AN UNWARY WORD

New Zealand Tablet, 20 August 1908, Page 3

AN UNWARY WORD

A beautiful September day in the -beginning of the seventeenth century had drawn to its close — one of those still autumn days which have "all the warmth and, beauty- of summer, without its steady glow and scorching heat: Shortly after the' sun had set, a mi^t began to rise from the meadows- around the town of Oxford, hanging heavily over the river that wound its slow course beside the walls of the gaol. As the hours crept by, the mist thickened, so as completely to hide the surface of the watrr from the sight of a prisoner, who was eagerly gazing out of " the. window of his cell/ ..waiting, listening in breafliless suspense for the first faint sound indicating the approach of the friendly., skiff that was to bring him deliverance from the- durance vile in which he, a prisoner of Christ, had already languished for several weeks. The. zeal of the pursuivants, by whom the faithful servants of God were hunted down like wild beasts, had lately been reawakened by the stringent laws* passed by King James 1. against his Catholic subjects, and the large rewards promised to those who informed against priests and recusants. The prisoner of whom we are^ now' speaking, Rev. Thomas " Tunstall by name, .was one of the secular, or, as they were then termed, seminary priests (in contradistinction to the Jesuits and other Regulars), who, by ministering in secret to their afflicted co-religionists, helped to sustain their courage and keep aglow < the flame of the Faith at the peril of their lives in unhappy England during three centuries of persecution. - - Whilst journeying "on a missionary tour from onfe Catholic nobleman's house to another in the County of Oxford, in disguise and passing under an assumed name, Tunstall had been betrayed . by one of the false brethren who were more to be dreaded^than "open enemies, and lodged by the magistrate in- o'xfardM§saol. There he awaited his removal to the Tower of London, that grim fortress where so many martyrs and confessors had^jeen immured in the preceding reign. But a Catholic .gentfisman residing near, who had himself suffered a long imprisonment, and been forced to sell -a large portion of his" property to pay the enormous fines imposed on him for refusing to attend the Protestant worship, had concerted a plan for the rescue of the good priest. Among .the warders of the gaol was one who had been a domestic in ths gentleman's service ; and it was an easj r matter to persuade this guard to place a file and a stout rope in the cell of his prisoner." A night had been fixed upon, and an hour chosen when the sentry on guard would be least likely to - keep a sharp lookout, for the attempt at escape. " This " eventful night had now. come, and a very favorable one it proved ; as • the mist that hung over the river veiled from sight 1 a light boat drifting down the stream until it lay alongside the walls of the prison, below the window where Tunstall stood - peering" out into the. darkness, listening to the footsteps of the patrol going his rounds-, and the" soft swish of the water as it ..flowed lazily past. It is astonishing how acute a man's senses become at such a moment as this. To no other eyes than those of the expectant prisoner could the dim form of the boat beneath have been'discernible, to no other ears than his would the- sound of the muffled oars have been audible, before a ray of light from a dark lantern flashed momentarily ' on the ' ceiling of his cell. At this signal,^Tunstall immediately began, to remove one by one' the lower, bars which he had laboriously filed through. He then fastened the rope securely to one of the upper bars, threw the end of it down to the silent watchers beneath, and proceeded to climb through the aperture. The rope was caught, drawn in, and held tightly; a few instants of terrible apprehension- ~ followed, while the prisoner slid down the rope alid let himself" noiselessly into the skiff, which had been brought close "under the walls. , . Then the rowers resumed their seats. " TunstalFs rescuer welcomed him with a warm grasp of the hand ; and, with a few quick strokes of the oaiv they put ' off unobserved, and under cover of the darkness,, reached a • landing place above the town on the opposite bank of the, river. •" There t\vo swift horses stood ready saddled and bridled, in the charge of a serving-man, their heads turned in the.jdirection of Wallingford. The escape of the priest was. speedily discovered, and search was- made for him in the houses of all the recusants in the neighborhood who were suspected of harboring so-called ' traitors.'

