The Story of Francis Cludde

by Stanley John Weyman

There was another, too, who grew to be troubled about this time, and that was Father Carey. The good-natured, easy priest received with joy and thankfulness the news that Ferdinand Cludde had seen his errors and re-entered the fold. But when he had had two or three interviews with the convert, his brow, too, grew clouded, and his mind troubled. He learned to see that the accession of the young Protestant queen must bear fruit for which he had a poor appetite. He began to spend many hours in the church--the church which he had known all his life--and wrestled much with himself--if his face were any index to his soul. Good, kindly man, he was not of the stuff of which martyrs are made; and to be forced, pushed on, and goaded into becoming a martyr against one's will--well, the Father's position was a hard one. As was that in those days of many a good and learned clergyman bred in one church, and bidden suddenly, on pain of losing his livelihood, if not his life, to migrate to another.

The visitors had been in the house a month--and in that month an observant eye might have noted much change, though all things in seeming went on as before--when the queen's orders enjoining all priests to read the service, or a great part of it, in English, came down, being forwarded by the sheriff to Father Carey. The missive arrived on a Friday, and had been indeed long expected.

"What shall you do?" Ferdinand asked Sir Anthony.

"As before!" the tall old man replied, gripping his staff more firmly. It was no new subject between them. A hundred times they had discussed it already, even as they were now discussing it on the terrace by the fish-pool, with the church which adjoins the house full in view across the garden. "I will have no mushroom faith at Coton End," the knight continued warmly. "It sprang up under King Henry, and how long did it last? A year or two. It came in again under King Edward, and how long did it last? A year or two. So it will be again. It will not last, Ferdinand."

"I am of that mind," the younger man answered, nodding his head gravely.

"Of course you are!" Sir Anthony rejoined, as he rested one hand on the sundial. "For ten generations our forefathers have worshiped in that church after the old fashion--and shall it be changed in my day? Heaven forbid! The old fashion did for my fathers; it shall do for me. Why, I would as soon expect that the river yonder should flow backward as that the church which has stood for centuries, and more years to the back of them than I can count, should be swept away by these Hot Gospelers! I will have none of them! I will have no new-fangled ways at Coton End!"

"Well, I think you are right!" the younger brother said. By what means he had brought the knight to this mind without committing himself more fully, I cannot tell. Yet so it was. Ferdinand showed himself always the cautious doubter. Father Carey even must have done him that justice. But--and this was strange--the more doubtful he showed himself, the more stubborn grew his brother. There are men so shrewd as to pass off stones for bread; and men so simple-minded as to take something less than the word for the deed.

"Why should it come in our time?" cried Sir Anthony fractiously.

"Why indeed?" quoth the subtle one.

"I say, why should it come now? I have heard and read of the sect called Lollards who gave trouble a while ago. But they passed, and the church stood. So will these Gospelers pass, and the church will stand."