Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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...Gilbert Aubrey, the wicked and irreligious doctor of Monkton Friars, and Henry Purcell, the weak and easily led organist of the Abbey Church there, conspire—being inspired thereto by Aubrey's sister, an unscrupulous and cold- blooded adventuress with whom Purcell fancies himself in love—to steal some plate that belonged to an old Prior of the Abbey, and which is buried in the deep-delved earth...
THERE was evidently some mystery connected with Gilbert Aubrey, the popular doctor of the old country town known as Monkton Friars. His patients noticed that he was much quieter and more self-restrained than he had hitherto been. It was plain to all that something was weighing heavily on his mind.
There was a time when Aubrey would spend an hour with a patient, chatting and laughing in the most friendly, but most unprofessional, manner. There was a time—and it was not so very long ago—when he would open the door of his patient's room, and, entering in the most familiar way, would say, 'Good-morning, old fellow! How are you? Physic to the dogs, eh?' But no one heard him say such things as these now. People had noticed (so they whispered to one another) a gradual change in the Doctor. Was, then, Gilbert Aubrey, M.D., in love? Or was he working out some great scientific or medical problem? The old ladies of Monkton Friars guessed and talked, but none of them lighted upon the true reason for this very marked change in the popular doctor's demeanour. Nay, we mistake. There was one person who knew. Henry Purcell knew. But, then, he was only the organist at the Abbey Church, and did not mix with the best society of Monkton Friars. Henry Purcell knew, but hitherto he had kept his knowledge to himself.
Presently it began to be whispered in the Abbey precincts that a change, which was equally inexplicable, had also come over Henry Purcell. The frequenters of the Abbey—more especially those who regularly attended the daily choral matins and evensong—felt that there was a very marked, but very unusual, depression and gloom in the character of the talented organist's selections. The voluntaries, which used to be so bright and inspiring, were now quite of a sombre and almost melancholy kind, as if a burdened and anxious heart were giving itself expression through the notes. The choir instinctively responded to the heaviness and gloom which were now characteristic of the organist's lead. Those who were present at the service on the Easter Day complained that the music was much more suggestive of Lent than of Easter; and the clergy remarked to each other that the services seemed to be strangely dull and lifeless in the Abbey of Monkton Friars.
Gilbert Aubrey, the doctor, and Henry Purcell, the organist, had not been very intimate. Beyond the fact that the Doctor was an excellent performer on the violin, and a devoted musical amateur, and that he had occasionally spent an evening with the organist, for the sake of musical practice, it could not be said that there had been between them anything like friendship. There was now, however, something strange and mysterious about both these men; but the gossips, with all their guesses, could arrive at no satisfactory solution; nor could they decide whether the depression of the one had any connection with the moodiness of the other.
MONKTON FRIARS in earlier times was a very secluded country
town on the eastern border of the West Riding of Yorkshire. In
the year 1302, the Cistercian monks had erected on this spot one
of their noble monasteries, and for more than two hundred years
the rule of St. Benedict had been observed within its walls. Then
King Henry VIII., 'of pious memory,' despoiled it of revenues,
and unroofed all the buildings except the church, or Abbey, which
yet remains as an abiding monument of the faith, industry and
sacrifice of a bygone age. It is still used as the parish church
of the town.
Monkton Friars, however, had altogether changed in character since the days when those who followed the Religious Life erected their monastery. Coal—that omnipotent factor in the destinies of nations—had been discovered in the immediate neighbourhood, and, in consequence, factories had been erected, tall chimneys poured forth their smoke, and there were signs of the wealth which the throbbing machinery was pouring steadily into the pockets of manufacturing princes. New streets, inhabited by grimy but well-to-do operatives, extended on all sides of the factories; and if the old Prior, Walter de Loidis, could have revisited the scene of his earthly rule, he would scarcely have recognised the valley with its once delightful green fields and clear and pellucid stream, on the banks of which he and his followers had erected their house of prayer.
The Abbey is one of the few remaining ecclesiastical 'peculiars,' and is governed, like a cathedral, by a Dean and Chapter. The magnificent nave, flanked by narrow aisles, terminates in a low screen, with chancel gates. Beyond these rises the choir and the Lady Chapel, in which the remarkably delicate tracery of the windows as seen from the nave arrests and delights the eye. High up in the triforium, and played by pneumatic and electrical action from a console in, the choir, is the organ—a costly modern instrument, upon which few could play as did Henry Purcell, who was a namesake and descendant of one of England's greatest musicians.
The ancient monastic buildings, as we have seen, were in ruins, but, being enclosed within the churchyard, were carefully preserved. Rambling old ruins they were. Here one stumbled upon, if not into, a deep and dungeon-like cell; and there climbed narrow and twisting staircases which led nowhere. Impressive, too, was the stillness of the cloisters, where those who now slumber beneath the flowers in 'The Paradise' (as the quadrangle was then called) were wont to attend the Prior's summer lectures, or to exercise themselves, protected from the winter rains.
The church was situated on the north side of this enclosure, and along its southern wall ran the principal arcade of the cloisters. This arcade opened at the western side on to the path which ran through the churchyard, while at the other and eastern end it turned at right angles towards the south, and past the ruined cells of the old monastic establishment. Very weird and ghostly were these desolate and deserted cells, and very wonderful was the effect on moonlight nights, as the moonbeams glinted down through the fragments of tracery, casting strange shadows across their gloomy recesses. No one was interested in the cells. There was no architectural beauty or antiquarian interest attaching to any one of them, and therefore, except by the caretaker, this portion of the ruins was very seldom visited.
In these cloisters, on the fifth day of June, 18—, late in the afternoon, Henry Purcell was pacing slowly to and fro. His head was bent in thought, and a close observer might have noticed that, as he held under his arm an oblong folio of organ music, his fingers twitched nervously on the book, while he knitted his brows, muttering the meanwhile to himself, 'How can I continue longer in such an intolerable position? I must make my decision some day, and why not do it at once?'
He was a tall, fair-haired, good-looking man, about forty-three years of age, with striking blue eyes and a fair brown beard, in which the gray hairs were just beginning to appear. That he was a man of intellectual power was evident in his frontal development; and the blue eyes, which usually were of dreamy softness, could, as the present occasion testified, flash in the nervous energy of their glance.
He had walked from end to end of the north side of the cloisters eight or ten times, when a girl of about seventeen years of age, appeared at the door which led into the Abbey, and advanced, with smiling face, towards him. There could be no mistaking the relationship between the two. They were evidently father and daughter. The girl had just the same blue eyes and fair hair, and withal an expression of face which was so winsome, in its open ingenuousness, that everyone was attracted to her.
'Here you are, Edith, my girlie!' said her father; 'I really began to think you would never come.'
Edith replied with a merry laugh, and said:
'I was so anxious to cut the flowers immediately before I came to church. Even half an hour's growth is a gain to them,' and she held up a basket of white flowers. 'Will they not look lovely above the altar?' she added.
'We need hardly go into the church yet,' replied her father; 'I was only thinking how much I should like to walk up and down the cloisters for a while with you, my girlie.' And he gave her an affectionate smile.
Edith Purcell was just at that impressionable age when all the world seems to be bright and beautiful, and when no thought or suspicion of the evil that lies deep in the hearts of men had entered into her mind. Her father was to her a hero. His musical learning and genius seemed to her stupendous. What matter to her that he was easily led? what matter that he was by no means what the world calls 'practical'? He was the great organist-composer of the Abbey of Monkton Friars; and he was even now composing a work which would astonish the musical world.
'How surprised the monks would be if they could peep into the cloisters just now!' remarked Edith. 'They would certainly ask me to retire from the precincts,' she added, with a laugh. 'Poor dear old monks!' she continued. 'How astonished they would be at the changes in Monkton Friars, and especially at the changes in the Abbey.'
'Some things are changed for the better, I hope,' suggested her father.
'Oh yes, father dear; the music, for instance.' And she looked up into his face with a sly smile.
Purcell smiled too.
'Perhaps there are other changes which are for the worse,' he remarked.
'Yes,' said Edith; 'it would be a great thing if we had such men nowadays as were some of these monks, who devoted their lives to the care of the sick and needy. How can Dr. Aubrey, with all his skill, supply their place?'
At the mention of the Doctor's name, Purcell became silent for a time, until Edith said:
'Do you suppose that a monk ever fell in love?'
'It would be a very unhappy case, I fancy, if he did,' replied her father; 'you have forgotten that they were under a vow of perpetual celibacy.'
'So that even if a monk were hopelessly in love he would be unable to marry?'
'Exactly.'
'Poor fellow! I should feel so sorry for him,' said Edith, in a tone of sympathy.
'Has anyone asked for me since I left home?' inquired the organist, as if anxious to change the conversation.
'Only Dr. Aubrey, father; he called about half an hour ago, and seemed to be disappointed that you were not at home.'
Purcell said nothing, but his daughter noticed that the anxious look which she, in common with others, had observed on her father's face appeared again, and that it was even more intensely marked than before.
They passed together from the cloisters into the Abbey. Purcell made his way to the organ, while Edith, after placing her beloved flowers in a safe corner, knelt in silent prayer. Presently a small bell in the western turret began to sound, and soon after musical notes of liquid purity seemed to float down from the diapasons in the high triforium as Henry Purcell began his usual extempore voluntary before evensong.
'In the minor mode again,' said Edith to herself. 'How fond father has become of the sadder tones of music! He seems to delight nowadays in sombre chromatic harmonies.'
Then, as the organist continued his beautiful but sad strains, Edith's mind reverted to the look which she had noticed in her father's face in the cloister when Dr. Aubrey's name was mentioned, and she remembered that her father had not been at all himself of late. Several persons had remarked to her the changed character of his playing. As she listened now, she fully realized that it was not the kind of extempore voluntary to which she had been accustomed from her childhood. Her father had ever been one of the brightest and most genial-hearted of men, and he used to play, on such afternoons as this, when all nature was rejoicing in God's sunlight, as if he must translate his own gladness into a hymn of thankful praise.
The solemn harmonies rolled on; the sound of a distant 'amen' came from the vestry, and then the strains of music waxed louder as the white-robed choir entered and proceeded to the stalls in the chancel. But what was it brought a scarlet flush to Edith's face as the choir passed her? That flush which only died away to come again when the first notes of the leading treble's voice burst forth in the anthem?
The singer was a tall, delicate-looking boy, who had retained his beautiful soprano voice beyond the usual age. He sang as if his whole soul was absorbed by the music; he sang as if through the groined roof the voice of a seraph pealed. His holy song inspired for a time the organist, for he played the remainder of the service with more of his old fire. That silver voice seemed to fill the soul of Henry Purcell, for a time at least, with new hope and life. The notes, rising and mingling with the golden sunbeams, inspired first the heart and then the agile fingers of the organist, until the Dean raised his head, as if he, too, had caught the inspiration, and tears glistened in the eyes of more than one of the members of that congregation, and not least in the eyes of Edith Purcell; but they were not tears of sorrow.
WHEN evensong was over, Edith devoted her attention to the
arrangement of the flowers in the altar vases. When she arrived
home for the evening meal, she found that her father was in his
study, busily employed over the score of his new oratorio. For
years he had been working early and late at this composition, and
he hoped to complete it in time for its production at the
triennial festival, which would be held in the Abbey in the
ensuing October.
'I will be in the dining-room in five minutes,' he replied in answer to her reminder that the meal was ready. 'These horns are terrible fellows; when you most need them they have no notes available.'
The organist's house was a pretty cottage within the precincts. Its front was level with the road, but at the back there was a cosy garden, in which the trim flower-beds vied in neatness with the closely-shaven lawn. At the bottom of the garden a door in the high wall opened into a lane, which divided the church property from Dr. Gilbert Aubrey's house and grounds. The Doctor was in the habit of entering Purcell's garden through this door, and he could thus obtain easy and silent access to the organist's study, which looked out upon the lawn. Of late Aubrey's visits had been unusually frequent.
Edith waited for more than the stipulated five minutes, and then, as her father did not appear, she left the dining-room, and was about to enter the study, when she heard voices in earnest conversation; and she discovered that Dr. Aubrey was with her father.
'I tell you,' the Doctor was saying, 'that I am convinced there is a meaning in the words which I have quoted.'
'They may have had a meaning to the man who wrote them,' replied Henry Purcell, 'but that meaning must have been lost when he died.'
'The writer is as dead as mutton, no doubt,' replied the Doctor, with a short laugh, 'but it by no means follows that his written words may not be acted upon.'
'Are you sure that no one can understand the words?'
'Quite sure; it is impossible for anyone to make out this mediaeval Latin.'
'Have you the manuscript?'
'Yes; here it is.'
At this point there was silence; the two men were evidently poring over the writing about which they had been talking, and Edith could hear the crackle of the dry parchment as it was unrolled. Then came whispers, as her father and the Doctor conversed in an undertone, and she could only catch the words, 'Great discovery . . . 'It must mean the last Prior' . . . 'So you think it is still there?'
Edith dare not listen longer; so, retreating quietly to the dining-room, she awaited her father. In ten minutes he appeared.
'Tired of waiting, eh?'
'No, father, but I began to fear that you would have a cold dinner.'
'Ah, you see, those horn parts are so troublesome,' he said, after a moment's hesitation.
Edith looked up. Then, he did not wish her to know that anyone had been in the study. As this thought flashed across her mind, she felt a cold chill at her heart. Never before had she known her father attempt to deceive her. For seventeen years they had been inseparable companions (Edith's mother had died in giving her birth), and ever since she could remember anything she had been her father's confidant. What could this strange thing be—this mystery which her father seemed to wish to conceal from her? Could it have any connection with the gloom which she had observed both in his manner and in his organ-playing during the past few weeks?
The meal was robbed of its usual cheerful conversation. Henry Purcell was deep in thought, and Edith felt more than half inclined to cry.
'I shall be out till late,' he said, as they rose from the table. 'Do not sit up for me; I will take the latch-key.'
It had been Purcell's habit until recently either to take his daughter with him on his rambles into the surrounding country, or, if it was the winter-time, to spend the evening after dinner at his musical compositions, while she occupied herself with her needlework. On the rare occasions when he had left her he had invariably intimated where he was going, and had permitted—nay, even encouraged—her to sit up and await his return home.
When her father, therefore, had retired to his study, the daughter's young heart could restrain its emotion no longer, and, throwing herself on to the sofa, she indulged in a fit of silent weeping. She had been quite unaccustomed to such treatment, and had not the faintest idea as to what could be its cause.
Purcell, in the meanwhile, sat down, and attempted to continue the scoring of his oratorio; but, after many attempts, he put down his pen, and walked out of the open French window on to the lawn. It was a typical summer evening, but the beauties of his garden seemed on this occasion to have no charm for him. To and fro he paced upon the grass (it was a favourite occupation of his when he was deep in thought), until the deepening gloom and the falling dew reminded him of the lateness of the hour.
'Nine-fifteen,' he muttered, looking at his watch; 'and I am to see him at nine-twenty.'
So saying, he walked down the long path edged by the bushes of dwarf box, and, opening the door, crossed the lane and entered Dr. Aubrey's garden by a similar door. The garden was not unlike his own, and extended up to the Doctor's house; and Purcell could see a light in the window of one of the downstairs rooms. It was a French window, and the Doctor was plainly visible, arrayed in a dressing-gown, and seated in a huge armchair.
THERE was nothing very attractive about Dr. Gilbert Aubrey. He
was of medium height, and inclined to be stout. His face, which
was clean shaved, had nothing very remarkable about it, except
the eyes. Dr. Aubrey's peculiar look lay in his eyes. They were
dark-gray eyes of the shifty and insincere kind. There was a want
of manly straightforwardness about them. He seemed to be ever
looking beyond or through the person with whom he talked. Not
that there was penetration or discernment in his look. It was
rather the look of duplicity and selfishness, which is more often
the sign of a weak than of a strong character.
It was with no feeling of joyful anticipation that Henry Purcell stood for a few seconds before the window, and looked in upon the Doctor. He dreaded and disliked the man exceedingly, even as a tiny rabbit dreads the serpent by whose gaze it is fascinated. He would have given much if he could have avoided this interview, and for a moment he thought of retiring. But no; there were reasons—urgent personal reasons—why he should have some conversation with Gilbert Aubrey.
'Punctual to the second!' cried the Doctor as Purcell entered. 'Sit down,' he continued, 'and have a pipe. There! I think you will find the briar will draw well. Try the honeydew, by all means.'
On a small table by the Doctor's chair lay a number of papers and books, and spread out upon them was a roll of parchment, which was yellow and discoloured with age and damp. The organist took a seat near this table as soon as he had lighted his pipe.
'Have you made anything out?' he asked, looking into the Doctor's face.
'Well, I have made a little progress—just a very little. You see, one great difficulty is to read the almost illegible characters. The mildew and the action of the air have effected such a change in the colour of the ink, that some of the words are too faint to be read with the ordinary vision.'
'Then how do you propose to decipher the words?'
The Doctor replied by holding up a lens and a small bottle.
'The purpose of the lens you will, of course, easily understand; and in this bottle is a chemical, which I find—after some cautious experiments—darkens the ink without affecting the surrounding surface. See! I apply it over the writing thus, with this camel's-hair brush.'
And as he spoke, Gilbert Aubrey dipped the brush in the solution, and passed it over a portion of the parchment.
ON the fourteenth day of October, a.d. 1539, the news reached the monastery of Monkton Friars that the King's agent had received orders to effect its destruction. The aged Prior, who had been bedridden for some months, had not been told, up to that date, the terrible news concerning the demolition of the monastic establishments throughout the country. The brethren, because of the love and reverence they bore him, kept the secret from him as long as they could, for they feared the consequences of the shock to a constitution weakened by old age. The messenger, who had ridden over from the Cistercian monastery of Kirkstall, near Leeds, to bring the distressing news, was closeted for some time with the Sub-Prior; and when the man had departed, he called the brethren together into the chapter-house, in order to break to them the terrible tidings. These they received with consternation, and even with tears. The old and decrepit monks, who foresaw that they would be turned adrift to starve, shed tears; but the younger ones expressed in unmeasured terms their indignation at the injustice of the King's proceedings, while all were appalled at the thought of the sacrilege which was about to be perpetrated.
'My brothers,' said the Sub-Prior, in a voice which was well-nigh choked with emotion, 'I have not dared, as you are aware, to inform our beloved Prior of the danger which is hanging over our heads. He foresaw long ago that evil days were coming upon the Church, and bade us not resist the powers that are ordained of God. As saith the Holy Apostle: "Omnis anima potestatibus supereminentibus subjecta esto; non enim est potestas nisi a Deo; et quae sunt potestates, sunt a Deo ordinatae." But, as we have less than one week ere we must leave this our loved abode, it is now necessary that the truth should be laid before our Head, in order that he may bestow upon us words of fatherly counsel, and give us his benediction.'
After prayer had been offered by the chaplain, in which the Divine protection was invoked on the fraternity in this its sore hour of need, it was decided that the Sub-Prior, accompanied by the almoner and treasurer, should seek an interview with the Prior that same evening.
Prior Walter had presided over the community for upwards of fifteen years, having been appointed from the Abbey of Kirkstall, near Leeds, which was called in those days 'Loidis.' At the age of eighty-two he had been compelled to relinquish an active part in the government of the Abbey; and, though nominally head, had practically passed the authority into the hands of the Sub-Prior. The old man's active brain was still, however, at the service of the fraternity, and in all important matters he was invariably consulted.
'Pax vobiscum!' he said, upraising his hand, as the three entered his apartment.
'Unless your business is urgent, brethren, I will finish the psalm which I am reading. How truly comforting are these words, especially in such times as those in which we live: "Nisi Dominus custodiat civitatem, frustra sedulus sit custos."'
They waited in silence until he had finished his reading, when the Sub-Prior said:
'Reverend Father, we seek you in our time of anxiety and distress, for to whom can we look for advice in perplexity if not to our holy Prior?'
'Speak, my sons, speak! for to whom can ye come for counsel, if not to your spiritual Father?'
The Sub-Prior and his companions looked anxiously at each other for a moment, as if they feared the possible consequences to the old man of their communication.
'Reverend Father,' said the Sub-Prior, 'doubtless you have heard of Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex, Vicar-General of our King Henry?'
'I have heard of him indeed,' replied the Prior; 'but nothing to his credit. What have you to tell me concerning Thomas Cromwell?'
'The King has given him commission, Father, to dissolve the religious houses of the realm.'
'To dissolve them!'
'Ay, Father. For the Earl of Essex, once in our Lord Cardinal Wolsey's service, has, since his master's sad fall, advanced himself in the King's favour.'
'That is well known to me. I was informed some time ago that he had become one of King Henry's most trusted ministers.'
'It is he, Father, who has apparently suggested to our monarch this wicked scheme. The Parliament has now declared that the clergy are guilty of a praemunire.'
'And wherefore?'
'In order that the King may coerce them into a surrender of the liberties of Holy Church.'
'But we are not secular clergy.'
'That is true, Father, but Cromwell has not omitted us. The abbeys are now to be given up to the King, that they may be stripped of all that is of value. Even at this present time the agents of the King are busy with the religious houses of the south and east. And only this day a messenger came hither announcing that the tide of robbery, fire and sacrilege has reached even unto us. Within one short week our home will be destroyed, and all our goods, as well as the vessels of the sanctuary, will be confiscated.'
As he heard these words, the aged Prior raised himself on his couch, and, uplifting his shaking, shrunken hand, cried:
'Brothers, for nigh sixteen years have I ruled this Abbey of Saint John the Divine, and never will I relinquish or abandon, save by my death, the charge that has been laid upon me!'
To their astonishment, the old man, under the influence of an excitement which seemed to infuse new life into his attenuated frame, arose from the bed, and, standing upright before them, bade them assist him to assume his habit and robes.
'Sound the alarum bell,' he said to the almoner, 'and bid the brethren meet me in the choir. We will not discuss this matter in the chapter-house, as if it were a matter of our business,' he said—and they were amazed at the power which had returned to his voice—'but before the holy altar. Yes, there,' he cried, his eyes flashing with fire, 'will we, before God and the Blessed Sacrament, solemnly decide what we must do in the face of the danger which threatens. And may God have mercy,' he added more tenderly, 'on our unhappy King Henry!'
Presently in the darkness—for it was late in the evening—the alarum bell began to sound hurriedly, and the word was passed swiftly from one trembling brother to another that they were to assemble in the choir. One by one, pale and silent, they hastened into the church. The ghostly nave was altogether unlighted, but before the altar shone perpetually the seven sanctuary lamps that were ever kept burning before the Reserved Sacrament. Presently the sacristan lighted also the altar candles, and those which were placed around the choir. Meanwhile the assembled monks knelt together in solemn silence.