Owing to the wise precaution of his host, or rather to the help of Providence, Tunstall was enabled to remain in concealment until the excitement following upon his disappearance had 'subsided.* Arrangements had -meanwhile been made to convey him to the east coast, where a-good- Catholic skipper, who had already -smuggled several priests- out of the country, was prepared to lend his vessel _again for a similar purpose. Never did the park and gardens of Chislehampton Hall, which was situated about ten miles from the City of Oxford, as well as the venerable mansion itself, show to more perfect advantage than when seen in the soft light of a cloudless autumn day. Standing as the house did on an eminence, - the broad walk which ran in front of .it commanded views of all the surrounding country, charming glimpses of woodland scenery being discernible between the trees in the park ; while * the distant Thames, gleaming .like ,a band of silver, lent life and variety to the scene. From the house a succession of terraces, adorned- with brilliant autumn flowers, led to the well-kept lawn below. The summer had been exceptionally warm and fine ; so that, although September had already begun, the rose garden, which was one of the chief beauties of the grounds, could still boast many splendid blossoms. Among the rosas, a fairer flower than any of them, moved Margaret, Lady Amhurst; the mistress of the wide demesne. Tall and graceful,, the charms -o/ her face equalled those of her figure. Her soft brown eyes were exactly the same color as her glossy and abundant hair ; while her well-cut features and delicate complexion completed the. harmonious whole. In fac*-, no one who beheld her, whatever his individual taste might t »., could deny that she was a truly beautiful woman. Her face was indeed her fortune ; for she had six sisters, and her parent, being the reverse of wealthy, were only too glad to marry her, when she was scarcely more than eighteen, to Sir Percival Amhurst, a wealthy and childless widower, more than .forty years of age. He was a justice of the peace, and held in high esteem at court on account of the zeal he- displayed in. putting down the ancient Faith. As a matter of fact, his wife' had to conform; but Margaret's parents saw no obstacle in this, their sole aim in life being to secure brilliant matches for their pretty, penniless daughters. Nor were Margaret's scruples difficult to overcome, though she had been brought up a Catholic. Her husband regarded her as a fresh ornament to the home of which he was justly proud, and admired her as he admired the peacocks that sunned themselves upon the terraces, and the gold and silver fish that darted hither and thither in the pond that was not far from the centre of the lawn. He might now be seen advancing to war. I the rose garden, a stately and commanding figure, stern of aspect, and evidently made rather to be feared than loved. Yet hib greeting to his wife was kind and genial : 1 Well, Maggie, you are busy among your roses as usual, 1 see. Can you spare one for your husband, or do you want all to make the rooms look gay? -Do not be late,' he continued, glancing toward. the mansion, from a side door of which an old servant had just issued. 'You are apt to find your patients a little too engrossing* I think. You know how much I dishke.your absence when the dinner bell rings.' Much to Margaret's satisfaction, all further remonstrance was cut short; for the elderly domestic, who had formerly been her nun*^ had now come close up. .Dropping a respectful curtesv, and glancing timidly toward Sir Percival, she said : . ' J be J yo«r pardon if I am interrupting you, my. lady. .But th^v-M 6 . 7 ° yy ° Ur ladyShl ' P VisitS the P°°^ck people in the village, and you bade me come and remind/ you of if Quite right, Salty,' said her mistress. « Good-bye for tfv LT' nt> \u h l add 6d ' tUrning t0 her * usband ™< folding out to him the finest rose she could find in the basket which hun"f. 3™3 ™- , He ga"an% accepted it, and ■ offered to carry" the basket back to the house for her ■ ' s* re r- . Xvi-iIS

