The Dead Prior

Front matter

BY C. DUDLEY LAM PEN. 1 " Whither, thou turbid wave, Whither, with so much haste. As isa thief wert thou ?" ( " I am the Wave of Life, Stained with my margin's dust : From the struggle and the strife Of the narrow stream I fly To the Sea's immensity To wash me from the slime Of the muddy banks of Time." Longfellow — The Wave. LONDON: ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C. 1896. CONTENTS. CHATTER I'ACJF. IN WHICH THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO A MYSTERY .... I II. ANNO DOMINI IS39 . . .2 III. THE SPIDER AND THE FLY . . 35 IV. THE LIGHT IN THE CLOISTER . 51 V. ETHEL . . . . .66 VI. IN THE BALANCE . . . -85 VII. THE PRIOR'S TOMB . . . .90 VIII. LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM . . . 106 ix. edith's illness . . .121 x. dog and bone . . . -132 xl 'the nemesis of faith ' . . . i46 xii. a terrible hour .... 157 xiii. edith's refusal .... 163 xiv. self-revolt . . . Contents. VI 1'AGE

CHAPTER XV. VIENNA

. . . . .176 XVI. PRIOR WALTER RETURNS . . ■ 185 XVII. JOE SHARP MAKES A MOVE . . I yo XVIII. SATISFACTION .... 202 XIX. RESTITUTION . . . .213

Chapter I. In Avhich The Reader Is Introduced To

A MYSTERY. There was evidently some mystery con nected Avith Gilbert Aubrey, the popular doctor of the old country town known as Monkton Friars. His patients noticed that he was much quieter and more self-restrained than he had hitherto been. It was plain to all that something was weighing heavily on his mind. There was a time when Aubrey would spend an hour Avith a patient, chatting and laughing in the most friendly, but most un professional, manner. There was a time — and it was not so very long ago — when he Avould open the door of his patient's room, and, entering in the most familiar way, would say, Good-morning, old fellow ! How are you ? Physic to the dogs, eh ?' But no one heard him say such things as these now. People had noticed (so they Avhispered to one another) a gradual change in the Doctor.

Was, then, Gilbert Aubrey, M.D., in love? Or was he working out some great scientific or medical problem ? The old ladies of Monkton Friars guessed and talked, but none of them lighted upon the true reason for this very marked change in the popular doctor's demeanour. Nay, we mistake. There was one person who knew. Henry Purcell knew. But, then, he Avas only the organist at the Abbey Church, and did not mix with the best society of Monkton Friars. Henry Purcell kneAv, but hitherto he had kept his knowledge to himself. Presently it began to be whispered in the Abbey precincts that a change, which Avas equally inexplicable, had also come over Henry Purcell. The frequenters of the Abbey — more especially those who regularly attended the daily choral matins and even song — felt that there was a very marked, but very unusual, depression and gloom in the character of the talented organist's selections.

The voluntaries, which used to be so bright and inspiring, were now quite of a sombre and almost melancholy kind, as if a burdened and anxious heart Avere giving itself expression through the notes. The choir instinc tively responded to the heaviness and gloom which Avere now characteristic of the organist's lead. Those Avho were present at the service on the Easter Day complained that the music was much more suggestive of Lent than of Easter ; and the clergy remarked to each other that the services seemed to be strangely dull and lifeless in the Abbey of Monkton Friars. Gilbert Aubrey, the doctor, and Henry Purcell, the organist, had not been very intimate. Beyond the fact that the Doctor was an excellent performer on the violin, and a devoted musical amateur, and that he had occasionally spent an evening with the organist, for the sake of musical practice, it could not be said that there had been be tween them anything like friendship.

There was now, however, something strange and mysterious about both these men ; but the gossips, with all their guesses, could arrive at no satisfactory solution ; nor could they decide Avhether the depression of the one had any connection Avith the moodiness of the other. Monkton Friars in earlier times Avas a very secluded country toAvn on the eastern border of the West Riding of Yorkshire. In the year 1302, the Cistercian monks had erected on this spot one of their noble monasteries, and for more than two hundred years the rule of St. Benedict had been observed within its Avails. Then King Henry VIII., 'of pious memory,' despoiled it of revenues, and unroofed all the buildings except the church, or Abbey, Avhich yet re mains as an abiding monument of the faith, industry and sacrifice of a bygone age.

