in scarlet and gold,” was the re- 
 mark of Fabian, as he met her on the evening of All 
 u 2 
 
308 
 
 FATHER DARCY, 
 
 Saints’ day. And we have all been thanking Heaven, 
 and making sure, as every one does, that Heaven is en- 
 gaged on our side. But for my part I could wish to 
 see people less secure of that matter; for Heaven, as I 
 have heard say, loves not deeds of violence; and the 
 new robes of those holy men have, marvellously to me 
 the aspect of those of that terrible being in the book of 
 the prophets, whose garments had been rolled in blood.” 
 Nothing had ever been able to allay the suspicions 
 which the jester cherished of Father Darcy, nor his 
 rooted dislike to him. But he had long learned to 
 know that such disHke must be confined to his own 
 bosom. He had long learned to sigh over the in- 
 fluence the Provincial had obtained even over the 
 clear-sighted Evelyn. The sagacity of Fabian had 
 made him well aware how hopeless is the war which 
 simple good sense has to wage against enthusiasm 
 and prejudice; and that the part of the poor despised 
 fool never could be made good against that of the 
 subtle and accomphshed Jesuit. In spite of all his 
 tolerated impertinencies, the poor fellow was at heart 
 but a coward; he loved his mistress too dearly to ven- 
 ture to offend her; and the cloud of displeasure which 
 had lately darkened over Evelyn’s face when he in- 
 dulged himself in a jester’s insinuations against Father 
 Darcy, had taught him to sigh and to forbear. At 
 times, however, his old habits prevailed, and unwel- 
 come truths passed his lips; but there was little encou- 
 ragement to persevere. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 309 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 “ Ora incomincian le dolente note 
 A farsi sentire : or son venuto 
 La dove mol to plant o mi percuote.” 
 
 Dante, 
 
 Everard is riding with his train from Coughton 
 to Goddeshurst, this dark lowering evening of Sunday 
 the 3rd of November; and in Lincoln’s Inn Walks, 
 which are at present deserted, two gentlemen are walk* 
 ing together; one with the gestures of almost a frantic 
 man, is conjuring and imploring the other to save him- 
 self and his friends by a speedy flight. 
 
 The clouds overhead are black and threatening, 
 and seem to threaten a great fall of rain, and the wind 
 makes a low moaning sound among the branches of the 
 elms overhead, which tells of a coming tempest. The 
 darkness of the evening seems to lend its influence in 
 increasing the agonies of Tresham’s despair. 
 
 But Thomas Winter is obstinate. 
 
 ‘‘Will nothing move you?” Tresham reiterates. “ Is 
 it in vain for me to repeat that I know the whole plot 
 is betrayed to the privy council — that search will sooner 
 or later be made — that we shall all be seized — that the 
 rack will wring the secret from one or other . . . that poor 
 creature Bates, for instance; and that a death, at which 
 the bravest heart shrinks, with the ruin, root and branch, 
 of our homes and families, will be the inevitable conse- 
 
310 
 
 FATHER DARCY, 
 
 quence. Winter — Winter, by the soul of your mother 
 — by the ashes of your father — by all you love on 
 earth or hold sacred in Heaven — make an end of this 
 detested business.” 
 
 Winter is immoveable. 
 
 ‘‘ Robert Catesby is resolved, and I will never forsake 
 my friend,^’ is all the answer that can be got out of him. 
 
 Thomas Winter possesses the obstinacy of gentle 
 and pliable characters when once they have come to a 
 fixed resolution. 
 
 That night the conspirators met at Lambeth, and 
 Winter reported to them what had passed. 
 
 It was evident to them all that Tresham had means 
 of information not possessed by the rest; that he was 
 in communication with Lord Mounteagle — it might be 
 with the government — but nothing could shake them. 
 The thought of abandoning an enterprise carried on so 
 long — contemplated till their consciences had lost all 
 sense of its enormity in the anticipation of the tremen- 
 dous extent of its consequences — was insupportable. 
 They were infatuated. Piercy was the most determined 
 of all; he declared that be the consequence what it 
 might, he would abide the trial; and Catesby, though 
 he had from the first delivery of the letter gloomily 
 anticipated the result, persisted in his resolution to 
 stand by the enterprise to the last. 
 
 They flattered themselves with the idea that Tresham 
 might have exaggerated the danger in order to induce 
 them to abandon a scheme which it was evident he 
 heartily disliked. The government still remained per- 
 fectly inactive. Mr. Fawkes, who with his usual intre- 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 311 
 
 pidity had visited the cellar every day, found that all 
 was still undisturbed — and now eight-and-forty hours 
 only need elapse, and they should arrive at that goal 
 at which they had aimed for eighteen months, with 
 such singular pertinacity and with such successful 
 secrecy. 
 
 To abandon their purpose now, was not to be thought 
 of. There they all stood assembled — perplexed, yet 
 resolved — alive to all the perils that surrounded them, 
 but determined and undismayed. 
 
 Alas ! that so much courage — that so much self-devo- 
 tion — that so much generous disregard of personal consi- 
 derations, should all have been perverted to so dreadful 
 an object. The generous zeal, the fine moral force, all 
 directed to evil and to crime : the crime only the more 
 enormous, the evil only the more overwhelming, from 
 the strength of those generous, but fatally misdirected 
 principles, from which it had taken rise. 
 
 Alas ! when the light that is within men is darkness, 
 how great is that darkness ! 
 
 “ Oh Ballard ! Ballard ! what hast thou done? — a sort 
 ofbrave youths otherwise endowed with good gifts, hast 
 thou by thy persuasions brought to this utter destruction 
 and confusion.” 
 
 There stands the tall figure of Piercy, his high military 
 countenance, determined and desperate. There stands 
 Catesby, gloomy as that grave which he sees yawning 
 before him — obstinately resolved. There stands Thomas 
 Winter, his hand is upon the shoulder of his friend — on 
 him he rests — ^lie fdllows, he cares not whither, so Catesby 
 lead the way. There stand the two Wrights, their 
 
312 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 coarse countenances lighted up with a sort of fierce, 
 savage defiance. And there stands Fawkes, that strong, 
 iron-hearted soldier, prepared with the indifference of an 
 old veteran of the cruel Spanish wars, to dare and to 
 suffer all. John Grant, of Norbrook is also present, his 
 countenance lighted up with the gloomy fire of desperate 
 fanaticism. Keyes also, looking like a gambler, who 
 throws his last stake, double or quits. And poor simple 
 Bates, his head uncovered, his mouth open, and his eyes 
 staring, gapes and wonders, and does not half under- 
 stand them all.* 
 
 After much consultation, the part of each is allotted 
 and accepted. It was resolved that on the following 
 afternoon Catesby and John Wright should leave Lon- 
 don, and join Sir Everard Digby, at Dunchurch; that 
 Piercy and Thomas Winter should lie concealed in town 
 a few hours longer, to watch the course of events; and 
 that Fawkes, his matches in his pocket, and his dark 
 lantern in his hand, should repair to the cellar, and there 
 remain till the fatal moment should arrive. 
 
 Dangerous as was the part assigned to him, Fawkes 
 accepted it, or rather persisted in it, without the slightest 
 hesitation. It had been the part he had originally under- 
 taken, on account of his knowledge of military mining 
 operations; and the perils which surrounded them at 
 the present moment, did not seem to shake his resolution 
 in the slightest degree. He went to his appointed place 
 with the intrepidity of a veteran, commanded to take 
 his station upon some mine, which it is known, will in 
 
 * See the curious old print in the British Museum. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 313 
 
 all probability, immediately upon his occupation of 
 it, explode. 
 
 F earfully were those last hours spent by them all. The 
 horror of the deed, now the consummation so nearly 
 approached, bathed with cold sweat their faces, and 
 the hair of their heads stood on end. — This horror being 
 mingled with the appalling suspicion that the whole 
 scheme was already discovered, and would, even at the 
 very last moment be defeated. Then the awful alternative 
 in which they stood ! between the slaughter of countless 
 numbers of mingled Innocent and guilty creatures, now 
 sleeping in peaceful security, to be awakened as at the 
 blast of the last trumpet, and hurried into eternity — or 
 the utter destruction of themselves, their friends, their 
 houses, their families, while their very names should be- 
 come a curse and a by-word among men ! Such were the 
 pictures which the excitable imagination of Catesby 
 painted in dreadful vividness before his eyes, as, wander- 
 ing up and down the now darkened streets of the 
 slumbering city — for which of them could taste repose 
 upon that fearful night? — he abandoned himself to all 
 the agonies of his despair. 
 
 It would not have been yet too late : for, such was 
 his exceeding influence over the minds of his friends, 
 that what the prospect of danger, death, torture, and 
 infamy, was powerless to effect, one Avord from his 
 lips would have brought to pass. But that temper, na- 
 turally obstinate, reckless, determined, and desperate, 
 had only been rendered doubly obstinate, reckless, de- 
 termined, and desperate, under the influences to which 
 he had been exposed. And though voices, as of 
 
314 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 angels, calling from above — and tbreatenings, as of 
 demons, clamouring from below — seemed sounding in 
 his ears as he hurried from place to place during that 
 frenzied night — calling upon him to repent — to retract 
 — while yet there was time — nothing moved him. 
 
 The morning broke upon that faded countenance — 
 faded like one changed to a deathlike paleness by the 
 agonies of the rack — but that eye of invincible energy 
 burned with unextinguishable fire. 
 
 It might be a little past midnight, on the memorable 
 5th of November, 1605, when Sir Thomas Knyvet, as is 
 well known, accompanied by a sufiicient number of as- 
 sistants, arrived at the vault where the gunpowder was 
 deposited. Fawkes was just stepping out from the 
 door, dressed and booted as if for a journey, and was 
 immediately arrested. 
 
 An old contemporary print represents him in his tall 
 Spanish hat, and long Spanish cloak, seized by two 
 or three men — ^his dark lantern is in his hand- — and the 
 piercing eye of Providence, from one corner of the pic- 
 ture, pours a beam of concentrated light upon the 
 wretched man. 
 
 In the afternoon of the preceding day, the con- 
 spirators had been informed by Fawkes that the cellar 
 had been visited, but that the barrels of gunpowder 
 had escaped observation. Upon this, Catesby and 
 John Wright had mounted their horses and had gal- 
 loped out of town, in the hopes of joining Sir 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 315 
 
 Everard Digby, and in any event raising tlie country 
 in open rebellion. 
 
 Piercy and Kit Wriglit, as soon as tbe arrest of 
 Fawkes had taken place, followed at full speed; Rook- 
 wood and Thomas Winter remained a few hours longer 
 in London, to watch what would next take place. 
 
 Early in the morning they were in the streets to col- 
 lect intelligence. They found the town almost dis- 
 tracted with amazement and horror. People were run- 
 ning up and down with looks terrified — hair dishevelled, 
 and eyes wild with dismay — interrogating each other, 
 and without waiting for an answer, hurrying away in 
 opposite directions. Some stood stock still, as if petrified 
 with amazement — others gathered in knots in the 
 corners of the streets — whispering with suppressed 
 voices — and starting as the wintry wind rushed howl- 
 ing down the streets, interrupted by sudden deluges 
 of rain, which separated the whisperers, only to re- 
 assemble again as the storm abated. The shops were 
 empty — the sound of commerce had ceased in the 
 streets — not a cart or dray was to be heard — a terrific 
 pause seemed to pervade human existence, and the hum 
 of life to be silent in the busy town. A pause — as if 
 men still anticipated in breathless terror, the blast of 
 that horrible tempest which was to have destroyed such 
 numbers. 
 