A special heirloom in her family was the recipe " for a certain unguent famous for its healing powers. Not her own dependents alone, but sufferers from a distance, often sought and proved its efficacy. She had fitted up in one of the cottages a room which she called her dispensary. Here she saw and treated all, who were not too weak to leave their homes. - On the day in question, the room was more than full when she 1 entered it and took her seat at a table in the centre of ,the apartment, amid the respectful greetings of a motley and somewhat grotesque-looking ' assembly. ' Meanwhile Sally the nurse was arranging, within her mistress's reach, the contents of the capacious basket she had- carried. In a gracious and affable manner, Lady* Margaret began her labors. .. - ' How is the burn on your arm getting on, my little man?' she inquired, as she lifted a boy of three years on to her lap. 'And, please, your ladyship)' put in an older sister, who had charge of the sufferer, ' Jack's arm is not so well to-day.-He is a naughty boy ; mother says he does not deserve to gee well, for he pulled all his bandages off in the night.' 'Poor little Jackanapes!' said Lady Margaret, as, she proceeded to renew the dressing on the injured arm, in spite of the tears that fell from Jack's eyes as the process went on.~ Next in order came an old man who had cut his arm ,with a billhook in a somewhat critical place, and who was nervously afraid lest lockjaw might supervene. Then the mother of a large family had a piteous tale to tell, about having been bitten by a dog which she declared to be mad, but which Lady Margaret knew to be perfectly healthy, although she had great difficulty in convincing the terrified peasant. of the fact. After this manner the morning slipped rapidly by.- The greater part of the patients had gone their varidus. ways, and Sally was repacking her basket, as the hour of departure had come, when a knock at the cottage door announced a fresh applicant. The knock was so gentle as not to be audible until it had been repeated several times; and when Sally, at her mistress's bidding, at length opened the door, the stranger who stepped in was so evidently not one of the countryfolk that those who yet lingered there fell back and made way for him to advance to the table where Lady Margaret was still seated. Margaret's practised ear had already heard the light, gentle step of the newcomer, and recognised its contrast with the ponderous tread of the villagers. The first glance showed her that he was different indeed from the rest of her patients. Her quick eye noted his small, pale, delicate features, well-set ears and slender fingers. His dress, however, would not have distinguished him from the common herd, and was by no means calculated to set off his personal advantages. Glancing around him with an air so modest and diffident as to savor of timidity, he approached the table and said to Margaret : ' I fear, madam, that I am somewhat late. I am a stranger to these parts, and have lost my way in seeking you out. But I have heard wondrous reports of your charity and of the marvels your unguent can work. lam a peddler, and .my hand has been grievously hurt, as you ~see, with roughhandling the rope that secures my pack. It gives me no little pain, both by night and day.' '. ■ ' Suiting the action- to the words, he unwrapped' his right hand from the linen in which it was swathed, and laid bare an extensive and festering sore. Margaret felt irresistibly drawn toward him, and determined oleted trr^ TO-T 0 -' tO hdP him< HIS mel °dious voice completed, the favorable impression his person had made 'You may go -now, all of you,', she said! addressing those peasants who yet lingered near. Then, turning to the fresh arrival, she addressed him in her ' blandest tones, requesting him to come and sit beside her that she might examine his hurt, while Sally prepare* all that was necessary for dressing the wound. t Th^-° Perati ° n en - dcd ' hede P arte d. after gratefully thanking Lady Margaret. She gave him a. small box of the ointment instructing him how to use it, and graciously granting him the permission he asked-to come on her 'dispensary day!' a " she called them, until his hand should be healed. . For about a fortnight the peddler made his appearance quite regular^ Margaret became more and more, interested in him partly because of his pleasing. manners and gentle patience pa also, it must be confessed-for she was a true daaughter o< Jve-because there was something mysterious aboutliS ° n fh? ,?' Pr ° SaiC name <° f JJ ° neS and his threadbare garments She could not resist a certain feeling of pique.' '.sarments.

,' Surely,' she said -to herself, 'my kindness deserves to.be repaid 'with some measure at least of confidence.' But tact and, delicacy alike forbade : her from making any effort to penetrate the mystery, of the existence of which she was persuaded. ,At length the day arrived when, his hand being thoroughlycured, the stranger paid his last visit to the cottage. The- thanks he tendered to Lady Margaret were warm and cordial, but the veil that shrouded him remained impervious as ever. ' Whence has he come? Whither is- he going?'.- she- kept asking herself. Her baffled curiosity made her less reticent than she might" otherwise* have been, and she discussed -Kim- -with Sally," as mistress and maid wended their way home together. . • - . ' 'Tis my belief,, madam,' said the shrewd old woman, ' thai he is some one in disguise! A peddler, forsooth ! • I never saw such a one in all my days. - Have "patience, my lady : you may find all out before long.' Had he told her his secret, Lady Amhurst would have kept, it at any cost to herself, and the sequel of this story would, alas ! have been very different. That same day, at table, while Sir Percival was carving a huge round of beef on the board before him, he asked his wife how her poor clients were getting on. - — ' Has your wonderful ointment wrought any more cures? 1 he said. ' The Papists will put you into their calendar and honor you as a saint, if you continue to work miracles.' ' Laugh at me if you will, Percival,' Lady Margaret replied good-humoredly. ' For all you say, I must confess it has been " most efficacious, of late in several instances.' / ' ' It has done nothing apparently for Granny Fairbrother's little grandchild,' continued. Sir Percival. 'It is sad to see the poor little fellow's head bowed down on his neck in that terrible way. ' ' That is beyond the power of medicaments to cure,' rejoined " his wife, gravely. 'It is the "king's evil." I wish, the nest ~ time you go to London, you -would speak to some one at court, and get King James to touch the child for it.' Sir Percival shook his head. ' That is not an easy matter,' he said. ' I fancy the canny Scotsman only half believes in his own power of healing. However, I shall bear it in mind. .But now tell me some of your successes. ' ' Well, the burns on Jack's arm are quite healed now. You remember how the little fellow fell into the fire? He will bear the scars until his death, but the wounds are all cicatrised now.' Then, after a momentary hesitation, Lady Margaret went on : ' I have had one very interesting patient lately. I may- well call him a " patient," for I never saw any one suffer so cheerfully. He had torn the skin off his hand, he said; and, through some irritant having been applied to it, or perhaps through poverty <f blood, it had festered badly, causing him, I am sure, much-, suffering. I really was afraid at first "that he would lose his hand; but I dressed the wounds to the best of my power, and this morning he declared himself cured. I am sorry to lose " sight of him ; he was so gentle and refined, and grateful. ' 'What was his calling?' inquired Sir Percival. 'Was h°. from these parts? What made him come to you?' * '. ' He said he was a peddler, and had heard of my skill in - curing wounds. He asked me most courteously to take pity " on one who was poor and had seen great trouble.' ' Did he tell you his name and where he came from?' asked Sir Percival, whose interest was now fully awakened. 'He said his name was Jones,' Lady Margaret replied. ' I fancy, though I am not sure, that "he came_from The Grange.' No sooner had these words escaped her' lips' than she would gladly have recalled them. An angry frown contracted Sir Percival 's brow. ' Probably a cursed recusant,' he muttered. ' Did the man deign to tell you how he came by his hurt?'" he added thoughtfully, setting down a goblet of wine which he was about to raise to his lips. . - ' No. He only, said it" was done with a rope, and of course I could not question him further.' 'Done with a rope, do you say?' Sir Percival almost shouted. I have it ! Margaret, you" are not half awake. Why, that must be the knave we have been hunting for high and low for days past— a Mass-priest who escaped fiom Oxford just about a fortnight ago ! We could find no trace of him ; only a rope' hanging from the window of his cell showed how he had got away. He is in hiding at The Grange, you say? I ransacked - that house from garret- to cellar last week without finding him but he shall not elude me now,' ' '

