By What Authority?

by Robert Hugh Benson

  CHAPTER IV

  MARY CORBET

  The spring that followed the visit to London passed uneventfully at GreatKeynes to all outward appearances; and yet for Isabel they weresignificant months. In spite of herself and of the word of warning fromher father, her relations with Hubert continued to draw closer. For onething, he had been the first to awaken in her the consciousness that shewas lovable in herself, and the mirror that first tells that to a soulalways has something of the glow of the discovery resting upon it.

  Then again his deference and his chivalrous air had a strange charm. WhenIsabel rode out alone with Anthony, she often had to catch the swinginggate as he rode through after opening it, and do such little things forherself; but when Hubert was with them there was nothing of that kind.

  And, once more, he appealed to her pity; and this was the most subtleelement of all. There was no doubt that Hubert's relations with his fieryold father became strained sometimes, and it was extraordinarily sweet toIsabel to be made a confidant. And yet Hubert never went beyond a certainpoint; his wooing was very skilful: and he seemed to be conscious of heruneasiness almost before she was conscious of it herself, and to relapsein a moment into frank and brotherly relations again.

  He came in one night after supper, flushed and bright-eyed, and found heralone in the hall: and broke out immediately, striding up and down as shesat and watched him.

  "I cannot bear it; there is Mr. Bailey who has been with us all Lent; heis always interfering in my affairs. And he has no charity. I know I am aCatholic and that; but when he and my father talk against theProtestants, Mistress Isabel, I cannot bear it. They were abusing theQueen to-night--at least," he added, for he had no intention toexaggerate, "they were saying she was a true daughter of her father; andsneers of that kind. And I am an Englishman, and her subject; and I saidso; and Mr. Bailey snapped out, 'And you are also a Catholic, my son,'and then--and then I lost my temper, and said that the Catholic religionseemed no better than any other for the good it did people; and that theRector and Mr. Norris seemed to me as good men as any one; and of courseI meant him and he knew it; and then he told me, before the servants,that I was speaking against the faith; and then I said I would soonerspeak against the faith than against good Christians; and then he flamedup scarlet, and I saw I had touched him; and then my father got scarlettoo, and my mother looked at me, and my father told me to leave the tablefor an insolent puppy; and I knocked over my chair and stamped out--andoh! Mistress Isabel, I came straight here."

  And he flung down astride of a chair with his arms on the back, anddropped his head on to them.

  It would have been difficult for Hubert, even if he had been very cleverindeed, to have made any speech which would have touched Isabel more thanthis. There was the subtle suggestion that he had defended theProtestants for her sake; and there was the open defence of her father,and defiance of the priests whom she feared and distrusted; there was awarm generosity and frankness running through it all; and lastly, therewas the sweet flattering implication that he had come to her to beunderstood and quieted and comforted.

  Then, when she tried to show her disapproval of his quick temper, and hadsucceeded in showing a poorly disguised sympathy instead, he had flungaway again, saying that she had brought him to his senses as usual, andthat he would ask the priest's pardon for his insolence at once; andIsabel was left standing and looking at the fire, fearing that she wasbeing wooed, and yet not certain, though she loved it. And then, too,there was the secret hope that it might be through her that he mightescape from his superstitions, and--and then--and she closed her eyes andbit her lip for joy and terror.

  She did not know that a few weeks later Hubert had an interview with hisfather, of which she was the occasion. Lady Maxwell had gone to herhusband after a good deal of thought and anxiety, and told him what shefeared; asking him to say a word to Hubert. Sir Nicholas had beenstartled and furious. It was all the lad's conceit, he said; he had noreal heart at all; he only flattered his vanity in making love; he had nolove for his parents or his faith, and so on. She took his old hand inher own and held it while she spoke.

  "Sweetheart," she said, "how old were you when you used to come riding toOverfield? I forget." And there came peace into his angry, puzzled oldeyes, and a gleam of humour.

  "Mistress," he said, "you have not forgotten." For he had been justeighteen, too. And he took her face in his hands delicately, and kissedher on the lips.

  "Well, well," he said, "it is hard on the boy; but it must not go on.Send him to me. Oh! I will be easy with him."

  But the interview was not as simple as he hoped; for Hubert was irritableand shamefaced; and spoke lightly of the Religion again.