It is still used as the parish church of the town. Monkton Friars, hoAvever, had altogether changed in character since the days when those who followed the Religious Life erected their monastery. Coal — that omnipotent factor in the destinies of nations — had been discovered in the immediate neighbourhood, and, in consequence, factories had been erected, tall chimneys poured forth their smoke, and there were signs of the wealth which the throbbing machinery was pouring steadily into the pockets of manufacturing princes. New streets, inhabited by grimy but Avell-to-do operatives, extended on all sides of the factories ; and if the old Prior, Walter de Loidis, could have revisited the scene of his earthly rule, he would scarcely have recognised the valley with its once delightful green fields and clear and pellucid stream, on the banks of which he and his followers had erected their house of prayer.

The Abbey is one of the few remaining ecclesiastical ' peculiars,' and is governed, like a cathedral, by a Dean and Chapter. The magnificent nave, flanked by narrow aisles, terminates in a low screen, with chancel gates. Beyond these rises the choir and the Lady Chapel, in which the remark ably delicate tracery of the Avindows as seen from the na\re arrests and delights the eye. High up in the triforium, and played by pneumatic and electrical action from a con sole in the choir, is the organ — a costly modern instrument, upon Avhich few could play as did Henry Purcell, who was a name sake and descendant of one of England's greatest musicians. The ancient monastic buildings, as we have seen, were in ruins, but, being enclosed within the churchyard, Avere carefully pre served. Rambling old ruins they Avere.

Here one stumbled upon, if not into, a deep and dungeon-like cell ; and there climbed narrow and twisting staircases which led nowhere. Impressive, too, was the stillness of the cloisters, where those who noAV slumber beneath the flowers in ' The Para dise ' (as the quadrangle Avas then called) Avere Avont to attend the Prior's summer lectures, or to exercise themselves, protected from the winter rains. The church was situated on the north side of this enclosure, and along its southern wall ran the principal arcade of the cloisters. This arcade opened at the western side on to the path which ran through the churchyard, while at the other and eastern end it turned at right angles toAvards the south, and past the ruined cells of the old monastic establishment. Very weird and ghostly were these desolate and deserted cells, and very wonderful was the effect on moonlight nights, as the moonbeams glinted down through the fragments of tracery, casting strange shadows across their gloomy recesses.

No one was interested in the cells. There was no architectural beauty or antiquarian interest attaching to any one of them, and therefore, except by the caretaker, this portion of the ruins was very seldom visited. In these cloisters, on the fifth day of June, 18 — , late in the afternoon, Henry Purcell was pacing slowly to and fro. His head was bent in thought, and a close observer might have noticed that, as he held under his arm an oblong folio of organ music, his fingers twitched nervously on the book, while he knitted his brows, muttering the meanwhile to himself, ' How can I continue longer in such an intolerable position ? I must make my decision some day, and why not do it at once ?' He was a tall, fair-haired, good-looking man, about forty-three years of age, with striking blue eyes and a fair brown beard, in which the gray hairs were just beginning to appear.

That he was a man of intellectual power was evident in his frontal development ; and the blue eyes, which usually were of dreamy softness, could, as the present oc casion testified, flash in the nervous energy of their glance. He had walked from end to end of the north side of the cloisters eight or ten times, when a girl of about seventeen years of age, appeared at the door which led into the Abbey, and advanced, with smiling face, towards him. There could be no mistaking the relationship between the two. They were evidently father and daughter. The girl had just the same blue eyes and fair hair, and withal an expression of face which was so winsome, in its open ingenuousness, that everyone Avas attracted to her. ' Here you are, Edith, my girlie !' said her father ; ' I really began to think you Avould never come.' Edith replied with a merry laugh, and said : ' I was so anxious to cut the flowers im mediately before I came to church.

