Chapter Ten.
The Chain of our Sins.
“When on the problems of the past
A flood of light has come;
When we see the evil that we did,
And the good we might have done.”
Cyrus Thornton.
On the 27th of January, Robert and Thomas Winter, Guy Fawkes, John Grant, Ambrose Rookwood, Robert Keyes, and Thomas Bates were placed upon their trial at Westminster.
Grant and Bates were really guilty of very little beyond knowing of the plot and keeping silence. But they all received the same sentence—to be hung, drawn, and quartered. Sir Everard Digby was tried separately, but to the same end. He alone pleaded guilty; his principal anxiety seemed to be to save the priests—a wish wherein all the conspirators agreed. On leaving the dock, Sir Everard, “bowing himself towards the Lords, said, ‘If I may but hear any of your Lordships say, you forgive me, I shall go more cheerfully to the gallows.’ Whereupon the Lords said, ‘God forgive you, and we do.’”
Of all the conspirators, Sir Everard won the greatest sympathy, from his rank, his youth, his accomplishments, and especially his fine person—which last drew expressions of pity from the Queen, who was afflicted with that fatal worship of beauty which was the bane of the Stuart race.
Three days later, the scaffold was set up at the west end of Saint Paul’s Cathedral, and four of the traitors were brought forth to die. They were the four least guilty of the group—Sir Everard Digby, Robert Winter, John Grant, and Thomas Bates.
As the prisoners were being drawn to the scaffold upon hurdles, a pathetic incident took place. Martha Bates had followed her husband to London, and as the procession passed by, she rushed from the crowd of spectators, and flung herself upon the hurdle in an agony. Bates then told her of the money entrusted to him by Wright, which he wished her to keep for her own relief, and it was afterwards granted to her by the Crown.
Arrived at the place of execution, Sir Everard was the first to ascend the ladder. Very pale, yet very self-controlled, he spoke to the people, saying that his conscience had led him into this offence, which in respect of religion he held to be no sin at all, but in respect of the law he confessed that he had done wrong; and he asked forgiveness of God, the King, and the kingdom. He declined the ministrations of the clergy, and after a few Latin prayers, crossed himself, and so “made an end of his wicked days in this world,”—an example for all time how little education and accomplishments can do to keep man from sin, a martyr to a priest-ridden conscience unenlightened by the Word of God.
Robert Winter followed next. He scarcely spoke, asked no forgiveness, but after a few silent prayers, passed calmly into the Silent Land.
The next was John Grant. This grave, melancholy man went smiling to his death. When he was entreated to seek for pardon for his crimes, his reply was, in a triumphant tone, “I am satisfied that our project was so far from being sinful, that I rely entirely upon my merits in bearing a part of that noble action, as an abundant satisfaction and expiation for all sins committed by me during the rest of my life!” He died thus with a lie in his right hand, and went to present the filthy rags of his own righteousness before His eyes in whose sight the heavens are not pure, and whose command is “Thou shalt do no murder.”
Last came poor Bates, who “seemed sorry for his offence,” and said that only his love for his dead master had drawn him to forget his duty to God, his King and country. And “thus ended that day’s business.”
In Old Palace Yard, “over against the Parliament House,”—namely, where now stands the statue of Godfrey de Bouillon—the second scaffold was erected on the following day. The four prisoners who were now to suffer were, the priests excepted, the most guilty of those left alive. They were drawn from the Tower on hurdles, as was usual. As they passed along the Strand, from an open window the beautiful Elizabeth Rookwood called to her husband—
“Ambrose, be of good courage! Thou art to suffer for a great and noble cause.”
Raising himself from the hurdle as well as he could, Rookwood answered, “My dear, pray for me.”
“I will, I will!” she cried. “And do you offer yourself with a good heart to God and your Creator. I yield you to Him, with as full an assurance that you will be accepted of Him as when He gave you to me.” And so the procession passed on.
The first to suffer of these was Thomas Winter. He was extremely pale, and seemed sorry for his offence “after a sort;” but he spoke little, merely protesting that he died “a true Catholic.”
