“Magda, I want my reward.”

She raised her eyes to his face, a deep flush suffused her cheek, and then faded, leaving her somewhat paler than before.

“Thy reward, Arthur?  And what is that?”

“Nothing less than thyself, my beloved,” he answered, with a passionate tenderness.  “I have thy heart, thy love; these have been enough this long while.  Now I want thee, thine own self.  Why should we wait longer?  Art thou not ready to give thyself to me ­now?”

She let her lover draw her close to his side.  She looked up at him, and saw that his face was grave and pale.  This gravity had grown upon him of late, and she saw that lines of anxiety had begun to appear on his brow, which had not been there six months ago.  Her woman’s instinct of seeking to comfort and support came instantly to her help.

“I will do all that thou dost wish of me, Arthur.  If thou hast some trouble, let me share it.  A wife should be the helpmeet of her husband in all things.  If I am soon to be that, let me begin mine office now.”

He bent his head and kissed her, and drawing her hand through his arm, began pacing to and fro in the budding nut walk, where the tender flickering green of early springtide was shimmering in the golden sunlight.

“My Magda, I have been thinking much of late.  I have many plans, and some of them must needs be carried out in all haste.  But ere I can fulfil them as I would, I must needs have my wife at my side to help and support me.  There will be woman’s work as well as man’s, and such work as thou dost love.”

“Tell me,” she said, lifting her eyes to his face.

“Magda, thou dost know that tomorrow there will be a form of trial, and Anthony Dalaber and others will make submission, be condemned to do penance, and in a few days will fulfil that penance, and then be restored to communion with the church, and to liberty and life?”

“Yes, I know,” answered Magdalen gravely.

“And when this has been done, and they are free, it will be better, far better, that they should quit Oxford for a while, and remain in some seclusion, away from prying eyes and from the suspicion which must attach to all those upon whom the taint of heresy has once fallen.  Oxford will be no place for them for a while.”

“I can believe that they would be happier elsewhere,” she answered.  “But I sometimes fear for Anthony.  He will suffer from agonies of shame and remorse; I know he will.  Thou dost think him right to make submission, but he will feel that in so doing he has denied his faith and his Lord.  I fear for him, and so does Freda.  She is very unhappy.”

“I know it,” answered Arthur quickly; “I can see both sides of this most difficult question of conscience.  But I may not be the one to blame Anthony, for I have greatly persuaded him to this act of submission, and I would that, if blame attach to any in Freda’s mind, she should throw that blame on me.  I will speak with her later anent the matter.

“But, Magda, this is the plan I am revolving in my mind.  I would provide for Anthony and for others a place of rest and peace and refreshment, where they can regain health of body and serenity of spirit.  And where better than at the old manor near to Poghley, where we have spent so many happy days of yore?  But I would have my wife with me there ­not as guest, but as mistress of the house.  And Freda would have a home with us, and thy father likewise, when he desired it.  But thou dost know how that he greatly desires to visit Italy; and wert thou my wife, and Freda beneath our care, then he could start with a free heart upon his journey.  And we would take up our abode together at Poghley, and live such a life as I have sometimes dreamed of, but which has ever seemed too fair and peaceful for attainment in this world of strife.”

Magdalen’s eyes grew bright and big with the rush of thoughts that came over her.

“And thou wouldst have Anthony and his friends, and would seek for them there health, both of body and of spirit?  Oh, that would be a sweet and commendable work, Arthur.  I would that I might share it with thee.”

“And so thou shalt, my beloved, for alone I should be sorely let and hindered.  Anthony shall be our guest and kinsman ­soon to be our brother; for he is without home, and his brother in Dorset is a man of fierce temper, and has sent him a violently accusing letter on hearing what has happened in Oxford, which has cut him to the quick.  He will be in sore need of comfort and repose; and if there be others in like case with him, whose friends will only persecute and revile them, then let them come to us also.  Ours shall be a house of refuge for the distressed and oppressed.

“Thou wilt not refuse to aid me in that task, Magda?  I know that thy heart yearns always over all who suffer from sorrow and pain, even though they may in some sort have brought this upon themselves.”

“I should love such a task,” answered the girl earnestly; “I would ask nothing better myself than to tend and comfort those who have suffered in such a cause.  But thou, Arthur ­how hast thou come to think of such a thing?  Thou hast never been one of the brethren; thou hast never been touched by heresy; thou hast ever deplored the rashness of those who have committed themselves to such courses; and yet thou art showing thyself now the friend of all.”

He looked straight before him with a thoughtful smile.

