The other put down her embroidery again, and smiled up into the girl"s puzzled eyes.
"Well, my child," she said, "do they seem sufficient, when you look at Christendom now? If they are so clear, how is it that you have the Lutherans, and the Anabaptists, and the Family of Love, and the Calvinists, and the Church of England, all saying they hold to the Scriptures alone. Nay, nay; the Scriptures are the grammar, and the Church is the dame that teaches out of it, and she knows so well much that is not in the grammar, and we name that tradition. But where there is no dame to teach, the children soon fall a-fighting about the book and the meaning of it."
Isabel looked at Mistress Margaret a moment, and then turned back again to the window in silence.
At another time they had a word or two about Peter"s prerogatives.
"Surely," said Isabel suddenly, as they walked together in the garden, "Christ is the one Foundation of the Church, St. Paul tells us so expressly."
"Yes, my dear," said the nun, "but then Christ our Lord said: "Thou art Peter, and on this rock I will build my Church." So he who is the only Good Shepherd, said to Peter, "Feed My sheep"; and He that is _Clavis David_ and that openeth and none shutteth said to him, "I will give thee the keys, and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven." That is why we call Peter the Vicar of Christ."
Isabel raised her eyebrows.
"Surely, surely----" she began.
"Yes, my child," said Mistress Margaret, "I know it is new and strange to you; but it was not to your grandfather or his forbears: to them, as to me, it is the plain meaning of the words. We Catholics are a simple folk.
We hold that what our Saviour said simply He meant simply: as we do in the sacred mystery of His Body and Blood. To us, you know," she went on, smiling, with a hand on the girl"s arm, "it seems as if you Protestants twisted the Word of G.o.d against all justice."
Isabel smiled back at her; but she was puzzled. The point of view was new to her. And yet again in the garden, a few months later, as they sat out together on the lawn, the girl opened the same subject.
"Mistress Margaret," she said, "I have been thinking a great deal; and it seems very plain when you talk. But you know our great divines could answer you, though I cannot. My father was no Papist; and Dr. Grindal and the Bishops are all wise men. How do you answer that?"
The nun looked silently down at the gra.s.s a moment or two.
"It is the old tale," she said at last, looking up; "we cannot believe that the babes and sucklings are as likely to be right in such matters as the wise and prudent--even more likely, if our Saviour"s words are to be believed. Dear child, do you not see that our Lord came to save all men, and call all men into His Church; and that therefore He must have marked His Church in such a manner that the most ignorant may perceive it as easily as the most learned? Learning is very well, and it is the gift of G.o.d; but salvation and grace cannot depend upon it. It needs an architect to understand why Paul"s Church is strong and beautiful, and what makes it so; but any child or foolish fellow can see that it is so."
"I do not understand," said Isabel, wrinkling her forehead.
"Why this--that you are as likely to know the Catholic Church when you see it, as Dr. Grindal or Dr. Freake, or your dear father himself. Only a divine can explain about it and understand it, but you and I are as fit to see it and walk into it, as any of them."
"But then why are they not all Catholics?" asked Isabel, still bewildered.
"Ah!" said the nun, softly, "G.o.d alone knows, who reads hearts and calls whom He will. But learning, at least, has nought to do with it."
Conversations of this kind that took place now and then between the two were sufficient to show Mistress Margaret, like tiny bubbles on the surface of a clear stream, the swift movement of this limpid soul that she loved so well. But on the other hand, all the girl"s past life, and most sacred and dear a.s.sociations, were in conflict with this movement; the memory of her quiet, wise father rose and reproached her sometimes; Anthony"s enthusiastic talk, when he came down from Lambeth, on the glorious destinies of the Church of England, of her gallant protest against the corruptions of the West, and of her future unique position in Christendom as the National Church of the most progressive country--all this caused her to shrink back terrified from the bourne to which she was drifting, and from the breach that must follow with her brother. But above all else that caused her pain was the shocking suspicion that her love for Hubert perhaps was influencing her, and that she was living in gross self-deception as to the sincerity of her motives.
This culminated at last in a scene that seriously startled the old nun; it took place one summer night after Hubert"s departure in Mr. Drake"s expedition. Mistress Margaret had seen Isabel to her room, and an hour later had finished her night-office and was thinking of preparing herself to bed, when there was a hurried tap at the door, and Isabel came quickly in, her face pale and miserable, her great grey eyes full of trouble and distraction, and her hair on her shoulders.
"My dear child," said the nun, "what is it?"
Isabel closed the door and stood looking at her, with her lips parted.
"How can I know, Mistress Margaret," she said, in the voice of a sleep-walker, "whether this is the voice of G.o.d or of my own wicked self?
No, no," she went on, as the other came towards her, frightened, "let me tell you. I must speak."
"Yes, my child, you shall; but come and sit down first," and she drew her to a chair and set her in it, and threw a wrap over her knees and feet; and sat down beside her, and took one of her hands, and held it between her own.
