CHAPTER XI.

THE INNOCENT BLOOD.

THE next day was Sunday, a day which usually hung rather heavily on our hands.

There was a Roman Catholic Chapel in Newcastle, but it had been closed ever since our arrival, and the priest had left town. The rumors of a second attempt of the Chevalier de St. George, or the Pretender, (that unlucky gentleman being one or the other, according as the speaker were Whig or Jacobite,) though as it turned out totally unfounded at that time, had made it expedient for such of the Catholic clergy as knew the value of peace, to keep out of sight. But these rumors had now begun to die away.

It was reported that King Louis had forbidden the chevalier to fight with his army in Flanders, or even to visit it; that his highness was living quietly in the neighborhood of Paris, amusing himself with shooting and playing, and other more questionable diversions, and that there was not the least likelihood of his getting together another fleet at present to re-place that which had been scattered by the storms of the preceding winter.

The Jacobites still held up their heads, and used their passwords, and wore their white ribbons. But I could not but observe that a large number of the fine bonnets which sailed into the side entrance of St. Anne's were trimmed with red plumes and flowers.

Amabel had one of her rare headaches that day. She got up, but was obliged to go to bed again. I applied the usual remedies, and she by and by began to amend, and at last fell into the deep sleep which usually ended these attacks.

As I knew that she was not likely to wake for some hours I ventured to leave her, and, taking my book of "Hours," I stole down into the garden, and seated myself in a shady corner, a favorite place of mine, where one of the buttresses of the old gray stone church projected into our garden. There was a window directly over my head, out of which several lights were broken, and as I sat, I could hear the voice of Mr. Cheriton reading the service, and the droning responses of the old clerk.

Mr. Cheriton had a good voice and read remarkably well. He had too much taste to mumble the service, as many clergymen do, or to repeat it like a child going through the pence table. Not that I should have seen any thing wrong in it if he had, for I was used to say my own rosary much in the same way. Mr. Cheriton had also a musical ear, and his efforts, joined to those of Mr. Lilburne, the organist, had made the singing the best in town, so that many fine people came purposely to hear it. These people were sometimes to be seen coming away before the sermon, which I should think could hardly have been very pleasing to Mr. Cheriton.

I had not said to myself that my object in seeking the corner under the church wall was to hear the service, and yet such was really my purpose. I had begun to be very curious about the ways and worship of Protestants, and would have liked very well to go to church with Mrs. Thorpe for once, but I had not yet ventured to propose such a thing to Amabel. However, I said to myself that there could be no harm in listening, so long as I did not join in the heretical worship. So I did listen with all my ears, and made the discovery that the service—prayers, hymns, and all—was in English, so that I understood every word.

"How strange that they should have the Church prayers in the common vulgar language that they use every day," said I to myself. And then the thought occurred to me, that as most of the worshippers were common vulgar people, perhaps it was as well that the prayers should be in a language which they understood.

Presently I made another discovery, which was, that the priest did not have all the service between himself and the choir, but that the people actually joined in it. Any one who looks into the matter will see that in the Romish Church there is no such thing as common prayer as we understand it. The priest and his assistants perform the mass, and the choir sings the responses, while the books of those who are able to read contain various devotions, such as are considered appropriate to different portions of the service. There may be as many different prayer-books as there are worshippers.

But here I heard the voices of all the school children, and many of the congregation beside, join in the "Good Lord deliver us," and other responses of the litany. I had now given up all pretence of reading and listened with all my ears. I found myself strangely affected by these English prayers. The short petitions seemed calculated to meet almost every case of need or sorrow common to man. I felt the tears very near my eyes, and when the choir sung the twenty-third psalm—

"The Lord is only my support, And He that doth me feed, How can I then lack anything Whereof I stand in need.

"In pastures green He feedeth me Where I do safely lie, And after leads me to the streams Which run most pleasantly—"

The drops ran over. I believe this was the first time I had ever thought of God, Himself, as my Father, or as a possible friend. The Father was to me up to that time, as an awful stern power far away in the heavens, yet watching all I did with a jealous eye; from whose wrathful justice I was to be saved, if at all, by the intercession of Mary, and by her commands laid upon her Divine Son, in my favor.

