CHAPTER XXV.

BOADICEA’S WATCH.

It was rather late when Mr. Yorke came down Sunday morning. The storm was yet violent, and he did not mean to go out; and besides, he had been tormented all night with disagreeable dreams. When he appeared in the breakfast-room, Patrick had been to the village, and had seen Father Rasle. The priest was resolutely keeping his fast, and even hearing confessions.

The occurrence of the night before had stirred up the sluggish faith and piety of those few Catholics who had not meant to attend to their religious duties, and they crowded about their pastor at the last moment.

It would, perhaps, be just as well not to describe the manner in which Mr. Yorke received the news they had to tell him, for his anger was scarcely greater toward the mob than toward his own family. He would eat no breakfast, would scarcely stop to change his slippers for boots, but started off to see Father Rasle.

“I shall bring the priest home with me; or, if he will not come, shall stay with him, and defend him with my life from any further outrage,” he said as he went out the door, addressing no one in particular.

“We expect him to return with you, Charles,” his wife said; but he paid no attention to her.

“Coddled like a great booby!” he muttered to himself as he strode down the avenue. “Amy should have more respect for me, or, at least, more regard for my reputation. It is a wonder she does not dress me in petticoats, and set me spinning.”

“Never mind, mamma!” Clara said, kissing her mother, and leading her into the house. “This storm will cool papa off nicely. He will come home penitent, you may be sure. I only hope that you will hold off a little, and not forgive him too readily.”

Mrs. Yorke wiped away the tears which had started at her husband’s unusual severity.

“Never think to comfort your mother, my dear, by speaking disrespectfully of your father,” she said, but, while chiding, returned her daughter’s caress. “And do not think that I could remember one moment any hasty word or act of his when I knew that he was sorry for it. I do not at all wonder that your father is annoyed at not having been called: I quite expected it.”

“Mother, I give you up,” Clara exclaimed. “Where Mr. Charles Yorke is concerned, you have not a sign of--may I say spunk? That is what I mean.”

“No, you may not,” replied Mrs. Yorke with decision. And so the conversation dropped.

Patrick drove Edith to the church. When they entered, they found the people all gathered; and in a few minutes Mass began. The scene was touching. The congregation, prostrate before the altar, wept silently; the choir, attempting to sing, faltered, and stopped in the first hymn; and the priest, in turning toward his people, could not trust himself to look at them, but closed his eyes or glanced over their heads. Tears rolled down the faces of the communicants when they knelt at the altar; and at the benediction many wept aloud.

It was a Low Mass, and when it was over the priest addressed them. He talked only a little while, but in those few words they found both comfort and courage. They were not to mourn, but rather to rejoice that he had been found worthy to suffer ignominy for Christ’s sake. He translated and gave them for their motto these words of St. Bernard: “_Pudeat sub spinato capite membrum fieri delicatum_.” They should not seek persecution, indeed, but when God sent it upon them they should accept it joyfully. For pain was the only real treasure of earth, and real happiness was unknown, save in anticipation, outside heaven. They belonged to the church militant; and as their great Captain had marched in the van, with shoulders bleeding from the lash, and forehead bleeding from the thorn, they should blush to walk delicately and at ease in his ensanguined footsteps. He implored them to pray constantly, and keep themselves from sin, and, since they might for some time be deprived of the sacraments, to take more than ordinary pains to preserve the sacramental grace which they had just received. There were a few words of farewell, uttered with difficulty, then he ceased speaking.

When Father Rasle went out with Mr. Yorke, the weeping congregation gathered about him, falling on their knees, some of them catching at his robe as he passed by. He was obliged to tear himself away.

The storm was now over, and the sun burst forth brilliantly as they stepped into the air. A carriage was in waiting, and, when he had seated himself in it, with Mr. Yorke and Edith, Father Rasle leaned out, looked once more with suffused eyes at his mourning people, and raised his hand in benediction. Then the door closed upon him, and they were alone.