 Winter, with extraordinary coolness walked about 
 the streets. It was then early ; and the sun had not 
 yet risen. He made his way in the dim twilight of a 
 November dawn, towards the Parliament-house: but 
 in the middle of King-street, Westminster, he found a 
 
316 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 guard standing, and permission to pass was refused: 
 as he parleyed with the guard, a man passed by and 
 said — There is a treason discovered, and the king and 
 lords should have been blown up.” He stopped to hear 
 no more, but taking his horse rode out of town, to- 
 wards Worcestershire. 
 
 He did not attempt to follow the others. He seems 
 to have been for the moment confounded, and without 
 settling any plan with himself, made for his brother, 
 Robert Winter’s house, at Huddington. 
 
 Rookwood and Keyes had deserted their houses, 
 and also ridden out of town. Rookwood, who was a 
 man of large fortune, and had relays upon the road, 
 followed the track of Catesby and Piercy, and over- 
 took them as they mounted the ascent at Brickhill. 
 
 They had ridden, and were riding, as if pursued by 
 the fiend; the desperate vehemence of the wild-goose 
 chase once described by Evelyn, was as nothing to the 
 headlong haste, with which, regardless of every other 
 consideration, they urged their horses forward at the 
 very top of their speed, over the deep and miry roads. 
 The rain was now falling in torrents — the heavens, as 
 if in a second deluge, seemed descending in sheets of 
 water to wash out the memory of this execrable crime. 
 
 They dashed on — their large cloaks all heavy with 
 rain, and bespattered with mud and mire, impeded the 
 headlong fury of their course — they stopped, flung 
 them away, and hid them behind the hedges — and then 
 forward — forward — 
 
 Alas, to what a goal ! — But the furies of remorse, 
 despair, and passion pursued them; and though no 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 317 
 
 hope, hut that of a last and a desperate struggle wherein 
 to sell their lives as dearly as possible, was before them 
 — they hurried onward with resistless speed. They 
 seemed to fly — but “ black death sat behind the horse- 
 man.” 
 
 It was about six o’clock in the evening, of the Tues- 
 day, the 5th of November, that with faces all darkened 
 by despair, they reached the town end of Ashby St. 
 Legers — in other words, the entrance of the village, 
 which stood at some little distance from Catesby’s home. 
 
 To meet his mother — that cruel, irritating mother — 
 was impossible; to visit his home, had it been a happy 
 home, under his present feelings, might have been still 
 more intolerable; with the hideous despair which had 
 gathered round his heart, now visible in his blighted 
 countenance, Catesby dismounted from his horse, and 
 sent to call out Robert Winter. 
 
 Robert Winter was then at Ashby, unconscious of 
 what had taken place ; and employed in a vain attempt 
 to reconcile the mother with her son. 
 
 He came out to the end of the village, and upon 
 the small bank beyond the stream, found the jaded 
 and exhausted company, all drenched with rain and 
 covered with mire, sitting upon their wearied horses — 
 whose heads hanging down, and battered and panting 
 sides, gave evidence of the fierce desperation with 
 which they had been urged forward. 
 
 What news?” said Robert Winter, astonished at 
 their appearance. 
 
 “ All is lost,” was Catesby’s brief reply. “ Fawkes 
 is in the Tower — we left London last night.” 
 
318 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Will you not come in and take some rest and 
 refreskment?” 
 
 “ No, so help me God, in this my utmost need, as 
 I never enter under my own roof more. I am a 
 vagabond upon the earth, like Cain the first murderer 
 — Here is his mark already upon my brow.” 
 
 Winter looked up involuntarily. 
 
 There was that — that indescribable expression, not 
 to be mistaken. The hand of the Almighty had writ- 
 ten it in characters ineffaceable — it was as he said — the 
 brand of the first murderer was there. 
 
 The other gentlemen, a little grouped together, sat 
 upon their drooping horses, watching their leader. 
 They were passive, as utter hopelessness renders men; 
 they seemed to sit there^ only waiting to know what 
 form of death he was about to choose for them. 
 
 Catesby stooped down, scooped in his hand some ot 
 the water from the brawling brook which runs through 
 the village of Ashby, and hastily drank repeated 
 draughts of it — then he dashed the water over his 
 heated face. 
 
 The others dismounted and did the same. 
 
 He seemed in some degree refreshed by this, and 
 rousing himself^ and endeavouring to shake off the gloomy 
 desperation which was fast seizing upon his spirits, he 
 proposed, that^ wearied as were their jaded steeds, 
 they should remount immediately, and join the assem- 
 bled party at Dunchurch. 
 
 Attended by Robert Winter, they accordingly set 
 forward; and plodding drearily through the deep and 
 miry lanes — their almost dying horses floundering and 
 
FATHER DARCY. 319 
 
 stumbling at every step — readied the inn about ten 
 o’dock on that same night. 
 
 The little hostelry was filled to overflowing with a 
 richly accoutred and gallant company. 
 
 Early in the evening, Sir Everard Digby, followed 
 by a large party of gentlemen, had ridden in from 
 hunting ; and fresh gentlemen, followed by servants and 
 retainers, were hourly arriving from every side. 
 
 Though still ignorant of the precise nature of the 
 enterprise in hand, the whole company was flushed with 
 hope and expectation. The hostelry stood upon the 
 edge of D unchurch green, with two or three tall elms 
 in front of it, among which the sign of the never to be 
 forgotten dun-cow was swinging and creaking in the 
 November wind ; before the door, numerous gentle- 
 men’s servants, pages, and retainers were lounging, 
 laughing, swearing, and exchanging practical jokes, all 
 in the highest spirits at the idea of a stir ; and under all 
 that excitement which common minds experience in 
 the expectation of new events — be the anticipated 
 disturbances of what nature they will. The court-yard 
 and stables behind were crowded with horses of every 
 description, and resounded with the voices of huntsmen, 
 valets, and grooms; while within, the low I'aftered 
 ceilings were gleaming with reflected light from the 
 huge blazing fires, and innumerable lamps and candles — 
 every room being filled with company. Many of the 
 gentlemen wore their hunting suits, others were splen- 
 didly dressed, as for some great occasion ; the tables were 
 
320 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 covered with the best viands which mine host could 
 collect; and the wine was sparkhng in the glasses, 
 as they were raised to the lips, in answer to one toast 
 after another; each couched in mysterious terms, and 
 each conveying the same hidden meaning. 
 
 In the largest apartment, at the head of a long 
 oaken table, surrounded by the guests of greatest dis- 
 tinction, among which were Sir Robert Digby and the 
 two Littletons, Everard was sitting. His face was un- 
 usually excited, the red colour came and went ; now his 
 brow was flushed, and his eye sparkled with a strange 
 unwonted excitement; now he listened at a pause in 
 the conversation, and turned pale with excessive 
 anxiety and expectation; but nothing was heard save 
 the wind roaring round the house in sudden gusts, and 
 the splash at intervals of the torrents of rain, followed 
 by the shouts and laughter of the men without, as they 
 ran for shelter under the ample porch, or crowded 
 together beneath the elm trees. A loud burst of the 
 tempest was heard, and the two Littletons, who were 
 in the secret, exchanged looks with Everard. They 
 shuddered, turned pale, and listened, as if all ear — to 
 their excited imaginations it seemed as if at that 
 moment the explosion had taken place. 
 
 Come, Everard,” said his uncle. Sir Robert, 
 “ thou’rt strangely absent to-night — pass the bottle and 
 give us another toast.” 
 
 But the untasted glass of Everard was still in his 
 hand and rested upon the table. He heard not a word 
 that was said. Sir Robert turned to Humphrey Lit- 
 tleton, “ The young gentleman is strangely disordered 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 321 
 
 to-night. Come, Mr. Littleton, let us have a toast 
 from you.” 
 
 Three brimstone matches and a farthing rushlight,” 
 was the reply. 
 
 Littleton was a sort of a humorist, and as an in- 
 stance of his oddity, the toast, without further re- 
 flection, was accepted and drunk with loud laughter. 
 
 Still, in spite of the high spirits they were in, as the 
 evening advanced, and the time approached when it 
 would be possible for one riding post haste to have 
 arrived from London with the intelligence of what had 
 been done on the morning of the 5 th, — they, who had 
 all been taught to expect that day as the one upon 
 which the rising in the metropolis was to take place, 
 began to hold their breath, listen, and look anxiously 
 from time to time, at each other. 
 
 “ What a cursed din those rascals without keep up,” 
 said Stephen Littleton, impatiently. “It is impossible 
 to hear, though a company of horse were galloping in 
 at the town end.” 
 
 “ Listen,” said Everard, authoritatively. 
 
 A sort of broken gallop, as of horses forced forward, 
 yet faltering and stumbling at every step, was now 
 heard. An instantaneous silence in the crowd without, 
 succeeded ; and wliile the company round the table sat 
 in mute expectation, the door opened — and, bespattered 
 with mire ; their hats and feathers drooping over their 
 faces ; drenched with rain which streamed from their 
 cloaks and collars; their countenances pale, jaded, and 
 sunken, and a sort of wild desperation and hurry in 
 
 VOL. II. X 
 
322 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 their eyes and gestures; Catesby, Piercy, Rookwood, 
 Keyes, and Robert Winter entered the room. 
 
 Sir Everard started from his seat, uttered a cry of 
 dismay as his eyes fell upon Catesby, and sank back 
 again into his chair. 
 
 The rest of the company, with looks aghast, remained 
 as if nailed to their seats, their eyes rivetted upon the 
 miserable party. 
 
 Catesby, undismayed, even in this last extremity, met 
 the doubting, inquiring, dissatisfied looks that sur- 
 rounded him, with his usual air of dauntless defiance; 
 and walking straight up to the table, and laying his 
 hand upon it, with a clear, steady voice, he said : 
 
 “ Too true, gentlemen, the enterprise in London has 
 been discovered and defeated. The government is 
 aroused ; the news will be abroad in twelve hours more 
 — and unless we find means to provide for our safety, we 
 are all dead men.” 
 
 A murmur of general dissatisfaction spread throughout 
 the assembly, increased by the voices of all the gentle- 
 men assembled at supper in the other rooms, who came 
 crowding in great agitation and excitement into the 
 apartment. 
 
 Threatening looks were fixed upon the speaker, as 
 the company, rising in a sort of angry impatience from 
 their seats, crowded round him, with eyes that demanded 
 explanation, and brows that lowered with displeasure. 
 All had risen but Everard; he had fallen back in liis 
 chair, and had covered his face with his hands. 
 