I listened eagerly for the sermon, but it disappointed me; I could hardly tell why. It was well written and faultlessly delivered, no doubt, but I must confess, the whole might have been summed up, as Jenny Trevathy summed up one of poor old Doctor Brown's one day last summer—

"It is nice to be good, and naughty to be wicked, and if you are good, you will have a nice time, and if you are not, you won't."

But of how to be good—how to get rid of that traitor within, which was always corresponding with the tempter without, and opening the doors to him—of that I heard nothing.

"To resolve was everything," Mr. Cheriton said. But I had not yet found to resolve was anything.

I got up as the congregation began to disperse, and went into the house. I found Amabel up, and bathing her face with cold water.

"How is your headache?" I asked.

"Quite gone," she answered. "Have you been sitting here all the morning?"

"No! I have been in the garden, listening to the music in the church. Do you know, Amabel, they have all their service—prayers and chants and all—in plain English, and the people join in them?"

"Yes, I knew as much as that!" answered Amabel. "But I am not sure it was right to listen to them."

"There was no harm in them, that I could see," I answered. "They seemed to me very good prayers."

"They are heretical, and so they cannot be good," answered Amabel, in her mildly positive way. "They have no mass at all, and even what they call the communion, only once in a month, and you know Lucy, the perpetual adoration of the Blessed Sacrament was instituted partly to atone for the affronts offered to it, by Protestants."

"How far away all that seems!" said I. "Does it to you?"

"Almost always. It is Sister Lazarus' turn at the post now!" said Amabel, with a far off dreamy look in her eyes. "It always came at this time on Sunday. I heard her tell Mother Prudentia once, that Satan always assaulted her at that time, by making her wonder whether or not Sister Anne was scorching the fowls, and letting the soup boil over."

"The dear mothers and sisters—how often I have wished I could send them some of the nice things we are always having to eat," said I.

"Sister Lazarus is a much better cook than Betsy," returned Amabel, jealous for the honor of her old friend. "Mrs. Thorpe herself said she never saw such cooking."

"Yes, but think how little she has to do with. I wish our own dinner was ready, but I think Mrs. Thorpe is later than common."

"There she comes now. Please fasten my kerchief behind, Lucy!"

"Well, my dears, did you think I was never coming?" said Mrs. Thorpe. "It is a Sacrament Sunday, and there was such a number of communicants as I never saw before. Almost all poor-looking people, too. The free seats were quite filled, and some of the men were rough-looking fellows enough. However, they all behaved wonderful well—a deal better than some of their betters, I must say. I don't want to set up to judge the quality, but I don't like to see all this curtsying, and bowing, and passing of snuff-boxes, and sugar plums. That sort of thing may do well enough at the theatre, but to my mind, 'tis very unsuitable to the church of God."

"We don't have such things in our churches!" I said, rather boastfully.

Mrs. Thorpe gave an odd little smile. She had been many times in Paris, and the low countries; and Protestant as she was, she had seen a deal more of Romish churches than we had.

"So much the better, my dear!" said she. "As I said, church is no place for them. I saw my Lady Throckmorton make up a face of disgust at Mr. Cheriton himself, as some poor women came in, and sat down in the free seats near her."

"What did Mr. Cheriton do?" asked Amabel.

"I could not see that he gave her so much as a glance," said Mrs. Thorpe. "Folks say—some of the straiter-laced kind at least—that Mr. Cheriton is too fond of the theatre and card table for a clergyman. But at least, he knows what belongs to good behavior in church, and he gave the sacrament to the poor women with as much care and gravity as he would have done to a princess."

"I heard say, that the Methodists were coming to town, and were to have preaching this morning, at five o'clock at the Sandgate," observed Mary Lee modestly. "Perhaps that was what sent so many to the communion."

"The Methodists would be more likely to keep them away, from what I hear!" replied Mrs. Thorpe. "It is said, they teach that there is no use at all in ordinances, and they set up the commonest sort of people to preach, and to administer the sacraments."