“These men will be ‘purged from heresy,’ as it is called, ere I offer them the shelter of my house,” he answered.  “I am risking nothing by so doing.  And in truth, sweetheart, if there were somewhat to risk, methinks I would be willing to do the same, if thou didst not shrink from the task.  Whether we study the Scriptures for ourselves, or whether we let the church expound them, one lesson we always learn if we listen and read aright, and that is the lesson of charity.  We are brethren in Christ, if we are bound by no closer tie ­no tie of our own making.  Christ was ever merciful to the sick, the afflicted, the erring, the desolate, and we are bidden to follow in His steps.  He did not shut Himself up behind walls to live the life of meditation; He walked amongst men, and bid men come to Him.  In lesser measure we may surely do the same; and this is what I would fain attempt in these days of trouble for so many ­bind up the broken heart, give medicine to the sick, rest to the weary, cheering and comfort to those who are cast down in spirit.  It may be little we can accomplish, but let us do that little with all our might.  I trust and hope that God will give us His blessing, and grant us power to be a blessing to others.”

Dr. Langton heard Arthur’s proposal with great satisfaction.  He had grown somewhat weary of his life in Oxford, and was desirous of taking a long journey into foreign countries, to pursue there some studies which would require the assistance of foreign libraries.  Moreover, the frequent outbreaks of sickness now sweeping over Oxford, and especially during the summer months, had aroused his concern, and made him anxious to remove his daughters into some more healthy place.  Latterly this matter had appeared likely to arrange itself, with the betrothal of the girls respectively to Anthony Dalaber and Arthur Cole.  Still there might be a lapse of several years between betrothal and marriage, and he was seriously meditating the best course to pursue, when Arthur’s proposition came as a solution of the problem.

Marriages were very quickly and easily performed in those days.  They could be consummated at the briefest notice.  And Magdalen, having given her promise, was ready to give her hand at any time that Arthur should desire, and depart with him at once for the new home, whither Freda and their father would quickly follow them, and any amongst their suffering friends who, on release, desired that haven of peace and rest.

The trial of the tainted students was over.  It was Arthur who brought word to the Bridge House as to what had been the result.  All day Freda had moved to and fro with restless steps and burning eyes.  Her whole being seemed rent asunder by the depth of her emotion.  What would Anthony say and do?  How would he comport himself?  Would he yield and sign the recantation, and join in the act of humiliation and penance, or would he at the last stand firm and refuse compliance?  Which choice did she wish him to make?  Could she bear to see him treated as an outcast and heretic ­he, her faithful, devoted Anthony?  But would he ever be quite the same in her eyes, if he, to save himself from the pains and penalties which beset him, drew back and denied those things which he believed?

She knew not what to think, what to wish.  She paced the house and garden with restless steps, and when Arthur came at last, her agitation was so great that she could not speak a word.

But her face was eloquent of her emotion, and he kept her not a moment in suspense.

“All has gone well,” he answered, “with Anthony as with the rest.  They were gently handled and fairly spoken.  The confession of faith demanded of them was such as no Christian man could hesitate to make.  They were admonished for disobedience, but the errors with which they were charged were not sternly pressed home.  They were asked if they desired to be reconciled and restored to communion; and on affirming that they did, they were only bidden to take part in the public act of penance of which they had already heard.  All consented to do this, and were then removed to their several prisons; and four days hence will this act of penance be performed, after which our friends will be restored to us and to the church once more.”

“And Anthony consented with the rest?” asked Freda, with pale lips and wistful eyes.

“He did.”

Arthur looked her full in the face as he spoke.

“Anthony might perchance have refused compliance, had it not been for me, Freda.  If thou hast any blame for him in this matter, let it rest upon my head, not upon his.”

“Thou didst persuade him?”

“I did.  I would do so again.  Anthony is young, hot headed, impulsive, rash.  Whatever he may grow to in the future, whatever convictions he may then hold, he is not fit yet to be a leader of men, to take up an attitude of defiance to the laws and statutes of the university ­leaving the church out of the question ­to ruin his career in an impulse which may not be a lasting one.  Let him and others have patience.  Those things which they ask they may likely obtain without such fierce struggle and such peril.  Let men bear the yoke in their youth; it does them no hurt.  To be cast forth from the communion of the church would be a greater hurt to Anthony, body and soul, than to do a penance which may do violence to some of his cherished convictions.  In this world we ofttimes have to choose, not between absolute right and wrong, but between two courses, neither of which is perfect; and then we are forced to consider which is the less imperfect of the two.  I trow that Anthony has made a wise choice; but if to you it seems not so, I pray you blame me rather than him, for I did plead with him more than once, and right earnestly, to take this way.  I did use your name also, and begged of him to live for your sake; and methinks that argument did more prevail with him than any other I could have urged.”

