THE FRANCISCAN.
THE FRANCISCAN.
THE FRANCISCAN.
Philip remained for some little time in the banqueting-chamber, expecting the Cardinal’s return, but as Pole did not appear, the King at last sallied forth into the court, where several of the Cardinal’s retinue were assembled. Perceiving Rodomont Bittern among them, he signed to him to approach, and then walking apart with him, said, with a certain significance—
“Since Constance Tyrrell has been imprisoned in the Lollards’ Tower, no communication has passed between her and Osbert Clinton?—ha!”
“Access to her while shut up in yon tower were impossible without consent of the keeper, Sire,” replied Rodomont; “and he is faithful.”
“Difficult it may be, but not impossible,” rejoined the King. “Yon ivied wall would not be difficult to scale. Her prison-chamber has a window which might be reached by a rope ladder.”
“Can he suspect?” thought Rodomont, uneasily.
“Such plans are common enough in Spain, where walls, bolts, and bars, and even watchful gaolers, cannot shut out lovers,” pursued Philip. “Osbert Clinton is rash enough—enamoured enough to attempt anything.”
“Your Majesty is a better judge of such matters than I can pretend to be,” said Rodomont; “but I would risk life and limb for no woman, were she twice as lovely as Constance Tyrrell. The danger of the enterprise would effectuallycool my ardour. Osbert Clinton well knows that he would incur your Majesty’s severe displeasure were he to make any such attempt.”
“Danger, I repeat, will not deter him,” said the King. “It is not enough that Constance is shut up in yon tower—that the doors of her cell are locked, and the windows barred. I tell you, he will find a way to her—if he has not done so already.”
“I dare not contradict your Majesty,” replied Rodomont. “It may be as you suspect. What more would you have done?”
“That tower must be strictly watched at night,” said Philip, “and you must be the watcher.”
“I am ready to obey your Majesty,” replied Rodomont; “but such an office will somewhat interfere with my duties to the Cardinal.”
“Heed not that!” said Philip. “I will hold you excused with his Eminence. You will commence the watch to-night.”
“To-night, Sire?”
“Should Osbert Clinton venture hither, arrest him, and keep him in close confinement till you learn my pleasure.”
“May I make bold to inquire if your Majesty has any reason to suspect that he will come?” said Rodomont.
“It matters not what I suspect. Do as I command you.”
“Your injunctions shall be obeyed, Sire,” returned Rodomont. “And for his own sake I hope Master Osbert Clinton may keep away.”
At this moment a tall Franciscan friar, with the cowl of his grey robe drawn over his head, was seen marching slowly along the court-yard. He directed his steps towards the Lollards’ Tower, and on reaching it stayed at the doorway, where he remained in converse with Mallet, the keeper.
“Who is yon monk, and what is his errand?” demanded the King, who had been watching him with some curiosity.
“I know him not, Sire—he is a stranger,” replied Rodomont. “Apparently he is seeking admittance to one of the prisoners, which Mallet, the keeper, is unwilling to grant. Perchance, it may be Mistress Constance Tyrrell whom he desires to see.”
“Bring him before me, I will question him,” said Philip.
Rodomont instantly obeyed, and shortly afterwards returned with the friar and Mallet. The Franciscan made a humble obeisance to the King, but did not attempt to raise his hood.
“An please your Majesty, this holy man is from Winchester,” said Mallet. “He is charged by Father Jerome of Saint Catherine’s Chapel on the Hill, with a message to Mistress Constance Tyrrell. Is it not so?” he added to the monk.
The Franciscan bowed his head.
“Is Father Jerome aware that she to whom he has sent you has lapsed from the faith?” said the King.
“He is, Sire,” replied the monk, in tones that sounded strangely hollow, “but he hopes she may still be reclaimed. With the design of rendering some aid in the good work, I have come hither. Great success has hitherto attended my efforts; and therefore it is that good Father Jerome, who is deeply interested in Mistress Constance’s spiritual welfare, hath selected me for the office.”
“An opportunity shall be afforded you of making the attempt,” said the King. “There can be no reason why this holy man should not be admitted to her,” he added to Mallet. “Take him to her cell.”