  "After all," he burst out, "there are plenty of good men who have leftthe faith. It brings nothing but misery."

  Sir Nicholas' hands began to shake, and his fingers to clench themselves;but he remembered the lad was in love.

  "My son," he said, "you do not know what you say."

  "I know well enough," said Hubert, with his foot tapping sharply. "I saythat the Catholic religion is a religion of misery and death everywhere.Look at the Low Countries, sir."

  "I cannot speak of that," said his father; and his son sneered visibly;"you and I are but laymen; but this I know, and have a right to say, thatto threaten me like that is the act of a--is not worthy of my son. Mydear boy," he said, coming nearer, "you are angry; and, God forgive me!so am I; but I promised your mother," and again he broke off, "and wecannot go on with this now. Come again this evening."

  Hubert stood turned away, with his head against the high oak mantelpiece;and there was silence.

  "Father," he said at last, turning round, "I ask your pardon."

  Sir Nicholas stepped nearer, his eyes suddenly bright with tears, and hismouth twitching, and held out his hand, which Hubert took.

  "And I was a coward to speak like that--but, but--I will try," went onthe boy. "And I promise to say nothing to her yet, at any rate. Will thatdo? And I will go away for a while."

  The father threw his arms round him.

  As the summer drew on and began to fill the gardens and meadows withwealth, the little Italian garden to the south-west of the Hall waswhere my lady spent most of the day. Here she would cause chairs to bebrought out for Mistress Margaret and herself, and a small selection ofdevotional books, an orange leather volume powdered all over withpierced hearts, filled with extracts in a clear brown ink, another bookcalled _Le Chappellet de Jesus_, while from her girdle beside herpocket-mirror there always hung an olive-coloured "Hours of the BlessedVirgin," fastened by a long strip of leather prolonged from the binding.Here the two old sisters would sit, in the shadow of the yew hedge,taking it by turns to read and embroider, or talking a little now andthen in quiet voices, with long silences broken only by the hum ofinsects in the hot air, or the quick flight of a bird in the tall treesbehind the hedge.

  Here too Isabel often came, also bringing her embroidery; and sat andtalked and watched the wrinkled tranquil faces of the two old ladies, andenvied their peace. Hubert had gone, as he had promised his father, on along visit, and was not expected home until at least the autumn.

  "James will be here to-morrow," said Lady Maxwell, suddenly, one hotafternoon. Isabel looked up in surprise; he had not been at home for solong; but the thought of his coming was very pleasant to her.

  "And Mary Corbet, too," went on the old lady, "will be here to-morrow orthe day after."

  Isabel asked who this was.

  "She is one of the Queen's ladies, my dear; and a great talker."

  "She is very amusing sometimes," said Mistress Margaret's clear littlevoice.

  "And Mr. James will be here to-morrow?" said Isabel.

  "Yes, my child. They always suit one another; and we have known Mary foryears."

  "And is Miss Corbet a Catholic?"

  "Yes, my dear; her Grace seems to like them about her."

  When I
sabel went up again to the Hall in the evening, a couple of dayslater, she found Mr. James sitting with his mother and aunt in the samepart of the garden. Mr. James, who rose as she came through the yewarchway, and stood waiting to greet her, was a tall, pleasant,brown-faced man. Isabel noticed as she came up his strong friendly face,that had something of Hubert's look in it, and felt an immediate sense ofrelief from her timidity at meeting this man, whose name, it was said,was beginning to be known among the poets, and about whom the still moreformidable fact was being repeated, that he was a rising man at Court andhad attracted the Queen's favour.

  As they sat down again together, she noticed, too, his strong delicatehand in its snowy ruff, for he was always perfectly dressed, as it lay onhis knee; and again thought of Hubert's browner and squarer hand.

  "We were talking, Mistress Isabel, about the play, and the new theatres.I was at the Blackfriars' only last week. Ah! and I met Buxton there," hewent on, turning to his mother.

  "Dear Henry," said Lady Maxwell. "He told me when I last saw him that hecould never go to London again; his religion was too expensive, he said."

  Mr. James' white teeth glimmered in a smile.

  "He told me he was going to prison next time, instead of paying the fine.It would be cheaper, he thought."