A second carriage followed this containing four men, well armed, and several other men, armed also, took the shorter road, through East Street and the woods, to Mr. Yorke’s house. Whatever they might suffer, these men did not mean that any further violence should be offered to their priest or to the man who protected him.

As the carriage drove up the avenue, Mrs. Yorke and her two daughters came down the steps to receive their guest. Both Mrs. Yorke and Clara, who were speechless with emotion, gave a silent welcome; but Melicent, much to her own satisfaction, was able to pronounce an eloquent little oration. In the entry Betsey stood stiffly, the two young Pattens in perspective. Thinking, probably, that one of her abrupt courtesies was not enough for the occasion, this good creature made a succession of them as long as the priest was visible, young Sally bobbing in unison. Paul, duly instructed by his mother, waited till the proper moment, then bowed from the waist, till he made a pretty accurate right-angle of himself.

All that day, besides the regular guard, the Irish were coming and going about the house, and when toward night they retired to their homes, the guard was doubled.

Sally Patten came over in the evening and offered her services. Joe could take care of the young ones, and her desire was to stay all night and keep watch at the Yorkes’. It was in vain for them to say that she was not needed. With every sort of compliment, and every demonstration of respect, she persisted in staying. Betsey, she said, had slept none the night before, and would be needed about the house the next day, and they might all rest better if there were a vigilant watcher in-doors as well as out. Men were slow and stupid sometimes, but there was no danger of her letting slumber steal over her eyelids.

“Well, it is true, my head does feel like a soggy batter-pudding,” Betsey owned, beginning to waver. “I had a jumping toothache all Friday night, and last night I never slept one wink.”

“Besides,” continued Boadicea, growing heroic, “when the two eldest of my offspring are in the jaws of destruction, my place is beside them.”

It was impossible to resist such an argument, and she was permitted to have her way.

“I was going to leave the door unlocked, so that the men could come in and get their luncheon,” Betsey said. “But as you are here, perhaps you will carry it out to them.”

A dignified bow was the only reply. Mrs. Patten considered so trivial a subject as luncheon irrelevant to these thrilling circumstances. The question in her mind at this moment was what weapon she should use in the event of an attack. Her taste was for the mediæval, and she would have welcomed with enthusiasm the sight of a battle-axe or a halberd; but since these were not to be had, she inclined toward a long iron shovel that stood in the chimney-corner, reaching nearly to the mantelpiece. This would give a telling blow, and would, moreover, allow of a fine swing of the arms in its wielding.

“Now, here are two coffee-pots full,” Betsey said. “This is done, I think, and will do to begin with. You might put water to the other so as to have it ready about twelve o’clock. I believe in having something to eat and drink, no matter what happens. About all that keeps me from joining the Catholic Church is their fasting. I couldn’t praise God on an empty stomach; I should be all the time thinking how hungry I was. If it warn’t for that, I do believe, the folks here act so like the old boy, I’d turn Catholic just for spite, if nothing else. Give ’em as many of them pumpkin-pies as they want to eat. Give ’em all there is in the closet, if they want it.”

Sally listened, superior, and merely bowed in reply.

Betsey set out a private lunch, and poured a cup of coffee. “Now, you take this, Mrs. Patten,” she said, “and make yourself as comfortable as you can. It will help you to keep awake.”

Boadicea hesitated, then, with a smile of lofty disdain, swallowed the coffee. Why should she attempt the vain task of making that unheroic soul comprehend the emotions which agitated her own spirit? Pumpkin pies and coffee help to keep her awake! Well, she swallowed them, but merely to escape the multiplying of trivial and inconsequent words.

At length the happy moment came when all in the house had gone to bed, and she was left alone.

