Come Rack! Come Rope!

BY

ROBERT HUGH BENSON

_Author of "By What Authority?" "The King's Achievement, ""Lord of the World, " etc. _

New YorkP. J. Kenedy & Sons

PREFACE

Very nearly the whole of this book is sober historical fact; and by farthe greater number of the personages named in it once lived and acted inthe manner in which I have presented them. My hero and my heroine arefictitious; so also are the parents of my heroine, the father of myhero, one lawyer, one woman, two servants, a farmer and his wife, thelandlord of an inn, and a few other entirely negligible characters. Butthe family of the FitzHerberts passed precisely through the fortuneswhich I have described; they had their confessors and their one traitor(as I have said). Mr. Anthony Babington plotted, and fell, in the mannerthat is related; Mary languished in Chartley under Sir Amyas Paulet; wasassisted by Mr. Bourgoign; was betrayed by her secretary and Mr. Gifford, and died at Fotheringay; Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam and Mr. Simpson received their vocations, passed through their adventures; werecaptured at Padley, and died in Derby. Father Campion (from whose speechafter torture the title of the book is taken) suffered on the rack andwas executed at Tyburn. Mr. Topcliffe tormented the Catholics that fellinto his hands; plotted with Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert, and bargained forPadley (which he subsequently lost again) on the terms here drawn out. My Lord Shrewsbury rode about Derbyshire, directed the search forrecusants and presided at their deaths; priests of all kinds came andwent in disguise; Mr. Owen went about constructing hiding-holes; Mr. Bassett lived defiantly at Langleys, and dabbled a little (I am afraid)in occultism; Mr. Fenton was often to be found in Hathersage--all thesethings took place as nearly as I have had the power of relating them. Two localities only, I think, are disguised under their names--Booth'sEdge and Matstead. Padley, or rather the chapel in which the last masswas said under the circumstances described in this book, remains, tothis day, close to Grindleford Station. A Catholic pilgrimage is madethere every year; and I have myself once had the honour of preaching onsuch an occasion, leaning against the wall of the old hall that isimmediately beneath the chapel where Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam saidtheir last masses, and were captured. If the book is too sensational, itis no more sensational than life itself was to Derbyshire folk between1579 and 1588. 

It remains only, first, to express my extreme indebtedness to Dom BedeCamm's erudite book--"Forgotten Shrines"--from which I have takenimmense quantities of information, and to a pile of some twenty tothirty other books that are before me as I write these words; and, secondly, to ask forgiveness from the distinguished family that takesits name from the FitzHerberts and is descended from them directly; andto assure its members that old Sir Thomas, Mr. John, Mr. Anthony, andall the rest, down to the present day, outweigh a thousand times over(to the minds of all decent people) the stigma of Mr. Thomas' name. Eventhe apostles numbered one Judas!

ROBERT HUGH BENSON. 

_Feast of the Blessed Thomas More, 1912. Hare Street House, Buntingford. _

PART I

CHAPTER I

I

There should be no sight more happy than a young man riding to meet hislove. His eyes should shine, his lips should sing; he should slap hismare upon her shoulder and call her his darling. The puddles upon hisway should be turned to pure gold, and the stream that runs beside himshould chatter her name. 

Yet, as Robin rode to Marjorie none of these things were done. It was astill day of frost; the sky was arched above him, across the high hills, like that terrible crystal which is the vault above which sits God--hardblue from horizon to horizon; the fringe of feathery birches stood likefiligree-work above him on his left; on his right ran the Derwent, sucking softly among his sedges; on this side and that lay the flatbottom through which he went--meadowland broken by rushes; his mareCecily stepped along, now cracking the thin ice of the little pools withher dainty feet, now going gently over peaty ground, blowing thin cloudsfrom her red nostrils, yet unencouraged by word or caress from herrider; who sat, heavy and all but slouching, staring with his blue eyesunder puckered eyelids, as if he went to an appointment which he wouldnot keep. 

Yet he was a very pleasant lad to look upon, smooth-faced and gallant, mounted and dressed in a manner that should give any lad joy. He woregreat gauntlets on his hands; he was in his habit of green; he had hissteel-buckled leather belt upon him beneath his cloak and a pair ofdaggers in it, with his long-sword looped up; he had his felt hat onhis head, buckled again, and decked with half a pheasant's tail; he hadhis long boots of undressed leather, that rose above his knees; and onhis left wrist sat his grim falcon Agnes, hooded and belled, not becausehe rode after game, but from mere custom, and to give her the air. 

He was meeting his first man's trouble. 

Last year he had said good-bye to Derby Grammar School--of old my lordBishop Durdant's foundation--situated in St. Peter's churchyard. Here hehad done the right and usual things; he had learned his grammar; he hadfought; he had been chastised; he had robed the effigy of his piousfounder in a patched doublet with a saucepan on his head (but that hadbeen done before he had learned veneration)--and so had gone home againto Matstead, proficient in Latin, English, history, writing, goodmanners and chess, to live with his father, to hunt, to hear mass when apriest was within reasonable distance, to indite painful letters now andthen on matters of the estate, and to learn how to bear himselfgenerally as should one of Master's rank--the son of a gentleman whobore arms, and his father's father before him. He dined at twelve, hesupped at six, he said his prayers, and blessed himself when nostrangers were by. He was something of a herbalist, as a sheer hobby ofhis own; he went to feed his falcons in the morning, he rode with themafter dinner (from last August he had found himself riding north moreoften than south, since Marjorie lived in that quarter); and now all hadbeen crowned last Christmas Eve, when in the enclosed garden at herhouse he had kissed her two hands suddenly, and made her a little speechhe had learned by heart; after which he kissed her on the lips as a manshould, in the honest noon sunlight. 

All this was as it should be. There were no doubts or disastersanywhere. Marjorie was an only daughter as he an only son. Her father, it is true, was but a Derby lawyer, but he and his wife had a goodlittle estate above the Hathersage valley, and a stone house in it. Asfor religion, that was all well too. Master Manners was as good aCatholic as Master Audrey himself; and the families met at mass perhapsas much as four or five times in the year, either at Padley, where SirThomas' chapel still had priests coming and going; sometimes at Dethickin the Babingtons' barn; sometimes as far north as Harewood. 

And now a man's trouble was come upon the boy. The cause of it was asfollows. 

Robin Audrey was no more religious than a boy of seventeen should be. Yet he had had as few doubts about the matter as if he had been a monk. His mother had taught him well, up to the time of her death ten yearsago; and he had learned from her, as well as from his father when thatprofessor spoke of it at all, that there were two kinds of religion inthe world, the true and the false--that is to say, the Catholic religionand the other one. Certainly there were shades of differences in theother one; the Turk did not believe precisely as the ancient Roman, noryet as the modern Protestant--yet these distinctions were subtle andnegligible; they were all swallowed up in an unity of falsehood. Next hehad learned that the Catholic religion was at present blown upon by manypersons in high position; that pains and penalties lay upon all whoadhered to it. Sir Thomas FitzHerbert, for instance, lay now in theFleet in London on that very account. His own father, too, three or fourtimes in the year, was under necessity of paying over heavy sums for theprivilege of not attending Protestant worship; and, indeed, had beenforced last year to sell a piece of land over on Lees Moor for this verypurpose. Priests came and went at their peril. .. . He himself had foughttwo or three battles over the affair in St. Peter's churchyard, until hehad learned to hold his tongue. But all this was just part of the game. It seemed to him as inevitable and eternal as the changes of theweather. Matstead Church, he knew, had once been Catholic; but how longago he did not care to inquire. He only knew that for awhile there hadbeen some doubt on the matter; and that before Mr. Barton's time, whowas now minister there, there had been a proper priest in the place, whohad read English prayers there and a sort of a mass, which he hadattended as a little boy. Then this had ceased; the priest had gone andMr. Barton come, and since that time he had never been to church there, but had heard the real mass wherever he could with a certain secrecy. And there might be further perils in future, as there might bethunderstorms or floods. There was still the memory of the descent ofthe Commissioners a year or two after his birth; he had been brought upon the stories of riding and counter-riding, and the hiding away ofaltar-plate and beads and vestments. But all this was in his bones andblood; it was as natural that professors of the false religion shouldseek to injure and distress professors of the true, as that the foxesshould attack the poultry-yard. One took one's precautions, one hopedfor the best; and one was quite sure that one day the happy ancienttimes his mother had told him of would come back, and Christ's cause bevindicated. 

And now the foundations of the earth were moved and heaven reeled abovehim; for his father, after a month or two of brooding, had announced, onSt. Stephen's Day, that he could tolerate it no longer; that God'sdemands were unreasonable; that, after all, the Protestant religion wasthe religion of her Grace, that men must learn to move with the times, and that he had paid his last fine. At Easter, he observed, he wouldtake the bread and wine in Matstead Church, and Robin would take themtoo. 

II

The sun stood half-way towards his setting as Robin rode up from thevalley, past Padley, over the steep ascent that led towards Booth'sEdge. The boy was brighter a little as he came up; he had counted aboveeighty snipe within the last mile and a half, and he was coming near toMarjorie. About him, rising higher as he rose, stood the greatlow-backed hills. Cecily stepped out more sharply, snuffing delicately, for she knew her way well enough by now, and looked for a feed; and theboy's perplexities stood off from him a little. Matters must surely bebetter so soon as Marjorie's clear eyes looked upon them. 

Then the roofs of Padley disappeared behind him, and he saw the smokegoing up from the little timbered Hall, standing back against its barewind-blown trees. 

A great clatter and din of barking broke out as the mare's hoofs soundedon the half-paved space before the great door; and then, in the pause, agaggling of geese, solemn and earnest, from out of sight. Jacob led theoutcry, a great mastiff, chained by the entrance, of the breed of whichthree are set to meet a bear and four a lion. Then two harriers whippedround the corner, and a terrier's head showed itself over the wall ofthe herb-garden on the left, as a man, bareheaded, in his shirt andbreeches, ran out suddenly with a thonged whip, in time to meet a pairof spaniels in full career. Robin sat his horse silently till peace wasrestored, his right leg flung across the pommel, untwisting Agnes' leashfrom his fist. Then he asked for Mistress Marjorie, and dropped to theground, leaving his mare and falcon in the man's hands, with an air. 

He flicked his fingers to growling Jacob as he went past to the sideentrance on the east, stepped in through the little door that was besidethe great one, and passed on as he had been bidden into the littlecourt, turned to the left, went up an outside staircase, and so down alittle passage to the ladies' parlour, where he knocked upon the door. The voice he knew called to him from within; and he went in, smiling tohimself. Then he took the girl who awaited him there in both his arms, and kissed her twice--first her hands and then her lips, for respectshould come first and ardour second. 

"My love, " said Robin, and threw off his hat with the pheasant's tail, for coolness' sake. 

 * * * * *

It was a sweet room this which he already knew by heart; for it was herethat he had sat with Marjorie and her mother, silent and confused, evening after evening, last autumn; it was here, too, that she had ledhim last Christmas Eve, scarcely ten days ago, after he had kissed herin the enclosed garden. But the low frosty sunlight lay in it now, uponthe blue painted wainscot that rose half up the walls, the tall presseswhere the linen lay, the pieces of stuff, embroidered with pale lutesand wreaths that Mistress Manners had bought in Derby, hanging now overthe plaster spaces. There was a chimney, too, newly built, that wasthought a great luxury; and in it burned an armful of logs, for the girlwas setting out new linen for the household, and the scents of lavenderand burning wood disputed the air between them. 

"I thought it would be you, " she said, "when I heard the dogs. "

She piled the last rolls of linen in an ordered heap, and came to sitbeside him. Robin took one hand in his and sat silent. 

She was of an age with him, perhaps a month the younger; and, as itought to be, was his very contrary in all respects. Where he was fair, she was pale and dark; his eyes were blue, hers black; he was lusty andshowed promise of broadness, she was slender. 

"And what news do you bring with you now?" she said presently. 

He evaded this. 

"Mistress Manners?" he asked. 

"Mother has a megrim, " she said; "she is in her chamber. " And she smiledat him again. For these two, as is the custom of young persons who loveone another, had said not a word on either side--neither he to hisfather nor she to her parents. They believed, as young persons do, thatparents who bring children into the world, hold it as a chief dangerthat these children should follow their example, and themselves bemarried. Besides, there is something delicious in secrecy. 

"Then I will kiss you again, " he said, "while there is opportunity. "

 * * * * *

Making love is a very good way to pass the time, above all when thatsame time presses and other disconcerting things should be spoken ofinstead; and this device Robin now learned. He spoke of a hundred thingsthat were of no importance: of the dress that she wore--russet, as itshould be, for country girls, with the loose sleeves folded back aboveher elbows that she might handle the linen; her apron of coarse linen, her steel-buckled shoes. He told her that he loved her better in thatthan in her costume of state--the ruff, the fardingale, the brocadedpetticoat, and all the rest--in which he had seen her once last summerat Babington House. He talked then, when she would hear no more of that, of Tuesday seven-night, when they would meet for hawking in the lowerchase of the Padley estates; and proceeded then to speak of Agnes, whomhe had left on the fist of the man who had taken his mare, of herincreasing infirmities and her crimes of crabbing; and all the while heheld her left hand in both of his, and fitted her fingers between his, and kissed them again when he had no more to say on any one point; andwondered why he could not speak of the matter on which he had come, andhow he should tell her. And then at last she drew it from him. 

"And now, my Robin, " she said, "tell me what you have in your mind. Youhave talked of this and that and Agnes and Jock, and Padley chase, andyou have not once looked me in the eyes since you first came in. "

Now it was not shame that had held him from telling her, but rather akind of bewilderment. The affair might hold shame, indeed, or anger, orsorrow, or complacence, but he did not know; and he wished, as young menof decent birth should wish, to present the proper emotion on its rightoccasion. He had pondered on the matter continually since his father hadspoken to him on Saint Stephen's night; and at one time it seemed thathis father was acting the part of a traitor and at another of aphilosopher. If it were indeed true, after all, that all men wereturning Protestant, and that there was not so much difference betweenthe two religions, then it would be the act of a wise man to turnProtestant too, if only for a while. And on the other hand his pride ofbirth and his education by his mother and his practice ever since drewhim hard the other way. He was in a strait between the two. He did notknow what to think, and he feared what Marjorie might think. 

It was this, then, that had held him silent. He feared what Marjoriemight think, for that was the very thing that he thought that he thoughttoo, and he foresaw a hundred inconveniences and troubles if it were so. 

"How did you know I had anything in my mind?" he asked. "Is it notenough reason for my coming that you should be here?"

She laughed softly, with a pleasant scornfulness. 

"I read you like a printed book, " she said. "What else are women's witsgiven them for?"

He fell to stroking her hand again at that, but she drew it away. 

"Not until you have told me, " she said. 

So then he told her. 

It was a long tale, for it began as far ago as last August, when hisfather had come back from giving evidence before the justices at Derbyon a matter of witchcraft, and had been questioned again about hisreligion. It was then that Robin had seen moodiness succeed to anger, and long silence to moodiness. He told the tale with a true lover's art, for he watched her face and trained his tone and his manner as he sawher thoughts come and go in her eyes and lips, like gusts of wind acrossstanding corn; and at last he told her outright what his father had saidto him on St. Stephen's night, and how he himself had kept silence. 

Marjorie's face was as white as a moth's wing when he was finishing, andher eyes like sunset pools; but she flamed up bright and rosy as hefinished. 

"You kept silence!" she cried. 

"I did not wish to anger him, my dear; he is my father, " he said gently. 

The colour died out of her face again and she nodded once or twice, anda great pensiveness came down on her. He took her hand again softly, andshe did not resist. 

"The only doubt, " she said presently, as if she talked to herself, "iswhether you had best be gone at Easter, or stay and face it out. "

"Yes, " said Robin, with his dismay come fully to the birth. 

Then she turned on him, full of a sudden tenderness and compassion. 

"Oh! my Robin, " she cried, "and I have not said a word about you andyour own misery. I was thinking but of Christ's honour. You must forgiveme. .. . What must it be for you!. .. That it should be your father! Youare sure that he means it?"

"My father does not speak until he means it. He is always like that. Heasks counsel from no one. He thinks and he thinks, and then he speaks;and it is finished. "

She fell then to thinking again, her sweet lips compressed together, andher eyes frightened and wondering, searching round the hanging above thechimney-breast. (It presented Icarus in the chariot of the sun; and itwas said in Derby that it had come from my lord Abbot's lodging atBolton. )

Meantime Robin thought too. He was as wax in the hands of this girl, andknew it, and loved that it should be so. Yet he could not help hisdismay while he waited for her seal to come down on him and stamp him toher model. For he foresaw more clearly than ever now the hundredinconveniences that must follow, now that it was evident that toMarjorie's mind (and therefore to God Almighty's) there must be notampering with the old religion. He had known that it must be so; yet hehad thought, on the way here, of a dozen families he knew who, in hisown memory, had changed from allegiance to the Pope of Rome to that ofher Grace, without seeming one penny the worse. There were the Martins, down there in Derby; the Squire and his lady of Ashenden Hall; theConways of Matlock; and the rest--these had all changed; and though hedid not respect them for it, yet the truth was that they were not yetstricken by thunderbolts or eaten by the plague. He had wondered whetherthere were not a way to do as they had done, yet without the disgrace ofit. .. . However, this was plainly not to be so with him. He must put upwith the inconveniences as well as he could, and he just waited to hearfrom Marjorie how this must be done. 