"Now then, Isabel, what is it?"
"I have been thinking over it all so long," began the girl, in the same tremulous voice, with her eyes fixed on the nun"s face, "and to-night in bed I could not bear it any longer. You see, I love Hubert, and I used to think I loved our Saviour too; but now I do not know. It seems as if He was leading me to the Catholic Church; all is so much more plain and easy there--it seems--it seems--to make sense in the Catholic Church; and all the rest of us are wandering in the dark. But if I become a Catholic, you see, I can marry Hubert then; and I cannot help thinking of that; and wanting to marry him. But then perhaps that is the reason that I think I see it all so plainly; just because I want to see it plainly. And what am I to do? Why will not our Lord shew me my own heart and what is His Will?"
Mistress Margaret shook her head gently.
"Dear child," she said, "our Saviour loves you and wishes to make you happy. Do you not think that perhaps He is helping you and making it easy in this way, by drawing you to His Church through Hubert. Why should not both be His Will? that you should become a Catholic and marry Hubert as well?"
"Yes," said Isabel, "but how can I tell?"
"There is only one thing to be done," went on the old lady, "be quite simple and quiet. Whenever your soul begins to be disturbed and anxious, put yourself in His Hands, and refuse to decide for yourself. It is so easy, so easy."
"But why should I be so anxious and disturbed, if it were not our Lord speaking and warning me?"
"In the Catholic Church," said Mistress Margaret, "we know well about all those movements of the soul; and we call them scruples. You must resist them, dear child, like temptations. We are told that if a soul is in grace and desires to serve G.o.d, then whenever our Lord speaks it is to bring sweetness with Him; and when it is the evil one, he brings disturbance. And that is why I am sure that these questionings are not from G.o.d. You feel stifled, is it not so, when you try to pray? and all seems empty of G.o.d; the waves and storms are going over you. But lie still and be content; and refuse to be disturbed; and you will soon be at peace again and see the light clearly."
Mistress Margaret found herself speaking simply in short words and sentences as to a child. She had seen that for a long while past the clouds had been gathering over Isabel, and that her soul was at present completely overcast and unable to perceive or decide anything clearly; and so she gave her this simple advice, and did her utmost to soothe her, knowing that such a clean soul would not be kept long in the dark.
She knelt down with Isabel presently and prayed aloud with her, in a quiet even voice; a patch of moonlight lay on the floor, and something of its white serenity seemed to be in the old nun"s tones as she entreated the merciful Lord to bid peace again to this anxious soul, and let her see light again through the dark.
And when she had taken Isabel back again to her own room at last, and had seen her safely into bed, and kissed her good-night, already the girl"s face was quieter as it lay on the pillow, and the lines were smoothed out of her forehead.
"G.o.d bless you!" said Mistress Margaret.
CHAPTER III
HUBERT"S RETURN
After the sailing of Mr. Drake"s expedition, the friends of the adventurers had to wait in patience for several months before news arrived. Then the _Elizabeth_, under the command of Mr. Winter, which had been separated from Mr. Drake"s _Pelican_ in a gale off the south-west coast of America, returned to England, bringing the news of Mr. Doughty"s execution for desertion; but of the _Pelican_ herself there was no further news until complaints arrived from the Viceroy of New Spain of Mr. Drake"s ravages up the west coast. Then silence again fell for eighteen months.
Anthony had followed the fortunes of the _Pelican_, in which Hubert had sailed, with a great deal of interest: and it was with real relief that after the burst of joy in London at the news of her safe return to Plymouth with an incalculable amount of plunder, he had word from Lady Maxwell that she hoped he would come down at once to Great Keynes, and help to welcome Hubert home. He was not able to go at once, for his duties detained him; but a couple of days after the Hall had welcomed its new master, Anthony was at the Dower House again with Isabel. He found her extraordinarily bright and vivacious, and was delighted at the change, for he had been troubled the last time he had seen her a few months before, at her silence and listlessness; but her face was radiant now, as she threw herself into his arms at the door, and told him that they were all to go to supper that night at the Hall; and that Hubert had been keeping his best stories on purpose for his return. She showed him, when they got up to his room at last, little things Hubert had given her--carved nuts, a Spanish coin or two, and an ingot of gold--but of which she would say nothing, but only laugh and nod her head.
Hubert, too, when he saw him that evening seemed full of the same sort of half-suppressed happiness that shone out now and again suddenly. There he sat, for hours after supper that night, broader and more sunburnt than ever, with his brilliant eyes glancing round as he talked, and his sinewy man"s hand, in the delicate creamy ruff, making little explanatory movements, and drawing a map once or twice in spilled wine on the polished oak; the three ladies sat forward and watched him breathlessly, or leaned back and sighed as each tale ended, and Anthony found himself, too, carried away with enthusiasm again and again, as he looked at this gallant sea-dog in his gold chain and satin and jewels, and listened to his stories.
