The Ban of Maplethorpe ... With a memoir of the author

Front matter

slY THE SAME AUTHOR. The Physical System of St. Thomas. By Father Cornoldi, S.J. Svo, cloth, 5s. Principles of Political Economy. By Matteo Liberatokk, S.J. Translated hy Edward Heneage Bering, author of "Freville Chase," etc. 8vo, cloth, bevelled, 7s. 6d. On Universals. An Exposition of Thomistic Doctrine. By Matteo Liberatore, S.J. Translated hy E. H. Debing. In wrapper, 7s. 6d. The Atherstone Novel*, by E. H. Dering. The Lady of Raven's Combe. 2 vols., 7s. 6d. ; in one vol., 5s Freville Chase. New Edition. 2 vols., 7s. 6d. ; in one vol., 5s, Sherborne ; or, The House at the Four Ways. New Edition. 2 vols., 7s. 6d.; in one vol. 5s. Just ready. TH E BAN OF MAPLETHORPE BY E . H . BERING With a MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR YOL. I. LONDON AND LEAMINGTON Hrt an 5 as o oft Company NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO : BENZIGER BROS.

I L L U S T R A T I O N'S I VOL. I. Baddesley Clinton by Moonlight, from a sketch in oils by Mrs. Dering, 1891 The Billiard room, Surrenden Dering, built over one of the interior Courts, from a water-colour sketch by Mrs. Ferrers (afterwards Mrs. Dering) /. 158 Georgiana Lady Chatterton, from an oil painting, after Buckner, by Mrs. Dering, showing in the background a portion of the Banqueting room and tapestry at Baddesley Clinton - p. r94 y°ur charily pray for the soul of the 3JPC1 Author of '.his book, who completed il >V»— «^ll only the night before lie died. He had written the greater part of il several months before, including the final chapter : but went through the whole again in the last month of his life, and re wrote the latter part. About twelve o'clock on the night of the 2lst of November, 1892, he exclaimed with joyful accents, " I have finished my book."

The last sentence then written, and found in his note-book, was: "And now I must be in readiness to receive the Bishop." These words seemed, as it were, prophetic. That day week his old coachman drove him indeed to meet the Bishop, but it was for the last time, and instead of the bright warm welcome of former days, there were tears and silence and the solemn Requiem for the Dead.

Chapter I. He

evening is beginning to ' draw in,' as they say." " Yes, and I am beginning to have an uncomfortable suspicion that we took a wrong turn somewhere." These remarks were made by two riders, riding along a bye-road which, a few yards in front of them, was intersected by two other bye-roads. The first speaker was a young lady of twenty summers and winters. The second, a man of fifty years and a little more, seemed, and was in fact, her father. He was a fine specimen of an English gentleman, and this, though soon said, means much — very much. No one knows better what it means than the English peasant, but the specimens are becoming rarer by degrees. His daughter was a lovely English girl, such as the Chinaman must have seen when he wrote about English ladies many years ago. " Their beaut eous hue surpasses the bloom of spring flowers.

Their eye brows are of a delicate outline, resembling that of hills looming on the distant horizon. The colour of their eyes is of the most charming blue, and their whole deportment is calm and cool as are the autumnal waters." The three intersecting roads led over an undulating down country, varied by sheep-folds, broad patches of winter fallow, two or three homesteads in sheltered places, and a few plantations of larch where the land was exposed to the southwest. But which was the right road? "There is something written on this direction post," said the young lady. "There is," answered her father : " but I am afraid that we shall be as wise as we were before. AVhat can we make out of this, without knowing the country? One road leads to Old Sleatham, another to Dripstone Shelford, the other to Humbleton-in-the-Hole."

"Surely," said she, "we came by that wood under the hills near a village. There was a small church with a low tower, and there it is." "I should feel more persuaded," said he, " if we hadn't passed so many woods under hills and so many small churches with low towers. I wish I hadn't brought you so far. I am afraid that we shall be very late. Anyhow we had better take the middle road and ask our way at the village. AVe might perhaps find someone to show us the way." There was a hill before them, flinty and uneven, and then a gentle ascent for a mile, more or less. They trotted on, apparently towards the village : but, in down countries, roads have a way of not leading whither the uninitiated expect them to lead. AVhen they reached the top of the ascent, and looked for the village which, according to their observa tions, ought to have been a little way on, they saw before them a very steep hill sloping downwards to the valley, with grassy banks on both sides, that deepened as the road wound left-wards.