She turned to him again at last. Twice her lips opened to speak, andtwice she closed them again. Robin continued to stroke her hand and waitfor judgment. The third time she spoke. 

"I think you must go away, " she said, "for Easter. Tell your father thatyou cannot change your religion simply because he tells you so. I do notsee what else is to be done. He will think, perhaps, that if you have alittle time to think you will come over to him. Well, that is not so, but it may make it easier for him to believe it for a while. .. . You mustgo somewhere where there is a priest. .. . Where can you go?"

Robin considered. 

"I could go to Dethick, " he said. 

"That is not far enough away, I think. "

"I could come here, " he suggested artfully. 

A smile lit in her eyes, shone in her mouth, and passed again intoseriousness. 

"That is scarcely a mile further, " she said. "We must think. .. . Will hebe very angry, Robin?"

Robin smiled grimly. 

"I have never withstood him in a great affair, " he said. "He is angryenough over little things. "

"Poor Robin!"

"Oh! he is not unjust to me. He is a good father to me. "

"That makes it all the sadder, " she said. 

"And there is no other way?" he asked presently. 

She glanced at him. 

"Unless you would withstand him to the face. Would you do that, Robin?"

"I will do anything you tell me, " he said simply. 

"You darling!. .. Well, Robin, listen to me. It is very plain that sooneror later you will have to withstand him. You cannot go away every timethere is communion at Matstead, or, indeed, every Sunday. Your fatherwould have to pay the fines for you, I have no doubt, unless you wentaway altogether. But I think you had better go away for this time. Hewill almost expect it, I think. At first he will think that you willyield to him; and then, little by little (unless God's grace bringshimself back to the Faith), he will learn to understand that you willnot. But it will be easier for him that way; and he will have time tothink what to do with you, too. .. . Robin, what would you do if you wentaway?"

Robin considered again. 

"I can read and write, " he said. "I am a Latinist: I can train falconsand hounds and break horses. I do not know if there is anything elsethat I can do. "

"You darling!" she said again. 

 * * * * *

These two, as will have been seen, were as simple as children, and asserious. Children are not gay and light-hearted, except now and then(just as men and women are not serious except now and then). They aregrave and considering: all that they lack is experience. These two, then, were real children; they were grave and serious because a greatthing had disclosed itself to them in which two or three largeprinciples were present, and no more. There was that love of oneanother, whose consummation seemed imperilled, for how could these twoever wed if Robin were to quarrel with his father? There was theReligion which was in their bones and blood--the Religion for whichalready they had suffered and their fathers before them. There was thehonour and loyalty which this new and more personal suffering demandednow louder than ever; and in Marjorie at least, as will be seen moreplainly later, there was a strong love of Jesus Christ and His Mother, whom she knew, from her hidden crucifix and her beads, and her JesusPsalter--which she used every day--as well as in her own soul--to bewandering together once more among the hills of Derbyshire, sheltering, at peril of Their lives, in stables and barns and little secretchambers, because there was no room for Them in Their own places. It wasthis last consideration, as Robin had begun to guess, that stoodstrongest in the girl; it was this, too, as again he had begun to guess, that made her all that she was to him, that gave her that strangeserious air of innocency and sweetness, and drew from him a love thatwas nine-tenths reverence and adoration. (He always kissed her handsfirst, it will be remembered, before her lips. )

So then they sat and considered and talked. They did not speak much ofher Grace, nor of her Grace's religion, nor of her counsellors andaffairs of state: these things were but toys and vanities compared withmatters of love and faith; neither did they speak much of theCommissioners that had been to Derbyshire once and would come again, orof the alarms and the dangers and the priest hunters, since those thingsdid not at present touch them very closely. It was rather of Robin'sfather, and whether and when the maid should tell her parents, and howthis new trouble would conflict with their love. They spoke, that is tosay, of their own business and of God's; and of nothing else. The frostysunshine crept down the painted wainscot and lay at last at their feet, reddening to rosiness. .. . 

III

Robin rode away at last with a very clear idea of what he was to do inthe immediate present, and with no idea at all of what was to be donelater. Marjorie had given him three things--advice; a pair of beads thathad been the property of Mr. Cuthbert Maine, seminary priest, recentlyexecuted in Cornwall for his religion; and a kiss--the first deliberate, free-will kiss she had ever given him. The first he was to keep, thesecond he was to return, the third he was to remember; and these threethings, or, rather, his consideration of them, worked upon him as hewent. Her advice, besides that which has been described, was, principally, to say his Jesus Psalter more punctually, to hear masswhenever that were possible, to trust in God, and to be patient andsubmissive with his father in all things that did not touch divine loveand faith. The pair of beads that were once Mr. Maine's, he was to keepupon him always, day and night, and to use them for his devotions. Thekiss--well, he was to remember this, and to return it to her upon theirnext meeting. 

A great star came out as he drew near home. His path took him notthrough the village, but behind it, near enough for him to hear thebarkings of the dogs and to smell upon the frosty air the scent of thewood fires. The house was a great one for these parts. There was a smallgate-house before it, built by his father for dignity, with a lodge oneither side and an arch in the middle, and beyond this lay the shortroad, straight and broad, that went up to the court of the house. Thiscourt was, on three sides of it, buildings; the hall and the buttery andthe living-rooms in the midst, with the stables and falconry on theleft, and the servants' lodgings on the right; the fourth side, thatwhich lay opposite to the little gate-house, was a wall, with a greatdouble gate in it, hung on stone posts that had, each of them, a greatstone dog that held a blank shield. All this later part, the wall withthe gate, the stables and the servants' lodgings, as well as thegatehouse without, had been built by the lad's father twenty years ago, to bring home his wife to; for, until that time, the house had been buta little place, though built of stone, and solid and good enough. Thehouse stood half-way up the rise of the hill, above the village, withwoods about it and behind it; and it was above these woods behind thatthe great star came out like a diamond in enamel-work; and Robin lookedat it, and fell to thinking of Marjorie again, putting all otherthoughts away. Then, as he rode through into the court on to the cobbledstones, a man ran out from the stable to take his mare from him. 

"Master Babington is here, " he said. "He came half an hour ago. "

"He is in the hall?"

"Yes, sir; they are at supper. "

 * * * * *

The hall at Matstead was such as that of most esquires of means. Itsdaïs was to the south end, and the buttery entrance and the screens tothe north, through which came the servers with the meat. In the midst ofthe floor stood the reredos with the fire against it, and a round ventoverhead in the roof through which went the smoke and came the rain. Thetables stood down the hall, one on either side, with the master's tableat the daïs end set cross-ways. It was not a great hall, though that wasits name; it ran perhaps forty feet by twenty. It was lighted, not onlyby the fire that burned there through the winter day and night, but byeight torches in cressets that hung against the walls and sadly smokedthem; and the master's table was lighted by six candles, of latten oncommon days and of silver upon festivals. 

There were but two at the master's table this evening, Mr. Audreyhimself, a smallish, high-shouldered man, ruddy-faced, with bright blueeyes like his son's, and no hair upon his face (for this was the way ofold men then, in the country, at least); and Mr. Anthony Babington, ayoung man scarcely a year older than Robin himself, of a browncomplexion and a high look in his face, but a little pale, too, withstudy, for he was learned beyond his years and read all the books thathe could lay hand to. It was said even that his own verses, and aprose-lament he had written upon the Death of a Hound, were read withpleasure in London by the lords and gentlemen. It was as long ago as'71, that his verses had first become known, when he was still servingin the school of good manners as page in my Lord Shrewsbury's household. They were considered remarkable for so young a boy. So it was to thiscompany that Robin came, walking up between the tables after he hadwashed his hands at the lavatory that stood by the screens. 

"You are late, lad, " said his father. 

"I was over to Padley, sir. .. . Good-day, Anthony. "

Then silence fell again, for it was the custom in good houses to keepsilence, or very nearly, at dinner and supper. At times music wouldplay, if there was music to be had; or a scholar would read from a bookfor awhile at the beginning, from the holy gospels in devout households, or from some other grave book. But if there were neither music norreading, all would hold their tongues. 

Robin was hungry from his riding and the keen air; and he ate well. First he stayed his appetite a little with a hunch of cheat-bread, and aglass of pomage, while the servant was bringing him his entry of eggscooked with parsley. Then he ate this; and next came half a wild-duckcooked with sage and sweet potatoes; and last of all a florentine whichhe ate with a cup of Canarian. He ate heartily and quickly, while thetwo waited for him and nibbled at marchpane. Then, when the doors wereflung open and the troop of servants came in to their supper, Mr. Audreyblessed himself, and for them, too; and they went out by a door behindinto the wainscoted parlour, where the new stove from London stood, andwhere the conserves and muscadel awaited them. For this, or like it, hadbeen the procedure in Matstead hall ever since Robin could remember, when first he had come from the women to eat his food with the men. 

"And how were all at Booth's Edge?" asked Mr. Audrey, when all hadpulled off their boots in country fashion, and were sitting each withhis glass beside him. (Through the door behind came the clamour of thefarm-men and the keepers of the chase and the servants, over theirfood. )

"I saw Marjorie only, sir, " said the boy. "Mr. Manners was in Derby, andMrs. Manners had a megrim. "

"Mrs. Manners is ageing swifter than her husband, " observed Anthony. 

There seemed a constraint upon the company this evening. Robin spoke ofhis ride, of things which he had seen upon it, of a wood that should bethinned next year; and Anthony made a quip or two such as he wasaccustomed to make; but the master sat silent for the most part, speaking to the lads once or twice for civility's sake, but no more. Andpresently silences began to fall, that were very unusual things in Mr. Anthony's company, for he had a quick and a gay wit, and talked enoughfor five. Robin knew very well what was the matter; it was what lay uponhis own heart as heavy as lead; but he was sorry that the signs of itshould be so evident, and wondered what he should say to his friendAnthony when the time came for telling; since Anthony was as ardent forthe old Faith as any in the land. It was a bitter time, this, for theold families that served God as their fathers had, and desired to servetheir prince too; for, now and again, the rumour would go abroad thatanother house had fallen, and another name gone from the old roll. Andwhat would Anthony Babington say, thought the lad, when he heard thatMr. Audrey, who had been so hot and persevered so long, must be added tothese?

And then, on a sudden, Anthony himself opened on a matter that was atleast cognate. 

"I was hearing to-day from Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert that his uncle wouldbe let out again of the Fleet soon to collect his fines. "

He spoke bitterly; and, indeed, there was reason; for not only were therecusants (as the Catholics were named) put in prison for their faith, but fined for it as well, and let out of prison to raise money for this, by selling their farms or estates. 

"He will go to Norbury?" asked Robin. 

"He will come to Padley, too, it is thought. Her Grace must have hermoney for her ships and her men, and for her pursuivants to catch us allwith; and it is we that must pay. Shall you sell again this year, sir?"

Mr. Audrey shook his head, pursing up his lips and staring upon thefire. 

"I can sell no more, " he said. 

Then an agony seized upon Robin lest his father should say all that wasin his mind. He knew it must be said; yet he feared its saying, and witha quick wit he spoke of that which he knew would divert his friend. 

"And the Queen of the Scots, " he said. "Have you heard more of her?"

Now Anthony Babington was one of those spirits that live largely withinthemselves, and therefore see that which is without through a haze ormist of their own moods. He read much in the poets; you would say thatVergil and Ovid, as well as the poets of his own day, were his friends;he lived within, surrounded by his own images, and therefore he lovedand hated with ten times the ardour of a common man. He was furious forthe Old Faith, furious against the new; he dreamed of wars and gallantryand splendour; you could see it even in his dress, in his furreddoublet, the embroideries at his throat, his silver-hilted rapier, aswell as in his port and countenance: and the burning heart of all hisimages, the mirror on earth of Mary in heaven, the emblem of his piety, the mistress of his dreams--she who embodied for him what the courtiersin London protested that Elizabeth embodied for them--the pearl of greatprice, the one among ten thousand--this, for him, was Mary Stuart, Queenof Scotland, now prisoner in her cousin's hands, going to and fro fromhouse to house, with a guard about her, yet with all the seeming ofliberty and none of its reality. .. . 

The rough bitterness died out of the boy's face, and a look came upon itas of one who sees a vision. 

"Queen Mary?" he said, as if he pronounced the name of the Mother ofGod. "Yes; I have heard of her. .. . She is in Norfolk, I think. "

Then he let flow out of him the stream that always ran in his heart likesorrowful music ever since the day when first, as a page, in my LordShrewsbury's house in Sheffield, he had set eyes on that queen ofsorrows. Then, again, upon the occasion of his journey to Paris, he hadmet with Mr. Morgan, her servant, and the Bishop of Glasgow, herfriend, whose talk had excited and inspired him. He had learned fromthem something more of her glories and beauties, and remembering what hehad seen of her, adored her the more. He leaned back now, shading hiseyes from the candles upon the table, and began to sing his love and hisqueen. He told of new insults that had been put upon her, newdeprivations of what was left to her of liberty; he did not speak now ofElizabeth by name, since a fountain, even of talk, should not give outat once sweet water and bitter; but he spoke of the day when Mary shouldcome herself to the throne of England, and take that which was alreadyhers; when the night should roll away, and the morning-star arise; andthe Faith should come again like the flowing tide, and all things beagain as they had been from the beginning. It was rank treason that hetalked, such as would have brought him to Tyburn if it had been spokenin London in indiscreet company; it was that treason which her Graceherself had made possible by her faithlessness to God and man; suchtreason as God Himself must have mercy upon, since He reads all heartsand their intentions. The others kept silence. 

At the end he stood up. Then he stooped for his boots. 

"I must be riding, sir, " he said. 

Mr. Audrey raised his hand to the latten bell that stood beside him onthe table. 

"I will take Anthony to his horse, " said Robin suddenly, for a thoughthad come to him. 

"Then good-night, sir, " said Anthony, as he drew on his second boot andstood up. 

 * * * * *

The sky was all ablaze with stars now as they came out into the court. On their right shone the high windows of the little hall where peace nowreigned, except for the clatter of the boys who took away the dishes;and the night was very still about them in the grip of the frost, forthe village went early to bed, and even the dogs were asleep. 

Robin said nothing as they went over the paving, for his determinationwas not yet ripe, and Anthony was still aglow with his own talk. Then, as the servant who waited for his master, with the horses, showedhimself in the stable-arch with a lantern, Robin's mind was made up. 

"I have something to tell you, " he said softly. "Tell your man to wait. "

"Eh?"

"Tell your man to wait with the horses. "

His heart beat hot and thick in his throat as he led the way through thescreens and out beyond the hall and down the steps again into thepleasaunce. Anthony took him by the sleeve once or twice, but he saidnothing, and went on across the grass, and out through the open irongate that gave upon the woods. He dared not say what he had to saywithin the precincts of the house, for fear he should be overheard andthe shame known before its time. Then, when they had gone a little wayinto the wood, into the dark out of the starlight, Robin turned; and, ashe turned, saw the windows of the hall go black as the boys extinguishedthe torches. 

"Well?" whispered Anthony sharply (for a fool could see that the newswas to be weighty, and Anthony was no fool). 

It was wonderful how Robin's thoughts had fixed themselves since histalk with Mistress Marjorie. He had gone to Padley, doubting of what heshould say, doubting what she would tell him, asking himself evenwhether compliance might not be the just as well as the prudent way. Yetnow black shame had come on him--the black shame that any who was aCatholic should turn from his faith; blacker, that he should so turnwithout even a touch of the rack or the threat of it; blackest of all, that it should be his own father who should do this. It was partly foodand wine that had strengthened him, partly Anthony's talk just now; butthe frame and substance of it all was Marjorie and her manner ofspeaking, and her faith in him and in God. 

He stood still, silent, breathing so heavily that Anthony heard him. 

"Tell me, Rob; tell me quickly. "

Robin drew a long breath. 

"You saw that my father was silent?" he said. 

"Yes. "

"Stay. .. . Will you swear to me by the mass that you will tell no onewhat you will hear from me till you hear it from others?"

"I will swear it, " whispered Anthony in the darkness. 

Again Robin sighed in a long, shuddering breath. Anthony could hear himtremble with cold and pain. 

"Well, " he said, "my father will leave the Church next Easter. He istired of paying fines, he says. And he has bidden me to come with him toMatstead Church. "

There was dead silence. 

"I went to tell Marjorie to-day, " whispered Robin. "She has promised tobe my wife some day; so I told her, but no one else. She has bidden meto leave Matstead for Easter, and pray to God to show me what to doafterwards. Can you help me, Anthony?"