“Mistress Constance is not in her cell at present, Sire,” observed Mallet.
“Where is she, then?” cried the King, sharply.
“She is with her Majesty, Sire,” replied Mallet.
“With the Queen?” exclaimed Philip, surprised. “Go into the tower, good father, and await her return.”
“Ha, here comes Mistress Constance,” exclaimed Rodomont, as the damsel, escorted by Simnel and Holiday, issued from the palace, and made her way towards the Lollards’ Tower. Bowing humbly to the King, she would have passed on, had he not stopped her.
“You have been with her Majesty, as I understand?” he said. “How fares it with her now?”
“As well as you could desire, Sire,” she replied. “Her Majesty has quite recovered.”
“I would fain reward you for your good tidings,” said Philip. “It rests with yourself whether your imprisonment in this tower shall be prolonged.”
“My term of durance is at an end, Sire,” she rejoined. “I am a prisoner, it is true, but only restricted to the limits of the palace. I desire no greater freedom. The Queen has conferred this grace upon me.”
“Her Majesty has only anticipated my intentions,” said Philip. “It grieved me to think you should have been confined within that dreary cell. But why did you not appeal to me, when you well knew that a word would have procured you full liberty?”
“But I could not utter that word, Sire,” she rejoined, coldly.
“Tarry a moment,” said the King, checking her departure. “This holy man has been sent by Father Jerome, to whose ghostly counsels you once gave heed, in the hope that he may restore you to the Catholic Church.”
“I am much beholden to Father Jerome for his kindly concern in my behalf,” she rejoined; “and it pains me to dismiss the good friar he has sent without a hearing. But a conference would be profitable to neither of us, and I must therefore decline it.”
“How know you that such a conference would be unprofitable, daughter?” said the friar, in tones that trembled with emotion. “I pray you send me not away unheard.”
At the sound of his voice Constance started, and was seized with a trepidation which she could hardly conceal.
“Can he have ventured here in this disguise?” she murmured. “Imprudent that he is, he will sacrifice himself by his rashness! No, no,” she added aloud, “I cannot consent to a conference with you without the Cardinal’s sanction. I am under his charge.”
“If that be all, his Eminence’s sanction can be readily procured, for here he comes,” said Philip.
“The Cardinal here, then he is lost!” mentally ejaculated Constance. “You have come on a vain errand,” she added, to the monk.
“Nay, let us hear what his Eminence has to say to the matter,” observed Philip. And, as Pole came up at the moment, he told him what had occurred.
“Father Jerome must have much confidence in this friar if he imagines he will succeed where we have failed,” remarked Pole. “I will question him, and judge of his fitnessfor the task. Bring him to me anon,” he added to Rodomont.
“I do not desire to confer with him,” cried Constance, distractedly. “Send him away!—Send him away!”
“What means this strange emotion?” thought the Cardinal. “A word with you, daughter,” he added, taking her aside. “Who is this monk? I must know the truth. Attempt to deceive me, and I will compel him to raise his hood.”
“In mercy spare him,” she rejoined, “If the King beholds his features he is lost.”
“Then it is Osbert Clinton,” said the Cardinal. “I will not betray him, but you must promise to hold no converse with him.”
“I do—I do,” she rejoined.
“Control yourself, or you will excite the King’s suspicions,” pursued the Cardinal. “I am glad I made this discovery in time. I shall warn this rash youth not to come here again. If he does, he must not count on my protection. And now,” he added, so as to be heard by the King, “retire to your cell till a chamber can be prepared for you in the palace. I will speak with this friar anon, and act as may seem best to me in regard to him.”
Thanking him for his goodness, and making an obeisance to the King, Constance withdrew.
Philip and the Cardinal then hastened to the Queen, and shortly afterwards the royal pair embarked in the barge awaiting them, and returned to Whitehall.
OF THE COUNSEL GIVEN TO OSBERT CLINTON BY THECARDINAL.
OF THE COUNSEL GIVEN TO OSBERT CLINTON BY THECARDINAL.
OF THE COUNSEL GIVEN TO OSBERT CLINTON BY THE
CARDINAL.