Rookwood, who came next, made a long speech. He said that he asked forgiveness of God, whom he had offended in seeking to shed blood, of the King, and of the people. He prayed for the King and Royal Family, entreating that the King might become a “Catholic:” (Note 1) and he besought the King’s goodness to his Elizabeth and her children. He was spared the worst, for he drew his last breath ere it began.
The next to follow was Keyes. He had said on the trial that his fortunes being desperate, his fate was “as good now as another time, and for this cause rather than another.” In this hardened, reckless spirit, he flung himself from the ladder, with such force as to break the halter.
Last came “the great devil of all,” Guy Fawkes, who, “being weak with torture and sickness, was scarce able to go up the ladder.” He made no long speech, but “after a sort, seemed to be sorry” and asked forgiveness: and “with his crosses and his idle ceremonies” was cast-off, dying instantaneously.
So ended the awful scenes which were the reward of the Gunpowder Plot.
But not yet had justice overtaken all the perpetrators of this villainy. Three important traitors were yet at large, and they were all Jesuit priests. Greenway, who had fled from Holbeach with Robert Winter, had not continued in his company. For ten days he hid in barns and cottages in Worcestershire; but when the proclamation was made for his arrest, thinking it safest to be lost in a crowd in the metropolis, he came to London. Here he was one day seized by a man, as they stood among others reading the proclamation for his arrest. Greenway, with artful composure, denied the identity, but went quietly with his captor till they reached an unfrequented street, when the priest, who was a very powerful man, suddenly set upon his companion, and escaping from him, after a few days’ concealment fled to the coast, whence he safely crossed to the Continent. He afterwards wrote for his superiors a narrative of the plot, wherein all the conspirators are impeccable heroes of the romantic novel type, and the plot—which during its existence he upheld and fervently encouraged—is condemned as a “rash, desperate, and wicked” piece of business. He succeeded so well in deceiving his superiors (or else they were equally hypocritical with himself), that he was appointed Penitentiary to the Pope, and ended his life in the full favour of that potentate.
Gerard, also, who had originally assisted the plotters in taking their oath of secrecy, had now disappeared. So excellent an opinion had the Roman Catholics of him, that many refused to believe “that holy, good man” could have had any share in the conspiracy. The description of this worthy, as given in the proclamation for his arrest, is curious in its detail, and the better worth quoting since it has apparently not been printed:—
“John Gerrarde the Jesuit is about thirty years old, of a good stature, something higher than Sir Thomas Leighton (this name is crossed out, and replaced by the word) ordinary, and upright in his pace and countenance; somewhat staring in his looke and Eyes, curled headed by Nature, and blackish, and not apt to have much hair on his beard. His Nose somewhat wide, and turning up; blebberd lipped (thick-lipped), turning outward, especially the upper lip, upward toward the Nose. Curious in speech, if he do continue his custom, and in his speech he flewreth (Note 2) and smiles much, and a faltering, lisping, or doubling of his tongue in his speech.” (Note 3.) What a picture of a Jesuit! This is the type of man who practises an art which I never saw to such perfection as once in the Principal of a Jesuit College—that of:
“Washing the hands with invisible soap
In imperceptible water.”
Lastly, what had become of Garnet? He had not escaped nor left England, yet he seemed in some inscrutable manner to have vanished from the face of the earth, as completely as a morning mist.
The next step was to secure White Webbs. Commissioners were sent down to Enfield Chase, with directions to search for that undiscoverable house, to make thorough investigation of it, and to take into custody every individual therein. They found the place—an old rambling house in the heart of the Chase, full of trap-doors, passages, unexpected steps up or down, holes, corners, and cupboards at every turn. But it had no inhabitants save servants, and they could tell little. Their mistress was Mrs Perkins, the widowed sister of Mr Mease, a Berkshire farmer. It was quite true they were Catholics, all allowed; and Elizabeth Shepherd admitted that mass had been performed in the house. But what connection could there be between the Gunpowder Plot and worthy Mr Mease the faimer, or innocent Mrs Perkins the widow?
