IN THE DAYS OF
QUEEN MARY

He showed no sign of life.
Frontispiece.

IN THE DAYS OF

QUEEN MARY

BY

EDWARD E. CRAKE, M.A., F.R.Hist.Soc.

(RECTOR OF JEVINGTON)

AUTHOR OF "HENRI DUQUESNE," "WHEN THE PURITANS WERE IN POWER,"

"THE ROYALIST BROTHERS," "DAME JOAN OF PEVENSEY," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY W. S. STACEY

PUBLISHED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE GENERAL

LITERATURE COMMITTEE

LONDON

SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE

NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W.C.; 43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET, E.C.

Brighton: 129, North Street

New York: E. S. GORHAM

DEDICATED

(by permission)

TO

HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATED BOOKS

BY

THE SAME AUTHOR

Dame Joan of Pevensey. A Sussex Tale. Crown 8vo, cloth boards, 1s. 6d.

Henri Duquesne. A Sussex Romance. Crown 8vo, cloth boards, 1s.

The Royalist Brothers. A Tale of the Siege of Colchester. Crown 8vo, cloth boards, 2s. 6d.

When the Puritans were in Power. A Tale of the Great Rebellion. Crown 8vo, cloth boards, 2s.

SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE,

London: Northumberland Avenue, W.C.

IN THE

DAYS OF QUEEN MARY

CHAPTER I
CHIDDINGLY PLACE

The sun was setting, and a rosy light filtered through the trees which enshrouded Chiddingly Place.

The cawing of the rooks, as they winged their leisurely flight into the great rookery, alone broke the silence which sweetly brooded over the broad terrace on which two Sussex boys lay extended on the velvety turf. It was Midsummer Day—a day of unbroken sunshine and excessive heat.

In the evening a refreshing wind had revived the parched earth, and the gay flowers which spangled the wide-spreading lawn were lifting their drooped heads with renewed life.

The stone-mullioned windows of the Tudor house were thrown wide open, and the lads could see the maids within the dining-hall busily engaged in laying the supper for which they were more than ready.

"Come, Ralph," said William, as he bestirred himself, "we must go indoors and make ourselves presentable. Uncle John comes to-night, and he will soon be here."

"Oh, don't hurry," answered his brother, as he lay playing with two fine retrievers. "I love to watch the purple light on the downs as the sun sinks behind them; I could gladly lie here all night!"

"I agree with you," answered William; "but here comes Sue with orders, I expect, from the powers that be, that we are to go indoors at once."

Susan was the only sister of the two boys, and at her approach the dogs ran forward to greet her, and the boys rose quickly from their mossy couch.

The boys were twins, and as they stood side by side the likeness between them was striking.

They were in their eighteenth year, and fine specimens were they of the race of the "Sudseaxe." Tall and well built, fair haired and blue eyed, their strong limbs and fresh complexions betokened youths whose lives had been spent amid the woods and forests of Sussex, or on the rolling downs which stretched between Chiddingly and the sea.

Yet these boys were not unlettered, for both of them had been "foundation scholars" in the famous St. Paul's School, built and endowed by Dean Colet.

Nay, more, the youths had already seen something of Court life, strange to say.

It happened in this wise.

Their uncle Sir John Jefferay was a famous London lawyer, and he bid fair to occupy a great position on the judicial bench.

At this time he was the Treasurer of Gray's Inn, and on the occasion of a grand masque, given in the fine hall of the Inn by the Fellows, his two nephews had taken the parts of Castor and Pollux. The young King had honoured the performance with his royal presence, and so struck was he with the wonderful resemblance of the two Sussex brothers that he ordered them to Court and spent much time in their company.

In fact this resemblance was very remarkable. Those who knew the boys best could hardly tell them apart, and to avoid the continual mistakes which would otherwise have occurred, William always wore a grey cap and his brother a blue one.

The fondest affection subsisted between them; they were rarely seen apart; the one was the complement of the other, and their father, William Jefferay, would often declare that "they possessed two bodies, but only one soul!"

Just now they were released from their attendance at Court, but they would have to return thither shortly, for the sickly young King found a solace in their company.

There was one point upon which the boys were pre-eminently in agreement—they both adored their sister Sue, and her slightest wish was law to them.

And well did the fair Susan deserve this devotion. Three short years before, the boys had become motherless, and Susan, as the eldest member of the family, at once assumed the domestic control of Chiddingly Place. The comfort, the happiness, the welfare of the boys became her chief object in life.