Even half an hour's growth is a gain to them,' and she held up a basket of white flowers. ' Will they not look lovely above the altar ?' she added. 'We need hardly go into the church yet,' replied her father ; ' I was only thinking how much I should like to walk up and down the cloisters for a while with you, my girlie.' And he gave her an affectionate smile. Edith Purcell was just at that impression able age when all the world seems to be bright and beautiful, and when no thought or sus picion of the evil that lies deep in the hearts of men had entered into her mind. Her father was to her a hero. His musical learn ing and genius seemed to her stupendous. What matter to her that he was easily led ? what matter that he was by no means what the world calls 'practical ' ? He was the great organist-composer of the Abbey of Monkton Friars ; and he was even now composing a work which would astonish the musical world. ' How surprised the monks would be if they could peep into the cloisters just now!' remarked Edith. ' They would certainly ask me to retire from the precincts,' she added, with a laugh. 'Poor dear old monks!' she continued. ' Hoav astonished they would be at the changes in Monkton Friars, and especially at the changes in the Abbey.' ' Some things are changed for the better, I hope,' suggested her father. ' Oh yes, father dear ; the music, for instance.' And she looked up into his face wdth a sly smile.

Purcell smiled too ' Perhaps there are other changes which are for the worse,' he remarked. 'Yes,' said Edith; 'it would be a great thing if we had such men nowadays as were some of these monks, who devoted their lives to the care of the sick and needy. Hoav can Dr. Aubrey, with all his skill, supply their place ?' At the mention of the Doctor's name, Purcell became silent for a time, until Edith said : ' Do you suppose that a monk ever fell in love ?' ' It would be a very unhappy case, I fancy, if he did,' replied her father; 'you have for gotten that they were under a vow of perpetual celibacy.' ' So that even if a monk were hopelessly in love he would be unable to marry ?' ' Exactly.' ' Poor fellow ! I should feel so sorry for him,' said Edith, in a tone of sympathy. ' Has anyone asked for me since I lest home ?' inquired the organist, as if anxious to change the conversation. ' Only Dr. Aubrey, father ; he called about half an hour ago, and seemed to be dis appointed that you were not at home.' Purcell said nothing, but his daughter noticed that the anxious look which she, in common Avith others, had observed on her father's face appeared again, and that it was even more intensely marked than before.

They passed together from the cloisters into the Abbey. Purcell made his way to the organ, while Edith, after placing her beloved flowers in a safe corner, knelt in silent prayer. Presently a small bell in the western turret began to sound, and soon after musical notes of liquid purity seemed to float down from the diapasons in the high triforium as Henry Purcell began his usual extempore voluntary before evensong. ' In the minor mode again,' said Edith to herself. ' How fond father has become of the sadder tones of music! He seems to delight nowadays in sombre chromatic har monies.' Then, as the organist continued his beautiful but sad strains, Edith's mind reverted to the look which she had noticed in her father's face in the cloister when Dr. Aubrey's name Avas mentioned, and she remembered that her father had not been at all himself of late.

Several persons had remarked to her the changed character of his playing. As she listened now, she fully realized that it was not the kind of extempore voluntary to Avhich she had been accustomed from her childhood. Her father had ever been one of the brightest and most genial-hearted of men, and he used to play, on such afternoons as this, when all nature was rejoicing in God's sunlight, as if he must translate his own glad ness into a hymn of thankful praise. The solemn harmonies rolled on ; the sound of a distant ' amen ' came from the vestry, and then the strains of music waxed louder as the white-robed choir entered and proceeded to the stalls in the chancel. But Avhat was it brought a scarlet flush to Edith's face as the choir passed her ? That flush which only died away to come again when the first notes of the leading treble's voice burst forth in the anthem ?

