"It is all plain to me," he said, caressingly. "You have been living here with my aunt, a dear old saint; and she has been talking and telling you all about the Catholic religion, and making it seem all true and good.
And you, my dear child, have been thinking of me sometimes, and loving me a little, is it not so? and longing that religion should not separate us; and so you began to wish it was true; and then to hope it was; and at last you have begun to think it is. But it is not your true sweet self that believes it. Ah! you know in your heart of hearts, as I have known so long, that it is not true; that it is made up by priests and nuns; and it is very beautiful, I know, my dearest, but it is only a lovely tale; and you must not spoil all for the sake of a tale. And I have been gradually led to the light; it was your--" and his voice faltered--"your prayers that helped me to it. I have longed to understand what it was that made you so sweet and so happy; and now I know; it is your own simple pure religion; and--and--it is so much more sensible, so much more likely to be true than the Catholic religion. It is all in the Bible you see; so plain, as Mr. Collins has showed me. And so, my dear love, I have come to believe it too; and you must put all these fancies out of your head, these dreams; though I love you, I love you," and he kissed her hand again, "for wishing to believe them for my sake--and--and we will be married before Christmas; and we will have our own fairy-tale, but it shall be a true one."
This was terrible to Isabel. It seemed as if her own haunting thought that she was sacrificing a dream to reality had become incarnate in her lover and was speaking through his lips. And yet in its very incarnation, it seemed to reveal its weakness rather than its strength. As a dark suggestion the thought was mighty; embodied in actual language it seemed to shrink a little. But then, on the other hand--and so the interior conflict began to rage again.
She made a movement as if to stand up; but he pressed her back into the chair.
"No, my dearest, you shall be a prisoner until you give your parole."
Twice Isabel made an effort to speak; but no sound came. It seemed as if the raging strife of thoughts deafened and paralysed her.
"Now, Isabel," said Hubert.
"I cannot, I cannot," she cried desperately, "you must give me time. It is too sudden, your returning like this. You must give me time. I do not know what I believe. Oh, dear G.o.d, help me."
"Isabel, promise! promise! Before Christmas! I thought it was all to be so happy, when I came in through the garden just now. My mother will hardly speak to me; and I came to you, Isabel, as I always did; I felt so sure you would be good to me; and tell me that you would always love me, now that I had given up my religion for love of you. And now----" and Hubert"s voice ended in a sob.
Her heart seemed rent across, and she drew a sobbing sigh. Hubert heard it, and caught at her hands again as he knelt.
"Isabel, promise, promise."
Then there came that gust of purpose into her heart again; she made a determined effort and stood up; and Hubert rose and stood opposite her.
"You must not ask me," she said, bravely. "It would be wicked to decide yet. I cannot see anything clearly. I do not know what I believe, nor where I stand. You must give me time."
There was a dead silence. His face was so much in shadow that she could not tell what he was thinking. He was standing perfectly still.
"Then that is all the answer you will give me?" he said, in a perfectly even voice.
Isabel bowed her head.
"Then--then I wish you good-night, Mistress Norris," and he bowed to her, caught up his cap and went out.
She could not believe it for a moment, and caught her breath to cry out after him as the door closed; but she heard his step on the stone pavement outside, the crunch of the gravel, and he was gone. Then she went and leaned her head against the curved mantelshelf and stared into the logs that his hands had piled together.
This, then, she thought, was the work of religion; the end of all her aspirations and efforts, that G.o.d should mock them by bringing love into their life, and then when they caught at it and thanked him for it, it was whisked away again, and left their hands empty. Was this the Father of Love in whom she had been taught to believe, who treated His children like this? And so the bitter thoughts went on; and yet she knew in her heart that she was powerless; that she could not go to the door and call Hubert and promise what he asked. A great Force had laid hold of her, it might be benevolent or not--at this moment she thought not--but it was irresistible; and she must bow her head and obey.
And even as she thought that, the door opened again, and there was Hubert. He came in two quick steps across the room to her, and then stopped suddenly.
"Mistress Isabel," he asked, "can you forgive me? I was a brute just now.