She even shared in their sports—as far as a girl could,—and to her every secret of their hearts was laid bare; she was their "dea patrona," and for her both William and Ralph would have gladly laid down their lives at any time or place.

In person Susan was a feminine replica of the twins. She possessed their fair complexion and laughing blue eyes—her hair hung, like theirs, in thick masses over her shoulders.

Though slenderly built she was tall, and her figure displayed the nameless grace of a well-born English girl.

"Come, boys," cried Susan, as she ran forth to the terrace to greet them, "Uncle John will be here in a few minutes; his grooms arrived an hour ago with his baggage, and now they have set his room in order for him. Hurry up, or you will keep supper waiting!"

The boys answered her greeting merrily, and taking her hands they ran by her side towards the entrance porch, which they entered just as Uncle John appeared upon the scene.

Susan ran out to salute him as he dismounted from his grey sorrel—the boys darted upward to their rooms.

As Sir John entered the house, his brother William came forward to greet him with the warmest of welcomes.

It was a happy party which gathered in the dining-hall that evening.

The supper was served at so early an hour that the candles in the silver sconces were not yet required: the light of day still gleamed into the hall through the lozenge-paned oriel window, and sent coloured streams across the fair napery of the table as it passed through the stained glass of armorial bearings. Sir John sat at the head of the table, as he always did when he came to Chiddingly—though he had made a "deed of gift" of the Place in favour of his brother William when he took up his abode in London.

Presently the shadows of evening began to deepen, and the wax tapers were lit.

How pleasant the hall looked as the light shone on the wainscoted walls and illumined the features of past generations of Jefferays whose portraits adorned the beautiful chamber!

There was John Jefferay, who purchased Chiddingly Place in 1495, and beside him was the portrait of his wife Agnes, whose fine features bore a strong resemblance to Susan.

Their three sons were there—Richard, Thomas and William, Richard being the father of the famous Sir John who now sat at supper in the hall.

And when the young people of the family had withdrawn to the parlour, to amuse themselves with music and merry games, Sir John and his brother stepped out on to the lawn and entered into grave discourse as they walked to and fro.

The stars were shining brightly, a soft, gentle wind was stirring the tree-tops, and from the woods around came the sweet songs of many a nightingale.

"Ah, what a contrast is this scene of tranquil peace and happiness to the wild drama which is unfolding itself in London!" said Sir John.

"Here I may speak words to you, brother William, which might cost me my head if men overheard them in town. I have come to Chiddingly sick at heart and weary of the world, for the young King is dying, and all the beasts and birds of prey are gathering together at Court ready to fly at each others' throats as soon as the life is out of his poor body. Alas! alas! for England; I see no hope for her but in God. His Grace of Northumberland is straining every nerve to advance the cause of Lady Jane Grey and his son Lord Guildford Dudley, and I foresee that, ere long, the headsman will be busy, and the innocent will suffer with the guilty.

"Last night his Grace of Canterbury came to me in great trouble; he would fain know if he might legally sign certain State documents, and I told him that if he did so it would be at the peril of his head! Alas, poor Archbishop! he went away greatly perturbed.

"Yesterday I saw the Lord Mayor, and he vowed to me that no earthly power should constrain him to proclaim Lady Jane as Queen in the City—let me tell you his heart is wholly with the Lady Mary, and, by my troth, he is wise! For, as a lawyer, I declare that the rights to the throne of the Ladies Mary and Elizabeth are indefeasible; yet, if I said as much in London to-day, I might spend the night in the Tower, and to-morrow bid my last adieu to this world on the scaffold!

"Oh, the times are dark, deadly, perilous, and I am glad to escape from London and breathe the pure air of Chiddingly for a brief space."

"And if Mary become Queen, what of our Reformed Church, which is dear to us both?" inquired William anxiously.

"Ah! God knows—and God only," answered Sir John. "The Lady Mary is a bigot, and that we all know.

"Yet I will tell you a State secret: she has sent a messenger to the Lord Mayor, declaring that should she be declared Queen, no Englishman shall suffer for his faith."

"Will she keep her word?" asked William.

"Qui vivra verra," answered Sir John; "but I foresee that all depends upon the man whom she shall marry, for marry she will. If, by the mercy of God, she marry a good man, all may be well; if she marry a bad one, then God help us!"