"I do not think that is quite true, mistress!" said Mary, who very seldom ventured to speak a word. "My Aunt Kesiah, who is with us now, used to hear Mr. Wesley preach in Bristol, and thereabouts, when she lived in those parts last year; and she said great complaint was made by some of the clergy, that Mr. Wesley and his brother sent so many to the sacrament. * The sexton at Kingswood, where all the colliers live, was downright vexed about it, aunt said. They do have preachers of the common people I believe, but they are only preachers."

* See Charles Wesley's "Memoirs," concerning the colliers of Kingswood.

"They are all Papists, and in league with the Pretender. My father says so," said Betty Humble.

"Anyhow, they preach to the poor colliers and miners, that nobody had thought of before, any more than if they were brutes," said Mary, with spirit. "My aunt says, that there at Kingswood, where all sorts of wickedness, drinking, swearing, fighting, and what not used to go on, you hardly hear a bad word, or see a drunken person nowadays. The very women mend their own and their children's clothes, and strive to keep their houses neat, and the men sing psalms, and hymns, when they go to and from their work, instead of wicked vile songs, as they used to."

"The Methodists bewitch them," said Martha. "There was John Bristate's wife—she used to be the greatest scold in the Sandgate—and made naught of heaving the cat at John's head, and now she is like a lamb. John says it makes him just feared at times when he comes in late, to find his supper waiting by the fire, and to see Sally knitting, and the poor beast of a cat that used to dread her very step sitting in her lap or on her gown."

"If he would rather have a cat thrown at his head than to see it sitting on his wife's gown, he is not of my mind," said Mrs. Thorpe dryly. "I like a cat well enough, but not in that way, and I should say it would be altogether more healthful to the cat."

"I heard a gentleman—it was Lord Bulmer—say that some preacher declared that he knew his sins were forgiven," said I. "And Mrs. Bunnell had some talk with Mr. Cheriton about the matter, and she said it was in the prayer-book."

"I don't think that can be, and it does seem great presumption in a common man to pretend to know that his sins are forgiven," observed Mrs. Thorpe. "I have no spite against the Methodists, but the good old Church of England is good enough for me, as it was for my father before me, and so it ought to be for you, Mary Lee. Don't you be led away by any new-fangled notions, but do your duty toward God and your neighbor according to the catechism and you will be all right, never fear."

Mary's pale cheek flushed, and she looked as if she would like to say more, but as we all rose from the table at that moment to return thanks she had no opportunity. My own curiosity was greatly roused by what I had heard of these strange people, and I made up my mind that I would question Mary, and find out more of what her aunt had told her.

We always went out for a walk on Sunday afternoon, and not uncommonly a friend or two of Mrs. Thorpe's would drop in for a cup of tea, a chat, and a game or two at cards or backgammon, followed by a little supper. Mrs. Thorpe, I am sure, saw no harm in these things, or she would never have done them, for she was not one to go against her conscience in anything.

At the same time, she was greatly shocked and distressed at finding Amabel and me working at our embroidery frames one Sunday afternoon. She exacted from us a promise that we would never do so again, and told us a tragical tale, of a maid of honor of Queen Elizabeth's who had died from pricking her finger with a needle while sewing on Sunday, adding that she knew the story was true, for she had seen a wax-work image of this wicked young lady when she was in London, with the blood running down her finger as natural as life.

I don't think we were as much impressed with this tale as Mrs. Thorpe intended. Being a maid of honor to Queen Elizabeth, we thought the judgment might have come upon her for that reason, and not because she sewed on Sunday, for we had been taught to regard good Queen Bess as the personation of all that was evil in women.

But I am getting a long way from that memorable Sunday.

We had been out for a walk, as I have said. St. Anne's Church stood on the corner of the street down which we returned, and we had just drawn near to it when we heard the noise of many hoarse voices, which at once reminded me of the noises which had so terrified me in Toulon, and of the voices of the robbers as we heard them while concealed in the great cavern at St. Jean.