I do not ask for your promise. I leave it all in your hands. Do with me what you will. But--but, if you could tell me how long you think it will be before you know----"
He had touched the right note. Isabel"s heart gave a leap of sorrow and sympathy. "Oh, Hubert," she said brokenly, "I am so sorry; but I promise I will tell you--by Easter?" and her tone was interrogative.
"Yes, yes," said Hubert. He looked at her in silence, and she saw strange lines quivering at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes large and brilliant in the firelight. Then the two drew together, and he took her in his arms strongly and pa.s.sionately.
There was a scene that night between the mother and son. Mistress Margaret had gone back to the Dower House for supper; and Lady Maxwell and Hubert were supping in Sir Nicholas" old study that would soon be arranged for Hubert now that he had returned for good. They had been very silent during the meal, while the servants were in the room, talking only of little village affairs and of the estate, and of the cancelling of the proposed expedition. Hubert had explained to his mother that it was generally believed that Elizabeth had never seriously intended the English ships to sail, but that she only wished to draw Spain"s attention off herself by setting up complications between that country and France; and when she had succeeded in this by managing to get the French squadron safe at Terceira, she then withdrew her permission to Drake and Hawkins, and thus escaped from the quarrel altogether. But it was a poor makeshift for conversation.
When the servants had withdrawn, a silence fell. Presently Hubert looked across the table between the silver branched candlesticks.
"Mother," he said, "of course I know what you are thinking. But I cannot consent to go through all the arguments; I am weary of them. Neither will I see Mr. Barnes to-morrow at Cuckfield or here. I am satisfied with my position."
"My son," said Lady Maxwell with dignity, "I do not think I have spoken that priest"s name; or indeed any."
"Well," said Hubert, impatiently, "at any rate I will not see him. But I wish to say a few words about this house. We must have our positions clear. My father left to your use, did he not, the whole of the cloister-wing? I am delighted, dear mother, that he did so. You will be happy there I know; and of course I need not say that I hope you will keep your old room overhead as well; and, indeed, use the whole house as you have always done. I shall be grateful if you will superintend it all, as before--at least, until a new mistress comes."
"Thank you, my son."
"I will speak of that in a moment," he went on, looking steadily at the table-cloth; "but there was a word I wished to say first. I am now a loyal subject of her Grace in all things; in religion as in all else.
And--and I fear I cannot continue to entertain seminary priests as my father used to do. My--my conscience will not allow that. But of course, mother, I need not say that you are at perfect liberty to do what you will in the cloister-wing; I shall ask no questions; and I shall set no traps or spies. But I must ask that the priests do not come into this part of the house, nor walk in the garden. Fortunately you have a lawn in the cloister; so that they need not lack fresh air or exercise."
"You need not fear, Hubert," said his mother, "I will not embarra.s.s you.
You shall be in no danger."
"I think you need not have said that, mother; I am not usually thought a coward."
Lady Maxwell flushed a little, and began to finger her silver knife.
"However," Hubert went on, "I thought it best to say that. The chapel, you see, is in that wing; and you have that lawn; and--and I do not think I am treating you hardly."
"And is your brother James not to come?" asked his mother.
"I have thought much over that," said Hubert; "and although it is hard to say it, I think he had better not come to my part of the house--at least not when I am here; I must know nothing of it. You must do what you think well when I am away, about him and others too. It is very difficult for me, mother; please do not add to the difficulty."
"You need not fear," said Lady Maxwell steadily; "you shall not be troubled with any Catholics besides ourselves."
"Then that is arranged," said the lad. "And now there is a word more.
What have you been doing to Isabel?" And he looked sharply across the table. His mother"s eyes met his fearlessly.
"I do not understand you," she said.
"Mother, you must know what I mean. You have seen her continually."
"I have told you, my son, that I do not know."
"Why," burst out Hubert, "she is half a Catholic."
"Thank G.o.d," said his mother.
"Ah! yes; you thank G.o.d, I know; but whom am I to thank for it?"
"I would that you could thank Him too."
Hubert made a sharp sound of disgust.
"Ah! yes," he said scornfully, "I knew it; _Non n.o.bis Domine_, and the rest."