William was deeply moved, and he sighed audibly.

"It bodes great trouble for England," he said in a troubled voice. "It may be that the fires of Smithfield will be rekindled as in the worst days of King Henry: yet I believe that the Reformation has taken a deep hold upon the country; the Church may bend before a fierce storm of persecution, but she will not be broken—she will rise again! I, for one, would rather die than bow my knees to Baal, as represented to me by the Papacy; and, thank God, there are thousands of men of like mind with me in Sussex!"

As William pronounced these words in tones that quivered with emotion, his brother caught him by the hand, and shaking it warmly, he cried—

"I know your stedfastness, brother, and I agree with you with all my heart and soul—yet I pray that God may spare us the trial of our faith! But hark! I hear an approaching horseman; I expect it is my man Roger, who is bringing us the latest news from town."

A few minutes later the groom appeared on the lawn, bearing letters in his hand.

Sir John took them from him; then, turning to his brother, he said—

"Let us go indoors; these letters are from my secretary, and we will read them at once; they must be of importance, or they would not have followed me so soon."

Entering the house the gentlemen made their way to the library—a comfortable room, well lighted with wax candles, and furnished with numerous settees and easy-chairs.

Sir John sat down and eagerly opened his despatches.

"It is Tremayne who writes," he said. "I will read his letter to you; it is as follows—

"'Honoured Sir,

"'The Council met to-day, and the deed of which you wot was signed and sealed—all the members consenting thereto. The Archbishop hesitated to the last, but His Grace of Northumberland would not be withstood—and so all signed. I hear that the King is sinking fast. From your chambers in Gray's Inn, June 21, 1553. J. W. Tremayne'"

The brothers looked at each other with pallid faces.

"So the 'letters patent' are issued," said Sir John, "and the irrevocable step is taken! 'Domine, dirige nos'! It is the beginning of strife of which no man can see the issue. Northumberland relies on aid from France; the Lady Mary places her hope on the Emperor. I bethink me of our blessed Lord's words: 'These things are the beginning of sorrows! Then shall be great tribulation such as was not since the beginning of the world to this time, no nor ever shall be.' And alas! for the poor young King, he hath none to comfort him; he is tasting of that unutterable loneliness that surrounds a throne! I think the end of his troubles is nigh at hand—and then the great strife will begin!

"But the hour is growing late, William," said Sir John, "and I hear Susan's pretty voice below; she is singing one of those songs I love so well: let us join the young people, I have seen little of them to-night."

A fortnight later, on July 6th, King Edward died at Greenwich in the sixteenth year of his age and the seventh of his reign.

Sir John had tarried at Chiddingly until the end came; then he hastened up to London, where pressing duties called him.

With him went the two boys—to begin their legal studies under the auspices of their uncle at Gray's Inn, for it was his wish that they should both enter the learned profession of the law.

CHAPTER II
THE APPARITOR

It was the year of grace 1556, the third year of the reign of Queen Mary.

The forebodings of evil with which her reign had been ushered in were bitterly fulfilled.

The headsman's axe had oft-times been in use on Tower Hill: Northumberland had gone to his doom with no man to pity him; his son Lord Guildford Dudley had followed him to the block, perhaps equally unlamented.

But men were moved to deeper pity and compassion when the young, innocent, and hapless Lady Jane suffered for her kinsmen's crimes!

The Reformation had found its "witnesses unto death" in the persons of Cranmer, Ridley and Latimer, and the flames of Smithfield aroused the horror of the people; the great "Marian Persecution" had begun, and already over a hundred victims had been offered up.

Mary had married her Spanish husband, and England had witnessed the feeble and ineffectual rebellion of Sir Thomas Wyatt—a protest against the marriage which did not commend itself to the mass of the people.

Amid all these scenes of turmoil and confusion, of terror and distress, the family of the Jefferays at Chiddingly were left unmolested and undisturbed.

In many a quiet country village the Services of the Church, as they had been appointed at the Reformation, were duly performed; the Prayer Book was not superseded by the Missal, and the parish priest was not dispossessed. Their obscurity sheltered them—as yet.

The Vicar of Chiddingly was William Tittleton, who had been appointed to the benefice in the reign of Henry the Eighth. He had been at Magdalen College, Oxford, with Sir John Jefferay, where the two young men had formed a strong and enduring friendship.