Their Majesties had not long quitted Lambeth Palace, when the Franciscan friar was summoned by Rodomont to the presence of the Cardinal.
While crossing the court with the monk, Rodomont paused for a moment, and directed his companion’s attention to the Lollards’ Tower.
“You would imagine the prisoners must be secure in that tower, holy father,” he remarked.
“Unquestionably so, my son,” replied the friar.
“His Majesty, however, is not of that opinion,” rejoined Rodomont. “He is under the impression that a certain young gallant, whose brain seems turned by love, would be rash enough to climb, by means of a rope-ladder, to the window of the cell wherein his mistress is confined.”
“Does the King suspect this?” inquired the monk, uneasily.
“So shrewdly, that he has ordered me to keep strict watch to-night, and to arrest the love-sick gallant should he appear. The task is not to my liking, but I must obey his Majesty’s orders. Some men will run any risk for those they love—but you, father, cannot understand such matters. You would reprove Osbert Clinton—for so the gallant is named—for his rashness and folly.”
“I should pity him, rather than blame him,” said the friar.
“And you would not deem it wrong if I were to aid him, eh, father? Certes, I should be loth to betray him—but he is so imprudent that he might betray himself. ’Tis a miracle that he ’scaped detection by the King just now.”
“What mean you, my son?” cried the monk, alarmed.
“I mean that Master Osbert Clinton has been rash enough to venture hither,” said Rodomont; “and though luckily his Majesty did not see through his disguise, I was not equally blind.”
“You knew me, then?” said Osbert Clinton.
“My suspicions of the truth were roused from the first, and were speedily changed to certainty,” rejoined Rodomont. “’Twas marvellous, I repeat, that you imposed upon the quick-sighted King, but I do not think the Cardinal was deceived. However, you have not much to fear from his Eminence, who is too kind-hearted to do more than chide you for your indiscretion. Had things continued as they were, and Mistress Constance been kept a prisoner in yon tower, I would have helped you to liberate her. But a change for the better has occurred. The doors of her cell are opened, and she is free to go where she lists within the palace. Let that content you. And now I must bring you before his Eminence.”
With this they entered the palace, and after passingthroughthroughthe vestibule, where a number of persons belonging to the household were collected, they proceeded to a spacious chamber, with a carved oak ceiling, windows filled with painted glass, and walls furnished with book-shelves stored with goodly tomes, where they found the Cardinal seated at a table. He was writing at the moment, and only suspended his task to look up, and then resumed it. When he had finished his letter and sealed it, he delivered it to Rodomont, bidding him give it to Lord Montague’s messenger, who was waiting to receive it. As soon as they were alone, he turned to Osbert, and assuming a grave and severe expression of countenance, ordered him to throw back his hood; and, as the young man complied, he said, “’Tis as I suspected. You are Osbert Clinton.”
“Yes, I am he,” replied the other. “It was my intention to avow myself to your Eminence—to explain my motives in coming hither, and to crave your pardon.”
“It is needless to explain your motives,” said Pole; “I am fully aware of them. Neither, though I blame your rashness, shall I refuse you pardon. But this indiscretion must not be repeated. If you come here again, you must take the consequencesof your folly. You are free to go as you came—but again I say, you must not return.”
“Ere I go, your Eminence’s goodness emboldens me to ask your permission for a brief interview with Constance Tyrrell.”
“I cannot grant your request,” replied the Cardinal, “though it pains me to refuse it. I pity both you and Constance, but I cannot aid you in the dilemma in which you are placed. Patience is difficult, especially to a young and ardent lover; but you must perforce practise it. Be not cast down. If Fortune refuses to smile on you now, she may do so hereafter. Be hopeful, be courageous, be trustful; and if your love survives these trials, you will be rewarded in due season. Rashness and precipitancy will destroy all. Constance will be safe with me—safe as with her own father; nay, safer, for I have more power than he can possess. If I cannot give her to you—if I cannot even allow you to approach her—I can protect her. Seek not then to disturb her, or to plunge yourself into difficulties from which none can extricate you. I shall employ the same arguments with Constance. I will tell her that your enforced separation will only be for a time—that she must not despair, but may confidently look forwardtotoa meeting with you on some future day.”