 “ It is too true,” repeated Catesby, haughtily looking 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 323 
 
 round, and confronting with an air of proud indiffer- 
 ence, the looks of displeasure that met him on every 
 side; the enterprise upon which 1 and twelve honour- 
 able gentlemen had staked their lives, has been blown. 
 — One of our company is already in the hands of this 
 detested government — but he is bold, faitlifub and true, 
 and we need fear no treachery from him. The rack and 
 the scaffold may be his portion, but I question whether 
 in his solitary dungeon in the Tower, he shows so pale, 
 or so fallen a countenance, as any of those I see around 
 me here. We have done what we could, nor is it our 
 fault if there has been a traitor in the camp. It remains 
 only to learn whether any of this present company are 
 bold enough to draw their swords in support of a good 
 cause not yet entirely lost ; or whether the twelve brave 
 men who ascended the breach, shall be abandoned by 
 their companions, and left there to die.’^ 
 
 The countenances around him softened somewhat at 
 this speech, and the gentlemen returning to their seats, 
 asked in a low voice, and as if questioning among each 
 other, what was next to be done. 
 
 At length Sir Robert Digby, a man of more age and 
 authority than the rest, elevating his voice above the 
 others, said: 
 
 “ Before we proceed further in tliis business, we 
 would at least be glad to be enlightened as to that of 
 which we have till now been kept ignorant. — What 
 was the precise nature of the undertaking in which we 
 were summoned here by our friends to assist? — What 
 was that plot, which, if we arc to judge by the appear- 
 ance of Mr. Catesby and his companions, has been so 
 X 2 
 
324 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 signally defeated ? Everard/’ turning to his nephew, 
 ‘‘ you know the confidence I have ever reposed in you. 
 Such has been the reliance, young as you are, that has 
 been placed in your judgment and integrity, that your 
 slightest intimation has been sufficient to assemble this 
 honourable company around you. I ask you now, and 
 I demand of Mr. Catesby, what was the plan for the 
 general good, which we here stand called upon to sup- 
 port? and what is the nature of the discovery which 
 has been made by his majesty’s government?’’ 
 
 • As he spoke, scales as it were seemed to fall from the 
 eyes of Everard. In one instant, and as if with super- 
 natural brightness, the light of truth for the first time 
 flashed before his eyes; and as the stern and searching 
 eye of his uncle fell upon him, seeming to penetrate his 
 inmost soul, his sank before it, and an expression of 
 the most painful confusion and dismay was visible in 
 his countenance. 
 
 But Catesby, still erect and dauntless, his hand resting 
 firmly upon the table, in a voice that never faltered, and 
 with a countenance, the colour of which not for one 
 moment changed, at once disclosed the nature of the 
 intended plot. 
 
 A general cry of irrepressible horror greeted the ex- 
 planation. Men fell back from him as from one tainted 
 with some dreadful plague; leaving him and his des- 
 perate and wretched company, standing in a group 
 alone at the end of the room, exposed before the eyes of 
 the whole indignant assembly. 
 
 There was scarcely one present who had not a friend, 
 a kinsman, an intimate acquaintance at least, sitting in 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 325 
 
 the chambers of that parliament condemned to this 
 hideous destruction; and every heart sickened with 
 unutterable horror at the idea of so merciless and in- 
 discriminating a slaughter. 
 
 Catesby, his brow darkening, his eye beaming with 
 desperate and hopeless defiance, kept his ground; and 
 stood there as a mark for the execration written on 
 every countenance, and muttered by many a tongue. 
 The gentlemen behind him, his fellows in this dreadful 
 crime, with eyes aghast and staring, seemed thunder- 
 struck with astonishment at this unexpected reception 
 of their design. 
 
 But Everard lifted up his face, glanced hastily round 
 at the assembled company, then sunk his head upon his 
 arms on the table, and uttered one low, deep groan. 
 
 Then old Sir Robert Digby, that man of unques- 
 tioned honour and integrity, rose from his seat, and 
 standing up, said in a loud and distinct voice : 
 
 “ Gentlemen, and Catholics, members of an honour- 
 able and noble church — we have neither art or part in 
 this devilish enterprise. Those, who instead of drawing 
 the generous sword, and perilling life in open battle 
 for the honour of God, have been skulking in corners, 
 and mining in dark cellars — content to scatter destruc- 
 tion alike on enemies and friends, and to escape by flight 
 from the consequences of that explosion, which they 
 themselves have prepared — may seek supporters else- 
 where than from among us Farewell, Everard, I 
 
 could have wished to have left the descendant of your 
 honoured grandfather in a nobler and better company. 
 Escape as you best may, the punishment you have called 
 
326 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 upon your head from the vengeance of God, and the 
 outraged justice of mankind: but look not for shelter 
 or assistance from me. Come, gentlemen, the night is 
 far spent — it were better we should all ride home.” 
 
 And with an air of lofty contempt and indignation, 
 he left the room, followed by the most part of the com- 
 pany. There was a general calling to horse, a general 
 hurrying and shouting among grooms and pages — then 
 the galloping of horses was heard, as troop after troop 
 departed. 
 
 Then those wretched men lifted up their eyes which 
 had remained fixed upon the ground, during Sir 
 Robert’s speech, and looked round the apartment — and 
 there they stood abandoned and almost alone. 
 
 Catesby, stern and gloomy, his eyes fixed upon the 
 table before him, had listened, without moving a feature 
 to Sir Robert’s address. Even after he had left the 
 room he still remained standing where he was, lost as it 
 would seem in depth of thought. 
 
 Everard, his face buried upon his arms, neither spoke 
 nor moved — and hardly seemed to breathe — till one 
 went up to him and touched his elbow. He lifted up 
 his wan and woe-begone countenance, and looked. It 
 was his brother, it was J ohn Digby . 
 
 Everard did not speak, but his eye seemed to say — 
 You ! — and have you not deserted me?” 
 
 “ Everard,” said John Digby ; his voice was low, and 
 trembled with horror and emotion, but his eye spoke 
 the deepest and tenderest compassion : ‘‘Brother, let us 
 both fall down upon our knees and thank the Almighty, 
 that in his infinite mercy he has spared you from the 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 327 
 
 commission of this execrable crime.” Then melting into 
 pity at the sight of his brother’s fallen and bewildered 
 countenance, he added, “ Those cursed priests have be- 
 trayed my admirable brother. But be comforted — ^be 
 comforted, Everard. There may be a life to pay in expia- 
 tion, but that you will cheerfully offer. — Let us fall 
 down and thank the Almighty that your hands are yet 
 pure of innocent blood.” 
 
 ‘‘ There Is not one among them that does not look 
 upon it with abhorrence,” said Everard, gazing ruefully 
 first upon one hand and then upon another, as if the 
 crimson stains of guilt were on them ; then shaking his 
 head mournfully, he said, and I could believe it was 
 the part of a martyr! .... Was it my uncle I heard 
 speaking?” he continued, endeavouring as it would 
 seem to recover his recollection. ‘‘ And is he gone 
 with his company? — And why are you not gone too, 
 then?” 
 
 I will never leave thee nor forsake thee,” said John 
 DIgby, throwing his arms round his brother, and bursting 
 into a torrent of tears; ‘‘for thou mayest die the death — 
 but never hadst thou the heart of a traitor.” 
 
 During this short scene the eyes of Catesby had been 
 fixed upon the two brothers ; and at one time a sort of 
 dim cloud, as if of water had passed over that fiery eye. 
 There was a slight swell in his chest — the hysterica 
 passio of poor Lear rose and choaked in his throat; then 
 he turned round to the few gentlemen who had not yet 
 deserted him, and said with astonishing composure and 
 steadiness — 
 
 “ Before we entered upon this business, we had the 
 
328 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 assurance of those whom God hath appointed to direct 
 our consciences, that this cause was holy, just, and 
 righteous, and that any price was to be considered light, 
 and any action justifiable, by w^hich to secure the eman- 
 cipation of God’s holy and only Church upon earth. 
 
 ‘‘The remedy was sharp, it is true, but the cause 
 required it, and the occasion justified it. — Gentlemen, 
 I entered not unadvisedly upon this course. I had the 
 solemn assurance of our Father Provincial, repeatedly, 
 anxiously, and earnestly asked^ that this plot, terrible 
 as it seems to you all, was one to be justified by the 
 laws of God — that where necessity demanded it, the 
 sacrifice of some innocent with many nocent was not to 
 be withheld. We sought to gratify no private ambi- 
 tion, to satisfy no private vengeance — we perilled our 
 lives, our estates, and, it may be, our souls, in the cause 
 of God’s religion, and of our oppressed and suffering 
 party. Judge of it as you will — but what I thought 
 then, I continue to think now — I repent not the part 
 I undertook in the quarrel— and hopeless and despairing 
 as is the aspect of the enterprise, I am ready, nay, re- 
 solved, to go on with it.” 
 
 Everard lifted up his eyes, as if he had found some- 
 thing like consolation in this speech — John Digby 
 shook his head. 
 
 Everard,” said Catesby, with authority, “ listen to 
 me. The cause for which we undertook this remains 
 the same, — the same say I !— its agency has increased 
 a thousand-fold. The ruin which hung over our mise- 
 rable party will fall with redoubled force upon their 
 heads, in consequence of this fatal discovery. But we 
 
FATHER DARCY, 
 
 329 
 
 are yet men, and have yet our religion and our friends 
 to defend — let us, at least, make a stand. There are 
 some hopes that a rising may be expected in Wales. 
 By a brave resistance on our part, there is a chance, 
 before we perish, of obtaining better terms for our 
 friends and families. Let us in this extremity do all 
 we can. Something may be purchased for our reli- 
 gion by the sacrifice of our hearts’ blood. Let us in 
 these, our last hours, do our best for that cause for 
 which we have lost all.” 
 
 At this speech the few gentlemen remaining in the 
 room approached the table — while Everard lifted up 
 his hand and sat earnestly attentive, and even John 
 Digby listened. 
 
 Catesby then proposed that they should mount 
 immediately, and pursuing their way through War- 
 wickshire and Worcestershire, raising the country as 
 they went along, should endeavour to reach the con- 
 jfines of Wales, and, if possible, make some stand, so 
 as to obtain before that final surrender, which he 
 seemed to regard as inevitable, some composition for 
 their friends and families, and some relaxation of the 
 penal statutes in force against the unhappy recusants. 
 
 To such suggestions all listened with avidity — and 
 as they discoursed of the means for carrying the plan 
 into execution, their brows cleared, and a faint win- 
 try kind of hope cheered, in some degree, their sink- 
 ing hearts. The first difficulty they had to contend 
 with was the want of horses; for their own, on which 
 they had ridden from London, were almost incapable 
 of leaving the stable. Catesby, who was long beyond 
 
330 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 the regard for minor scruples, immediately proposed 
 to take such nags as they could find at the inn, ride 
 to Warwick, and then breaking open the stables of 
 a certain man, a breaker of great horses, there supply 
 themselves with what was wanting. 
 
 To this Robert Winter objected, saying that this 
 attempt would make a great uproar in the country, and 
 would raise every hand against them when once known, 
 — adding, that they should still further incur the 
 
 wrath of their gracious king by so doing.”^ 
 
 Catesby eyed him a moment, and then said — 
 
 Some of us may not look back.” 
 
 But,” said Robert Winter, “ others, I hope, may, 
 and therefore I pray you let this alone.” 
 