Thus it happened that in due time Sir John presented his friend—now in Holy Orders—to the benefice of Chiddingly, and the Vicar had returned the good service by acting as tutor to the young people of Chiddingly Place. He was a very able scholar, and between him and his pupils a strong affection subsisted.

But a change was at hand for the parish of Chiddingly—its peace and quietude came suddenly to an end. The "Marian Persecution" had begun, and the lurid flames of Smithfield had aroused horror and indignation in many English hearts—especially in Sussex, where the Reformation had taken deep root.

At this critical moment the Vicar of Chiddingly preached a sermon at Mayfield which brought him under the censure of the Government, and an apparitor was sent to make inquiry into the ecclesiastical position of the little parish.

The ill-omened visitor attended the simple services of the parish church, and took copious notes of the Vicar's sermon, to the dismay of the rustics of Chiddingly.

The fires of Lewes in the month of June this year had excited their fierce animosity, and the appearance of the apparitor in their midst gave birth to a sudden outburst of wrath.

It was at the close of a lovely day in July—a Sunday—when their anger found vent.

They had marked the presence of a stranger at the morning service—a stern-looking, middle-aged man, garbed in black, and as they came out of church the men gathered in groups to discuss the object and purpose of his visit.

The man was sojourning at the village inn (the "Six Bells"), and thither he was allowed for the present to retire unmolested, although a strict watch was at once instituted upon his doings.

In the afternoon the visitor again attended service, and an ominous murmur among the rustics became distinctly audible as they observed that he was again busily taking notes of all that he saw and heard.

The service over, the man left the church with the intention of proceeding to the inn, where his horse was stabled; but he was not to be allowed to leave the village thus quietly.

Hard by the church was the horse-pond—at this period of the year about half full of dark slimy water; in the centre of the pond the depth would be about four or five feet.

Suddenly the visitor found himself surrounded by a band of determined, angry-looking Sussex men.

"What does this mean?" he asked sternly. "Do you men know that I am about the Queen's business?"

"Aye, we thought as much, and that's about the reason of it all," answered the spokesman of the rustics. "Gie us them papers which we saw thee so busy with in the church instead of minding thy prayers! Gie us them—we see them sticking out of thy pocket, and we means to have them—or it will be the worse for thee!"

"Fools!" snarled the man, without quailing before the coming storm, "fools! do you not know that it is a hanging matter to lay a hand on me?"

"It's very likely," said the bold rustic; "but it strikes me some one else will be hung, or drownded, before any of us are sent to join the Lewes martyrs."

The angry group was now just beside the horse-pond—and each moment it grew more excited and threatening. Suddenly a voice cried—

"He's fond of fire, let's see how water suits him!"

Thereupon the rustics hustled the hapless apparitor to the edge of the pond; then he found himself lifted from the ground, and the strong arms of his foes swung him to and fro in the air.

"One, two, three, in he goes!" cried a raucous voice.

A scream of terror was sent forth by the man, and he struggled violently.

It was all of no avail.

In another moment he was hurled headlong into the slimy waters of the pond! And there he might have been drowned, but for the help that came to him from an unexpected quarter.

Susan Jefferay had been in the congregation, and her attention had been arrested by the unwonted spectacle of a stranger in the church.

The service was over, and the Vicar had withdrawn into the vestry; Susan awaited him in the church, for he was to accompany her home to the Place.

The wonted silence of the Sabbath-day was broken by the angry voices of men, and Susan hurried out of the church to ascertain the cause—a dreadful suspicion arising in her mind.

A glance at the tumultuous scene at the pondside revealed to her the catastrophe which was being enacted. Instantly she flew to the vestry where the Vicar was unrobing, and seizing him by the arm, she cried—

"Oh, come, Vicar, come this instant, the men are murdering the stranger!"

Then she and the Vicar hurried towards the pond. The enraged rustics had thrown a rope over the unhappy apparitor's shoulders, and having secured their victim in a noose, were dragging him to and fro in the water.

"Hold, in God's name!" shouted the Vicar. "What madness possesses you, men?" he continued; "are you not ashamed of yourselves? Here, give me the rope," he cried, as he grasped the situation.

"Let me help you, Vicar," pleaded Susan, anxious to have some part in the matter.

So the two rescuers drew the half-drowned apparitor to land, and Susan, stooping down, undid the rope which was choking the man.

He showed no sign of life now, his face looked unnaturally pale in contrast to the dull green slime which besmeared it.