They looked up as the Prior entered. It was a long time since he had been able to attend the services in the church, but on some rare occasions he had been carried thither on a litter; now he walked up the chancel steps with a carriage which was almost as erect, and a step which was almost as firm, as in the years that had long gone by.
After silent prayer, the Prior addressed them from a chair which was placed for him beside the altar. He told them that it would be useless for them to attempt to resist the agents of the King.
'Better far,' he said, 'that you should find some other life and employment. "Quum autem persequentur vos in ea urbe, fugite in alium" ("When they persecute you in any city, flee ye to another"). As for me, I will not leave this holy place, but they shall find me kneeling before the altar of God, and then they shall do with me what they will. But, brethren,' continued the old man—and he rose from his seat and stood before the altar as he spoke the words—'never! never! shall the creatures of King Henry lay finger on the holy vessels! Brother Peter,' he cried, pointing his long, shrivelled, and ghostly finger towards one of the younger monks, 'thou art said to be nimble with thy pen. Fetch hither thine ink-horn—even into this house of prayer—and bring with thee also one of the best sheepskin parchments from the desk in the library.'
Peter departed on his errand, and the Prior resumed, with increasing earnestness:
'No, brethren, we are not to be partakers in other men's sins. As saith the Holy Apostle, "Neque communicatio peccatis alienis." I charge you, then, before God and the Blessed Virgin—I charge you, by the Holy Sacrifice, that you divulge not to any enemy of our Holy Mother Church what we now do, or the place in which the sacred vessels will lie concealed. Will you swear it before God? Will you swear it?' cried the old man, with passionate energy, uplifting both his hands above his head, and towards the vaulted roof which was just visible in the semi-darkness.
Then there came from the ranks of those men—from the monks who occupied the stalls around the spacious choir—a deep and solemn response. The sound of it echoed up into the high triforium, and down the long, narrow aisles.
'We swear it!' they cried.
And as they spoke, they rose to their feet, their pale and shaven faces looking paler and more ghostly than ever in the flickering candle-light, which barely dispersed the darkness of the vast gloomy space. Then they stood watching in silence.
The Prior, looking towards Brother Peter, who had now returned, addressing him, said:
'Take thy pen, brother, and write.'
The monk took up his quill, and, kneeling upright in the stall, awaited the Prior's instructions.
Slowly and with marked emphasis did Prior Walter, in the Latin tongue, dictate to the scribe the words of a document. The holy vessels of the monastery were to be concealed, he said, in some place which should be selected by himself and the Sub-Prior. In this place they were to remain until it was safe to restore them to the service of the church. He invoked the Divine malediction on any who should devote the vessels to any secular use, and warned them that his spirit would assuredly haunt and trouble such wicked people. The Prior then instructed the scribe to write that he entrusted the document to the care of the Sub-Prior, who, in his turn, might bequeath it to some other holy and discreet person.
As soon as he had concluded his dictation the Prior again addressed the monks. He said that he commended them to the Divine protection; and he implored them that they would not cease to pray for the restoration of the Catholic religion in England.
'But I weep,' cried the old man, in a voice shaken with emotion—'I weep for these stones on which we have devoted our loving labour; and still more do I weep for the outcast, the poor, and the sick, who have found comfort and help within the walls of this house.'
The Prior was so overcome that he could say no more. Nervous excitement had enabled him to go thus far, but the reaction now came. As he stood on the upper step of the sacrarium, and immediately before the high altar, the monks noticed that the Prior's lips moved, but they heard no sound; then they saw him cross his hands on his breast as he fell forward with a dull thud down the marble steps.
They lifted him tenderly from the pavement, and applied the restoratives at their command. But it was of no avail—Prior Walter was dead.
Again the bell of the monastery rang out—but not the alarum. Its long and measured notes tolling at the midnight hour awoke the inhabitants of Monkton Friars. 'Someone is dead at the monastery,' they said; 'can it be the Prior?'
They laid him in his vestments before the altar, near to which he had died; and loving friends watched in prayer till the final Eucharist was offered, and the body had to be buried. The funeral was on the third day, for no time could be spared; and on the intervening day a chapter was held.
'It will not be right,' said the Sub-Prior, 'that we expose the body of our beloved Prior to the insults of the soldiers, as assuredly it will be if we bury it in the church, or in any other place where it can be easily discovered. Will you agree, therefore, brethren, that he be buried in some secret place, and that near the coffin be placed the holy vessels which he so earnestly and lovingly entrusted to our care?'
The monks, after some discussion, consented; and the body of the Prior was duly buried with the most solemn pomp of the Church.
TWO days later the emissaries of King Henry in the dissolution
of the monasteries arrived at Monkton Friars, and found the
monastery empty. They straightway set to work. Pictures and
valuable books were burnt in a huge bonfire in the middle of the
quadrangle; everything valuable was carted away; the very lead
was ripped from the roofs, to be employed in the manufacture of
bullets for the soldiers; and the whole place in two days was
turned into a desolate ruin.
There was happily one exception. The mayor and aldermen of the town interceded on behalf of the church, and it was accordingly spared.
'But we must have the trinkets,' said the officer who presided over the proceedings, with a hoarse laugh. 'The trinkets,' by which he meant the sacred vessels, were, however, nowhere to be found.
'YOU have not yet told me how you came into possession of this manuscript,' said Purcell, after he had watched the effect of the solution on the faded ink.
'No,' replied Aubrey, 'and that is the very reason why I asked you to come here this evening. You see the advantage of taking an interest in archaeological matters. You musical folks, who are always in an ecstatic seventh heaven, should come down from that exalted position occasionally, and you would find that mundane affairs are equally interesting, and perhaps far more profitable to the pocket.'
So saying, he gave Purcell a sly dig with the handle of the camel's-hair brush.
'I am sufficiently mundane at the present moment,' replied Purcell, somewhat dryly, 'and am quite prepared to listen.'
'All right,' said the Doctor, who perceived that his visitor was not in the most perfectly amiable frame of mind. 'There! light your pipe again, and I will tell you all about it. You must know that about three weeks ago I was attending the wife of Joe Sharp, a foreman, or "overlooker," in Sykes' mill. She is a chatty body, and only too willing to communicate all she knows about her neighbours, though extremely reticent about her own affairs. In the course of her gossip she told me that a certain old man, named Samuel Kenworthy, who lives in a cottage situated at the back of her house, had a collection of old books, some of which he wished to sell to enable him to add to the outdoor relief which he was receiving from the authorities of the union. I found the old man at home—a strange old fellow who had evidently seen better days—and he received me with a distant politeness which rather surprised me.
'"You wish to dispose of some of your books?" I said.
'"Who told you such a thing?" he asked, frowning through his big spectacles.
'"A neighbour of yours—Joe Sharp's wife," I replied.
'"Meddlesome creature! Why cannot she mind her own affairs? Yes," he continued in a surly tone, "she told the truth, though it wasn't her business. I have a few books that I am willing to sell."
'I told him that I was a member of the Archaeological Society, and that if he had anything really antique I should like to see it. The old man, after fumbling about for some time in an oak chest, produced several volumes. Some of them, as I perceived at a glance, were worthless, though I did not like to tell him so, and only said that they were of no use to me. As he did not seem to have anything further to show me, I was about to depart, and was feeling in my pocket for a small recompense for the trouble I had given him, when he eyed me in a knowing way, with his head on one side, and said:
'"You are a doctor?"
'"How do you know that?" I asked.
'"By the stethoscope in your hat," said he, pointing to my silk hat on the table. "And you read Latin, of course?"
'I replied that I was supposed to have added that to my various accomplishments. Whereupon the old fellow went upstairs, and presently came down with a large tome in his arms. It was a missal. I opened the book at random. The place was the Requiem Mass, and at the sequence I noticed that some later hand (for the book was manuscript) had placed certain letters before and after the lines of each verse. Here it is, so you can see it for yourself.' So saying, Gilbert Aubrey took up an old folio volume from the table and opened it. 'There!' he said; 'what do you make of that?'
The words which Purcell saw were these:
'W Dies irae dies ilia T
A Solvet saeclum in favilla E
L Teste David cum Sibylla R.'
'And you will notice that the final verse has after it words added by a later hand,' said Aubrey.
Purcell read the verse to which the Doctor was pointing:
'Recordare Jesu pie
Quod sum causa tuae viae
Ne me perdas illa die.
Sepultus est 1539.'
[Translation:
Day of wrath, day that
will dissolve the world into burning coals,
as David bore witness with the Sibyl.
...
Remember, faithful Jesus,
because I am the cause of your journey:
do not lose me on that day.
Entombed in 1539.]
'Now, you will notice two things,' said the Doctor. 'First, that the letters added to the first verse spell the name Walter; and secondly, that the final line of the last verse is not part of the "Dies Irae," but has been added subsequently. Take the two together and you read "Walter sepultus est 1539"—in English, "Walter was buried 1539."'
'And this Walter?'
'Was the last Prior of this monastery of St. John,' said Aubrey. 'I bought the book,' he continued, 'giving old Samuel a larger sum by far than he had asked. I was not anxious to study the musty old volume for the sake of its theology—you know. I am not particularly fond of theological pursuits,' he added, with a slight sneer in his smile. 'I was only wishful to see what kind of work those much abused old monkish scribes turned out. One thing I could not understand; that was, why should one of these old fellows have taken it into his head to disfigure the book—that is, unless it had been done at a much later period. I puzzled my brain over the thing for a long time, and at last had come to the conclusion that it could not be satisfactorily accounted for, when I noticed that one side of the cover of the book was considerably thicker than the other—at least twice as thick. Of course, this might have resulted from the unequal thickness of the boards—real wooden ones were used in those days, covered with leather. On closer inspection, however, I found that only one cover was of solid wood; the other was softer in the middle, and I could press it backwards and forwards with my fingers. On feeling carefully, I discovered that a square hole had been cut out in the board, and that it was filled with some material more yielding than wood. I cut this slit along the edge of the leather,' said the Doctor, holding up the book, 'and found that the document in which we are both so interested was concealed inside.'
Aubrey said this in a triumphant tone of voice.
'Did you set to work to translate the Latin at once?' asked Purcell.
'Yes; for I was very curious to know what could have induced those monks to have hidden the parchment in such a place. I felt sure it had not been done in later times.'
'And you have completed this translation?'
'No, I must confess that the monkish Latin is beyond me; but I have made out enough to excite my most intense interest. Here is my translation of a portion of the writing. The first part, so far as I can make out, seems to have been very hurriedly written; The lines are as irregular as though the writer were writing in the dark. And they seem to have been written from dictation. You will notice here—and here—that the words are wrongly spelt. Then look at these hurried corrections. It is evidently not a specimen of the man's best work. Then we have a gap. The latter portion was written on another occasion, and by another hand, as you can see. The colour of the ink shows plainly that it was not written at the same time as the former portion. It is this latter part of the document that is so interesting; and here is my translation.'
So saying, Gilbert Aubrey handed to his friend a sheet of paper, on which he had written the following:
'And lo it came to pass that when we, the Brethren of the Monastery of St. John, saw that the soul of Walter, our beloved Prior, had departed from his body, we prepared it for the burial, and the next day we celebrated the Blessed Sacrament for the repose of the said soul. Even while we were singing Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis, there appeared . . . (illegible) . . . into his cell with haste . . . (another illegible portion) . . . into the sepulchre and tomb of the holy Prior, to wit: the three reliquaries set with precious stones; the four golden pyxes also set with stones; the two golden chalices, and those which be made of silver. . . . I, Peter the Monk, do write these words, and have set thereunto the year of the Lord in which these things were done.'
Purcell examined the translation for some time in silence, and then, turning towards Aubrey, asked:
'Have you reason to believe that your version is correct?'
'You can try your own hand,' said Aubrey; 'the parchment is here for your inspection.'
'I am only doubtful whether this treasure, the existence of which you seem so certain of, can have been buried with the body of the Prior.'
'If the scribes wrote down what was actually done there can be no reasonable doubt about it. What else can these words mean,' said the Doctor, pointing to a line on the parchment, '"in sepulcrum et tumbam sancti Prioris"?'
'No,' said Purcell slowly; 'they seem to be capable of no other meaning; but you do not suppose that these articles can have remained in the Prior's tomb undisturbed?'
'Why not? You know quite well that no one has yet been able to identify the tomb of Prior Walter.'
'Then how can you identify it?'
'Well—that will undoubtedly be a difficulty. We have first to find out which was the Prior's cell or apartment.'
'And that will be no easy matter. I have been organist for many years, and have never heard that any of the clergy—or others—had been able to identify the spot.'
'It may possibly be the large cell on the north-east side of the cloisters.'
'It may,' replied Purcell dryly; 'and, on the other hand, you may dig in all the existing cells and find nothing.'
'You Pessimist!' cried Aubrey.
'Who has made me one?'
'I suppose you will put it down to me. But at least you may be optimistic enough with regard to this treasure.'
'What do you propose to do?'
'We must search.'
'Why do you say "we"?'
'Because I cannot do it alone.'
'And therefore you have let me into the secret.'
'My dear fellow,' said Aubrey, with a hard laugh, and clapping him on the shoulder, 'I thought that, as I already knew a little secret of yours, I might let you share one of mine—for our mutual advantage, you understand.' He said the last words with a meaning nod.
Purcell did not reply, but took up from the table the monkish parchment, and examined it for some minutes.
'What is this curious ornamentation at the foot of the sheet?' he asked at length.
'I had not noticed it,' said Aubrey, looking over his shoulder.
Purcell pointed to an arrangement of squares, which looked like ornamentation.
'It strikes me that this is the plan of some building,' he said.
'Ah! this is strange,' said Aubrey, taking the document into his own hands. 'Yes, it is a plan, plainly enough. I cannot tell how it can have escaped me.'
'The outlines are very indistinct.'
'Yes, far more faded than was the writing above it before I tried the solution. Let us see what effect it will have on this. There!' cried Aubrey, as the outlines began to darken. 'It is a plan, sure enough! Now, Mr. Sceptic, you see we have here something that may guide us.'
This is the diagram which they saw:
'Then the body of the Prior was buried here, I suppose?' said Purcell, pointing to the place marked with a cross.
'Undoubtedly.'
'And this is where search ought to be made?'
'Yes.'
'When?'
'Ah! that is a question more difficult to answer. We shall have to proceed very cautiously. You see, it is of the greatest importance that no one shall suspect what we are after.'
'Then, you do not propose to communicate your discovery to the Dean and Chapter?'
Aubrey laughed again in his cynical manner.
'Purcell, you are as simple as an infant,' he said. 'What advantage could it possibly bring to us to trumpet our discovery? No; we must carefully retain the secret, and secure the treasure—if it be obtainable.'
'But would that be right?' Purcell said this in a tone of alarm and surprise. 'Surely,' he continued, 'you do not propose that we should appropriate the contents of the Prior's tomb?'
Aubrey sat down, and, leaning back in his chair, sent a cloud of smoke from his mouth.
'What would you do with it?' he said, looking at the ceiling.
'I? Oh, the whole thing has come upon me so suddenly, and is such a surprising revelation, that I have at present no opinion to offer.'
'You don't propose to take the treasure, or supposed treasure, to the Dean and Chapter, or to send it to the authorities of the Crown, who would probably lay claim to it at once if they knew of its existence?'
'I have proposed nothing,' replied Purcell. 'We have to discover the thing first—that is, if we are able to do so. But when they are found, I suppose the ecclesiastical authorities have the best right to them.'
'Spoken like a quasi-ecclesiastic!' cried Aubrey. 'Why, Purcell, you are a credit to your official position! But, at the same time, let me assure you that I do not intend to allow you to do anything so foolish as to speak about this treasure either to the Abbey authorities or to anyone else.'
'What is to hinder me from doing so?'
'Your own advantage. I am prepared to offer you half the proceeds of the sale of this treasure, on the condition that you assist me now to secure it, and "hereafter for ever hold your peace," as the Marriage Service says.'
And Aubrey laughed again—another of his cynical laughs.
'And suppose I refuse to hold my peace?'
'Then,' said Aubrey, speaking very slowly and deliberately, 'I shall be under the very painful necessity of breaking the silence with regard to another little matter which you are wishful should remain secret.'
A scarlet flush mounted into Purcell's temples. He opened his lips as if about to reply, but closed them again without speaking, and looked at Aubrey with angry and half-defiant glance.
'So you consent to my terms?' said the Doctor, after a long pause.
'I consent to be silent about the matter.'
'But I must have more than silence,' he persisted. 'A negative assistance is worthless.' He said the-last word contemptuously. 'I must have your active co-operation. I tell you, Purcell, I must have it;' and he smote the table with his clenched fist as he spoke.
'And if I refuse—?'
'Then take the consequences.'
So saying, Dr. Gilbert Aubrey arose from his chair, and began to fold up the precious document, and to pack away the books and papers as if he were about to retire for the night.
Purcell arose too, and, walking towards the window, looked out into the garden. A young moon was glistening through the delicate tracery of the beech-tree at the bottom of the lawn; he looked at it, but knew not what he was doing. A struggle was going on in Henry Purcell's soul. It was a time of crisis—such a time as comes to most people when they are called to decide between right and wrong; a time when the soul hangs, as it were, in the balance, and when a breath will turn the scale.
Henry Purcell was deeply in love with Gilbert Aubrey's sister. She was a woman of masculine intellect, while he was a man of womanly sensitiveness. He must either do as Gilbert Aubrey wished, or he must relinquish Ethel Aubrey. Nay, there was a contingency even more to be dreaded; but of that, and of the consequent hold which Aubrey and his sister had on him, he hardly dared to think. It concerned his position and his life-work.
'You are wanted in the consulting-room, Gilbert,' said a woman's voice, as the door of the room opened.
It was only a woman's voice, but it was to Purcell the all-potent breath which turned the scale. Gilbert Aubrey looked up from the table inquiringly as Purcell turned towards him from the window. Purcell only nodded, but the Doctor appeared to be satisfied, and left the room.
THE interior of a mill in the Yorkshire woollen district is a most interesting sight to an uninitiated visitor. Here are stored, in sheds around the mill yard, the great bales of wool and other material used in the manufacture of cloth (and, be it known, the said 'other material'—in some of the factories, at least—are far more plentifully employed than is the product of the sheep's back). There we see the teasing-machine, or 'devil,' with its hungry teeth, wherewith the wool is separated, cleaned, and prepared for the 'scribbling engines.' Upstairs we come to the great machines called 'mules,' with which the thread is spun, and to the looms by which the cloth is woven. Then, outside the main building are the sheds, in some of which the wool is scoured and dried; in others the cloth is 'milled,' as the fulling process is called.
If ever there was a man whose whole heart was in his work it was Joe Sharp, the 'overlooker' of Sykes' Mill. He revelled in the roar of the machinery, and in the smell of the oil; and he often used to say to his wife, 'It does me a deal more good, lass, than trapsing off to t' sea-side does some folk.'
In the evening of the day on which Gilbert Aubrey purchased the old missal from Samuel Ken worthy, Joe Sharp returned home from his work rather later than usual. Mrs. Sharp, whose youngest born was only a little more than three weeks old, was sitting in the kitchen rocking the cradle while she awaited her lord and master.
'You're a bit late, Joe,' she said, as he entered.
'Ay,' he replied, 'I 'ad ter stop at t' milln while t' chaps finished yon special job.'
After a wash, by which process Joe seemed to be considerably refreshed, and he certainly looked several skins cleaner, he sat down to the substantial Yorkshire tea.
'And how art thou, lass?' he asked, when the first pangs of his healthy appetite were satisfied.
'A bit better nor I wor a while sin',' replied his spouse.
'Onybody bin to see thee to-day?'
'Na' but t' Doctor.'
'I don't loike that theer doctor chap,' said Joe, with his mouth half-full of ham and toasted teacake. 'I loike a chap wot can look yer straight i' t' face, an' that's wot Doctor Aubrey canna du.'
''E's bin a vary guid doctor ter me, Joe.'
'I'm sayin' naught again' t' chap's doctorin'; 'appen 'e's as guid as ony o' them as gees folk physic. But a mon's a mon, an' a divil's a divil; and I'll bet theer's more divil nor mon in yon Doctor.'
'For shame o' ye, for sich talk!' cried Mrs. Sharp, alarmed at her husband's energetic language. 'He's naught o' t' sort, I tell ye! An' ye should a' seen 'im when I told 'im about poor auld Sammy Kenworthy. Why, lad, 'e wor off like a crack to 'elp t' auld feller.'
''E went for summat else, I'll bet,' said Joe, with a knowing sideways nod of his shaggy head. 'A chap wi' een in 'is 'ed like yon Doctor is allus lookin' after 'is own advantage.'
After delivering himself of this sage remark, Joe finished his tea, and, having replenished his pipe, applied himself to it industriously for upwards of an hour, during which time Mrs. Sharp employed herself in undressing and washing the baby, in the performance of which task she was assisted by the co-operation and advice of the neighbour who had befriended her of late.
At last the pipe was finished, and, as he knocked out the ashes on the top bar of the grate, Mrs. Sharp heard Joe mutter:
'But I'll be knowin', I'll be knowin', or my name's not Joe Sharp.'
And so saying, he put on his cap and left the house.
SAMUEL KENWORTHY was about to retire for the night (not that
it was late, for, in point of fact, it was only nine o'clock, and
still quite light; but the old man was desirous of saving
gas—or oil, and accordingly retired betimes), when Joe
Sharp, without the formality of a knock, opened the door and
walked in.
''Ow do?' he said, with the sideways nod of the Yorkshire working-man, and seated himself, without removing his cap, on the first vacant chair.
'How do you do, Joseph?' responded the old man, with greater politeness than had been shown by his visitor.
'Aw, I'm weel enough, Sammy—I'm weel enough,' he said. 'I thought thou would 'appen loike a pipe o' baccy.'
So saying, Joe handed a tin tobacco-box to the old man, who took therefrom a small quantity of the 'Black Jack' it contained, saying:
'Just a little—a very little—will suit me. Your tobacco is a trifle strong for my taste.'
They sat down on either side of the fireplace—the fire was out—and smoked in silence for some twenty minutes.
''Ad onybody to see thee to-day?' inquired Joe at length, after a more voluminous puff than usual.
'Only a book-buyer,' replied Kenworthy cautiously.
'Umph!' was Joe's reply, as he resumed his pipe.
'Do ye know aught about 'im?' he asked, after a lengthy interval.
'I know that he's a doctor.'
'Did 'e tell ye so?'
'Well—no; but he acknowledged it when I asked him the question.'
Again Joe reverted to his pipe, and smoked in silence for some time.
'Did thou sell him aught?' he said at length.