He was seized suddenly by the arms. 

"Robin. .. . No . .. No! It is not possible!"

"It is certain. I have never known my father to turn from his word. "

 * * * * *

From far away in the wild woods came a cry as the two stood there. Itmight be a wolf or fox, if any were there, or some strange night-bird, or a woman in pain. It rose, it seemed, to a scream, melancholy anddreadful, and then died again. The two heard it, but said nothing, oneto the other. No doubt it was some beast in a snare or a-hunting, but itchimed in with the desolation of their hearts so as to seem but a partof it. So the two stood in silence. The house was quiet now, and most ofthose within it upon their beds. Only, as the two knew, there still satin silence within the little wainscoted parlour, with his head on hishand and a glass of muscadel beside him--he of whom they thought--thefather of one and the friend and host of the other. .. . It was not untilthis instant in the dark and to the quiet, with the other lad's handsstill gripped on to his arms, that this boy understood the utter shameand the black misery of that which he had said, and the other heard. 

CHAPTER II

I

There were excuses in plenty for Robin to ride abroad, to the northtowards Hathersage or to the south towards Dethick, as the whim tookhim; for he was learning to manage the estate that should be his oneday. At one time it was to quiet a yeoman whose domain had been riddenover and his sown fields destroyed; at another, to dispute with a millerwho claimed for injury through floods for which he held his lordresponsible; at a third, to see to the woodland or the fences broken bythe deer. He came and went then as he willed; and on the second day, after Anthony's visit, set out before dinner to meet him, that theymight speak at length of what lay now upon both their hearts. 

To his father he had said no more, nor he to him. His father sat quietin the parlour, or was in his own chamber when Robin was at home; butthe lad understood very well that there was no thought of yielding. Andthere were a dozen things on which he himself must come to a decision. There was the first, the question as to where he was to go for Easter, and how he was to tell his father; what to do if his father forbade himoutright; whether or no the priests of the district should be told; whatto do with the chapel furniture that was kept in a secret place in aloft at Matstead. Above all, there hung over him the thought of whatwould come after, if his father held to his decision and would allow himneither to keep his religion at home nor go elsewhere. 

On the second day, therefore, he rode out (the frost still holding, though the sun was clear and warm), and turned southwards through thevillage for the Dethick road, towards the place in which he hadappointed to meet Anthony. At the entrance to the village he passed theminister, Mr. Barton, coming out of his house, that had been thepriest's lodging, a middle-aged man, made a minister under the newPrayer-Book, and therefore, no priest as were some of the ministersabout, who had been made priests under Mary. He was a solid man, of nogreat wit or learning, but there was not an ounce of harm in him. (Theywere fortunate, indeed, to have such a minister; since many parishes hadbut laymen to read the services; and in one, not twenty miles away, thesquire's falconer held the living. ) Mr. Barton was in his sad-colouredcloak and round cap, and saluted Robin heartily in his loud, bellowingvoice. 

"Riding abroad again, " he cried, "on some secret errand!"

"I will give your respects to Mr. Babington, " said Robin, smilingheavily. "I am to meet him about a matter of a tithe too!"

"Ah! you Papists would starve us altogether if you could, " roared theminister, who wished no better than to be at peace with his neighbours, and was all for liberty. 

"You will get your tithe safe enough--one of you, at least, " said Robin. "It is but a matter as to who shall pay it. "

He waved good-day to the minister and set his horse to the Dethicktrack. 

 * * * * *

There was no going fast to-day along this country road. The frosts andthe thaws had made of it a very way of sorrows. Here in the harder partswas a tumble of ridges and holes, with edges as hard as steel; here inthe softer, the faggots laid to build it up were broken or rottedthrough, making it no better than a trap for horses' feet; and it was afull hour before Robin finished his four miles and turned up through thewinter woodland to the yeoman's farm where he was to meet Anthony. Itwas true, as he had said to Mr. Barton, that they were to speak of amatter of tithe--this was to be their excuse if his father questionedhim--for there was a doubt as to in which parish stood this farm, forthe yeoman tilled three meadows that were in the Babington estate andtwo in Matstead. 

As he came up the broken ground on to the crest of the hill, he sawAnthony come out of the yard-gate and the yeoman with him. Then Anthonymounted his horse and rode down towards him, bidding the man stay, overhis shoulder. 

"It is all plain enough, " shouted Anthony loud enough for the man tohear. "It is Dethick that must pay. You need not come up, Robin; we mustdo the paying. "

Robin checked his mare and waited till the other came near enough tospeak. 

"Young Thomas FitzHerbert is within. He is riding round his newestates, " said the other beneath his breath. "I thought I would come outand tell you; and I do not know where we can talk or dine. I met him onthe road, and he would come with me. He is eating his dinner there. "

"But I must eat my dinner too, " said Robin, in dismay. 

"Will you tell him of what you have told me? He is safe and discreet, Ithink. "

"Why, yes, if you think so, " said Robin. "I do not know him very well. "

"Oh! he is safe enough, and he has learned not to talk. Besides, all thecountry will know it by Easter. "

So they turned their horses back again and rode up to the farm. 

 * * * * *

It was a great day for a yeoman when three gentlemen should take theirdinners in his house; and the place was in a respectful uproar. From thekitchen vent went up a pillar of smoke, and through its door, in and outcontinually, fled maids with dishes. The yeoman himself, John Merton, adried-looking, lean man, stood cap in hand to meet the gentlemen; andhis wife, crimson-faced from the fire, peeped and smiled from the opendoor of the living-room that gave immediately upon the yard. For thesegentlemen were from three of the principal estates here about. TheBabingtons had their country house at Dethick and their town house inDerby; the Audreys owned a matter of fifteen hundred acres at least allabout Matstead; and the FitzHerberts, it was said, scarcely knewthemselves all that they owned, or rather all that had been theirs untilthe Queen's Grace had begun to strip them of it little by little onaccount of their faith. The two Padleys, at least, were theirs, besidestheir principal house at Norbury; and now that Sir Thomas was in theFleet Prison for his religion, young Mr. Thomas, his heir, was of moreaccount than ever. 

He was at his dinner when the two came in, and he rose and saluted them. He was a smallish kind of man, with a little brown beard, and his shorthair, when he lifted his flapped cap to them, showed upright on hishead; he smiled pleasantly enough, and made space for them to sit down, one at each side. 

"We shall do very well now, Mrs. Merton, " he said, "if you will bring inthat goose once more for these gentlemen. "

Then he made excuses for beginning his dinner before them: he was onhis way home and must be off again presently. 

It was a well-furnished table for a yeoman's house. There was a linennapkin for each guest, one corner of which he tucked into his throat, while the other corner lay beneath his wooden plate. The twelve silverspoons were laid out on the smooth elm-table, and a silver salt stoodbefore Mr. Thomas. There was, of course, an abundance to eat and drink, even though no more than two had been expected; and John Merton himselfstood hatless on the further side of the table and took the dishes fromthe bare-armed maids to place them before the gentlemen. There was ajack of metheglin for each to drink, and a huge loaf of miscelin (orbread made of mingled corn) stood in the midst and beyond the salt. 

They talked of this and of that and of the other, freely and easily--ofMr. Thomas' marriage with Mistress Westley that was to take placepresently; of the new entailment of the estates made upon him by hisuncle. John Merton inquired, as was right, after Sir Thomas, and openlyshook his head when he heard of his sufferings (for he and his wife wereas good Catholics as any in the country); and when the room was emptyfor a moment of the maids, spoke of a priest who, he had been told, would say mass in Tansley next day (for it was in this way, for the mostpart, that such news was carried from mouth to mouth). Then, when themaids came in again, the battle of the tithe was fought once more, andMr. Thomas pronounced sentence for the second time. 

They blessed themselves, all four of them, openly at the end, and wentout at last to their horses. 

"Will you ride with us, sir?" asked Anthony; "we can go your way. Robinhere has something to say to you. "

"I shall be happy if you will give me your company for a little. I mustbe at Padley before dark, if I can, and must visit a couple of houses onthe way. "

He called out to his two servants, who ran out from the kitchen wipingtheir mouths, telling them to follow at once, and the three rode offdown the hill. 

Then Robin told him. 

He was silent for a while after he had put a question or two, biting hislower lip a little, and putting his little beard into his mouth. Then heburst out. 

"And I dare not ask you to come to me for Easter, " he said. "God onlyknows where I shall be at Easter. I shall be married, too, by then. Myfather is in London now and may send for me. My uncle is in the Fleet. Iam here now only to see what money I can raise for the fines and for thesolace of my uncle. I cannot ask you, Mr. Audrey, though God knows thatI would do anything that I could. Have you nowhere to go? Will yourfather hold to what he says?"

Robin told him yes; and he added that there were four or five places hecould go to. He was not asking for help or harbourage, but advice only. 

"And even of that I have none, " cried Mr. Thomas. "I need all that I canget myself. I am distracted, Mr. Babington, with all these troubles. "

Robin asked him whether the priests who came and went should be told ofthe blow that impended; for at those times every apostasy was ofimportance to priests who had to run here and there for shelter. 

"I will tell one or two of the more discreet ones myself, " said Mr. Thomas, "if you will give me leave. I would that they were all discreet, but they are not. We will name no names, if you please; but some of themare unreasonable altogether and think nothing of bringing us all intoperil. "

He began to bite his beard again. 

"Do you think the Commissioners will visit us again?" asked Anthony. "Mr. Fenton was telling me--"

"It is Mr. Fenton and the like that will bring them down on us if anywill, " burst out Mr. FitzHerbert peevishly. "I am as good a Catholic, Ihope, as any in the world; but we can surely live without the sacramentsfor a month or two sometimes! But it is this perpetual coming and goingof priests that enrages her Grace and her counsellors. I do not believeher Grace has any great enmity against us; but she soon will, if menlike Mr. Fenton and Mr. Bassett are for ever harbouring priests andencouraging them. It is the same in London, I hear; it is the same inLancashire; it is the same everywhere. And all the world knows it, andthinks that we do contemn her Grace by such boldness. All the mischiefcame in with that old Bull, _Regnans in Excelsis_, in '69, and--"

"I beg your pardon, sir, " came in a quiet voice from beyond him; andRobin, looking across, saw Anthony with a face as if frozen. 

"Pooh! pooh!" burst out Mr. Thomas, with an uneasy air. "The HolyFather, I take it, may make mistakes, as I understand it, in suchmatters, as well as any man. Why, a dozen priests have said to me theythought it inopportune; and--"

"I do not permit, " said Anthony with an air of dignity beyond his years, "that any man should speak so in my company. "

"Well, well; you are too hot altogether, Mr. Babington. I admire suchzeal indeed, as I do in the saints; but we are not bound to imitate allthat we admire. Say no more, sir; and I will say no more either. "

They rode in silence. 

It was, indeed, one of those matters that were in dispute at that timeamongst the Catholics. The Pope was not swift enough for some, and tooswift for others. He had thundered too soon, said one party, if, indeed, it was right to thunder at all, and not to wait in patience till theQueen's Grace should repent herself; and he had thundered not soonenough, said the other. Whence it may at least be argued that he hadbeen exactly opportune. Yet it could not be denied that since the daywhen he had declared Elizabeth cut off from the unity of the Church andher subjects absolved from their allegiance--though never, as somepretended then and have pretended ever since, that a private personmight kill her and do no wrong--ever since that day her bitterness hadincreased yearly against her Catholic people, who desired no better thanto serve both her and their God, if she would but permit that to bepossible. 

II

It would be an hour later that they bid good-bye to Mr. ThomasFitzHerbert, high among the hills to the east of the Derwent river; andwhen they had seen him ride off towards Wingerworth, rode yet a fewfurlongs together to speak of what had been said. 

"He can do nothing, then, " said Robin; "not even to give good counsel. "

"I have never heard him speak so before, " cried Anthony; "he must benear mad, I think. It must be his marriage, I suppose. "

"He is full of his own troubles; that is plain enough, without seekingothers. Well, I must bear mine as best I can. "

They were just parting--Anthony to ride back to Dethick, and Robin overthe moors to Matstead, when over a rise in the ground they saw theheads of three horsemen approaching. It was a wild country that theywere in; there were no houses in sight; and in such circumstances it wasbut prudent to remain together until the character of the travellersshould be plain; so the two, after a word, rode gently forward, hearingthe voices of the three talking to one another, in the still air, thoughwithout catching a word. For, as they came nearer the voices ceased, asif the talkers feared to be overheard. 

They were well mounted, these three, on horses known as Scottish nags, square-built, sturdy beasts, that could cover forty miles in the day. They were splashed, too, not the horses only, but the riders, also, asif they had ridden far, through streams or boggy ground. The men weredressed soberly and well, like poor gentlemen or prosperous yeomen; allthree were bearded, and all carried arms as could be seen from the flashof the sun on their hilts. It was plain, too, that they were not roguesor cutters, since each carried his valise on his saddle, as well as fromtheir appearance. Our gentlemen, then, after passing them with a saluteand a good-day, were once more about to say good-bye one to the other, and appoint a time and place to meet again for the hunting of whichRobin had spoken to Marjorie, and, indeed, had drawn rein--when one ofthe three strangers was seen to turn his horse and come riding backafter them, while his friends waited. 

The two lads wheeled about to meet him, as was but prudent; but while hewas yet twenty yards away he lifted his hat. He seemed about thirtyyears old; he had a pleasant, ruddy face. 

"Mr. Babington, I think, sir, " he said. 

"That is my name, " said Anthony. 

"I have heard mass in your house, sir, " said the stranger. "My name isGarlick. "

"Why, yes, sir, I remember--from Tideswell. How do you do, Mr. Garlick?This is Mr. Audrey, of Matstead. "

They saluted one another gravely. 

"Mr. Audrey is a Catholic, too, I think?"

Robin answered that he was. 

"Then I have news for you, gentlemen. A priest, Mr. Simpson, is with us;and will say mass at Tansley next Sunday. You would like to speak withhis reverence?"

"It will give us great pleasure, sir, " said Anthony, touching his horsewith his heel. 

"I am bringing Mr. Simpson on his way. He is just fresh from Rheims. AndMr. Ludlam is to carry him further on Monday, " continued Mr. Garlick asthey went forward. 

"Mr. Ludlam?"

"He is a native of Radbourne, and has but just finished at Oxford. .. . Forgive me, sir; I will but just ride forward and tell them. "

The two lads drew rein, seeing that he wished first to tell the otherswho they were, before bringing them up; and a strange little thing fellas Mr. Garlick joined the two. For it happened that by now the sun wasat his setting; going down in a glory of crimson over the edge of thehigh moor; and that the three riders were directly in his path fromwhere the two lads waited. Robin, therefore, looking at them, saw thethree all together on their horses with the circle of the sun aboutthem, and a great flood of blood-coloured light on every side; thepriest was in the midst of the three, and the two men leaning towardshim seemed to be speaking and as if encouraging him strongly. For aninstant, so strange was the light, so immense the shadows on this sidespread over the tumbled ground up to the lads themselves, so vast thegreat vault of illuminated sky, that it seemed to Robin as if he saw avision. .. . Then the strangeness passed, as Mr. Garlick turned away againto beckon to them; and the boy thought no more of it at that time. 

They uncovered as they rode towards the priest, and bowed low to him ashe lifted his hand with a few words of Latin; and the next instant theywere in talk. 

Mr. Simpson, like his friends, was a youngish man at this time, with akind face and great, innocent eyes that seemed to wonder and question. Mr. Ludlam, too, was under thirty years old, plainly not of gentleman'sbirth, though he was courteous and well-mannered. It seemed a greatmatter to these three to have fallen in with young Mr. Babington, whosefamily was so well-known, and whose own fame as a scholar, as well as anardent Catholic, was all over the county. 

Robin said little; he was overshadowed by his friend; but he listenedand watched as the four spoke together, and learned that Mr. Simpson hadbeen made priest scarcely a month before, and was come from Yorkshire, which was his own county, to minister in the district of the Peak atleast for awhile. He heard, too, news from Douay, and that the college, it was thought, might move from there to another place under theprotection of the family of De Guise, since her Grace was very hotagainst Douay, whence so many of her troubles proceeded, and was doingher best to persuade the Governor of the Netherlands to suppress it. However, said Mr. Simpson, it was not yet done. 

Anthony, too, in his turn gave the news of the county; he spoke of Mr. Fenton, of the FitzHerberts and others that were safe and discreetpersons; but he said nothing at that time of Mr. Audrey of Matstead, atwhich Robin was glad, since his shame deepened on him every hour, andall the more now that he had met with those three men who rode sogallantly through the country in peril of liberty or life itself. Nordid he say anything of the FitzHerberts except that they might be reliedupon. 

"We must be riding, " said Garlick at last; "these moors are strange tome; and it will be dark in half an hour. "

"Will you allow me to be your guide, sir?" asked Anthony of the priest. "It is all in my road, and you will not be troubled with questions oranswers if you are in my company. "

"But what of your friend, sir?"

