Alice Bridge of Norwich — page 10: what you’re looking at

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neem > « ale. Bea: emecneimnannaeninenee aie ma Ril a - ee. er a hy se 18 ALICE BRIDGE OF N ORWICH. —a perfect gentleman, of grave, quiet manner, strong hold on Stephen Wren,—not indeed of | we not promise your handsome widow, Madame but fond of a frank. gossip and a good story. He was a widower with one daughter. May Hope was clever and merry; her. character offered a sparkling surface, but with deeper heroism dormant below. There also were found lawyer Brightling and his daughter Lucy, | who were constantly quarreling in purest fun. Such was the party surrounding the supper- table, on which appeared many dishes—pre- eminent, a noble roasted swan, with its neck and head erect, and covered with natural skin and down. Thisis a special] dish among the wealthy of Norwich. “Tt is our mother’s birthday,” said the eldest daughter; and her preua chevalier, or husband, has never let the day pass all these years with- out a birthday ode. Here is the present effu- siou.” A. ter suitable bealths and good wishes, which Dame Ridg-ley answered, the poem was read, and admitted to be a cultivated and pleas- the most honorable kind, having aided the lad in his youthful escapades, and got into his baser secrets. He knew he would wish to bave him near at hand in London, and would readily let him travel with him the next day. He went therefore to the Palace in search of this friend; and though at first the Bishop objected, he at last agreed to refer the matter to Father Chris- topher. “What has Father Christopher to do with me, Father?” said Stephen; ‘‘he isn't my father, and I don’t see why he should decide for ou.” |. , This was Stephen's usual dodge—to work on | his father’s vanity and jealousy of rule. “Go, Stephen, and ask the Father kindly to step here.” Father Christopher presently appeared, and the case was stated, when, to the surprise of all, he replied, ‘‘I could not advise that Master ant composition. The conversation then took a more general turn, and the Rector alluded to the Alderman’s | journey to London, and to other proofs of , serious events in Church and State which were at hand. “Surely,” said the mild and cautious host, ‘Government will not go to extremes, We should not hastily suspect or resist the powers | that be. Let us wait till we see what the Par- liament will effect.” ‘‘] am much of the same opinion,” rejoined the clergyman; ‘‘but if Popish tests are re- quired, one must throw all over.” Lucy Brightling said, ‘‘That’s very well in theory, but it’s another matter to give up the | little comforts of home and society. Now, | dad, speak out—Will you break with your. friend the Bishop, who gives you archeological | dinners? Will you give up your club of well- | to-do people who smile alike at Puritans and , Papists, and Jove good living and good books? Will you forego your friendship for dear Sir | Thomas Browne, and his snug house by St. Peter’s Church, with his museum of odd books —rare eggshells—curious plants, and his subtle eonceits and witty converse? Will anything induce you to break away and fly like a wretch- ed bittern to the swamps of Holland?” ““My child, I don’t know,” said the good man, thoroughly moved, his large eyes swim. ming in tears. ‘I am often an unworthy coward, and, as you say, fond of comfort and of my coteries; but I feel that times are at hand requiring the spirit of the martyrs. Christ. is my Master, and I cleave to Him: perhaps I could not suffer much for Him, but this I know, the laurel wreaths of future history and the crowns of Heaven are for those who shall dare | the worst for their glorious Master.” To such noble resolves all present expressed their enthusiastic assent. ‘Dear husband,” added the Rector’s wife with calmer mood, ‘take the course your judgment approves, though it involve the loss of all; and Alice and I will never hold you back when the time comes.” Tears were in all eyes, and hearts and nerves were high strung. CHAPTER XL. ‘THE BITER BITTEN. “Hin verfolgter Fuchs rettete sich auf eine Mauer. Um auf der andern Leite gut herab zu komnen ergriff er einen nahen Dornstrauch. Die Dornen ihn schmerz- lich verwundeten Elende Helfer rief der Fuchs die nicht helfen kdnnen ohne zugleich zu schaden.”