“I am fully sensible of the wisdom of your Eminence’s counsel, and will endeavour to profit by it,” said Osbert. “Though the separation will be hard to bear, it will be shorn of much of its anguish by the reflection that she has found a sanctuary with you.”
“And such, in truth, it is, for she will be protected from all danger,” rejoined Pole. “Henceforth you may picture her, not as the inmate of a narrow cell, condemned to pass her hours in seclusion, but as my guest, free to go where she will within this mansion; not coerced in matters of religion, though I shall try by all proper means to lead her back to her former faith; subject to no harsh discipline or regulations; not compelled to perform any severe penance, but left to her own free will—such will be the course I shall pursue with her, and I trust it may tend to her comfort and benefit.”
“It cannot fail,” said Osbert. “Under your Eminence’s benignant influence she must be happy.”
“She will at least find a refuge from the terrible storm which is at hand, and which might overwhelm her as it will many others,” said the Cardinal. “Be thankful, therefore, that she is not exposed to this great peril, and is not likely to be numbered amongst the victims of the religious persecution, which, I fear, is at hand. And now fare you well, Sir. Take my blessing with you. No words of gratitude are needed. You shall thank me hereafter, when I restore Constance to you.”
With this, he struck a small silver bell which stood upon the table beside him. Before the summons could be answered, Osbert had drawn the cowl over his head.
“Conduct this monk to the gate,” said the Cardinal to Rodomont, as the latter entered the room, “and suffer him not to talk with anyone by the way.”
“It shall be done as your Eminence enjoins,” said Rodomont. “Come, Father!”
And he quitted the room with Osbert.
HOW CONSTANCE PASSED HER TIME IN LAMBETH PALACE.
HOW CONSTANCE PASSED HER TIME IN LAMBETH PALACE.
HOW CONSTANCE PASSED HER TIME IN LAMBETH PALACE.
The good Cardinal acted up to his promise in regard to Constance. An apartment was assigned her in a wing of the palace overlooking the garden, and that nothing might be wanting to her comfort, search was made for her old attendant, Dorcas, whose retreat being discovered, without much difficulty, by Rodomont, she was brought to the palace, and reinstated in her former position with her young mistress.
Ever since the night when Constance had been carried off to the Lollards’ Tower, the poor old woman had been inconsolable. Her joy, therefore, on finding her young mistress again, may be imagined. She strained her to her breast with all a mother’s affection, wept over her, and could scarcely cease her demonstrations of regard. The Cardinal, who witnessed the meeting, was much touched by it, but at last deemed it proper to moderate the old woman’s transports of delight. But this only turned the tide of her gratitude upon him. She fell down at his feet, embraced his knees, and prayed that his goodness might be rewarded.
Treated with paternal kindness and consideration by the Cardinal, Constance could not but feel profound gratitude towards him; and as the virtues of his character became more fully revealed to her, she began to regard him with feelings akin to veneration.
They had frequent discourses together on points of faith,and, though Constance’s adherence to the new doctrines remained unshaken, she listened with attention to the Cardinal’s able and profound exposition of the tenets of the Church of Rome. The differences between their respective creeds appeared slighter than she had at first supposed, and if all Romish priests and prelates were like the Cardinal, lived as he lived, and taught as he taught, she felt that there might, indeed, be one universal Church.
The calmness of Pole’s manner, the clearness of his judgment, his profound theological learning, contrasted strongly with the fanaticism and fiery zeal of Derrick Carver, who had as little toleration for the Romanists as they had for him. Her mind, over-excited by the stimulative discourses of the enthusiast, acquired a healthier tone from the exhortations of the Cardinal, and she felt like one who had recovered from a fever.
Perfectly resigned to her position, strengthened in all her good resolutions by Pole, and allowed the free exercise of her own religious opinions, she became composed and cheerful, and, if not quite happy, was at least free from despondency. Her personal appearance improved in the same ratio, and, ere many weeks had flown, she had quite recovered her beauty. Her life might appear dull and monotonous, but its very monotony was not without a charm to her, who from early years had meditated the seclusion of a convent. Caring little for the world, or its pleasures and vanities, she was well content with her present existence, and scarcely desired to change it. Not that the Cardinal’s palace, with its princely establishment, its numerous and important guests, was devoid of the stir and bustle of active life, but in this she took no part. She did not mingle with the household, and was never seen by the Cardinal’s numerous guests.