  "I hear her Grace loves the play," said Mistress Margaret.

  "Indeed she does. I saw her at Whitehall the other day, when the childrenof the Chapel Royal were acting; she clapped and called out with delight.But Mistress Corbet can tell you more than I can--Ah! here she is."

  Isabel looked up, and saw a wonderful figure coming briskly along theterrace and down the steps that led from the house. Miss Corbet wasdressed with what she herself would have said was a milkmaid's plainness;but Isabel looked in astonishment at the elaborate ruff and wings ofmuslin and lace, the shining peacock gown, the high-piled coils of blackhair, and the twinkling buckled feet. She had a lively bright face, alittle pale, with a high forehead, and black arched brows and dancingeyes, and a little scarlet mouth that twitched humorously now and thenafter speaking. She rustled up, flicking her handkerchief, and exclaimingagainst the heat. Isabel was presented to her; she sat down on a settleMr. James drew forward for her, with the handkerchief still whisking atthe flies.

  "I am ashamed to come out like this," she began. "Mistress Plesse wouldbreak her heart at my lace. You country ladies have far more sense. I amthe slave of my habits. What were you talking of, that you look sogravely at me?"

  Mr. James told her.

  "Oh, her Grace!" said Miss Corbet. "Indeed, I think sometimes she isnever off the stage herself. Ah! and what art and passion she shows too!"

  "We are all loyal subjects here," said Mr. James; "tell us what youmean."

  "I mean what I say," she said. "Never was there one who loved play-actingmore and to occupy the centre of the stage, too. And the throne too, ifthere be one," she added.

  Miss Corbet talked always at her audience; she hardly ever lookeddirectly at any one, but up or down, or even shut her eyes and tilted herface forward while she talked; and all the while she kept an incessantmovement of her lips or handkerchief, or tapped her foot, or shifted herposition a little. Isabel thought she had never seen any one so restless.

  Then she went on to tell them of the Queen. She was so startlingly frankthat Lady Maxwell again and again looked up as if to interrupt; but shealways came off the thin ice in time. It was abominable gossip; but shetalked with such a genial air of loyal good humour, that it was verydifficult to find fault. Miss Corbet was plainly accustomed to act asCourt Circular, or even as lecturer and show-woman on the most popularsubject in England.

  "But her Grace surpassed herself in acting the tyrant last January; youwould have sworn her really angry. This was how it fell out. I was in theanteroom one day, waiting for her Grace, when I thought I heard her call.So I tapped; I got no clear answer, but I heard her voice within, so Ientered. And there was her Majesty, sitting a little apart in a chair byherself, with the Secretary--poor rat--white-faced at the table, writingwhat she bade him, and looking at her, quick and side-ways, like a childat a lifted rod; and there was her Grace: she had kicked her stool over,and one shoe had fallen; and she was striking the arm of her chair as shespoke, and her rings rapped as loud as a drunken watchman. And her facewas all white, and her eyes glaring"--and Mary began to glare and raiseher voice too--"and she was crying out, 'By God's Son, sir, I will havethem hanged. Tell the----' (but I dare not say what she called my LordSussex, but few would have recognised him from what she said)--'tell himthat I will have my will done. These--' (and she called the rebels a nameI dare not tell you)--'these men have risen against me these two months;and yet they are not hanged. Hang them in their own villages, that theirchildren may see what treason brings.' All this while I was standing atthe open door, thinking she had called me; but she was as if she sawnought but the gallows and hell-fire beyond; and I spoke softly to her,asking what she wished; and she sprang up and ran at me, and struckme--yes; again and again across the face with her open hand, rings andall--and I ran out in tears. Yes," went on Miss Corbet in a moment,dropping her voice, and pensively looking up at nothing, "yes; you wouldhave said she was really angry, so quick and natural were her movementsand so loud her voice."