Freda drew her breath rather hard, but the expression of her face softened.

“You did bid him do it for my sake?  Did he think that I would have thus bidden him act?”

“I know not that, but it is like.  Remember, sweet Freda, how that, when thou didst see him in his prison, thou didst rain kisses and tears upon his face, and bid him live for thee.  How could I not remind him of that?  And wouldst thou not rather that he should live than die?”

“Oh yes, oh yes!  I cannot bear to think of that other terrible peril.  I am torn in twain by grief and perplexity.  Why do they make it so hard for men to take the perfect way?  He would be faithful unto death ­I know he would ­if he could but see his course clear.  But as it is, who can tell what is the best and most right way?  To be cut off from the Church of Christ ­it is so terrible!  Yet to tamper with conscience ­is not that terrible too?”

“They made it as easy for them as was possible,” answered Arthur gently; “let not us make it hard afterwards.  Anthony would suffer ­it is his nature ­whatever course he took.  To be excommunicate is keen pain to one of his devout nature; to do penance for what he holds to be no act of sin or heresy will pain him, likewise ­not the humiliation of the pageant alone, but the fear lest he has taken a false step and denied his Lord.  It is for us, his friends, to receive him joyfully, and restore him to peace and comfort.  Be sure that Christ would pardon him, even though he may find it hard to pardon himself.”

Freda sighed, but her face softened.  Magdalen asked a whispered question.

“And Master Clarke ­did he submit?”

“He was not called,” answered Arthur gravely; “some say he is too sick to appear, others that he has recanted, but has been spared joining in the procession because that he and two more are not able to walk.  Others, again, say that he will not abjure the errors with which he is charged, nor take part in the prescribed penance.  I have not been suffered to see him.  I know not how it may be.  But in sooth, if he be sick as they say, it were time they let him forth from his prison.  It is not right nor justice that men should be done to death in noisome dungeons when no crime has been proven against them.”

The girls’ faces were pale with horror and pity.

“Canst thou do nothing, Arthur?” pleaded Magdalen.  “Thou art rich, and powerful, and well known to so many.  Canst thou do nothing to aid them?”

“I will do what I can, once the act of penance be over,” he answered.  “Till then it is useless to stir, for they will seek to work upon them to the very last moment by threats, or by argument, or by entreaty.  Should they prove obstinate to the last, I know not what will befall.  But if they are like to perish in the prison, it may be that the dean’s word will prevail for their release.  He is grieved that one so godly in his life and conversation should suffer so cruelly.  When this act has been accomplished, belike they may listen to the words of his friends, unless the cruel will of the bishop prevail, and he is sent to a fiery death.”

It was a very quiet wedding on the morrow that united Magdalen Langton and Arthur Cole as man and wife.  They were married at an early hour in St. Mary’s Church, and set off that same day for the old manor house, which was to be their future home.  Freda could not, however, be persuaded to accompany them on that day.

“I must see the fire at Carfax,” she said; “I would see it with mine own eyes.  Afterwards I will come to you, and will bring Anthony with me; but not till I have seen this thing for myself.  I cannot help it.  I must be there.”

Magdalen entreated awhile, but Freda stood firm.

“I must see the fire at Carfax,” she answered; and at last they forbore to press her, knowing her mind was made up.

It wanted but a few days to Easter when the day came for which Freda had waited with feverish, sleepless eyes.  The sun rose clear and bright birds carolled in the gladness of their hearts; all nature was filled with the joy of happy springtide; but there was a heavy cloud resting upon Freda’s spirits.

“I will not blame him; I will speak no word of reproach.  In this hard strait should I have been more brave?  It may be he is doing what he believes most right.  I will not believe him unfaithful to his truer self.  Who can judge, save God alone, of what is the most right thing to do in these dark and troublous days?”

She rose and donned a black gown, and shrouded herself in a long cloak, the hood of which concealed her face.  She was very pale, and there were rings around her eyes that told of weeping and of vigil.  Oh, how she had prayed for Anthony, that he might be pardoned wherein he might sin, strengthened wherein he was weak, purified and enlightened in the inner man, and taught by the Holy Spirit of God!

As she walked through the streets by her father’s side, and marked the gathering crowd thronging towards Carfax and the route to be taken by the procession, she seemed to hear the words beaten out by the tread of hurrying feet:  “Faithful unto death ­faithful unto death ­unto death!” till she could have cried aloud in the strange turmoil of her spirit, “Faithful unto death ­unto death!”