 ‘‘ What, hast thou any hope, Robin?” said Catesby, 
 with some return of ancient tenderness in his tone and 
 eye. assure thee, there is none that knoweth of 
 this action but shall perish.” 
 
 With much the same conviction in all their hearts, 
 about ten o’clock on that night, the company, amount- 
 ing with servants and followers, to about, it may be, 
 one hundred, departed from Dunchurch. 
 
 John Digby was not among them. 
 
 Everard, resolved as he was to perish along with 
 those with whom he had engaged in this enterprise, 
 insisted that his brother should retire. His whole 
 conduct throughout is marked with the tenderest soli- 
 
 * Historical. 
 
FATHER DARCr. 
 
 331 
 
 citude for others, mingled with the most generous con- 
 tempt for his o^vn sufferings and danger. 
 
 John Dighy had pressed to accompany Everard in 
 this last struggle ; he could not endure the idea of for- 
 saking the man he loved in this his extremity. 
 
 But Everard would listen to no such suggestion. 
 
 Thou hast kept thyself altogether clear from this 
 matter,” said he, and God forbid that I should 
 suffer thee to run into peril for my poor sake. Thou 
 hast heard the doom of all pronounced, but thou hast 
 not deserved, and so help me Heaven shalt not share it. 
 On my head let the punishment fall — Would to God 
 that others innocent as thyself might be spared their 
 heavy part, but this may not be. Ride to Coughton, 
 dear John, with all speed; see my wife, and break this 
 heavy news to her. Tell her she shall hear of me ere 
 morning. Comfort her and support her, and kiss my 
 little ones for their poor father.” 
 
 All this was said with the sort of melancholy, patient 
 despondency of one who considered himself altogether 
 undone, but yielded to his fate with the submission of 
 a heart that acknowledged the righteous equity of the 
 inffction. 
 
 And so the brothers parted. 
 
 Miserable, depressed in spirit, terrors from without 
 and a troubled conscience within, their hearts trembling 
 with a rising distrust of the righteousness of that cause 
 to which they had offered all, the wretched fugitives, a 
 
332 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 slender and disheartened company, pursued their way 
 through a cold, dark November night. The howling 
 winds rushed through the branches over their heads as 
 they traversed the woody lanes of Warwickshire, toss- 
 ing their leafless arms on high, as if in defiance of 
 their sufferings; — the dark night cast her shadows 
 around them, and the rain from time to time fell 
 in heavy showers ; while the pale watery moon wading 
 between the clouds, cast a spectral fight upon this dis- 
 mayed and miserable party, now reduced to less than 
 a hundred, and from which at every mile they made, 
 some one or other who had joined them, found means 
 to escape. 
 
 They traversed the night like fearful spectres, de- 
 serted of God and pursued by the vengeance of man. 
 
 At Warwick they arrived in the dead of midnight. 
 All had been wrapped for two hours in sleep ; and the 
 whole town was dark and silent. 
 
 In spite of the remonstrances of Robert Winter, here 
 Catesby and some of his companions broke into a stable 
 of great horses, and tying up their jaded steeds in the 
 place of those they took, mounted and hurried forwards 
 to Norbrook, the house of John Grant, not far distant. 
 
 Norbrook was at that time a vast and stately edifice, 
 for John Grant was a man of family and considerable 
 fortune ; a heap of ruins is all that remains of it now. 
 
 Here they paused for breath and consideration, if 
 consideration it could be called. John Grant was an 
 obstinate fanatic — nothing that had occurred had in 
 the least degree altered his view of the justice of 
 
FATHEK DAKCY. 
 
 333 
 
 liis cause; and his steady adherence to his own ideas 
 upon the matter, in some degree served to cheer and 
 strengthen the fainting hearts of the rest. 
 
 There was a large table in the centre of the vast hall, 
 already covered by the care of Mr. Grant with arms 
 and armour; and here each gentleman provided him- 
 self with such provision as he thought necessary; for 
 hitherto they had worn their riding dresses, and were 
 furnished only with their riding rods. 
 
 Everard, who was well mounted, had not stopped at 
 Warwick; he had ridden forward to Norbrook. They 
 found him engaged in writing when they came in. 
 
 Catesby went up to him. He did not speak, 
 but he took the hand of Everard, and pressed it. 
 Everard lifted up his head, but what a face was 
 there : a face already darkened with the hue of death — 
 a countenance from which all hope, all doubt had 
 vanished. The expression of one awakened to the 
 full enormity of the crime in which he had assisted, 
 and prepared in patience to endure its just conse- 
 quences. 
 
 The hope held out by Catesby that something might 
 be gained for the unhappy Catholics, and some mercy 
 for the less guilty of their party by thus persistirig in 
 resistance, had made him look upon it in the light of 
 an expiation to persevere to the last. Under this im- 
 pression, the deep conviction of wrong to which his 
 heart had been awakened, had taken no form of outward 
 demonstration; it was a settled despair, under the in- 
 fluence of which he was calm, gentle, patient, and 
 considerate of others to the last. 
 
334 
 
 TATHER DARCY. 
 
 Not a feeling of resentment, not the shadow of a re- 
 proach towards that mistaken man for whose love he 
 had sacrified so much, and whose fatal influence had 
 urged him forward in this dreadful career, was in his 
 countenance, or in his heart. His pity for the wretched 
 Catesby and his unhappy companions, had obhterated 
 every harsher feeling. 
 
 The gentle, the compassionate, the affectionate ex- 
 pression with which he looked up as his hand an- 
 swered the pressure of his friend, struck to that strong 
 man’s heart. And tears of remorse and passion — such 
 as the great betrayer shed at beholding those, for his 
 fault amerced” — blinded the eyes and ran down the 
 roi(gh cheek of Catesby as he turned away. 
 
 i^verard followed him for a few minutes with his 
 eye, and then with one deep sigh, a sigh such as tells 
 that the heart of the man is broken, resumed his em- 
 ployment. 
 
 He was writing to his wife. His letter overflowing 
 with sorrow and affection, was filled with every motive 
 for consolation which he could invent to supjDort one 
 so tenderly loved, by him thus involved in this mi- 
 serable catastrophe. 
 
 His own feelings are best expressed in his own 
 simple and touching words, as preserved in his letters 
 still in existence. 
 
 ‘‘Now for my intention; let me tell you that if I had 
 thought there had been the least sin in the plot, I would 
 not have been of it for all the world — and no other cause 
 drew me to hazard my fortune and my life but zeal to God’s 
 religion For my keeping it secret, it was caused 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 335 
 
 by belief that those which were best able to judge the 
 lawfulness of it, had been acquainted with it, and given 
 way to it. More reasons I had to persuade me to this 
 belief, than I dare utter, which I will never to the 
 suspicion of any, though I should to the rack for it. 
 But now let me tell you what a grief it hath been to 
 hear that so much condemned which I did believe 
 would be otherwise thought of by many Catholics. Death 
 would now be a welcome friend to me, and is most 
 desired now I have heard how Catholics think of this 
 matter; and that it should be a great sin that should 
 be the cause of my end. It calls my conscience in 
 doubt of my very best actions and intentions in ques- 
 tion. I know that I myself may have easily been 
 deceived in such a business, and I protest unto you 
 that the doubts I have of my own good state, which 
 only proceeds from the censure of others, causes in me 
 more bitterness of grief than all the miseries that I 
 ever suffered. I can do nothing now, but with tears 
 ask pardon of God for all my errors, both in actions 
 and intentions in this business, and humbly beseech 
 that my death may satisfy for my offence, which I 
 should and shall offer most gladly to the Giver of 
 life.” 
 
 The fortitude of Everard had again given way as he 
 penned this paper, and tears gushing from his eyes 
 streamed over the words, as he asked pardon of his 
 tender wife and little loving children, and implored 
 their forgiveness and their prayers. 
 
 But he was not long left to the indulgence of these 
 tender feelings. The little band of unhappy friends 
 
336 
 
 FATHER DARCT. 
 
 were sitting in council, if broken words and distracted 
 looks can so be called — considering as to their next 
 proceeding. 
 
 Hearing that Everard was about to despatch his 
 servant to Coughton, it was proposed to substitute 
 Bates, as being more trustworthy than the rest ; and 
 that a letter should be written to Father Darcy to 
 crave his advice as to what course it were best to 
 pursue. 
 
 In the course of half an hour they again took horse, 
 and pursued their desperate way towards Huddington. 
 The morning broke upon the miserable crew as they 
 passed at full gallop ; stopping at the various houses of 
 their friends, and endeavouring to rouse the Catholic 
 gentry — but not one man joined them. Everywhere 
 they were received with the same expressions of unmi- 
 tigated abhorrence and detestation. The gentry drove 
 them from their doors, with bitter reproaches, for the 
 indelible stain they had inflicted upon the Catholic 
 cause : the inferior sort stood gaping and staring at the 
 disordered and irregular train, as, with clothes torn and 
 discoloured with the wind and rain, battered hats, broken 
 feathers, and pale faces, stricken as it were with the 
 vengeance of Heaven, they hurried through the towns 
 and villages. Not a single man joined them; and their 
 train was already diminished to nearly half its numbers 
 during the night, their inferior retainers starting away 
 as opportunity offered, till the gentlemen were them- 
 selves obliged to watch in front and rear, with levelled 
 pistols, to arrest the flight of the deserters. 
 
 Harassed and disheartened, they reached the house 
 
TATHER DARCY. 
 
 337 
 
 of Robert Winter, at Huddington, about tbe middle 
 of Wednesday. At tbis place they were joined by 
 Thomas Winter, Avho had arrived from London before 
 them. 
 
 Speechless with emotion, this affectionate man flung 
 himself into the arms of Catesby, as he alighted from 
 his jaded horse. The two friends embraced in silence 
 — the tenderness of affection, even in this dark passage 
 of life, mingling a something yet to be called sweetness 
 with the bitterness of the hour. 
 
 The whole company now entered the house, where 
 refreshments were provided for them. Weary and 
 faint they were ; but it was other and living w'aters 
 for which their souls were panting. 
 
 In the dread struggle with awakening conscience in 
 which their souls were agonising, their hearts called 
 aloud for that support which the Father of truth and 
 light alone can give. And such means as their religion 
 afforded for reconciling the misguided soul to its Cre- 
 ator, they earnestly sought with many tears. 
 
 There was a priest at that time at Iluddington — to 
 him they humbly, one after another, confessed their 
 sins upon their knees : the ceremony of the mass was 
 afterwards celebrated. 
 
 What consolations this man, professing to minister 
 the truth of God to his fellow-creatures, dared to offer 
 in this harrowing moment is left to conjecture. Did 
 he dare still to apply the false and blasphemous unction 
 of his casuistry to assuage the loud cries of a lacerated 
 conscience; or did he, wise and good, rake up boldly 
 the hideous phantom of their crime before them, and 
 
 VOL. II. Y 
 
338 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 teach them, misguided but not yet utterly perverted, 
 to fly to the Fountain of all mercy for relief? 
 