"Run to the vicarage and bring some strong waters, Robin," he cried to a youth who stood looking on.

"Nay, rather run to the 'Six Bells'; it is nearer," suggested Susan, and the boy dashed away to do their bidding.

Meanwhile, Susan had loosed the man's garments around his throat, while the Vicar placed his hand upon his heart.

"I fear he is dead!" said the Vicar, in tones of anguish.

"Nay," cried Susan, as she observed a green froth gurgling at his mouth, "see, he is breathing!"

By this time Robin had returned from the "Six Bells" with a bottle of brandy in his hand.

Susan took it from the lad and began carefully to moisten the man's lips with the strong spirit, then to pour a small portion down his throat.

Presently a colour flushed into the man's pallid cheeks, and a moment later he opened his eyes and looked wonderingly around.

Then, leaving Susan to attend to the sufferer, the Vicar rose to his feet and looked round upon his parishioners.

"Now tell me, men, what all this means," he said somewhat sternly.

The men looked shamefaced, but their chief spokesman answered the Vicar promptly.

"The man is a Government spy," he said; "he meant mischief to all of us, and especially to you, Vicar. We saw him taking notes of all that you did and said in church, and he warned us that he was a Queen's officer, and that to touch him was a hanging matter; so we just 'touched' him, and if you had not come along with Miss Susan we should have drawn his fangs, and he would never more have wrought mischief to innocent and harmless people."

The Vicar still preserved a stern countenance, but he had not been human if he had not been secretly touched by this proof of the devotion of his people, however recklessly given.

"And these said notes," he said, "they may have been quite harmless; what did you do with them?"

"We took them from his pockets, Vicar, then we wrapped them round a big stone and threw them in the pond; they won't do much harm there!"

The Vicar's features relaxed into a momentary smile; then he became pensive again, as he said—

"Thank God that I and Miss Susan came in time to frustrate your reckless intention; you might have brought down unutterable evils on our parish; and remember, men, there is One who hath said, 'Vengeance is Mine, I will repay!' What right had you to snatch the judgment from His hand?"

At this moment Susan touched the Vicar on the arm, and said—

"He is fast recovering consciousness: let the men carry him to his lodgings at the 'Six Bells,' and at once; he needs rest and refreshment."

"Yes," replied the Vicar, "I will see to it: and do you, Mistress Susan, go home without me; I will soon follow you."

The Vicar turned to one of the men, who had not been actively engaged in the late proceedings.

"Hal," said he, "take that gate off its hinges and bring it here"—pointing to a garden gate near at hand.

The man readily obeyed, the gate was brought, and the semi-unconscious apparitor was placed thereon.

Then the Vicar and three of the men conveyed their burden to the "Six Bells" Inn, the man was carried to his room, and before he left him the Vicar saw him safely placed in bed.

"Take care of him, Giles," he said to the landlord. "Let me know how he is to-night; I will call and see him in the morning."

That evening the Vicar had a long and very serious conversation with his old friend William Jefferay.

All the family had supped together in the dining-hall, and now the two men were conferring on the event of the day in the library.

"It is no light matter in these evil days to have a Queen's apparitor to spy and report, as this man intended to do," said Jefferay. "This man may return to his masters before twenty-four hours have passed, and no man can say what will then happen; to-day's uproar will make matters all the worse for us. Take my advice, Vicar, you have neither wife nor child to detain you in England: spend the next six months in Holland! Do you need money? I shall be proud to be your almoner. Oh, take my advice and go, ere the storm bursts!"

"And leave my flock at the very first intimation of danger—perhaps to suffer in my place," replied the Vicar warmly. "Oh no, it cannot be done; and while I thank you, friend Jefferay, with all my heart, I beg you to abandon the thought of so base desertion—it would be a lack of faith in God; I cannot do it."

William Jefferay sighed, and the matter dropped.

That night the landlord of the inn came to the vicarage with bad news: the apparitor was moaning in pain, and seemed to be light-headed.

Like many of his clerical brethren, the Vicar had some knowledge of medicine, and he now hastened to the sick man's side, taking with him some simple remedies.

Susan had preceded him thither, for among her many beneficent offices she had constituted herself the "parish nurse" of Chiddingly, and in every case of trouble or sickness she was the first to be sent for.

As the Vicar entered the room, Susan rose from her seat at the bedside and greeted him.

"He is very feverish," she said. "I am afraid he is going to be very ill: I have sent to Hailsham for the doctor."