' O, Percival!' exclaimed Lady Margaret in' consternation, '.you will -not, arrest' him ! Pray do not!- He cannot do any harm ; he is so. gentle and good! Oh, how I wish I had not told you about him ! ' " ""_ - 'Not told me? You ought to have -told me long ago. There is a price, on his head. ' If we take' him, .it will be yours as informer. Quite .a windfall for- your charities.' ' Do you suppose I would accept blood-money?' rejoined Lady Margaret, indignantly. Then,' changing, Tier tone, she added : ' I implore you, Percival, by all you hold dear, do not try to capture this man.- You' have searched for him. And, besides, you may be mistaken.' " — But while Lady Margaret uttered these words, her conviction belied them : she felt an inward certitude that her • patient was the escaped prisoner ; in fact, while dressing his wounds, sbe had seen the marks of the irons on his wrists, though he had hastily pulled down his sleeves to conceal them. • ' -• 'I should be false to the- commission- .1 hold -from; his. Majesty if I let a traitor escape my. hands,' Sir PcrcivaT coldly' replied. ' Your entreaties are of no use. You lenow very well there will be no peace in the realm while these men are sneaking about. Remember the Spanish Invasion. Remember theGunpowder Plot in our own day. Remember Babington's con-, spiracy. The country was continually in sl ferment until" Mary Stuart was put out of the way.' - 'It will make me wretched for my whole life if I have been the means of betraying that unfortunate stranger, '" said.; Lady - Margaret, her eyes filling with " tears. ' O,- Percival, do not cause me "this grief ! I shall never' forgive myself.-. ' 1 never thought that you would take up my words in this way— my foolish, heedless words ! For my sake, let the man "go, even though he be a Papist and" a priest. '\ -- • 'Nonsense, Margaret!' her husband retorted angrily, unmoved for~the first time by the sight "of her tears. ' I cannot' tb6 false, to my trust. What should Ibe worth— forsooth !—. if I neglected my duly for a woman 'sfoolish fancy, and la? a traitor go scot-free? No, indeed ;"and there is no time to .be lost. The men-at-arms shall be called out, and/ 1 will make " another visit to The Grange before sundown. I will do my work thoroughly this time. Please say no more about it.' • So saying, Sir -Percival rose and left the room, leaving Lady .Margaret in despair. She saw all further pleading would be of no avail. What could she do? If her friend were -reai'y concealed at The Grange, could she not apprise its inmates of his danger? She would attempt this, at any rate. But who was to be sent? She could not go so great a distance herself; she dared not sally forth to find a trusty messenger in the village • ■. one of the servants must be. entrusted with, the errand. She~ ■ h f !|!, y penned a few words of naming addressed to the mistress , of Hie Grange, sealed it and tied it with a silken cord," and calling one of her maids, bade her dispatch it with all speed Her missive never • reached its destination, although Margaret was not aware of this. Sir Percival, crossing -the. courtyard after giving orders to summon the bailiff's and sheriff's officers, observed one of his grooms leading a horse out of the stables, „. and- inquired whither he was going. The man, after some | equivocation (for he had been pledged to secrecy), acknowledged" 1 -^' J e I™ 8 Ut t0 Carry a billet from her la^*nip to madam at lhe Grange. '.Give.it to me,' Sir Percival observed peremptorily «I am going -thither myself, and will take charge of it If your •mistress questions you about it, say it was delivered.' (To be continued.)