"Oh! Robin knows the country as he knows the flat of his hand. We wereabout to separate as we met you. "

"Then we will thankfully accept your guidance, sir, " said the priestgravely. 

An impulse seized upon Robin as he was about to say good-day, though hewas ashamed of it five minutes later as a modest lad would be. Yet hefollowed it now; he leapt off his horse and, holding Cecily's rein inhis arm, kneeled on the stones with both knees. 

"Your blessing, sir, " he said to the priest. And Anthony eyed him withastonishment. 

III

Robin was moved, as he rode home over the high moors, and down at lastupon the woods of Matstead, in a manner that was new to him, and that hecould not altogether understand. He had met travelling priests before;indeed, all the priests whose masses he had ever heard, or from whom hehad received the sacraments, were travelling priests who went in peril;and yet this young man, upon whose consecrated hands the oil wasscarcely yet dry, moved and drew his heart in a manner that he had neveryet known. It was perhaps something in the priest's face that had soaffected him; for there was a look in it of a kind of surprised timidityand gentleness, as if he wondered at himself for being so foolhardy, andas if he appealed with that same wonder and surprise to all who lookedon him. His voice, too, was gentle, as if tamed for the seminary and thealtar; and his whole air and manner wholly unlike that of some of thepriests whom Robin knew--loud-voiced, confident, burly men whom youwould have sworn to be country gentlemen or yeomen living on theirestates or farms and fearing to look no man in the face. It was thislatter kind, thought Robin, that was best suited to such a life--toriding all day through north-country storms, to lodging hardily wherethey best could, to living such a desperate enterprise as a priest'slife then was, with prices upon their heads and spies everywhere. It wasnot a life for quiet persons like Mr. Simpson, who, surely, would bebetter at his books in some college abroad, offering the Holy Sacrificein peace and security, and praying for adventurers more hardy thanhimself. Yet here was Mr. Simpson just set out upon such an adventure, of his own free-will and choice, with no compulsion save that of God'sgrace. 

 * * * * *

There was yet more than an hour before supper-time when he rode into thecourt at last; and Dick Sampson, his own groom, came to take his horsefrom him. 

"The master's not been from home to-day, sir, " said Dick when Robinasked of his father. 

"Not been from home?"

"No, sir--not out of the house, except that he was walking in thepleasaunce half an hour ago. "

Robin ran up the steps and through the screens to see if his father wasstill there; but the little walled garden, so far as he could see it inthe light from the hall windows, was empty; and, indeed, it would bestrange for any man to walk in such a place at such an hour. Hewondered, too, to hear that his father had not been from home; for onall days, except he were ill, he would be about the estate, here andthere. As he came back to the screens he heard a step going up and downin the hall, and on looking in met his father face to face. The old manhad his hat on his head, but no cloak on his shoulders, though even withthe fire the place was cold. It was plain that he had been walking upand down to warm himself. Robin could not make out his face very well, as he stood with his back to a torch. 

"Where have you been, my lad?"

"I went to meet Anthony at one of the Dethick farms, sir--JohnMerton's. "

"You met no one else?"

"Yes, sir; Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert was there and dined with us. He rodewith us, too, a little way. " And then as he was on the point of speakingof the priest, he stopped himself; and in an instant knew that neveragain must he speak of a priest to his father; his father had alreadylost his right to that. His father looked at him a moment, standing withhis hands clasped behind his back. 

"Have you heard anything of a priest that is newly come to theseparts--or coming?"

"Yes, sir. I hear mass is to be said . .. In the district on Sunday. "

"Where is mass to be said?"

Robin drew along breath, lifted his eyes to his father's and thendropped them again. 

"Did you hear me, sir? Where is mass to be said?"

Again Robin lifted and again dropped his eyes. 

"What is the priest's name?"

Again there was dead silence. For a son, in those days, so to behavetowards his father, was an act of very defiance. Yet the father saidnothing. There the two remained; Robin with his eyes on the ground, expecting a storm of words or a blow in the face. Yet he knew he coulddo no otherwise; the moment had come at last and he must act as he wouldbe obliged always to act hereafter. 

Matters had matured swiftly in the boy's mind, all unconsciously tohimself. Perhaps it was the timid air of the priest he had met an hourago that consummated the process. At least it was so consummated. 

Then his father turned suddenly on his heel; and the son went outtrembling. 

CHAPTER III

I

"I will speak to you to-night, sir, after supper, " said his fathersharply a second day later, when Robin, meeting his father setting outbefore dinner, had asked him to give him an hour's talk. 

 * * * * *

Robin's mind had worked fiercely and intently since the encounter in thehall. His father had sat silent both at supper and afterwards, and thenext day was the same; the old man spoke no more than was necessary, shortly and abruptly, scarcely looking his son once in the face, and therest of the day they had not met. It was plain to the boy that somethingmust follow his defiance, and he had prepared all his fortitude to meetit. Yet the second night had passed and no word had been spoken, and bythe second morning Robin could bear it no longer; he must know what wasin his father's mind. And now the appointment was made, and he wouldsoon know all. His father was absent from dinner and the boy dinedalone. He learned from Dick Sampson that his father had riddensouthwards. 

 * * * * *

It was not until Robin had sat down nearly half an hour later thansupper-time that the old man came in. The frost was gone; deep mud hadsucceeded, and the rider was splashed above his thighs. He stayed at thefire for his boots to be drawn off and to put on his soft-leather shoes, while Robin stood up dutifully to await him. Then he came forward, tookhis seat without a word, and called for supper. In ominous silence themeal proceeded, and with the same thunderous air, when it was over, hisfather said grace and made his way, followed by his son, into theparlour behind. He made no motion at first to pour out his wine; then hehelped himself twice and left the jug for Robin. 

Then suddenly he began without moving his head. 

"I wish to know your intentions, " he said, with irony so serious that itseemed gravity. "I cannot flog you or put you to school again, and Imust know how we stand to one another. "

Robin was silent. He had looked at his father once or twice, but now satdowncast and humble in his place. With his left hand he fumbled, out ofsight, Mr. Maine's pair of beads. His father, for his part, sat with hisfeet stretched to the fire, his head propped on his hand, not doingenough courtesy to his son even to look at him. 

"Do you hear me, sir?"

"Yes, sir. But I do not know what to say. "

"I wish to know your intentions. Do you mean to thwart and disobey me inall matters, or in only those that have to do with religion?"

"I do not wish to thwart or disobey you, sir, in any matters exceptwhere my conscience is touched. " (The substance of this answer had beenpreviously rehearsed, and the latter part of it even verbally. )

"Be good enough to tell me what you mean by that. "

Robin licked his lips carefully and sat up a little in his chair. 

"You told me, sir, that it was your intention to leave the Church. Thenhow can I tell you of what priests are here, or where mass is to besaid? You would not have done so to one who was not a Catholic, sixmonths ago. "

The man sneered visibly. 

"There is no need, " he said. "It is Mr. Simpson who is to say massto-morrow, and it is at Tansley that it will be said, at six o'clock inthe morning. If I choose to tell the justices, you cannot prevent it. "(He turned round in a flare of anger. ) "Do you think I shall tell thejustices?"

Robin said nothing. 

"Do you think I shall tell the justices?" roared the old maninsistently. 

"No, sir. Now I do not. "

The other growled gently and sank back. 

"But if you think that I will permit my son to flout and to my face inmy own hall, and not to trust his own father--why, you are immeasurablymistaken, sir. So I ask you again how far you intend to thwart anddisobey me. "

A kind of despair surged up in the boy's heart--despair at thefruitlessness of this ironical and furious sort of talk; and with thedespair came boldness. 

"Father, will you let me speak outright, without thinking that I mean toinsult you? I do not; I swear I do not. Will you let me speak, sir?"

His father growled again a sort of acquiescence, and Robin gathered hisforces. He had prepared a kind of defence that seemed to him reasonable, and he knew that his father was at least just. They had been friends, these two, always, in an underground sort of way, which was all that therelations of father and son in such days allowed. The old man was curt, obstinate, and even boisterous in his anger; but there was a kindlinessbeneath that the boy always perceived--a kindliness which permitted theson an exceptional freedom of speech, which he used always in the lastresort and which he knew his father loved to hear him use. This, then, was plainly a legitimate occasion for it, and he had prepared himself tomake the most of it. He began formally:

"Sir, " he said, "you have brought me up in the Old Faith, sent me tomass, and to the priest to learn my duty, and I have obeyed you always. You have taught me that a man's duty to God must come before allelse--as our Saviour Himself said, too. And now you turn on me, and bidme forget all that, and come to church with you. .. . It is not for me tosay anything to my father about his own conscience; I must leave thatalone. But I am bound to speak of mine when occasion rises, and this isone of them. .. . I should be dishonouring and insulting you, sir, if Idid not believe you when you said you would turn Protestant; and a manwho says he will turn Protestant has done so already. It was for thisreason, then, and no other, that I did not answer you the other day; notbecause I wish to be disobedient to you, but because I must be obedientto God. I did not lie to you, as I might have done, and say that I didnot know who the priest was nor where mass was to be said. But I wouldnot answer, because it is not right or discreet for a Catholic to speakof these things to those who are not Catholics--"

"How dare you say I am not a Catholic, sir!"

"A Catholic, sir, to my mind, " said Robin steadily, "is one who holds tothe Catholic Church and to no other. I mean nothing offensive, sir; Imean what I said I meant, and no more. It is not for me to condemn--"

"I should think not!" snorted the old man. 

"Well, sir, that is my reason. And further--"

He stopped, doubtful. 

"Well, sir--what further?"

"Well, I cannot come to the church with you at Easter. "

His father wheeled round savagely in his chair. 

"Father, hear me out, and then say what you will. .. . I say I cannot comewith you to church at Easter, because I am a Catholic. But I do not wishto trouble or disobey you openly. I will go away from home for thattime. Good Mr. Barton will cause no trouble; he wants nothing but peace. Father, you are not just to me. You have taught me too much, or you havenot given me time enough--"

Again he broke off, knowing that he had said what he did not mean, butthe old man was on him like a hawk. 

"Not time enough, you say? Well, then--"

"No, sir; I did not mean that, " wailed Robin suddenly. "I do not meanthat I should change if I had a hundred years; I am sure I shall not. But--"

"You said, 'Not time enough, '" said the other meditatively. "Perhaps ifI give you time--"

"Father, I beg of you to forget what I said; I did not mean to say it. It is not true. But Marjorie said--"

"Marjorie! What has Marjorie to do with it?"

Robin found himself suddenly in deep waters. He had plunged and foundthat he could not swim. This was the second mistake he had made insaying what he did not mean. .. . Again the courage of despair came tohim, and he struck out further. 

"I must tell you of that too, sir, " he said. "Mistress Marjorie and I--"

He stopped, overwhelmed with shame. His father turned full round andstared at him. 

"Go on, sir. "

Robin seized his glass and emptied it. 

"Well, sir. Mistress Marjorie and I love one another. We are but boy andgirl, sir; we know that--"

Then his father laughed. It was laughter that was at once hearty andbitter; and, with it, came the closing of the open door in the boy'sheart. As there came out, after it, sentence after sentence of scorn andcontempt, the bolts, so to say, were shot and the key turned. It mightall have been otherwise if the elder man had been kind, or if he hadbeen sad or disappointed, or even if he had been merely angry; but thesoreness and misery in the old man's heart--misery at his own acts andwords, and at the outrage he was doing to his own conscience--turned hisjudgment bitter, and with that bitterness his son's heart shut tightagainst him. 

"But boy and girl!" sneered the man. "A couple of blind puppies, I wouldsay rather--you with your falcons and mare and your other toys, and thedown on your chin, and your conscience; and she with her white face andher mother and her linen-parlour and her beads"--(his charity prevailedso far as to hinder him from more outspoken contempt)--"And you twobabes have been prattling of conscience and prayers together--I make nodoubt, and thinking yourselves Cecilies and Laurences and all the holymartyrs--and all this without a by-your-leave, I dare wager, from parentor father, and thinking yourselves man and wife; and you fondling her, and she too modest to be fondled, and--"

The plain truth struck him with sudden splendour, at least sufficientlystrong to furnish him with a question. 

"And have you told Mistress Marjorie about your sad rogue of a father?"

Robin, white with anger, held his lips grimly together and the wrathblazed in an instant up from the scornful old heart, whose very love wasturned to gall. 

"Tell me, sir--I will have it!" he cried. 

Robin looked at him with such hard fury in his eyes that for a momentthe man winced. Then he recovered himself, and again his anger rose tothe brim. 

"You need not look at me like that, you hound. Tell me, I say!"

"I will not!" shouted Robin, springing to his feet. 

The old man was up too by now, with all the anger of his son hardened byhis dignity. 

"You will not?"

"No. "

For a moment the fate of them both still hung in the balance. If, evenat this instant, the father had remembered his love rather than hisdignity, had thought of the past and its happy years, rather than of theblinding, swollen present; or, on the other side, if the son had butsubmitted if only for an hour, and obeyed in order that he might rulelater--the whole course might have run aright, and no hearts have beenbroken and no blood shed. But neither would yield. There was the fiercenorthern obstinacy in them both; the gentle birth sharpened its edge;the defiant refusal of the son, the wounding contempt of the father notfor his son only, but for his son's love--these things inflamed thehearts of both to madness. The father seized his ultimate right, andstruck his son across the face. 

Then the son answered by his only weapon. 

For a sensible pause he stood there, his fresh face paled to chalkiness, except where the print of five fingers slowly reddened. Then he made acourteous little gesture, as if to invite his father to sit down; and asthe other did so, slowly and shaking all over, struck at him by carefuland calculated words, delivered with a stilted and pompous air:

"You have beaten me, sir; so, of course, I obey. Yes, I told MistressMarjorie Manners that my father no longer counted himself a Catholic, and would publicly turn Protestant at Easter, so as to please her Graceand be in favour with the Court and with the county justices. And I havetold Mr. Babington so as well, and also Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert. It willspare you the pain, sir, of making any public announcement on thematter. It is always a son's duty to spare his father pain. "

Then he bowed, wheeled, and went out of the room. 

II

Two hours later Robin was still lying completely dressed on his bed inthe dark. 

It was a plain little chamber where he lay, fireless, yet not too cold, since it was wainscoted from floor to ceiling, and looked out eastwardsupon the pleasaunce, with rooms on either side of it. A couple ofpresses sunk in the walls held his clothes and boots; a rush-bottomedchair stood by the bed; and the bed itself, laid immediately on theground, was such as was used in most good houses by all except themaster and mistress, or any sick members of the family--a straw mattressand a wooden pillow. His bows and arrows, with a pair of dags orpistols, hung on a rack against the wall at the foot of his bed, and alittle brass cross engraved with a figure of the Crucified hung over it. It was such a chamber as any son of a house might have, who was agentleman and not luxurious. 

A hundred thoughts had gone through his mind since he had flung himselfdown here shaking with passion; and these had begun already to repeatthemselves, like a turning wheel, in his head. Marjorie; his love forher; his despair of that love; his father; all that they had been, oneto the other, in the past; the little, or worse than little, that theywould be, one to the other, in the future; the priest's face as he hadseen it three days ago; what would be done at Easter, what later--allthese things, coloured and embittered now by his own sorrow for hiswords to his father, and the knowledge that he had shamed himself whenhe should have suffered in silence--these things turned continually inhis head, and he was too young and too simple to extricate one from theother all at once. 

Things had come about in a manner which yesterday he would not havethought possible. He had never before spoken so to one to whom he owedreverence; neither had this one ever treated him so. His father hadstood always to him for uprightness and justice; he had no morequestioned these virtues in his father than in God. Words or acts ofeither might be strange or incomprehensible, yet the virtues themselvesremained always beyond a doubt; and now, with the opening of the doorwhich his father's first decision had accomplished, a crowd of questionsand judgments had rushed in, and a pillar of earth and heaven was shakenat last. .. . It is a dreadful day when for the first time to a young manor maiden, any shadow of God, however unworthy, begins to tremble. 

 * * * * *

He understood presently, however, what an elder man, or a less childish, would have understood at once--that these things must be dealt with oneby one, and that that which lay nearest to his hand was his own fault. Even then he fought with his conscience; he told himself that no lad ofspirit could tolerate such insults against his love, to say nothing ofthe injustice against himself that had gone before; but, being honest, he presently inquired of what spirit such a lad would be--not of thatspirit which Marjorie would approve, nor the gentle-eyed priest he hadspoken with. .. . 

Well, the event was certain with such as Robin, and he was presentlystanding at the door of his room, his boots drawn off and laid aside, listening, with a heart beating in his ears to hinder him, for any soundfrom beneath. He did not know whether his father were abed or not. Ifnot, he must ask his pardon at once. 