  Mr. James' face wrinkled up silently in amusement; and Lady Maxwellseemed on the point of speaking; but Miss Corbet began again:

  "And to see her Grace act the lover. It was a miracle. You would havesaid that our Artemis repented of her coldness; if you had not known itwas but play-acting; or let us say perhaps a rehearsal--if you had seenwhat I once saw at Nonsuch. It was on a summer evening; and we were allon the bowling green, and her Grace was within doors, not to bedisturbed. My Lord Leicester was to come, but we thought had not arrived.Then I had occasion to go to my room to get a little book I had promisedto show to Caroline; and, thinking no harm, I ran through into the court,and there stood a horse, his legs apart, all steaming and blowing. Somecourier, said I to myself, and never thought to look at the trappings;and so I ran upstairs to go to the gallery, across which lay my chamber;and I came up, and just began to push open the door, when I heard herGrace's voice beyond, and, by the mercy of God, I stopped; and dared notclose the door again nor go downstairs for fear I should be heard. Andthere were two walking within the gallery, her Grace and my lord, and mylord was all disordered with hard riding, and nearly as spent as his poorbeast below. And her Grace had her arm round his neck, for I saw themthrough the chink; and she fondled and pinched his ear, and said over andover again, 'Robin, my sweet Robin,' and then crooned and moaned at him;and he, whenever he could fetch a breath--and oh! I promise you he didblow--murmured back, calling her his queen, which indeed she was, and hissweetheart and his moon and his star--which she was not: but 'twas all inthe play. Well, again by the favour of God, they did not see how the doorwas open and I couched behind it, for the sun was shining level throughthe west window in their eyes; but why they did not hear me as I ranupstairs and opened the door, He only knows--unless my lord was toosorely out of breath and her Grace too intent upon her play-acting. Well,I promise you, the acting was so good--he so spent and she sotender--that I nearly cried out Brava as I saw them; but that Iremembered in time 'twas meant to be a private rehearsal. But I have seenher Grace act near as passionate a part before the whole companysometimes."

  The two old ladies seemed not greatly pleased with all this talk; and asfor Isabel she sat silent and overwhelmed. Mary Corbet glanced quickly attheir faces when she had done, and turned a little in her seat.

  "Ah! look at that peacock," she cried out, as a stately bird steppeddelicately out of the shrubbery on to the low wall a little way off, andstood balancing himself. "He is loyal too, and has come to hear news ofhis Queen."

  "He has come to see his cousin from town," said Mr. James, looking atMiss Corbet's glowing dress, "and to learn of the London fashions."

  Mary got up and curtseyed to the astonished bird, who looked at her with
his head lowered, as he took a high step or two, and then paused again,with his burnished breast swaying a little from side to side.

  "He invites you to a dance," went on Mr. James gravely, "a pavane."

  Miss Corbet sat down again.

  "I dare not dance a pavane," she said, "with a real peacock."

  "Surely," said Mr. James, with a courtier's air, "you are too pitiful forhim, and too pitiless for us."

  "I dare not," she said again, "for he never ceases to practise."

  "In hopes," said Mr. James, "that one day you will dance it with him."

  And then the two went off into the splendid fantastic nonsense that thewits loved to talk; that grotesque, exaggerated phrasing made fashionableby Lyly. It was like a kind of impromptu sword-exercise in an assault ofarms, where the rhythm and the flash and the graceful turns are of moreimportance than the actual thrusts received. The two old ladiesembroidered on in silence, but their eyes twinkled, and little wrinklesflickered about the corners of their lips. But poor Isabel satbewildered. It was so elaborate, so empty; she had almost said, so wickedto take the solemn gift of speech and make it dance this wild fandango;and as absurdity climbed and capered in a shower of sparks and gleams onthe shoulders of absurdity, and was itself surmounted; and the names ofheathen gods and nymphs and demi-gods and loose-living classical womenwhisked across the stage, and were tossed higher and higher, until thewhole mad erection blazed up and went out in a shower of stars and gemsof allusions and phrases, like a flight of rockets, bright andbewildering at the moment, but leaving a barren darkness and dazzled eyesbehind--the poor little Puritan country child almost cried withperplexity and annoyance. If the two talkers had looked at one anotherand burst into laughter at the end, she would have understood it to be ajoke, though, to her mind, but a poor one. But when they had ended, andMary Corbet had risen and then swept down to the ground in a great silentcurtsey, and Mr. James, the grave, sensible gentleman, had solemnly bowedwith his hand on his heart, and his heels together like a Monsieur, andthen she had rustled off in her peacock dress to the house, with hermuslin wings bulging behind her; and no one had laughed or reproved orexplained; it was almost too much, and she looked across to Lady Maxwellwith an appeal in her eyes.