Many persons would have resigned the search: but not so Sir William Wade. Sir William Wade, the Keeper of the Tower, had an uncommonly keen scent for a heretic which term was in his eyes the equivalent of a Jesuit. He could see much further than any one else through a millstone, and detected a Jesuit where no less acute person suspected anything but a farmer or a horse-dealer. Not only was a Jesuit capable of every crime that man could commit, but every criminal was pretty nearly certain to turn out a Jesuit. Moreover, Sir William loved a joke only less than he bated a Jesuit; and apathy in any pursuit was not one of his failings who wrote that “he thanked God on the knees of his soul” for the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot.
Mr Mease was not to escape Sir William’s penetration. He was anxious to see a little more of Mr Mease, and of Mrs Perkins also.
For the moment, however, he was doomed to disappointment. Sturdy James Johnson, Mrs Perkins’ servant, would not betray his employers, even when put to the rack, until he had suffered appallingly. Half-an-hour had been sufficient to exhaust Guy Fawkes’ endurance, but James Johnson bore three hours. Even then he could tell little. For his mistress’s brother he knew no name but Mease, except that he had heard him addressed as “Farmer:” but he did know, and had known for two years, that the real name of his mistress was Anne Vaux. He could also say that she had been visited by a Mr and Mrs Skinner, a Mr and Mrs Thomas Jennings, a Mr Catesby, and a little gentleman whom the latter called Tom, and whose name he said was Winter. As to himself, Johnson asserted that he was “a Romishe Catholic,” and “never was at church nor yet at mass in his life.” Frightened little Jane Robinson, aged fourteen, admitted that mass had been said in the house, but when asked what vestments the priest wore, could only answer that “he was apparelled like a gentleman.”
Sir William Wade went down once more upon the knees of his soul, when his ears were refreshed by these delightful names. At Harrowden, the seat of Lord Vaux, the family had already been questioned to no purpose. Mrs Vaux, the mother of the young Lord, and the sister-in-law of Anne, was astonished that anybody should suspect her of a guilty knowledge of the plot. Having previously denied that she knew any such person as Gerard, she subsequently confessed that Gerard and Garnet had been frequently at her house, and that she had a vague suspicion that “something was going to happen.” Harrowden must be further investigated; and admissions were wrung from the servants at White Webbs which satisfied the commission that the relations between Anne Vaux and Garnet had been of an intimate character. Sir William Wade was now on the track of a Jesuit, and might be trusted to pursue that enticing path with eager and untiring accuracy.
The watch set at Harrowden was removed just too soon. Had it lasted two days longer, Gerard would have been starved out, for he lay concealed in the priest’s hiding-place. As soon as the watching party took their leave, he emerged from his refuge, and succeeded through multifarious difficulties in safely escaping over seas.
About this time—from what source is uncertain—a hint reached the Government to the effect that Gerard might possibly, and Hall would probably, be found in one of the priest’s hiding-places at Hendlip Hall in Worcestershire, the residence of Mr Thomas Abington. Edward Hall, alias Oldcorne, (Note 4) was Mr Abington’s private chaplain; and though there is little evidence extant to connect him with the plot, the Government appear to have been extremely suspicious of him. When, therefore, the suggestion reached them that they might as well inspect the curiosities of Hendlip Hall, the authorities lost no time in sending down Sir Henry Bromley, of Holt Castle, at the head of a searching party, for that purpose.
Until 1825 or thereabouts, Hendlip Hall remained standing, on the highest ground in the neighbourhood between Droitwich and Worcester, and rather nearer to the latter. A most curious, cunningly-planned, perplexing house it was—a house of houses wherein to secrete a political refugee or a Jesuit priest—full of surprises, unexpected turnings, sliding panels, and inconceivable closets without apparent entrances. “There is scarcely an apartment,” wrote a spectator shortly before its destruction, “that has not secret ways of going in or going out; some have back staircases concealed in the walls; others have places of retreat in their chimneys; some have trap-doors, and all present a picture of gloom, insecurity, and suspicion.” On one side was a high tower, from which the approach of any enemy could be easily observed. The house had been built in 1572, by John Abington, cofferer to Queen Elizabeth; but his son Thomas, the owner in 1605, had added the hiding-places. Such concealed chambers were very common in houses belonging to Roman Catholic families; and in the safest of all those at Hendlip Hall, two priests were at that moment in close confinement. The Government had been so far truly informed. Hall, too, was one of them: but Gerard was not the other. Sir William Wade would have danced in delight, could he have known that his colleagues were on the track of the great Provincial of the Jesuit Mission to this heathen country of England, the chief of all the conspirators yet left at large.