He went downstairs at last, softly, to the parlour, and peeped in. Allwas dark, except for the glimmer from the stove, and his heart feltlightened. Then, as he was cold with his long vigil outside his bed, hestirred the embers into a blaze and stood warming himself. 

How strange and passionless, he thought, looked this room, after thetempest that had raged in it just now. The two glasses stood there--hisown not quite empty--and the jug between them. His father's chair wasdrawn to the table, as if he were still sitting in it; his own was flungback as he had pushed it from him in his passion. There was an old printover the stove at which he looked presently--it had been his mother's, and he remembered it as long as his life had been--it was of Christcarrying His cross. 

His shame began to increase on him. How wickedly he had answered, withevery word a wound! He knew that the most poisonous of them all werefalse; he had known it even while he spoke them; it was not to curryfavour with her Grace that his father had lapsed; it was that his temperwas tried beyond bearing by those continual fines and rebuffs; the oldman's patience was gone--that was all. And he, his son, had not said oneword of comfort or strength; he had thought of himself and his ownwrongs, and being reviled he had reviled again. .. . 

There stood against the wall between the windows a table and an oakendesk that held the estate-bills and books; and beside the desk were laidclean sheets of paper, an ink-pot, a pounce-box, and three or fourfeather pens. It was here that he wrote, being newly from school, at hisfather's dictation, or his father sometimes wrote himself, with pain andlabour, the few notices or letters that were necessary. So he went tothis and sat down at it; he pondered a little; then he wrote a singleline of abject regret. 

"I ask your pardon and God's, sir, for the wicked words I said before Ileft the parlour. R. " He folded this and addressed it with the propersuperscription; and left it lying there. 

III

It was a strange ride that he had back from Tansley next morning aftermass. 

Dick Sampson had met him with the horses in the stable-court at Matsteada little after four o'clock in the morning; and together they had riddenthrough the pitch darkness, each carrying a lantern fastened to hisstirrup. So complete was the darkness, however, and so small andconfined the circle of light cast by the tossing light, that, for allthey saw, they might have been riding round and round in a garden. Nowtrees showed grim and towering for an instant, then gone again; nowtheir eyes were upon the track, the pools, the rugged ground, the soakedmeadow-grass; half a dozen times the river glimmered on their right, turbid and forbidding. Once there shone in the circle of light the eyesof some beast--pig or stag; seen and vanished again. 

But the return journey was another matter; for they needed no lanterns, and the dawn rose steadily overhead, showing all that they passed inghostly fashion, up to final solidity. 

It resembled, in fact, the dawn of Faith in a soul. 

First from the darkness outlines only emerged, vast and sinister, ofsuch an appearance that it was impossible to tell their proportions ordistances. The skyline a mile away, beyond the Derwent, might have beenthe edge of a bank a couple of yards off; the glimmering pool on thelower meadow path might be the lighted window of a house across thevalley. There succeeded to outlines a kind of shaded tint, all worked ingray like a print, clear enough to distinguish tree from boulder and skyfrom water, yet not clear enough to show the texture of anything. Thethird stage was that in which colours began to appear, yet flat anddismal, holding, it seemed, no light, yet reflecting it; and all in anextraordinary cold clearness. Nature seemed herself, yet struck todumbness. No breeze stirred the twigs overhead or the undergrowththrough which they rode. Once, as the two, riding a little apart, turnedsuddenly together, up a ravine into thicker woods, they came upon a herdof deer, who stared on them without any movement that the eye could see. Here a stag stood with two hinds beside him; behind, Robin saw the backsand heads of others that lay still. Only the beasts kept their eyes uponthem, as they went, watching, as if it were a picture only that went by. So, by little and little, the breeze stirred like a waking man; cockscrew from over the hills one to the other; dogs barked far away, tillthe face of the world was itself again, and the smoke from Matstead roseabove the trees in front. 

Robin had ridden in the dawn an hundred times before; yet never beforehad he so perceived that strange deliberateness and sleep of the world;and he had ridden, too, perhaps twenty times at such an hour, with hisfather beside him, after mass on some such occasion. Yet it seemed tohim this time that it was the mass which he had seen, and his ownsolitariness, that had illuminated his eyes. It was dreadful to him--andyet it threw him more than ever on himself and God--that his fatherwould ride with him so no more. Henceforward he would go alone, or witha servant only; he would, alone, go up to the door of house or barn andrap four times with his riding-whip; alone he would pass upstairsthrough the darkened house to the shrouded room, garret or bed-chamber, where the group was assembled, all in silence; where presently a darkfigure would rise and light the pair of candles, and then, himself aghost, vest there by their light, throwing huge shadows on wainscot andceiling as his arms went this way and that; and then, alone of all thatwere of blood-relationship to him, he would witness the HolySacrifice. .. . 

How long that would be so, he did not know. Something surely must happenthat would prevent it. Or, at least, some day, he would ride so withMarjorie, whom he had seen this morning across the dusky candle-litgloom, praying in a corner; or, maybe, with her would entertain thepriest, and open the door to the worshippers who streamed in, like beesto a flower-garden, from farm and manor and village. He could not forever ride alone from Matstead and meet his father's silence. 

One thing more, too, had moved him this morning; and that, the sight ofthe young priest at the altar whom he had met on the moor. Here, morethan ever, was the gentle priestliness and innocency apparent. He stoodthere in his red vestments; he moved this way and that; he made hisgestures; he spoke in undertones, lit only by the pair of wax-candles, more Levitical than ever in such a guise, yet more unsuited than ever tosuch exterior circumstances. Surely this man should say mass for ever;yet surely never again ride over the moors to do it, amidst enemies. Hewas of the strong castle and the chamber, not of the tent and thebattle. .. . And yet it was of such soldiers as these, as well as of thesturdy and the strong, that Christ's army was made. 

 * * * * *

It was in broad daylight, though under a weeping sky, that Robin rodeinto the court at Matstead. He shook the rain from his cloak within thescreens, and stamped to get the mud away; and, as he lifted his hat toshake it, his father came in from the pleasaunce. 

Robin glanced up at him, swift and shy, half smiling, expecting a wordor a look. His father must surely have read his little letter by now, and forgiven him. But the smile died away again, as he met the old man'seyes; they were as hard as steel; his clean-shaven lips were set like atrap, and, though he looked at his son, it seemed that he did not seehim. He passed through the screens and went down the steps into thecourt. 

The boy's heart began to beat so as near to sicken him after his longfast and his ride. He told himself that his father could not have beeninto the parlour yet, though he knew, even while he thought it, thatthis was false comfort. He stood there an instant, waiting; hoping thateven now his father would call to him; but the strong figure passedresolutely on out of sight. 

Then the boy went into the hall, and swiftly through it. There on thedesk in the window lay the pen he had flung down last night, but nomore; the letter was gone; and, as he turned away, he saw lying amongthe wood-ashes of the cold stove a little crumpled ball. He stooped anddrew it out. It was his letter, tossed there after the reading; hisfather had not taken the pains to keep it safe, nor even to destroy it. 

CHAPTER IV

I

The company was already assembled both within and without Padley, whenRobin rode up from the riverside, on a fine, windy morning, for thesport of the day. Perhaps a dozen horses stood tethered at the entranceto the little court, with a man or two to look after them, for thegreater part of their riders were already within; and a continual comingand going of lads with dogs; falconers each with his cadge, orthree-sided frame on which sat the hawks; a barking of hounds, ascreaming of birds, a clatter of voices and footsteps in the court--allthis showed that the boy was none too early. A man stepped forward totake his mare and his hawks; and Robin slipped from his saddle and wentin. 

 * * * * *

Padley Hall was just such a house as would serve a wealthy gentleman whodesired a small country estate with sufficient dignity and not too manyresponsibilities. It stood upon the side of the hill, well set-up abovethe damps of the valley, yet protected from the north-easterly winds bythe higher slopes, on the tops of which lay Burbage Moor, where thehawking was to be held. On the south, over the valley, stood out themodest hall and buttery (as, indeed, they stand to this day), with adoor between them, well buttressed in two places upon the fallingground, in one by a chimney, in the other by a slope of masonry; andbehind these buildings stood the rest of the court, the stables, thewash-house, the bake-house and such like, below; and, above, thesleeping rooms for the family and the servants. On the first floor, above the buttery and the hall, were situated the ladies' parlour andchapel; for this, at least, Padley had, however little its dignity inother matters, that it retained its chapel served in these sorrowfuldays not, as once, by a chaplain, but by whatever travelling priestmight be there. 

 * * * * *

Robin entered through the great gate on the east side--a dark entrancekept by a porter who saluted him--and rode through into the court; andhere, indeed, was the company; for out of the windows of the low hall onhis left came a babble of tongues, while two or three gentlemen withpots in their hands saluted him from the passage door, telling him thatMr. Thomas FitzHerbert was within. Mr. Fenton was one of these, comeover from North Lees, where he had his manor, a brisk, middle-aged man, dressed soberly and well, with a pointed beard and pleasant, dancingeyes. 

"And Mr. John, too, came last night, " he said; "but he will not hawkwith us. He is ridden from London on private matters. "

It was an exceedingly gay sight on which Robin looked as he turned intothe hall. It was a low room, ceiled in oak and wainscoted half-way up, atrifle dark, since it was lighted only by one or two little windows oneither side, yet warm and hospitable looking; with a great fire burningin a chimney on the south side, and perhaps a dozen and a half personssitting over their food and drink, since they were dining early to-dayto have the longer time for sport. 

A voice hailed him as he came in; and he went up to pay his respects toMr. John FitzHerbert, a tall man, well past middle-age, who sat with hishat on his head, at the centre of the high table, with the arms of Eyreand FitzHerbert beneath the canopy, all emblazoned, to do the honoursof the day. 

"You are late, sir, you are late!" he cried out genially. "We are justdone. "

Robin saluted him. He liked this man, though he did not know him verywell; for he was continually about the country, now in London, now atNorbury, now at Swinnerton, always occupied with these endless mattersof fines and recusancy. 

Robin saluted him then, and said a word or two; bowed to Mr. Thomas, hisson, who came up to speak with him; and then looked for Marjorie. Shesat there, at the corner of the table, with Mrs. Fenton at one side, andan empty seat on the other. Robin immediately sat down in it, to eat hisdinner, beginning with the "gross foods, " according to the Englishcustom. There was a piece of Christmas brawn to-day, from a pig fattenedon oats and peas, and hardened by being lodged (while he lived) on aboarded floor; all this was told Robin across the table withparticularity, while he ate it, and drank, according to etiquette, a cupof bastard. He attended to all this zealously, while never for aninstant was he unaware of the girl. 

They tricked their elders very well, these two innocent ones. You wouldhave sworn that Robin looked for another place and could not see one, you would have sworn that they were shy of one another, and spokescarcely a dozen sentences. Yet they did very well each in the companyof the other; and Robin, indeed, before he had finished his partridge, had conveyed to her that there was news that he had, and must give toher before the day was out. She looked at him with enough dismay in herface for him at least to read it; for she knew by his manner that itwould not be happy news. 

So, too, when the fruit was done and dinner was over (for they had noopportunity to speak at any length), again you would have sworn that thelast idea in his mind, as in hers, was that he should be the one to helpher to her saddle. Yet he did so; and he fetched her hawk for her, andsettled her reins in her hand; and presently he on one side of her, withMr. Fenton on the other side, were riding up through Padley chase; andthe talk and the laughter went up too. 

II

Up on the high moors, in the frank-chase, here indeed was a day to makesad hearts rejoice. The air was soft, as if spring were come before histime; and in the great wind that blew continually from the south-west, bearing the high clouds swiftly against the blue, ruffling the stiffheather-twigs and bilberry beneath--here was wine enough for anymourners. Before them, as they went--two riding before, with falconerson either side a little behind and the lads with the dogs beside them, and the rest in a silent line some twenty yards to the rear--stretchedthe wide, flat moor like a tumbled table-cloth, broken here and there bygroups of wind-tossed beech and oak, backed by the tall limestone cragslike pillar-capitals of an upper world; with here and there a littleshallow quarry whence marble had been taken for Derby. But more lovelythan all were the valleys, seen from here, as great troughs up whosesides trooped the leafless trees--lit by the streams that threw back thesunlit sky from their bosoms; with here a mist of smoke blown all aboutfrom a village out of sight, here the shadow of a travelling cloud thatfled as swift as the wind that drove it, extinguishing the flash ofwater only to release it again, darkening a sweep of land only to makethe sunlight that followed it the more sweet. 

Yet the two saw little of this, dear and familiar as they found it;since, first they rode together, and next, as it should be with younghearts, the sport presently began and drove all else away. 

The sport was done in this way:

The two that rode in front selected each from the cadge one of his ownfalcons (it was peregrines that were used at the beginning of the day, since they were first after partridges), and so rode, carrying hisfalcon on his wrist, hooded, belled, and in the leash, ready to castoff. Immediately before them went a lad with a couple of dogs to nosethe game--these also in a leash until they stiffened. Then the ladreleased them and stepped softly back, while the riders moved on at afoot's-pace, and the spaniels behind rose on their hind legs, choked bythe chain, whimpering, fifty yards in the rear. Slowly the dogsadvanced, each a frozen model of craft and blood-lust, till an instantafterwards, with a whir and a chattering like a broken clock, the coveywhirled from the thick growth underfoot, and flashed away northwards;and, a moment later, up went the peregrines behind them. Then, indeed, it was _sauve qui peut_, for the ground was full of holes here andthere, though there were grass-stretches as well on which all rode withloose rein, the two whose falcons were sprung always in front, accordingto custom, and the rest in a medley behind. Away then went the birds, pursued and pursuers, till, like a falling star the falcon stooped, andthen, maybe, the other a moment later, down upon the quarry; and aminute later there was the falcon back again shivering with pride andecstasy, or all ruffle-feathered with shame, back on his master's wrist, and another torn partridge, or maybe two, in the bottom of the lad'sbag; and arguments went full pelt, and cries, and sometimes sharp words, and faults were found, and praise was given, and so, on for anotherpair. 

It was but natural that Robin and Marjorie should compete one againstthe other, for they were riding together and talked together. Sopresently Mr. Thomas called to them, and beckoned them to their places. Robin set aside Agnes on to the cadge and chose Magdalen, and Marjoriechose Sharpie. The array was set, and all moved forward. 

It was a short chase and a merry one. Two birds rose from the heatherand flew screaming, skimming low, as from behind them moved on theshadows of death, still as clouds, with great noiseless sweeps ofsickle-shaped wings. Behind came the gallopers; Marjorie on her blackhorse, Robin on Cecily, seeming to compete, yet each content if eitherwon, each, maybe--or at least Marjorie--desiring that the other shouldwin. And the wind screamed past them as they went. 

Then came the stoops--together as if fastened by one string--faultlessand exquisite; and, as the two rode up and drew rein, there, side byside on the windy turf, two fierce statues of destiny--cruel-eyed, blood-stained on the beaks, resolute and suspicious--eyed themmotionless, the claws sunk deeply through back and head--awaitingrecapture. 

Marjorie turned swiftly to the boy as he leaped off. 

"In the chapel, " she said, "at Padley. "

Robin stared at her. Then he understood and nodded his head, as Mr. Thomas rode up, his beard all blown about by the wind, breathless butcongratulatory. 

III

It fell on Robin's mind with a certain heaviness and reproach that itshould have been she who should have carried in her head all day theunknown news that he was to give her and he who should have forgottenit. He understood then a little better of all that he must be to her, since, as he turned to her (his head full of hawks, and the glory of theshouting wind, and every thought of Faith and father clean blown away), it was to her mind that the under-thought had leapt, that here was theirfirst, and perhaps their last, chance of speaking in private. 

It was indeed their last chance, for the sun already stood overChapel-le-Frith far away to the south-west; and they must begin theircircle to return, in which the ladies should fly their merlins afterlarks, and there was no hope henceforth for Robin. Henceforth she rodewith Mrs. Fenton and two or three more, while the gentlemen who lovedsport more than courtesy, turned to the left over the broken ground towork back once more after partridges. And Robin dared no more ride withhis love, for fear that his company all day with her should be marked. 

 * * * * *

It was within an hour of sunset that Robin, riding ahead, having lost ahawk and his hat, having fallen into a bog-hole, being one mask of mudfrom head to foot, slid from his horse into Dick's hands and demanded ifthe ladies were back. 

"Yes, sir; they are back half an hour ago. They are in the parlour. "

Robin knew better. "I shall be riding in ten minutes, " he said; "givethe mare a mouthful. "

He limped across the court, and looking behind him to see if any saw, and finding the court at that instant empty, ran up, as well as hecould, the stone staircase that rose from the outside to the chapeldoor. It was unlatched. He pushed it open and went in. 