'Yes.'
'One o' thy auld books?'
'Yes.'
'I 'ope 'e paid thee weel for 't, lad,' said Joe, rising. 'Goodneet,' he added, opening the door.
'Good-night, Joseph,' replied the old man.
'I shall be glad to see you at any time. Rough, but honest,' he added, as he locked the door after Joe's departure.
The next morning, long after Joe Sharp had left home for his work, though still at an early hour, Edith Purcell knocked at the Sharps' door.
Mrs. Sharp was employed with the baby in a reversal of the process of the previous evening.
'Oh, Mrs. Sharp!' cried Edith as she entered; 'I am just in time! I was so anxious to see this new baby. What a beauty! Just look at those fat legs!'
'Yes, Miss Edith, she's a rare fat un. Joe says she's fatter nor them little pigs o' ourn.'
'And when are you going to have her christened?'
'That depends, miss. You see, as it's a lass I shall want two godmothers, and I've na' but one at present.'
'Oh, I should be so delighted if you would allow me to be the other godmother!' cried Edith. 'I have so often wished that I had a dear little godchild.'
'Thank ye, miss,' returned Mrs. Sharp. 'I shall be vary much obliged.'
'You will have her christened before long, I suppose?'
'As soon as t' Doctor 'lows me to go out.'
'Do you like Dr. Aubrey?' inquired Edith.
''E's a vary guid doctor, for aught I know.'
Mrs. Sharp said this with diplomatic caution, and Edith detected the tone.
'Has he been to see you lately?' she asked.
'Ay, 'e was 'ere yesterday, afore 'e went to see auld Sammy Kenworthy.'
'Do you mean the old man who lives in the cottage at the back of your house?'
'Yes.'
'Is he ill?'
'Oh nay, miss. 'E's noon ill, but 'e's poor, and I think that's a war complaint nor illness.'
'And did the Doctor go there to help him? How kind and thoughtful of Dr. Aubrey!'
'I don't say that t' Doctor went to see Samuel Kenworthy for aught of t' sort. I told 'im that t' auld mon war poor, an' wanted t' sell some books, and 'e wor off i' a crack to see t' kind o' books t' auld chap had.'
'I think that the Doctor is fond of collecting old books and curiosities,' said Edith.
'Ay, some folks is niver so happy as when they're samming up auld stuff o' some sort; but if it be true, t' Doctor is after summat better nor auld books.'
'What do you mean by "if it be true," Mrs. Sharp?'
'I mean, if it be true what my Joe says. 'E believes that t' Doctor thinks o' na' but 'is own advantage. 'E told me so, only yesterneet.'
'I suppose we are all in danger of acting selfishly,' said Edith, who did not altogether relish the turn the conversation had taken; 'but I must say,' she added with a smile, 'that I do not see any particular selfishness in the purchase of a book from an old man.'
Mrs. Sharp shook her head in a knowing manner, but took the implied rebuke and said no more.
'I wonder what she meant,' thought Edith as she returned home. 'Dr. Aubrey is a very nice man, and I am sure father would not make so great a friend of him as he has done of late if he were a self-seeking man. But, then, dear father is so open-hearted, and so trustful, that he would never suspect evil in anyone.'
Then there arose in Edith's young mind a wonder—just an indistinct and self-reproachful wonder—whether the recent change in her father's manner was attributable to his increased intimacy with the Doctor. She dismissed the thought at the time as unworthy, and as one which she ought not to entertain concerning her father's friend; but it afterwards returned upon her with a force for the intensity of which she could not account.
EDITH PURCELL, although only seventeen years of age, had so
long been entrusted with the duties of housekeeping, and had
always been so much consulted by her father, that her mind was
developed beyond her years. The somewhat lonely and homely life
which she led as an only child had made her thoughtful and
studious. Though she was fond of music she was not so proficient
a performer as her father would have wished her to be. Her great
delight was the study of history, and especially of
ecclesiastical history. In fact, the Dean used to say that he
feared she would soon come to the end of all the books in his
study which bore on this subject. The history and architecture of
the old Abbey had been the pivot of her studies in this
direction. Edith knew by heart the names of all the priors and
the subsequent deans; she knew the history of the various changes
which had passed over the life of the venerable pile. There was
scarcely a stone within her reach which she had not examined,
making, at the same time, notes in her book of any peculiarity or
feature of interest.
For upwards of twelve months the Dean, who encouraged her studies, not merely by the loan of his books, but also by some amount of personal instruction, had entrusted her with the care of the flower-vases; and for the purpose of her work in the Abbey Edith was allowed to have the key of a small door which gave entrance to the main building from the cloisters. Sometimes she attended to her church work while her father practised on the organ—usually in the afternoon, before the five o'clock evensong; at other times, especially of late, when he had been out in the evening a great deal, she had arranged her beloved flowers at a very ghostly hour. She loved to kneel in the great, half-dark nave and imagine that she saw the procession of the ancient builders and owners of the monastery and its church.
'There they go,' she would say to herself, 'two and two, in their dark habits, up the steps. Now they are assembled around the choir; now they are singing "Magnificat";' and she could hear in imagination the roll of the male voices as they thundered out, to the ancient ecclesiastical tone, 'Magnificat animus meus Dominum, exultátque mea mens de Deo Servatore meo.'
It happened on one of these occasions—it was the Monday after the evening on which Purcell had learnt the details of Gilbert Aubrey's discovery—that Edith was kneeling silently in the church in the darkening twilight. She was wondering what kind of man the last Prior had been.
'How strange,' she whispered to herself, 'that no one knows the place of his burial.' Suddenly, as she spoke, there shone in through the topmost lights of a window on the south side of the nave a gleam of light. It only lasted for a few seconds, and it was evidently thrown from a lantern, which was being carried near the ground. Edith could see that the person who bore it was passing along the cloisters towards the east, for the beam of light glinted rapidly from east to west. 'Who can it be?' she said to herself. 'The verger has gone home long ago, and the sexton would not be about at this hour.'
She listened attentively; but heard no sound. Then, feeling rather nervous, she opened the narrow door, and stepped out into the cloisters.
There was just sufficient light to enable her to discern, at the extreme end of the cloister in which she stood, two figures. One of them, she thought, resembled her father, but she was unable to distinguish his features, and, before she had time to advance many steps towards the men, they had disappeared.
Then her recently aroused suspicions concerning Dr. Aubrey returned with intensified force. What if it were true that her father had been entrapped by the Doctor into any clandestine undertaking? What if this were the cause of the gloom and despondency which she had lately observed in him? Surely her loving father, who had for so many years confided to her all his joys and troubles, would not hide it from her. But perhaps she was mistaken. The figure she had just seen might not be that of her father. Perhaps he was, even now, at home, and working at his orchestral score.
Edith hurried home with a beating heart.
'Is my father in?' she inquired of the maid who opened the door.
'No, miss; I think he is still at Dr. Aubrey's,' replied the girl.
'I wonder if the other man could have been Dr. Aubrey?' she said wonderingly to herself.
That evening Edith did not retire before her father's return. It was half-past eleven when she heard his step in the hall.
'What! not in bed, Edie?' he cried.
'Not yet, father darling,' said Edith, looking up for a kiss.
They went together into the study, and Purcell sat down wearily in an easy-chair. Edith noticed that his boots were soiled with earth, as though he had been walking over a new-ploughed field.
'No, thank you, my lassie,' he replied, in answer to her inquiry. 'I do not want any food to-night; my head aches, and I am very tired.'
They sat looking at each other for a few minutes, Purcell with an expression of anxiety, almost of pain, on his handsome, intellectual face, and Edith with an expression of wonder that was not unmixed with anxiety also.
'You are not well, father?'
'Yes, my dear, indeed I am quite well,' he replied rather impatiently.
Edith arose from her chair, and going up to her father, took hold of his hand. As she did so, she felt that it was rough and earthy.
'Father,' said Edith earnestly, 'you really are not well; you have not looked well for some weeks. Do—do tell me,' she cried earnestly, 'whether you have anything on your mind!'
Purcell groaned, but did not reply.
'There!' cried the girl, 'I am sure you are in pain. I will send at once for Dr. Aubrey.'
'For God's sake don't send for that man, Edith!' cried Purcell, starting up from his chair.
Edith looked aghast, and stepped back.
'There! I'm all right,' he cried, with a strange and unnatural laugh. 'Good-night, my dear.'
Edith Purcell cried herself to sleep that night.
WHEN Gilbert Aubrey had left the room on the night of his momentous interview with Henry Purcell, the latter remained in the Doctor's study.
'I did not know that you were here, Henry.'
The speaker—the lady who had summoned Aubrey—was a tall, handsome woman of some twenty-five years of age. Her dark hair and lustrous eyes contrasted strongly with the pallor of her skin. She was plainly a woman of more than ordinary mental ability. This was indicated by the shape of her forehead and by her mouth; but there was a look in her eyes—a strange, wild look—at times, and this, whenever it appeared, seemed altogether to transform her expression. She was the kind of woman with whom a fair-complexioned, dreamy, and unpractical man would be hopelessly captivated, and it was very evident that Henry Purcell was completely within her grasp.
'Has my brother told you the details of his discovery?' she asked.
'Yes; he has just explained all that he can make out.'
'Have you agreed to the conditions on which he wants you to work with him?'
'I think he understands that I have,' replied Purcell, after a moment's hesitation.
She came forward towards the window by which Purcell stood, and placed her hand on his as it rested on the corner of the writing-desk.
'Henry,' she said, 'if you can aid my brother in this discovery—one on which he has set his whole heart—you will probably make a great deal of money; for I suppose he has offered you a share.'
'Yes, he has offered me half of the proceeds.'
'But,' she continued, 'you will also gain something which I know you very much desire.'
'What is that?' he asked, as he looked longingly into her beautiful eyes.
'My love,' she replied.
'May I really hope for this?' said he. 'May I really hope for that which you have so long refused?'
'You may not only hope for it,' she returned, allowing Purcell to take both her hands in his, 'but you may be sure that you have it on the conditions I have laid down.'
'I have tacitly agreed to one of the conditions,' he said.
'But you will help Gilbert to secure the treasure?'
'Is it really necessary that I should help him?'
'Yes, absolutely.'
'But I do not see why he should choose me to be his helper. Why does he not find someone accustomed to grave-digging, for instance?'
Ethel Aubrey stamped her foot on the ground impatiently, and muttered 'Idiot!' to herself.
'You are the only one whom my brother can trust,' she said aloud, 'and therefore you are essential to his plans—at least, there is the second of my conditions.'
And she turned from him scornfully.
'And the third condition?' said Purcell inquiringly.
'You know that already.'
'Ethel, do not tempt me again!' cried Purcell. 'My conscience will not allow me to agree to the first of your conditions. Why cannot you give me your love—yourself—without these wretched and fettering conditions?'
'Henry, you must comply or take the consequences,' said Ethel Aubrey firmly.
As she said this she withdrew her hands from Purcell's eager grasp, and stepped back a few paces.
'How beautiful she is!' he thought to himself.
'Have you gone so far, and cannot you go a little further?' inquired the lovely temptress in a soft whisper.
'Tell me again what is your first condition,' he said desperately.
'You know it quite well. But let me repeat it to you again in the words which I used the evening you told me you cared for me: "The man who calls me his must renounce all other loves—earthly or heavenly."'
'But surely you cannot mean that I am to cease to love my own child? The thing is an impossibility!'
'You will not find it to be so impossible as you seem to imagine when once you have made up your mind.'
'And Edith's dear mother, now in Paradise—surely you do not expect me to renounce my love for her—or, at least, for her memory?'
A flash darted from Ethel Aubrey's eyes—a cruel, jealous, angry flash—as she replied:
'Her memory must be for ever obliterated from your mind.'
Purcell paused and looked down. He played nervously with a book on the corner of the desk for some seconds.
'Does your condition include anything more?' he asked at length.
'It includes, as you know, Henry, the renouncing of what are called "religious convictions."'
'In that case it will include the resignation of my post as organist to the Abbey, and my consequent ruin.'
He said this in a tone of bitterness.
'By no means,' said Ethel. 'You can continue your work as a matter of business, and for the sake of art. All may go on as at present at the Abbey—only you must not ask me to come to your "services."'
She uttered the last word with scornful emphasis.
'But, Ethel, you know that I have not yet abandoned my religious beliefs.'
'How much do you still hold? Not one-tenth of that which at one time—and not very long ago either—you considered to be essential to your happiness. Do you believe in God the Father Almighty?' continued Ethel Aubrey, holding up her slender white finger. 'No. Do you believe in "The Incarnation," as the theologians call it? No. Do you believe in the Church, or in a Resurrection, or in a future state? No. You know, Henry, that you do not any longer really believe in any of these things.'
Purcell stammered a reply; but she waved her hand, as if to brush away his feeble objection to her statements.
'Be a man,' she said, coming near to him again, and giving him a tender look of delicious softness. 'Be a man,' she whispered. 'You will do it for me—for my sake? I know you will, Henry!'
She was holding up her arms now, and he was yielding. She felt that she had him in her power, so she put forth all the force of her womanly nature, and, placing her arms around his neck, drew herself close up to him. Henry Purcell clasped his arms around her, and gazed into the depths of her melting brown eyes.
'I love you, Ethel!' he said—'I love you with all the devotion of my heart!'
'And you will do as I have asked?' she said, raising her lips to his.
'Yes.'
And their lips met in the first kiss.
FOR three months Henry Purcell had been in love with Ethel
Aubrey. Up to that time the domestic department in Dr. Aubrey's
establishment had been under the management of a
housekeeper—Mrs. Bowles. On the death of their mother,
Ethel Aubrey had come to reside with her brother.
From the first Purcell had been fascinated as much by the brilliancy of Miss Aubrey's intellectual powers, as by her statuesque beauty. He soon found that beneath a somewhat cold exterior was concealed brilliant wit and a vivid imagination. As an authoress, Ethel Aubrey had already attained to some reputation, her work, The Nemesis of Faith, having run through several editions.
But Purcell did not read Ethel Aubrey's true character. Though she had more than once imagined herself to be in love, she had never known what it was to love; and as love did not exist in herself, neither did she really appreciate or understand it in others. The idea conveyed no sensation or thought of tenderness to her mind. Therefore, apart from sensual passion, she could conceive of no such thing as love between man and woman. Not that Ethel Aubrey was either sensual or self-indulgent. She and her brother (who was five years her senior) had been brought up by a stern mother—a woman who was steeped in all that is most unlovable in Puritanism and ultra-protestantism. They had been taught that human love—and especially love-making—was a doubtful, perhaps a wicked, thing. The Divine Being had been presented to the brother and sister, in all the severe harshness of the baldest Puritan theology, as One who thirsts for vengeance on erring souls. The Atonement effected by the Son of God had been presented to them in a most revolting fashion—as the remorseless vengeance of an irate Deity unjustly outpoured on an innocent Victim, while the guilty were, with equal injustice, allowed to go unpunished. In a word, the Christian religion had been presented to them in a most unloving and unlovable form.
What wonder, then, that as they grew to years of discretion Gilbert and Ethel Aubrey revolted from such teaching. A creed of negations and protests in logical minds such as theirs often produces a tone of scepticism which in the end results in complete unbelief. The brother and sister had accepted the logical outcome of their training. They were more than agnostics—a word which, to Ethel's mind especially, expressed a cowardly timidity of the results of unbelief, and would not be so popular if expressed by its Latin equivalent 'ignoramus,' or by its English, 'dunce.' They were atheists.
Ethel Aubrey especially was enthusiastic at her 'emancipation,' as she called it, and spent much time in endeavours to disseminate her views among her friends. Some looked up to her with respect—she had written a very clever book. Others, especially the religious society of Monkton Friars—and that comprised by far the larger number of people—looked upon her with grave suspicion; and, while they employed the clever young Doctor, declined to be on visiting terms with his sister.
As for the Doctor, he was far too engrossed in his professional and scientific pursuits, far too bent on self-aggrandizement, to spend energy on the propagation of anti-theological views. While he admired his sister's intellectual attainments, he by no means sympathized with her avowed efforts of making converts from Christianity.
'Let them alone, Ethel,' he used to say. 'You will do no good to my practice.'
'You men are so selfish!' would be Ethel's reply.
There was one person, however, on whom she soon found that she could exercise her arts without hesitation—it was Henry Purcell. She detected from the first that he was a man of open and ingenuous mind, and she very soon discovered, too, that he was deeply in love with herself. This love she had played with and encouraged; while, one by one, she demolished his old beliefs, laughing at his prejudices, and assuring him that 'No man of intellect now holds your fossilized creed.'
At first Purcell was shocked by her statements. Then, as he sought her society more frequently, and became accustomed to her manner of thought, he began to be as captivated by her cleverness and penetration as he had been already enthralled by her beauty.
While making every use of her advantages, Ethel Aubrey refused to encourage Purcell's advances, for she loved him not; and thus she alternately depressed and elated him until she perceived that the old brightness and vivacity were departing out of his life, and that it was time for matters to be brought to a climax. She then tried to persuade herself that she cared for him as much as she could ever care for anyone; he would doubtless make her an excellent husband. Yes; she would take the first opportunity of acceding to his wish, on conditions. Her brother's discovery of the monkish document enabled her to formulate her scheme. First, if Henry Purcell would possess her as his wife, he must aid her brother in securing the treasure which was supposed to be hidden in the Prior's tomb; secondly, he must renounce all religious belief; and, thirdly, he must renounce his love for his daughter Edith. For Ethel Aubrey had perceived that Edith Purcell was her father's good genius—the anchor of his soul—and her jealous nature revolted at the idea that the daughter should have so great an influence as Edith evidently possessed over her parent.
That her conditions were hard, very hard, Ethel Aubrey admitted to herself; but, then, she would claim the right to impose any conditions she pleased. If she was worth having, she must be taken at her own price. It would be quite possible for her to modify her demands if Purcell should prove to be obdurate; but of that she had little fear.
Purcell had been at first so staggered by her demands that the matter had dropped. Ethel then feared that she had gone too far, and accordingly rejoiced at her success when she found that Purcell's affection was unchanged.
On Aubrey's return, his sister retired, and Purcell then told him of what had taken place during his absence.
'Then I have gained a brother?' said Aubrey, shaking Purcell's hand warmly. 'Ethel is a wonderful girl, and will make her mark some day. You will not regret your choice, old fellow!'
But there was, nevertheless, something about Aubrey's manner which Purcell did not like. The conversation then turned again to the document.
'You see,' said the Doctor, 'we ought to make sure as soon as we can; and now that you are willing to help me, and I have made out as much of the meaning of that atrocious monkish Latin as will be necessary for all practical purposes, we had better not delay.'
Purcell assured him that he was prepared to aid him in all possible ways. He felt that there was now no retreat.
'Well, then,' said the Doctor, 'what do you say to Monday night? That will give us three clear days in which to think matters out. The greatest caution will be necessary, lest anyone gets wind of our enterprise, or observes us during our search. Fortunately, the search lies within the Precincts, and we shall be sheltered from observation by the walls of the cloisters. By the way, can you obtain admission to the cloisters after dark?'
'Yes; I have a key.'
'Oh, of course. I forgot that you go that way to the organ. That is capital! We shall have no difficulty.'
HENRY PURCELL walked down the Doctor's garden in a dream that
night. His brain was in a whirl. Intoxicated though he was at the
attainment of his long cherished hope, and the realization of his
burning passion to win the love of Ethel Aubrey, he did not feel
happy. The text of the Dean's sermon of the previous Sunday
morning seemed to ring in his ears: 'What shall it profit a man
if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? Or what
shall a man give in exchange for his soul?'
He stood for some time under the beech-tree before he left the garden. It was a time of crisis with Henry Purcell. Should he go back and repudiate the bargain he had made? If he did, Gilbert Aubrey would probably fulfil his threat, and denounce him as an infidel to the Dean and Chapter. Should he go back, and implore to be released from the condition which he had just accepted? Then Ethel would immediately cast him off. He could not endure the thought of losing Ethel. He must face the future, and go on—go whither?
Instead of entering his own garden, Purcell wandered down the lane, and thence round to the Abbey. It was quite dark now, and the outline of the great Gothic pile could be only dimly seen against the cloudy sky. He was unthinkingly making his way towards the entrance to the cloisters—why, he could not have said—when he ran against someone who seemed to be coming out from the archway.
'I beg your pardon, Mr. Purcell,' said a youthful voice, although the figure from which it proceeded was almost as tall as the organist's.
The sound of the voice recalled Purcell's thoughts.
'Is that you, Frank?' he said.
'Yes, sir.'
'How you startled me, my lad! Did you come out from the cloisters?'
'Yes, sir. The Dean allowed me to have the key in order that I might get some music from the choir-vestry. I do not feel quite certain about the solo for Sunday evening,' he added, laughing.
Purcell passed on into the dark cloister, muttering to himself, 'It will never do to have this boy spying our movements. I must speak to Aubrey about it.'
The thought of Aubrey did not bring any pleasant reflections to his mind.
'Curse the man!' he muttered through his teeth. 'I could almost wish he were with the old Prior.'
He entered the Abbey. It was pitch-dark. Groping his way to the organ, he was feeling for a candle, when he was startled by the sound of the great clock above him as it boomed out the hour of eleven.
'How stupidly nervous I am to-night!' he said, as he gazed down the great empty black nave.
Weird and ghostly the place looked by the feeble, flickering light of his tiny candle.
Making his way to the cloisters again, Purcell turned to the east until he arrived at the half-ruined cells which ran southwards.
'According to the monk Peter,' he said to himself, 'the Prior's cell was close to the south wall of the church, and therefore is the largest of a row of five on that side.'
The cell was roofless, but the walls had been cleaned, and the ground was kept free from weeds.
'No sign of any grave here,' he said, raising the light. 'I suppose we shall have to dig up the whole floor, and then we shall have to level it again, and make it look as if it had not been disturbed. Idiot that I was to pledge myself to such an enterprise!'
He looked up at the great wall of the church as it rose sheer above his head, and by the feeble light he caught a glimpse of a gargoyle as it grinned in a malicious manner upon him, as though deriding his attempt to find the burial-place of the Prior.
Going down upon his knees, Purcell examined the ground, candle in hand. Nowhere could he perceive any sign of a tomb, and he was about to give up the search, when the light fell upon a mark in the wall near the ground. It was a roughly-carved cross, and might have been done by some visitor in modern days. Still, it had all the appearance of being ancient. Yes, it was undoubtedly a cross. Was it possible that it could indicate the site of the tomb? At this moment a gust of wind blew out the candle, and, with a shiver, Purcell made his way homeward, and to bed; but not to sleep. The image of his dead wife constantly rose before his eyes. He could plainly see her as he remembered her in life. Then Edith's face took her place—Edith, the tiny babe; Edith, the prattling little child; Edith, now budding into womanhood. Then a woman's voice came to him—how harsh it sounded in the stillness and darkness of the night!—and it cried:
'The man who calls me his must renounce all other loves, earthly or heavenly.'