The garden was open to her, with its long terraces, its alleys and groves, and therein she took her walks at morn. At such times she often met Pole and Priuli, and discoursed with them. In argument Priuli displayed the same moderation and clearness of judgment as his friend, though he did not equal him in profundity of intellect or learning. Perhaps Pole was disappointed that he did not produce a more sensible impression upon his pupil, and bring her to express contrition for her errors, and a desire for reconciliation withthe Church of Rome, but he did not manifest any impatience; still less did he employ harshness or threats. Attendance at the chapel at matins or evensong, or during the celebration of mass, was not compulsory on Constance, nor was she forced to assist at any of the rites or observances of the Church of Rome.
Not unfrequently the Cardinal spoke to her of Osbert Clinton, and held out to her, as he had done to her lover, the hope of a meeting at some future day.
Shortly after Constance’s partial restoration to freedom, the Cardinal dispatched Rodomont to Southampton to acquaint Master Tyrrell with the steps he had taken in his daughter’s behalf, and inviting him to come and see her.
Rodomont would fain have brought the old merchant back with him, but Tyrrell declined. His anger against Constance had not yet abated. Unless she renounced her errors, she need not hope to see him again, he declared. He left her entirely in the Lord Cardinal’s hands, satisfied that if her conversion could be accomplished it would be by his Eminence. The old merchant, it was clear, was so apprehensive of being implicated with his daughter, and suspected of heretical pravity himself, that he was resolved not to go near her.
Rodomont seized the opportunity of ascertaining his sentiments in regard to her union with Osbert Clinton. But on this point the old merchant was equally obstinate. “I will not consent to her marriage—I will not give her my blessing—I will not see her till she recants, and returns to the faith of her forefathers,” he cried. “Then she shall be my daughter once more.”
“It is well for her that she has found a father in the Cardinal, since her own father deserts her in her need,” observed Rodomont.
“Why, what would you have me do?” cried Tyrrell.
“Go see her! comfort her! persuade her to conform,” rejoined Rodomont.
“And be suspected of heresy, and cited before the ecclesiastical commissioners—mayhap burnt before my own door,” said Tyrrell. “No, I thank you. I mean to keep out of harm’s way.”
“Well, if you can reconcile such conduct to your conscience,I have no more to say,” observed Rodomont; “except, that if you escape burning in this world, you stand a good chance of burning in the next. So you positively decline to go back with me to Lambeth Palace—eh?”
“Positively,” replied Tyrrell. “As a good Catholic, the Cardinal will applaud my conduct.”
“There you are mistaken,” rejoined Rodomont. “You little understand his Eminence, if you suppose him dead to the feelings of human nature, as you appear to be. He can but entertain one opinion of your conduct—disgust.” So saying he left him.
On his return to Lambeth Palace, Rodomont informed the Cardinal what had passed between himself and Master Tyrrell. Pole could scarcely credit the relation, so astounded was he at the old merchant’s extraordinary indifference to his daughter. However, the effect produced upon him by Tyrrell’s stoical conduct, was to increase the fatherly concern he already felt in Constance, and make him more anxious than ever for her conversion.
How he prospered in his efforts we have already seen.
CHAPTER XII.
HOW THE CARDINAL VISITED DERRICK CARVER IN HIS CELLIN THE LOLLARDS’ TOWER.
HOW THE CARDINAL VISITED DERRICK CARVER IN HIS CELLIN THE LOLLARDS’ TOWER.
HOW THE CARDINAL VISITED DERRICK CARVER IN HIS CELL
IN THE LOLLARDS’ TOWER.