"You did well," answered the Vicar. "I hope he will soon be here."

Just before midnight the doctor arrived, and ere he saw his patient the Vicar related to him the circumstances of the case.

The doctor listened with some amazement.

"You and Mistress Susan are very good to this man, considering the errand upon which he came to Chiddingly," said the doctor.

"We do not, perhaps, know all the circumstances of the case," replied the Vicar, "for his papers were destroyed by my people; perhaps he is no foe of mine at all, but if it were so, we remember that it is written, 'If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink.' Much more, surely, should we succour him if he be sick."

"Yes, yes, you are right, doubtless, and I honour you for it," replied the doctor—"but come, let us visit the patient."

The visit paid, the two men met again in the inn parlour down-stairs.

"He is in a high fever," said the doctor, "and he will need great care and attention. It is too much for Mistress Susan—I will send you a nurse to-morrow. For to-night, Giles's wife can do all that is necessary."

But Susan would not hear of this arrangement, declaring that she would remain at her post till the nurse arrived.

Three weeks later two men sat upon a seat on the vicarage lawn.

Again it was a Sunday evening, and the two men were the Vicar and the apparitor.

"And you are sure that you are able to travel to-morrow?" said the Vicar.

"Yes, I shall take it by easy stages—resting for a night at East Grinstead, and so reaching London on the evening of the second day."

"London," said the Vicar; "then you go to make your report to the Government?"

"No, Mr. Vicar, I have resigned my office of apparitor—I take up work of another sort in London."

Then, in answer to a look of amazement, perhaps of inquiry, which the man saw depicted on the Vicar's countenance, he suddenly seized Mr. Tittleton's hand and shook it warmly.

"Oh! Mr. Vicar," he cried, "how could you think it possible that I could again take up the accursed work which brought me hither? Do you know that each time that I saw you by my bedside, each time that I felt your cooling hand on my feverish brow, whensoever I listened to your soothing voice, my whole soul was moved with contrition and remorse. For I came hither on an evil errand—may God forgive me!

"My report of Chiddingly might have brought about your death warrant. Oh, I thank Heaven that it was destroyed ere the mischief was done! And as I lay on my sick-bed, I surmised that you must have suspected all this; yet you and Mistress Susan watched over me with unwearied tenderness and patience—you snatched me from the jaws of death! And the thought of all this broke my hard heart!

"Now I wish you adieu, my dear Vicar; but ere I go, let me leave with you a word of counsel. It is known to me that dangerous reports of you have reached London, and though I abandon the office of apparitor another will take it up, and your life may be in danger. Therefore, I beseech you to take refuge abroad, as so many of your brethren have done. Soon the clouds may roll by, but for the present hour of stress and trouble seek safety in flight, I beseech you."

The Vicar shook his head sadly.

"It may not be, my dear friend—the shepherd may not flee and leave his flock in danger."

"Yet," urged his visitor, "it is written, 'If they persecute you in one city, flee ye into another'—is that not so?"

"Yes, that is the Divine counsel," answered the Vicar, "and the hour may come when I may feel the monition to be addressed to me; but for the present I abide in Chiddingly!"

"God's will be done," said the man solemnly—and so they parted.

CHAPTER III
THE PURSUIVANT

The apparitor had taken his departure, and Chiddingly had resumed its normal condition of rural happiness and peace.

The fields were ripening unto harvest, the rustics went forth to their daily toil whistling merrily beside their horses, and at eventide the maidens went to see to the kine with their bright milk-cans in their hands. The rooks filled the air with their raucous voices, as they fluttered about the great rookery which begirt Chiddingly Place.

On the Sunday following the departure of the Queen's officer, all the people of Chiddingly, save a few who were bedridden, flocked into the parish church as if to testify by their presence the love that they bore to their pastor.

Chiddingly was a musical village, and here, at least, the Canticles, which were "to be said or sung," were always sung to the accompaniment of a flageolet, which the parish clerk played vigorously.

And on this especial Sunday the "Te Deum" was sung so heartily that the Vicar marvelled, while Mistress Susan's bright eyes glowed with pride and then glistened with the unbidden tear which strong emotion called forth.

The service over, the Squire and his fair daughter walked through the lines of the villagers, who, according to their custom, awaited their exit to make their salutations to them, cap in hand. There was nothing servile in this—it was but the public exhibition of the love and fidelity in which the family of the Jefferays was held by the Chiddingly people. At the entrance porch of the hall Susan's quick eye noted a stable lad standing beside a pony from which he had dismounted.