The singer was a tall, delicate-looking boy, who had retained his beautiful soprano voice beyond the usual age. He sang as if his whole soul was absorbed by the music ; he sang as if through the groined roof the voice of a seraph pealed. His holy song inspired for a time the organist, for he played the remainder of the service with more of his old fire. That silver voice seemed to fill the soul of Henry Purcell, for a time at least, with new hope and life. The notes, rising and mingling with the golden sunbeams, inspired first the heart and then the agile fingers of the organist, until the Dean raised his head, as if he, too, had caught the inspira tion, and tears glistened in the eyes of more than one of the members of that congregation, and not least in the eyes of Edith Purcell ; but they Avere not tears of sorrow.

When evensong Avas over, Edith devoted her attention to the arrangement of the flowers in the altar vases. When she arrived home for the evening meal, she found that her father was in his study, busily employed over the score of his new oratorio. For years he had been working early and late at this composition, and he hoped to complete it in time for its production at the triennial festival, which Avould be held in the Abbey in the ensuing October. ' I will be in the dining-room in five minutes,' he replied, in answer to her reminder that the meal was ready. ' These horns are terrible fellows ; when you most need them they have no notes available.' The organist's house was a pretty cottage within the precincts. Its front was level with the road, but at the back there was a cosy garden, in Avhich the trim flower-beds vied in neatness with the closely-shaven lawn.

At the bottom of the garden a door in the high wall opened into a lane, Avhich divided the church property from Dr. Gilbert Aubrey's house and grounds. The Doctor was in the habit of entering Purcell's garden through this door, and he could thus obtain easy and silent access to the organist's study, which looked out upon the lawn. Of late Aubrey's visits had been unusually frequent. Edith waited for more than the stipulated five minutes, and then, as her father did not appear, she left the dining-room, and was about to enter the study, when she heard voices in earnest conversation ; and she discovered that Dr. Aubrey was with her father. ' I tell you,' the Doctor was saying, ' that I am convinced there is a meaning in the words which I have quoted.' ' They may have had a meaning to the man who wrote them,' replied Henry Purcell, ' but that meaning must have been lost when he died.' ' The Avriter is as dead as mutton, no doubt,' replied the Doctor, Avith a short laugh, ' but it by no means follows that his written words may not be acted upon.' ' Are you sure that no one can understand the words ?' ' Quite sure ; it is impossible for anyone to make out this mediæval Latin.' ' Have you the manuscript ?' ' Yes ; here it is.

At this point there was silence ; the two men were evidently poring over the writing about which they had been talking, and Edith could hear the crackle of the dry parchment as it was unrolled. Then came whispers, as her father and the Doctor con versed in an undertone, and she could only catch the Avords, ' Great discovery . . . ' It must mean the last Prior' . . . ' So you think it is still there ?' Edith dare not listen longer ; so, retreating quietly to the dining-room, she awaited her father. In ten minutes he appeared. ' Tired of waiting, eh ?' ' No, father, but I began to fear that you would ha\re a cold dinner.' ' Ah, you see, those horn parts are so troublesome,' he said, after a moment's hesitation. Edith looked up. Then, he did not wish her to know that anyone had been in the study.

As this thought flashed across her mind, she felt a cold chill at her heart. Never before had she known her father attempt to deceive her. For seventeen years they had been inseparable companions (Edith's mother had died in giving her birth), and ever since she could remember anything she had been her father's confidant. What could this strange thing be — this mystery which her father seemed to Avish to conceal from her ? Could it have any connection with the gloom which she had observed both in his manner and in his organ-playing during the past few weeks ? The meal Avas robbed of its usual cheerful conA'ersation. Henry Purcell was deep in thought, and Edith felt more than half inclined to cry. ' I shall be out till late,' he said, as they rose from the table. ' Do not sit up for me ; I will take the latch-key.' It had been Purcell's habit until recently either to take his daughter with him on his rambles into the surrounding country, or, if it was the winter-time, to spend the evening aster dinner at his musical compositions, while she occupied herself with her needle work.