 Alas, alas ! still blinded ! Blind guides and bhnded 
 victims ! We were absolved and received the sacra- 
 ment.’’^ 
 
 The remainder of the wretched history is all one 
 scene of dark, mysterious, hurried confusion ; as, passing 
 from house to house, they rushed through Worcester- 
 shire and Warwickshire, pursued by the hue and cry 
 which was now raised, and by the Sheriff of Worcester- 
 shire and all his men. 
 
 They had sent an embassy on Wednesday to old 
 Mr. Talbot, of Grafton, a man of the highest con- 
 sideration among their party, and father-in-law to 
 Robert Winter: in his support lay their last hope: 
 but the old gentleman drove them from his door 
 with indignation, and refused to let one of them even 
 enter his house. 
 
 This was the last decisive blow. After that they 
 abandoned altogether the hope of offering any thing in 
 the nature of effectual resistance, and seemed to fly 
 forward, impelled by that sort of blind instinct which 
 leads men to hurry from impending death — and with 
 a vague sort of intention to make a stand at some 
 place or other, and sell their lives as dearly as they 
 could. 
 
 On Thursday morning we hear of them at Whe- 
 well Grange, the seat of the Lord Windsor, about two 
 miles from Broomsgrove, where they seized, by force. 
 
 * Robert Winter’s confession. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 339 
 
 upon a large store of arms, armour, and above all, 
 upon a bag containing a considerable quantity of gun- 
 powder; and wading rather than riding through the 
 now almost streaming ways — the rain pouring in 
 torrents over head — the waters out on every side, each 
 little stream or torrent become a river or lake — swim- 
 ming the fords — plashing and struggling through mire 
 and water — broken in body and disturbed^in mind ; — 
 the small company which yet remained together, con- 
 sisting of Catesby, the two Winters, Thomas Piercy, 
 John and Christopher Wright, Rookwood, Grant, and 
 a few others, took refuge in the house of Stephen 
 Littleton, at Holbeach, two miles from Stourbridge, 
 in the parish of King’s Swinford, in Staffordshire. 
 Everard, at the entreaty of Catesby, had already left 
 them, to endeavour to obtain succours, it is said — but 
 all is confusion as to views and motives now. Certain 
 it is, that Digby was overtaken near Dudley, by the 
 hue and cry ; surrendered himself without offering the 
 shadow of resistance ; and was immediately conveyed to 
 London and lodged in the Tower. 
 
 Where to his amazed, bewildered, and miserable 
 reflections, his penitent tears and earnest endeavours 
 to arrest the fatal consequences of his crimes from 
 the heads of others, we leave him. 
 
 JESUS MARIA.* 
 
 “ Who’s that which knocks? — Oh stay, my Lord, I come, 
 
 I know that call, since first it made me know 
 Myself ; which makes me now with joy to run, 
 
 Lest he he gone that can my duty show. 
 
 Jesus, my Lord, I know thee by the cross, 
 
 Thou offerd’st me, but not unto my loss. 
 
 * Verses of Sir Everard Digby, written in the Tower.— //w^onca/. 
 
 Y 2 
 
340 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 “ Come in, my Lord, Tvhose presence most I crave, 
 
 ^nd show thy will unto my longing mind : 
 
 From punishment of sin thy servant save, 
 
 Though he hath been to thy deserts unkind. 
 
 Jesu forgive and strengthen to my mind. 
 
 That rooted virtues thou in me may find. 
 
 “ For private loss to grieve, when others have no cause 
 Of sorrow, is unmeet for worthy mind; 
 
 For who but knows, that each man’s sinful life still draws, 
 Most just revenge than he on earth can find. 
 
 But to undo desert and innocence. 
 
 Is to my mind, griefs chiefest pestilence,” &c. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 341 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 “ Come grief, possess that place thy harbingers have seen. 
 
 And think most fit to entertain thyself ; 
 
 Bring with thee all thy troops, and sorrow’s longest teem 
 Of followers that wail for worldly pelf. 
 
 Here shall they see of wights most lamentable, 
 
 Than all that Troop, that seem most miserable.” 
 
 Sir Everard Digby's verses, written in the Tower, 
 
 V(B victis!^ 
 
 It was tlie motto of his house, so often applied in 
 their hour of conquest, to their foes. And often and 
 often, in the exultation of anticipated victory, mur- 
 mured by Robert Catesby, when he thought of the 
 enemies of his Church. 
 
 V(B victis ! 
 
 It rang in his ear like a funeral knell, as, after a 
 night of indescribable horror, the haggard remnants of 
 that baffled band of conspirators met in the great room, 
 at Holbeach. 
 
 Still, be it to their honour spoken, miserable and 
 blasted criminals as they were, visited of the judgment 
 of God, and abhorred and execrated by man, one sen- 
 timent yet remained — one endearing sentiment sheds 
 a faint, pale, and tender light, amid the horrors of this 
 darkness. 
 
 Whatever their feelings, whatever their crimes, one 
 punishment they escaped — theirs was no hell of re- 
 proaching and upbraiding demons. Deep as was the 
 ♦ See his arms over the porch at Ashby St. Legers. 
 
342 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 self-accusation which began obscurely to dawn on each 
 individual mind, we hear of no recriminations against 
 each other. Every one seems to have borne his own 
 portion of the burden with unrepining constancy, and 
 only to have been earnest to lighten it to his friends. 
 
 Let me not be mistaken. 
 
 To dwell upon these softening features in the cha- 
 racters of these men, and in the detail of this abomi- 
 nable crime, is not to be considered immoral. 
 
 Truth is never immoral, and this is truth. 
 
 But I have failed altogether in the task I had pro- 
 posed to myself, and which I begin to feel too cruel, 
 if I have not made you go along with me in the 
 sentiment that these men were not the victims of 
 selfish passions, nor baser self-interests, but that they 
 were the dreadful sacrifice to mistaken principles. 
 
 Poisoned at its source, that which should have been 
 as living waters to nourish their souls, had been perverted 
 to forward and cherish the growth of every hideous 
 passion. Once more the fiend had entered the garden 
 of the world, and offered the fruit of the tree of know- 
 ledge, to mislead and to ruin. 
 
 One more frightful instance — let it never be forgotten 
 or effaced from the memory of man — had been added to 
 the heart-rending, the despairing list, of the highest 
 motives perverted to the most devilish purposes— -of 
 faith, self-devotion, zeal in religion, reason, intellect, 
 knowledge — all directed by that power which is from 
 the great Satan — the dark, mysterious source of evil — 
 to ruin the soul of man. 
 
 And shall I dare — may I dare to hope, that in this 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 343 
 
 last feature of generous undying love, wliich was main- 
 tained among them to the end, we may with reverence 
 venture to think we discern the dawnings of that mercy, 
 which would not suJffer these wretched and misguided 
 ones to be finally lost. 
 
 An immense open chimney-piece — a large blazing fire 
 of wood and Staffordshire coal — a room wide and 
 straggling, rising to the roof of the house^ but bare of 
 furniture and desolate — 
 
 Half-a-dozen pale and haggard men, with dishevelled 
 hair, cheeks worn and furrowed with fatigue and misery, 
 and clothes all disordered and covered with soil and 
 dirt. 
 
 The hue and cry will soon be here; the news of the 
 sheriff’s approach has already reached them. They will 
 sell their lives as dearly as they can. 
 
 Thomas Winter has early gone out to discover as he 
 termed it. The rest are, as I have said, round the fire 
 assembled. In traversing the ford of the Stour, now 
 swollen by the incessant rains, they have wetted the bag 
 of powder which was taken from the Lord Windsor’s, 
 and they are now employed in endeavouring to dry it, and 
 render it again serviceable. They have two or three 
 pounds for immediate use, lying before the fire; the 
 bag containing the rest is at no great distance. 
 
 Catcsby is standing over it, Mr. Grant and Mr. 
 Rookwood close behind him. 
 
 A coal falls — a small coal — small as the match and 
 lantern light of Guy Fawkes. 
 
344 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 A loud blast as of the thunder-bolt. 
 
 The powder explodes in their faces, bursts the roof, 
 and the heavy bag of powder, with the force of the 
 whirlwind, is hurled through the ceiling to the sky. 
 
 Catesby, stunned and blackened as by the lightning 
 flash, falls as one dead, backwards upon the floor. 
 
 The others do not fall, but their features are all broken, 
 swollen, and distorted by the gunpowder, and they 
 look like the living spectral representation of that dream 
 of Robert Winter’s, on Monday night — when l^e saw 
 houses all toppling and falling, and his friends crowding 
 before his eyes, with faces all swollen and discoloured. 
 They stare for one moment aghast at one another. But 
 that loud blast, had like the trumpet’s at the crack of 
 doom, at length fully aroused their sleeping consciences 
 — they started, and stood as men wide awake. 
 
 Each, as if standing before the judgment-seat of God 
 — though late, acknowledges the voice of that accusing 
 angel, who waits upon the soul of man. He starts sud- 
 denly as it were to life, and flashes the truth before 
 their eyes. 
 
 God is against them. 
 
 The first who rushed forward, was the elder Wright, 
 who piteously exclaiming “ Woe, worth the time that 
 we have seen this day !” clasped the body of Catesby 
 in his arms, and raised it from the ground. — He thought 
 he was dead. 
 
 But he was not dead, he was only stunned. 
 
 They only thought of restoring him — they never 
 heeded themselves. 
 
 He came to his recollection : but it was to confess the 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 345 
 
 conviction of a conscience awakened by this last appal- 
 ling event — this righteous judgment, which had given 
 them some taste as it were, of the horrible death they 
 had prepared for so many others. 
 
 Not all the casuistry of their teachers — not all their 
 absolutions — not all their masses — nor their holy sacra- 
 ment itself, shall avail them now. 
 
 The stubborn heart of Catesby yielded to the convic- 
 tion, and he made confession aloud, ‘‘that he now 
 perceived that the hand of Almighty God was against 
 them in this enterprise.”* 
 
 All thoughts of further resistance were henceforward 
 abandoned. 
 
 Kneeling bare-headed before a picture of the virgin 
 which was in the hall, these men abandoned of their 
 priests, and of all the vain resources of their superstition, 
 humbled their souls before God. They dared to ap- 
 proach him, their father, without the vain mediation of 
 a tonsured minister with heart no purer than their own ; 
 — they dared to draw near to the great Reality — and 
 with torrents of repentant tears, to plead for pardon of 
 their heavy crimes. 
 
 “ Perceiving God to be against them, they all prayed 
 before a picture of our Lady; and confessed that the 
 act was so bloody as they desired God to forgive 
 
 them.”t 
 
 Thomas Winter was wandering about in the woods 
 near the house at Holbeach, endeavouring vainly to 
 * Historical. f Rookwood’s Examination. State Paper Office. 
 
346 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 obtain some intelligence of the sheriff’s movements, 
 when a loud report struck his ear, and in the instant 
 after, his own man, pale with terror, his hair streaming 
 in the wind, came rushing like one distracted with 
 terror through the wood. 
 