  Mr. James saw it and his face relaxed.

  "You must not take us too seriously, Mistress Isabel," he said in hiskindly way. "It is all part of the game."

  "The game?" she said piteously.

  "Yes," said Mistress Margaret, intent on her embroidery, "the game ofplaying at kings and queens and courtiers and ruffs and high-stepping."

  Mr. James' face again broke into his silent laugh.

  "You are acid, dear aunt," he said.

  "But----" began Isabel again.

  "But it is wrong, you think," he interrupted, "to talk such nonsense.Well, Mistress Isabel, I am not sure you are not right." And the dancinglight in his eyes went out.

  "No, no, no," she cried, distressed. "I did not mean that. Only I did notunderstand."

  "I know, I know; and please God you never will." And he looked at herwith such a tender gravity that her eyes fell.

  "Isabel is right," went on Mistress Margaret, in her singularly sweet oldvoice; "and you know it, my nephew. It is very well as a pastime, butsome folks make it their business; and that is nothing less than foolingwith the gifts of the good God."

  "Well, aunt Margaret," said James softly, "I shall not have much more ofit. You need not fear for me."

  Lady Maxwell looked quickly at her son for a moment, and down again. Hemade an almost imperceptible movement with his head, Mistress Margaretlooked across at him with her tender eyes beaming love and sorrow; andthere fell a little eloquent silence; while Isabel glanced shyly from oneto the other, and wondered what it was all about.

  Miss Mary Corbet stayed a few weeks, as the custom was when travellingmeant so much; but Isabel was scarcely nearer understanding her. Sheaccepted her, as simple clean souls so often have to accept riddles inthis world, as a mystery that no doubt had a significance, though shecould not recognise it. So she did not exactly dislike or distrust her,but regarded her silently out of her own candid soul, as one would say asmall fearless bird in a nest must regard the man who thrusts his strangehot face into her green pleasant world, and tries to make endearingsounds. For Isabel was very fascinating to Mary Corbet. She had scarcelyever before been thrown so close to any one so serenely pure. She wouldcome down to the Dower House again and again at all hours of the day,rustling along in her silk, and seize upon Isabel in the little upstairsparlour, or her bedroom, and question her minutely about her ways andideas; and she would look at her silently for a minute or two together;and then suddenly laugh and kiss her--Isabel's transparency was almost asgreat a riddle to her as her own obscurity to Isabel. And sometimes shewould throw herself on Isabel's bed, and lie there with her arms behindher head, to the deplorable ruin of her ruff; with her buckled feettwitching and tapping; and go on and on talking like a running stream inthe sun that runs for the sheer glitter and tinkle of it, andaccomplishes nothing. But she was more respectful to Isabel's simplicitythan at first, and avoided dangerous edges and treacherous ground in amanner that surprised herself, telling her of the pageants at Court andfair exterior of it all, and little about the poisonous conversations andjests and the corrupt souls that engaged in them.

  She was immensely interested in Isabel's religion.

  "Tell me, child," she said one day, "I cannot understand such a religion.It is not like the Protestant religion at Court at all. All that theProtestants do there is to hear sermons--it is all so dismal and noisy.But here, with you, you have a proper soul. It seems to me that you arelike a little herb-garden, very prim and plain, but living and wholesomeand pleasant to walk in at sunset. And these Protestants that I know aremore like a paved court at noon--all hot and hard and glaring. They giveme the headache. Tell me all about it."

  Of course Isabel could not, though she tried again and again. Herdefinitions were as barren as any others.

  "I see," said Mary Corbet one day, sitting up straight and looking atIsabel. "It is not your religion but you; your religion is as dull as allthe rest. But your soul is sweet, my dear, and the wilderness blossomswhere you set your feet. There is nothing to blush about. It's no creditto you, but to God."

  Isabel hated this sort of thing. It seemed to her as if her soul wasbeing dragged out of a cool thicket from the green shadow and theflowers, and set, stripped, in the high road.

  Another time Miss Corbet spoke yet more plainly.