And now indeed her soul swelled within her, and visions of possible heroic adventure rose before her mind’s eye. She put out the lamp, and pushed the logs of the fire so closely together that only a dull-red glow escaped. She set the doors all open, and walked stealthily from room to room, gazing from window after window, stopping now and then to listen, with her head aside and her arms extended. There was a smoldering knot of wood in both the parlor and sitting-room fireplaces, and the faint light from them and from the kitchen threw gigantic fantastic shadows of her on the walls and ceiling as she moved about.

Clara, feeling restless, came softly down once, and, seeing this strange figure, stole quickly back to bed again, and lay there trembling with fear all night.

But Boadicea kept her watch in glorious unconsciousness of realities. The place had undergone a change to her mind during those lonely hours. It was no longer a common, wooden country house, but a castle, with walls of stone, and battlements, barbacan, and drawbridge. Mrs. Yorke was a fair ladie sleeping in her bower (not even in thought would Sally have spelt lady with a _y_), Mr. Yorke was a battle-worn warrior, Father Rasle the family chaplain and my lady’s confessor. Without, the retainers watched, and an insidious foe lurked in the darkness, ready for bold attack or treacherous entry through a chink in the wall. Even now some vile caitiff might have obtained entrance, and be lurking behind yonder arras.

At that thought, Sally seized the kitchen shovel, and crept stealthily toward the parlor window, a grotesque shadow accompanying her, leaping across the ceiling in one breathless bound. She paused, and stared at the heavy drapery that seemed to outline a human form, and the shadow paused. She crept a step or two nearer, and the shadow dropped down and confronted her. She grasped the weapon firmly in her right hand, and, stretching the left, with one vigorous twitch pulled down Mrs. Yorke’s damask curtain.

For a moment Sally felt rather foolish. She put the curtain up as best she could, and then went to give the garrison their midnight lunch.

“And what is it ails the old lady?” asked one of the men of a companion. “Is it dumb that she is?” For this great, gaunt creature had given them their refreshments in utter silence and with many a tragical gesture.

She bent suddenly toward the speaker, raised her hand in warning, and whispered sharply, “Be vigilant!”

“What does she mean at all?” exclaimed the man in alarm, as Sally stalked away, very much bent forward, and looking to right and left at every step, as one sees people do on the stage sometimes. His impression was that something awful had taken place in the house.

In short, it was a glorious night for this poor addled soul--a night which would grow more and more in her imagination, till, after the passage of years, her most sincere description of it would never be recognized by one of the real actors.

Daylight came at length without there having been the slightest disturbance. Betsey came down to relieve guard, and Sally, weary but enthusiastic still, went home to electrify Joe with the recital of her adventures.

Clara, coming down before the rest of the family, was astonished to find the kitchen shovel reclining on one of the parlor chairs, and a crimson curtain put up with the yellow lining inside the room.

Father Rasle appeared in a few minutes, and took an affectionate leave of the men who had spent the night in guarding his rest; and, as soon as breakfast was over, he and Mr. Yorke started for Bragon.

Edith saw him go without any poignant regret for her own part, for she was to remain in Seaton but a few weeks longer. But her heart ached for the poor people who were so soon to be left utterly friendless. The burden of the pain had fallen, where it always falls, on the poor. A group of them stood at the gate when the travellers went through, and others met them in North Street, and all gazed after the carriage, with breaking hearts, as long as it was in sight. When might they hope to see a priest again? When again would the Mass-bell summon them to bow before the uplifted Host, and the communion cloth be spread for their heavenly banquet? They cared little for the mocking smile and word, but covered their faces and wept when their pastor disappeared from their gaze.

Patrick went down to the post-office, and came back bringing a letter for Edith, which had lain in the office since Sunday morning. The letter was from Mrs. Rowan-Williams, and contained but a line: “My son is at home, dangerously sick with a fever.”

“The sentiment which attends the sudden revelation that _all is lost_,” says De Quincey, “silently is gathered up into the heart; it is too deep for gestures or for words, and no part of it passes to the outside.”

Nor is the silence more profound when a slight possibility, over which we have no control, still interposes between the heart and utter loss.