About two months before this, Garnet had come to the conclusion that he was no longer safe at Coughton, which, as the property of Mr Throckmorton, and lately in the occupation of Sir Everard Digby, would be likely to obtain a thorough overhauling. From Mr Hall he had received a pressing invitation to Hendlip for himself and his confidential servant, Nicholas Owen, who went by the name of “Little John.” The latter was an old acquaintance at Hendlip, for it was his ingenuity that had devised the numerous hiding-places which had been added to the Hall by its present owner. To Hendlip accordingly Garnet removed from Coughton,—accompanied by Anne Vaux and the Brooksbys,—about the 16th of December, and for some weeks resided with the family without concealment. But on Monday, the 20th of January, as the day broke, Sir Henry Bromley and his troops marched up to and invested Hendlip Hall.
The Hon. Mrs Abington was a sister of Lord Monteagle, and was quite as good an actress as her brother was an actor. She possessed the power of assuming the most complete outward composure, as if nothing whatever were the matter, however adversely things might be going to her wishes. She had also a very quiet, very firm, very unmanageable will. Mr Abington was not at home; but that signified little, for the grey mare was unquestionably the superior creature of the pair.
If the information imparted to her so early on that morning had been that the cat had mewed, or that a hen had dropped a feather, the lady of Hendlip could scarcely have received it with more repose of manner.
“That is what we might look for,” said she. “If it please you, holy Fathers, it might be as well that you should repair to one of your chambers for a while.—Bid Edward come to me.”
Edward, a white-headed confidential servant with an aspect of appalling respectability, presented himself at once in response to his mistress’s summons.
“Edward,” said Mrs Abington, “I would have you, quickly, take up these holy Fathers to the hole in your chamber, and set Little John and Chambers in the next safest. There are enemies approaching.”
Edward bowed his dignified head, and obeyed.
He led Garnet and Hall up the chief staircase, and into the bedroom occupied by Edward himself, which stood behind that of his master.
Garnet cast his eyes round the chamber.
“Truly, good Edward,” said he, “I scarce see means to hide so much as a mouse in this chamber, other than in yonder closet, which is as plain as the door or the window.”
Edward replied by an amused smile.
“You’ve a deal of book-learning, Father Garnet,” said he, “but under your leave, there’s a few things you don’t know in this world.”
He walked into the chimney-corner.
Chimneys, be it remembered, were much wider in the seventeenth century than they have been since the invention of grates. There was room in every chimney-corner, not only for the fire, but for one or two chairs and settles, where people could sit when they wished to warm themselves; and as there was no fire on Edward’s hearth, moving about on it was as easy as in a closet.
“Are we to fly up the chimney on a pair of broomsticks?” laughed Hall.
Edward only smiled again, and after a moment’s feeling with his hand among the bricks at the side of the chimney, they heard a sound as of the pushing back of bolts. Slowly, as if it moved with some difficulty, a square door opened in the chimney, so cleverly concealed that it required a skilful detective indeed to guess its existence. The door was of wood, “curiously covered over with brick, mortared and made fast” to it, “and coloured black like the other parts of the chimney, that very diligent inquiry might well have past by.” Behind it was a very small square recess, large enough to hold the two, though not sufficiently high for them to stand upright. A narrow tunnel, in outward appearance like a chimney, led up to the top of the house, designed for the admission of light and air to the hiding-place, but capable of conveying no great quantity of either. Having fetched a short ladder, Edward placed it in position, so that the priests could climb up into the chamber.
