Alienated by religious prejudices, that nation hated the English with a peculiar and deadly animosity; an animosity which has rankled in their breasts up to the present time, and caused the shedding of rivulets of blood.
The anxiety of the Queen, on account of the attempts of the English Catholics, never ceased during the course of her reign, and was at this period greater than ever: whilst the continued revolutions happening to all the neighbouring kingdoms were the source of her continued apprehension Plots after plots were concocted in all quarters against her life, and which were being as constantly brought to light by one extraordinary chance or another.
The Cloptons, as we have seen, were members of the Church of Rome, though they were of the milder sort of Catholics, steering clear of all those intrigues and conspiracies which the more bigoted of their persuasion were so continually engaged in.
They were, indeed, well thought of and regarded by the government and the queen, and the good Sir Hugh was beloved and respected by all parties. Still the iron rule of the Church of Rome was upon him and his household, and held him under subjection. Many, therefore, were the narrow escapes he had experienced from being drawn into the violent and bloody plots and conspiracies the more dangerous and bigoted members of his creed had already been engaged in.
In a former chapter our readers have seen a person of this latter sort arrive stealthily at the Hall, and fasten himself upon the secret hospitality of Sir Hugh, in virtue of the powerful letters he produced.
What the designs of this man might be it was impossible to fathom, and Sir Hugh well knew that from the circumstance of his being himself considered but a mild and luke-warm Catholic by the more zealous and violent party, (although he might be made use of,) he would scarcely be initiated by them into their secrets.
Under such circumstances, the faithful Martin, (whose devotion towards the family of his old friend and patron amounted to a species of worship,) in taking upon himself the office of attendant upon the unwelcome guest, resolved to play the spy upon him at the same time, and, if possible, pluck out the heart of his mystery. The absence of the priest (who frequently resided at the Hall) favoured this design; and (on leaving Sir Hugh) Martin ascended to the apartment usually occupied by Father Eustace, where he doffed his motley coat, and induing the garments of the priest, suddenly presented himself before Parry.
The talent for humour possessed by this singular being made his design peculiarly agreeable to him, for to play a part (even under dangerous circumstances) was quite in accordance with his disposition.
On entering he found the object of his visit seated upon the small truckle bed with which the room was accommodated, and which (except two chairs) was all the furniture in it—the bed standing in a recess.
The room itself was one of those small, curious chambers peculiar to the buildings of the Catholic gentry during this and the subsequent reign. It seemed evidently to have been contrived for purposes of seclusion and concealment, and was more like the cell of a monastery than a chamber in a private dwelling. Cribbed, as it seemed to have been, out of some corner of the edifice, where an apartment would never have been thought of; the only light by which this closet-like room was illuminated in the day-time being from a small concealed window, so contrived as not to be visible from the grounds without.
So deep in his own contemplations was the occupant of this chamber, that, at first, he did not observe the entrance of the disguised Martin. When he did so, however, he quickly started to his feet, and the riding cloak which he had unfastened slipping from his shoulders shewed that he was armed (as the phrase goes) to the very teeth. Rapier and dagger were by his side, a pair of the huge, ill-contrived, petronels of the period at his waist, and in place of a shirt it was evident that he wore a sort of hauberk of linked steel beneath his upper garments; in fact, a more dangerous-looking and dishevelled companion the shrewd Martin had seldom beheld.
"The peace of Heaven be upon thee, my son," said Martin, as the visitor confronted him.
"Such peace as Heaven wills," returned the other.
"Those who have to do the work are not permitted peace of mind or body in this world. Art thou him to whom I am secretly commended at Clopton, the good Father Eustace?"
"Such is the name men usually give the wearer of these garments of the Church, my son," returned Martin. "I would they clove to the body of a more worthy representative."
"The business I have with thee, good father," said Parry, "is of that dangerous and imminent nature that I may not trust to thy word alone. I must be furnished with proof of thy identity. Sir Hugh Clopton affirmed but now that Father Eustace was at present absent from the Hall."
"I have but now returned," said Martin, "and immediately have sought thee out by Sir Hugh's desire. What you have to communicate can either be withheld or given freely, I seek not to know the secret of others. Letters of import, as I learn, hath procured thee a secret asylum here, without which, as thou art aware, thou could'st not have been received, neither can I hold converse with thee, unless thou canst shew such documents or explain the reasons of thy coming hither."
"Enough said, father," returned Parry, thrown off his guard, "those documents thou shalt have; meantime hear the reasons which have moved me to this visit, and my intent in seeking thee."
"Proceed," said Martin, seating himself, whilst the other walked restlessly up and down the small room, apparently carried away by the violence of his own thoughts.
"Thou knowest my early history," he said, "and how that after being an undutiful son, a sabbath-breaker, and a blasphemer, the devil lured me to the commission of crimes by which my life was forfeited to the laws?"
"I have heard these things," said Martin, "and such part of the story needs no repetition. The Queen granted you a free pardon, for which you are doubtless grateful, and resolved in making amends?"
"I had resolved on doing so," said Parry, "and hoped for days of repentance and happiness, but none came, as you shall hear. The fiend still held possession. I wandered about in woods and solitary places, for the sight of my fellow creatures was horrible to me. Nay, I thought every one seemed happy but myself, and the evil one constantly whispered that there was no mercy for Gilbert Parry. Again, therefore, I sought society, gave the reins to my evil desires, and myself up to evil ways, and again conscience troubled me. I had rest neither by night nor day. I feared the night, lest the enemy should take me before morning. I tried to pray, but could not. I passed whole days as if my body had been pricked down irrecoverably, persuaded the fiend was in my apartment. Nay, my very body was in flames. To cry for help was vain, no relief came, and I was ever filled with evil thoughts. Such, holy father, were the torments I endured for five years. At length it appeared to me that this state of persecution arose from some cause in which I was called upon to exert myself. Then considered I of the persecuted state of our religion, and that I was called upon to strike a blow for its welfare. In short I resolved to do a deed which (by destroying the great enemy of our Church) should obtain for me the crown of martyrdom."
"Proceed, my son," said Martin, who, seated with his chin upon his doubled fists, was listening to and contemplating the excited Parry with the utmost attention. "Proceed, my son, wherefore dost thou stop?"
The narrator of his own troubled thoughts regarded Martin with a deep and searching look. "Methought I saw a devilish smile upon thy face," he said sternly. "Is the relation of such things subject of ridicule?"
"Rather of pity," said Martin; "I smiled to think that a whip and a dark room might have dispelled such phantoms. The most absurd doctrines are not without such evidence as martyrdom can produce."
"You think, then," said Parry, "that penance and flagellation were required?"
"Call it so, an if you will," said Martin, "fasting is good for digestion, and real pain for imaginary suffering. Doubtless you lived well whilst this frenzy lasted. You was, you say, leading a wild life, perhaps drunk one-half of the twenty-four hours, and mad the other. A bad state of the stomach produces fumes upon the brain. I would have exorcised the fiend by blood-letting, blisters, purgation, and purification.