 Breathless with haste and affright, it was some time 
 before he could find words to tell, that the powder had 
 exploded, that Mr. Catesby was killed, Mr. Grant and 
 Mr. Rookwood terribly wounded, and that Mr. Little- 
 ton’s counsel led to him to fly and escape for his life, as 
 he himself was about to do. 
 
 will first see the body of my friend, and bury 
 him, whatever may befal me,” was Thomas Winter’s 
 reply.* 
 
 On entering the house, he found, however, Mr^. 
 Catesby alive, and though with a frame shaken and 
 his face all blackened and distorted with the powder, 
 recovered from the shock. 
 
 He had left them all eagerness to defend themselves, 
 and resolved to sell their lives as dearly as they could. 
 
 He found them humbled and self-condemned, only 
 anxious to shed no more blood. 
 
 “ I asked them^” says Winter, in his confession, 
 what they resolved to do?” 
 
 They answered, 
 
 “We mean here to die.” 
 
 I said again, 
 
 “ I would take such part as they did.” 
 
 ♦ Historical 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 347 
 
 It was about eleven o’clock in the forenoon, when 
 the sheriff of Worcestershire, Sir Richard Walsh, fol- 
 lowed by several gentlemen, constables, and such power 
 and force of the county as he could collect, arrived at, 
 and beset the house. 
 
 A summons to surrender being made, and no 
 answer returned, the house was set on fire on one 
 side, and an assault made upon the court, which, as 
 usual in houses of that description, was defended by a 
 wall and a sort of gallery, and had a door in the centre ; 
 the wall it appears was low, and the pistols were easily 
 fired over it. 
 
 Though intending to make no defence, it seems that 
 the last determination to which the unhappy men had 
 arrived, was that of not being taken alive. They seem 
 all to have come down into the court and exposed them- 
 selves intentionally without defence to the fire of the 
 assailants. 
 
 The first shot struck Thomas Winter in the shoulder, 
 and deprived him of the use of his arm. 
 
 By the next, the elder Wright fell dead, by the 
 third, the younger. 
 
 Then Catesby said to Winter, ‘‘ Stand by me, Tom, 
 and we will die together,” and placed himself in front 
 of the door by which they were to enter. 
 
 “ Sir,” said Winter, ‘‘ I have lost the use of my right 
 arm, and I fear that will cause me to be taken.” 
 
 Then Piercy and Catesby placed themselves back to 
 back, and one bullet struck the life of the two friends 
 at the same moment. They fell — and the crowd rushing 
 
348 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 in shortly after, Winter was thrown down, repeatedly 
 wounded with a pike, and taken alive. 
 
 Catesby and Piercy were killed together. 
 
 And now the dim shadows of death gather round 
 Eobert Catesby^s fiery eye. And that countenance of 
 wonderful power, force, and intellect, is darkening 
 with black shadows and the cold sweat of the grave. 
 
 Ages seem concentrated in the last moments of those 
 who linger so. Before them, ere yet the final curtain 
 drops, depicted with supernatural truth and force, the 
 scenes of life pass in succession before the glazing eye. 
 
 He sees them. 
 
 His innocent infancy — his wild unsteady youth — his 
 first crime. — He sees, as some strange demon haunting 
 every scene, the fine countenance and gentle insinuating 
 blue eye of him who had beguiled him to his ruin. 
 
 And he sees her — a memory never effaced — though 
 so frequently obscured in the hurry and agony of his 
 turbulent existence. She rises before his eye, in all the 
 calm and holy loveliness of that long-remembered night 
 of magnificence and pleasure. And then suddenly, as 
 in a strange confusion of expiring thought, she mingles 
 with his devout aspirations after the blessed mother of 
 our Lord; and as if impelled by a new impulse of 
 life — he moves- — he half rises — he struggles forward 
 upon his hands and knees."^ 
 
 The life-drops falling from his bosom stain the steps, 
 as he gasps and falters on. He reaches that large, 
 * Historical. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 349 
 
 low, and now silent and deserted hall — where serene in 
 beauty, with the holy infant in her arms, stands a 
 blessed image of the Virgin. 
 
 He struggles towards it — catches it in his arms and 
 strains it to his bosom . , . 
 
 And now the life is ebbing fast — and all these brief 
 and vivid memories mingle and confuse together as in 
 one incoherent dream. 
 
 A choaking — a gasp — a slight shivering convul- 
 sion — 
 
 And the soul of Robert Catesby is gone to judg- 
 ment. 
 
 Thomas Piercy died of his wounds the next day. 
 The rest were reserved for trial — their confessions 
 serving to carry down the record and explain the 
 hidden meaning of this dreadful tragedy. 
 
 May generations yet unborn profit by the lesson — 
 May those who read history — LEARN. — 
 
350 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Queir e il piu basso luogo e’l piu oscuro, 
 
 E’l piu lontano dal ciel che tutto gira. 
 
 Dante. 
 
 While despair and death are busy with the miserable 
 victims of his devilish policy — ^you must return with me 
 to Coughton, and to Father Darcy. 
 
 We left him in all the exultation of anticipated vic- 
 tory, already in imagination setting his foot upon the 
 neck of kings; and in the triumph of his religion and 
 party, gratifying all the selfish greediness and restless 
 pride and ambition of his heart. 
 
 His order, and he the Provincial of his order ! . . . . 
 
 Already have the vast ramifications spread over all 
 Europe; over all that is known of this living world. 
 The small slender fibres from that mighty root have in- 
 sinuated themselves into every crevice and corner of 
 this vast edifice of England’s body politic, and now, like 
 the mighty pine-tree which tears up the ground, and 
 hurls rocks from its foundation as it falls — with one 
 heave the powerful engine shall bow its mighty force 
 before the wind, and heave the solid fabric from its 
 foundations. 
 
 Some such image as this was in Mr. Darcy’s mind, as 
 on this dark, rainy, stormy November morning, the wind 
 roaring and howling without, the rain beating with 
 violence against the windows — a huge wood fire blazing 
 upon the ample hearth, and glittering upon the splendid 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 351 
 
 hangings, ornaments, and ceilings of the large hall at 
 Coughton — he paced up and down its floor with Fa- 
 ther Tesmond, otherwise Green way, by his side. 
 
 The business was by this time done. 
 
 Yet, neither priest had yet ventured to hint a syllable 
 upon the subject to their assembled friends. 
 
 Tliey had not entirely lost the feelings of men. 
 
 Not all their false principles — not all the force which 
 habitual pretence and hypocrisy possess to harden the 
 human heart — not all the pride, ambition, and in- 
 difference to wrong which marked their characters — not 
 even the gross indulgences of the table which dis- 
 graced Father Darcy’s habits — could altogether so com- 
 pletely annihilate every natural feeling, but that some 
 compunctions, some shrinkings of the flesh, would make 
 themselves felt; as the blasts of wind, roaring at inter- 
 vals round the mansion were heard with noise resem- 
 bling that of a sudden explosion, shaking every door 
 and window with violence as they rushed by. There 
 was — it was impossible but so it must be with any 
 heart of human flesh — there would be a shudder, as 
 the loud blast died away in a sort of wild lamentation. 
 
 Father Darcy had been in high spirits as he rose 
 replete from a plenteous breakfast this morning. His 
 heart had revelled in the pride of victory as he en- 
 tered this hall with a fire in his eye and dignity in his 
 carriage proper to one already a prime leader and mover 
 amid the affairs of men. But as he and Father Green- 
 way paced silently together, both expecting the event- 
 ful news — this mournful, wrathful, stormy violence and 
 melancholy wailing of nature, fell with darker and 
 darker influence upon their hearts. It seemed to them 
 
352 
 
 FATHER DA-RCY. 
 
 as if the dirge of human hind was singing by these 
 winds, and tears over the desperate ruin raining from 
 the skies. 
 
 Yesterday it was done — to-day what are they about 
 in Westminster — in shattered, ruined, slaughtered 
 Westminster? Where is the lordly palace ? Where 
 the grand and stately abbey ? Where those halls 
 tapestried with the trophies of English victory, and 
 filled with the grandest, the fairest, the noblest, and 
 the wisest ? Heels to the sky — to use the rough words 
 of John Wright — they have been scattered by the 
 rage of the fiery tempest, and Westminster is a city of 
 the dead. 
 
 There is again a wild sudden rush against the 
 windows : it seems as if the demons are clawing and 
 clattering for entrance : then the wind shrieks and moans 
 once more, and with the wail, as of terrified women 
 and perishing infants, sweeps dismally by. 
 
 Father Darcy was any thing but a brave man. His 
 cheek paled and his folded hands shook together as he 
 turned and looked at his companion. But Father 
 Greenway preserved the same determined face as ever. 
 He was a man of more resolution, and had still less of 
 the human weakness of pity than his companion. 
 
 No one comes — it is strange,” at last Father Green- 
 way said. “ There must surely have been time for one 
 riding post haste to have arrived from London.” 
 
 ‘^They have not surely forgotten z/5,” expressed 
 the fears of Father Darcy. 
 
 He had no fear for the success of the undertaking ; 
 but he had a lurking doubt how far the fiery Catesby, 
 when flushed with victory, might be found manageable. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 353 
 
 This anxiety, as yet an indistinct work of feeling, began 
 to take shape and form. 
 
 Greenway had left the hall, and the Provincial re- 
 mained alone. A small oaken door communicating with 
 the servants’ apartments opened, and a serving-man 
 coming up with a something mysterious and troubled in 
 his air, said, ’‘One was just arrived would fain speak 
 with Father Darcy.” 
 
 Admit him at once,” was the Father’s order ; and 
 Bates, in a state of the greatest disorder, his thick red 
 hair all dishevelled and wetted falling about his face, 
 his great blue eyes starting with terror and fatigue 
 from his head, his cheek all patched with colours, pale 
 and red at once, his knees knocking and hands trem- 
 bling, was admitted, holding a letter in his hand. 
 
 What news ?” but the appearance of Bates at once 
 told what news. 
 
 Father Darcy unfolded the letter, and was engaged 
 in reading it, while the poor trembling Bates stood 
 anxiously by, when Father Green way returned. 
 
 ‘‘ The messenger is arrived. What is it then, Bates? 
 What news? How fares it, man?” 
 
 “ Listen and you shall hear how it fares,” and with 
 astonishing composure. Father Darcy read the letter 
 from beginning to end aloud, as Bates in his confession 
 reported. 
 
 “ Enough,” he said, as he quietly folded it up, “ the 
 enterprise is discovered, and we are all undone.” 
 
 A lamentation upon the injury this unfortunate failure 
 would do to their Order followed ; not one word from 
 Father Darcy as to the miserable victims. 
 
 How to provide for his own safety, was the next 
 
 VOL. II. Z 
 
354 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 question. Would he be suspected? cautious as he had 
 been, would not some link of connexion with this ‘‘ unfor- 
 tunate business,” as he styled it, be detected? What 
 could Digby and Catesby be dreaming of, thus to send 
 a messenger direct to him — to consult him, forsooth, — 
 what business had they to consult him? 
 
