AN UNWARY WORD

New Zealand Tablet, 27 August 1908, Page 3

AN UNWARY WORD

(Concluded.) ' . The evening was cloudy, and'tw'ilight closed in ea'r.ly/ Every preparation had been made for Tunstall to leave the. country ; relays of horses were bespoken to carry- him with all, possible speed to the east coast, where lay a sailing vessel, which had been chartered to convey him to the coasts of France. _ ■ The proscribed servant of ,God had left his hiding-place — a ruined well in the grounds adjoining the residence bf_his rescuer — deeming himself safe in consequence of a domiciliary visit having already been made at the house, and had joined the. friends who had afforded him shelter at the peril of their own lives. A large wood fire blazed cheerfully on the hearth of tho spacious hall where the family were assembled, and cast' a flickering light on- the faded tapestries on the walls. It was a sorrowful moment for the little group that-stood around the hearth, aboqt to bid farewell to the revered and beloved guest ; . and, 10 quote the touching and appropriate words of Holy "Writ, ' they .grieved most of all for the words which he said,' that they should see his face no more.' The future martyr, however, knew not the things that were to befall him. 'Bonds and afflictions' had, already been- his lot, and they were again to be his portion _— aye, and death itself, sooner than he or his friends anticipated. Before fie could be -' brought on his way to the ship,' like the apostle «f old, a heavy step was heard in the vestibule, and Sir Percival Amhurst, using his privilege as a pursuivant, "entered the hall" unannounced, followed by the dismayed domestics. - ~- ' ' I crave pardon for my intrusion,' he said,, with sarcastic politeness.^ 'I come in the King's name, and have here" a warrant for the arrest of one Thomas Tunstall, alias Jones, a Popish priest. ' , ' The stranger instantly stepped forward. . ' I am he whom you seek, 1 he said; then he turned to take " a courteous leave of his host. At a sign from Sir Percival, two men-at-arms advanced to pinion his arms behind him ; whilst two others took into custody the master of the house, who was compelled to accompany the prisoner to London, to answer before the Royal Commissioners - on a charge of harboring a traitor. Thus the day closed sadly indeed, not only for the unlucky denizens of The 'Grange, who lost for they knew not how Jong a period their husband and father, but also for Lady Margaret, who was a prey to the bitterest grief and regret when she learned the result of the expedition. After the usual form of trial and condemnation, the priest was dragged to the scaffold and put to death according to the revolting fashion of the time. Upon Sir Percival's return to Chislehampton Hall, not a single word was spoken upon the subject which was present to the thoughts both of husband and wife. But from that day forth their relations became painfully formal and constrained. How, indeed, could it be otherwise? Equally inevitable was it that Lady Margaret's health should* fail and her splendid spirits desert her. Sir Percival marked u»e change with great uneasiness., "He well knew that remorse — the most cruel of all the demons which, since the days of Judas, have lacerated the human soul — was the cause of the increasing pallor of his wife's cheekj and the listlessness which replaced her wonted energy and interest in all that surrounded her. After the lapse of three or four months he surprised her one morning, as 'they, sat at breakfast, "by "saying all at once : - _ ' What would you say, my dear, if, we were to go and pass the Christmas in London? It is dull work for you here ,:n the wirtter. ' Business calls me thither; and', though -I am .not so young. as I was, my limbs-are not so stiff as to- prevent me from enjoying a "gallop with the houndsV -. ,-, '^O, Percival, how good of you !' .exclaimed Margaret, with sudden animation. 'I should like it "of all things.' ' ' Percival looked delighted; he' had' not" heard her speak in , this _way for months. ' \ " " ' She wants only change- of scene ..and amusement to free her from this fit of the blues,' he said to himself.- " ' Then he added aloud : ' - ■ ■ - ' When shall yoj be ready to start, Maggie? You mus* take all your finery with you; for my wife shall be second o