Edith put the letter into her aunt’s hand. “I must go immediately to Bragon, to take the cars,” she said quietly. “Will you tell Patrick to get a carriage? I will be ready in a little while.”

She went up-stairs to put on a travelling-dress, and pack what she wished to take with her. The selection was calmly and carefully made. There was no need of haste. In less than an hour everything was ready, and the carriage at the door.

“I have sent a telegram to your uncle, and he will meet you, and go on to Boston with you to-night,” her aunt said.

Melicent offered her a cup of coffee, and she put it to her lips, and tried to drink it; but all the muscles of her mouth and throat seemed to be fixed, and she could not swallow a drop. She gave back the cup, without uttering a word.

“I have put some fruit and a small bottle of sherry into this luncheon-bag for you,” Mrs. Yorke said hastily. “You must try to take a little on the way. You do not want to lose your strength, and these will be refreshing.”

No one mentioned Dick Rowan’s name to Edith, or offered a word of comfort. They even refrained from expressing too much solicitude and affection, and only kissed her silently when she went out. “Do nothing but what is necessary,” Mrs. Yorke had said to her daughters. “There is no greater torture, at such a time, than to be fretted about trifles. Think of her feelings, not of expressing your own.”

Neither Betsey nor her assistants were allowed to appear, and Patrick had orders to speak only when he was spoken to, and not on any account to mention Mr. Rowan’s name.

“If he dies, it will kill Edith,” Mrs. Yorke said, letting her tears flow when her niece was out of sight.

Some such thought was in Edith’s own mind during that long drive. If Dick Rowan should die, her peace and joy would die with him; not that he was everything to her, but because she could never accept a happiness which was only to be reached over his grave. Edith loved Carl Yorke with all her heart, he attracted her irresistibly, and seemed rather a part of herself than a separate being; yet at that moment the thought of his death would have been to her more tolerable than the thought of Dick Rowan’s.

Mrs. Yorke’s telegram was at the priest’s house awaiting her husband when he arrived, and he went at once to the hotel where his niece was to meet him. Soon they were on the way.

“The Catholics here are in a state of the wildest excitement,” he said. “The news arrived before we did, and the Irish want to go down and burn Seaton to the ground. Father Rasle will have difficulty in quieting them. The better class of Protestants, even, cry out against the outrage. They have called an indignation meeting for to-night, and the Protestant gentlemen are contributing to buy the priest a watch. His watch and pocket-book were stolen Saturday night, you know.”

Though Edith said but little in reply, it was not because she had more important matter in her mind. The number of seats in the car she counted over with weary persistence, the number of narrow boards in the side of the car she learned by heart. She knew just how the lamp swung, and could have described accurately afterward the face and costume of the boy who sold papers and lemonade and pop-corn. Not till the weary night was over, and her uncle said, “Here we are in Boston!” did she awaken from that nightmare entanglement of littlenesses. Then first she showed some agitation.

“Drive directly to Mrs. Williams’s,” she said, “and, while I sit in the carriage, go to the door, and ask how he is. If they tell you that he is better, say it out loud, quickly, but if--if the news is not good, don’t say one word to me, only take me into the house.”

A telegram had been sent to Mrs. Williams, and Edith was expected. As Mr. Yorke went up the step, the door opened, and Dick’s mother stood there.

Edith leaned back in the carriage, and covered her face with her hands. She had not dared to look at the house, lest some sign of mourning should meet her glance. “O Mother of Perpetual Succor!” she exclaimed.

“He is no worse, my dear,” her uncle said at the carriage-door. “I think you need not fear. Come! Mrs. Williams is waiting for you.”

Edith lifted her hands and eyes, and repeated her aspiration, “O Mother of Perpetual Succor!” but with what a difference!--not with anguish and imploring, but with passionate gratitude. Dick would live, she saw that at once. If the blow had not fallen, then it was not to fall now.