 ‘‘ Hark ye, fellow,” he said, going up to Bates: and 
 addressing him rudely and sternly, he commanded him, 
 under the heaviest penalties, both as regarded the here 
 and the hereafter, to abstain from mentioning to living 
 being, that he had been dispatched upon this errand by 
 his master: adding, brutally enough, “ they will very 
 probably catch thee, fellow. Dost thou know that 
 they will rack thee to within an inch of thy life if they 
 do? — So take care of thyself, but above all things 
 mind my words — If they do catch thee, let not the 
 torture wring from thee one jot to the suspicion or 
 injury of God’s priests — or that torment, that gehenna, 
 which thy cowardly soul findeth too sharp for the en- 
 durance of an hour, wiU be thy portion by the judg- 
 ment of the Most High, for all eternity.” 
 
 The poor fellow trembling, with tears in his eyes, 
 and in a supplicating voice and manner, entreated for 
 mercy, promising, in broken accents, that he would 
 die on the rack before he would betray such holy men. 
 
 Then mind,” said Darcy, ‘‘thou hast never seen 
 me, save amid general company at Harroden or Rush- 
 ton. Thou didst never ^ on thy soul, convey letter or 
 message to me. Dost thou heed me — mentally reserve 
 save upon that one night? And now carry thyself 
 back with what speed thou mayest, lest any of the 
 servants of this house should question thee.” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 355 
 
 “ But my master/^ urged the poor, misguided ig- 
 norant; “he is in great straits, he beseeches counsel 
 at your hands, reverend father. You have always been 
 used to counsel him. Forsake us not in our extremity.’^ 
 
 “ Fool, what art thou talking of?” said Darcy, angrily, 
 “ I counsel! — II ‘ Oh, my soul, enter not into their 
 counsels, nor take part in their assembly.’ — Carry back 
 this message to thy master, if message there must be : 
 tell him I absolutely abhor and^ disown both him and 
 his, and all his devilish devices. Bid him remember 
 who it was that preached peace and forbearance till his 
 listeners were offended and weary. Bid him remember 
 who it was that refused to listen to his diabolical plots, 
 or enter into his treasonable conspiracies. Dost thou 
 hear, idiot?” as poor Bates stood gazing at him with 
 speechless amazement. Dost thou mark me, as I 
 utterly disown and deny,” and here he attested his 
 assertion with the most dreadful oaths, “any knowledge 
 or participation in this foul and damned enterprise. 
 Dost thou hear?” shaking him roughly by the shoulder 
 as if to rouse his attention to his words, “dost thou 
 mark me? — Let that truth be got out of thee when 
 thou art racked.” 
 
 And refusing to listen to one word more upon the 
 subject, with a stern, authoritative gesture to Green- 
 way, who well understood it to impose an absolute 
 command to say and do nothing to discredit this asser- 
 tion, Father Darcy left the room. 
 
 Poor Bates, now stammering and bursting into tears, 
 fell upon his knees, and with his hands clasped, and the 
 large drops rolling down his cheeks, besought Father 
 Greenway not to forsake them utterly. 
 
 z 2 
 
356 
 
 FATHER DARCr. 
 
 Poor fellow, lie had been brought up in such super- 
 stitious reverence for his priests, that to be deserted by 
 them in this distracting hour of distress and danger, 
 appeared to him as the climax of calamity ; he prayed 
 with agony and urgency that Father Tesmond would 
 join the dismayed and distracted party, and assist them 
 with his counsels. 
 
 “For you know yourself, reverend father, how in 
 that house at the court of St. Clements, I did in the 
 sacrament of confession avow what my master had en- 
 gaged me in. I did ask of you counsel in a matter 
 which touched my conscience, and thou didst advise me 
 that the thing was lawful and praiseworthy, and that I 
 was to be secret and faithful.” 
 
 The bridge was thus broken down behind Father 
 Greenw^ay, for the fact was undeniable. 
 
 But Jesuit though he was, he was a brave, energetic, en- 
 thusiastic man, and of a nature not inchned to forsake liis 
 friends in distress, nor to abandon an enterprise at the first 
 check. Had he not been a Jesuit — ^had he not been edu- 
 cated in that habit of unquestioning obedience to the au- 
 thority of his superiors which had become as it were a 
 second nature with him, he might have felt the same 
 contempt and indignation for the meanness and cow^- 
 ardice of his Provincial, wdiich we do. As it was, he 
 passed over that part of the subject; and as Bates 
 reiterated his prayers, saying: “ If ever he loved or 
 wished to serve his master, to come to him now,” 
 Green way said: “ That he would not forbear to go 
 unto him, though he were to die a thousand deaths. 
 Though I see,” said he, “ that this business will over- 
 throw the whole society of the Jesuits.” 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 357 
 
 He then left him for a short time to ask permission 
 of his superior. 
 
 They were about an hour engaged in close confer- 
 ence. Father Darcy would by no means listen to the 
 generous urgency of Greenway, to be allowed openly 
 to join the unhappy confederates. All he could obtain 
 was permission to meet them at Huddington that night, 
 and there concert measures with them. 
 
 ‘‘ But the whole matter is undone,’^ Father Darcy 
 repeated, ‘Hhe enterprise is lost — all that remains for 
 us, is to keep our own heads out of the noose — to 
 separate ourselves entirely from their interests, and look 
 after our own; which, I can tell you, Mr. Tesmond, 
 will need all our care. Nevertheless I do not say, if a 
 general rising in the northern and western counties 
 and in Wales were possible — I do not say — I am not 
 prepared exactly to say — what then — I must leave it to 
 your best discretion, to act as circumstances may require 
 in this business. Commanding you as you value your 
 salvation, and upon your oath of obedience, not to 
 suffer my name to be once mentioned in this matter. 
 No, not by the most distant implication — you know — 
 you must remember,’’ said he with stern emphasis, 
 “ that it was under the seal of confession — under the 
 seal of confession alone^ that this communication was 
 ever made to me, and that greatly against my will. 
 That which is revealed to me in confession, I do not 
 know — it is as if it had not been — I wash my hands 
 altogether of this foul business. I have ever preached 
 peace and submission — I am a man of peace — I have 
 ever been a man of peace. Do you not acknowledge 
 
358 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 it?” Father Green way reverently bowed. ‘‘ As such, 
 I altogether disown these rash and desperate conspi- 
 rators — I wash my hands of all tliis blood” — so Pilate 
 washed his hands. Do you imderstand me? — do you 
 take me with you, sir?” 
 
 All this was spoken with the hurried emphasis of one 
 anxious to impose what he knew to be a lie, upon the 
 credulity of another. 
 
 Again Father Greenway made a low and submissive 
 reverence. He could not but remember — ^his memory 
 would be busy — but he repressed such unfortunate recol- 
 lections as impious, as contrary to his vow of obedience, 
 and bending his head with an air of meekness and com- 
 punction, that strangely contrasted with liis strong, 
 fiery, and almost fierce countenance, said : 
 
 ‘‘ These are your commands — I will obey them 
 strictly, as I am in all things bound to do — rely upon 
 my discretion and fidelity.” 
 
 And taking horse with Bates, he joined the conspi- 
 rators on Wednesday night at Huddington. 
 
 He allowed himself but half-an-hour’s conversation 
 with Catesby, and again departed. This fidelity to liis 
 sinking friends, enormous as his criminality had been, 
 is one redeeming point at least in his character. 
 
 The bold man, it may be a slight satisfaction to 
 remember, escaped to Flanders. — Tlie mean, truckling, 
 paltry dissembler, ascended the scaffold. 
 
 Bates had been better mounted than John DIgby 
 — his horse was fresh from the stables at Warwick — 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 359 
 
 that of John Digby, weary with a day’s hunting. The 
 latter arrived at Coughton shortly after him. 
 
 Do you hear the lamentings of women ? — Do you see 
 their agonies of grief and despair? — Do you hear them 
 calling upon God in this their distraction, and implor- 
 ing for themselves and for those they love, his long 
 suffering mercy? 
 
 Their priests do not so. ‘‘ During all this, we re- 
 marked that they never used one word of godliness 
 or religion, or recommended themselves or their cause 
 to God, but applied themselves wholly to the matter.” 
 
 Strange symptoms in such an age of religion as was 
 that ! — awful sign of the utter hardness and deadness to 
 all spiritual truth — the utter destruction of all reverence 
 for the unseen, which their dreadful tampering with 
 holy things for unholy purposes had occasioned. 
 
 But it was not so with these unhappy women. 
 
 It was not so with Evelyn — alas, where else should 
 she fly for shelter? 
 
 So awful a crime! — Was it possible? — Could it be 
 her beloved, her Everard? — He whom she had talked 
 with in sweet daily converse — had fed with — trifled 
 with, loved, in all the fond familiarity of sweet do- 
 mestic life. A criminal I — A conspirator I — The dark- 
 est of criminals — the most desperate of conspirators ! — 
 What he! — A monster of violence and cruelty — ab- 
 horred of God and man ! — What, he? 
 
 What a distracting bewilderment is in her swee 
 blue eyes, now all distended and straining with horror 
 — as she walks with hurried steps up and down the 
 room: struggling and striving as it were vainly to 
 
360 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 compreliend — to seize — to take in — to compass this 
 astounding impossibility ! 
 
 What he ! — Everard ! — her husband ! — the father of 
 her babes ! 
 
 His tender parting kiss is yet warm upon her cheek, 
 his tears are drying there. — What he ! — A murderer ! 
 A traitor ! — A felon ! — What, he lend his hand to fire 
 the mine, and blow thousands and thousands of inno- 
 cent creatures— men, women, and children — babes — 
 yea, little babes like his own — to atoms ! 
 
 ‘^Oh, my father! — my father!” at last burst forth, 
 while a crowd of recollections of all that father’s teach- 
 ings — forgotten, alas ! too soon, under the influence of 
 another — rushed to her heart. And at that name 
 gushed forth a torrent of tears which preserved life and 
 intellect for her children. 
 
 Kestored to herself by this relief — Evelyn sought 
 at once that fountain of grace and love, from whence 
 consolation to her distracted heart alone could spring. 
 And soothed in some degree by the influence of those 
 supports, which are never by the trusting sought in vain, 
 she could listen to what few particulars J ohn Digby, 
 almost as much in the dark as herself, was able to give. 
 
 Two vast sources of consolation were opened to them 
 both — the crime had not been committed, and her hus- 
 band was yet at large. 
 
 The letter brought by Bates was read with floods 
 of tears, but with a consolation irrepressible. In spite 
 of all this hideous misconception of what was righteous 
 and just, Everard was still the same. It was still her 
 Everard. That he could have been so blinded — that 
 
rATHER DARCY. 
 
 361 
 
 he could have been so misled, remained with her, as 
 it must for ever remain with all, a dark, inscrutable 
 mystery of the human heart. 
 
 But his piety — his deep and sincere repentance — his 
 gentle submission to the punishment of his crime — 
 his tender regards, even in his cruellest moments, to 
 others — testified by those simple fragments which he 
 has left behind, and which afterwards reached her 
 from his prison in the Tower — softened the distraction 
 of her thoughts, and sweetened the bitterness and the 
 horror of those recollections. He was still her Eve- 
 rard — he was still that angel of love and gentleness 
 that had won the adoration of a character radically 
 stronger than his own. She was a devout Catholic, 
 and her church had many consolations to ofier, for 
 griefs such as hers. Had she been a Protestant, she 
 would have found them under a still better form. 
 
 It was thought, at first, that the poor jester would 
 liave died of grief. 
 
