It has been pretended that the party of this day was one of the earliest attempts made by Mr. Forster the younger towards making himself the leader of the cause in the north. On the contrary, he had as yet no thought at all about leading. The gentlemen came together for no other purpose than to meet the Bishop (many of them being Catholics, who could only see him on some such occasion) and Lord Derwentwater, and the meeting was especially summoned to enable these two to meet one another. Among those who came to the meeting were many of the gentlemen who five years afterwards, to their undoing, took up arms for the Prince. Most of them lay at Hexham overnight, and came over the moor in the morning. It was a gallant sight, indeed, to see the gentlemen riding into the quadrangle, and giving their horses to the grooms, while they paid their respects to Lady Crewe, who was already dressed, early as it was, and received them with a kindly welcome which pleased all. The Bishop, she said, begged to be excused at that early hour; he would meet his friends in the evening. Meantime, breakfast, or luncheon, was spread, with cold pasties, spiced beef, game, and beer for all who chose.
They were a hearty and hungry crew. One cannot but remember with what goodwill they trooped in, and how they made the sirloins of beef to grow small, the pasties to vanish, and the birds to disappear, except their bones; also with what cheerfulness they exhorted each other to fill up and drink again. They had a day’s hunting before them. Surely a man may eat and drink who is going out for six or eight hours a-horseback across Hexhamshire Common. It was a pretty sight, certainly, when they had finished, to see them mount in the great quadrangle, with the shouting of the younger men —— ah! King Solomon’s medicine of the merry heart! —— and so off, trooping through the old gateway out upon the open moor, whither the huntsmen had taken the hounds. I, who seldom rode went with them on this day. Beside me rode, Lord Derwentwater, brave in scarlet, as were his brothers. But he was grave, and even sad.
‘I cannot but think, Miss Dorothy,’ he said, ‘that it is a strange thing for us to laugh and shout while our business is to talk of treason, according to the law of the land. When will treason become loyalty, and rebellion fidelity to the King?’
Then there arose a great yo-hoing and shouting, and the fox was found, and we all rode after it. About that day’s hunting it needs not to speak much. It was a long run. Tom, with Charlie Radcliffe, was in at the death, and they gave me the creature’s brush. As for Lord Derwentwater, he left not my side, being more concerned to talk with me than to gallop after the hounds. Certainly he never was a keen fox-hunter, his ideas of the hunt being taken from France, where, as he hath told me, the party ride down lanes or allées, in a great forest, after a wild boar or a stag, the sides of the lanes being lined with rustics, to prevent the boar from taking shelter in the wood. But he owned that our sport was more manly. This was a pleasant, nay, a delightful ride for me, seeing as I did in the eyes of his lordship those signs of admiration which please the hearts of all women alike, whether they be confident in their beauty, or afraid that they possess no charms to fix the affections of inconstant man. Perhaps we guess very readily what most we desire. At this time (let me confess and own without shame what need not be concealed) I had begun to desire one thing very much; that is to say, I understood very well that the happiest woman in the world would be she to whom this young gentleman would give the priceless blessing of his love. This made me watchful of his speech and looks; and enabled me, young and inexperienced as I was, to read very well the confession made by eyes full of admiration, though no word at all was spoken. No gentleman in the world had better eyes or sweeter than Lord Derwentwater, and no man’s love, I knew very well, was more to be desired; and, innocent and ignorant as we were, neither of us, at that time, considered the difficulties in the way. Poor Dorothy!
Some of the elder gentlemen remained behind, and sat all the morning to talk with Lady Crewe, once their toast and charming beauty, still beautiful and gracious as a great lady should be. Every woman likes, I suppose, to feel that men remember the beauty of her youth. It is a fleeting thing, and we are told that, like all earthly things, it is a vanity. Nevertheless, it is a vanity which pleases for a lifetime, and, like understanding in a man, it may be used, while it lasts, for great purposes. Lady Crewe knew well how to use her beauty and charm of words as well as of face, in order to lead men whithersoever she would. This is a simple art, though few women understand it, being nothing more or less than to make each man think the thing which he most desires to believe true, namely, that he occupies wholly the thoughts, hopes, interest, and sympathy of the woman who would lure him and lead him.