—Las- | SING, WHEN the miserable Tutor escaped by sheer lightness of heel from the stinging strokes of Gerhardt’s vigorous arm, he found refuge in| the dusky hiding-places on the Castle Hill. | Here he writhed with pain, and rubbed his' aching shoulders, while he asked himself in his | failed more than once in matters trusted to you; | well;—be faithful, and may you be more pros- Green should go as Tutor, or in any responsible post; simply to journey to town in your son’s company might be allowed; but I should first wish a private conversation with him.” ** Very good,—then it’s settled. I will go back to my packings. Green, come to me soon.” The Tutor followed to the priest’s study, where, the kneeling and benediction over, Father Christopher said sternly, ‘I presume you expect what I have to say. You have happily you are only in your novitiate, and not yet ordained as a priest. Ican release your vows, or appoint a very serious retreat and dis- cipline in order to your reinstatement. But I believe in your zeal, and I know you can serve our objects, though not in our society. If you solemnly promise to do so, I will cancel your vows, and even recommend you to the Duke of Buckingham, where you may have important instructions, and still keep a hold on ycur old pupils and the Bishop’s son. Will you swear to act still in the interests of holy Church?” ‘‘Father, I swear with all my heart, and I thank you for the leniency you show in my trouble. It has been no fault of mine to have failed.” “Say not so, my son; you have been un- watchful. Some cross-purposes, some self-in- dulgence, has been allowed to interfere with the path of simple duty.” The Tutor started self-reproached, but the Father seemed only generalizing, and continued, “‘ Very serious is the loss to us, and very help- ful the documents to our enemies, if they suc- ceed in taking them to London; but we have sent after them a force authorized to spare no means in order to recover the stolen property, and baffle their endeavors, If peril or death come to them in consequence, their blood is on their own heads. You will probably meet them returning, and learn what has chanced. I will prepare instructions for you to follow out in London, and name to you aconfidential person there through whom we can correspoud. Fare- perous.” The Tutor retired with much relief, for his Jesuit ties were becoming irksome to him. Re- joining his friend, he related his success, and they made many jokes on the facility of their elders. ‘“When we get to London they can’t be watching us forever,” said Stephen. ‘‘I shall get away from school by your help, with invi- tations from the Duke—true or untrue; and we will dine at the new French taverns, and go to a play, and sup with the actors, and see some il e,” “ shall be glad to accompany you. I wonder how the Feming and his party are to-night. I expect they will be set upon. They won’t all | reach London alive.” “7 wish I was with their enemies,” said Ste- fury what revenge he could exact. Should he watch his returning foe, and sally | forth unawares to assassinate him? But he had | lost his sword, and had a wholesome dread of | that stick. Besides, he was a coward as well as a bully, and he soon revolved a mode of retalia- tion far worse than any personal harm. Yes, he could gallhim through Fanny, and makelcan get more. his jealousy his torment. He would punish her’ whom I go up, tells me there are lenders and at the same time, by the ruin of her prospects, | Jews who will let a Bishop's son have all he for her insensibility to his offers. Yes, he must wants. go, but ere long to return and work out his | plot. Yet how was he to get away? He knew he had lost the favor of the Father and the’ Bishop by the fearful loss they had discovered through the Fleming’s counter-robbery. There was but one ho,e for him. Hehad a phen. ‘‘I could gladly run my sword through a coxcomb George, whom I shall always ate.” ‘‘Have you a good allowance from your father, Stephen?—you’ll run through a good sum, I reck~n,” asked the Tutor. “ Pretty fair,” said the youth; ‘‘ but I guess Lord Norfolk’s son, with | I shan’t spare.” ‘‘T am sure,” replied the Tutor, ‘‘ my father will be happy to find you what you want, if you only give bills on your coming of age. Your father must buy them up.” ‘*Capital!—then we will live like princes, and Coligny, to pay her a late visit? I know you have singing birds under the hedges, but this is your canary in the gold cage. Here is your main chance: she is undoubtedly rich and inde- pendent; decidedly attractive — perhaps, too ; clever; and she will do anything for you.” This Madame was an English lady who was the recent widow of a French gentleman, who, having purchased an estate near Norwich, died, | and left her in possession of his good things. She was gay, and seemingly not averse from filling his place, but also bent on seeking a mate who could add to her worldly resources. The Tutor had worked his way to this lady’s good graces by his flatteries. He had passed for the son of a rich money-lender and follower of Buckingham who had an early fancy for the ,; Church, of which he was now weary, and who would soon get a good place about the Court. Rather slowly, for she was a cautious nibbler, the lady hinted of her husband’s estates in France and Spain, and of her own connections and possessions in England. Both these persous were at last so far con- vinced of each other’s eligibility, as to admit of flirtation, and even of an understanding that the Tutor should throw off the clerical character, go to London and push his fortune, and come | down to claim his fair and well-portioned bride. Stephen was a favorite with the lady, and a