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 660 In passing through the Cathedral close, the ladies met several of the clergymen, or saw them standing at their own doors. Those clergymen stood at their doors in order to pay their respects to Madam Lisle: and every one of them took off his hat as she approached. They could not call her “Lady Alice,” because her husband had been one of Cromwell’s lords; and they thought it a thousand pities that such a woman should prefer the snuffling prayers and ranting discourses of Roundhead ministers to the services of their church: but she was not one of the hateful crew of sectaries whom it was a clergyman’s duty to oppose, tooth and nail. When those sectaries had been instituting the calfs-head dinner of the 30th of January, she had been weeping bitter tears over the death of the martyred King Charles, and praying Heaven for pardon for his murderers, instead of exalting them as heroes of the Reformation. So the cathedral clergy, including the Bishop himself, uncovered before Madam Lisle, as often as they saw her.

She had no less observance from the country gentlemen of the neighbourhood. The loyal squires had heard from their fathers how Madam Lisle had aided many an honest cavalier in his extremity, in the days when her party was uppermost. When the pursuit became too hot after fugitives in hiding in the New Forest, their best chance was in being sent by night, or in disguise, to Madam Lisle, who took them in if she could, and never betrayed them if she could not. It was so long ago that she had forgotten much that the Hampshire gentry remembered of her acts of dangerous hospitality. Through all subsequent changes, the stories were kept fresh in the households which had owed to her the life of father, brother, or son; and when she and her companion now emerged from the Close, and turned homewards, one after another of the mounted gentlemen who met or passed them checked their horses, uncovered their heads, and bent to their saddle-bows.

All this delighted Elizabeth; for the younger lady was the beloved niece Elizabeth. She was here because, however resolute to be brave, she found it rather more than she could bear to remain with her brother, and hear of all his official duties against the insurgents, and all the prophecies which were afloat of ruin to the insurgent cause, and vituperation of the Pretender and all his adherents. Her brother looked black upon the proposal that she should go to Lyme. The place was disloyal,—Monmouth had landed there,—and, though the Battiscombes,—or the Squire himself,—had not joined Monmouth, all the world knew that the whole family would fain see Monmouth king.

“That is the opinion of his worship the Mayor, I suppose,” Elizabeth had said. “If you desire it, I believe I can tell you what the Squire really does wish.”

“No,—do not tell me anything,—do not say a word,” insisted the High Sheriff. “I will say only one thing to you; and I beg you to communicate nothing to me.—You are wrong as to Alford. He tells me that the Battiscombes are true crop-eared knavesNow, hear me before you fire up in that way. He says that father and son are taking different sides—”

“But, brother, that is not true.”

“Well: I should rather say, are pursuing a different course, that their house may not be ruined. Now, I do not believe this.”

“You do not?—Thank Heaven you don’t!”

“It is an old story, Elizabeth,—always told in every civil strife,—and usually with too much truth. But I do not believe it in this case; and so I told his worship. Still, I cannot allow you to go to them at present.—No, I will not ask you to stay here. Why not go to Aunt Alice?”

“Right, brother! I will go to Aunt Alice. She must be settled at home by this time; and if not, I shall not be unwelcome.”

Here, accordingly, she was,—welcome, as always, and sure of natural sympathy as to what was going on in Somersetshire.

The last tidings that arrived in a trustworthy way were of the check to Lord Feversham’s forces, and the gallant conduct of Monmouth in the fight. A vague rumour of subsequent disaster had floated over Winchester the day before; but, as no further news had arrived, it was concluded false. The city had looked so tranquil this evening that Madam Lisle and Elizabeth reached home in good spirits, and sat down on a garden-seat, to enjoy the open air a little longer, and watch the last sunlight disappear from the cathedral tower.

The footman in attendance had left them at the gate, carrying in his lady’s long staff by the back-way. He now appeared again, the staff still in his hand as he ran. Madame Lisle, by long training awake to signs of alarm, desired Elizabeth to go and take a turn in the flower-garden, and not come in till she was called.

Right glad was the anxious girl to be summoned to the house within a few minutes, and to find her aunt discoursing with the gardener’s wife on the advantages and disadvantages of late broods of chicks, like those hatched to-day, and then giving directions to defer airing the malthouse till she should send orders for it to be done.

“I do not think I will run away again, when a servant comes to you for orders,” said Elizabeth, smiling. “For above ten minutes, I am sure, my heart was in my mouth, Aunt Alice. I shall stay, next time.”

“Better not, my love! You must consider it one condition of your being here that you are to be at my disposal as to any little mysteries that may arise. Nine times out of ten there may be no secret when somebody comes running to me; but the tenth time may be of consequence; and I have to look to your safety, my dear child!”

Supper-time passed as usual. Then it was dark enough to justify the closing of the shutters. That done, and the servant having set the chairs for the evening worship, and put the great Bible on the table, Madam Lisle told Elizabeth that they were to be favoured that night with the services of a wayfaring divine of great mark, who would sanctify the dwelling by a prayer before he went on his way.

There was a secret, then: and before the