none in her dress at the ball on New Year's Day. The Amhurst diamonds si- all sparkle bravely Not that they are brighter than your bright eyes: You need fear no rival amid all the fair dames- and damsels.* With these words he rose to leave the room, pausing to bestow an unwonted kiss upon Margaret's cheek as she passed, her chair." ' Poor Sir Percival! if he had but known/the thoughts and hopes that surged -up in her breast at the bare mention nf the proposed journey, his pleasure "would have quickly disappeared. Since Tunstall's execution, and owing doubtless to his prayers on her behalf, Margaret's conscience, sc long dormant, had begun to waken from' its sleep. She remembered her^ early . days ! she reflected how easily she had surrendered, for the^ake of worldly advantages, that Faith for which many had been ~ willing to give up all they possessed and to die a cruel death. She longed to unburden her soul, and she rejoiced in going to town solely because she hoped that she. might there find the opportunity for which, in her own neighborhood, she was well aware she would seek in vain. The winter was mild, and all went well with the travellers r who took up' their quarters in the finest and most commodious hostelry in the City of London. Sir Percival Amhurst was a consummate horseman, and sat his _steed with as much ease and grace as any younger man could have done. He was the cynosure of many admiring eyes as, mounted on a magnificent chestnut horse, he rode forth to join the meet one sunny January morning. His wife knew he would be absent some hours, and she seized the opportunity of executing her long-cherished project. Dreading lest she should be recognised, watched, and betrayed, in spite of having taken the precaution of putting on garments she had never worn before, sh > hastened with trembling steps to the house of a Catholic friend - where she knew she could obtain access to a priest. This friend was at the lime seriously ill, and Margaret's ostensible reason was to inquire after her. She knew that she could confide in her ; and before long she found herself in the presence of the minister of God. Here her long pent-up feelings found* vent ; her grief, her remorse, were poured out with sobs and tears. The listener was deeply touched. Her self-abasement was evidently genuine, her sorrow poignant and sincere. ' But, my child,' the good Father said, as soon as the torrent of words ceased for a moment, ' you had no evil intention in describing your patient so as to enable your husband to identify him?' ' Oh, no, no!' was the prompt reply. ' I never had in m/ heart one thought that was not kindness concerning him.' In this case your remorse appears to be somewhat exaggerated. You grieve so bitterly on account^ of your heedless words and their result ; but do you never reflect how terrible * sin you committed when, for the sake of a brilliant marriage and a life of worldly happiness, you abandoned your Faith?' Margaret crimsoned, and burst, into a fresh bit of weeping. 'It is too late, Father!' she said. 'As I have sown, so I "must reap. But I have conformed only outwardly :my heart has ever been true., to the proscribed Faith. ' ' We can always retrace our steps while we live,' replied the priest. ' The path for your~wo'uld be rugged indeed, yet T hope and believe you will have grace to walk in it one day. Farewell, my child! May God bless you!' Margaret knelt (o receive the priest's blessing; then, without another word, silently left the house, soothed in a certain way, but humbled as well. The words she had heard- were' well chosen, and had produced the very effect which the speaker intended. Sir Percival returned to the hotel in the highest spirits, fullof delight in his favorite exercise, eager to relate many pleasant meetings with old friends. '1 had only one mishap, M Aggie, >% he concluded, 'and that, is a mere trifle. In leaping' a hedge, a , great thorn tore my right hand a little; it is only a surface wound, but it smarts, a good deal. See here,' he continued, marching across to where she sat. Margaret grew white to the very lips and remained rooted to her seat like a marble statue. Her husband stared. No association was connected in his mind with the apparently slight injury : he did not know that, by a singular coincidence, he" hadtorn bpen the very same part of the hand which had been .grazed by the rope in Tunstall's case. ' There is nothing to be alarmed at, Maggie,' he saidv ' Your ointment will soon make it well -again.'

But it did not do so : on the contrary, as the days went by, the wounded finger festered and defied Margaret's skill. She very naturally fcaredTlhat her husband would never recover from' his wound ; she thought that a just retribution had overtaken him, . and that he would lose the- hand that had worked so much evil. A doctor was called in. Percival was laid up for several weeks. • But his splendid constitution triumphed ; the .wound healed, and in the early part of February he was able to return homeAgain the months slipped by in an uneventful course at Chislehampton Hall. The summer had come round, and the June "sun shone upon a world that was fulf of beauty. "Sir Percival, whose tastes were thoroughly rural, and who loved to spend his time in outdoor occupations, was accustomed to lend' a helping hand to his men when the hay or corn had to be gathered in. . _ v One day, when he was busily assisting in making a rick, a blade of coarse grass in the bundle he""was handling cut the wound open. This time neither his wife's ointment nor the doctor's skill availed anything. - Sir Percival's hour had come. Blood-poisoning set in, and in less* than a week he died. - - He remained in an unconscious state for some: hours" before ~- his death, and was believed to have lost the power of speech. Throughout his illness he had manifested no interest in religion or the slightest fear for the future. . A few moments, however, before "he actually expired, a glimpse of eternity appeared to have been revealed to him. Raising himself upon his pillows, he exclaimed three times, in a voice so- piercing as to wake the slumbering echoes of the old house and fill every heart with dismay : ' . 'Too late! Too late! Too late!' And so he passed into the presence of his Judge. For Lady Margaret a more merciful fate was reserved. She had given up her religion in order to marry ->ir Percival, and now his sadjend gave' her courage to return to it. The property was "made over to a brother of Sir Percival (a Protestant like himself), in consequence of his having denounced his widowed sister-in-law as a recusant. . She had always been a great favorite of his, and he might perhaps have hesitated to take. this step had he not been instigated to it by his wife, who, herself a very plain woman, married only for the sake of her fortune, was jealous of Lady Margaret's beauty and attractiveness. Thus the- late mistress of Chislehampton Hall found herself penniless. For some time she subsisted by selling her jewels ; but ultimately she made her escape to France, where she lived in poverty and obscurity for many years, her sole source of income being a meagre pittance doled out to her by her brother-in-law. Her life was pious and austere ; no one could have recognised in the white-haired woman, aged beyond her years, and uniformly clad in a black serge gown, with cloak and bonnet to match, the brilliant and vivacious Lady Amhurst of former years. — Aye Maria. ' \