'Horrible!' said Purcell to himself, with a shiver. 'Have I, then, pledged myself to forget my sweet child and her mother? Have I given up all hope both for this life and for the next? Poor fool that I was to give such a promise! No; if Ethel Aubrey is to be mine, it must be without such conditions. After all, what moral right has she to bind me in this way? I will be loyal to my dead wife and to my living child!'
But Henry Purcell had yet to learn the secret of a woman's strength and of a man's weakness.
THE following morning Purcell arose full of new resolves. There must be a tender side to Ethel Aubrey's character, he thought. Surely one so beautiful, so clever, would never prove to be cruel. Perhaps she did not realize that the conditions she had laid down were cruel. Perhaps (so Purcell argued with himself) she had only imposed these conditions out of her great love for him, for he was fully persuaded that he had won her affections. Why should he not appeal to her to release him? At least, such an appeal could do no harm. Yes, for Edith's sake he would make the effort—for Edith's sake, because she would be even more distressed at his abandonment of religious belief than at his renunciation of natural affection for herself—for Edith's sake he would at once have another interview with Ethel Aubrey.
She received him the same morning with the most bewitching of smiles and the tenderest of kisses, and Purcell's resolution wavered almost as soon as he entered the room.
'I have been thinking over our conversation of last night—' he began hesitatingly.
'And my conditions,' added Ethel Aubrey by way of completion to his sentence.
'Yes, and your conditions; and I have come to the conclusion that it is contrary to the dictates of my conscience for me to deliberately abandon either my religious convictions, or my love for my daughter, or affection for the memory of her deceased mother.'
'With regard to the memory of your late wife, Henry, you are entirely free. Affection for the dead is so very unpractical and unphilosophical that I can afford to allow you such a sentiment, if it gives you any happiness.'
Purcell felt a little hurt at her cold, harsh reference to one whom he had once so tenderly loved.
'I shall certainly retain "the sentiment," as you term it,' he replied somewhat dryly.
'But with regard to the other conditions,' said Ethel, 'things of course remain as they were.'
'These are the very matters about which I am come to talk to you. As I have just told you, Ethel, my conscience does not feel comfortable.'
'Conscience is another name for your imagination.'
'But I suppose there is such a thing as right, and there is such a thing as wrong.'
'Right and wrong, Henry, are exactly what you believe to be right and wrong. What you imagine to be wrong, for instance, I am convinced is right. What you term conscience is mere opinion, and therefore by no means to be trusted.'
'Ethel, my darling,' said Purcell, taking her hand, 'you will not insist upon anything that will make me unhappy.'
'Surely you will have all the happiness you desire when you possess me,' she replied.
'I shall have more happiness than I deserve or ever hoped for; but I want you to remove every trace of shadow or cause for anxiety. Leave me free.'
Whether it was that Ethel Aubrey, with her unusual powers of discernment, perceived that she must not press matters too far, or whether she saw another way of accomplishing her object, she, at any rate, began to temporize.
'I am unwilling to be hard, Henry. My wishes you know; but perhaps we can come to some understanding which will suit us both. I propose, therefore, to leave you entirely free with regard to your daughter so long as you will accept the other conditions.'
Purcell hesitated.
'Suppose I consent to aid your brother in the matter of the treasure?'
'So far, good. But that is not enough for me. I cannot be married to a man who has no sympathy for my mode of thought, and for my aims in life.'
'By this you mean that I must abandon all religious belief.'
'You have assured me that you have already done so.'
'Your arguments have had great weight with me.'
'And they have convinced you?'
'I believe so.'
'Then you can have no reason for refusing my request.'
Ethel Aubrey had conquered. And yet, in his blind love for her, Purcell imagined that he had scored a victory in his rescue of his affection for Edith.
'Poor man!' said Ethel, with contemptuous pity, as she watched him walk down the garden. 'He does not see that I shall have other ways of dealing with his daughter. And as for his religion—well, he can believe what he pleases; only it is absolutely necessary that Aubrey and I should have a hold upon him, or we shall never manage to secure the hidden treasure. Poor vacillating man!' she said, as he turned the corner. 'But he will be useful to us notwithstanding.'
THE following Sunday was the Dedication Festival, and, suitably to the occasion, the learned Dean preached a very remarkable sermon. He said that very few persons knew how full of interest was the history of the sacred building in which they were that day assembled; and one of the most interesting passages in it was the narrative of the dissolution of the monastery which had been associated with the Abbey. The Dean briefly sketched the life of Prior Walter, so far as it was known, and related stories, which tradition had handed down, of his piety and boundless liberality, and of his faith and courage.
'Like Moses of old,' said the Dean, 'he was permitted to attain a great age, and like that remarkable leader of men, "no man knoweth the place of his burial." All we can discover is, that only a few days before the agents of King Henry VIII. arrived to destroy the monastery, the Prior died. But no trace either of his body or of the numerous holy vessels belonging to this church has ever been discovered. Possibly the vessels were removed from the Abbey to a place of security, but the body of the Prior was almost certainly interred somewhere within the Precincts.'
Purcell sat within the screen, which ran round the organ console, trembling with agitation. He tried to shut his ears to the Dean's words, but the more he strove to think of something else, the more acute did his sense of hearing become. He took up some music and endeavoured to divert his thoughts by looking for a concluding voluntary; but still the Dean's voice rang out more clearly and distinctly than ever:
'And if ever these holy vessels are discovered, in God's name I bid the discoverer remember whose they are!'
Purcell trembled as he listened to these strangely prophetic words. He called himself a fool, and roused himself for the conclusion of the service; but he was unable to play the voluntary correctly, and made more than one mistake.
'Father darling,' said Edith, as they went home, 'you did not play the last voluntary in your usual style.'
She looked up into his face as she spoke. To her surprise her father answered sharply that it was not her place to give him instruction. The tears sprang to Edith's eyes, and she said no more.
After lunch, as she sat in the drawing-room reading—or trying to read, for she felt anything but happy—her father entered and sat down beside her.
'I am sorry I spoke hastily to my little girl this morning,' he said, as he stroked her cheek. 'I was angry with myself, and with—'
He stopped, and Edith looked up with a sunny smile, saying:
'I felt so sorry for you, father. I know you feel it acutely if anything goes wrong in the performance of the music.'
Purcell sat silent for a few minutes playing with his watch-chain. 'Does he wish to say anything more?' thought Edith; and then a sudden longing came that he would reveal to her the cause of the strange change in his demeanour of late. She was on the point of introducing the subject, and was trying to find an opening sentence, when her father said:
'Edith, are you quite happy at home?'
'Yes, of course I am!' she replied, with an astonished look.
'Would it detract from your happiness if you had another mother?'
The crimson flush overspread her fair face and neck as Edith gazed open-mouthed at her father.
'You do not mean to say that you—that you—'
She gasped out the words, but could not finish what she was about to say.
'That I am going to be married,' said her father quietly, completing her sentence. 'Yes, dear, I am thinking of doing so. You have no objection, I hope?'
Edith did not reply. A vision of her own mother—the gentle, affectionate mother of her imagination (for she had never known her)—rose up before her eyes.
'Her name is Ethel Aubrey,' continued her father; 'and I hope you will soon learn to be very fond of her, Edith.'
With a great effort Edith controlled herself sufficiently to be able to say:
'I will try to do so, for your sake, father.'
There was an awkward silence, and then Edith had to go to her Sunday-school work, and the matter was not spoken of again by either of them for some time.
The following evening found Henry Purcell at Dr. Aubrey's house at 9.30 p.m. Purcell told the Doctor of his examination of the cell, and especially of the important discovery of the mark of the cross on the wall.
'You have already done good service,' said Aubrey. 'Now we must have a more thorough examination of the place. Look here!' he said, throwing open the door of a cupboard. 'You see, I am quite prepared.'
The cupboard contained a spade, pickaxe, some rope, two lanterns, and other necessary implements.
'How shall we be able to transport them to the place?' asked Purcell in a doubtful tone.
'Why, of course, if one journey will not convey what we need we must make a second.'
'What do you propose we should do to-night?'
'Make a tour of inspection.'
IT was the evening on which Edith Purcell was employed in the
Abbey. The two men had just reached the south-east corner of the
cloisters, when they heard footsteps.
'What is that?' whispered Aubrey, as he clutched nervously at Purcell's arm.
They saw a female figure clad in white at the further end of the cloister. Presently it disappeared.
'You told me that we should not be disturbed here,' whispered Aubrey.
'I think that the person did not recognise us.'
'Do you know who it was?'
'I have not the faintest idea.'
They waited for some minutes, but as the figure did not reappear they proceeded to enter the cell.
'Are you sure that this is the Prior's cell?' asked Purcell.
'According to the plan at the foot of the document, it must be.'
'Here is the cross of which I told you,' said Purcell, pointing to the mark.
They knelt down and examined the rude carving.
'It is undoubtedly ancient,' said Aubrey. 'See how moss-grown is every line.'
'What do you conclude from this?'
'That, assuming we are really in the Priors cell, he is buried exactly under our feet.'
'Then, I suppose we must dig and open up this corner?'
'There is no immediate necessity. We can first pierce the earth with the rod, and ascertain if anything solid lies underneath.'
So saying, Aubrey showed Purcell the sections of an iron tubular rod, which he took out of his pocket.
'You see,' he said, 'that we can screw these portions together, and affix this chisel-like point. Thus. There, hold up the light, that's a good fellow! Now, you see, we have a machine for piercing the soil, which will leave scarcely any mark for curious eyes to observe.'
They set to work in the corner of the cell, at about the distance of two feet from the mark on the wall.
'I suppose the old fellow slept in this corner,' said Aubrey, with one of his quiet, dry laughs.
It was hard work for men who were not accustomed to such manual labour, but after about half an hour's toil the end of the rod grounded on something more resisting than the earth they had been penetrating.
'It does not feel like stone,' remarked Purcell.
'Then it's wood! Yes, it does feel like wood, I declare!' said Aubrey, grasping the rod and tapping it on the object to which it had penetrated. 'But they would hardly have buried their old Prior in a wooden coffin, would they?'
'Yes, if they were in a hurry.'
'True. I didn't think of that.'
Here Aubrey gave a vigorous dig, and the rod, piercing the wooden obstruction, slipped down some ten or twelve inches, and stopped with a thud.
'Another block,' remarked Aubrey, giving several digs. 'And we seem to have arrived at something substantial now,' he added, as he prodded vigorously. 'I cannot make it go any deeper. Here, have a try!'
But Purcell, though the stronger man, could not make the rod go any deeper.
'Now, before we pull it up we must mark the depth.' So saying, Aubrey drew a file from his pocket, and marked the rod close to the ground. 'Six feet six inches,' he said, 'for this is the middle of the seventh section, and they are each twelve inches in length. Well, we must now withdraw the rod very carefully and examine the end of it.'
'What is this?' said Purcell, as they held the sharpened end of their tool near the lantern.
It was hair—human hair!
The men looked at each other, pale, speechless.
'Don't be funky, old man!' said Aubrey at length, endeavouring with mock bravery to conceal his own agitation. 'We have found the very spot, and this is the Prior's hair. Humph! snow-white,' he said, as he examined the few hairs which adhered to the rod. 'Then we must have struck him near the ear, for the top of his head would be shaven, I suppose.'
'Do you intend to do anything more to-night?' asked Purcell, for he felt sick at heart, and his whole soul revolted against his companion, and against the scheme into which he had been led.
'No; I think we have done enough, don't you?'
'Quite enough!' replied Purcell emphatically.
Aubrey placed a plug of clay in the perforation over the grave, and, after obliterating the marks of their feet, they went away.
Never thinking that his soiled hands and boots might betray him (for he was by no means the Doctor's equal in stratagem), Purcell, as we have seen, made no attempt to remove the evidences of his unusual occupation; and it was not until after Edith had retired for the night that he began to consider the position in which he was now placed.
'Idiot that I am!' he said, as he paced up and down the study—'Idiot that I am to be at the beck and call of such a man! But I will do nothing more. Come what may, Gilbert Aubrey shall not make me his slave!'
Then there arose in his mind a vision. It was the figure of Ethel Aubrey. He could see her pale features as she seemed to be looking into his eyes. He could feel the touch of her hands as she clasped his neck.
'Ethel,' he cried to himself, 'I cannot go further with this accursed bargain! I cannot—I must not—I dare not sell my soul in this way!'
At one o'clock Edith awoke with a start.
'What's that?' she exclaimed, as she sat up in the bed.
It was the steady tread of a man's footsteps in the room beneath. To and fro, to and fro unceasingly did the feet pace.
'It is father!' she exclaimed, as she jumped out of bed. 'He must be ill—or—' And she clasped her trembling fingers. 'Oh, God! help my poor father!'
She said the words with convulsive earnestness, and then, lighting the candle, went downstairs. Her naked feet made no sound as she drew near to the study-door. It was ajar, and within the room she saw her father pass and repass the opening. His brows were knit, and his hands were clenched together behind him.
Suddenly he caught sight of the white figure at the door.
'Edith!'
'Father!'
'What do you want, my child?' said he, striving to control himself.
'I am afraid you are ill, father,' said Edith, standing in the doorway.
How innocently lovely she looked as she stood there in her white nightdress, and with her fair hair hanging over her shoulders!
'No, no,' replied Purcell; 'I am not ill, child. Go back to bed at once.'
'Then, if you are not ill, something is the matter.' And she came towards him holding out her hands. 'Tell me, father, dearest father, if you are in trouble. Do allow me to comfort you, if I can!'
Then there came another vision before Purcell's eyes. In that sweet girlish form he saw one whom he had known and loved with a passionate devotion seventeen years previously. So striking was Edith's likeness to her dead mother at that moment that Purcell stepped back with dilated eyes. The vision faded, and, lo! it was his child.
'You had better return to your bed,' he said.
'Not until you tell me what troubles you,' replied Edith, gaining courage.
'Oh, it is nothing—nothing! Surely, my dear, your father may stay up a little late without causing you uneasiness! You know I am fond of perambulating while I think.'
Edith saw from his manner that further argument would be useless, so she kissed her father, and returned to her room. But for more than an hour, as she lay awake, she could hear the dull, rhythmical tread as he paced to and fro.
The next day Gilbert Aubrey received the following note from Henry Purcell:
Dear Aubrey,
The strain of this dreadful secret is becoming more than I can bear. You cannot wish to have any unwilling accomplice; I therefore beg that you will release me from my engagement to you in the matter of the dead Prior. If you will do this, you may rely on my silence concerning this or any other matter which may have come to my knowledge.
The Doctor turned the note over and over, and read it several times.
'What can the man mean,' he said, by "or any other matter which may have come to my knowledge"? Can he mean—No; the idea is ridiculous!'
The reply which Purcell received was very brief:
'Come and see me at 9.45 this evening.'
'I thought as much,' remarked Purcell. 'He will not commit himself in writing.'
He worked at the score of his oratorio all that day, and Edith saw him only at meals, and then he did not refer to the events of the previous night.
'Have you much to finish?' she asked.
'The music is composed, but the instrumentation is laborious and wearisome work, though none the less interesting—when one can give one's whole attention to it,' he added, with a sigh.
Edith came to the conclusion that her father had been working too hard of late at his music.
'Do you think you could spare time to take me a walk this evening?' she said. 'We will have some food immediately after evensong, and go out into the country.'
'Yes; I shall be glad of a change.' He spoke wearily. 'But I must be home again by half-past nine.'
She looked up, somewhat surprised.
'I should not do any more work at the score at so late an hour, if I were you, father.'
She felt increasingly convinced that her father was suffering from overwork.
DURING the walk Purcell seemed to regain some of his old
vivacity. His artist soul responded to the flood of warm evening
sunlight which was spread over the hills, and was casting dark
shadows on the western slopes of the valleys. He rejoiced in the
song of the lark as it mounted up towards heaven; he rejoiced in
the glad smile and merry laughter of his pretty daughter as she
tripped down a slope to gather a flower, or scrambled through a
hedge to peep at a nest she had discovered a few days previously
in one of her solitary rambles.
'Yes, daddie,' she cried; 'here are four of the sweetest little downy birds you ever saw!' And she was not content until her father, too, had scrambled through the hedge, and had seen them for himself.
Had this walk taken place three months ago, it would have been full of unalloyed happiness; but that evening there was the ever-recurring thought in Purcell's mind that he was bound, body and soul, to Gilbert and Ethel Aubrey, and so Edith noticed that the smile often died away, to be succeeded by a sigh, and the merry laugh was sometimes checked, or else it sounded forced and unnatural.
That night, at a quarter to ten, Henry Purcell paid another visit to Gilbert Aubrey.
FRANK MURRAY was a son of the Vicar of Chisburn (a village which lay some distance from Monkton Friars, in the dale-country of North Yorkshire). He had been admitted, at a somewhat tender age, into the choir school of the Abbey, and his remarkable voice soon procured him the position of principal solo-boy, a position which he had retained until now that he had entered on his eighteenth year.
This remarkable continuance of the quality of the 'boy's voice' was partly owing to the admirable vocal training of the Abbey organist, partly to the fact that he came of a very musical stock, and had unusual natural gifts, and partly, perhaps chiefly, because, though he was tall for his age, he had that delicate constitution which is betokened by a girl-like fairness of skin. From far and near people flocked to hear Frank Murray sing, and for many years his voice had been one of the principal attractions of the Abbey. The magnificent ritual, the preaching of the Dean, and the organ-playing of Henry Purcell, also combined to draw large congregations to the services.
Of all Frank Murray's admirers, none had been more constant than Edith Purcell. When, as a little boy, he used to visit the organist's house, Edith, then a child of nine, would stand near her father at the piano, her hands clasped together, and her blue eyes opened very wide indeed in wonder and admiration as the young vocalist trilled forth the upper notes of the register with all the ease of a thrush. As they grew older, Edith's conduct naturally became more decorous. They no longer played hide-and-seek in the garden in the summer, or amused themselves with the indoor games that interest young people during the winter evenings. Still, there was always a very close friendship between them—a friendship which, perhaps unsuspected by either of them, was being gradually developed into something more tender.
'Frank,' said the Dean, one morning after matins, 'I want you to take this note to the house of Joseph Sharp, the foreman of Sykes' Mill. Ask Mrs. Sharp to give it to her husband as soon as he returns home from his work.'
'Nay, Master Frank,' said the good woman, when the lad handed her the letter; 'but thou does get a big mon. How long is that grand voice o' thine goin' to last thee?'
Frank laughingly replied that he trusted it would last some time longer yet.
'Nay, mon, but it niver will,' said Mrs. Sharp; 'and then t' folks o' Monkton 'll be sorry they've not made more o' thee, lad!'
Mrs. Sharp's flattery was genuine. Yorkshire working people do not pay empty compliments. Her husband was a sidesman at the Abbey (for the Dean loved to utilize the services of the working-men among his parishioners), and Mrs. Sharp attended the services whenever the conditions of her domestic life permitted. Like the majority of Yorkshire folk, both she and her husband were extremely fond of music, and they were never weary of sounding the praises of Frank Murray's vocal powers.
'I suppose thou will be settin' up for a mon, an' go a'courtin' some bonnie lass after a bit,' said Mrs. Sharp, laughing. 'There's Miss Edith Purcell, now, she's a bonnie un, and will fit ye nicely in a year or two.'
Frank blushed as Mrs. Sharp said this; he knew well what a ready tongue she possessed, and might have been offended at her freedom had not her words, though spoken in jest, touched a responsive note in his own heart.
As for Edith, she was at an age even more susceptible for girls. She could not have explained the strange tingling in the cheeks, and the sense of pleasure she experienced even while she was listening to Frank's voice as he sang in the choir. Her father noticed it once. 'But what does it matter?' said he to himself; 'they are but boy and girl, after all.' And if he had guessed aright, he would have been the last to ruthlessly crush the tender plant of youthful love, for had he not himself, long years ago now, learnt that:
'There's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream.'
From this time Frank constantly contrived to be attending to
the music in the choir stalls—for he was librarian—at
the same hour that Edith was arranging the flowers for the altar.
It was an undesigned coincidence, of course, and was not referred
to by either of the young people. They made the Abbey no
rendezvous, but met there in the most natural and artless
manner when they each were engaged in their respective
duties.
'Frank,' said Edith one afternoon, as he was sparing a few minutes to assist her in the vestry by placing the flowers in the vases, 'have you ever read the history of the Abbey?'
'Well, I tried to get through a musty old book lent to me by the Dean, but I cannot say it was exciting,' he added dryly.
'I know that the older histories are exceedingly difficult to read—that is, until one gets thoroughly engrossed in the subject,' said Edith.
'Ah! but you are so enthusiastic about the old place.'
'Don't be irreverent, Frank! The age of the Abbey adds greatly to its interest.'
'I suppose it does, especially to a great authority like yourself.'
'Don't talk nonsense, Frank! Indeed, I am no authority.'
'But you know all about the old—I mean about the Abbey, don't you?'
'Not nearly so much as I should like to know; but I have read a good deal.'
'Then, can you tell me what the Dean was driving at on Sunday morning? I don't always hear every word of the sermon,' said Frank, in a half apologetic tone; 'but I was awfully interested, you know, when he was speaking about the old chap he called Prior Somebody-or-other.'
'Prior Walter,' said Edith half reproachfully.
'Yes, that was the name; he was the old fellow who hid all the holy vessels.'
'No, Frank, he did not hide them; they disappeared at the time of his death.'
Then they had a long talk on the subject, and Edith told Frank all she knew about the death of Prior Walter, and the dissolution of the monastery; and Frank ended up by saying emphatically:
'I tell you, I think Henry VIII. was a perfect pig!'
'There!' said Edith; 'and if you want any more instruction concerning Prior Walter or his predecessors you must ask the Dean.'
'But he is always so busy.'
'Then try someone else. Let me see,' said Edith slowly, and looking up towards a stained window, 'who is the best archaeologist in the town? Well, you might try Dr. Aubrey.'
'I don't like him,' said Frank bluntly.
'Oh, you must not say that! He is really a very good man. Only the other day Mrs. Sharp was telling me how kind he had been to a poor man who lives in a cottage behind their house.'
'He may be a most excellent fellow, but I don't care for him,' persisted Frank. 'I suppose one cannot help it. There are always some people who are not appreciated, you know.'
He said this in a serio-comic way, much to Edith's amusement.
'At least, you cannot say so of yourself Frank.'
