“A jest!—to Mistress Bankshope,—begging for her lover’s life!”
“Do not speak of it, Sir Henry, I beg of you in the King’s name.”
“To the King himself I shall speak of it.—But what became of the girl?”
“I would tell you if I could: but I cannot say whether it was Fury or Angel that she was turned into by the spell of that jest. Such a look I never saw in human face. But I know what the vindictiveness of women is: and I will warrant that the Fury will get the upper hand. See what she is six months hence.”
“You are very hard, Alford.”
“And you are astonishingly soft, you must allow me to say. Who would believe you had lived almost within hearing of these people’s disloyal prayers, and their canting songs of Zion? If you knew as much as I have had occasion to know,—(I have had my eye on them since they opened an illegal meeting-house one night last winter), you would see what pernicious and dangerous people they are.”
“You take your impression from your informers, I suppose?”
“Of course,—from that body.”
“From Reuben Coad?”
“Yes,—from him among others. You need not look solemn about Reuben to me. I know the fellow well enough.”
“Yes, all Lyme knows him,—all Winchester knows him. He had better look to his safety. If the people cannot rescue Battiscombe, they will express their feelings on his treacherous servant, if they can lay hands on him.”
“That is provided for, as you must be aware. His relations down on the beach there would have nothing to do with him: so I have to harbour him till the affair has blown over.”
“‘Blown over!’” thought Sir Henry as he went to his stables, to mount, and ride far away from the market-place of Lyme. “‘Blown over!’ as if Lyme, or anybody in it, could ever again be, after this day, as they were before!”
He could leave Lyme only by passing the Squire’s house. It was true that the blinds were not down, and that there were no signs of disorder about the place. The marks of wheels and of horses’ feet, which had disturbed the gravel-drive in the morning, were raked away.—Loyal as he was to Church and King, Sir Henry felt, in passing that gate, as if his heart would burst at thinking of the breaking hearts within.
The hearts within were not breaking. They were very, -very full; but not fuller than they could bear.
That evening the large dining-room was brilliantly lighted up for service,—it being concluded that on such a day the law would remit its gripe, and devotion might have its way. The whole house was filled with members of the true congregation, who had come up boldly from the town. There was no lack of preachers, though they would hear Hickes no more; and there was a remarkable oneness of spirit among them all. The service was almost entirely an outpouring of lofty thanksgiving. Whatever was not that, was a celebrating of the Divine compassion, and a joyous announcement of heavenly promises, supposed to be on the verge of accomplishment. God had permitted this generation to witness the last lease of power given to Satan, whom they saw walking the earth, trying men’s souls, and dismissing to martyrdom those whom he could not bend or spoil. These were the last days; and great days they were for the fathers and mothers, the brethren, and the spouses of martyrs. For them, and for all, a blessed season was at hand, when all should see Satan as it were falling from heaven, and the heavenly host coming again to sing a new promise of “Peace on earth, and goodwill to men.”
After the service, all assembled were entreated to take food and wine,—to mark distinctly the difference between this day of sacrifice and a day of humiliation. Host and hostess dismissed each individually, with thanks for their presence.
The autumn night had clouded over; and it was so dark that the Squire himself carried a lantern as far as the gate. Some distant shouts and cries had been noticed in the midst of the service; and now the tread of many feet was heard in the road. A voice announced, as groups passed, that half Lyme had been hunting Reuben Coad over the town to destroy him. They had stormed the Mayor’s house till he was let out at the back, to take his chance of escape by flight. The Squire hoped no such murder had taken place. It had not: Reuben had escaped in the twilight, but nobody believed that it would be for long.
The household were about to separate for the night,—careful not to break through their ordinary habit of life,—when the storm which had been rising burst over the coast. Each had felt stifled for hours, and all had supposed it was part of the suffering of the day. Now it was some relief to throw open the back-windows, and see, by the flashes of the lightning, the wide expanse of sea, and feel the gusts as they passed. The tempest was not unwelcome to any; and the children were permitted to remain and see it out. Joanna sat on her father’s knee; and she did not hide her face from the brightest flash. So had they all striven this day, her father said, not to flinch from the lightnings of terror and woe which God had sent to try their souls. That great and terrible day was over—the greatest day, perhaps, of all their lives. Death had never been in that household before, and now the noblest and best was taken: but it was a great honour. They were honoured by being the parents and the brothers and sisters of a martyr—a martyr as holy and devout and cheerful in his death as any that had so died since Stephen. Elizabeth (whom he drew to him as he spoke) was the most honoured of them all; for she was, freely and of her own faith and love, the spouse of a martyr. Thus it was a great day in their house.
Then Joanna told again what Christopher and she had agreed that evening at Taunton, and how he had desired her to remember it, if either of them should ever be a martyr or in trouble for the right. “But I shall never be a martyr,” Joanna said with a sigh.
Her father said that she might be nearer to