"What can that be?" exclaimed Mrs. Thorpe. "Let us hurry home, young ladies."

At that moment, Mr. Cheriton came out of his house and joined us, saying that he would see us to the door, as there seemed some disturbance in the street. We turned round the corner of the church and at once found ourselves face to face with the danger.

A riotous mob of persons—wharfmen, soldiers, and women of the lowest sort—were pouring up the street in which we lived. Just before them two men—one a plain man in decent black, the other apparently an officer of some sort—were supporting between them the form of a fainting woman, and trying to shield her from the blows that were aimed and the missiles that were thrown by the rioters.

Three or four gentlemen on horseback mingled with the crowd, and were evidently setting them on. In one of them, I recognized Lord Bulmer, whom I had seen at Lady Throckmorton's.

At the moment we reached our own door, a better aimed missile than the others struck the man in black on the head and knocked him down. It seemed as if the whole group would be trampled into dust by the multitude that came pouring on like a drove of wild cattle; but help was at hand. Mr. Cheriton sprang forward and, placing himself between the woman and the mob, with one flourish of his big stick, as it seemed, he laid low two of his opponents, and cleared a ring round him. At the same moment, a mutual recognition took place between Mrs. Thorpe and the young officer.

"Dick Thorpe, is this you?"

"Aunt Thorpe, for Heaven's sake, open the door and take this poor distressed woman into your house. These beggarly long-shore cowards have all but killed her." And he added a string of hard words which I will not set down here.

Swearing, which is now going out of fashion among gentlefolks, was as common as breathing at that time. Mrs. Thorpe was not the woman to disregard such an appeal. She flung open the private door of the shop. The poor man had picked himself up by this time, and, with the help of young Mr. Thorpe, carried the woman into Mrs. Thorpe's private parlor.

Meantime, Mr. Cheriton was addressing the mob. He Informed them in energetic language, level to the lowest understanding among them, that they were a set of cowards and sneaks, unworthy of the name of Englishmen; that they deserved kicking—not to say hanging—and it was a wonder if they did not get their deserts. He would like to see the first man who would dare attack the house whose mistress had taken in the poor creature. As he spoke, he twirled his stick, and looked round him as though he would enjoy breaking two or three more heads.

The viler part of the mob began to slink away by that time, and the better sort to look rather shamefaced.

"But these be the Methodees, parson," one ventured to say.

"They be in league with the Papists and the Pretender," said another.

"Rubbish!" returned the rector. "They are harmless people. Who has been telling you such a pack of lies?"

"His lordship says so," returned the first speaker, looking at Lord Bulmer, who kept his ground, though the other gentleman had drawn off.

"Then his lordship might be in better business," retorted Mr. Cheriton. "You are well set to work, my lord, hounding on these men to such a villainous, cowardly persecution of a few harmless enthusiasts."

"Mr. Cheriton, your cloth protects you," said Lord Bulmer, turning very red. "If it did not—"

"If it did not, I should be safe enough, I dare say," returned Mr. Cheriton, in a tone of the most stinging contempt. "The valor which exerts itself against poor Methodist preachers and helpless women is not likely to be very dangerous to any thing of its own size. Go home, my men, go home, and thank Heaven that you have been saved from the doing of a horrible cowardly crime."

The crowd had much thinned by this time, and the few men who remained looked sheepish enough.

"Then you don't think they be Papistees?" one man ventured to say.

"No, I don't, and if they were it would be no way to convert them. Pray, how did this disgraceful row begin?"

"'Twas the gentry as put us up to it," the man begun, but I heard no more.

Amabel and I had been peeping through the blinds of the room over the shop, when Mrs. Thorpe, who had sent us away from her room down stairs, came and called us.

"The poor woman has come to herself, but she must be got to bed without delay, and all the girls are out save Betty Humble, who has hid in the coal-hole and won't come out. My dear young ladies, will you do this distressed creature a good turn by getting a bed ready for her?"

"Yes, indeed," answered Amabel and I both together.

"Then just make up the bed in the front bedroom as quickly as you can. The blankets are all there, and you will find linen on the second shelf of the press in my room. There is the key. I will come up and do the rest."

