The last time that he had been in
his own country on that short visit with "Captain Fortescue," he had
been innocent in the eyes of the law, or, at least, no more guilty than
any one of the hundreds of young men who, in spite of the regulations,
were sent abroad to finish their education amid Catholic surroundings.
Now, however, his very presence was an offence: he had broken every law
framed expressly against such cases as his; he had studied abroad, he
had been "ordained beyond the seas"; he had read his mass in his own
bedchamber; he had, practically, received a confession; and it was his
fixed and firm intention to "reconcile" as many of "her Grace's
subjects" as possible to the "Roman See." And, to tell the truth, he
found pleasure in the sheer adventure of it, as would every young man of
spirit; and he wore his fine clothes, clinked his sword, and cocked his
secular hat with delight.
The burden of what he had heard still was heavy on him. It was true that
in a manner inconceivable to any but a priest it lay apart altogether
from his common consciousness: he had talked freely enough to Mr.
Charnoc and the rest; he could not, even by a momentary lapse, allow
what he knew to colour even the thoughts by which he dealt with men in
ordinary life; for though it was true that no confession had been made,
yet it was in virtue of his priesthood that he had been told so much.
Yet there were moments when he walked alone, with nothing else to
distract him, when the cloud came down again; and there were moments,
too, in spite of himself, when his heart beat with another emotion, when
he pictured what might not be five years hence, if Elizabeth were taken
out of the way and Mary reigned in her stead.
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