" AVhere in the world are we now ?" said the young lady's father. " This is beyond a joke. I wish I hadn't brought you so far." " Never mind," said the daughter. " AVe shall find our way somewhere at last, and find someone to show us the way. AVhat an exquisite view ! I am so glad we have come upon it, — this deep valley encircled by downs, those purple woods, and the sea beyond." " Yes, but when shall we get to Backwater ? And you will be so tired." " Not a bit. I enjoy the ride : and there will be an early moon. A ride by moonlight will be delightful : it will be a new sensation." " True : but I am afraid that you will be so tired. Be sides, we shall keep the dinner waiting ; and your aunt will be frightened out of her wits. However, there is nothing for it but to go on. This must lead somewhere."

The winding of the hill, as they descended, and the height of the banks on both sides made it impossible to see any thing before them, until they had gone at least three quarters of a mile, when a sharp curve of the road brought them down to comparatively level ground. They were now in a sort of wild park-land, narrow and winding, with a wood about a quarter of a mile further on. There was no sign of a house, except a very thin column of smoke, which the young lady saw or imagined above the trees. " Do you see that smoke ? " said she to her father. " I am not sure that I do," said he, " but I see a farm yard in front, without a house, and I see hills all round." " But is it a farmyard ? " said she. " It seems to me — " " Stables, I do believe, or a home-farm," said her father. " And if so, there is somebody's place round the corner.

If this isn't Humbleton-in-the-Hole, it ought to be. But how we got here I can't make out. The way-posts in this country are regulated on some principles that I don't undei stand." Just beyond there was a clump of Scotch firs, behind which the road divided. One bore to the right through the wild park-land, the other turned sharply to the left, skirting the Scotch firs. " There is the smoke, after all," said the young lady, " and I see the top of an old chimney above the trees. How very romantic to live surrounded by wood ! " " Very," said her father ; "I hope they will act accordingly and send someone to show us the way. I mustn't ask them whether this is Humbleton-in-the-Hole. But here we are at the gate. It doesn't look much like the entrance to anyone's place. And yet I don't know. There is some thing distinguished about it."

The gate was made of oak rails horizontal and trans verse. The posts were solid and carved at the top. The whole was almost black from age and exposure to the weather. The road inside was grass on the surface, but stoned underneath. It passed through a wood of apparently a hundred acres or rather more, with green rides and ditches on either side. They had proceeded about three hundred yards when they came to another gate, on the further side of which was an open space of pasture land where cows were grazing. Beyond this second gate the road bore round to the left ; and as the young lady and her father turned into it, they saw a gabled house rising directly in front of them, fenced off from the grass by a low stone wall and an iron gate of antique trellis work. A row of clipped yews led up to the house.

It had a moat, a bridge over it, and a large door at the end under an archway. The young lady held her father's horse while he crossed the bridge and rang the bell. The bell pealed and echoed under the arch way ; whereon a big dog invisible bayed in a solemn manner slowly, and a peacock, walking about among the clipped yews, sent forth his plaintive shriek. Before the latter sound had ceased, the door turned heavily on massive hinges, and an elderly woman, who had every distinctive mark of an honoured and time-honoured housekeeper, stood forward within the archway. She was dressed in a black silk gown, an ample handkerchief of white muslin over her shoulders, and a white lace cap with violet bows. Her handsome features and the respectful dignity of her manners won the heart of the belated enquirer.

" I am so sorry to trouble you," he said : " but we have lost our way, and I want to find the high road to Back water." " There is a short cut, sir," said she, " over the hills : but you would hardly find it. I will go and look for Father Bramsby. I think he is in. He would show you the way with pleasure, I am sure." "Has time gone backwards ?" thought he, as she went through a side door. " I haven't seen anything like that since I was a boy. Is the Priest the squire?" AVhile he was asking himself this question, the Priest himself appear ed on the scene — a tall man with white hair and the fine manners of the old school. " It will give me great pleasure," said Father Bramsby, " to show you the way. I will ride with you and put you on the straight road, which is about a mile and a half from here over the hill.

You will only have five miles to go from there to Backwater. But in the meantime I must ask you to do me the honour of resting yourselves and your horses. The young lady must have had a long and tiring ride." The young lady of course affirmed that she was not tired, because such is the custom of young ladies when they have ridden too far ; but the end of it was that she dismounted, the horses were taken to the stables, and Father Bramsby led the way, through the big oak door, across the court and into the hall. This was large and lofty, extending upwards to the roof, whose black oak beams and rafters were carved and decorated, at their intersections, by coats of arms in faded gold and colours. Three large windows with deep recesses, opposite to the entrance door, looked southward to wards the sea.

