compromised in the late rebellion,—some to the region of Sylvania (to which ships were going in rapid succession),—and others to Massachusetts Bay.
He was in the midst of his labours at Bridport (for on this occasion he disregarded the boundaries of his diocese), when he received information, in the prison, that the High Sheriff of the county desired to speak with him on urgent business. The official title impressed him, as all signs of established authority always did: and he hastened back to his lodging, where he found the Sheriff,—and with him his sister.
Mr. Bankshope had brought his sister, he said, because he desired that the Bishop should hear from an eyewitness what had befallen a venerable friend of his. From the stern sadness of the Bishop’s countenance as he entered, the Bankshopes supposed that he was aware of the ill news they brought: but if evil tidings were the cause of the gravity, they did not concern Madam Lisle; for what he heard now took him entirely by surprise.
Elizabeth’s story was that, early in the morning of the preceding day, soldiers had surrounded her aunt’s house, and had scarcely allowed the household time to dress before they burst in, to search, as they said, for rebels and sectaries.
“Sectaries,” the Bishop observed, “they would find in every room in the house; but for rebels, no doubt, they must come farther westward.”
“Unhappily,” replied the Sheriff, “there were two fugitives hidden.”
“Hidden! in her house! I pray God this may be a mistake!” exclaimed the Bishop, showing how great were his fears for his old friend.
“Tell us, Elizabeth,” said her brother—“tell us exactly what you yourself saw.”
Elizabeth had seen the soldiers thronging into the house: and she had seen one placed as a guard at the breakfast-room door, where she and her aunt and the maids were assembled, and where soldiers were looking in at the windows. She had heard a fearful shout from the back; and in a few moments, two wretched-looking men, covered with dust and soot, were dragged past the windows and into the room.
“Who were they?”
“One was said to be a Dorsetshire lawyer, named Nelthorpe; the other was called the Reverend John Hickes.”
“No Reverend at all,” observed the Bishop, frowning. “The man is a notorious sectary,—one of the most mischievous of those illicit preachers. I always feared this! I have often warned Madam Lisle of the retribution which would some day befal her, when her good nature would be taken advantage of by these sly, self-seeking hypocrites, who would prey on her substance, and bring her good name into jeopardy. Let us hope that this exposure may be a lesson to her.”
“But we did not come to your Lordship on behalf of the fugitives,” observed the Sheriff.
“O, ho! do the authorities threaten her,—Madam Lisle?”
“They dragged her to prison,” Elizabeth related, with a strong effort to be calm. “And they say that her life is in danger.”
“Is it possible! This is dreadful! But what was the fact about these men?”
“What the soldiers said was that they found John Hickes hidden in the malthouse, and the other in the chimney of one of the bedrooms.”
“And with your aunt’s knowledge?—No matter! Do not answer. I do not desire to know. It is only too certain that she knew them to be proscribed sectaries.”
“If so,” observed the Sheriff, “these are not the first fugitives that Madam Lisle has harboured in their extremity, knowing them to be proscribed.”
“True! quite true!” exclaimed the Bishop, with emotion. “There are loyal gentlemen,—there are faithful churchmen, who could tell that they owe their lives to her. These must be reached and roused on her behalf,” he continued, thoughtfully. “She is not one to keep a register of her good deeds, or we might know whom to seek. It is frightful to think of her being in a jail, for a single day.”
“All Winchester—half Hampshire would do anything to rescue her,” the Sheriff declared. “But I fear it is too true that she must remain in prison till the Assizes, unless some strong and special influence obtains her release. That is why we have come to your Lordship.”
“Alas! what can I do?” the Bishop replied. “I have no power at Court, or in high places. Are you not aware that I laboured day and night, by the death-bed of the late King, to obtain from him the declaration that he died in the faith of our Church, and to induce him to take the sacrament according to its method? How should I be held in any respect by those who were counting the moments till I should cease, to smuggle in a monk, to entangle my old Master in the snares of their Papistry? No; with the Court I can do nothing.—But yet, every friend she has must do something.”
Elizabeth blessed him for saying that. But if, as he thought, there could scarcely be serious danger eventually for so venerable a lady, and one to whom so many of the ruling party owed gratitude and respect, what would become of her in the interval before trial?
“How did she bear herself when arrested?” asked the Bishop. “Calmly, I trust?”
“I have never seen her otherwise than calm,” Elizabeth replied. “But she was cheerful also;—I should say, never more so.”
“That is wonderful, considering the trembling of the spirits at an age like hers.”
“She regards her age as a defence against fear. Being at the verge of life, and in full assurance of what lies beyond, she cannot occupy herself with thoughts of the way in which the verge is to be passed, or of whether it shall be to-morrow, or next month, or next year. Her whole concern was for the men, Hickes and Nelthorpe”
“Their fate is sure,” observed the Bishop. “I can say nothing on their behalf.”
“And, after their fate,” the Sheriff said, “her care was for her young guest here.”
“Who is no sectary, I trust,” said the Bishop, with a grave gaze in Elizabeth’s face, which had something of compassion in it. Her brother de-