  "You are a Catholic at heart, my dear; or you would be if you knew whatthe Religion was. But your father, good man, has never understood ithimself; and so you don't know it either. What you think about us, mydear, is as much like the truth as--as--I am like a saint, or you like asinner. I'll be bound now that you think us all idolaters!"

  Isabel had to confess that she did think something of the sort.

  "There, now, what did I say? Why haven't either of those two old nuns atthe Hall taught you any better?"

  "They--they don't talk to me about religion."

  "Ah! I see; or the Puritan father would withdraw his lamb from thewolves. But if they are wolves, my dear, you must confess that they havethe decency to wear sheep's clothing, and that the disguise isexcellent."

  And so it gradually came about that Isabel began to learn an immense dealabout what the Catholics really believed--far more than she had everlearnt in all her life before from the ladies at the Hall, who wereunwilling to teach her, and her father, who was unable.

  About half-way through Miss Corbet's visit, Anthony came home. At firsthe pronounced against her inexorably, dismissing her as nonsense, and asa fine lady--terms to him interchangeable. Then his condemnation began tofalter, then ceased; then acquittal, and at last commendation succeeded.For Miss Corbet asked his advice about the dogs, and how to get thatwonderful gloss on their coats that his had; and she asked his help, too,once or twice and praised his skill, and once asked to f
eel his muscle.

  And then she was so gallant in ways that appealed to him. She was not inthe least afraid of Eliza. She kissed that ferocious head in spite of theglare of that steady yellow eye; and yet all with an air of trusting toAnthony's protection. She tore her silk stocking across the instep in abramble and scratched her foot, without even drawing attention to it, asshe followed him along one of his short cuts through the copse; and itwas only by chance that he saw it. And then this gallant girl, so simpleand ignorant as she seemed out of doors, was like a splendid queenindoors, and was able to hold her own, or rather to soar above all theseelders who were so apt to look over Anthony's head on grave occasions;and they all had to listen while she talked. In fact, the first time hesaw her at the Hall in all her splendour, he could hardly realise it wasthe same girl, till she laughed up at him, and nodded, and said how muchshe had enjoyed the afternoon's stroll, and how much she would have totell when she got back to Court. In short, so incessant were her posesand so skilful her manner and tone, and so foolish this poor boy, that ina very few days, after he had pronounced her to be nonsense, Anthony wasat her feet, hopelessly fascinated by the combination of the glitter andfriendliness of this fine Court lady. To do her justice, she would havebehaved exactly the same to a statue, or even to nothing at all, as apeacock dances and postures and vibrates his plumes to a kitten; and hadno more deliberate intention of giving pain to anybody than a nightshadehas of poisoning a silly sheep.

  The sublime conceit of a boy of fifteen made him of course think that shehad detected in him a nobility that others overlooked, and so Anthonybegan a gorgeous course of day-dreaming, in which he moved as a kind ofking, worshipped and reverenced by this splendid creature, who after adisillusionment from the empty vanities of a Court life and a Queen'sfavour, found at last the lord of her heart in a simple manly youngcountryman. These dreams, however, he had the grace and modesty to keepwholly to himself.

  Mary came down one day and found the two in the garden together.

  "Come, my child," she said, "and you too, Master Anthony, if you canspare time to escort us; and take me to the church. I want to see it."

  "The church!" said Isabel, "that is locked: we must go to the Rectory."

  "Locked!" exclaimed Mary, "and is that part of the blessed Reformation?Well, come, at any rate."

  They all went across to the village and down the green towards theRectory, whose garden adjoined the churchyard on the south side of thechurch. Anthony walked with something of an air in front of the twoladies. Isabel told her as they went about the Rector and his views. Marynodded and smiled and seemed to understand.

  "We will tap at the window," said Anthony, "it is the quickest way."

  They came up towards the study window that looked on to the drive; whenAnthony, who was in front, suddenly recoiled and then laughed.

  "They are at it again," he said.

  The next moment Mary was looking through the window too. The Rector wassitting in his chair opposite, a small dark, clean-shaven man, but hisface was set with a look of distressed determination, and his lower lipwas sucked in; his eyes were fixed firmly on a tall, slender woman whoseback was turned to the window and who seemed to be declaiming, withoutstretched hand. The Rector suddenly saw the faces at the window.

  "We seem to be interrupting," said Mary coolly, as she turned away.