‘It is not love,’ said Mr. Hilyard once, ‘so much as vanity, which leads the world. Dalila conquered Samson by playing upon his pride of strength. Cleopatra overcame Antony by acknowledging the irresistible charm of a hero.’
So Lady Crewe, by coaxing, flattering, making men feel happy and proud of themselves (since they would please so great and gracious a lady), in a word, by charming men, could do with them what she pleased. Of course it need not be said that there could be no question of gallantry with this stately dame, the wife of the great Lord Crewe. Certainly not; yet all men were her slaves.
Some time between ten and eleven in the forenoon, the party being all ridden forth, my lord the Bishop came out from his chamber, dressed and ready for the duties of the day. At so advanced a stage of life, one must, I suppose, approach each day, which may be the last, slowly and carefully, fortified before the work of the day begins with food, prayer, and meditation. His lordship looked older in the morning than in the evening; yet not decayed. Though the lines and crow’sfeet of age lay thickly upon his face, so that it was seamed and scarred by a thousand waving lines, his eye was as bright and his lips as firm as if he were but forty or fifty. After a little discourse with the gentlemen who had remained behind, he sent immediately for Mr. Hilyard. He, to say the truth, was by no means anxious for the interview, and had shown, ever since this party was proposed, a singular desire to avoid the Bishop; proposing a hundred different pretexts for his absence.
First, his lordship, with great show of politeness, of which he was perfect master, begged Mr. Hilyard to show him the ruins and remains of this strange place, which our steward very willingly did, hoping, as will be seen, to stave off the questions which he feared. Presently, after talk about the Premonstratensian Friars (this was the learned name of the monks who were murdered, but why they had so long a name or what it means, I know not, nor need we inquire into the superstitious reasons for such a name), and after considering the quadrangle and the ancient Gate Tower, they turned into the graveyard, where were the ruins of the chapel. Here they talked of Gothic architecture, a subject on which, as on so many other things, Mr. Hilyard was well versed; and the Bishop, after lamenting the ruin of so beautiful a place, said that he could not suffer whole families thus to grow up in heathendom with so fair a chapel waiting but a roof, and that he should take order therefor.
‘As for you, sir,’ he said to Mr. Hilyard, ‘you seem to be possessed of some learning. You have studied, I perceive, the architecture of our churches.’
‘In my humble way, my lord, I have read such books on the subject as have fallen into my hands.’
‘And you are not unacquainted with the ancient dispositions of monasteries, it would seem.’
‘Also in my small way, my lord; and with such chances of observation as I have obtained.’
Then the Bishop seated himself upon a fallen stone in the corner of the tower, where he was sheltered from the wind, and where the sunshine fell, and fixed upon Mr. Hilyard his eyes, which were like the eyes of a hawk for clearness, and more terrible for sternness than the eyes of a lion, and said:
‘Then, sir, let me ask: Who are you?’
‘My lord, my name, at your lordship’s service, is Antony Hilyard.’
‘So much I know. And for ten years, or thereabouts, in the service of the Forsters. Now, sir, I meddle not with affairs which belong not to me, therefore when Mr. Thomas Forster of Etherston received you as my nephew’s tutor, I made no inquiry. Again, when I heard, through her ladyship, that the tutor, instead of becoming a chaplain, as is generally his laudable ambition, became a steward, I made no inquiry, because, tutor or steward, your affairs seemed to concern me not at all. But in view of the singular affection which my lady hath conceived for her nephew, her hopes for his future, and her designs as regards his inheritance, I can no longer suffer him to remain under the influence of men about whose character I know nothing. Doubtless, sir, you are honest. My nephew and his sister swear that you are honest.’
‘I hope so, my lord.’
‘It is certain that you have, whether for purposes of your own or not, acquired such an influence over both my nephew and my niece that I must come to an understanding. You sing, act, and play the Merry Andrew, when he has his friends about him; you manage his household, and keep his accounts; you have taught the young lady to sing, play music, read French, and other things, which, as my lady is assured, are all innocent and desirable accomplishments. We have also learned that although you were engaged upon a salary or wage of thirty pounds a year, you have never received any of that money, save a guinea here and there for clothing. Now, sir, I judge not beforehand, but you may be, for aught, I know, a vile Whig, endeavouring to instil into an honest mind pernicious opinions; or you may be one of those secret plotters who are the curse of our party, and lure on gentlemen to their destruction; or you may be, which is not impossible, a Jesuit on some secret service. So, sir, before we go any further, you will tell me who and what you are —— whose son, where born and brought up —— of what stock, town, religion?’