'Oh, you must not listen to a few silly old women like—like—' He was going to say 'like Mrs. Sharp,' but he checked himself. 'Like some who come to the Abbey, and who say things they don't mean in the least.'
'But Doctor Aubrey is one of my father's greatest friends,' persisted Edith.
'So much the better for the Doctor, and so much the worse for your father.'
'Oh, Frank, don't say that! You don't really think that there is any harm in Doctor Aubrey, do you?'
'No. I know very little about him. Why does he never come to church?'
'I suppose he is too much engaged. The sick must be visited, you know.'
'If that's his excuse, it's a lame one, for a friend of mine says that the Doctor spends his Sunday mornings smoking in his garden.'
'There!' cried Edith, 'these most refractory flowers are at last in their places. And now I must be quick and take the vases into the church, for my father will be here shortly for his organ practice.'
'By-the-by,' said Frank, 'what has been the matter with the gov'nor lately? He hasn't seemed himself a bit.'
'No, he has been far from well. He is working much too hard at the orchestration of his oratorio.'
'But he need not do that; the festival is not for some months.'
'Quite true, but you forget that the separate band parts have to be prepared, and the voice parts have to be printed.'
'I wish I could help him,' said Frank, after a pause.
'Perhaps he would allow you to do some of the copying.'
'And I could come in every evening,' he said eagerly.
'Yes, that would be nice,'she replied, with sweet simplicity.
THAT evening Frank called, and offered his services to the
organist.
'My dear boy, I am so much obliged to you. Yes, you can aid me a good deal; but I am in no immediate want of help.'
'I have been afraid, sir, that you have been overworked of late; and it would be a real pleasure to me if you would accept my services.'
Purcell's brow clouded as the lad referred to overwork. 'I hope Edith has said nothing to him,' he thought. 'Surely he cannot suspect—' A glance at Frank's ingenuous face reassured him.
'Come, by all means,' he said. 'Suppose you begin next week. By that time I shall have something ready for you to do.'
'All right; it's settled,' whispered Frank to Edith, as he left the house.
It happened three evenings later, at about 9 p.m., that Frank Murray had occasion to visit the Abbey. As he locked the outer door of the cloisters he heard Edith's voice close by him saying:
'So you are determined to keep me out.'
'Edith!' he exclaimed; 'you here at this time of the night?'
'It is not quite dark yet,' she replied; 'and I forgot to bring away a book in which I am much interested. I left it in the vestry when I finished the flower-vases.'
'Do let me fetch it for you,' said Frank, in a gallant manner. 'It is too dark for you to go alone.'
'Oh,' she replied, laughing, 'I am quite accustomed to go into the Abbey after dark. I know every hole and corner of the dear old place.'
'Then we will go together.'
Edith drew back for an instant, and then, looking trustfully into Frank's face, replied:
'Yes; and you can protect me if we meet any bogies.'
Frank reopened the door, and they entered the cloisters. The faint light of the dying day glinted in through the ruined tracery above them, throwing long and ungainly shadows over the greensward and the ancient gravestones. But Frank did not notice the shadows. He experienced a strange shortness of breath and a fluttering of the heart as he quietly closed that cloister door.
In a few moments they were within the church.
'Doesn't it look a huge place in the dark!' whispered Edith.
They could not have told the reason, but they found themselves walking around the nave. Neither of them spoke until they arrived under the great west window.
'What's that?' said Edith, stopping and grasping Frank's arm.
'I don't see anything,' he replied, instinctively drawing closer to her.
'Perhaps I was mistaken. I thought I caught a glimpse of a gleam of light at the east end of the church.'
'I see nothing but the sanctuary lamps.'
'Oh, I am so foolish to be startled, but I was so very much frightened not long ago.'
And Edith told him of her fright on the occasion when she had seen the two men in the cloisters. As she concluded she shivered and drew closer to Frank.
'Poor darling!' he said, as he placed his arm tenderly around, her. 'I am so glad I came back with you to-night.'
The light was very dim in the Abbey now, but Frank could see Edith's eyes, and she could see his, as he looked unutterable words. They stood there some time in silence, simply looking into each other's eyes, till Frank bent down and whispered:
'You won't be offended with me, Edith dear, if I kiss you?'
She did not reply, but raised her head, and their youthful lips met in that first tender, delicious kiss of new-born love.
How long they stood there they could not themselves have told, but in the great tower over their heads the stately recorder of the march of time now boomed forth the strokes of ten o'clock.
'Frank, I must not stay another moment,' Edith whispered, giving him one more kiss.
'Is your father at home?'
'No; he is at Dr. Aubrey's. But I do not know at what time he may return.'
They groped their way to the vestry, and, having found the book, were making for the door as quickly as the darkness permitted, when Edith clutched Frank's sleeve, and pointed to a window near the south transept.
'How very odd!' he said; 'it is certainly a light. Quite a steady, strong light too.'
They stood for a few seconds and watched it, but the broad yellow beams still shone in steadily through the window.
'I must have a look at this,' said Frank. 'There is a way up to that window. You won't be afraid, dear, if I leave you for a few minutes?' he added, grasping her hand.
He could feel that she trembled, but she assured him that she was not afraid; and Frank was soon on the ledge of the window.
'I can see nothing,' he said, when he returned; 'but I can hear the movements of men close under the wall.'
'Oh, do let us go away at once!' said Edith, in a tone of great alarm. 'Perhaps they are the same dreadful men whom I saw in the cloisters.'
'I will see you safely on your way,' said Frank, after a momentary hesitation, 'and then I will return to see what the fellows are doing.'
'And be murdered!' cried Edith. 'No, Frank! Darling Frank! do not be so rash!'
'I promise you that I will be very careful.'
'But you shall not go alone. I will go too!'
And as Edith persisted, Frank, not altogether loath, yielded.
When they reached the cloisters Frank took off his boots. Edith whispered to him that her shoes had indiarubber soles, and were noiseless, so they crept silently, and hand in hand, towards the eastern end of the arcade. As they drew near the narrow passage which led up to the ruined cells they could distinctly hear sounds; they were evidently the subdued voices of men.
'Do not go round the corner,' said Edith, whispering into Frank's ear. 'We shall be seen.'
'I know of a hole in the wall on this side of the cell. There! you see the light through it now. We can peep through it without being seen.'
They crept up cautiously to the opening. It was opposite to the corner in which the Prior was buried. Then Frank, advancing a pace, but still holding Edith's hand, bent down and peered through the aperture. Had it been daylight Edith would have seen that his face became ghastly pale.
'Come away! don't look!' he whispered.
But feminine curiosity must be satisfied. Edith immediately bent down, and, looking through the opening, saw—an open grave, beside which lay a grinning skull not wholly denuded of skin and hair. Other human bones were piled together, and from within the grave the hands of a man—a living man—appeared from time to time handing up articles from below. Tarnished and discoloured though they were, she could plainly perceive that some of them, at least, were designed for sacramental purposes. And the man who received them at the mouth of the grave was Gilbert Aubrey.
WHEN Edith first caught sight of the skull she uttered a little involuntary 'Oh!' It was a very slight sound, but it was enough for Gilbert Aubrey, who instantly grasped the dark lantern, which had been placed upon the ground, and was sending its beams full into the face of Prior Walter's skull, and turned off the light.
'What's the matter?' cried a smothered voice from the bottom of the grave.
'Hush!' was Aubrey's reply.
There was silence. Edith, still gazing through the opening in the wall, perceived that a dim light shone up from the earth. It evidently proceeded from a lantern within the tomb.
'All right!' said Aubrey in a few moments, turning on the light again as he spoke. 'I thought I heard a voice.'
The diggers then resumed their operations.
'Let us go,' whispered Frank.
They retired as silently as they had come, not daring to speak to each other until they were beyond the precincts of the Abbey.
'Frank, who was the man inside the grave?' Edith asked the question so imploringly that her companion hesitated in his reply. 'Do you think it was father?' Her voice shook with emotion as she spoke.
'Oh no!' Why should he be down in that hole? It was no doubt some labourer fellow engaged by the Doctor.'
'Then, what are they doing? Why do they open graves, and dig up dead men's bones? And what will they do with the things which they are taking out of the Prior's tomb?'
'Is that the Prior's tomb?' asked Frank.
'What else can it be? I know that corner is called the Prior's cell.'
'So these men—'
'Have discovered the holy vessels which were hidden away on the death of the last Prior.'
'How pleased the Dean will be!' said Frank.
'Do you think,' said Edith solemnly, 'that they intend to tell the Dean?'
'If they do not intend to tell the Dean, nor to restore the vessels to the Abbey, I suppose they will keep the find for themselves. That plate must be worth a jolly lot of money.'
'Frank,' said Edith, 'we must do something, because if we hold our tongues we are partakers of other men's sins.'
'What can we do? If we tell the Dean, he may say that he knows all about it.'
'In that case we had better wait, I suppose,' said Edith.
The housekeeper was alarmed at Edith's lateness.
'It is all right,' she said; 'I have been under good protection.'
Somehow she could not muster up courage to tell her old friend and nurse what Frank had said to her that evening. Her father had not returned from Dr. Aubrey's, the nurse said, and the information sent a chill to her heart.
EDITH lay awake a long time that night. She heard her father
come home shortly before midnight, and she tossed uneasily to and
fro until the streaks of light began to appear through the blind.
Then she fell into a strange and troubled dream—a dream in
which her father was attacked by a cruel monster, having terrible
teeth and fiery breath, and which came up out of an awful pit by
the side of the Abbey. Then her father attempted to allay the
hunger of this creature by casting in human skulls—hundreds
of them which lay around. After that he cast in the gold and
silver vessels of the house of God, and Edith shuddered as the
monster closed its mouth upon chalices, patens, pyxes and other
holy and costly articles. But it was not satisfied, and opened
its smoking mouth for more, though there was nothing left. Then
Edith saw her father look round in despair, as, clasping his
hands, he prepared to leap himself into the awful jaws. But as he
stepped back for the spring, she heard a great shout, and Frank
appeared clad in the glittering armour of the knights of old, and
with his sword attacked the monster. Edith prayed in agony of
spirit that he might succeed. Once or twice he seemed to be in
danger of falling over into the terrible jaws himself, but at
last the monster with a groan sank down, amid blue flames, into
the pit from whence it had risen, and the earth closed upon it of
her own accord.
WHEN she awoke Edith had a peculiar sensation, as though her head were being held down, perforce, to the pillow. She felt strangely weak, and unable to rise, and laid for some time without speaking. Presently her eyes caught sight of a woman in nurses costume sitting by the window.
'What is the time?' asked Edith; but her voice sounded so unlike itself that she hardly recognised it.
The nurse rose, and coming up to the bed with a pleasant smile, said:
'It is half-past three. But you must not talk.'
'Has anything happened?' asked Edith.
'You have been ill, but are now better. Here, drink this, and lie quiet for a while till the Doctor comes again.'
'The Doctor—the Doctor.' Edith repeated the words to herself again and again. She had an ill-defined sensation that 'the Doctor' had something to do with her illness. She tried to think, but the effort was more than she could bear, and she fell asleep.
She was awakened by quiet voices at her bedside.
'Just allow me to feel your pulse,' said a man's voice.
Edith turned her head and saw Dr. Aubrey.
'You are better—much better,' he continued in a few moments. 'I hope we shall soon have you about again.'
'Thank you,' was all Edith could reply. She felt an inexpressible dread of the man.
'Has the Doctor seen me often?' she asked of the nurse after Dr. Aubrey had departed.
'Every day—sometimes twice a day when you were very bad.'
'How long have I been ill?'
'Three weeks.'
Presently there was a knock at the door, and in another moment Henry Purcell was bending over the bed with his arms around his daughter.
'Thank God!' he said, with tears in his eyes. 'Thank God that I see you yourself again;' and Edith could feel his tears as they fell on to her neck. 'You would not have been with us still had it not been for the Doctor's devoted attention,' he said at length.
'Have I been so very ill, father?'
'You have had a severe attack of brain-fever, my child.'
They talked for a few minutes—as long as Edith could bear it—and then her father departed. Things seemed to be very muddled in Edith's mind, but she could remember Frank Murray. Then his kiss in the Abbey came into her mind, and after that, one by one, she was able to recall the events of that sweet, yet terrible, evening. She turned her face away from the nurse, and had a quiet little cry, which seemed to relieve her.
'Nurse,' she said at length, 'I don't want to see Dr. Aubrey any more.'
'Why not, pray? He is one of the nicest and most attentive doctors I have ever known, and I've seen a good many of them,' replied the nurse, with one of her stereotyped smiles.
'Can no other doctor be procured?'
'I'm afraid not. Besides, your father has every confidence in Dr. Aubrey.'
As for the said Doctor, he returned home in good spirits.
'How is Miss Purcell?' inquired his sister at lunch.
'Better. Has regained consciousness, and knew me to-day.'
'You seem to take a great interest in her case.'
'You would not wonder if you saw her. She is one of the loveliest creatures I have ever seen.'
'Are you in love with her, Gilbert?'
He looked up surprised.
'Well, that's a very straight question; I hardly know what "love" is. Perhaps you will describe the sensation to me, as you are in full practice.'
Ethel Aubrey looked annoyed at her brother's reference to her engagement; and for a moment the bright flash of resentment appeared in her eyes. But it was only for a moment. The habitual fascinating smile and manner were resumed, as she said:
'You must not be annoyed with me for my teasing; but, seriously, do you never contemplate the prospect of marriage?'
'Yes; I hope to find a wife some day—possibly soon. You see, I shall now have the means of starting my establishment with some fitting degree of dignity.'
'How much did the plate make?'
'Izaakovitz thought that, at the present rate of foreign exchange, it might be worth some four thousand pounds.'
'Does he know its great value?'
'Yes; he has transactions in every important city in Europe.'
'But its antiquarian value?'
'Oh, he knows that also. He told me that, if melted in England, and sold as mere metal, it would not fetch more than half the amount.'
'So my share will be some two thousand pounds?'
'Your share!'
'Well, perhaps I should have said Henry's.'
'Then you are quite sure of Henry Purcell?'
'Absolutely!' said Ethel, with some hauteur.
'I think he did not altogether relish his occupation the night we opened the grave.'
'Was Henry nervous?'
'A little. I had to use a strong argument before I could get him into the hole.'
'Then you did not go down?'
'Not I! I was not going to be caught like a rat in a trap.'
Gilbert Aubrey did not catch the scornful sneer on his sister's handsome face as he said this.
'Once, when we had discovered the old chest, and he was getting out the things, I heard a sound near us which struck me cold to my very marrow, but he went on calmly with the work.'
'Perhaps Henry did not hear the noise?' suggested Ethel.
'So I thought,' responded her brother, 'until he afterwards referred to it.'
'And what did you do to induce him to continue the work of digging?'
'I employed a few of the usual arguments with regard to the consequences to himself, if the Dean should be informed of the recent change in his opinions.'
'And the arguments were effectual?'
'Thoroughly. But for his fear that by some means I should divulge his present state of religious unbelief, and for his evident affection for yourself, I could never have induced him to handle the vessels or the mortal remains of the dead Prior,' said Gilbert Aubrey, laughing.
'But I cannot understand how you have obtained so great an influence over him,' persisted his sister.
'Nor I,' replied Aubrey, 'unless, unconsciously, I am a hypnotist.'
The conversation then turned to the subject of Ethel's new book. 'Have you decided on the title?' asked her brother.
'I have been thinking much about it of late. You know an appropriate title is always a most difficult thing to find; but I think I have decided to call it The Final Negation.'
'Do you know, I rather dread reading it.'
'And why, pray?'
'Well, you know, the former one, The Nemesis of Faith, knocked out of my head the little bit of belief and comfort I had left. After all, though one may not be very religious, religion is something to live by, and my patients tell me sometimes that it is something to die by also.'
'But surely you would not advocate the perpetuation of that unfortunate superstition called Christianity?'
'Theoretically, no; practically, yes. At any rate, it is mighty useful when "Hospital Sunday" comes round!'
'Oh, I admit that.'
'Then you admit that a lie is doing more good than that which you call "the Truth" could do.'
'Oh, it is very easy to obtain a dialectical victory like that,' replied Ethel, laughing.
IF ever there was a creature sublimely innocent of any desire to influence human destiny, it was Joe Sharp's dog Nipper, a mongrel cur, of dirty-white colour and disreputable expression of face, who daily took his constitutional in the neighbourhood of the Abbey.
Why he selected the more ecclesiastical quarter of the town was not known to his human friends, though it may be possible he divulged his motives to his canine acquaintances. Very likely he avoided the proximity of Sykes' mill, because he would not have been popular among the urchins who crowded that neighbourhood. Whatever his motives, it is the fact that Nipper daily perambulated the Abbey churchyard, taking no notice whatever of the warning, No Dogs Admitted; and, by reason of an acquaintance which he had struck up with the sexton, Nipper was even allowed occasionally within the part that was enclosed by the cloisters.
Now, it happened that one day, some time after the clandestine opening of the Prior's tomb, and while the sexton was employed in cutting the grass in 'The Paradise,' Nipper's face peered through the iron bars of the gate. There was no mistaking Nipper's face. He had a large and irregular black patch over one eye, as though he followed the profession of a prize-fighter. One ear always stood up defiantly, while the other persistently hung down. No, even Nipper's own mother could hardly have called him handsome! Perhaps it was this unusual ugliness which had endeared him to his master, and had also attracted the attention of the sexton.
'That theer dog's coom again!' said the sexton to himself, with the peculiar chuckle in which old men are wont to indulge. 'I niver seed sich a dog in all my days! Why, I do believe 'e expects me to let 'im in!' So saying, the old fellow hobbled to the gate as quickly as his crooked legs and bent back would allow him, and admitted Nipper. 'There,' he said, 'I'll leave this 'ere gate open. 'Appen ye 'll want to go out again.'
For some time Nipper wandered among the gravestones and the bushes, poking his nose, after the manner of his race, into every hole and corner. After he had apparently arrived at a satisfactory conclusion, he extended his researches into the surrounding ruins.
'Drat that theer dog!' quoth the sexton. ''E'll be up to some mischief, I'll be bound.'
So saying, he whistled, but with no visible result.
The old man continued his work for some time, and then, as Nipper did not return, he hobbled off towards the ruined cells in search of him.
Now, Nipper was, as we have seen, no ordinary dog. His ecclesiological tastes were certainly unsuspected by the worthy sexton, whose surprise was as great as his indignation when he discovered his canine friend almost buried in a miniature grave which he was industriously digging in a corner of the Prior's cell.
So vigorously had Nipper applied himself to his task that only his hindquarters and his unmistakable tail were visible.
'Well, I'll be darned if t' dog isn't turned sexton!'
So saying, he quietly approached the industrious excavator, and administered a brisk kick to the visible portion of his frame.
With a yelp Nipper burst from the hole and retreated, growling and snarling, into a corner.
'It's na use making that fuss about a bit o' a kick,' said the sexton contemptuously. 'What hast thou bin diggin' for?'
As Nipper's only reply to this question was another growl, the sexton stooped down and peered into the miniature grave.
''E's bin after summat, sure enough,' he said, as he thrust his hand to the bottom of the hole and drew out the bone of a man's arm. 'Well! I niver knew a dog dig up auld bones before. There's naught o' this bone, lad. What dost thou want wi' it?' he continued, addressing the snarling Nipper, who seemed to be greatly incensed at such an unwarrantable interference with his occupation.
'Hi, get away wi' thee!' he cried, as Nipper made a spring for the bone. 'Bless me, t' dog's 'ard up if 'e'll eat auld graveyard bones!'
But Nipper was determined; and so, to save his fingers, the sexton at last threw the bone to the animal, exclaiming:
'This caps me! Take thy bone, lad! But thou wilt niver come inside this 'ere place again!'
Whether Nipper understood the threat has never been revealed. He seized the bone, and, darting past the astonished sexton, scuttled down the cloister, and took the shortest route home.
'What d' ye want, comin' in growlin' an' sich-like?' exclaimed Mrs. Sharp, 'as i' ye'd niver seed a bone before!'
The object of this remark treated it with the contempt he usually bestowed on anything that proceeded from Mrs. Sharp's lips. It is the penalty paid by those whose words are more numerous than weighty.
Heedless of the epithets which his mistress hurled at him from time to time, Nipper maintained his position under the sofa until he heard his master's step at the door. Then, picking up the bone, he advanced to meet him, with every evidence of canine delight.
'Where did he get this bone?' inquired Joe.
Mrs. Sharp did not know. Was it reasonable for Joseph Sharp to imagine that she, a woman with a young baby—his own lawful child—could spend her time in following a dog and noticing every bone or other article he picked up. She was surprised at such an idea. If he had nothing to do all day, she had more than enough. Was this all the sympathy and consideration?—etc.
During the progress of these remarks, to which Joe paid not the slightest heed, he was minutely examining the bone.
'It's a mon's bone, I du believe,' he said at length.
'Nonsense!' said his wife. 'Where could Nipper get a mon's bone? It's a sheep bone, and no mistak'!'
'Thou silly un! Did thou iver see sich a sheep bone?' cried Joe, holding it close to her face.
'Ah, get off wi' thee! If it's a mon's bone, 'e's 'appen bin murdered!'
'I hope not,' replied Joe more seriously, at the same time holding the bone gingerly between finger and thumb; 'but if it is, I do'ant want t' keep it i' t' house.'
'Joe, lad!' cried Mrs. Sharp, altering her tone, 'du summat wi' that theer bone, lad! I don't want thee to be ta'en up for murder!'
Joe was mightily amused at this idea. Nevertheless, he assured his spouse that he would certainly do something with the bone after tea and a wash.
Accordingly, having concluded these operations, with no little satisfaction to himself, Joseph Sharp, having first wrapped the offending bone in a piece of newspaper, and having stowed it safely in an inner breast-pocket, nodded to his wife, left the house, and made his way to Dr. Aubrey's.
'Tell t' Doctor I want t' see 'im very pertic'ler,' was Joe's offhand message.
The Doctor appeared, and having put on his most professional manner, inquired what he could do for Mr. Sharp.
'Well, ye see, Doctor, I don't want to be charged wi' a thing I've niver done!' began Joe, 'and so I should like ye to gie me a perfesh'nal opinion about this 'ere.'
Here he drew the parcel from his pocket, and laid the bone on the Doctor's table.
Dr. Aubrey took it up and examined it.
''Tis very obviously a human bone.'
'Are ye sure o' that?' asked Joe, leaning forward and fixing his eye closely on the Doctor.