What was it that so suddenly brought a flush into Susan's cheeks as she marked that the lad wore the livery of the De Fynes of Herstmonceux—a glow which deepened as the boy doffed his cap and offered her a letter?

"You come from Lewes?" said Susan inquiringly.

"Yes, my lady," replied the lad.

"Wait awhile, and I will let you know if there is any reply; go to the kitchen after you have stabled your pony—the maids will get you some dinner," said Susan.

The lad bowed low and took his departure, glad to follow out Susan's instructions.

Susan turned to her father, who had looked on smilingly.

"Pardon me, dear father," she said, "I will be with you anon."

William Jefferay nodded assent. Susan hastened to her own room and quickly opened her letter.

Yes, it was from Geoffrey de Fynes; she had half hoped to have seen him this day, why had he written instead?

So, with a heart surmising evil, she proceeded to read the letter. As she did so, her cheeks paled and her hands trembled. Then she rang a small silver bell which stood at her side, and her maid Janet appeared in answer to the summons.

"Ask my father to come hither to me, Janet," she said, and the maid hastened away.

Her father presently entered her room, his face still wreathed with smiles.

But the expression of his face changed suddenly as he looked upon his daughter, who held out the letter to him.

"What is it, Susan," he said quickly, "what has happened?"

"Read, father!" she replied in a troubled voice.

The writer of the letter was a member of a great Sussex family—a family whose wrongs moved the pity of all men. The head of the house of Geoffrey de Fynes had suffered a traitor's death in the year 1545, since which time the family had been degraded "in blood and honours."

Yet never had Justice so surely missed its mark as when young Lord Dacres lost his head at Tyburn!

Young Geoffrey de Fynes at the present time held the office of Secretary to the High Sheriff of the County; just now his duties had called him to Lewes.

He was a frequent visitor at Chiddingly Place, and between him and Susan a strong attachment had sprung up, though no betrothal had taken place.

William Jefferay took the letter from his daughter's hand and read it carefully; it was as follows—

"This from the hand of one who loves thee well, and whose chief object in life is to do thee service. Hence I write this letter, and I do so with a clear conscience, though the writing of it might cause the loss of my post, and make me an inmate of Lewes gaol! Yet I dare not do otherwise, for thy happiness is dearer to me than aught else in this life!

"Now to come at once to the point.

"It has come to my knowledge that a warrant has been issued by the Crown for the apprehension of the Vicar of Chiddingly.

"A Pursuivant, with three men-at-arms, will leave Lewes for Chiddingly three days hence, soon after daybreak. They will travel on horseback, and their object is to arrest the Vicar, bring him hither, and afterwards convey him to London.

"Thou mayest show this letter to thy father, but to none other. Between you some plan may be devised whereby he shall escape the malice of his foes. I suggest that he flee to the Continent, but thy father will be his best counsellor."

Then the letter of Geoffrey de Fynes drifted off into other matters which concerned Susan only.

"When you have finished reading that letter I counsel you to destroy it—for Geoffrey's sake," said William Jefferay to his daughter, as he handed it back to her.

"Oh, father," said Susan, "what is to be done?"

"I know not," replied her father, "unless we can persuade the Vicar to flee."

"We have tried that already, and I fear he is immovably resolved to stay among his people—he is strong in his innocence, and cannot be brought to realize the danger he is in," said Susan.

"We shall see him to-night after the service; he comes here to sup with us: we will show him De Fynes's letter if needs be, or at least tell him its contents. I think this will convince him of the deadly peril in which he stands," replied Jefferay.

"God grant it!" cried Susan. "I shall know no rest nor peace now till I know that his safety is assured. Ralph will be here to-morrow; he is coming to spend my birthday with us. Oh! it is a heaven-sent interposition, for he can conduct the Vicar to the coast," she continued.

"Nay, Susan," replied her father, "it is a post of danger, and it will need discretion as well as valour; I shall see him to Newhaven myself, if we can persuade him to flee."

For a long time they talked together, maturing their schemes.

"How good and noble it was of Geoffrey de Fynes to send us this warning!" said Susan; "would that he were here to aid us with his counsel!"

"There you are wrong, dear girl," replied Jefferay; "he has compromised himself enough already, and now we must keep him out of our plot altogether."