‘For my birth, my lord, I am of London; for my religion, I am a Protestant and humble servant of the Church; for my origin, my father was a vintner, with a tavern in Barbican; for my education, it was at St. Paul’s School, where I got credit for some scholarship, and’—— here he bowed his head, and looked guilty ——‘at Oxford, in your lordship’s own College of Lincoln.’
‘Go on, sir.’ For now Mr. Hilyard showed signs of the greatest distress, and began to cough, to hem, to blow his nose, and to wipe his brow. ‘Go on, sir, I command.’
‘I cannot deny, my lord —— nay, I confess —— though it cost me the post I hold and drive me out into the world —— that I concealed from Mr. Forster the reasons why I left Oxford without a degree. I hope that your lordship will consider my subsequent conduct to have in some measure mitigated the offence.’
‘What was the reason?’
‘My lord, I was expelled.’
The Bishop nodded his head as terrible as great Jove.
‘So, sir,’ he said, while the unlucky man trembled before him, ‘so, sir, you were expelled. This is truly an excellent recommendation for a tutor and teacher of young gentlemen. Pray, sir, why this punishment?’
‘My lord,’ the poor man replied in great confusion, ‘suffer me of your patience to explain that from my childhood upwards I have continually been afflicted —— affliction must I needs call that which hath led me to the ruin of my hopes —— with the desire of mocking, acting, and impersonating; also with the temptation to write verses, whether in Latin or in English; and with the love of exciting the laughter and mirth of my companions. So that to hold up to derision the usher while at school, which caused me often to be soundly switched, was my constant joy —— even though I had afterwards to cry —— because my fellows laughed at the performance. Or I was acting and rehearsing for their delight some passage from Dryden, Shakespeare, or Ben Jonson, which I had seen upon the stage.’
‘In plain language, sir, thou wast a common buffoon.’
‘Say, rather, my lord, with submission, an actor —— histrio. Roscius was rather my model than the Roman mime.’
‘As thou wilt, sir. Go on.’
‘Your lordship cannot but remember that at every public act the Terr? Filius, after the Proctor, hath permission to ridicule, or to hold up to derision, or to satirize ——’
‘Man,’ cried the Bishop, ‘I had partly guessed it. Thou wert, then, a Terr? Filius.’
‘My lord, it is most true.’
The Bishop’s face lost its severity. He laughed while Mr. Hilyard stood before him trembling, yet a little reassured. For, to say the truth, he expected nothing but instant dismissal.
‘The Terr? Filius,’ said the Bishop. ‘There were many of them, but few of much account. Some were coarse, some were ill bred, some were rustic, some were rude —— here and there one was witty. The heads and tutors loved better the coarse than the witty. Ay, ay! They expelled Tom Pittie when I was a bachelor, and they made Lancelot Addison, afterwards Dean of Lichfield, beg pardon on his knees. So, sir, you were the licensed jester of the University? An honourable post, forsooth!’
‘It was not so much, my lord,’ Mr. Hilyard went on,‘for my jests before the University, as for certain verses which were brought home to me by the treachery of a man, who —— but that does not concern your lordship.’
‘Of what kind were the verses?’
‘They were of a satirical kind.’ Mr. Hilyard pulled out his pocket-book, in which he kept memoranda, receipts, bills, and so forth. ‘If your lordship would venture to look at them. I keep always by me a copy to remind me of my sin.’ He found a worn and thumb-marked sheet of printed paper. ‘In Latinity they have been said to have a touch of Martial or Ausonius at his best —— but I may not boast’. He placed the verses in the Bishop’s hands, and waited, with a look of expectant pride rather than of repentance: he was no longer a confessing sinner, or a jester brought to shame; but, rather, a poet waiting for his patro............