'Positive! As sure as I am that I'm alive, man!' retorted Aubrey, somewhat testily. 'I dare say I could tell you more about it on a closer examination. Yes, no doubt of it. This is from the skeleton of an elderly person—a male, I should say; and, by the look of it, has been buried, and—By the way,' asked the Doctor, turning slightly paler, 'where did you get it?'
'It war brought to t' house by a friend o' mine,' said Joe.
'And do you say that you fear that the fact of your possession of it will get you into difficulties?'
'I shouldn't like it t' du so.'
'Do you know how your friend obtained possession of it?'
'Nay, I've no idee.'
'Very well!' said the Doctor, rising briskly and taking up the bone. 'I have no doubt you will be glad to get rid of it. Here's half a crown, and I'll keep the bone.'
'Put t' half-crown i' th' pocket, Doctor, and I'll put t' bone i' mine,' said Joe dryly. 'Just let me know t' fee for this consultation, and I'll begone.'
'Then you do not wish to part with the bone?'
'Not this time.'
'What on earth did the fellow mean by bringing the bone to me?' muttered Aubrey, as soon as Joe Sharp had retired. 'I really cannot pretend to understand these Yorkshire folks and their ways!'
As for Joe, he walked away, wondering at two things which he had noticed: first, at the slight change of colour in the Doctor's face when he saw the bone; and secondly, at the Doctor's obvious anxiety to gain possession of it.
'Sich folks is a deal too false t' suit me!' he said, shaking his head in a knowing manner as he left Dr. Aubrey's gate. 'I'm goin' for a bit of a walk, lass,' he called out to his wife through the open door of his house. 'Come on, Nipper, m' lad!'
Nipper did not need a second invitation, and the burly overlooker and his dog were soon in the open country.
Joe Sharp led the way to a secluded copse, where, sitting down under the shadow of a tree, he called Nipper, and commanded him to 'sit up!'
That the dog understood what he was required to do was evident, for he placed himself in the attitude of 'attention' immediately in front of his master.
As soon as the dog's eyes were full on him, Joe took from his pocket the package containing the bone, which he slowly unwrapped, Nipper the meanwhile watching every movement of his fingers. Presently the bone was reached, and held up before Nipper's eyes.
Now, whether his conscience pricked him, or whether he thought he saw retribution in his master's eyes (and, truth to tell, he had once been brought to this very spot for a penal purpose), it is hard to tell. At any rate, his tail drew between his legs, and he gave a sidelong glance as if he contemplated flight.
'Sit up!' roared his master, in a tone worthy of Stentor himself, 'an' tell me wheer thou got this 'ere bone!'
One might have thought that Joe Sharp expected his dog to develop the intelligence of Balaam's ass. But though he did not expect human speech, he expected something quite as effectual.
'Come thou 'ere!' said Joe sternly.
The dog drew slowly nearer.
'Smell it!' and he held the bone to Nipper's nose, who took one or two deep sniffs. 'Tak' it back fr' wheer thou got it, and I'll go wi' thee.'
IN half an hour Joe Sharp might have been seen In the
neighbourhood of the Abbey. Before him walked the unwilling
Nipper, who cast occasional and anxious glances over his
shoulders as he neared the entrance to the cloisters. Someone was
inside, for the iron-barred gate was open. Without more than a
momentary pause, to ascertain if his master was following, Nipper
entered the sacred enclosure, and, passing up the whole length of
the south side of the church, turned into the narrow passage
leading to the ruined cells, and entered the one which was called
after the Prior.
'Did thou get thy bone theer?' inquired Joe, in a surprised tone, as the dog laid down the bone on the very spot from which he had disinterred it.
By way of reply, Nipper wagged his ugly tail energetically, a gesture which is no doubt the canine equivalent to a nod of the head among human beings.
'Well, I'm dashed!' was Joe's remark, as he smote his thigh mightily. 'Then, it's some auld monk's bone. Poor auld chap; he wouldn't be pleased at 'avin' 'is arm-bone disturbed,' he observed tenderly. 'I'll just shove it into t' softest spot I can find,' he added. Whereupon Joe essayed to find a soft place, where he could thrust the bone deep into the soil. 'I'm blamed! but t' place is as soft as if it war na' but a new grave!' And Joe stood still, scratching his head with one hand, and holding the bone in the other.
'Good evening, Mr. Sharp!' said a youthful voice behind him.
Turning quickly, Joe met the bright features of Frank Murray.
'So you are interested in the Prior's cell, are you?'
'I'm interested in this 'ere bone, my lad,' replied Joe.
'I should have thought that you and your friend the Doctor had examined the grave sufficiently,' said Frank, in an inquiring tone.
Joe Sharp raised his eyebrows as far as they would ascend as Frank said this, and, when he concluded his sentence, lowered them beyond the usual limits of their depression.
'Dost thou mean to say, lad, that thou thinks I've bin diggin' up a grave?' And Joe pointed to the ground in the corner of the cell, which bore proof that his ponderous feet had recently been planted there.
'I don't want to offend you, Mr. Sharp,' said Frank, in a quasi-apologetic tone, 'but to tell you the truth, I am greatly interested in that corner myself; and when I saw you and the dog pass up the cloisters, I was just within the door which leads into the south aisle. I hurried quietly after you, and was much surprised when I saw that you had that bone in your hand, and that you were feeling the ground with your foot.'
'I tell thee, lad,' said Joe, speaking slowly, and emphasizing each word with the bone, every movement of which Nipper followed with eyes and head—'I tell thee, lad, that I know naught about this 'ere bone, nor about this 'ere spot; but I want to be knowin'!—I want to be knowin'!' he said, raising his voice. 'And I'd give summat 'andsome to t' chap as can tell me a thing or two!'
'I think I can tell you something, at any rate,' said Frank. 'I believe you can keep a secret?'
'Try me, m' lad! Try me!'
Then Frank, in a few words, told Joe Sharp what he himself and Edith Purcell had seen on a certain evening but a few weeks previously.
'FATHER!' said Edith Purcell one morning at breakfast, soon after she had begun to come downstairs to that early meal, 'do you not think I have had enough physic now?'
'Decidedly, my dear. I do not see what further good it can do you.'
'And do you not think that the Doctor might discontinue his visits?'
'Did you ever notice that he seems to care more for you than doctors usually care for their patients?' asked her father, by way of reply.
'No. It never struck me!' said Edith, with a toss of her pretty head.
'Well, then, I'll let you into a little secret which Dr. Gilbert Aubrey confided to me only last night. It is this—he intends to ask you to become his wife!'
Edith's face was a study. Her expression, usually so gentle and affectionate, had suddenly become scornful and indignant as she replied:
'He may ask.'
'You will not stand in your own light, and in—?' He was going to say 'in mine,' but stopped short.
'I can see no advantage, either to myself or to you, father dear, if I accept a man whom I do not love; nay, if you must know my sentiments, a man whom I detest! A man, too, almost old enough to be my father! I do not want to hurt your own feelings, father dear,' she continued, more tenderly, 'but surely you would not wish such a thing?' The affectionate look returned to her eyes as Edith said this. 'You see,' she continued, 'I am not prepared to think of marriage. I am much too young and inexperienced.'
'Perhaps your heart is already engaged?' said her father.
'Perhaps it is!' And she gave him a shy, laughing look, and blushed deeply.
'At least, you will, I am sure, please your father by calling upon the Doctor's sister.'
Edith was only too glad to escape thus.
'Yes. It shall be my very first call,' she said.
Purcell looked pleased.
'I know how glad she will be to see my sweet little daughter,' he said playfully.
The very next day Edith paid her call. Ethel Aubrey received her with the greatest friendliness.
'I trust you have not come out too early after your recent illness,' she said. 'No, please don't apologize for not having called; you have been quite unable to do so, I know.'
Edith's girlish heart was soon captivated by Ethel Aubrey's polished and stately manners. She had been brought up in a quiet, homely fashion, and Miss Aubrey's attainments, though by no means obtruded on this occasion, were certainly sufficiently conspicuous to dazzle and astonish her youthful visitor.
'Father has told me that you have written some very clever books,' Edith ventured to say. She half regretted that she had mentioned her father, but Ethel Aubrey, without noticing it, said:
'It is so kind of you to speak of my books. Would you like to read this one?' So saying, she handed her a copy of The Nemesis of Faith.
Edith, who was rather awestruck, took the book, and, thanking the fair authoress, said that she would be very glad if she might be allowed to read it.
'I suppose your reading is mostly confined to novels?' said Ethel Aubrey.
'I have read many of the best novels, but I think my study is archaeology.'
'A study in which my brother takes great delight, but rather a dry one for a lady so young as you are,' said her hostess.
And then Edith began to explain to her how it was that she began to be interested in archaeology, and presently, forgetting herself, she waxed quite eloquent concerning the past history and present beauties of the Abbey and its services. She chattered on with artless and natural eloquence, telling of the part she took in the adornment of the altar, of the beauties of the music, and of the fatherly kindness of the Dean; and all the while she did not perceive, poor simple maiden, that her clever hostess was 'drawing her out,' by a word here and an encouraging nod there. Nor did Edith perceive—for she was not versed in the wiles of the world—the satirical tone that came over Ethel Aubrey's remarks while she spoke on these ecclesiastical topics.
'You will read the little book, then, my dear,' she said, as Edith rose to take her departure. 'We must be more than mere acquaintances, you know.'
THAT evening she spent in reading The Nemesis of
Faith.
For some time Edith could not understand what the authoress 'was driving at,' as Frank Murray would have put it. Then it gradually dawned upon her that it was an attack on the Christian religion. She struggled against this conviction for a few more pages, till some sentences, more startling in their defiant unbelief than anything she had previously come across, caused Edith to put down the book.
'How awful!' she said aloud. 'How very awful! Why, Ethel Aubrey is an unbeliever!' Then her thoughts turned to her father. Surely, it was not possible that he knew this. Probably he had not read the book, and knew little or nothing of the opinions held by its writer. But he might be induced to read it; and, at least, he was about to marry the person who had written it. What a terrible thing it would be if her kind, good father, her generous-hearted, noble father, should renounce his faith, and become—she hardly liked to say it—an infidel!
The same evening Ethel and Gilbert Aubrey were discussing Edith Purcell.
'Yes, I've had a visitor. Such an enthusiastic little creature! Now, guess!'
'Can it be Edith Purcell?'
'How clever of you! Yes, and a very pretty child she is.'
'Why do you call her a "child"?'
'Well, Gilbert, she is certainly not more than eighteen.'
'At which age the modern girl becomes a woman,' said Gilbert, laughing. 'But tell me, what do you think of her?'
'That she will never do for you.'
'You are not speaking seriously?'
'Yes, I am. She is far too religious to marry a man who has abandoned all belief in the supernatural, as you have. Dear me, you should have heard how she held forth about the Abbey and the services; and she positively raved about the preaching of the Dean—"that holy man," as she called him!' And Ethel Aubrey laughed contemptuously.
Gilbert looked puzzled, and not very pleased, at his sister's remarks. He was more of an indifferentist than a theoretical anti-Christian.
'After all, what harm will it do her to hold her own views?' he said, after a few moments' silence. 'She has as much right to them as we have to ours.'
Ethel instinctively perceived that it would be her policy to say smooth things.
'Oh, the girl has some very good points, don't mistake me. She is undoubtedly both pretty and clever. She is very well read, too, in a subject in which you yourself are interested.'
'What is that?'
'Archaeology. She knows every stone in the old Abbey, and all about its history.'
'Do you think she knows anything about the old Prior's grave?'
'That I do not know. Perhaps you had better ask her yourself.'
THAT evening, when Frank Murray had gone home, and the rest of the household had retired, Edith Purcell stole quietly into her father's study.
'May I come and sit with you for a little while?' she said, rather timidly.
'Only too glad to have a companion!' rejoined her father.
So she drew up a chair, and sat opposite to him. For a time the silence was only interrupted by the puffing of the pipe and the sound of Edith's fingers as she played a nervous tattoo on the arm of her chair.
'I have been to see Miss Aubrey to-day,' began Edith at length,'and she lent me a book.'
'What book?' And Edith noticed a frown beginning to gather on her father's face.
'One of her own books. It is entitled The Nemesis of Faith.'
The frown grew deeper.
'I do not think you are old enough to understand such books.'
'But I have read a good deal of it—several chapters,' persisted Edith, who saw that she must now go on.
'And what do you think of it?' said her father, removing his pipe from his mouth, and awaiting her reply, as though he fondly imagined that she would say it was as incomprehensible to her as so much Greek.
'I think,' she replied, speaking with great emphasis and deliberation, 'that the woman who wrote that book cannot be a good woman!'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean that when a writer produces a book which has for its object the unsettling of the faith of its readers, and which even aims at the destruction of that faith altogether, that writer is acting wickedly.'
'You might say the same of missionaries who try to destroy heathen religions.'
'They would be equally wicked, I think, father, if they gave them nothing better in return.'
'And does not the book of which we are speaking give something better?'
'If you had read it,' said Edith, somewhat indignantly, 'you would not say that.' She rose from her chair, and came and knelt by his side. 'Father darling, I do not mean to be disrespectful, or wanting in the honour I should pay to you, but I do beg that you will read Miss Aubrey's book before—before—'
'Before I bring her to live with us,' he said kindly. 'Very well, girlie, I will do as you ask. And now let us talk of something else.'
Could she have looked into the study half an hour later, Edith Purcell might have seen her father upon his knees, wringing his hands; and she might have heard him saying: 'Oh, my child! my child! What would I not give for a heart and a faith like thine! But it is now too late!—too late!' For Henry Purcell was now learning the misery and coldness of unfaith. He was exasperated with himself, feeling that he was more or less of an automaton in the hands of Gilbert and Ethel Aubrey. He would have given worlds could he have retraced his steps. The present seemed to have a paralyzing effect on his life and art work; and he felt that degradation was leading on to apathy and despair. The ghost of the happy past seemed to cry aloud:
'Know that whatever thou hast been,
'Tis something better not to be.'
As he lay awake at night—for he did not sleep well
now—he fancied sometimes that the Prior stood by his side,
uttering the malediction on one who had not only disturbed his
remains, but had committed sacrilege in so doing: 'Virtatem
videant, intabescantque relicta'—Let them see the beauty of
Virtue, and pine away because they have abandoned her. Had he not
at one time rejoiced in his intellectual strength, as the score
of his oratorio had grown bar by bar? had he not felt formerly
like a very Samson as the grand fugues of Sebastian Bach rolled
out from the pipes of the organ in answer to his touch? And now,
like Samson, his strength was departed from him, and the Delilah
who had made him 'a weakling, a grinder in the prison-house, a
fettered slave, an eyeless drudge,' was Ethel Aubrey. Yes, it was
quite true he had resigned the power of his will into Ethel
Aubrey's hands. And because into hers, therefore into the hands
of her despicable brother. He, who had been entrapped by his
innocent love for this woman, yet felt anything but innocent, for
does not active innocence resist and conquer evil? Was there no
way in which he could stem the tide of his destiny?
It could only be done by a renunciation of Ethel Aubrey, and this he could not do.
TWO evenings later there was a thunderstorm. It began at about eight o'clock. By half-past eight the distant growling of the storm had grown into a mighty cannonade, and the flashes were playing about the pinnacles on the top of the great central tower of the Abbey. It did not rain at first, and there was an oppressive, breathless stillness between each roar of thunder.
Purcell had been spending an hour with Ethel Aubrey. He was more hopelessly in love with her than ever; while Ethel, on her part, seemed to spare no pains to enthral her lover.
'How hot it is!' she said. 'Shall we go into the garden for some air? The rain has not come yet, and I am not afraid of the thunder.'
They sat down on a seat in the garden.
'Gilbert tells me that he feels uneasy about the Prior's tomb,' began Ethel. 'He thinks that someone has been digging up the old monk's bones.'
'Which are Gilbert's own peculiar perquisite,' said Purcell, with a short laugh.
'I think he will ask you to aid him in opening the grave, to see whether it has been again disturbed.'
'A request I shall assuredly refuse.'
'Why?'
'Because I have done with the Prior's tomb. My bargain did not include a reopening, or a series of reopenings.'
'Well, Henry, that is, of course, no affair of mine! I can only tell him your decision, for he wished me to put the question to you. Let me leave you, dear, for a few minutes,' she said, as he tried to hold her; 'I will perhaps return after I have seen him.'
But Ethel did not return to Purcell, who at length grew weary of waiting.
He went up to the house and entered the study by the French window, but the room was untenanted. Ringing the bell, he asked for Miss Aubrey.
'She wished me to tell you, sir, that she has a headache, and has gone to bed,' was the maid's reply.
'And Dr. Aubrey?'
'He went out nearly half an hour ago.'
By this time rain was beginning to fall heavily, and Purcell went home, not in a very excellent humour.
'Where is Frank Murray?' he asked of Edith.
'He was working at the band parts until half an hour ago,' she replied; 'then a boy came to say that he was wanted immediately.'
THE storm was at its height when Dr. Gilbert Aubrey reached the gate which led into the cloisters, for this was his destination.
'Now, let me see!' he said, as he took a bunch of rusty keys from his bag, and tried one after another in the key-hole.
'Do you want to go in, sir?' said a boy's voice close by.
He turned sharply, and saw a small boy under a huge umbrella.
'Mind your own business, boy! or—yes—at least, you can hold this bag while I find the key of the gate.'
For some time he fumbled, trying key after key, till the boy remarked:
'Seems a difficult one to open, sir.'
Now, had Gilbert Aubrey been a worshipper at the Abbey, he would have known that he was being assisted by Jack Smithson, one of the choristers, and a bosom friend of Frank Murray. Happily for his present peace of mind he did not know all this, and therefore blundered and fumbled with the keys in the blinding, pelting storm, until at length patience was rewarded, and the bolt shot back in the lock with an unwonted click.
'Thank you,' he said to the boy. 'Goodnight!'
'Good-night, sir!' replied the boy. 'Oh my, what a lark!' he continued in an undertone, as he made first for Joe Sharp's and then, by his orders, for Frank Murray, who was at the organist's house.
The cloisters afforded a shelter from the pitiless storm, and Gilbert Aubrey shook off the rain from his waterproof.
'Bah!' he said, 'what a fool I was to turn out to-night!'
Making his way to the east end of the cloisters, before he entered the passage which led to the Prior's cell, he produced from his bag a dark lantern, which he lighted, and then, picking up the spade, which he had carried under his cloak, he made his way into the roofless cell.
How the rain did come down in that corner! It seemed to Aubrey as though the whole of the storm were concentrated on the Prior's cell. High above he could hear the water as it gushed from the metalled mouths of the great stone gargoyles; down every channel and conduit around the church rushed a swirling flood; from out the doorway of the cell issued a stream, which crawled sluggishly down the passage, as though loath to leave the watery world from whence it had just come.
Gilbert Aubrey shivered. He would have laughed sneeringly had he been told that he was a nervous man, and his indignation would probably have been unbounded had he met with any imputation of cowardice. Still, Gilbert Aubrey shivered as he entered the cell and held up the lantern.
Its light fell on ten thousand swiftly-falling raindrops and on dripping walls. The ground was a brown muddy swamp, especially in the corner where rested (or ought to have rested) all that was human of Prior Walter. There was no dry place where he could place his bag; and as for his waterproof coat—well, he would be wet through in a minute if he discarded that.
With a look of desperation, Aubrey put down his impedimenta in the mud, and set to work. He dug down into the soft earth a little way, but all the water in the cell immediately ran into the hollow, and Aubrey stepped out of the excavation as soon as he found that his boots were full of water.
'No good this time,' he said with an oath. 'If that fool of a Purcell had come, we might have done some good; and he began to shovel the damp earth into the hole again.
He had not performed more than half his task, when a vivid flash of lightning right over his head, followed by a tremendous crash of thunder, caused him to look up. As he did so, he heard another sound—a long moan, ending in a fierce shriek, and succeeded by a burst of laughter. How weird that laughter sounded through the storm! Seizing the lantern, Aubrey turned off the light, and stood for some minutes in mute and abject terror. Then it came again. How close it sounded! The very walls of the cell seemed to echo back the moaning shriek and the laughter. How horribly satanic! Aubrey tried to move, but his feet seemed rooted to the ground. He turned on the light and looked towards the doorway of the cell. Spectral figures seemed to flit past it, and Gilbert Aubrey fell fainting to the ground.
When he came to himself he was in his own bed.
IN a few hours Gilbert Aubrey had recovered. His courage returned with his health, and he was soon vowing vengeance on the rascals who had frightened him.
'One thing I am determined to do,' said he to Ethel. 'I must bring matters to a head with Edith Purcell.'
'I hope you may succeed; but do not be too sanguine,' she replied, with a shake of the head.
'At least I will try,' said he; 'and this very day.'
Edith was writing letters in the drawing-room when Dr. Aubrey was announced.
'I thought I was quite well now,' she said, 'and that my name was removed from your list of patients.'
'In one sense I trust that will never be the case. But to tell you the truth, Miss Purcell, I come to-day rather as the patient than as the doctor.'
'I fear I have no skill in medicine.' retorted Edith.
'You have a medicine which will cure my complaint.'
Edith began to feel uncomfortable. She could see that the crisis had come, and she divined Aubrey's intention. Still, there was no escape. She must listen.
'Miss Purcell—Edith,' he said, moving to a chair which was close to her own, 'I have come to-day to ask you to consent to become my wife. I know that I am some years older than you are, but I am by no means too old to become your husband. If you will accept me I will provide for you a comfortable home, and you shall have all that my means can afford, if, by so doing, I can add to your happiness. I have loved you for some time,' he added, more earnestly, 'and now I must know my fate.'
Edith listened, pale but calm, to the Doctor's proposal. She had always imagined that a proposal of marriage was something full of sentiment and affection. But there was a cold, selfish tone about Dr. Aubrey's words, even those which had been most earnest, which certainly would have repelled any girlish heart.
'My father told me that you would probably seek an opportunity of speaking to me on this subject,' she replied; 'and he will leave me perfectly free in the matter, I know.'
'Then you will be my wife, Edith?'
'I will not be your wife, Dr. Aubrey. In the first place I do not wish to marry yet, and in the second I do not love you. I will marry no man unless I love him and Edith rose, bowed to the Doctor, and left the room.
Gilbert Aubrey shook his fist after Edith as she closed the door, and at the same time hissed something between his teeth. Then he let himself out of the house.
As soon as he had departed, Edith sought her father.
'I have had a visit from that odious man,' she began.
'There are so many odious men in the world, my dear,' said her father.
'No man so repulsive to me as Dr. Aubrey! He has asked me to marry him, and I have, of course, refused.'
'I will not influence you, my child, but I hope it will be all right.'
'What do you mean?'
'I cannot explain to you fully, but Aubrey has a strange temper, and he might do something violent.'