There was a convenient window in the house of a kindly citizen, which had been put at her father’s disposal.  When they took their places at it they saw the men already at work over the bonfire in the centre of the cross roads.  All the windows and the streets were thronged with curious spectators, and almost at once the tolling of the bells of various churches announced that the ceremony was about to begin.

The procession, it was whispered about, was to start from St. Mary’s Church, to march to Carfax, where certain ceremonies were to be performed, and then to proceed to St. Frideswyde, where a solemn Mass would be performed, to which the penitents would be admitted.  Then, with a solemn benediction, they would be dismissed to their own homes, and admitted to communion upon Easter Day.

Freda sat very still at the window, hearing little beside the heavy beating of her own heart and the monotonous tolling of the bells.  The crowd was silent, too, and almost all the people were habited in black, partly out of respect to the season of the Lord’s passion, partly because this ceremony took the nature of a solemn humiliation.

Perhaps there were many standing in that close-packed crowd who knew themselves to have been as “guilty” ­if guilt there were ­as those who were compelled to do penance that day.  There was evident sympathy on many faces, and the girl, looking down from above, noted how many groups there were talking earnestly and quietly together, and how they threw quick glances over their shoulders, as though half afraid lest what they were saying might be overheard.

“I trow there are many here who have dared to read the Word of God and discuss it freely together, and compare the church as it now is with the church, the Bride of the Lamb.  I wonder if they would have all submitted, had it been their lot to stand before those judges and hear the sentence pronounced.”

A thrill seemed suddenly to pass through the crowd; the people pressed forward and then surged back.

“They are coming! they are coming!” the whisper went round, and Freda felt the blood ebbing away from her cheeks, and for a moment her eyes were too dim to see.

The solemn procession of heads and masters, clerks and beadles, seemed to swim before her in a quivering haze.  Her strained eyes were fixed upon those other figures bringing up the rear ­those men in the garb of the penitent, each bearing a fagot on his shoulder, and carrying a lighted taper in his hand.

Was Anthony among them?  She held her breath in a sickening suspense, scarce knowing whether or not she longed to see him.  She knew almost each face as it loomed up into view:  there was young Fitzjames, their kinsman, looking shame-faced but submissive; there were Udel and Diet, Bayley, Cox, and others whom she had never suspected of having been concerned in the movement; and there, almost at the rear of the long procession, walked Anthony Dalaber, his dark, thin face looking worn and haggard, his hair tumbled and unkempt, his dark eyes bent upon the ground, his feet slow and lagging, but whether from weakness or unwillingness she was not able to say.  She held her breath to watch him as he appeared.  She saw the heavy frown upon his brow; she marked the change which had come over him ­the cloud which seemed to envelop him.  She knew that he was bowed to the ground with shame and humiliation, and with that sort of fierce despair of which she had seen glimpses in his nature before now.

Suddenly all the old tenderness rushed over her as in a flood.  She forgot her sense of disappointment in his lack of firmness; she forgot how he had boasted of his courage and devotion, and how, in the time of temptation and trial, he had let himself be persuaded to take the easier path; she forgot all save that he had loved her, and that she had loved him, and that love can surmount all things, because its essence is divine.  If he had fallen, he had suffered keenly.  Suffering was stamped upon every line of his face.

Was not God’s love for sinners so great that before the world repented of its wickedness He gave His Son to die for an atonement and expiation?  Must we then not love those who err, and who repent of their weakness?  Nay, are we not all sinners, all weak, all frail and feeble beings in weak mortal bodies?  Shall we judge and condemn one another?  Shall we not rather seek to strengthen one another by love and tenderness, and so lead one another onward in the way which leads to life everlasting?

These thoughts rushed like a flood through Freda’s mind as she watched through a mist of tears the throwing of the fagots and the books upon the fire at Carfax.  Three times did the penitents walk round the fire, the bells tolling, and the crowd observing an intense silence, as the servants handed to the young men books from the baskets to fling upon the fire.

Only one was given to Anthony, and he gave one quick glance before he threw it into the heart of the blaze.  Arthur Cole had been as good as his word.  It was no portion of God’s Word that he was condemned to burn, but a pamphlet of peculiar bitterness by one of the foreign reformers.

Then the procession formed up again, and started for its final goal; and Freda, rising, laid her hand upon her father’s arm and said: 

“Take me home, I prithee, sweet father ­take me home first.  I have seen enough.  I would now go home.  And then, when all is over, go thou to St. Frideswyde and bring Anthony to me.”