 * * * * *

It was a brave thing that the FitzHerberts did in keeping such a placeat all, since the greatest Protestant fool in the valley knew what thelittle chamber was that had the angels carved on the beam-ends, and thepiscina in the south wall. Windows looked out every way; through thoseon the south could be seen now the darkening valley and the sunlithills, and, yet more necessary, the road by which any travellers fromthe valley must surely come. Within, too, scarcely any pains were takento disguise the place. It was wainscoted from roof to floor--veiled, floored and walled in oak. A great chest stood beneath the little eastwindow of two lights, that cried "Altar" if any chest ever did so. Agreat press stood against the wooden screen that shut the room from theladies' parlour next door; filled in three shelves with innocent linen, for this was the only disguise that the place stooped to put on. Youcould not swear that mass was said there, but you could swear that itwas a place in which mass would very suitably be said. A couple ofbenches were against the press, and three or four chairs stood about thefloor. 

Robin saw her against the light as soon as he came in. She was still inher blue riding-dress, with the hood on her shoulders, and held her whipin her hand; but he could see no more of her head than the paleness ofher face and the gleam on her black hair. 

"Well, then?" she whispered sharply; and then: "Why, what a state youare in!"

"It's nothing, " said Robin. "I rolled in a bog-hole. "

She looked at him anxiously. 

"You are not hurt?. .. Sit down at least. "

He sat down stiffly, and she beside him, still watching to see if hewere the worse for his falling. He took her hand in his. 

"I am not fit to touch you, " he said. 

"Tell me the news; tell me quickly. "

So he told her; of the wrangle in the parlour and what had passedbetween his father and him; of his own bitterness; and his letter, andthe way in which the old man had taken it. 

"He has not spoken to me since, " he said, "except in public before theservants. Both nights after supper he has sat silent and I beside him. "

"And you have not spoken to him?" she asked quickly. 

"I said something to him after supper on Sunday, and he made no answer. He has done all his writing himself. I think it is for him to speak now. I should only anger him more if I tried it again. "

She sighed suddenly and swiftly, but said nothing. Her hand lay passivein his, but her face was turned now to the bright southerly window, andhe could see her puzzled eyes and her down-turned, serious mouth. Shewas thinking with all her wits, and, plainly, could come to noconclusion. 

She turned to him again. 

"And you told him plainly that you and I . .. That you and I--"

"That you and I loved one another? I told him plainly. And it was hiscontempt that angered me. "

She sighed again. 

 * * * * *

It was a troublesome situation in which these two children foundthemselves. Here was the father of one of them that knew, yet not theparents of the other, who should know first of all. Neither was thereany promise of secrecy and no hope of obtaining it. If she should nottell her parents, then if the old man told them, deception would becharged against her; and if she should tell them, perhaps he would nothave done so, and so all be brought to light too soon and without cause. And besides all this there were the other matters, heavy enough before, yet far more heavy now--matters of their hopes for the future, thecomplications with regard to the Religion, what Robin should do, what heshould not do. 

So they sat there silent, she thinking and he waiting upon her thought. 

She sighed again and turned to him her troubled eyes. 

"My Robin, " she said, "I have been thinking so much about you, and Ihave feared sometimes--"

She stopped herself, and he looked for her to finish. She drew her handaway and stood up. 

"Oh! it is miserable!" she cried. "And all might have been so happy. "

The tears suddenly filled her eyes so that they shone like flowers indew. 

He stood up, too, and put his muddy arm about her shoulders. (She feltso slight and slender. )

"It will be happy, " he said. "What have you been fearing?"

She shook her head and the tears ran down. 

"I cannot tell you yet. .. . Robin, what a holy man that travelling priestmust be, who said mass on Sunday. "

The lad was bewildered at her swift changes of thought, for he did notyet see the chain on which they hung. He strove to follow her. 

"It seemed so to me too, " he said. "I think I have never seen--"

"It seemed so to you too, " she cried. "Why, what do you know of him?"

He was amazed at her vehemence. She had drawn herself clear of his armand was looking at him full in the face. 

"I met him on the moor, " he said. "I had some talk with him. I got hisblessing. "

"You got his blessing! Why, so did I, after the mass, when you weregone. "

"Then that should join us more closely than ever, " he said. 

"In Heaven, perhaps, but on earth--" She checked herself again. "Tell mewhat you thought of him, Robin. "

"I thought it was strange that such a man as that should live such arough life. If he were in the seminary now, safe at Douay--"

She seemed a shade paler, but her eyes did not flicker. 

"Yes, " she said. "And you thought--?"

"I thought that it was not that kind of man who should fare so hardly. If it were a man like John Merton, who is accustomed to such things, ora man like me--"

Again he stopped; he did not know why. But it was as if she had criedout, though she neither spoke nor moved. 

"You thought that, did you, Robin?" she said presently, never moving hereyes from his face. "I thought so, too. "

"But I do not know why we are talking about Mr. Simpson, " said the lad. "There are other affairs more pressing. "

"I am not sure, " said she. 

"Marjorie, my love, what are you thinking about?"

She had turned her eyes and was looking out through the little window. Outside the red sunlight still lay on the crags and slopes beyond thedeep valley beneath them, and her face was bright in the reflectedbrightness. Yet he thought he had never seen her look so serious. Sheturned her eyes back to him as he spoke. 

"I am thinking of a great many things, " she said. "I am thinking of theFaith and of sorrow and of love. "

"My love, what do you mean?"

Suddenly she made a swift movement towards him and took him by thelapels. He could see her face close beneath his, yet it was in shadowagain, and he could make out of it no more than the shadows of mouth andeyes. 

"Robin, " she said, "I cannot tell you unless God tells you Himself. I amtold that I am too scrupulous sometimes. .. . I do not know what I think, nor what is right, nor what are fancies. .. . But . .. But I know that Ilove you with all my heart . .. And . .. And that I cannot bear--"

Then her face was on his breast in a passion of weeping, and his armswere round her, and his lips on her hair. 

IV

Dick found his master a poor travelling companion as they rode home. Hemade a few respectful remarks as to the sport of the day, but he wasanswered by a wandering eye and a complete lack of enthusiasm. Mr. Robinrode loosely and heavily. Three or four times his mare stumbled (and nowonder, after all that she had gone through), and he jerked hersavagely. 

Then Dick tried another tack and began to speak of the company, but withno greater success. He discoursed on the riding of Mrs. Fenton, and theperegrine of Mr. Thomas, who had distinguished herself that day, and hewas met by a lack-lustre eye once more. 

Finally he began to speak of the religious gossip of thecountryside--how it was said that another priest, a Mr. Nelson, had beentaken, in London, as Mr. Maine had been in Cornwall; that, it was saidagain, priests would have to look to their lives in future, and not onlyto their liberty; how the priest, Mr. Simpson, was said to be a nativeof Yorkshire, and how he was ridden northwards again, still with Mr. Ludlam. And here he met with a little more encouragement. Mr. Robinasked where was Mr. Simpson gone to, and Dick told him he did not know, but that he would be back again by Easter, it was thought, or, if not, another priest would be in the district. Then he began to gossip of Mr. Ludlam; how a man had told him that his cousin's wife thought that Mr. Ludlam was to go abroad to be made priest himself, and that perhaps Mr. Garlick would go too. 

"That is the kind of priest we want, sir, " said Dick. 

"Eh?"

"That is the kind of priest we want, sir, " repeated Dick solemnly. "Weshould do better with natives than foreigners. We want priests who knowthe county and the ways of the people--and men too, I think, sir, whocan ride and know something of sport, and can talk of it. I told Mr. Simpson, sir, of the sport we were to have to-day, and he seemed to carenothing about it!"

Robin sighed aloud. 

"I suppose so, " he said. 

"Mr. John looked well, sir, " pursued Dick, and proceeded to speak atlength of the FitzHerbert troubles, and the iniquities of the Queen'sGrace. He was such a man as was to be found throughout all Englandeverywhere at this time--a man whose religion was a part of hispolitics, and none the less genuine for that. He was a shrewd man in hisway, with the simplicity which belongs to such shrewdness; he dislikedthe new ways which he experienced chiefly in the towns, and put themdown, not wholly without justice, to the change of which religion formedan integral part; he hated the beggars and would gladly have gone to seeone flogged; and he disliked the ministers and their sermons and their"prophesyings" with all the healthy ardour of prejudice. Once in theyear did Dick approach the sacraments, and a great business he made ofit, being unusually morose before them and almost indecently boisterousafter them. He was feudal to the very heart of him; and it was hisfeudality that made him faithful to his religion as well as to hismasters, for either of which he would resolutely have died. And what inthe world he would do when he discovered, at Easter, that the objects ofhis fidelity were to take opposite courses, Robin could not conceive. 

As they rode in at last, Robin, who had fallen silent again after Dick'slast piece of respectful vehemence, suddenly beat his own leg with hiswhip and uttered an inaudible word. It seemed to Dick that the youngmaster had perceived clearly that which plainly had been worrying himall the way home, and that he did not like it. 

CHAPTER V

I

Mr. Manners sat in his parlour ten days after the beginning of Lent, full of his Sunday dinner and of perplexing thoughts all at once. He hadeaten well and heartily after his week of spare diet, and then, while inhigh humour with all the world, first his wife and then his daughter hadlaid before him such revelations that all the pleasure of digestion wasgone. It was but three minutes ago that Marjorie had fled from him in atorrent of tears, for which he could not see himself responsible, sincehe had done nothing but make the exclamations and comments that shouldbe expected of a father in such a case. 

The following were the points for his reflection--to begin with thosethat touched him less closely. 

First that his friend Mr. Audrey, whom he had always looked upon withreverence and a kind of terror because of his hotness in matters ofpolitics and religion, had capitulated to the enemy and was to go tochurch at Easter. Mr. Manners himself had something of timidity in hisnature: he was conservative certainly, and practised, when he couldwithout bringing himself into open trouble, the old religion in which hehad been brought up. He, like the younger generation, had been educatedat Derby Grammar School, and in his youth had sat with his parents inthe nave of the old Cluniac church of St. James to hear mass. He hadthen entered his father's office in Derby, about the time that theReligious Houses had fallen, and had transferred the scene of hisworship to St. Peter's. At Queen Mary's accession, he had stood, withmild but genuine enthusiasm, in his lawyer's gown, in the train of thesheriff who proclaimed her in Derby market-place; and stood in thecrowd, with corresponding dismay, six years later to shout for QueenElizabeth. Since that date, for the first eleven years he had gone, asdid other Catholics, to his parish church secretly, thankful that therewas no doubt as to the priesthood of his parson, to hear the Englishprayers; and then, to do him justice, though he heard with somethingresembling consternation the decision from Rome that compromise mustcease and that, henceforth, all true Catholics must withdraw themselvesfrom the national worship, he had obeyed without even a serious momentof consideration. He had always feared that it might be so, understanding that delay in the decision was only caused by the hopethat even now the breach might not be final or complete; and so wasbetter prepared for the blow when it came. Since that time he had heardmass when he could, and occasionally even harboured priests, urgedthereto by his wife and daughter; and, for the rest, still went intoDerby for three or four days a week to carry on his lawyer's business, with Mr. Biddell his partner, and had the reputation of a sound andcareful man without bigotry or passion. 

It was, then, a shock to his love of peace and serenity, to hear thatyet another Catholic house had fallen, and that Mr. Audrey, one of hisclients, could no longer be reckoned as one of his co-religionists. 

The next point for his reflection was that Robin was refusing to followhis father's example; the third, that somebody must harbour the boy overEaster, and that, in his daughter's violently expressed opinion, andwith his wife's consent, he, Thomas Manners, was the proper person to doit. Last, that it was plain that there was something between hisdaughter and this boy, though what that was he had been unable tounderstand. Marjorie had flown suddenly from the room just as he wasbeginning to put his questions. 

It is no wonder, then, that his peace of mind was gone. Not only werelarge principles once more threatened--considerations of religion andloyalty, but also those small and intimate principles which, so far morethan great ones, agitate the mind of the individual. He did not wish tolose a client; yet neither did he wish to be unfriendly to a youngconfessor for the faith. Still less did he wish to lose his daughter, above all to a young man whose prospects seemed to be vanishing. Hewondered whether it would be prudent to consult Mr. Biddell on thepoint. .. . 

 * * * * *

He was a small and precise man in his body and face, as well as in hisdress; his costume was, of course, of black; but he went so far as towear black buckles, too, on his shoes, and a black hilt on his sword. His face was little and anxious; his eyebrows were perpetually arched, as if in appeal, and he was accustomed, when in deep thought, to movehis lips as if in a motion of tasting. So, then, he sat before his fireto-day after dinner, his elbow on the table where his few books lay, hisfeet crossed before him, his cup of drink untouched at his side; andmeantime he tasted continually with his lips, as if better to appreciatethe values and significances of the points for his consideration. 

 * * * * *

It would be about half an hour later that the door opened once more andMarjorie came in again. 

She was in her fine dress to-day--fine, that is, according to theexigencies of the time and place, though sober enough if for atown-house--in a good blue silk, rather dark, with a little ruff, withlace ruffles at her wrists, and a quilted petticoat, and silverbuckles. For she was a gentleman's daughter, quite clearly, and not ayeoman's, and she must dress to her station. Her face was very pale andquite steady. She stood opposite her father. 

"Father, " she said, "I am very sorry for having behaved like a goose. You were quite right to ask those questions, and I have come back toanswer them. "

He had ceased tasting as she came in. He looked at her timidly and yetwith an attempt at severity. He knew what was due from him as a father. But for the present he had forgotten what questions they were; his mindhad been circling so wildly. 

"You are right to come back, " he said, "you should not have left me so. "

"I am very sorry, " she said again. 

"Well, then--you tell me that Mr. Robin has nowhere else to go. "

She flushed a little. 

"He has ten places to go to. He has plenty of friends. But none have theright that we have. He is a neighbour; it was to me, first of all, thathe told the trouble. "

Then he remembered. 

"Sit down, " he said. "I must understand much better first. I do notunderstand why he came to you first. Why not, if he must come to thishouse at all--why not to me? I like the lad; he knows that well enough. "

He spoke with an admirable dignity, and began to feel more happy inconsequence. 

She had sat down as he told her, on the other side of the table; but hecould not see her face. 

"It would have been better if he had, perhaps, " she said. "But--"

"Yes? What 'But' is that?"

Then she faced him, and her eyes were swimming. 

"Father, he told me first because he loves me, and because I love him. "

He sat up. This was speaking outright what she had only hinted atbefore. She must have been gathering her resolution to say this, whileshe had been gone. Perhaps she had been with her mother. In that case hemust be cautious. .. . 

"You mean--"

"I mean just what I say. We love one another, and I am willing to be hiswife if he desires it--and with your permission. But--"

He waited for her to go on. 

"Another 'But'!" he said presently, though with increasing mildness. 

"I do not think he will desire it after a while. And . .. And I do notknow what I wish. I am torn in two. "

"But you are willing?"

"I pray for it every night, " she cried piteously. "And every morning Ipray that it may not be so. "

She was staring at him as if in agony, utterly unlike what he had lookedfor in her. He was completely bewildered. 

"I do not understand one word--"

Then she threw herself at his knees and seized his hands; her face wasall torn with pain. 

"And I cannot explain one word. .. . Father, I am in misery. You must prayfor me and have patience with me. .. . I must wait . .. I must wait and seewhat God wishes. "

"Now, now. .. . "

"Father, you will trust me, will you not?"

"Listen to me. You must tell me thus. Do you love this boy?"

"Yes, yes. "

"And you have told him so? He asked you, I mean?"

"Yes. "

He put her hands firmly from his knee. 

"Then you must marry him, if matters can be arranged. It is what Ishould wish. But I do not know--"

"Father, you do not understand--you do not understand. I tell you I amwilling enough, if he wishes it . .. If he wishes it. "

Again she seized his hands and held them. And again bewilderment camedown on him like a cloud. 

"Father! you must trust me. I am willing to do everything that I ought. "(She was speaking firmly and confidently now. ) "If he wishes to marryme, I will marry him. I love him dearly. .. . But you must say nothing tohim, not one word. My mother agrees with this. She would have told youherself; but I said that I would--that I must be brave. .. . I must learnto be brave. .. . I can tell you no more. "

He lifted her hands and stood up. 

"I see that I understand nothing that you say after all, " he said with afine fatherly dignity. "I must talk with your mother. "

II

He found his wife half an hour later in the ladies' parlour, which heentered with an air as of nothing to say. With the same air ofdisengagement he made sure that Marjorie was nowhere in the room, andpresently sat down. 

Mrs. Manners was well past her prime. She was over forty years old andlooked over fifty, though she retained the air of distinction whichMarjorie had derived from her; but her looks belied her, and she had notone tithe of the subtlety and keenness of her daughter. She was, infact, more suited to be wife to her husband than mother to her daughter. 

"You have come about the maid, " she said instantly, with disconcertingpenetration and frankness. "Well, I know no more than you. She will tellme nothing but what she has told you. She has some fiddle-faddle in herhead, as maids will, but she will have her way with us, I suppose. "

She drew her needle through the piece of embroidery which she permittedto herself for an hour on Sundays, knotted the thread and bit it off. Then she regarded her husband. 