'But what are you afraid of, father dear? What can the man do?'
But Purcell had plunged into his orchestration again, and did not reply.
A week later Dr. Aubrey was again announced. At first she thought of refusing to see him, but feared it would displease her father, or that it might even injure his prospects with regard to his engagement to Ethel Aubrey. 'No; I suppose I must see him,' she said to herself, with a little sigh.
'You will pardon my persistency, Edith,' said Aubrey, in his most pleasant manner, 'but I am venturing one more appeal. Perhaps, if you will hear me patiently, you will not now refuse to accept me as your affianced husband.'
Aubrey said this as though he had learnt the words beforehand, and was repeating them by rote.
'I will hear what you have to say, Dr. Aubrey,' said Edith very quietly.
The Doctor, giving a preliminary cough, proceeded:
'I should like you to marry me from purely disinterested motives—from pure affection, in a word. But there are other reasons—subordinate ones, I grant, but still of some importance in themselves—which I should like to advance for our union.'
Edith said nothing, and after another cough, Aubrey went on:
'You are, I think, aware that my sister Ethel is engaged to your father?'
Edith nodded.
'And also that she has produced some remarkable books, one of which has had a very wide circulation.'
'Do you mean The Nemesis of Faith?'
'Yes, that is the name of the book. I have no doubt that you have read it.'
'I have read a portion of it.'
'Perhaps you are not aware that your father has adopted the views on religion which are advanced in that book?'
Edith looked up startled, and her lips parted in astonishment and horror. Aubrey was watching her face narrowly, while a malicious smile played about the corners of his clean-shaven lips.
'I do not believe you, Dr. Aubrey! My father would repudiate any such insinuation!' And Edith rose as if about to leave the room.
'I do assure you that I speak the truth,' said Aubrey. 'You can test my assertion for yourself. But I have not yet told you how this bears on the matter which has brought me here this afternoon.' And here all the tenderness departed from Gilbert Aubrey's face, and fierce resentment took its place. 'Unless you consent to marry me, Edith Purcell, I shall not consider myself bound any longer to conceal your fathers religious views; and you know what might happen if the authorities at the Abbey should learn that their trusted organist has been for some time an infidel!' And Aubrey hissed out the last word from between his teeth.
For a moment Edith Purcell hesitated—not that she entertained for a moment the idea that she could accept Gilbert Aubrey; but she was so completely astounded at his communication that she hardly knew how to reply.
'I cannot give you any answer,' she said at length, 'until I have consulted my father.'
'You will tell him, please, the consequence of your refusal.'
'I will tell him of your threat,' said Edith, drawing herself up proudly.
Aubrey winced as she said the last word, and Edith felt the glow of anger arising within herself, for somehow it flashed upon her, with that marvellous intuitive perception possessed so acutely by clever women, that her father was in some way the tool and dupe of Gilbert and Ethel Aubrey. She must now speak, or perhaps for ever lack the opportunity.
'Dr. Aubrey,' she cried, 'I have one thing to say to you before you depart. By what means you and your sister have obtained your influence over my father I know not, but I have now learnt from your own lips that such influence is harmful to him. Perhaps, sir, you will also allow me to tell you'—and Edith's blue eyes flashed with energy—'that I know a little more about yourself than you might wish to be known. I know something about your clandestine visits to the Prior's cell! I know something of that which you found therein! I have been informed,' she added with increasing vehemence, 'that you were there only a week ago—the night of the thunderstorm, and were taken home faint and ill! Do not interrupt me, Dr. Aubrey! You need not imagine that my father has spoken to me of these things—I do not know how far he is associated with you—but you see I do know something, and more than you imagined possible. And let me tell you, sir, I am not the only one who knows about these things!'
As Edith continued her denunciation the colour gradually left Aubrey's cheeks, until the last spark had fled, and he stood by the table as pale and silent as a dead man.
'Now, sir,' said Edith, quite astonished at her own boldness, 'you have had your say, and I have had mine. I wish you good afternoon and ringing the bell for the maid, she bowed Dr. Aubrey from the room.
FRANK'S indignation when he was told that the Doctor had twice proposed to Edith knew no bounds. 'If I were only ten years older,' he said, 'I fear that it would lead to a duel. This was the article which did for him on the night of the storm,' he said, as he took from his pocket a cyclist's 'Demon' whistle; 'one can make almost any kind of unearthly noise with it. You should have heard the effect that was produced by the sound among the ruins.'
Edith laughed in spite of herself. 'Don't be a foolish boy,' she said, kissing him, 'but advise me as to what I ought to say to my father.'
They talked on this subject for a long time.
'The gov'nor may have read Miss Aubrey's book, but I believe that his heart's as sound as a bell,' said Frank, smiting his knee with energy.
'Then you do not really think that father is an—an infidel?'
'Not a bit of it,' replied Frank, with a toss of his curly head.
'But Dr. Aubrey assured me that he is an infidel. He used the very word.'
'The wish is the father of the thought in this case. No doubt Dr. Aubrey and his sister have done their worst.'
'I have already spoken to father about it. He therefore knows my fears. Can I do anything more?'
'Yes; you can tell him that we saw Dr. Aubrey and another man robbing the Prior's tomb.'
'But, Frank, supposing—'
'Yes, I know what you are about to say. You fear that the gov'nor was helping him that evening.'
'Yes.'
'Did you see him?'
'No.'
'Nor did I. We only saw a man's hands appearing now and then above the edge of the grave. My advice is this: we will see the gov'nor this evening, and tell him what we actually know, and no more. Do you understand? I will be spokesman,' said Frank reassuringly, as Edith hesitated, 'so you need not say anything.'
THAT very evening the young people carried out their plan.
They had something on their minds, said Frank, addressing
Purcell, and they did not feel comfortable in retaining a secret
which might be of great importance. And then Frank told him of
all that they had seen through the opening in the wall of the
Prior's cell, Edith giving a little nod now and then in
corroboration of Frank's statements.
'Is that all?' asked Purcell.
'No,' said Frank; 'I have to give you an account of the Doctor's more recent visit.' And Frank told him about Joe Sharp's dog bringing home a human bone, and how that Joe and himself had discovered Aubrey in the Prior's cell on the night of the thunderstorm.
Purcell could not keep back a smile as Frank described the way in which they had terrified the Doctor, but he said nothing to the young people about any share that he might have had in Aubrey's projects.
'I don't know whether we have done any good,' said Edith, when they were again alone.
'At least,' said Frank, 'we have done no harm. The gov'nor will see that the Doctor is being watched.' He said this with some boyish pride in the importance of his own share in the discovery.
As for Purcell, his whole soul was now in complete revolt against the part which he had been made to play by the malign influence of the Aubreys. His contempt for the Doctor's character and his repugnance to his actions grew daily in intensity. There was only one link left now to bind him to the Doctor's will, and that link was his affianced Ethel. But for her he would ere this have fully returned to his old faith and happiness; and but for her he would have had strength of mind enough to refuse taking any part in Aubrey's scheme of sacrilege and robbery. He had not, indeed, immediately given credence to the improbable story in the monkish document; and it was not until the treasure was actually unearthed that he believed in its existence. It was Ethel, and Ethel alone, that bound him to Gilbert Aubrey. He thought he could bear the public exposure of his present religious opinions, and even the shame of an indictment for having sacrilegiously robbed the dead, rather than the idea of parting from Ethel. Surely, he thought to himself, Ethel must see through the meanness of her brother's character?—Ethel, who, in spite of her lack of religious belief, he believed to be so noble and so high-principled.
Henry Purcell had yet to learn that, though the creed may often be better than the life, it has never yet been true that a noble life has developed out of an ignoble creed. Gilbert Aubrey had, since she came to reside with him, nolens volens become the spiritual child of his sister's creed; for though he was strong-willed, she was stronger willed than he. The cold, heart-withering negations of unbelief had speedily taken root in the congenial soil of his natural inclinations. He needed but the removal of the last check which even a formal religion supplies to become rapidly and hopelessly wicked. Purcell did not see all this, and though he felt the chilling effect of Ethel's system of negations, he was so completely enthralled, both by her physical charms and her intellectual attainments and fascinating presence, that he had permitted the painful wrenching away of old and cherished beliefs without making any persistent efforts to retain them; nor did he at first even permit himself to be troubled at their removal.
He was distressed, but not altogether surprised, by the story which Frank Murray had told him. He wondered to what disclosures it might lead; and he knew very well that if Aubrey would persist in revisiting the Prior's cell again and again, the crime must soon be found out.
THE rehearsals in preparation for the festival now began in earnest. Early and late, squadrons of singers of varying ages, sizes, and capacities thronged the practice-room.
'I fear you will be quite knocked up before the festival,' said Edith one day, as she noticed an unusual pallor on her father's face and a weariness in his manner which was certainly foreign to a man of his unbounded energy and physical strength. 'You need a holiday,' she continued. 'Now, why do you not accept the Dean's invitation, father dear?'
A few days before this Purcell had received a pressing invitation from the Dean to go with him as far as Vienna.
'It will do you good,' said the kind-hearted Dean. 'You are looking quite jaded with the work of preparation for the festival.'
At first Purcell had refused. There was so much to be done, he said, and he must be on the spot continually.
'Then, I fear you will break down, and fail to be at your post during the festival itself. Remember, "a stitch in time—"'
'Perhaps I could manage to leave my work for three weeks,' he said. 'No one will be the worse for the rest, and there is such a thing as over-rehearsal. I shall be back fully a month before the band rehearsals begin.'
So he went off to the Deanery, and returned, saying that the Dean was delighted, and would start the very next day.
While Edith packed her father's things, he went to announce his departure to Ethel.
They stood for a few minutes under the beech-tree, sheltered from observation.
'After the festival we must talk about the wedding,' he said, as he looked into her eyes. He pressed her to his bosom—one long, long kiss, and he was gone.
Ah, Henry Purcell, thou art not the first man who has been enslaved by the glances and kisses of a beautiful but heartless woman!
To Purcell, who had not previously been abroad, everything was delightfully novel and fresh. And the Dean, who was a man accustomed to read both faces and consciences, was rejoiced at the evident interest which he took in the places they visited en route. Like the rest of Monkton Friars, the Dean had been sorely perplexed at the change which had come over Purcell. He had heard a report of his engagement to the Doctor's sister, but had failed to associate that engagement with Purcell's condition of mind. It was therefore partly that he might have a companion, and partly that he might know Purcell better, and possibly help him if he had any spiritual trouble, that the good man had invited him to be his companion on this journey.
They were seated in the beautiful grounds of an hotel overlooking Lake Como, and Purcell had been waxing enthusiastic over the marvellous combinations of form and colour in the scene before them, when the Dean remarked:
'I have looked on this picture once before, and from this very spot, but it never appeared to be so beautiful as it does now. What a complete refutation of the unbeliever who cries, "There is no God"!'
Purcell did not reply, and the Dean continued:
'So long as the world lasts there will be, I suppose, those who, shutting themselves up in their own narrow chambers, will argue themselves into infidelity; but here, in this larger, freer air, with Gods great mountains around, God's great blue heaven above, God's marvellous earth and water, with all its prismatic and ever-changing hues beneath—yes, here, I should imagine, unbelief could hardly breathe.'
If Purcell did not reply, it was because he was deep in thought. How completely different he felt, now that he was removed from his late environment! He was beginning to experience a freedom and gladness of soul to which he had long been a stranger. Here, in the society of the Dean—a man of noble and unblemished character, a man of high ideals and unswerving integrity—Purcell was beginning to experience a wish that he could be like Browning's hero:
'One who never turned his back, but marched breast forward;
Never doubted clouds would break;
Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph.
Held, we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,
Sleep to wake.'
'But what am I thinking of?' said Purcell to himself, when the Dean had left him. 'I am compromised. I have put my hand, weak man that I am, to an unholy deed. Nay, am I not also pledged to marry an unbeliever? And, what is more, I love her.' And Purcell buried his face in his hands in the bitterness of his spirit.
Two forces seemed each to be drawing him. On the one hand was Ethel, his affianced bride; on the other was truth and right. It was hard to set them thus in mutual antagonism; but it was perfectly clear to him that, if he chose the latter, he must renounce the former. Ethel or God—what a fearful alternative it seemed to be! And there was no third, no middle course. Was there no one to whom he could turn for advice? Yes: there was the Dean—the kind, sympathizing, far-seeing Dean. But could he, dare he, tell him all? No; for it would be quite impossible for him to tell him about the Prior's tomb. Besides, he had no right to compromise Aubrey, tyrannical and unscrupulous though he had been.
'Have you ever read this book?' he said to the Dean the same evening, handing him a copy of Ethel Aubrey's Nemesis of Faith.
'No, I have not read it; but I think I have heard of it. Who is the author?'
'Ethel Aubrey,' said Purcell, as calmly as he could speak.
The Dean looked up, smiled, and nodded.
'The lady to whom you are engaged?'
'Yes.'
'I shall read it with interest, though it has, I must confess, a somewhat strange title.'
For some hours that evening the Dean perused the book, and Purcell observed that he made notes in his pocket-book from time to time.
'I should like to keep it a short time longer,' he said; but he made no remark about its contents.
'I made such a curious and wonderful discovery this morning,' said the Dean, on the third day after their arrival at Vienna. 'How the things came to Vienna I cannot imagine; but I think you will be as greatly interested as I am myself.'
Passing down one of the narrow streets in the old part of old Vienna—a street which has recently disappeared under the scheme of municipal improvement—they arrived at the shop of the Slavonic Jew, Izaakovitz. Over the door was inscribed the legend that he dealt in old plate; also that he had branches in Paris, London, and Rotterdam.
''Tis in this shop that I have made my discovery,' said the Dean. 'It is not a very grand place externally; but I assure you it contains an enormous amount of wealth. Now!' exclaimed the Dean, turning to Purcell, 'is not that exquisite?'
The man, at the Dean's request, had placed before them several pieces of ancient altar-plate of undoubted English workmanship.
'Beautiful and curious as it is, here is something far more interesting,' said the Dean. 'There! Your eyesight is better than mine. Just read the inscription on this chalice.'
Purcell took the vessel into his hand, and read: 'Walter, Prior, a.d. 1527.'
'Now, is not this intensely interesting?' continued the Dean enthusiastically. 'There can be no doubt, I think, that we have come upon the veritable altar vessels which were lost at the time of the death of Prior Walter. How on earth did they come into this man's possession? We must certainly try to secure them.'
The Dean chatted away in this strain for some minutes. Then, looking up into Purcell's face, he stopped, saying:
'My good fellow! what is the matter?'
'I hardly know,' replied Purcell. 'I feel very unwell;' and the Dean noticed that he clutched at the counter for support.
In a few minutes he recovered.
'You have found the heat and bustle of travel rather trying, I fear?' said the Dean, in an inquiring tone.
'I cannot say what was the matter. But I am better now—indeed, I am quite well,' replied Purcell, anxious that the Dean should not connect his illness with the sight of the altar vessels.
THREE days later, Dr. Gilbert Aubrey received from Izaakovitz
a circumstantial account of the visit to his establishment of an
English clergyman and his friend, with a full statement of the
remarks of the clergyman on that occasion, and the effect of his
words on the said friend.
As for the Dean he was sorely puzzled, and he wondered whether this had any connection with a certain rumour which had reached him, through Joe Sharp, just before he left England.
EDITH received her father, on his return, with open arms.
'How much better you look!' she cried; 'and now you must tell me all your adventures.'
Purcell told her much; but concerning the scene in the Jew's shop he was silent. And then she told him of the Aubreys' departure.
'Without a line of farewell,' said Purcell to himself.
He felt much distressed and perplexed. It seemed so strange that Ethel should have gone away without leaving even an address.
The time passed very quickly; the final rehearsals of the band, the soloists and the chorus were over; and at last the long-expected day arrived.
It was on a beautiful October afternoon that Henry Purcell surveyed the sea of faces filling every corner of the nave, transepts, and aisles of the great Abbey. An attentive and expectant crowd it was; and as the noted organist-composer raised his batôn for the instrumental introduction there was an intense stillness.
A high note of sweetest softness from the strings was first heard. How celestial it sounded as the violins played divisi, rising and falling in harmonious undulations, the music increasing in richness and fulness as the reed instruments and the horns were added, till the brass, and then the organ burst in with majestic grandeur and fulness. Then followed the chorus, tossing the fine theme from side to side, rolling out the counterpoint like mere child's play, alternating its fresh, bright soprano with its rich, warm contralto, its energetic, sprightly tenor with its strong, manly bass. The voices in the chorus sang con amore on that October afternoon. Soloists, instrumentalists, and chorus seemed to rise, during the progress of the oratorio, to greater and greater heights of enthusiasm as the overwhelming rhythm bore them along, till the final cadence was reached, and the last 'Amen' died away in the lofty roof.
Edith had not for a long time known her father so full of life and good spirits as he was after the performance. Both friends and strangers overwhelmed him with congratulations, and Purcell seemed to have thrown off the reserve and gloom of the past few months.
'I have left my batôn in the Abbey,' he said to Edith the same evening, as it was growing dusk; 'I will fetch it and some of the band parts, which may otherwise be lost.'
The strain and excitement of the day were over, and Purcell was experiencing the inevitable reaction. The Abbey was nearly dark, but its gloom was congenial to him, as he walked up and down the nave thinking over the events of the day. Again the sound of his music, as he had heard it a few hours previously in that nave, surged through his brain. Had the Abbey ever before heard such strains? he wondered. What would all the ancient monks have thought could they have listened? The old Prior—did his soul revisit the church which he had loved, and over which he had ruled? Had he, in the spirit world, listened to the strains that day?
All at once, as he approached the chancel, he saw through the deepening twilight a tall figure ascending the chancel steps. It was an old man clad in ecclesiastical garb. The top of his head was bald, and the fringe of long, snow-white hair overhung his shoulders.
By a strange and unaccountable instinct Purcell recognised the figure, for it passed close to him. Though he had never seen the old man alive, he knew instantly that it was Prior Walter. An unnatural light seemed to hover about him as he proceeded up the chancel, and entered the sacrarium.
Purcell, filled with horror, gazed after him, wondering whither he was going. It seemed to be no ghostly apparition that he was looking at, but veritable flesh and blood. He watched the Prior till he had reached the steps on which the altar rested, and in the dim light of the sanctuary lamps, which were always kept burning, Purcell saw that he turned slowly round towards the west, and as he turned he could discern a long scar above the old Prior's left ear.
Raising his hands high above his head, the monk's lips moved as if he were speaking, but Purcell heard no sound. And then, with his hands still upraised, the old man looked fixedly down the church, and his eyes met Purcell's.
For a few seconds they gazed at each other; and Purcell, spellbound, seemed to feel that the Prior was silently pleading with him. How awfully long were those moments! A lifetime seemed to be crammed into them.
At length the Prior removed his gaze, and Purcell then saw that he had crossed his hands upon his breast and, after swaying to and fro, he suddenly fell forward down the steps, as though dead.
Rushing forward towards the altar, Purcell looked anxiously for the prostrate monk, but there was no sign of anyone on the spot where he had seen the old man fall. Rubbing his eyes, he looked around in the gloom, but there was apparently no one but himself in the church.
'Oh, my God!' cried Purcell, clasping his hands, and falling on his knees before the altar; 'am I losing my senses? or is this the punishment for my sin?'
How long he knelt there he did not know. He was only conscious that he made a solemn resolution—a resolution repeated again and again—that he would seek to atone for the past.
It was a strange and solemn sight—perhaps one of the strangest and most solemn which those hoary walls had ever witnessed. It was strange and solemn, too, to the Dean, for he, on hearing the sound of a voice, had left the sacristry and had found the organist of the Abbey kneeling before the altar. Unobserved by Purcell, the Dean retired. He had no wish to disturb a man who was thus alone with God.
DURING this period Joe Sharp was maturing his plans, and, after careful deliberation, he proceeded to play another card in the game. He had been by no means contented with the practical joke which he and Frank Murray had played upon Aubrey, and had resolved to discover, if possible, the reason for the Doctor's exhumation of the dead Prior's remains.
Accordingly he had proceeded to lay his suspicions before the Dean before he went abroad, in the hope that he would at least be able to advise him as to the course he ought to pursue.
The Dean received him with his usual kindliness, and listened with great attention to his story.
'And do you say that you saw Dr. Aubrey engaged in digging in the Priors cell during the thunderstorm?'
'Yes.'
'Have you any idea of his object?'
''Appen I 'ave. It'll be sommat else nor auld bones, I'm thinkin'!' For he thought it wiser at this stage not to mention what Frank Murray and Edith Purcell had seen.
'I am not so sure,' said the Dean. 'You see, he is a doctor—a clever and distinguished man—and I am told that he takes a great interest in archaeological matters. No doubt he would at once satisfy our minds if we consulted him. It is always well to be above-board in these things. I would suggest that I should wait upon the Doctor, and tell him that I am informed that he has been seen digging in the Prior's cell. I will also offer him assistance—and perhaps a little advice, if he is willing to receive it—in any antiquarian research in which he may be engaged. My visit will give him an opportunity for an explanation.'
Joe Sharp was anything but satisfied. With the intuitive insight of his class, he was convinced that the Dean's charitable construction of Aubrey's doings did not touch the motive which underlay the affair; he did not believe that the Doctor wanted the bones for any purpose connected with his profession. And he was equally persuaded that his visit to the Prior's cell on the night of the thunderstorm was not prompted by antiquarian zeal. He was obliged, however, now that he had brought the matter before the notice of the Dean, to allow him to take any steps which he might deem to be necessary.
'I am going abroad with Mr. Purcell, said the Dean, 'but on our return I will see Dr. Aubrey.'
'An' while 'e's away I'll du summat,' remarked Joe to himself, as he left the Deanery.
With true Yorkshire caution he decided not to make any further move until the Dean and Purcell had gone.
'Then I shall 'av yon chap t' mysel',' he chuckled.
Accordingly, no sooner had the Dean and Purcell left Monkton Friars than he put into execution a scheme which he had privately arranged, and which he had carefully kept from his good wife's knowledge.
The first thing was to let the Doctor know that he was acquainted with his proceedings. With this end in view, he took Frank Murray into his confidence.
'I want ye to write a letter for me, Maister Frank, to yon doctor chap.'
THE following morning Dr. Aubrey received this letter:
Sir,
If you will be in the Prior's cell to-morrow (Thursday) at 9.30 p.m., you will meet with a friend, and may possibly hear of something to your advantage. The door into the cloisters will be unlocked.
'What can it mean?' said Aubrey, looking at his sister and turning pale.
'Some practical joke, I suppose,' she replied scornfully. 'Remember you have already suffered in the Prior's cell from the pranks of some humorous person. Have you forgotten the night of the storm?'