On the rare occasions when he had lest her he had invariably intimated Avhere he was going, and had permitted — nay, even encouraged — her to sit up and await his return home. When her father, therefore, had retired to his study, the daughter's young heart could restrain its emotion no longer, and, throwing herself on to the sofa, she indulged in a fit of silent weeping. She had been quite un accustomed to such treatment, and had not the faintest idea as to what could be its cause. Purcell, in the meanwhile, sat down, and attempted to continue the scoring of his oratorio ; but, after many attempts, he put down his pen, and walked out of the open French window on to the lawn. It was a typical summer evening, but the beauties of his garden seemed on this occasion to have no charm for him. To and fro he paced upon the grass (it Avas a favourite occupation of his when he was deep in thought), until the deepening gloom and the falling dew reminded him of the lateness of the hour. ' Nine-fifteen,' he muttered, looking at his Avatch ; 'and I am to see him at nine twenty.' So saying, he walked down the long path edged by the bushes of dwarf box, and, opening the door, crossed the lane and entered Dr. Aubrey's garden by a similar door.

The garden was not unlike his own, and extended up to the Doctor's house ; and Purcell could see a light in the window of one of the downstairs rooms. It was a French window, and the Doctor Avas plainly visible, arrayed in a dressing-gown, and seated in a huge armchair. There was nothing very attractive about Dr. Gilbert Aubrey. He Avas of medium height, and inclined to be stout. His face, which Avas clean shaved, had nothirg very remarkable about it, except the eyes. Dr. Aubrey's peculiar look lay in his eyes. They were dark-gray eyes of the shifty and insincere kind. There Avas a want of manly straightforwardness about them. He seemed to be ever looking beyond or through the person Avith whom he talked. Not that there was penetration or discernment in his look. It was rather the look of duplicity and selfishness, which is more often the sign of a weak than of a strong character.

It was with no feeling of joyful anticipation that Henry Purcell stood for a few seconds before the Avindow, and looked in upon the Doctor. He dreaded and disliked the man exceedingly, even as a tiny rabbit dreads the serpent by whose gaze it is fascinated. He would have given much if he could have avoided this interview, and for a moment he thought of retiring. But no ; there were reasons — urgent personal reasons — why he should have some conversation Avith Gilbert Aubrey. ' Punctual to the second !' cried the Doctor as Purcell entered. ' Sit down,' he continued, ' and have a pipe. There ! I think you will find the briar will draw well. Try the honeydew, by all means.' On a small table by the Doctor's chair lay a number of papers and books, and spread out upon them was a roll of parchment, which Avas yellow and discoloured with age and damp.

The organist took a seat near this table as soon as he had lighted his pipe. ' Have you made anything out ?' he asked, looking into the Doctor's face. ' Well, I have made a little progress — just a very little. You see, one great difficulty is to read the almost illegible characters. The mildew and the action of the air have effected such a change in the colour of the ink, that some of the words are too faint to be read with the ordinary vision.' ' Then how do you propose to decipher the words ?' The Doctor replied by holding up a lens and a small bottle. ' The purpose of the lens you will, of course, easily understand ; and in this bottle is a chemical, which I find — after some cautious experiments — darkens the ink with out affecting the surrounding surface. See ! I apply it over the writing thus, with this camel's-hair brush.' And as he spoke, Gilbert Aubrey dipped the brush in the solution, and passed it over a portion of the parchment.

15 39- ONthe fourteenth day of October, a.d. 1539, the news reached the monastery of Monkton Friars that the King's agent had received orders to effect its destruction. The aged Prior, who had been bedridden for some months, had not been told, up to that date, the terrible news con cerning the demolition of the monastic es tablishments throughout the country. The brethren, because of the love and reverence they bore him, kept the secret from him as long as they could, for they feared the consequences of the shock to a constitution weakened by old age. The messenger, who had ridden over from the Cistercian monastery of Kirkstall, near Leeds, to bring the dis tressing news, was closeted for some time with the Sub-Prior ; and when the man had departed, he called the brethren together into the chapter-house, in order to break to them the terrible tidings.