"I. .. . I will have no fiddle-faddle in such a matter, " he saidcourageously. "Maids did not rule their parents when I was a boy; theyobeyed them or were beaten. "

His wife laughed shortly; and began to thread her needle again. 

He began to explain. The match was in all respects suitable. Certainlythere were difficulties, springing from the very startling events atMatstead, and it well might be that a man who would do as Mr. Audrey haddone (or, rather, proposed to do) might show obstinacy in otherdirections too. Therefore there was no hurry; the two were still veryyoung, and it certainly would be wiser to wait for any formal betrothaluntil Robin's future disclosed itself. But no action of Mr. Audrey'sneed delay the betrothal indefinitely; if need were, he, Mr. Manners, would make proper settlements. Marjorie was an only daughter; in fact, she was in some sort an heiress. The Manor would be sufficient for themboth. As to any other difficulties--any of the maidenly fiddle-faddle ofwhich his wife had spoken--this should not stand in the way for aninstant. 

His wife laughed again in the same exclamatory manner, when he had doneand sat stroking his knees. 

"Why, you understand nothing about it, Mr. Manners, " she said, "Did themaid not tell you she would marry him, if he wished it? She told me so. "

"Then what is the matter?" he asked. 

"I know no more than you. "

"Does he not wish it?"

"She says so. "

"Then--"

"Yes, that is what I say. And yet that says nothing. There is somethingmore. "

"Ask her. "

"I have asked her. She bids me wait, as she bids you. It is no good, Mr. Manners. We must wait the maid's time. "

He sat, breathing audibly through his nose. 

 * * * * *

These two were devoted to their daughter in a manner hardly to bedescribed. She was the only one left to them; for the others, of whomtwo had been boys, had died in infancy or childhood; and, in the event, Marjorie had absorbed the love due to them all. She was a strain higherthan themselves, thought her parents, and so pride in her was added tolove. The mother had made incredible sacrifices, first to have hereducated by a couple of old nuns who still survived in Derby, and thento bring her out suitably at Babington House last year. The father hadcordially approved, and joined in the sacrifices, which included anexpenditure which he would not have thought conceivable. The result was, of course, that Marjorie, under cover of a very real dutifulness, ruledboth her parents completely; her mother acknowledged the dominion, atleast, to herself and her husband; her father pretended that he didnot; and on this occasion rose, perhaps, nearer to repudiating it thanever in his life. It seemed to him unbearable to be bidden by hisdaughter, though with the utmost courtesy and affection, to mind his ownbusiness. 

So he sat and breathed audibly through his nose, and meditatedrebellion. 

 * * * * *

"And is the lad to come here for Easter?" he asked at last. 

"I suppose so. "

"And for how long?"

"So long as the maid appoints. "

He breathed louder than ever. 

"And, Mr. Manners, " continued his wife emphatically, "no word must besaid to him on the matter. The maid is very plain as to that. .. . Oh! wemust let her have her way. "

"Where is she gone?"

She nodded with her head to the window. He went to it and looked out. 

 * * * * *

It was the little walled garden on which he looked, in which, if he hadbut known it, the lad whom he liked had kissed the maid whom he loved;and there walked the maid, at this moment with her back to him, going upthe central path that was bordered with box. The February sun shone onher as she went, on her hooded head, her dark cloak and her blue dressbeneath. He watched her go up, and drew back a little as she turned, sothat she might not see him watching; and as she came down again he sawthat she held a string of beads in her fingers and was making herdevotions. She was a good girl. .. . That, at least, was a satisfaction. 

Then he turned from the window again. 

"Well?" said his wife. 

"I suppose it must be as she says. "

III

It was an hour before sunset when Marjorie came out again into thewalled garden that had become for her now a kind of sanctuary, and inher hand she carried a letter, sealed and inscribed. On the outside thefollowing words were written:

"To Mr. Robin Audrey. At Matstead. 

"Haste, haste, haste. "

Within, the sheet was covered from top to bottom with the neatconvent-hand she had learnt from the nuns. The most of it does notconcern us. It began with such words as you would expect from a maid toher lover; it continued to inform him that her parents were willing, and, indeed, desirous, that he should come to them for Easter, and thather father would write a formal letter later to invite him; it was to bewritten from Derby, (this conspirator informed the other), that it mightcause less comment when Mr. Audrey saw it, and was to be expressed interms that would satisfy him. Finally, it closed as it had begun, andwas subscribed by his "loving friend, M. M. " One paragraph, however, isworth attention. 

"I have told my father and mother, that we love one another, my Robin;and that you have asked me to marry you, and that I have consentedshould you wish to do so when the time comes. They have consented mostwillingly; and so Jesu have you in His keeping, and guide your mindaright. "

It was this paragraph that had cost her half of the hour occupied inwriting; for it must be expressed just so and no otherwise; and itswording had cost her agony lest on the one side she should tell him toomuch, and, on the other, too little. And her agony was not yet over; forshe had to face its sending, and the thought of all that it might costher. She was to give it to one of the men who was to leave early forDerby next morning and was to deliver it at Matstead on the road; so shebrought it out now to her sanctuary to spread it, like the old King ofIsrael, before the Lord. .. . 

 * * * * *

There was a promise of frost in the air to-night. Underfoot the moistureof the path was beginning, not yet to stiffen, but rather to withdrawitself; and there was a cold clearness in the air. Over the wall besidethe house, beyond the leafless trees which barred it like prison-bars, burned the sunset, deepening and glowing redder every instant. Yet shefelt nothing of the cold, for a fire was within her as she went again upand down the path on which her father had watched her walk--a fire ofwhich as yet she could not discern the fuel. The love of Robin wasthere--that she knew; and the love of Christ was there--so she thought;and yet where the divine and the human passion mingled, she could nottell; nor whether, indeed, for certain, it were the love of Christ atall, and not a vain imagination of her own as to how Christ, in thiscase, would be loved. Only she knew that across her love for Robin ashadow had fallen; she could scarcely tell when it had first come toher, and whence. Yet it had so come; it had deepened rapidly andstrongly during the mass that Mr. Simpson had said, and, behold! in itsvery darkness there was light. And so it had continued till confusionhad fallen on her which none but Robin could dissolve. It must be hisword finally that must give her the answer to her doubts; and she mustmake it easy for him to give it. He must know, that is, that she lovedhim more passionately than ever, that her heart would break if she hadnot her desire; and yet that she would not hold him back if a love thatwas greater than hers could be for him or his for her, called him toanother wedding than that of which either had yet spoken. A broken heartand God's will done would be better than that God's will should beavoided and her own satisfied. 

 * * * * *

It was this kind of considerations, therefore, that sent her swiftly toand fro, up and down the path under the darkening sky--if they can becalled considerations which beat on the mind like a clamour of shouting;and, as she went, she strove to offer all to God: she entreated Him todo His will, yet not to break her heart; to break her heart, yet notRobin's; to break both her heart and Robin's, if that Will could nototherwise be served. 

Her lips moved now and again as she went; but her eyes were downcast andher face untroubled. .. . 

 * * * * *

As the bell in the court rang for supper she went to the door and lookedthrough. The man was just saddling up in the stable-door opposite. 

"Jack, " she called, "here is the letter. Take if safely. "

Then she went in to supper. 

CHAPTER VI

I

It was a great day and a solemn when the squire of Matstead went toProtestant communion for the first time. It was Easter Day, too, butthis was less in the consideration of the village. There was first theminister, Mr. Barton, in a condition of excited geniality from an earlyhour. He was observed soon after it was light, by an old man who was upbetimes, hurrying up the village street in his minister's cassock andgown, presumably on his way to see that all preparations were completefor the solemnity. His wife was seen to follow him a few minutes later. 

By eight o'clock the inhabitants of the village were assembled at pointsof vantage; some openly at their doors; others at the windows; andgroups from the more distant farms, decked suitably, stood at allcorners; to be greeted presently by their minister hurrying back oncemore from the church to bring the communion vessels and the bread andwine. The four or five soldiers of the village--a couple of billmen andpikemen and a real gunner--stood apart in an official group, but did notsalute him. He did not speak of that which was in the minds of all, buthe waved a hand to this man, bid a happy Easter to another, anddisappeared within his lodgings leaving a wake of excitement behind him. 

By a quarter before nine the three bells had begun to jangle from thetower; and the crowd had increased largely, when Mr. Barton once morepassed to the church in the spring sunshine, followed by the more devoutwho wished to pray, and the more timid who feared a disturbance. Forsentiments were not wholly on the squire's side. There was first anumber of Catholics, openly confessed or at least secretly Catholic, though these were not in full force since most were gone to Padleybefore dawn; and there was next a certain sentiment abroad, even amongstthose who conformed, in favour of tradition. That the squire of Matsteadshould be a Catholic was at least as fundamental an article of faith asthat the minister should be a Protestant. There was little or nohot-gospel here; men still shook their heads sympathetically over theold days and the old faith, which indeed had ceased to be the faith ofall scarcely twenty years ago; and it appeared to the most of them thatthe proper faith of the Quality, since they had before their eyes suchfamilies as the Babingtons, the Fentons, and the FitzHerberts, was thatto which their own squire was about to say good-bye. It was known, too, publicly by now, that Mr. Robin was gone away for Easter, since he wouldnot follow his father. So the crowd waited; the dogs sunned themselves;and the gunner sat on a wall. 

 * * * * *

The bells ceased at nine o'clock, and upon the moment, a group cameround the churchyard wall, down from the field-path and the stile thatled to the manor. 

First, walking alone, came the squire, swiftly and steadily. His facewas flushed a little, but set and determined. He was in his fineclothes, ruff and all; his rapier was looped at his side, and he carrieda stick. Behind him came three or four farm servants; then a yeoman andhis wife; and last, at a little distance, three or four onlookers. 

There was dead silence as he came; the hum of talk died at the corners;the bells' clamour had even now ceased. It seemed as if each man waitedfor his neighbour to speak. There was only the sound of the squire'sbrisk footsteps on the few yards of cobbles that paved the walk up tothe lych-gate. At the door of the church, seen beyond him, was a crowdof faces. 

Then a man called something aloud from fifty yards away; but there wasno voice to echo him. The folk just watched their lord go by, staring onhim as on some strange sight, forgetting even to salute him. And so insilence he passed on. 

II

Within, the church murmured with low talking. Already two-thirds of itwas full, and all faces turned and re-turned to the door at everyfootstep or sound. As the bells ceased a sigh went up, as if a giantdrew breath; then, once again, the murmuring began. 

The church was as most were in those days. It was but a little place, yet it had had in old days great treasures of beauty. There had been, until some ten or twelve years ago, a carved screen that ran across thechancel arch, with the Rood upon it, and St. Mary and St. John on thisside and that. The high-altar, it was remembered, had been of stonethroughout, surrounded with curtains on the three sides, hanging betweenposts that had each a carven angel, all gilt. Now all was gone, excepting only the painted windows (since glass was costly). The chancelwas as bare as a barn; beneath the whitewash, high over the place wherethe old canopy had hung, pale colours still glimmered through where, twelve years ago, Christ had sat crowning His Mother. The altar wasgone; its holy slab served now as the pavement within the west door, where the superstitious took pains to step clear of it. The screen wasgone; part lay beneath the tower; part had been burned; Christ's Crossheld up the roof of the shed where the minister kept his horse; thethree figures had been carted off to Derby to help swell the Protestantbonfire. The projecting stoup to the right of the main door had beenbroken half off. .. . In place of these glories there stood now, in thebody of the church, before the chancel-steps, a great table, such as therubrics of the new Prayer-Book required, spread with a white cloth, uponwhich now rested two tall pewter flagons of wine, a flat pewter plate asgreat as a small dish, and two silver communion-cups--all new. And toone side of this, in a new wainscoted desk, waited worthy Mr. Barton forthe coming of his squire--a happy man that day; his face beamed in thespring sunlight; he had on his silk gown, and he eyed, openly, the doorthrough which his new patron was to come. 

 * * * * *

Then, without sound or warning, except for the footsteps on thepaving-stones and the sudden darkening of the sunshine on the floor, there came the figure for which all looked. As he entered he lifted hishand to his head, but dropped it again; and passed on, sturdy, and (youwould have said) honest and resolute too, to his seat behind thereading-desk. He was met by silence; he was escorted by silence; and insilence he sat down. 

Then the waiting crowd surged in, poured this way and that, and flowedinto the benches. And Mr. Barton's voice was raised in holy exhortation. 

"At what time soever a sinner doth repent him of his sin from the bottomof his heart, I will put all his wickedness out of remembrance, with theLord. "

III

Those who could best observe (for the tale was handed on with thecareful accuracy of those who cannot read or write) professed themselvesamazed at the assured ease of the squire. No sound came from the seathalf-hidden behind the reading-desk where he sat alone; and, during theprayers when he stood or kneeled, he moved as if he understood wellenough what he was at. A great bound Prayer-Book, it was known, restedbefore him on the book-board, and he was observed to turn the pages morethan once. 

It was, indeed, a heavy task that Mr. Barton had to do. For first therewas the morning prayer, with its psalms, its lessons and its prayers;next the Litany, and last the communion, in the course of which wasdelivered one of the homilies set forth by authority, especiallydesigned for the support of those who were no preachers--preceded andfollowed by a psalm. But all was easy to-day to a man who had such causefor exultation; his voice boomed heartily out; his face radiated hispleasure; and he delivered his homily when the time came, with excellentemphasis and power--all from the reading-desk, except the communion. 

Yet it is to be doubted whether the attention of those that heard himwas where their pastor would have desired it to be; since even to thesecountry-folk the drama of the whole was evident. There, seen full whenhe sat down, and in part when he kneeled and stood, was the man whohitherto had stood to them for the old order, the old faith, the oldtradition--the man whose horse's footsteps had been heard, times andagain, before dawn, in the village street, bearing him to the mystery ofthe mass; through whose gate strangers had ridden, perhaps three or fourtimes in the year, to find harbourage--strangers dressed indeed as plaingentlemen or yeomen, yet known, every one of them, to be under herGrace's ban, and to ride in peril of liberty if not of life. 

Yet here he sat--a man feared and even loved by some--the first of hisline to yield to circumstance, and to make peace with his times. Not aman of all who looked on him believed him certainly to be that which hisactions professed him to be; some doubted, especially those whothemselves inclined to the old ways or secretly followed them; and thehearts of these grew sick as they watched. 

But the crown and climax was yet to come. 

 * * * * *

The minister finished at last the homily--it was one which inveighedmore than once against the popish superstitions; and he had chosen itfor that reason, to clench the bargain, so to say--all in due order; forhe was a careful man and observed his instructions, unlike some of hisbrethren who did as they pleased; and came back again to the long northside of the linen-covered table to finish the service. 

He had no man to help him; so he was forced to do it all for himself; sohe went forward gallantly, first reading a set of Scripture sentenceswhile the officers collected first for the poor-box, and then, as it wasone of the offering-days, collected again the dues for the curate. Itwas largely upon these, in such poor parishes as was this, that theminister depended and his wife. 

Then he went on to pray for the whole estate of Christ's Church militanthere on earth, especially for God's "servant, Elizabeth our Queen, thatunder her we may be godly and quietly governed"; then came theexhortation, urging any who might think himself to be "a blasphemer ofGod, an hinderer or slanderer of His Word . .. Or to be in malice orenvy, " to bewail his sins, and "not to come to this holy table, lestafter the taking of that holy sacrament, the devil enter into him, as heentered into Judas, and fill him full of all iniquities. "

So forward with the rest. He read the Comfortable Words; the Englishequivalent for Sursum Corda with the Easter Preface; then anotherprayer; and finally rehearsed the story of the Institution of the MostHoly Sacrament, though without any blessing of the bread and wine, atleast by any action, since none such was ordered in the new Prayer-Book. Then he immediately received the bread and wine himself, and stood upagain, holding the silver plate in his hand for an instant, beforeproceeding to the squire's seat to give him the communion. Meantime, sogreat was the expectation and interest that it was not until theminister had moved from the table that the first communicants began tocome up to the two white-hung benches, left empty till now, next to thetable. 

 * * * * *

Then those who still watched, and who spread the tale about afterwards, saw that the squire did not move from his seat to kneel down. He had putoff his hat again after the homily, and had so sat ever since; and nowthat the minister came to him, still there he sat. 

Now such a manner of receiving was not unknown; yet it was the sign of aPuritan; and, so far from the folk expecting such behaviour in theirsquire, they had looked rather for Popish gestures, knockings on thebreast, signs of the cross. 

For a moment the minister stood before the seat, as if doubtful what todo. He held the plate in his left hand and a fragment of bread in hisfingers. Then, as he began the words he had to say, one thing at leastthe people saw, and that was that a great flush dyed the old man's face, though he sat quiet. Then, as the minister held out the bread, thesquire seemed to recover himself; he put out his fingers quickly, tookthe bread sharply and put it into his mouth; and so sat again, until theminister brought the cup; and this, too, he drank of quickly, and gaveit back. 