On the left as you entered was the fire place, enclosed by a high stone chimney-piece adorned with shields that would have been the better for a little restoring of their colours. On the right, an oak staircase led up to a gallerythat ran round the hall above. The furniture was of old oak, very solid but not much carved. A large arm chair enclosed by a high screen of gilt Spanish leather was placed near the fireplace, and beside it on a table was an open breviary. The pavement of the hall was stone, but thick square carpets and mats were placed here and there near the tables. In the fireplace large logs of wood over a heap of wood ashes were supported by iron dogs. " What a beautiful old hall ! " said the young lady. " Is this the place someone was telling me about at dinner last night — Elmington Grange, I think they said?"

" No," said Father Bramsby, " that is on the other side of Backwater. Hunterscombe is the name of this place. But I hope that before you leave the house you will comply with one of its ways, and have some luncheon, though it is late. Coming here is not like paying a visit in the next street." " Thank you very much for your kind hospitality," said the young lady's father, " but we had an early luncheon before we started." "Then I will order tea," said Father Bramsby ; " but you will find it warmer in this room." He opened a door under the gallery, and they found themselves in a small dining-room hung with tapestry. Here the chimney-piece was of black oak, and there was a coat of arms carved and coloured in the centre of it. Said the young lady's father, " AVhile we are waiting for the tea which you are so kind as to offer us, may we see a little more of the house ?

" " With pleasure," said Father Bramsby, " there will be time for it. The sun will set soon, but the moon is rising. You will have a better light in half an hour." The horses were ordered to be ready about that time, and then they began to go over the house. " This is an extraordinarily interesting place," said the elder guest, as he followed Father Bramsby into the old drawing-room, which was hung with family portraits and other pictures, some as old as the days of Holbein. " If it were not for these hills, you would be besieged by tourists on bicycles." " AVell, we might be a little inconvenienced by too much of a good thing." "Your goodness makes it seem a good thing to you, my dear Father Bramsby, if you will allow me to speak so, on so short an acquaintance. I think that you are happier as you are."

" True — with a distinction. I certainly should dislike an unlimited series of interruptions : but then, charity comes first — St. Paul said so. It seems to me that the sight of this old place, with its old-world memories of days when living was not so fast but more simple, and when there was less retailing of thoughts but more thinking, would have a pleasant and instructive effect on a tourist, who had, per haps, escaped for three weeks from some restless labour of concrete calculation." Leaving the drawing-room, they proceeded up-stairs. The rooms were not many nor large, except the hall, but, by reason of many turnings and ups and downs, and a marked absence of that uniformity which causes a large modern house to seem less large than it really is, Hunters combe seemed larger than it was.

As they passed a bedroom, the windows of which looked across the moat to the garden, the elder guest noticed through the half-open door an open space in the panelled wall. " This is my room," said Father Bramsby. " And that curious opening in the wall — " " The housemaid must have gone up to dust the little room above and then have been called off before she had time to pull down the pannel shutter, which slides upwards into the ceiling." " But then, how do you get into the room ? " " By those library steps." " But what is it ? " " A hiding-hole." " How very interesting. Do you know when it was made?" " It was made in the days of good Queen Bess." " Dear me ! I was not aware of any civil war in her time." Father Bramsby mounted the steps, pulled the panelling down into its place, and came back towards the door.

" Shall we go on ?" he said. " There is the chapel close by, and a rather curious bedstead in a room to the front." " AVith pleasure. Everything is as interesting as it can be. But about that hiding-hole — who made use of it ? " "Only hunted Priests." "Hunted?" " Yes, when they were not being hanged or imprisoned." "I beg your pardon; but were they not executed for high treason ? " " They were, because saying Mass was made high treason." " Ah — they had no idea of toleration in those days. Queen Mary and the Spanish Inquisition — " " Queen Mary's husband," said Father Bramsby, " one of the most contemptible characters in history, was respon sible for turning three of the greatest scoundrels in England, Cranmer, Latimer, and Ridley, into pseudo-martyrs. Philip's Spanish confessor, preaching before him and the Queen, warned them both, in vain, against the misuse of the secular power in cases of conscience.