con- fidant in the whole affair. He admonished his friend that night to make his ground as secure as possible before leaving. Why should they not be married before starting the next morn- ing? Madame had a keen scent, and some cavalier might cut him out, and secure this golden chance before his return. The lady received her friends with delight. She was round and ruddy, cheerful and witty, very elegantly dressed,—only just sad enough to support the position of a long leave-taking. She had two young nieces with her—pretty and stylish as herself, who did the agreeable to Stephen while his friend enjoyed a ¢éle a téte with her. ‘Tt is very good of you, sir, to give me your last evening. Ifear 1 must make some other lady very jealous.” “ Madame, be sure when away from Norwich you will be my first and only remembrance,” ““You are polite: we shall greatly miss you also. Few know as much as you of my affairs. I wish if a few hundreds would be convenient for a time you would use them for me. My steward says I lay by too much.” “Thanks, Madame,—but my father has ample means: even the Duke borrows from him. He will provide all I need till the Duke appoints me an office—perhaps about the Court?” ‘Ah, then, I fear, the charming ladies of | honor will be too tempting.” ‘*Dear Madame, they can never efface your image from my heart. Iam ready to give you the best pledge of: fidelity. You know how wholly devoted Iam to you—why not waive scruples, and let us be united in private before we part?” “Oh, sir, consider!—how could.I think—a widow hardly a year!” ‘‘Dear Madame—in perfect confidence. In a short time I shall return, and we can take our own time for the publication. For my peace of mind, I beseech you!” ‘Ah, if I thought indeed it would make you happier! But there could be no legal deeds or setllements, though I would order my lawyer at once to prepare to place everything—as was the case with my former marriage—entirely in my husband’s control. I make that an absolute condition.” “Madame, you are generosity itself!” re- plied he, with sparkling eye. ‘ My father also will not be content without a proper settle- ment on my wife; to which the Duke will add, as he always does with his people. But what are these bagatelles between true hearts? Can I hope for favor to my bold request?” “Tt is odd,” said the lady, laughing, ‘‘ but my cousin, the clergyman of our parish, was joking yesterday about your attentions; and he said his services were at my disposal at a mo- ment’s notice. Certainly that was strange!” “‘ Quite apropos, indeed,” replied the gentle- man. ‘'Do embrace his offer! Shall I bear the notice?” “Nay, I will arrange it myself.’ The young men took leave after a whispered word or two respecting the morning, and an ex- pression of deep gratitude from the Tutor to the widow. enjoy all the good things of London, But did ‘“Well done, Green! I think you have fast. , ALICE BRIDGE OF NORWICH. 19 ened the rivet this time. She is a splendid prize. Of course to morrow sees her entirely yours. How about her property?” was Wrens remark when they were by themselves. “Ag her husband,” replied Green, ‘‘I shall | be safe, for she promises to place the whole under my control, as it was in her former mar- riage.” Les fellow!” said Stephen, with a slap’ on the back, ‘Few widows are as good as that. And whet about your settlements?” “JT made the most of my father and the Duke, and of my future prospects.” “ Well, old fellow, I must say you are good at a bargain. Were you born in Yorkshire?” -* It?s precious lucky her cousin being clergy- man of the parish, and ready to marry us,” cried the bridegroom-elect. ‘«Her cousin!—old Barfoot! Well, I never knew he had anyrelations. Fine girls, those nieces! If I were staying here, they might be dangerous; but my mind is full of London.” The next morning was chill and dreary; a thick fog lay over the city, driven by an east- erly breeze from the sea up the valley of the Wensum, without force enough to carry it past the spires and chimneys which obstructed its passage. The party met at the time appointed, but there was little disposition for mirth. Hurry and secrecy are bad handmaids for Hy- men. The church was full of mist, and the clergyman was taciturn, like one too early aroused from sleep, and going about as in a dream. Nothing was said about the sepulcher of him whose rights over the living were reced- ing into the far-off distance, The voices heard in the service were hoarse and low, as if from fear of observation. Still, all was done and signed regularly, and the lady at least showed some emotion as she received the final salute and the necessary farewell. “Be careful of yourself, sweetheart,” she said. ‘You will not be long away. Let me know soon what the Duke appoints for you. I cannot remain long here in your absence.” “My dearest wife,” replied her husband, ‘‘T shall have no peace till we meet; but you must stay here till lreturn. Just lend me your purse to remember you by, and take mine in return, Yours is the fullest, I know, but that will be all right.” She seemed strangely reluctant about so smal] a matter, but the exchange was made, by which Green was some hundred pounds better equipped for his journey. They parted at the church door, and already they seemed to have caught some of the chilliness of | the weather. That purse was all that Green ever realized of his wife’s great fortune, It may as well be told at once that she was an ad- venturer as well as he. It was a fresh case of the biter bitten. CHAPTER XII. EN ROUTE FOR LONDON. “ Then unto London I did me hie: Of all the land it beareth the prize. * Hot peasecods!’ one began to cry, ‘Strawberries ripe and cherries in the rise! One bade me come near and buy his spice; Pepper and saffron they gave me hee But for lack of money I might not speed,”’ LyYDGATE. Tue travelers fared not so well as some friends hoped, nor so ill as others dreaded. Van Diense and George were on the alert from the warning given at starting. Théy were but a short distance out of the city when they found that they were watched. They journeyed for most of the day without being molested. ‘They will wait till it grows dark, or attack us when we are resting at Thetford by night,” said the Fleming; ‘‘ but I think we will balk them of their prey.” Inquiring about the road, they found it lay over bare moor, but that only a little way fur- ther past Harling was a small dense wood, with a quarry inclosed in it, where gypsies and thieves often lurked, and sallied forth upon passengers. They were advised to ride briskly through this place of ill-repute. As they reached this evil place, Van Diense listened, and heard distinctly the galloping of horsemen behind them. He led the way, single file, into the dark wood by the narrow path, brushing through the close foliage. - Carefully feeling their way, they soon came to open ground circled by lofty trees, and saw they were in a rocky camp, with a very | tr ‘‘ Halt here till they pass,” said the Fleming. Now the tramp of the horses was very audi- ble coming up;—nearer, nearer,—now close by. Just then two of their animals took to neighing aloud, and they made sure they were discovered. Every one drew his sword, and the Fleming and George were posted in the cleft which served for their Thermopyle. But the troopers only pricked on the faster, not being surprised, or perhaps alarmed, at such sounds in that place. Away they hurry—further, further on the night breeze. They are gone! : Very quietly the Fleming then said, ‘‘ Thank God!” and a general sigh of relief was heard. He continued: ‘‘ We must take our quarters for the night here, and be glad we have so sheltered and safe an hotel,—perlaps safer than at Thet- ford. We are under God’s open sky, and must watch for their return, and then perhaps try their. metal.” : : So they fed, groomed, and picketed their horses, in the broken shed they were glad to find vessels and fire-irons. They soon kindled afire and cooked a good meal; then all lay down on dry straw to rest. : Will Barnard was appointed to watch till he heard the horsemen returning. Notwithstand- ing their excitement and fatigue, most of the company were soon fast asleep. The Fleming as leader felt too much responsibility on his shoulders to follow their example, and resolved to share Will Barnard’s watch. The Alderman, full of fatherly concern for his boys, kept awake for some time, and conversed in whispers with Van Diense; but presently he too succumbed to the unusual exertion, and slept heavily. The Fleming then, reclining on his arm, and having looked all round on the quiet trees, up to the small circle’of sky overhead,—at the re- eumbent horses, and the men and boys,—gave himself to deep musing over his whole position. He thought of his fond and gentle sister—his dearest tie to earth; and also more shyly of a lovely friend of childhood, long severed from him e circumstances, whom he should possibly see again in London. He forgot not his native land, Holland, then recently freed from tyr- anny, and holding a commanding place in Europe. He thought anxiously of the position of his adopted country, England, and the mad- ness of her Stuart rulers, —the unsuspiciousness of the English people, and the stern civil war they must probably pass through. He lovingly remembered _ old Nouael imperiled by her self-seeking Bishop; the evils surrounding the sleeping Alderman and _his sons, for whom he foresaw heavy woes and awful reverses of for- tune. He muttered his favorite German motto, “« Wenn sorge schlift wecke sie nicht,” and yet again that other, ‘‘Wenn Mann schlaft Gott waket immer.” He then turned his thoughts upon his own serious business and interviews on the morrow, which would mingle together statesmanship and trade, the world and relig- ion, royalty and poverty, Jesuits and Puritans, romance and prose, reality and disguise, and perhaps even love and danger, in an intricate web the main pattern of which all lay clear be- fore his trained intellect, and was committed to