 He was a loving, simple creature — and he had be- 
 sides, however he came by it, such a clear sense of 
 things, that no disguises could hide the truth of the 
 matter from him. 
 
 It was not that Everard, his honoured master, was 
 a fugitive and a vagabond; that he would assuredly 
 be taken, and assuredly must die by the cruel hand 
 of the executioner; but it was that lie was a criminal 
 — and it was the firm persuasion that he was a cri- 
 minal through blind submission to the persuasion of 
 his priests — it was this agonising regret, struggling 
 with an indignation and rage which were too strong 
 
362 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 for wordsy which heaved, and choaked, and suffocated 
 within the bosom of Fabian. His heart was breaking 
 — the bodily agony and struggle was desperate. 
 Evelyn was told of it — only she could sooth — they ven- 
 tured to beseech her to come. 
 
 It was with the pity of an angel that she, master- 
 ing her own anguish, in compassion for that of one 
 less able to endure — stood by his bed-side, and said — 
 We must submit to the will of God, Fabian. Be 
 patient^ poor boy. There is one who shall wash out 
 the stain of sin. Let us both live to pray for him, 
 that it may be so.” 
 
 She had touched the right string. As he held that 
 dear kind hand in both his, and looked up in her face 
 with a love, oh, far beyond the expression of words, 
 the overcharged heart began already to disengage itself 
 — one or two deep sighs broke from his labouring breast 
 — one or two big tears rolled down those thin withered 
 cheeks — and Fabian lived. 
 
 He remained with Evelyn ; after all, perhaps, her best 
 earthly support. Many had sorrowed with her, all had 
 sympathised with her, but their sorrow yielded to the 
 course of things, and their sympathy died away. But 
 Fabian’s sorrow was as her sorrow — ^his wound if not so 
 deep, as incurable as hers. The inexpressible support 
 and consolation of this simple communion of feehng 
 cheered the remaining years of a life devoted to her 
 duties and to her children. 
 
 How much, as years rolled on, as her sons sprang to 
 manhood, and in the capricious character of the elder, 
 the well-known Sir Kenelm Digby, she found cause for 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 363 
 
 griefs and anxieties known only to parents with children 
 such as these — how far the devoted attachment of the 
 poor fool must have consoled her, may be guessed by 
 those who have known, that it is the solitude of sorrow, 
 which is perhaps the most insupportable of all those 
 different forms of suffering which never-dying regret — 
 terrible visitor ! puts on. 
 
 Eleanor received the intelligence in gloomy silence — 
 the gloom of one who has long expected nothing from 
 this world, who has long, in bitter disappointment, 
 learned to hate rather than to endure it. 
 
 Grace Vaux died the founder of a convent abroad. 
 I forbear to trace the details of her history. Of all 
 this painful scene, peopled with the phantoms of these 
 ghastly victims of priestly craft and perverted religion, 
 this one is not the least painful — this, of a creature so 
 pious, holy, and disinterested, waiting in humble attend- 
 ance upon the footsteps of such a man as Father Darcy ! 
 
 Smoothing with humble reverence the path of a 
 base, unbelieving hypocrite — a gross, sensual lover of 
 this world, incredulous of and indifferent to the exist- 
 ence of any thing better? This Grace Vaux ! — so 
 earnest, so devoted, so purely-minded, so deeply ascetic, 
 so deeply self-sacrificing! This Saint Theresa I — in 
 attendance upon a man such as this, receiving his letters 
 with fervent thankfulness, and so blinded by her super- 
 stitious faith, as to read without comprehending their 
 true character, such passages as these : 
 
 “We were very merry and content within.’* This 
 was when, in company with Hall, another Jesuit, he lay 
 concealed under Mr. Abingdon’s roof at Henlip, after 
 
364 
 
 PATHER DARCY. 
 
 all the victims of their policy had perished by the sword, 
 or in miserable anguish under the cruel tortures of the 
 scaffold. “We were very merry and content within.’' 
 They were sitting in a small hidden nook, fed with 
 sweetmeats, broths, caudles, and wine, through a small 
 hole in a chimney. We were very merry and con- 
 tent within, hearing the searchers every day more 
 curious over us.” * 
 
 Or this — 
 
 “ I was lodged in the gate-house, and could not eat 
 any thing, but went supperless to bed; and all the while 
 there could eat very little ; only contenting myself with 
 bread, an apple, and some wine, according to my 
 purse . . .” 
 
 Or this — 
 
 “ On St. Valentine’s day I came to the Tower, where 
 I have a very fine chamber .... I am allowed every meal 
 a draught of excellent claret wine ; and I am liberal to 
 myself and neighbours for good respects, to allow also 
 of my own purse, some sack, &c. &c.” 
 
 And not through the whole correspondence, one word 
 of compassion, one single return upon himself, one 
 single expression of pity for his friends and her friends, 
 slaughtered but some few weeks before. 
 
 A reproach cast upon Mr. Catesby’s memory is the 
 only mention of them. 
 
 How this man lied upon his trial, confirming his de- 
 clarations, as Lord Salisbury said, “ so stiffly upon his 
 soul, reiterating it with so many detestable execrations 
 as it wounded the Lords to hear” — is matter of history. 
 
 * Garnet’s letters to Anne Vaux. State Paper Office. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 365 
 
 How he afterwards recanted all these declarations, and 
 impudently justified himself by the doctrine of equivo- 
 cation — is matter of history too. 
 
 How his memory was reverenced, and for aught I 
 know, is still reverenced as a saintly martyr by that 
 church which he dishonoured and disgraced — is matter 
 of history also. 
 
 The rest may sleep in peace, deluded victims of un- 
 principled teachers — by wolves in sheep’s clothing, and 
 devils assuming the garb of angels, betrayed step by 
 step into horrible crime. Even Guy Fawkes — Guido 
 Fawkes — the bug-bear of the school-boy, as a creeping 
 pitiful midnight assassin, with his matches and lantern, 
 his peaked Spanish hat and long cloak — even he, may 
 resume his place as a brave though relentless fanatical 
 gentleman and soldier — but sooner or later the truth 
 will be known — and the character of Father Darcy, 
 Farmer, Whalley, Garnet, or by whichever of his 
 many names he shall be remembered — shall sooner 
 or later most assuredly be understood, and be handed 
 down to the execration of mankind, among those who 
 have dared to prostitute holy things to unrighteous 
 purposes; who have blasphemed against the divinest 
 part of man — his reverence for the powers unseen; 
 have entered into that awful sanctuary of the Spirit of 
 God, and installed the doctrines of the Devil. 
 
 “Woe unto ye who have taken away the key of know- 
 ledge, ye entered not in yourselves, and they that were 
 entering in ye hindered. Ye blind guides which strain 
 at a gnat and swallow a camel ! — Ye serpents ! — Ye ge- 
 neration of vipers! How can ye escape the damnation 
 of Hell? 
 
366 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 Woe unto him who shall offend one of these little 
 ones ” — teach one of these little ones to offend. 
 
 It were better for him that a millstone were hanged 
 to his neck, and that he were drowned in the depths o 
 the sea.” 
 
 The sea of oblivion ! 
 
 But a time is coming when that sea shall cast up its 
 dead; when history shall be no longer a fable and a 
 lie, but great and small shall come to judgment. 
 
 ‘‘ And I beheld and saw, and the tables were set, and 
 the books were opened, and great and small stood before 
 God, and every one was judged by his works.^* 
 
 One picture more, and I have done — Everard at his 
 trial and in the Tower. 
 
 He is arraigned — but with the deep sense of guilt 
 which lies heavy at his heart, shall he desire to escape? 
 Shall he, by pleading not guilty, seal his criminality by 
 a he? — Not so. 
 
 Having heard the indictment read, he showed a dis- 
 position to confess the principal part of it,* and so began 
 to enter into a discourse. But being advertised that he 
 must first plead directly to the indictment, guilty or not 
 guilty, and afterwards he should be Hcensed to speak, 
 he forthwith confessed the treason contained in the in- 
 dictment, and so fell into a speech whereof there were 
 two parts, motives and petitions. 
 
 The first motive which drew him into this action was 
 not ambition, or discontentment of estate, neither mahce 
 to any in parhament, but the friendship and love he 
 ♦ Howel’s State Tryals. 
 
FATHER DARCY. 
 
 367 
 
 bore to Mr. Catesby, which prevailed so much, and was 
 so powerful with him, as that for his sake he was ever 
 contented and ready to hazard himself and his estate. 
 
 The next was the cause of religion which alone,’’ as 
 he said, ‘‘ seeing it lay at the stake, he entered into a 
 resolution to neglect in that behalf his estate, his life, 
 his name, his memory, his posterity, and all worldly and 
 earthly felicity whatsoever, though he did utterly ex- 
 tirpate and extinguish all other hopes for the restoring 
 of the Catholic religion in England. And the third 
 motive was that promises were broken with Catholics. 
 And lastly they generally feared harder laws from 
 this parliament against recusants ; and that it was 
 supposed that it should be made a praemunire only 
 to be a Catholic.” 
 
 His petitions were few — they were; “ that since the 
 offence was confined and contained within himself, the 
 punishment might extend only to himself, and not 
 be transferred to his wife, children, sisters, or others; 
 and, therefore, he humbly craved that his wife might 
 enjoy her jointure; his son the benefit of an entail made 
 long before this action was thought of; his sisters their 
 just and due portions which were in his hands; his 
 creditors their rightful debts — which that he might 
 more justly set down under his hand, he requested 
 before his death, his man (steward) might be licensed 
 to come unto him. For himself he had only one pe- 
 tition : he entreated to be beheaded, desiring all men 
 to forgive him : and that his death might satisfy them 
 for his trespass.” 
 
 ♦ “ Jardine’s Criminal Tryals. Gunpowder Plot.” — An admir- 
 able specimen of historic investigation. 
 
368 
 
 FATHER DARCY. 
 
 After a long and somewhat cruel speech from Sir 
 Edward Coke, in which but small hope was held out 
 that his anxieties for his family and creditors should 
 be attended to, and none that his punishment should be 
 commuted to beheading ; the horrible sentence of the 
 English law, as it then stood, for treason, was pronounced 
 upon him. His demeanour seems to have melted the 
 hearts of all present. 
 
 Upon the rising of the court Sir Everard, bowing 
 himself to the Lords, said : 
 
 If I may but hear any of your Lordships say you 
 forgive me, I shall go more cheerfully to the gallows.” 
 
 Whereupon the Lords said : 
 
 God forgive you and we do.” 
 
 He lies buried in a garden, where once was a small 
 chapel belonging to his family, at his estate of Tilton in 
 Northamptonshire. In the dead of the night they 
 brought his mangled remains there ; his brother, his wife, 
 his sister, and Fabian, wept over his grassy tomb. No 
 stone commemorates the place. The branches of the 
 overhanging trees, as the night wind sighs among them, 
 sing his lullaby. 
 
 “ There gather’d oft the earliest of the year, 
 
 By hands unseen are showers of violets found ; 
 
 The red-breast loves to build and warble there, 
 
 And little footsteps lightly print the ground.” 
 
 THE END. 
 
 C. WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE, STRAND. 
 
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