The Spanish Inquisition was a piece of state-machinery : and when the Jews fled from it, they went to Rome, where they were protected by the Pope. But we must go on, or I shall be responsible for your arriving late at Backwater. The chapel is round the corner : but there is nothing worth seeing in it from an artistic point of view. My nephew, the Squire of the place, has grand ideas about it, and very good taste ; but in this world, and especially now, the logic of money is unanswerable." The next move, after the visitors had seen and admired the rather curious bedstead, was downstairs and into the tapestried dining-room, where they found the tea ready and a grey-haired footman in livery standing by the table. In ten minutes more they passed out over the bridge. There they found their horses in readiness, held by an ancient servitor, whose leg clothing of brown corduroy and cloth gaiters was surmounted by a coachman's coat ; the colour of which made no impression on them, because their attention was attracted to a very handsome animal of the cob type.

The old Priest mounted the latter as soon as the young lady had settled herself in her saddle ; and then they proceeded on their way, not as the visitors had come, but in the opposite direction, through a narrow ride in the wood. They turned right and left, and back again, as it appeared to the strangers, and lastly came out of the wood through a bridle-gate. There they struck across a large meadow, and then began to ascend, by a grass road, a portentous hill, from the top of which, over the downs, the descent was even steeper. AArhen they had reached the plain below, waded a wide brook with a foot-bridge on one side of it, and passed half through a small village whose church had been much church-wardenized, they turned into a high road. " This," said Father Bramsby, " is the road to Back water.

Bon voyage ! If you should happen to be riding in this direction again, and I can be of any use to you, I shall be happy to be at your service." He then took off his hat with a courteous dignity that enhanced the value of his words without making them mean too much, and wheeling his horse, rode back over the hills to Hunterscombe. It was now nearly six o'clock. The moon was up and clear. The other two riders trotted briskly homewards without speaking, but the Unnamed and the Priest thought about each other at intervals as follows : The Unnamed. "I wish I hadn't said that— about Queen Mary and the Spanish Inquisition." Father Bramsby (mounting the steep down on his clever cob). "Yes. He was sorry to protest: but the hiding hole took him by surprise." The Unnamed. "Very attractive — the old Priest, and everything.

Too good to be true, though. That is the worst of it." Father Bramsby. " He was attracted more than he was prepared for, and regretted that it couldn't be true." The Unnamed. "One shouldn't put oneself in the way of being attracted." Father Bramsby. " He is afraid of infection, and honest ly so. His, I think, is a clear case of invincible ignorance." The Unnamed. " I ought to have told him my name. It must have seemed so ill-bred." Father Bramsby. " He might have told me his name. There he forgot his good breeding just a little, probably because he felt the pressure of two opposite inclinations, and thought himself bound in conscience to resist the popish one. Protestantism fits him badly. He is not comfortable in it." "You see," said the Unnamed rather suddenly to his daughter, " it would have been awkward to have given one's name.

One must have asked him to come and see us. And then there is his nephew, and — and all that." Precisely so. The reasons might be summed up in the " all that," which meant more than he meant, because it expressed a conviction, not properly his, but accepted as such, through the unnoticed influence of transmitted prejudice claiming his conscience. AVere he to know more of Father Bramsby, he would have to know the Catholic nephew : but the nephew might be as attractive as his surroundings were — much too dangerously attractive — and, if once noticed, could not be dropped without a breach of courtesy. AVhy should a man, who lived out of the neigh bourhood, explore the mysteries of a distinctly Catholic house, where a charming old Priest, with a mysterious nephew in the background, attractively represented what was " too good to be true " ?

Chapter II. Bout

a week afterwards, another belated traveller, also unnamed, but alone, found himself likewise puzzled in the bye-roads of Ilsetshire. It was about twenty miles from Hunterscombe, in the northern part of the county whither he had gone to inspect a farm, being required, as co-trustee, to invest a sum of money therein. Satisfied as to the security and the farm, he intended to reach Osmunds bury that evening and complete the purchase. But the day was closing in, the distance was from fifteen to sixteen miles, and one fir-capped down in the horizon looked very much like another. It would be easy to miss one's way. "Can I hire a dog-cart," he enquired of the farmer, "or some kind of conveyance ? or can you get me a mount?" But the farmer, though willing, was not so able. His light cart was somewhere else, and the only horse that he had, except cart-horses, was a three-year-old that he was going to break for the yeomanry.

"That will do," said the traveller. "But how am I to send him back ? " The farmer said that his son would bring him back, by reason of having gone on business to Osmundsbury, where he would be heard of at the AA'hite Lion. The horse was then saddled — a big brown and rather leggy. "You will save two miles, sir," said the farmer, "ifyou ride down that narrow lane. It will take you further on in to the high road by the big mill, which they call Bouncing Bess. But you must keep all on bearing to the right, and mind you go straight ahead after you pass the long pool beyond Great Puddleford." " And mind, yer honour, don't take the wrong turn when you get to them fingerposts with nothing on 'em ! " said an Irish cowman, who had helped to saddle the horse. " Keep straight on, or you'll get down to the ford, and an ugly place it is in the dark — the Lord save us.