“It had been more to your comfort, Fathers, could we have cast forth some of this furniture,” he said, looking round it: “but it were scarce wise to defer the matter, the house being already invested.”
“Let be, we will serve ourselves of it as it is, and well.”
The priests mounted into the tiny hiding-place.
“See you, holy Fathers,” Edward asked, “a vessel of tin, standing below a little hole in the wall? Have a care that you move it not without you first stop the hole, for it runneth through into my mistress’s chamber, and by a quill or reed therein laid can she minister warm drinks unto you, as broths and caudle. She can likewise speak to you through the hole, and be heard: but if you hear the noise of feet or strange voices in that chamber, have a care to lie as squat (quiet) and close as ever you can. So may you safely hover (lie concealed); for the cleverest soldier of them all shall be hard put to it to find you here, if it please God.”
Would it please God? Did no memory come to either of those well-read priestly refugees of a familiar question—“Shall the throne of iniquity have fellowship with Thee?”
“A tight fit this, for two!” said Hall.
“Ay, it is. There hath not been above one here aforetime. But it is the safest hilling (hiding-place) in the house. Good-day, holy Fathers, and God keep you safe!”
While these scenes were enacting in one part of the house, in another Sir Henry Bromley was introducing himself to the lady of Hendlip Hall, and, with plumed hat in hand, apologising for his intrusion, and civilly requesting her permission to examine the house. A kindly, tender-hearted man was the commander of this searching party, but at the same time a conscientious one, and a determined Protestant.
If anything could be more considerate and cordial than Sir Henry’s appeal, it was to all appearances the spirit wherein it was received. Mrs Abington begged her visitor not to speak of intrusion. His Majesty the King had no subjects more loyal than every man and woman in that house. It was really a source of pleasure to her that her abode should be scrutinised in the most critical manner, and her perfect innocence and submission to law thus made manifest. The lady at once delivered her keys—she did not say that a few of them were on a separate bunch—and requested that no quarter might be given. Appearances were so charming, and innocence apparently so clear, that they might have deluded a more astute man than Sir Henry Bromley.
Sir Henry, however, had come to do his duty, and he did it in spite of appearances. Lord Salisbury had furnished him with minute instructions, which pointed decidedly to probable need of caution in this respect. He was to search for a suspected vault at the east end of the dining-room; for a similar erection beneath the cellars; for ingenious closets squeezed in between the walls of upper rooms; for possible holes in corners and chimneys, wainscots which could be pierced by gimlets, double lofts, and concealed chambers in the rafters. Sir Henry set to work. “Madam,” said he to Mrs Abington, “were it not more to the conveniency of yourself and these gentlewomen your friends, that you should take occasion to pay some visit forth of the house? I fear the noise made by my men, not to speak of the turning about of your chambers by taking up of boards and trying of wainscots, shall greatly incommode you if you tarry.”
Sir Henry wanted sadly to get the ladies away. But Mrs Abington was quite as sagacious as himself, and more determined. She assured him that the noise was nothing, and the little novelties of holes in her dining-room floor and broken wainscots in her drawing-room would be rather amusing than otherwise. Poor Sir Henry, baffled by this clever woman, laments to Lord Salisbury,—“I did never hear so impudent liars as I find here—all recusants, and all resolved to confess nothing, what danger soever they incur.—I could by no means persuade the gentlewoman of the house to depart the house, without I should have carried her, which I held uncivil, as being so nobly born; as I have and do undergo the greater difficulties thereby.”
The Monday night brought home the master of the house. He answered the queries of the gentlemen in possession with as much apparent frankness as his wife, but assured Sir Henry that the persons for whom he was searching were absolute strangers to him; he had never seen any of them save Gerard, and him only some five and twenty years before. For suspecting him of harbouring priests, not to speak of traitors, there was not a shadow of reason!
