As the spring went by and the summer came on, Isabel grew yet more silent. As the evenings began to lengthen out she used to spend much time before and after supper in walking up and down the clipped lime avenue between the east end of the church and the great gates that looked over the meadows across which the stream and the field-path ran towards East Maskells. Mr. Buxton would watch her sometimes from an upstairs window, himself unseen, and occasionally would go out and talk with her; but he found it harder than he used to get on to intimate relations; and he began to suspect that he had displeased her in some way, and that Mary Corbet was right. In the afternoon she and Anthony would generally ride out together, once or twice going round by Penshurst, and their host would torture himself by his own indecision as regards accompanying them; sometimes doing so, sometimes refraining, and regretting whichever he did. More and more he began to look forward to Mary"s coming and the benefit of her advice; and at last, at the end of June, she came.
Their first evening together was delightful for them all. She was happy at her escape from Court; her host was happy at the prospect of her counsel; and all four were happy at being together again.
They did not meet till supper, and even that was put off an hour, because Mary had not come, and when she did arrive she was full of excitement.
"I will tell you all at supper," she said to her host, whom she met in the hall. "Oh! how late I am!" and she whirled past him and upstairs without another word.
"I will first give you the news in brief," she said, when Anthony had said grace and they were seated, all four of them as before; and the trumpet-flourish was silent that had announced the approach of the venison.
"Mutton"s new chaplain, Dr. Bancroft, will be in trouble soon; he hath been saying favourable things for some of us poor papists, and hath rated the Precisians soundly. Sir Francis Knollys is wroth with him; but that is no matter.--Her Grace played at cards till two of the clock this morning, and that is why I am so desperate sleepy to-night, for I had to sit up too; and that is a great matter.--Drake and Norris, "tis said, have whipped the dons again at Corunna; and the Queen has sworn to pull my lord Ess.e.x his ears for going with them and adventuring his precious self; and that is no matter at all, but will do him good.--George Luttrell hath put up a coat of arms in his hall at Dunster, which is a great matter to him, but to none else;--and I have robbed a highwayman this day in the beech woods this side of Groombridge."
"Dear lady," said Mr. Buxton resignedly, as the others looked up startled, "you are too swift for our dull rustic ears; we will begin at the end, if you please. Is it true you have robbed an highwayman?"
"It is perfectly true," she said, and unlatched a ruby brooch, made heart-shape, from her dress. "There is the plunder," and she held it out for inspection.
"Then tell us the tale," said Anthony.
"It would be five of the clock," said Mary, "as we came through Groombridge, and then into the woods beyond. I had bidden my knaves ride on before with my woman; I came down into a dingle where there was a stream; and, to tell the truth, I had my head down and was a-nodding, when my horse stopped; and I looked up of a sudden and there was a man on a bay mare, with a mask to his mouth, a gay green suit, a brown beard turning grey, and this ruby brooch at his throat; and he had caught my bridle. I saw him start when I lifted my head, as if he were taken aback.
I said nothing, but he led my horse off the road down among the trees with a deep little thicket where none could see us. As we went I was thinking like a windmill; for I knew I had seen the little red brooch before.
"When we reached the little open s.p.a.ce, I asked him what he wished with me.
""Your purse, madam," said he.
""My woman hath it," said I.
""Your jewels then, madam," said he.
""My woman hath them," said I, "save this paste buckle in my hat, to which you are welcome." It was diamonds, you know; but I knew he would not know that.
""What a mistake," I said, "to stop the mistress and let the maid go free!"
""Nay," he said, "I am glad of it; for at least I will have a dance with the mistress; and I could not with the maid."
""You are welcome to that," I said, and I slipped off my horse, to humour him, and even as I slipped off I knew who he was, for although many have red brooches, and many brown beards turning grey, few have both together; but I said nothing. And there--will you believe it?--we danced under the beech-trees like Phyllis and Corydon, or whoever they are that Sidney is always prating of; or like two fools, I would sooner say. Then when we had done, I made him a curtsey.
""Now you must help me up," said I, and he mounted me without a word, for he was a stoutish gallant and somewhat out of breath. And then what did the fool do but try to kiss me, and as he lifted his arm I s.n.a.t.c.hed the brooch and put spur to my horse, and as we went up the bank I screamed at him, "Claude, you fool, go home to your wife and take shame to yourself."