Thank ye, sir, an' good luck to ye." The horse had no mouth, and rolled about as unbroken colts always do more or less ; but he was good-tempered and tractable so far as he knew what his rider wanted, and he picked up his feet above the stones , whether rolling or stick ing up. It was rather dark at first, for it was nearly five o'clock, and became more so till the belated horseman had passed Great Puddleford. Then the moon came out from behind the clouds, showing him the finger-posts and the turning that he was to mind. But which of them was it ? The road on which he was riding diverged in the shape of a capital V, and the further direction of each horn was hidden by woodland scenery, very picturesque in the moonlight and suggestive of many indefinite windings. Thought the horseman, "I was cautioned by the farmer to keep straight ahead after passing Great Puddleford, and by the Irishman to mind the turning here ; but what is straight ahead ?

I daresay the three-year-old has carried his master to Osmundsbury Market. I had better leave it to him." The three-year-old chose the right horn of the V without any hesitation, and his rider congratulated himself on the evidence, remembering, however, on the other hand, that the horse might have been bred somewhere near the right hand road. But the night was clear and the horse disposed for going, so he took the optimistic view, and went on at a brisk trot till he began to look out for the arms of the mill near which he should find the turning into the high road. He looked out with his eyes, looked forward in imagination, and lastly looked on the case as unpleasant. The mill was nowhere to be seen ; and the longer he looked the more clearly he saw that it was not visible : but he saw two fir capped downs on the left hand which appeared to resemble so closely those that he had seen on the right of the farm house which he had left an hour ago, that he could scarcely avoid a very disagreeable inference.

In short, he must have ridden round in a circle, and was as far from Osmundsbury as ever. But he had either to go on or put up under a hedge, and on he went in search of something or somebody, till at last he saw something before him in the hollow that made him pull up, puzzled by what he saw. He was now riding through a tract of wild common-land, and coming to a ford, or rather a rapid brook that served as a ford when not swollen by rain. On the other side of the ford the road divided right and left nearly at right angles, and along the right-hand road a funeral procession came slowly to the ford, appeared to pass through it and come on towards the hill. The turn down to the ford was rather steep ; there was some rough grass on one side of the road, and a row of blasted and stunted trees on the other.

" I must ask my way from one of the mourners behind," thought the horseman, but at that moment the three-year old caught sight of the procession as it slowly approached. He stood still, snorted and broke out into what is common ly called a muck : then, having a steep hill behind him and the trees on one side, while the grass on the other gave him room to pass without going near the procession, he took the bit between his teeth, bolted down the hill, through the ford, splashing the water above his head, and pelted along up hill and down hill, while the flinty road rang with the sound of his hoofs, as if they were trying to scan the inimit able hexameter : Quadrupetante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum. The whole occurrence was curious and startling, for when the horseman galloped past the spot where he ought to have met the procession, nothing was visible on the white moonlit road.

But he had no leisure for thinking of that. The horse had rebelled under a sudden impulse of terror, and for the first time felt his own strength. Moreover his excitement was in creased by the nervousness which is characteristic of horse nature, and the bit had a very low port, quite insufficient for holding a big three-year old, who has a strong mouth, a powerful neck, and his nose between his knees. So on he went, clattering along the stones and sending up the wet mud. Presently the road, leaving the tract of wild gorse-covered moor, passed round the base of a wooded hill, and led up wards between high banks covered with plantations of larch and spruce. " I can just steer him," thought the horseman, "so as to keep clear of a waggon, if I meet one." He did meet a waggon, and did keep clear of it ; and then he saw park-like grounds stretching upwards towards the summit of a hill bathed in moonlight.

Far above, a long range of lighted windows then appeared, glimmering through branches of trees : then he came to a park-gate on the left, which the woman at the lodge opened for him. " Is this the way to Osmundsbury ? " he shouted : and the woman answered something. But the pace and the clatter drowned her voice, and at the same time, the right curb rein, being rotten, snapped in two, while he was pull ing the big brown away from the entrance. The steering was successful, but its consequences were disastrous. Just beyond, the road was crossed by another road on the right, along which a red-faced man, of irritable aspect, with a big cigar in his mouth, was driving a dog-cart, a groom sitting behind. The driver, seeing an apparently clear road, came on rapidly : but the big brown, after being turned from the gate and frightened by the breaking of the rein, plunged forward in the way of the dog-cart.