We set to work with all zeal, admiring the thick softness of the feather beds and the beautiful smoothly-laundered linen. We ran hither and thither, bringing what was wanted, and making ourselves useful in all sorts of ways.

"See what it is to have the use of one's hands," said Mrs. Thorpe, as she came down stairs and found the table set and every thing ready for supper. "My dears, I never thought of your doing so much. Betty Humble, if you do not stop that noise this instant, I will empty this bucket of water over you."

This to Betty, who, having come out of her coaly refuge, was trying to attract a little interest to herself by going into hysterics in the corner.

"Don't let me hear another sound from you, if you want any supper to-night. Come, young ladies. Kesiah Lee is sitting with the poor woman above."

Mary ran and fetched her the moment she came home, like a good brave girl as she is, instead of bawling and screeching in the coal-house.

"Well, I can't help myself," began Betsy. "I always did have nerves when any thing was the matter."

"Then let me hear thee say nerves again and thow'lt get thy ears cuffed," returned Mrs. Thorpe. "Nerves, indeed! A pretty thing for every 'prentice lass to be setting up with nerves like a fine lady. Nerves are for the quality, not for those who have their living to earn."

"How is the poor woman?" I asked, when we had taken our seats at the table.

"Very bad!" answered Mrs. Thorpe, shaking her head. "I doubt she will hardly get through it. My nephew has gone for the doctor, and Kesiah Lee, who knows all about such matters, has promised to stay all night. We will do our best for the poor thing."

"And her husband?" asked Amabel.

"Like one distracted poor man at first, but he is quite calm now, though one may see by his face how much it costs him. 'Tis enough to wring one's heart to see him smile and speak cheerfully to his poor wife, and then turn to the window and stifle his grief. What could ever have possessed him to bring a woman in her condition into a crowd passes my guessing. If the poor thing dies, some folks will have murder on their souls."

Mrs. Crump and Betsy had come home by that time, so there was no more need for our services. And Mrs. Thorpe sent us to our own room with the recommendation that we should go to bed early, as we had had such a fatiguing day.

"You need have no fear!" said Mrs. Thorpe. "My nephew will stay in the house all night, and he has brought with him two or three sturdy sailors from his own ship, to garrison the fort, as he says."

This news produced a wonderfully reviving effect on Betsy's sinking spirits. She at once made known her willingness to sit up too, that she might be on hand if help were wanted.

"Yes, I dare say!" returned Mrs. Thorpe. "You go to bed, and don't let me hear your voice again this night. Do you go to bed too, my dear young ladies, and don't forget the poor woman in your prayers, for she needs them, if ever distressed creature did."

"Let us say the Litany of the Holy Virgin for her!" said I, when we were alone together.

Amabel was not quite sure, whether or no it would be right to do so for a heretic; but at last she agreed, and we went through it devoutly enough, addressing the Lord's mother in a way that seems to me now to be sheer idolatry.

I was a long time falling asleep, for when the necessity for action was over, I found out for the first time that I had been scared; and though I did not have a fit of the nerves like Betty, I started at every sound, and strained my ears to hear every movement in the other part of the house. It was not till cock-crowing that I fairly fell asleep.

Nevertheless, I waked rather early. The house was very still, and a late robin was singing sweetly in the garden. I could hear some one stepping about softly now and then, but that was all.

I dressed and opened our parlor door. That of the room opposite was open, as was also the window, which I rather wondered to see. The room way very neat, and Mrs. Thorpe worn from her vigil, and with traces of tears on her bright face, was just drawing the snowy curtains together.

As she caught my eye, she beckoned me, and as I came to her side, she softly parted them again, and turned down a fine white sheet which covered the bed. There lay the poor woman; her marble face beautiful with the peacefully joyful smile of death, and oh me—on her arm lay like a little waxen image—a dead baby.