And when I was near the road I looked back, and he still stood there all agape."
"And what was his name?" asked Anthony.
"Nay, nay, I have mocked him enough. And I know four Claudes, so you need not try to guess."
When supper was over, Mr. Buxton and Mary walked up and down the south path of the garden between the yews, while the other two sat just outside the hall window on a seat placed on the tiled terrace that ran round the house.
"How I have longed for you to come, Mistress Mary," he said, "and counsel me of the matter we wrote about. Tell me what to do."
Mary looked meditatively out to the strip of moon that was rising out to the east in the June sky. Then she looked tenderly at her friend.
"I hate to pain you," she said, "but cannot you see that it is impossible? I may be wrong; but I think her heart is so given to our Saviour that there is no love of that sort left."
"Ah, how can you say that?" he cried; "the love of the Saviour does not hinder earthly love; it purifies and transfigures it."
"Yes," said Mary gravely, "it is often so--but the love of the true spouse of Christ is different. That leaves no room for an earthly bridegroom."
Mr. Buxton was silent a moment or two.
"You mean it is the love of the consecrated soul?"
Mary bowed her head. "But I cannot be sure," she added.
"Then what shall I do?" he said again, almost piteously; and Mary could see even in the faint moonlight that his pleasant face was all broken up and quivering. She laid her hand gently on his arm, and her rings flashed.
"You must be very patient," she said, "very full of deference--and grave.
You must not be ardent nor impetuous, but speak slowly and reverently to her, but at no great length; be plain with her; do not look in her face, and do not show anxiety or despair or hope. You need not fear that your love will not be plain to her. Indeed, I think she knows it already."
"Why, I have not----" he began.
"I know you have not spoken to her; but I saw that she only looked at you once during supper, and that was when your face was turned from her; she does not wish to look you in the eyes."
"Ah, she hates me," he sighed.
"Do not be foolish," said Mary, "she honours you, and loves you, and is grieved for your grief; but I do not think she will marry you."
"And when shall I speak?" he asked.
"You must wait; G.o.d will make the opportunity--in any case. You must not attempt to make it. That would terrify her."
"And you will speak for me."
Mary smiled at him.
"Dear friend," she said, "sometimes I think you do not know us at all. Do you not see that Isabel is greater than all that? What she knows, she knows. I could tell her nothing."
The days pa.s.sed on; the days of the last month of the Norrises" stay at Stanfield. Half-way through the month came the news of the Oxford executions.
"Ah! listen to this," cried Mr. Buxton, coming out to them one evening in the garden with a letter in his hand. ""Humphrey Prichard,"" he read, ""made a good end. He protested he was condemned for the Catholic Faith; that he willingly died for it; that he was a Catholic. One of their ministers laughed at him, saying he was a poor ignorant fellow who knew not what it was to be a Catholic. "I know very well;" said Humphrey, "though I cannot say it in proper divinity language." There is the Religion for you!" went on Mr. Buxton; "all meet there, wise and simple alike. There is no difference; no scholarship is needed for faith. "I know what it is," cried Humphrey, "though I cannot explain it!""
The news came to Anthony just when he needed it; he felt he had done so little to teach his flock now he was to leave them; but if he had only done something to keep alive the fire of faith, he had not lost his time; and so he went about his spiritual affairs with new heart, encouraging the wavering, whom he was to leave, warning the over-confident, urging the hesitating, and saying good-bye to them all. Isabel went with him sometimes; or sometimes walked or rode with Mary, and was silent for the most part in public. The master of the house himself did his affairs, and carried a heavier heart each day. And at last the opportunity came which Mary had predicted.
He had come in one evening after a hot ride alone over to Tonbridge on some business with the priest there; and had dressed for supper immediately on coming in.
As there was still nearly an hour before supper, he went out to walk up and down the same yew-alley near the garden-house where he had walked with Mary. Anthony and Isabel had returned a little later from East Maskells, and they too had dressed early. Isabel threw a lace shawl over her head, and betook herself too to the alley; and there she turned a corner and almost ran into her host.