Sir Henry went on searching, though he was out of hope. In the first place, he discovered some parcels of “books and writing,” which showed at that time that “some scholars” must have used them; an ordinary country gentleman was not expected to have any books, except Bible and prayer-books, one or two on law, needed in his capacity as a magistrate, a book on etiquette, and a few dog’s-eared plays. On the Wednesday a discovery of more importance was made, for in three or four places where boards were uplifted, a quantity of “Popish trash” was brought to light. Thus encouraged, the searchers resolved to continue their work, which they were on the point of giving up. Mr Abington continued to protest his supreme innocence of all knowledge or connivance. The books were none of his; the “Popish stuff” astonished him as much as it did the searchers. This assumption of exquisite stainlessness lasted until one day a hiding-place was discovered, which contained his family muniments and the title-deeds of his estate. After that, Mr Abington protested no more; and it was needless, for he would not have been believed had he done so. Sir Henry at once despatched him to Worcester to be taken care of by a magistrate; and “being much wearied,” on Wednesday night returned to his own house to take rest, leaving his brother Sir Edward in charge.
On the Thursday morning, when he returned to Hendlip, he was met by two wan, gaunt men, whose countenances showed privation and suffering. They gave their names as William Andrews and George Chambers.
By some unexplained want of care or foresight, these two unfortunate men had been suffered to secrete themselves without provisions, and had nothing but one apple between them from Monday to Thursday.
Sir Henry was delighted, for at first he thought he had secured Greenway and Hall. A little further examination, however, showed him that his captives were only the priests’ servants; yet he shrewdly surmised that the servants being there, the masters in all probability were not far away.
For four days more the search was pursued in vain: but on the 27th news came that not only was Hall certainly concealed in the house, but that the most important of all the implicated Jesuits, Garnet, would probably be found by a diligent continuance of the search. It came from an unexpected quarter—no other than Red Humphrey Littleton.
Justice had not been slow in overtaking the harbourers of Robert Winter and Stephen Littleton. White and his brothers had got clear away; but Smart, Hollyhead, Perks, and Burford, suffered the last penalty of the law. Margaret Perks was pardoned, though condemned to death. Humphrey Littleton received the torture; and when apparently at the point of death, entreated permission to confess important facts, which he promised to do if his life might be spared. His appeal was granted, and he then told the authorities that the most important criminal still at large would be found in the priest’s hiding-place at Hendlip Hall.
Fortified by this encouraging news, though the prisoners already taken denied all knowledge of any others being hidden in the house, Sir Henry pushed on his search; and at last, on the 28th, eight days after his arrival, one of his men broke into the cunningly contrived hiding-place in the chimney of Edward’s room. This brave discoverer was so terrified by his own success that he ran away lest the priests should shoot him; but others coming rapidly to his assistance, the priests offered to come out if they might do so with quietude. “So they helped us out,” says Garnet, “very charitably.”
Garnet’s account of their experiences in “the hoale,” as he terms it, is not suggestive of an inviting place. “We were in the hoale seven days and seven nights and some hours, and were well wearied;” the place was so encumbered with books and furniture that they “could not find place for their legs” even when seated; and the cramped positions which they were compelled to assume caused their legs to swell greatly. Garnet seems to have suffered more of the two. Yet he adds that they were “very merry and content,” and could have stayed three months, though when they came out at last, “we appeared like two ghosts.”
Sir Henry Bromley at once recognised the Provincial of the Jesuit Mission; but which of his various aliases really belonged to him puzzled his captor not a little, and Garnet declined to enlighten him.
“Call me as you will,” said he; “I refer all to my meeting with my Lord of Salisbury, and he will know me. In truth, I say not thus for any discourtesy, but that I will not, in the places we are, be made an obloquy: but when I come to London, I will not be ashamed of my name.”
Sir Henry now marshalled his prisoners for transport to Worcester. He described them to the authorities as “Humphrey Phillips alias Henry Garnet; John Vincent alias Hall; Thomas Abington, Esquire; William Androwes alias Nicholas Owen, either a priest or servant to Garnet; George Chambers, servant of Hall; Edward Jarrett, servant of Mrs Dorathie Abington; William Glandishe, servant of Mr Abington.” (Note 5.) Mr Abington and the priests were taken to Worcester in Sir Henry’s coach. The mind of that gentleman was somewhat exercised as to what he was to do with them when he got them there. Before leaving Hendlip he had promised to place them in the house of some bailiff or citizen; but as they were driving into Worcester, he said uneasily—
“My masters, I cannot do for you as I would; I must needs send you to the gaol.”