"It was bitter cold," said Hubert in his strong voice, telling them of Mr. Doughty"s death, "on the morning itself: and snow lay on the decks when we rose. Mr. Fletcher had prepared a table in the p.o.o.p-cabin, with a white cloth and bread and wine; and at nine of the clock we were all a.s.sembled where we might see into the cabin: and Mr. Fletcher said the Communion service, and Mr. Drake and Mr. Doughty received the sacrament there at his hands. Some of Mr. Doughty"s men had all they could do to keep back their tears; for you know, mother, they were good friends. And then when it was done, we made two lines down the deck to where the block stood by the main-mast; and the two came down together; and they kissed one another there. And Mr. Doughty spoke to the men, and bade them pray for the Queen"s Grace with him; and they did. And then he and Mr. Drake put off their doublets, and Mr. Doughty knelt at the block, and said another prayer or two, and then laid his head down, and he was shivering a little with cold, and then, when he gave the sign, Mr. Drake----" and Hubert brought the edge of his hand down sharply, and the gla.s.ses rang, and the ladies drew quick hissing breaths; and Lady Maxwell put her hand on her son"s arm, as he looked round on all their faces.
Then he told them of the expedition up the west coast, and of the towns they sacked; and the opulent names rolled oddly off his tongue, and seemed to bring a whiff of southern scent into this panelled English room,--Valparaiso, Tarapaca, and Arica--; and of the capture of the _Cacafuego_ off Quibdo; and of the enormous treasure they took, the great golden crucifix with emeralds of the size of pigeon"s eggs, and the chests of pearls, and the twenty-six tons of silver, and the wedges of pure gold from the Peruvian galleon, and of the golden falcon from the Chinese trader that they captured south of Guatulco. And he described the search up the coast for the pa.s.sage eastwards that never existed; and of Drake"s superb resolve to return westwards instead, by the Moluccas; and how they stayed at Ternate, south of Celebes, and coasted along Java seeking a pa.s.sage, and found it in the Sunda straits, and broke out from the treacherous islands into the open sea; crossed to Africa, rounded the Cape of Good Hope; came up the west coast, touching at Sierra Leone, and so home again along the Spanish and French coasts, to Plymouth Sound and the pealing of Plymouth bells.
And he broke out into something very like eloquence when he spoke of Drake.
"Never was such a captain," he cried, "with his little stiff beard and his obstinate eyes. I have seen him stand on the p.o.o.p, when the arrows were like hail on the deck, with one finger in the ring round his neck,--so": and Hubert thrust a tanned finger into a link of his chain, and lifted his chin, "just making little signs to the steersman, with his hand behind his back, to bring the ship nearer to the Spaniard; as cool, I tell you, as cool as if he were playing merelles. Oh! and then when we boarded, out came his finger from his ring; and there was none that struck so true and fierce; and all in silence too, without an oath or a cry or a word; except maybe to give an order. But he was very sharp with all that angered him. When we sighted the _Madre di Dios_, I ran into his cabin to tell him of it, without saluting, so full was my head of the chase. And he looked at me like ice; and then roared at me to know where my manners were, and bade me go out and enter again properly, before he would hear my news; and then I heard him rating the man that stood at his door for letting me pa.s.s in that state. At his dinner, too, which he took alone, there were always trumpets to blow, as when her Grace dines. When he laughed it seemed as if he did it with a grave face.
There was a piece of grand fooling when we got out from among those weary Indian islands; where the great crabs be, and flies that burn in the dark, as I told you. Mr. Fletcher, the minister, played the coward one night when we ran aground; and bade us think of our sins and our immortal souls, instead of urging us to be smart about the ship; and he did it, too, not as Mr. Drake might do, but in such a melancholy voice as if we were all at our last hour; so when we were free of our trouble, and out on the main again, we were all called by the drum to the forecastle, and there Mr. Drake sat on a sea-chest as solemn as a judge, so that not a man durst laugh, with a pair of pantoufles in his hand; and Mr. Fletcher was brought before him, trying to smile as if "twas a jest for him too, between two guards; and there he was arraigned; and the witnesses were called; and Tom Moore said how he was tapped on the shoulder by Mr.
Fletcher as he was getting a pick from the hold; and how he was as white as a ghost and bade him think on Mr. Doughty, how there was no mercy for him when he needed it, and so there would be none for us--and then other witnesses came, and then Mr. Fletcher tried to make his defence, saying how it was the part of a minister to bid men think on their souls; but "twas no good. Mr. Drake declared him guilty; and sentenced him to be kept in irons till he repented of that his cowardice; and then, which was the cream of the joke, since the prisoner was a minister, Mr. Drake declared him excommunicate, and cut off from the Church of G.o.d, and given over to the devil. And he was put in irons, too, for a while; so "twas not all a joke."
"And what is Mr. Drake doing now?" asked Lady Maxwell.
"Oh! Drake is in London," said Hubert. "Ah! yes, and you must all come to Deptford when her Grace is going to be there. Anthony, lad, you"ll come?"