But there was another person besides Osbert Clinton in whom Constance took deep interest, and whose perilous position occasioned her profound anxiety. This was Derrick Carver. True, since her intercourse with Pole, her admiration of the enthusiast had somewhat abated, but she could not forget the benefits he had conferred upon her. All that she could learn respecting Carver was, that he had been removed from the underground dungeon to the prison-chamber in the Lollards’ Tower, which she herself had occupied, and that he was still confined there. She also ascertained, by means of old Dorcas, that he had been several times examined by Bonner, and had been severely handled by them for his contumacy. Fain would she have obtained an interview with him—fain would she have prayed with him and consoled him—but this was not permitted. Pole, who considered the fanatic’s influence over her to be most pernicious, refused her solicitations, and in a manner that did not allow her to renew the request. The Cardinal declared that, finding Carver impracticable, he had surrendered him to the ecclesiastical commissioners, and he was now entirely in their hands.
Constance, therefore, had no hope of beholding the enthusiast again in this world. Strange to say, she did not altogether deplore his fate, but in moments of exaltation almostenvied him the martyrdom which it appeared certain he would have to endure.
Throughout this time of trial, Carver’s resolution had never deserted him—had never even wavered. The prison chamber to which he had been removed was a great improvement upon the dismal dungeon wherein he had been previously immured. In fact, as his movements were not restrained, and he was allowed writing materials, with a Bible and a book of prayer, he was well enough content with his lodging. To the mementoes of the many sufferers for conscience’ sake who had preceded him in this cell, and had carved their names on the stout oak panels lining the walls, he added his own name, with these words: “Approved by stripes, imprisonment, and death.”
His cell was by no means gloomy. Through the narrow grated window looking upon the Thames, and at which Osbert had conversed with Constance, he obtained a glimpse of the river, and of some structures on its opposite banks, while he could hear the dash of oars in the water, and the cheerful voices of the boatmen. But the stern enthusiast bestowed but little thought on the external world. His time was now entirely occupied in preparation for eternity, and in fortifying himself for the fiery ordeal by which his faith was to be approved.
On several occasions, as we have already stated, he had been interrogated by Bonner, but neither promises of grace, nor threats of torture, could move him. He resolutely refused to subscribe the recantation proffered him by the bishop; and when the latter, exasperated by his obstinacy, had him taken to the Post Room, stripped to the girdle, tied to the wooden pillar in the centre of the chamber, and severely scourged, he uttered no cry, but persisted in his refusal.
Determined to try the effect of greater severity, and having means and appliances at hand, Bonner ordered him to be chained to the walls of his cell till he should show signs of submission.
This was done. The unfortunate captive was fastened to two of the ponderous iron rings which may still be seen in the walls of the prison, and kept in such a position that he could neither lie down nor stand erect.
In this woful plight he remained for three days and three nights, debarred of his chief solace, the Bible, and unable to kneel in prayer without putting himself to excruciating agony, but his constancy was unsubdued, and when Bonner again visited him, thinking he must needs be overcome, he found him unyielding as ever.
What further barbarities might have been practised by the savage prelate upon the unfortunate captive can only be imagined, but happily his victim was snatched from his clutches by Pole. Made aware how severely the prisoner had been treated, the Cardinal instantly interfered, caused the poor wretch’s chains to be taken off, and interdicted any further application of torture. Bonner sullenly acquiesced, as indeed he was obliged to do, but he promised himself to report the Cardinal’s culpable leniency—for such he esteemed it—to their Majesties, and also to the Pope.
“His Eminence is an abettor of heresy, instead of an uprooter of it,” muttered the bishop. “If he be not recalled by the Pope, he will undo all we have done.”
Not altogether satisfied with the report he had received of the prisoner’s condition, Pole resolved to visit him in his cell, and was accompanied in the errand of mercy by Priuli. The ascent of the narrow spiral stone staircase leading from the Post Room to the prison-chamber was somewhat painful to the Cardinal, and he was compelled to pause for a few moments to recover himself as he reached the arched entrance of the cell. This gave him an opportunity of examining the double doors, which we have already described as of oak, bound with iron, and studded with broad-headed nails; and he pointed out the immense thickness of the planks to Priuli.
Neither of them had been before in the upper part of the Lollards’ Tower, and, as they entered the prison-chamber, they looked around it with melancholy interest. The oak panels, dark almost as ebony, the black boarded roof, the black boarded floor, the small grated windows, the ponderous iron rings fastened in the walls, the prisoner seated on a stool at a table of similar material and similar hue to the panels, all constituted a picture that powerfully impressed them.
