Brothers -- Fiction; Crimean War, 1853-1856 -- Fiction; England -- Fiction; Identity -- Fiction; Inheritance and succession -- Fiction
And the cold seabanks out beyond were twisted and tortured this way
and that by the winds and waves, and within them lay many an honest
seaman, and some maybe who might have found it difficult to prove
their right to so honourable a title. But the banks were always there,
silent and deadly even when they shimmered in the sunshine.
And generations of Carrons had held Carne, and had even occupied it at
times, and had passed away and given place to others. But Carne was
always there, grim and gray, and mostly silent.
The outward aspects of things might change, indeed, but at bottom they
remained very much the same, and human nature changed as little as the
rest, though its outward aspects varied with the times. What strange
twist of brain or heart set its owner to the building of Carne has
puzzled many a wayfarer coming upon it in its wide sandy solitudes for
the first time. And the answer to that question answers several
others, and accounts for much.
It was Denzil Carron who built the house in the year Queen Mary died.
He was of the old faith, a Romanist of the Romanists, narrow in his
creed, fanatical in his exercise of it, at once hot- and cold-blooded
in pursuit of his aims. When Elizabeth came to the throne he looked to
be done by as he had done, and had very reasonable doubts as to the
quality of the mercy which might be strained towards him. So he
quietly withdrew from London, sold his houses and lands in other
counties, and sought out the remotest and quietest spot he could find
in the most Romanist county in England. And there he built the great
house of Carne, as a quiet harbourage for himself and such victims of
the coming persecutions as might need his assistance.
But no retributive hand was stretched after him. He was Englishman
first and Romanist afterwards. Calais, and the other national
crumblings and disasters of Mary's short reign, had been bitter pills
to him, and he hated a Spaniard like the devil. He saw a brighter
outlook for his country, though possibly a darker one for his Church,
in Elizabeth's firm grip than any her opponents could offer. So he
shut his face stonily against the intriguers, who came from time to
time and endeavoured to wile him into schemes for the subversion of
the Crown and the advancement of the true Church, and would have none
of them. And so he was left in peace and quietness by the powers that
were, and found himself free to indulge to the full in those religious
exercises on the strict observance of which his future state depended.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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