“In God’s name!” (Note 6) responded Garnet. “But I hope you will provide we have not irons, for we are lame already, and shall not be able to ride after, to London.”
Sir Henry’s tender heart was touched at once.
“Well,” said he, “I will think of it.”
He thought of it to such purpose, that when they reached the inn, he placed Garnet in a private room, with a guard—his Reverence says, “to avoid the people’s gazing;” Sir Henry would probably have added that it was also in order to prevent the prisoner’s disappearance. After despatching his business he ordered his coach, and took his prisoners home with him to Holt Castle. Here, on their own testimony, they were “exceeding well used, and dined and supped with him and his every day,”—not without some apprehension on the part of their kindly gaoler that they might reward him by perverting his young daughters from the Protestant faith.
When Candlemas Day came, Sir Henry “made a great dinner to end Christmas,” and sent for wine to drink the King’s health. It was then customary for gentlemen always to dine with their hats on, and to uncover when a royal toast was proposed. The hats were doffed accordingly. The wine came in, and with it a wax candle, lighted—a blessed candle taken at Hendlip, among the “Popish trash,” and destined for use on the services of that very day, having “Jesus” painted on one side of it, and “Maria” on the other. Garnet’s heart leaped at the familiar sight, and he begged leave to take the candle in his hand. Passing it to Mr Hall, he said, half joyfully, half sadly—
“I am glad yet, that I have carried a holy candle on Candlemas Day.”
Restoring the holy wax to the unholy candlestick, the priests drank the King’s health in what Mr Garnet is kind enough to tell us was “a reasonable glass”—a piece of information the more valuable, since this adjective was not always applicable to his Reverence’s glasses.
When they came to leave Worcester, the parting between Garnet and the ladies was almost affectionate. The priest was evidently possessed of that strong personal magnetism which some men and women have, and which is oftener exercised for the purposes of Satan than in the service of God.
“Madam,” he said to Lady Bromley, “I desire you all to think well of me till you see whether I can justify myself in this cause.”
The journey to London took longer than would otherwise have been needed, on account of the condition of the prisoners. Garnet, whose sufferings had been the more severe, was also the one in whom their results lasted longest; and on the 5th of February, Sir Henry wrote that he was “but a weak and wearisome traveller.” He was, however, “passing well used at the King’s charge, and that by express orders from my Lord Salisbury,” and “had always the best horse in the company.” Garnet adds, “I had sorde bickering with ministers by the way. Two very good scholars, and courteous, Mr Abbott and Mr Barlow, met us at an inn; but two other rude fellows met us on the way, whose discourtesy I rewarded with plain words, and so adieu.” The Jesuit Superior apparently rather enjoyed a little brisk brushing of wits with well-educated gentlemanly clerics, but felt some disgust of abuse which passed for argument with others. On the evening of the 6th of February they reached London, where they were lodged in the Gate-house, and Garnet was “very sick the first two nights with ill lodging.” It was not until the 13th that the first examination took place before the Privy Council at Whitehall.
Note 1. To which the reporter adds, “otherwise a Papist, which God for His mercy ever forbid!”
Note 2. To flewer or fleer is to smile in that grinning manner which shows all the teeth. Our forefathers considered it a mark of a sneering, envious man.
Note 3. Domestic State Papers, James the First, volume eighteen, article 20.
Note 4. This most untruthful gentleman asserted that “his true name was Oldcorne;” but Garnet and Anne Vaux both call him Hall in writing to each other.
Note 5. Domestic State Papers, James the First, volume 18, article 64. Mrs Dorathie Abington was Mr Abington’s maiden sister, who lived at Hendlip Hall, and had a priest of her own, a Jesuit, named Butler or Lyster. He does not appear in this narrative, and was very likely absent.
Note 6. This was not meant profanely, but was simply equivalent to saying, “God’s will be done!”