'But this is so evidently genuine.'
'Let me see the letter—yes, a boy's handwriting, if I mistake not, and therefore all the more likely to be a joke.'
'All the more likely to be genuine, I should say.'
'Gilbert, if you are determined to act like a fool, I may as well spare my words. I can only say, that if I were in your place I should never again enter those cloisters.'
But Gilbert Aubrey's curiosity was aroused, and he was as curious as a woman. He was afraid, too, that someone had discovered his secret. The cell had a strange fascination for him now, and, as a moth is attracted by a candle to its own destruction, so he felt himself to be irresistibly drawn to the place.
'I think I shall go,' he said. 'It may do good, and, after all, no harm can come of it.'
And so it came to pass that Gilbert Aubrey paid another visit to the Prior's cell.
There was a moon, but it was obscured by the low clouds which scudded rapidly across the sky. The wind was whistling in mournful gusts around the Abbey, and most of the inhabitants of Monkton Friars had retired to their homes when the Doctor arrived at the entrance to the cloisters. Casting around him a hasty look to see if he were observed, Aubrey entered, and, closing the door, proceeded to light the lantern, which he produced from beneath his cloak; and then, looking for all the world like a second Guy Fawkes, he made his way cautiously in the direction of the Prior's cell.
Meanwhile Joe Sharp and Frank Murray were awaiting his arrival.
'Art thou sure, Maister Frank, 'at thou saw t' Doctor tak' them theer altar vessels out o' t' auld monk's grave?'
'Unless my eyes deceived me, I could swear it,' replied Frank. 'Besides, Miss Purcell saw them also.'
Joe shook his head half doubtfully.
'When folks is flayed they'll believe a deal.'
'But you don't mean that you think we were deceived, or that we have invented the story?'
'Not a bit, my lad. But you say it wor i' t' neet, an' dark, an' ye wor both squintin' through this 'ere little gap. Ye might a bin mistain aboot them vessels, I'm thinkin'.'
'I am convinced I saw them.'
'Weel, lad, we shall soon know, I reckon, for 'ere's t' Doctor 'issel'.'
Aubrey came cautiously along the gloomy cloisters, and did not immediately enter the Prior's cell, but peered about as though he were afraid of some design on his person, until Joe called out in good-humoured tones: 'Coom in 'ere, coom in, we'll noan 'urt thee.'
The Doctor held up the lantern as he entered, and look cautiously around, as if to see who was present. His lips were compressed, and there was an agitated look on his face. He seemed relieved when he saw only Joe Sharp and Frank Murray.
'Evenin', sir,' said Joe. 'Sorry to 'a' brought you out sae late; but, you see, our business is a bit important, an' we thought this would be a nice quiet spot for t' job.'
'Come, come! no trifling, my man,' replied Aubrey sharply, and endeavouring to conceal his agitation by asperity of manner. 'Inform me at once why you have asked me to come here.'
Now, if there is one thing more repugnant than another to the mind of the average Yorkshireman, it is the process commonly known as 'beating about the bush.' And Joe Sharp was no exception to the rule. It is true, he had planned various subtle means of extracting a confession from Aubrey, and he was prepared for much astute fencing on the Doctor's part. But all subtleties fled from Joe's mind as soon as Aubrey spoke.
'What 'ast thou done wi' t' altar vessels, Doctor Aubrey?' he said solemnly, at the same time placing his burly form in the doorway, to cut off, if need be, the Doctor's retreat.
'What—what do you mean?' replied Aubrey, a death-like pallor overspreading his face.
'I mean,' said Joe, speaking very slowly, and emphasizing each word with a motion of his brawny and clenched fist—'I mean that thy secret is out, Doctor Aubrey. An' my advice is: mak' a clean breast on't afore ye git into war trouble.'
Aubrey looked at him in silence for a few seconds, and then the colour returned into his face as he retorted in anger:
'Don't bully me, my good fellow! By what right do you charge me with having stolen the vessels?'
'I charged ye wi' nought,' replied Joe; 'but I can do that. This lad saw thee tak' t' vessels out o' t' grave.' And he pointed at Frank Murray as he spoke. 'Now, I'll tell thee what I'll du, Doctor,' he continued, without pausing for further reply. 'I'll gie ye till t' Dean cooms back. Go to him wi' t' vessels, and tell 'im 'ow thou found 'em; an' when thou's told 'im thy tale we'll tell our'n.'
'But suppose I don't acknowledge that I have taken the altar vessels?'
'We want no acknowledgment. We've proof.'
'Proof! What do you mean?'
'I mean, Dr. Aubrey, 'at we've evidence enow to satisfy ony jury o' twelve honest men.'
This seemed to stagger him.
'I will take time to think over your proposal,' he said—'although, mind you, I by no means acknowledge your charge. When does the Dean return?'
'In about a fortnight,' chimed in Frank Murray.
'Very well,' continued Aubrey, who was now recovering his self-possession, 'you may meet me here this day month, at this hour, when I hope to satisfy you that you have both been completely mistaken.'
'Shall we bring t' Dean?' asked Joe.
'Yes,' he replied, after a moment's hesitation.
There was a cunning look in the Doctor's eyes as he spoke, which was not unobserved by the sharp-witted Yorkshireman, though he did not understand its meaning.
They walked through the cloisters in silence, and separated at the iron gate.
'There's more divil nor mon aboot yon chap,' ejaculated Joe as he tramped home. 'He'll be up to summat, I'll bet.'
This prophecy was speedily fulfilled.
Ethel Aubrey was busily employed on the manuscript of her new book when her brother hastily entered, shortly before 10.30 p.m.
'You seem flurried,' she remarked, looking up from her desk.
'You would be flurried if you had passed through my experience of the last half-hour.'
He then gave her an account of the interview.
'And what do you intend to do?'
'Justify myself at all costs.'
'And lose what you have gained?'
'It is the only way of saving my reputation.'
'But you talk nonsense, Gilbert! How can you justify the removal of the vessels from the Prior's grave?'
'I can swear that I did it at Purcell's instigation, and that I replaced them in the grave as soon as he went abroad.'
'So you mean to lay the blame on your accomplice?'
'Yes.'
'Gilbert, your moral principles are even lower than I had imagined possible.'
'Are your own much better? What is right? what is wrong? Have I not often heard you say that right and wrong are exactly what one believes to be right and wrong? If I am to be my own standard, you cannot blame me. I only act in self-defence. It is the first law of Nature.'
Ethel was silent. She felt that the logic of her own principles was irresistible. And yet she felt sorry, in a feeble, half-hearted way, for Henry Purcell. The question in her own mind was, Which should she sacrifice? Purcell or her brother? It was consistent with Ethel Aubrey's selfish nature that she should think first of her own advantage; and so, after a few minutes' hesitation, she decided to throw in her lot with her brother.
'You must regain the vessels, and do something to screen yourself,' she said presently, 'and Henry must look after himself.'
They sat up till a late hour concocting their plan of operation. It was arranged that they should at once proceed to Vienna, avoiding the route taken by the Dean and Purcell. They would then, if possible, recover the sacred vessels, and bring them back to Monkton Friars. The future plan of action they left to be arranged on their return.
AFTER the performance of the oratorio it was suggested among the more ardent of Henry Purcell's admirers that some token of their admiration and esteem should be presented to him. The scheme was speedily afloat, and within a few weeks bore fruit, insomuch that a handsomely-bound selection of orchestral full-scores, and an illuminated address, together with a purse of gold, were speedily ready for presentation.
It was once more a time of mental conflict with Purcell. No longer dazzled by Ethel Aubrey's presence, he was viewing things in a new light. Whether the appearance of Prior Walter had been an illusion of his own overwrought brain, or whether it had been an actual presence, from that night he bitterly repented the part that he had taken in opening the Prior's tomb. Had it not been that he felt it would be dishonourable to betray Aubrey, and also that doing this might bring sorrow upon Ethel, through the disgrace of her brother, he would have gone to the Dean at once and have made a clean breast of everything. As it was, he remained on the tenterhooks of suspense. Except that the Aubreys had gone abroad, he knew nothing of their whereabouts. If only they would return something might be done, but the most careful inquiry at their house elicited no further information.
When Purcell learned what was on foot in the matter of the testimonial he became increasingly uneasy.
'How serious the man looks!' the Dean remarked to himself; 'one would think that he was about to be punished rather than rewarded.'
As for Edith and Frank, they were, of course, greatly elated. 'Dear father has toiled for so many years so earnestly and humbly,' said the former, 'and now people are beginning to discover his worth.'
What a crowd it was! All the musical world of Monkton Friars and the neighbourhood was there. Rich and poor were united in mutual endeavour to show honour to their talented organist.
'How very pale father looks!' whispered Edith to Frank Murray, in an anxious voice.
Purcell certainly did look intensely pale. His advent on the platform was received by round after round of hearty cheering, and he bowed in response, but not a single smile lighted his haggard face.
'Poor chap! 'e's vary nervous,' remarked Joe Sharp to his wife.
The Dean, on behalf of the contributors, proceeded to speak of Purcell and his work. He desired, he said, to bear testimony not merely to the success of Purcell's musical undertakings, but also to his sterling worth and the integrity of his moral character.
Other speeches followed in the same strain, while Purcell sat with his lips compressed and his eyes fixed upon the ground.
At length the Dean arose to read the list of contributors and to make the presentation.
'It is with sincere pleasure, Mr. Purcell—' he began.
But Purcell was standing up now, and his hand was outstretched towards the Dean as if to stop his remarks. He hardly realized what he was doing, but he found himself saying, 'I am altogether unworthy either of your confidence or of your testimonial.' (Cries of 'No, no!' from various parts of the room.) 'I am not the man you believe me to be,' continued Purcell in a firmer tone. 'I am involved in a matter which is unworthy and dishonourable. I cannot disclose to this public meeting the details, but I assure you I stand before you smarting with shame—a self-convicted man.' And sitting down, he buried his face in his hands.
'Come, Purcell,' whispered the Dean, stooping down to him. 'You do not mean to say that you will not accept the testimonial?'
'I cannot—I cannot,' he said, with a wave of his hand.
After a momentary conversation with those on the platform, the Dean, painfully anxious to relieve Purcell from his present position, announced that the meeting was adjourned, and the people dispersed slowly and wonderingly, for some time standing about in groups discussing the strange event.
In the Dean's mind Purcell's refusal was connected with his engagement to Ethel Aubrey, whose book he had read, and whom he consequently knew to be a sceptic. In Edith's mind there was the terrible fear that, after all, her father was involved in the robbing of the Prior's tomb.
A week later Gilbert Aubrey returned home. Purcell heard the news, but could not bring himself to visit him; besides, it was said that Miss Aubrey had not come back with her brother.
It was on a foggy November evening when Gilbert Aubrey paid his fourth visit to the Abbey. The clock in the great tower struck seven as he cautiously entered the cloister, and, fastening the door behind him, proceeded to the Prior's cell.
'Now for hard work,' he exclaimed, as he placed his bag, lantern and tools on the ground. 'But I will outwit that Yorkshire lout. Curse him!' He hissed the last words maliciously.
For upwards of an hour he toiled at the work of emptying the earth from the grave. From the fact that it had been repeatedly disturbed the soil was soft, and he had some difficulty in preventing the sides of the grave from falling in as he dug.
After a time he came across the remains of the dead Prior, not all together, but at various depths. First came the thigh-bone, and as he took it up he smiled as he thought of Joe Sharp's visit to him with this very bone.
'Ah, I see it now. He was on the right track, too. But I'll be even with him yet!'
DIG, dig, dig, till at length something white gleamed in the light of the lantern. It was Prior Walter's skull. 'I've seen you on a former occasion,' he said, as he balanced the cranium in his hand. 'He was a fine intellectual old fellow—superstitious, but a good sort, I've no doubt,' remarked the amateur grave-digger. 'I wonder whether his disembodied spirit knows what I am now doing. Bah! what am I talking about? Ethel would declare that I am as superstitious as was the old monk!'
DIG, dig, dig. Then the clock above him chimed the quarter.
'Eight-fifteen,' said Aubrey. 'Phew! how hot it is in this hole! What a horrible occupation is a grave-digger's!'
Then his mind reverted to the stories he had read of Chinese criminals condemned to dig their own graves. 'What awful cruelty!' he thought; 'but they could not bury themselves, that was one comfort, poor wretches!' And he grinned at his ghastly joke.
DIG, dig, dig. Aubrey was now toiling with feverish haste, for the time was speeding away, and the chest in which the vessels had originally been concealed must be unearthed and the grave filled in before 9.30 p.m.
DIG, dig, dig. Again the chimes rang out through the damp night air.
'Half-past eight,' he said, wiping the perspiration from his brow, 'and I have not arrived at the chest yet! If only Purcell were here now! What strength that fellow must possess! I had no notion that digging was such hard work.'
DIG, dig, dig. Deeper, ever deeper, the panting man worked, till at length, as the clock chimed the third quarter, and Aubrey's strength was almost exhausted, the corner of the battered chest appeared above the soil. Aubrey cleared the earth from about it, and then, sitting down for a few seconds on the corner of the box to recover his breath, he glanced up at the damp and crumbling brown earth through which he had dug. How cold and dark the grave looked! How horrible was the appearance of that grinning skull on the edge of the abyss!
'Now for the things!' he muttered; 'and then I defy anyone to prove that they have ever been disturbed. Purcell is too securely under Ethel's thumb to open his mouth. I hope the fellows will not appear before the grave is filled up. In you go!' he said, seizing the vessels and thrusting them one by one into the chest with the one hand, while he held up the lid with the other. 'Ah, ah! A little acid has restored the tarnish of age completely!' And he bent down and held the larger of the two chalices near the lantern. 'The devil take the man who first thought of burying the things here!'
As he spoke, he thrust the lid back against the earth, and stooped down to place the chalice with the rest of the plate. But the shock of the lid against the side of the grave was too great for the crumbling soil. With a dull thud the unsupported earth fell in upon his stooping form. There was a smothered cry —a groan—a brief convulsive struggle—and then all was silent and still.
THE Abbey clock boomed out the hour of nine.
'A regular November night!' remarked the Dean, buttoning up his coat, as Joe Sharp and Frank Murray waited in the hall at the Deanery. 'You see, I am ready to go with you.'
'A dark night for a dark job,' said Joe.
The Dean smiled.
'I hope it will not prove to be so dark a business as you seem to imagine. I have no doubt that Dr. Aubrey will completely satisfy us to-night. I have sent word to Mr. Purcell, asking him to come. He'll be round in a few minutes. Ah, here he is! How do you do, Purcell? We have an interesting little adventure before us, and I thought you might like to accompany us.'
'Certainly,' said Purcell innocently.
'Dr. Aubrey has been making excavations in the Prior's cell—you are not afraid of ghosts, I hope?—and will meet us there, to explain why he has done it, and to tell us of what he has found. We are to be there at 9.30, so must not delay.'
Frank Murray watched Purcell's face as the Dean spoke, and noticed that the organist looked very pale. But the Dean did not see it, and hurried them off to the cloisters.
'There is no escape now,' thought Purcell. 'But whatever can Aubrey be doing? At the worst, I can but state the truth, be the consequences what they may.'
It did not take many minutes to reach the entrance to the cloisters. Here Joe Sharp lighted his lantern, and the party made their way to the cell.
Joe, bearing the light, was the first to enter, and held up the lantern as he stepped through the doorway, to see if Aubrey were already there.
'Well, I'm blest!' he exclaimed. 'If t' chap 'asn't bin at work afoor we coom!'
'True enough!' said the Dean, looking into the corner of the cell, towards which Joe pointed. 'He must have been there some time. And see, there is his hat!'
They assembled round the grave and looked in, while Joe held the light over the opening.
'T' side o' t' grave 'as fallen in!' he exclaimed. 'See, t' chap 'as noan dug out this earth.'
'What can it mean?' said the Dean. 'Well, we can only wait till Dr. Aubrey appears. H e will no doubt explain it.'
They waited for some time, but as the Doctor did not come, Joe offered to dig out the fallen earth with the sexton's tools.
Purcell's feelings meanwhile were indescribable. What it all meant he could not conceive. Had Aubrey repented? or was it some new phase of his cunning?
'Halloa!' shouted Joe Sharp presently from within the grave. 'Theer's summat soft under my feet. I believe its a mon!'
'A man!' they cried. And Purcell held his hand to his palpitating heart.
In ten minutes Gilbert Aubrey's dead body was laid on the floor of the cell. In his death agony he had tightly grasped the chalice. The Dean disentangled it from the dead man's hand and read the inscription.
It was the chalice he had seen in Vienna.
THAT night Henry Purcell made a full confession to the Dean. By virtue of his office, the Dean's lips were for ever sealed with regard to what passed between them. Suffice to say that what was revealed included no mention of Aubrey's guilt, for Purcell came to confess his own, and not another man's, sins.
Ethel Aubrey returned home for her brother's funeral, and, to Purcell's surprise, both he and Edith were invited to be present. The service was performed by the Dean, and the tears rose to their eyes as the beautiful and touching office of the English Church for the burial of the dead was read. Only one seemed to be unmoved—that one was Ethel Aubrey.
'I suppose you have given the Dean a full account of your connection with my late brother?' she said, when, later in the day, Purcell called upon her, and endeavoured to express his sympathy. 'Really, I do not stand in need of condolences,' she added. 'I hate to be pitied.'
'But I do feel very sorry for your poor brother.'
'You need not feel sorry for him, I am sure. If I held what is commonly called the Christian Faith, I should be sorry, too; but as I have long ago, as you know, deliberately abandoned all belief in a "hereafter," his loss does not concern me very greatly. I shall be very lonely—that is all,' she added sadly.
Purcell winced as she spoke. She looked so very beautiful, but an iceberg could not have been colder.
'I hope we may see you very often?' he replied.
'No, Henry; you know quite well that now that would not be good for either of us. Let us be quite candid with each other. There is no disguising the fact that we are not to each other what we were a short time ago. No,' she said pleadingly, as he seemed to be about to speak; 'do allow me to say what is in my mind! I can see, though you have not told me so, that you have reverted to your former religious opinions. I can see, too, how devoted you are, and rightly so, to your pretty daughter with her strong religious proclivities; I can see that you have suffered in being the accomplice—perhaps that is a hard word; but it is, no doubt, a true one—the accomplice of my poor brother in his discovery of the ancient church plate. And while you have been doing this, I have been following the track which fate and reason have plainly mapped out for me. If we were to marry, we should be incompatibles; there would be no similarity of tastes, ideas, or aims in life. Further than this, I have told you more than once that my disposition is such that I cannot brook a rival of any kind. The man who calls me his must renounce all other loves, earthly or heavenly. It is quite plain that you have not found this to be possible, and therefore we must part. A purely Platonic friendship is impossible—on your part, at least—however possible it might have been on mine.'
In his own heart, Purcell could not but agree with Ethel's reasoning. It would be as useless as it would be dangerous to himself for him to try to persuade her to abandon her free-thought ideas. No; far better that they should separate. The pang would be sharp; but, in his present state of mind and convictions, he could see that it was necessary. He had fondly imagined that perhaps he might constitute himself a sort of guardian to Ethel; but her words convinced him how futile was such a hope. They must each go their own path; and, as for marriage, the very idea of such a thing must be abandoned.
Ten days later the practice-room was again crowded with Henry Purcell's admirers, for they had been summoned to meet him in order that he might tender an explanation. He told them—and a thrill of horror ran through the audience as he did so—how he and Gilbert Aubrey had disentombed the bones of Prior Walter, and had found under his coffin the chest containing the holy vessels; and he concluded by an account of the vision which he had seen on the night after the festival—a vision which had changed, he said, the whole tenor of his life.
Much of his story was familiar to Edith and Frank Murray. How they admired his moral courage in this great act of self-conviction! But the story of the apparition was new, even to them, and Edith was horror-struck.
'I will never again go into the Abbey in the dusk alone,' she whispered to Frank.
'No; I will always go with you,' he replied.
When Purcell had concluded, the Dean arose.
'I did not attempt to dissuade Mr. Purcell from this act of reparation and public confession,' he said, 'for I saw that he felt he owed it to the people of this town. Unless the Crown should claim them, these holy vessels belong to this ancient church, and will be restored, with fitting ceremonial, to their original uses.'
So saying, the Dean uncovered a table on which were displayed the ancient altar vessels, and other valuable plate, now in completest order, and restored to their original beauty.
There was one more duty for the Dean to perform, and that was, to make the presentation to Purcell, which he did in a few simple and appropriate words.
'I thank you with all my heart,' said Purcell in reply; 'and I will accept the gift on condition that I use it as I please. But you shall not be kept in the dark. The full-scores will be of great service to me, the illuminated address will hang on my wall to remind me of a momentous period in my life, and the purse of one hundred and fifty guineas I shall give to one who has been more than a daughter, for the purpose of a start in housekeeping, if ever she should contemplate an establishment of her own.' And Purcell looked down with a loving smile on Edith, who blushed scarlet at this unlooked-for announcement.
MORE than six years have passed. Henry Purcell is still the organist of the Abbey Church of Monkton Friars. Frank Murray has taken Holy Orders, and is now the precentor of the Abbey. Edith still attends to the altar flowers, and Joe Sharp continues to be one of the most energetic and capable of sidesmen. The Dean is older, but his fine, manly voice has lost none of its ring, and his heart none of its kindly sympathy.
On the second Sunday after Trinity the Dean made an announcement in the following stereotyped form: 'I publish the banns of marriage between Frank Murray, bachelor, and Edith Purcell, spinster, both of this parish. If any of you know cause, or just impediment, why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare it.'
A month later there were great doings at the Abbey. It was the wedding-day. All Monkton Friars came, till people remarked that never had there been known such a crowd at a wedding in the old church. How the choir did sing, to be sure! And there was a choral Eucharist, at which the ancient holy vessels were used; and the Dean gave an address, in which he spoke of the happiness of faith, and the darkness and unrest of doubt; while he urged the newly-married couple, and all who were present, to hold fast the definite creed preserved by the Church for so many ages.
When it was over Henry Purcell tore himself for a few minutes from the wedding-party that he might go to his beloved organ. How joyful sounded that wedding-march! How sprightly moved the fingers and feet of the player!
The gray hairs have come somewhat rapidly on Henry Purcell's head, but his heart is as young as ever. So you would think if you could see him romping with his grandchildren. But now and then the gloom returns for a while. It is when he reads an article in a magazine signed 'Ethel Aubrey,' or comes across a review of one of her numerous books. At such times he retires to the Abbey, and has more than once been observed kneeling before the altar on the spot where once he saw the spirit of the dead Prior.
Roy Glashan's Library
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