"Yes, I see that it must be so," answered Susan, with a sigh.

The afternoon service took place as usual, the parishioners attending once more in full force, little thinking of the danger that hung over the head of their beloved Vicar.

Every word of the simple service seemed to Susan's excited imagination to be invested with an especial significance, and her sweet voice trembled with emotion as she sang the words, "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace." So also the psalm for the day cheered her with its ringing words, "Why do the heathen rage?" and she came out of the church both comforted and refreshed.

In the evening the Vicar came down to the Place in the best of spirits; the hearty services of the day had filled his heart with joy, and the evident good-will, respect, and affection of his people for him had deeply moved his gentle soul.

It was not till supper was over, and the three friends were seated together in the library, that Jefferay, laying his hand affectionately upon the Vicar's shoulders, said—

"You are very happy to-night, Vicar; alas! that I should have bad news for you—news that will mar your happiness, I fear."

Then, as the Vicar looked into his face, without fear or trepidation, William Jefferay recounted all that had happened, and finally showed him De Fynes's letter.

"The Lord's will be done!" said the Vicar solemnly.

"It will be done, it always is done, but not always in the manner we expect," answered Jefferay.

Then Susan intervened.

She drew near to the Vicar's side, took his hand in hers, and said—

"Dear Vicar, we have decided that you must flee before this threatened storm, for it would break our hearts were you taken from us by cruel men, and not ours only, but the hearts also of many of your poor people here."

The Vicar shook his head.

"The hireling fleeth because he is an hireling; the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep," he said.

"No, my dear girl," he continued, as he laid his hand affectionately on her head, "I cannot go—do not urge me!"

Then William Jefferay took another line.

"Listen, my friend," he said, "we want to preserve your life for better times; and my brother Sir John tells me that all men at Court foresee that the present state of things cannot last."

Then, dropping his voice to almost a whisper, he continued—

"The Queen's health is failing; the friends of the Princess Elizabeth are gathering about her, and are taking heart. This may be treason, but, as God lives, I believe it is true! Save yourself, then, Vicar, for better times and future labour among the people whose souls God has committed into your charge!

"Now let me tell you my plans. To-morrow The Golden Horn sets sail from Newhaven for Ostend. I have interest with the captain, and I can answer for him that he will accept you as a passenger. We can leave Chiddingly at break of day, ere people are moving, and I will conduct you to Newhaven."

"I will give you my answer to-morrow," pleaded the Vicar.

But his two faithful friends would not be thus appeased.

"No, Vicar, that will be too late, for The Golden Horn puts to sea early in the day, and we should lose our great opportunity."

For a long time the earnest discussion continued, and the hour waxed late before the reluctant consent was given. To the loving heart of Susan that hard-won victory brought great joy.

"To-morrow, then, at three o'clock we meet here; the horses will be ready to start the moment you arrive," said William, as the guest took his departure from the Place.

"I shall be here—God willing," replied the Vicar.

The next day saw William Jefferay's plan carried out—with the addition that, on Susan's suggestion, Jefferay should accompany the Vicar to Holland and see him safely and comfortably settled there.

That same day, Monday, Ralph arrived from London, and it was not long ere the confiding Susan had revealed to him all that had passed, and that on Wednesday the Queen's Pursuivant would visit Chiddingly to find "the bird flown"!

Now Ralph was a fine, strong English youth, endowed by nature with a very combative disposition and an inordinate love of adventure.

He had thoroughly approved of the action of the Chiddingly rustics when they dipped the apparitor in the horse-pond, though he had taken no part in the affair.

The threatened visit of the Pursuivant aroused his indignation to a white heat, and, unfortunately, at this moment he lacked the restraining influence of his father's presence at home, nor did he take counsel on the matter with Susan.

That very day Ralph called about him a few of his young confidants among the Chiddingly rustics, and at nightfall ten of them met him in conference in the taproom of the "Six Bells" Inn.

The meeting was "secret and confidential"; none but the ten stalwarts were admitted to it, and these pledged themselves to secrecy by a solemn oath which Ralph administered with all due gravity.

Then the meeting having been duly constituted, and Ralph accepted as their leader by common consent, the "young Squire" (as he was known among the rustics) set forth in sufficiently guarded language the nature of the matter which had brought them together, omitting all reference by name to Geoffrey de Fynes.

Headstrong and thoughtless as Ralph was, he saw the necessity for secrecy on that point.