Derrick Carver was engaged in reading the Bible, and so profoundly engrossed, that he did not raise his eyes on their entrance. The Cardinal signed to Mallet, by whom they were attended, not to disturb him. The rugged features and gaunt frame of the fanatic had undergone little change, but his beard was grizzled, and his locks had become snow white.
The Cardinal and Priuli contemplated him for some time with profound interest, and in perfect silence, but at last an observation made by the latter, though uttered in a low tone, reached the ears of the prisoner, and caused him to look up. When he perceived who were in his cell, he tried to rise, but was compelled by pain and weakness to relinquish the attempt.
“The man is really too feeble to stand,” remarked Mallet. “Shall I bring your Eminence a chair?”
Pole declined the offer, saying he could stand well enough.
“Leave the room, and remain without till you are summoned,” he added to Mallet, who immediately obeyed the injunction, closing the door after him as he went out.
“You are weak and ill, my poor friend,” said Pole, in a sympathetic tone. “Wine and nourishing food shall be sent to recruit your strength.”
“I do not need them,” replied Carver. “Herein I find new life and vigour,” he added, pointing to the Bible. “For three days and three nights, while fastened to yon wall, was I deprived of this consolation, and I account it the worst part of my suffering. I lack nothing now.”
“I am sorry you have been treated with so much severity,” observed the Cardinal.
“I do not complain,” replied Carver. “I may not have been lawfully punished with the scourge, or lawfully fastened to yon iron rings, but there is little law or justice in England now, since we are under Spanish rule.”
“You are mistaken, friend,” replied Pole. “The statutes against heresy and schism, which were in force when this prison-chamber was built by Archbishop Chicheley, in the time of Henry IV., more than a hundred years ago, have been revived, and though your punishment has been severe,itithas not been contrary to law.”
“I have said I do not complain,” rejoined Carver. “We have provoked Divine displeasure, and must endure our merited chastisement till the wrath of Heaven be appeased. Were I called upon to suffer all the persecutions endured by holy Paul, I would cheerfully bear them for the sake of the Gospel.”
“I admire your resolution, friend,” said Pole; “but I beseech you to consider well whether you may not be in error.”
“I cannot be in error, when I rely solely on the truths of Scripture,” rejoined Carver.
“But there are doctrinal points upon which men are not agreed,” said the Cardinal.
“There are,” replied Carver, “and my principles are those of the Reformed Church. I abominate the Church of Rome, and regard it as the synagogue of Satan, and the very sink of all heresy, superstition, and idolatry. I will have no masses, no auricular confession with penance, no image-worship. I deny the real presence in the sacrament. And I also deny that the Pope is the head of the Christian Church, and utterly reject his authority.”
“But if I can prove to you that you are wrong,” said Pole; “if I can convince you that the Pope’s authority is derived from Saint Peter, and through him from our Saviour himself, will you not admit that you have formed erroneous conclusions?”
“I believe the Romish faith to be anti-Christian and naught,” rejoined Carver. “I cannot worship at its altars, and were I to do so I should place my soul in jeopardy. It is in vain to argue with me. Threats or fair promises will be alike ineffectual. I am not be moved.”
“But if you obstinately close your ears, how can you ever learn the truth?” said the Cardinal.
“Ihavelearnt the truth,” rejoined Carver, “and am proof against fallacy and delusion. I have enough regard for your Eminence to wish you were of my mind.”
“Well, try to convince me. Let me hear what you have to say in defence of your faith,” observed Pole.
“’Twere to show him too much indulgence,” said Priuli.
“I could say much in defence of my faith,” observed Carver, “but I know you would not listen to me, and Ishould therefore only throw away my time. But let me not appear ungrateful. I am assured that your Eminence is actuated by a sincere desire for my welfare.”
“I would save you, if possible, from the terrible death by which you are menaced,” said the Cardinal. “Conform, and I will obtain your pardon. Reflect on what I have said.”
“I need no reflection,” rejoined the other. “I could not conform with hypocrisy, and I will never belie my conscience.”