"Is it not a pitiful sight?" said the good woman. "The babe was born about daybreak, and for a little, we hoped it might live, but it just breathed long enough to be christened, poor little dear, and its last sigh passed away with its mother's. She had her senses to the last, and I warrant you, it was a pitiful thing to hear how she strove to comfort her husband, and prayed for those who had brought her to this pass. I will never say a word about the Methodists again."

I have seen many a sorrowful sight in my day, but never I think one which touched me like that.

As I thought of Lord Bulmer with his languid fine gentleman airs, and remembered how he had set on the mob to murder these innocent creatures, my heart was like to burst with grief and indignation. I was to hate him worse before I had done with him.

"There, don't make yourself ill with crying, that's a dear!" said Mrs. Thorpe. "The poor thing's troubles are over, and she will never suffer again; and as to the dear baby, we know the Lord took such in his arms and blessed them, even when the disciples would have hindered him. Go down into the garden if you will, and gather some rosemary and lavender, to strew over the winding-sheet, and a white rose or two, to lay in the babe's bosom. We must make things look as pretty as we can."

I observed already, how neatly the bodies were dressed, and disposed.

As Mrs. Thorpe had suggested, I hurried down to the garden and gathered my hands full of sweet herbs, with which the place abounded. I was busily searching for some of the late violets which bloomed in a sunny border, when I was accosted by young Mr. Thorpe.

"The poor woman above is dead, I hear!" said he, after a morning salutation. "And her babe also. 'Tis a cowardly murder, if ever there was one."

"You did your best to save them!" I said.

"Yes! And should have succeeded, for the mob were inclined to hear the preacher at first when he turned to speak with them. But that cowardly fellow—Lord Bulmer as they call him, and one or two more of his sort, set them on, crying out that he was a spy for the Pretender. A spy indeed! We know who would have favored him, if he had been. But I shall mayhap meet this fine Lordling again, and we shall see whether he wears the white feather, as well as the white cockade. I crave your pardon, madam, I should not use such language before you: but I am a plain sailor, and not much used to ladies' society. Can I give you any help?"

"I would like a cluster of those white rose-buds!" said I, looking up to where a beautiful Noisette rose was trained against the wall. "But I fear they are out of reach."

"Not a bit of it!" was the answer.

Mr. Thorpe clambered up the rough wall at the peril of his neck, as it seemed to me. But before I had time to be scared, he was on the ground again, and put the roses into my hand.

"Thank you. They are beautiful," said I. "But you should not have run such a risk for them."

"Oh, it was no risk for a sailor!" he answered carelessly. "One does harder things than that every day on shipboard."

I began to be a little shy, so I thanked him again, and returned to the chamber of death. The poor husband was there, sitting by his dead wife and child, his face bowed in his hands; not weeping, but as it were crushed with the great weight of his grief. He did not raise his head as I came in; we arranged the flowers and herbs I had brought, and then Mrs. Thorpe paused, as if uncertain what to do next. At that moment, Mr. Cheriton entered the room.

"How is he?" he asked in a whisper.

"Just the same!" answered Mrs. Thorpe in the same tone. "He will neither eat nor speak. If he could weep, it would be something; I fear for his reason."

Mr. Cheriton stood for a moment, as if hesitating what to do. He has since said, that he never in all life longed so much to comfort any one, but he did not know what to say.

At last he drew a Prayer-book from his pocket, and saying in his deep voice, "Let us pray!" He kneeled down and began the last collects in the burial service. Amabel who had now risen, knelt beside me. We heard some one come in softly, and take his place with the rest.

When we arose, we saw that it was a strange clergyman—a neat little man in very precise black, with a face full of power and benignity. He went straight up to the preacher, laid his hand on his head, and said in that voice whose melody once heard, was never forgotten—

"My poor brother, may the God of all comfort, sustain thee."

John Edwards looked up at the words, and burst into a passion of tears and sobs.

"It was our first child!" said he brokenly. "Our very first; and we had lived together so lovingly for fourteen years."

Mrs. Thorpe beckoned us all out of the room, and left the friends together. Kesiah Lee was standing on the landing-place.

"He will comfort him if any one can," she whispered. "It is Mr. Wesley, himself."

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