These they 1539. 23 received with consternation, and even with tears. The old and decrepit monks, who foresaw that they would be turned adrift to starve, shed tears ; but the younger ones expressed in unmeasured terms their indignation at the injustice of the King's proceedings, Avhile all were appalled at the thought of the sacrilege which was about to be perpetrated. ' My brothers,' said the Sub-Prior, in a voice which was well-nigh choked with emotion, ' I have not dared, as you are aware, to inform our beloved Prior of the danger which is hanging over our heads. He foresaw long ago that evil days were coming upon the Church, and bade us not resist the powers that are ordained of God. As saith the Holy Apostle : " Omnis anima potestatibus supereminentibus subjecta esto ; non enim est potestas nisi a Deo ; et quæ sunt potestates, sunt a Deo ordinatæ."

But, as we have less than one week ere Ave must leave this our loved abode, it is now necessary that the truth should be laid before our Head, in order that he may bestow upon us words of fatherly counsel, and give us his benediction.' Aster prayer had been offered by the chaplain, in which the Divine protection was invoked on the fraternity in this its sore hour of need, it Avas decided that the Sub-Prior, accompanied by the almoner and treasurer, should seek an interview with the Prior that same evening. Prior Walter had presided over the com munity for upwards of fifteen years, having been appointed from the Abbey of Kirks tall, near Leeds, which was called in those days ' Loidis.' At the age of eighty-two he had been compelled to relinquish an active part in the government of the Abbey ; and, though nominally head, had practically passed the authority into the hands of the Sub-Prior.

The old man's active brain was still, how ever, at the service of the fraternity, and in all important matters he was invariably consulted. ' Pax vobiscum !' he said, upraising his hand, as the three entered his apartment. ' Unless your business is urgent, brethren, I Avill finish the psalm which I am reading. How truly comforting are these Avords, especially in such times as those in which 1539. 25 we live : " Nisi Dominus custodiat civitatem, frustra sedulus sit custos." ' They waited in silence until he had finished his reading, when the Sub-Prior said : ' Reverend Father, we seek you in our time of anxiety and distress, for to Avhom can we look for advice in perplexity if not to our holy Prior ?' ' Speak, my sons, speak ! for to whom can ye come for counsel, if not to your spiritual Father?' The Sub-Prior and his companions looked anxiously at each other for a moment, as if they feared the possible consequences to the old man of their communication. 'Reverend Father,' said the Sub- Prior, ' doubtless you have heard of Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex, Vicar- General of our King Henry ?' ' I have heard of him indeed/ replied the Prior ; ' but nothing to his credit.

What have you to tell me concerning Thomas Cromwell ?' ' The King has given him commission, Father, to dissolve the religious houses of the realm/ ' To dissolve them !' ' Ay, Father. For the Earl of Essex, once in our Lord Cardinal Wolsey's service, has, since his master's sad fall, advanced himself in the King's favour.' ' That is well known to me. I was in formed some time ago that he had become one of King Henry's most trusted ministers.' ' It is he, Father, Avho has apparently suggested to our monarch this wicked scheme. The Parliament has now declared that the clergy are guilty of a præmunire.' ' And Avherefore ?' ' In order that the King may coerce them into a surrender of the liberties of Holy Church.' ' But we are not secular clergy.' ' That is true, Father, but Cromwell has not omitted us.

The abbeys are now to be given up to the King, that they may be stripped of all that is of value. Even at this present time the agents of the King are busy with the religious houses of the south and east. And only this day a messenger came hither announcing that the tide of robbery, fire and sacrilege has reached even unto us. Within one short week our home 1539. 27 will be destroyed, and all our goods, as well as the vessels of the sanctuary, will be con fiscated.' As he heard these words, the aged Prior raised himself on his couch, and, uplifting his shaking, shrunken hand, cried : ' Brothers, for nigh sixteen years have I ruled this Abbey of Saint John the Divine, and never will I relinquish or abandon, save by my death, the charge that has been laid upon me !' To their astonishment, the old man, under the influence of an excitement which seemed to infuse new life into his attenuated frame, arose from the bed, and, standing upright before them, bade them assist him to assume his habit and robes. ' Sound the alarum bell,' he said to the almoner, ' and bid the brethren meet me in the choir.