“Have you no ties that bind you to earth?—none for whom you desire to live?” said the Cardinal.
“I have a wife and children, and an aged mother,” replied Carver;“but“butI gave up all when I entered the service of my Heavenly Master.”
“And would you leave them without a protector?” said Pole.
“Heaven will watch over them,” rejoined the other.
“This man appears callous to all human emotions and sympathies,” observed Priuli.
“There you do not judge me rightly,” said Carver. “My breast is not devoid of affection. I love my wife and children—I love my mother—dearly—very dearly. But I am a soldier of Christ, and having been summoned to the fight, must obey the call. If I die in His cause, those dear to me will not be deserted. You cannot touch me. There is no weak part in my armour.”
“Then you do not desire to confer with me further?” said Pole. “You have nothing to ask of me?”
“There is one favour I would solicit,” said Carver. “Before I am taken hence I would fain have a last interview with Constance Tyrrell.”
“I cannot grant it,” replied Pole. “I hope to accomplish her conversion, and your influence might counteract my efforts.”
“But she continues stedfast in her faith?—Tell me that?” cried Carver, anxiously.
“I cannot answer the question,” returned Pole; “would not, if I could.”
“She does!—I am sure she does!” exclaimed the enthusiast. “She is my spiritual daughter. Her conversion was my work, and I glory in it. Having opened her eyes to thelight, she will not relapse into darkness—never. No; I have no misgivings about Constance.”
“Be not too confident,” rejoined Pole. “My hope is to bring her back to the fold from which she has strayed. You have preferred a request to me which I am compelled to refuse, but I will grant you a favour which you have not solicited. I desire to benefit you as far as I can, and will lighten the irksomeness of your confinement. In a few days you will have recovered your strength, and will be able to go forth. Pledge me your word to return early in the evening, and you shall be allowed liberty during the daytime.”
“What is this I hear?” cried Carver, astounded. “Is it possible that your Eminence will allow me to go where I list during the daytime?”
“You shall go forth wholly unattended on your promise to return,” rejoined the Cardinal.
“I never looked for such indulgence as this,” said Carver, much affected. “When I have heard the voices of the boatmen on the river, and other gladsome sounds, I have longed to join my fellow-men, but I have checked the feeling, knowing it could not be gratified. But now your Eminence offers me this great boon—a boon I should not have dared to ask—and with no conditions annexed to it.”
“None save that I mentioned,” replied Pole. “You shall be free to go forth, but you must come back to your cell at eventide.”
For a few moments Carver covered his face with his hands, and tears trickled down his rugged cheeks. After a while he looked up and, in broken accents, said, “I did not think to weep again either for joy or grief. But your Eminence’s goodness has touched me to the heart, and opened fountains which I deemed fast sealed. You shall not find me unworthy of the confidence reposed in me. The promise you exact shall be religiously fulfilled. If I am suffered to go abroad, I will assuredly return.”
“Is it safe to let him out?” observed Priuli. “He is seditious and perilous.”
“I will trust him,” replied Pole.
Upon this he called in Mallet, and informed him of the permission he had granted the prisoner.
“But, your Eminence,” remonstrated the keeper, “I am responsible for his safe custody to Bishop Bonner. If this unheard-of license be granted him, the man will never come back.”
“Set your mind at ease on that score, good friend,” observed Carver. “I have plighted my word to the Lord Cardinal, and I will die rather than break it.”
“But what am I to say to the bishop? I shall never be able to face him.”
“Say that you act by my orders,” returned the Cardinal. “Refer the bishop to me.”
“Such a thing was never done before,” said Mallet. “As well let loose a ravening wolf among a flock of sheep as liberate this man.”
“Let my bidding be done,” said Pole. “If blame there be, it will rest on my head.—Farewell, friend,” he added to Carver, “do not abuse the license given you.”
“Your Eminence shall have no cause to repent your trust in me,” said Carver.
On this the Cardinal and Priuli quitted the cell.
“Methinks you have shown too much consideration to this man,” observed Priuli. “He does not deserve your kindness.”
“Time will show,” replied Pole. “I have faith in him—hope in his conversion.”