clared that she had been bred in the faith of the Church; and he trusted she would never swerve from it.
“It is marvellous,” the Bishop remarked, “what an influence these ranting schismatics establish within the very shadow of the Church. It is a fatal bribe of Satan. And another is the false strength that they have in themselves,—from pride, no doubt, in part, but also from an enthusiasm which sustains their spirits under all that can be said or done to them. Their constancy is so like that of true martyrs that it is no wonder that the ignorant take them for martyrs. They have been ensnared into believing that they are honoured and distinguished by suffering for the truth during the last term allowed to the enemy; and that the day of salvation for the gospel and gospellers is at hand, when all who shall have endured to the end shall be received into glory.”
“That is indeed their view,” Elizabeth replied, in a low voice.
“What an awful superstition it is,” resumed the Bishop, “to regard in that way the merciful efforts of the Church to bring back the lost sheep of the flock! But the power of superstition was never stronger,—never since the Reformation so strong.”
“And some of their superstitions are so strange!” the Sheriff observed. “The people about here firmly believe that Monmouth will reappear in Eighty-nine.”
“Not only that,” said the Bishop; “but they seem equally happy whether they hold that he never was executed, or show handkerchiefs dipped in his blood. They make sure of their Protestant King, either way.”
“Yes; he is to appear in Eighty-nine, whether he is really dead or not. Your Lordship can satisfy some of them as to the reality of his death.”
“Far from it,” replied the Bishop. “When I tell them what he said before he died (some things,—not all,—God forbid!), and when I testify that I saw him dead, and the people carrying away his blood, they only say that it was somebody very like him, who died in his stead. In the same breath they call him the Protestant martyr and the great Protestant King who has four years to wait for his crown.”
“They have got hold of some saying of Monmouth’s,” said the Sheriff, “about summoning the Baroness Wentworth to make ready to share his majesty and glory.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the Bishop: “I was not aware of that: and it is very strange. Most singular!” he continued, after a pause. “I was considering how the thing could have got abroad. It was not likely that I, or my brother prelates, would have spoken on the subject at all, seeing how vain were all our efforts to bring his Grace to any sense of his duty in regard to that passion.”
“He did say something, then, which might be the ground of this notion?”
“What he said was that the Lady Henrietta would not mourn him long: he had a persuasion that she would quit life soon after him, knowing, as they both did, that heaven would be no heaven to him without her. But I err,” he said, checking himself. “These are not topics for such audience. But you, Mr. Bankshope,—you hare an office also among these unhappy people here in the West, at this unhappy time: and perhaps you can understand me when I say that such is the trial to heart and head,—such the misery that I see every hour, and such the joy and triumph flourished in my face by the very victims of Satan, that my heart and my flesh fail me, and I sometimes shudder to think how nigh such discomposure is to a failure of reason. Yes, you are right. Such feelings are common to all mortal men who know the value of their reason at all. The distemperature passes away; and meantime we know where to find strength.”
“I dread a fresh perplexity,” observed the Sheriff, “from the strange turn the Government is taking in regard to the schismatics. It appears as if, by an unheard-of mutual understanding between the Papists and the Roundheads, the Church might soon be cast out, to shift for herself.”
The topic did not suit the Bishop. The Sheriff held some curious information, which might or might not be in the Bishop’s possession. It was evident that he would not speak at all on the prospects of the Church: and he returned with great fervour to the consideration of what could be done on behalf of Madam Lisle.
“I was hardly aware,” he said, “how I revered her. It is true that I could never prevail with her to share in the services of the Church: but I shall never forget the Christian grace with which she sat down to meat with the poor who dine at the palace twice in the week. I have, many times, found strength and solace in the genial sympathy with which she approved certain hymns and devout poems. . . . But I see now that I have yielded unworthily to the allurement of religious sympathy in a sectary; and to-day, and in this heavy news, I have my punishment.”
“Oh, my lord, say not so!” cried Elizabeth. “I know her thoughts. I have heard some of those hymns. Do not say”
“Whatever I may think, I will not say more of it,” the Bishop replied. “I will, please God, go to Winchester to-morrow. If I can send good news, I will.”
As Elizabeth left the room, after receiving the Bishop’s benediction, according to his custom, her brother was detained for an instant by a touch on the arm.
“I understood,” said the Bishop—“and I am strongly impressed that I heard it from Madam Lisle herself—that your sister was betrothed to one of the Battiscombes of Lyme—to the young lawyer.”
“It is certainly true,” said the Sheriff; “but I am not without hopes that the impression may pass away by absence, and that I may see her the wife of a good churchman before Battiscombe can venture to return.”
“Do you not know, then, where he is?”
“Not precisely, because he is at sea. He is bound for Amsterdam. He is supposed to have sailed two days since.”
“That is a mistake. He was arrested this morning”