Then, as the communicants, one by one, took the bread and wine and wentback to their seats, man after man glanced up at the squire. 

But the squire sat there, motionless and upright, like a figure cut ofstone. 

IV

The court of the manor seemed deserted half an hour before dinner-time. There was a Sabbath stillness in the air to-day, sweetened, as it were, by the bubbling of bird-music in the pleasaunce behind the hall and thehigh woods beyond. On the strips of rough turf before the gate andwithin it bloomed the spring flowers, white and blue. A hound laystretched in the sunshine on the hall steps; twitching his ears to keepoff a persistent fly. You would have sworn that his was the onlyintelligence in the place. Yet at the sound of the iron latch of thegate and the squire's footsteps on the stones, the place, so to say, became alive, though in a furtive and secret manner. Over the half doorof the stable entrance on the left two faces appeared--one, which wasDick's, sullen and angry, the other, that of a stable-boy, inquiring andfrankly interested. This second vanished again as the squire cameforward. A figure of a kitchen-boy, in a white apron, showed in the darkdoorway that led to the kitchen and hall, and disappeared againinstantly. From two or three upper windows faces peeped and remainedfascinated. Only the old hound remained still, twitching his ears. 

All this--though there was nothing to be seen but the familiar personageof the place, in his hat and cloak and sword, walking through his owncourt on his way to dinner, as he had walked a thousand times before. And yet so great was the significance of his coming to-day, that thevery gate behind him was pushed open by sightseers, who had followed ata safe distance up the path from the church; half a dozen stood therestaring, and behind them, at intervals, a score more, spread out ingroups, all the way down to the porter's lodge. 

The most remarkable feature of all was the silence. Not a voice therespoke, even in a whisper. The maids at the windows above, Dick gloweringover the half door, the little group which, far back in the kitchenentrance, peeped and rustled, the men at the gate behind, even the boysin the path--all these held their tongues for interest and a kind offear. Drama was in the air--the tragedy of seeing the squire come backfrom church for the first time, bearing himself as he always did, resolute and sturdy, yet changed in his significance after a fashion ofwhich none of these simple hearts had ever dreamed. 

So, again in silence, he went up the court, knowing that eyes were uponhim, yet showing no sign that he knew it; he went up the steps with thesame assured air, and disappeared into the hall. 

 * * * * *

Then the spell broke up and the bustle began, for it was only half anhour to dinner and guests were coming. First Dick came out, slashing tothe door behind him, and strode out to the gate. He was still in hisboots, for he had ridden to Padley and back since early morning with acouple of the maids and the stable-boy. He went to the gate of thecourt, the group dissolving as he came, and shut it in their faces. Anoise of talking came out of the kitchen windows and the clash of asaucepan: the maids' heads vanished from the upper windows. 

Even as Dick shut the gate he heard the sound of horses' hoofs down bythe porter's lodge. The justices were coming--the two whose names he hadheard with amazement last week, as the last corroboration of theincredible rumour of his master's defection. For these were a couple ofmagistrates--harmless men, indeed, as regarded their hostility to theold Faith--yet Protestants who had sat more than once on the bench inDerby to hear cases of recusancy. Old Mrs. Marpleden had told him theywere to come, and that provision must be made for their horses--Mrs. Marpleden, the ancient housekeeper of the manor, who had gone to schoolfor a while with the Benedictine nuns of Derby in King Henry's days. Shehad shaken her head and eyed him, and then had suffered three or fourtears to fall down her old cheeks. 

Well, they were coming, so Dick must open the gate again, and pull thebell for the servants; and this he did, and waited, hat in hand. 

Up the little straight road they came, with a servant or two behindthem--the two harmless gentlemen, chattering as they rode; and Dickloathed them in his heart. 

"The squire is within?"

"Yes, sir. "

They dismounted, and Dick held their stirrups. 

"He has been to church--eh?"

Dick made no answer. He feigned to be busy with one of the saddles. 

The magistrate glanced at him sharply. 

V

It was a strange dinner that day. 

Outwardly, again, all was as usual--as it might have been on any otherSunday in spring. The three gentlemen sat at the high table, facing downthe hall; and, since there was no reading, and since it was a festival, there was no lack of conversation. The servants came in as usual withthe dishes--there was roast lamb to-day, according to old usage, amongthe rest; and three or four wines. A little fire burned against thereredos, for cheerfulness rather than warmth, and the spring sunshineflowed in through the clear-glass windows, bright and genial. 

Yet the difference was profound. Certainly there was no talk, overheardat least by the servants, which might not have been on any Sunday forthe last twenty years: the congratulations and good wishes, or whateverthey were, must have been spoken between the three in the parlour beforedinner; and they spoke now of harmless usual things--news of thecountryside and tales from Derby; gossip of affairs of State; of herGrace, who, in a manner unthinkable, even by now dominated theimagination of England. None of these three had ever seen her; thesquire had been to London but once in his life, his two guests never. Yet they talked of her, of her state-craft, of her romanticism; theytold little tales, one to the other, as if she lived in the county town. All this, then, was harmless enough. Religion was not mentioned in thehearing of the servants, neither the old nor the new; they talked, allthree of them, and the squire loudest of all, though with pauses ofpregnant silence, of such things as children might have heard withoutdismay. 

Yet to the servants who came and went, it was as if their master wereanother man altogether, and his hall some unknown place. There was noblessing of himself before meat; he said something, indeed, before hesat down, but it was unintelligible, and he made no movement with hishand. But it was deeper than this . .. And his men who had served him forten or fifteen years looked on him as upon a stranger or a changeling. 

CHAPTER VII

I

The same Easter Day at Padley was another matter altogether. 

As early as five o'clock in the morning the house was astir: lightsglimmered in upper rooms; footsteps passed along corridors and acrossthe court; parties began to arrive. All was done without ostentation, yet without concealment, for Padley was a solitary place, and had nofear, at this time, of a sudden descent of the authorities. For form'ssake--scarcely for more--a man kept watch over the valley road, andsignalled by the flashing of a lamp twice every party with which he wasacquainted, and there were no others than these to signal. A second manwaited by the gate into the court to admit them. They rode and walked infrom all round--great gentlemen, such as the North Lees family, camewith a small retinue; a few came alone; yeomen and farm servants, withtheir women-folk, from the Hathersage valley, came for the most part onfoot. Altogether perhaps a hundred and twenty persons were within PadleyManor--and the gate secured--by six o'clock. 

Meanwhile, within, the priest had been busy since half-past four withthe hearing of confessions. He sat in the chapel beside the undeckedaltar, and they came to him one by one. The household and a few of thenearer neighbours had done their duty in this matter the day before, anda good number had already made their Easter duties earlier in Lent; soby six o'clock all was finished. 

Then began the bustle. 

A group of ladies, FitzHerberts and Fentons, entered, so soon as thepriest gave the signal by tapping on the parlour wall, bearing allthings necessary for the altar; and it was astonishing what fine thingsthese were; so that by the time that the priest was ready to vest, theplace was transformed. Stuffs and embroideries hung upon the wall aboutthe altar, making it seem, indeed, a sanctuary; two tall silvercandlesticks, used for no other purpose, stood upon the linen cloths, under which rested the slate altar-stone, taken, with the sacred vesselsand the vestments, from one of the privy hiding-holes, with whose secretnot a living being without the house, and not more than two or threewithin, was acquainted. It was rumored that half a dozen such places hadbeen contrived within the precincts, two of which were great enough tohold two or three men at a pinch. 

 * * * * *

Soon after six o'clock, then, the altar was ready and the priest stoodvested. He retired a pace from the altar, signed himself with the cross, and with Mr. John FitzHerbert and his son Thomas on either side of him, began the preparation. .. . 

It was a strange and an inspiriting sight that the young priest (for itwas Mr. Simpson who was saying the mass) looked upon as he turned roundafter the gospel to make his little sermon. From end to end the tinychapel was full, packed so that few could kneel and none sit down. Thetwo doors were open, and here two faces peered in; and behind, rankafter rank down the steps and along the little passage, the folk stoodor knelt, out of sight of both priest and altar, and almost out ofsound. The sanctuary was full of children--whose round-eyed, solemnfaces looked up at him--children who knew little or nothing of what waspassing, except that they were there to worship God, but who, for allthat, received impressions and associations that could never thereafterwholly leave them. The chapel was still completely dark, for the faintlight of dawn was excluded by the heavy hangings over the windows; andthere was but the light of the two tapers to show the people to oneanother and the priest to them all. 

It was an inspiriting sight to him then--and one which well rewarded himfor his labours, since there was not a class from gentlemen to labourerswho was not represented there. The FitzHerberts, the Babingtons, theFentons--these, with their servants and guests, accounted for perhapshalf of the folk. From the shadow by the door peeped out the faces ofJohn Merton and his wife and son; beneath the window was the solemn faceof Mr. Manners the lawyer, with his daughter beside him, Robin Audreybeside her, and Dick his servant behind him. Surely, thought the youngpriest, the Faith could not be in its final decay, with such a gatheringas this. 

His little sermon was plain enough for the most foolish there. He spokeof Christ's Resurrection; of how death had no power to hold Him, norpains nor prison to detain Him; and he spoke, too, of that mystical lifeof His which He yet lived in His body, which was the Church; of howDeath, too, stretched forth his hands against Him there, and yet had nomore force to hold Him than in His natural life lived on earth nearsixteen hundred years ago; how a Resurrection awaited Him here inEngland as in Jerusalem, if His friends would be constant andcourageous, not faithless, but believing. 

"Even here, " he said, "in this upper chamber, where we are gathered forfear of the Jews, comes Jesus and stands in the midst, the doors beingshut. Upon this altar He will be presently, the Lamb slain yet the Lambvictorious, to give us all that peace which the world can neither givenor take away. "

And he added a few words of exhortation and encouragement, bidding themfear nothing whatever might come upon them in the future; to hold fastto the faith once delivered to the saints, and so to attain the heavenlycrown. He was not eloquent, for he was but a young man newly come fromcollege, with no great gifts. Yet not a soul there looked upon him, onhis innocent, wondering eyes and his quivering lips, but was moved bywhat he saw and heard. 

The priest signed himself with the cross, and turned again to continuethe mass. 

II

"You tell me, then, " said the girl quietly, "that all is as it was withyou? God has told you nothing?"

Robin was silent. 

 * * * * *

Mass had been done an hour or more, and for the most part the companywas dispersed again, after refreshment spread in the hall, except forthose who were to stay to dinner, and these two had slipped away at lastto talk together in the woods; for the court was still filled withservants coming and going, and the parlours occupied. In one the ladieswere still busy with the altar furniture; in the other the priest sat totalk in private with those who were come from a distance; and as for thehall--this, too, was in the hands of the servants, since not less thanthirty gentle folk were to dine there that day. 

Robin had come to Booth's Edge at the beginning of Passion week, and hadbeen there ever since. He had refrained, at Marjorie's entreaty, fromspeaking of her to her parents; and they, too, ruled by their daughter, had held their tongues on the matter. Everything else, however, hadbeen discussed--the effect of the squire's apostasy, the alternativesthat presented themselves to the boy, the future behaviour of him to hisfather--all these things had been spoken of; and even the priest calledinto council during the last two or three days. Yet not much had come ofit. If the worst came to the worst, the lawyer had offered the boy aplace in his office; Anthony Babington had proposed his coming toDethick if his father turned him out; while Robin himself inclined to athird alternative--the begging of his father to give him a sum of moneyand be rid of him; after which he proposed, with youthful vagueness, toset off for London and see what he could do there. 

Marjorie, however, had seemed strangely uninterested in such proposals. She had listened with patience, bowing her head in assent to each, beginning once or twice a word of criticism, and stopping herself beforeshe had well begun. But she had looked at Robin with more than interest;and her mother had found her more than once on her knees in her ownchamber, in tears. Yet she had said nothing, except that she would speakher mind after Easter, perhaps. 

And now, it seemed, she was doing it. 

 * * * * *

"You have had no other thought?" she said again, "besides those of whichyou talked with my father?"

They were walking together through the woods, half a mile along theHathersage valley. Beneath them the ground fell steeply away, above themit rose as steeply to the right. Underfoot the new life of spring wasbourgeoning in mould and grass and undergrowth; for the heather did notcome down so far as this; and the daffodils and celandine and wildhyacinth lay in carpets of yellow and blue, infinitely sweet, beneaththe shadow of the trees and in the open sunshine. (It was at this timethat the squire of Matstead was entering the church and hearing of thepromises of the Lord to the sinner who forsook his sinful ways. )

"I have had other thoughts, " said the boy slowly, "but they are so wildand foolish that I have determined to think no more of them. "

"You are determined?"

He bowed his head. 

"You are sure, then, that they are not from God?" asked the girl, tornbetween fear and hope. He was silent; and her heart sank again. 

He looked, indeed, a bewildered boy, borne down by a weight that was tooheavy for his years. He walked with his hands behind his back, hishatless head bowed, regarding his feet and the last year's leaves onwhich he walked. A cuckoo across the valley called with the insistenceof one who will be answered. 

"My Robin, " said the girl, "the last thing I would have you do is totell me what you would not. .. . Will you not speak to the priest aboutit?"

"I have spoken to the priest. "

"Yes?"

"He tells me he does not know what to think. "

"Would you do this thing--whatever it may be--if the priest told you itwas God's will?"

There was a pause; and then:

"I do not know, " said Robin, so low she could scarcely hear him. 

She drew a deep breath to reassure herself. 

"Listen!" she said. "I must say a little of what I think; but not all. Our Lord must finish it to you, if it is according to His will. "

He glanced at her swiftly, and down again, like a frightened child. Yeteven in that glance he could see that it was all that she could do toforce herself to speak; and by that look he understood for the firsttime something of that which she was suffering. 

"You know first, " she said, "that I am promised to you. I hold thatpromise as sacred as anything on earth can be. "

Her voice shook a little. The boy bowed his head again. She went on:

"But there are some things, " she said, "more sacred than anything onearth--those things that come from heaven. Now, I wish to say this--andthen have done with it: that if such should be God's will, I would nothold you for a day. We are Catholics, you and I. .. . Your father--"

Her voice broke; and she stopped; yet without leaving go of her holdupon herself. Only she could not speak for a moment. 

Then a great fury seized on the boy. It was one of those angers that fora while poison the air and turn all things sour; yet without obscuringthe mind--an anger in which the angry one strikes first at that which heloves most, because he loves it most, knowing, too, that the words hespeaks are false. For this, for the present, was the breaking-point inthe lad. He had suffered torments in his soul, ever since the hour inwhich he had ridden into the gate of his own home after his talk in theempty chapel; he had striven to put away from him that idea for whichthe girl's words had broken an entrance into his heart. And now shewould give him no peace; she continued to press on him from without thatwhich already pained him within; so he turned on her. 

"You wish to be rid of me!" he cried fiercely. 

She looked at him with her lips parted, her eyes astonished, and herface gone white. 

"What did you say?" she said. 

His conscience pierced him like a sword. Yet he set his teeth. 

"You wish to be rid of me. You are urging me to leave you. You talk tome of God's will and God's voice, and you have no pity on me at all. Itis an excuse--a blind. "

He stood raging. The very fact that he knew every word to be false madehis energy the greater; for he could not have said it otherwise. 

"You think that!" she whispered. 

There, then, they stood, eyeing one another. A stranger, coming suddenlyupon them, would have said it was a lovers' tiff, and have laughed atit. Yet it was a deeper matter than that. 

Then there surged over the boy a wave of shame; and the truth prevailed. His fair face went scarlet; and his eyes filled with tears. He droppedon his knees in the leaves, seized her hand and kissed it. 

"Oh! you must forgive me, " he said. "But . .. But I cannot do it!"

III

It was a great occasion in the hall that Easter Day. The three tables, which, according to custom, ran along the walls, were filled to-day withguests; and a second dinner was to follow, scarcely less splendid thanthe first, for their servants as well as for those of the household. Thefloor was spread with new rushes; jugs of March beer, a full month old, as it should be, were ranged down the tables; and by every plate lay aposy of flowers. From the passage outside came the sound of music. 

The feast began with the reading of the Gospel; at the close, Mr. Johnstruck with his hand upon the table as a signal for conversation; thedoors opened; the servants came in, and a babble of talk broke out. Atthe high table the master of the house presided, with the priest on hisright, Mrs. Manners and Marjorie beyond him; on his left, Mrs. Fentonand her lord. At the other two tables Mr. Thomas presided at one and Mr. Babington at the other. 

The talk was, of course, within the bounds of discretion; though onceand again sentences were spoken which would scarcely have pleased theminister of the parish. For they were difficult times in which theylived; and it is no wonder at all if bitterness mixed itself withcharity. Here was Mr. John, for instance, come to Padley expressly forthe selling of some meadows to meet his fines; here was his son Thomas, the heir now, not only to Padley, but to Norbury, whose lord, his uncle, lay in the Fleet Prison. Here was Mr. Fenton, who had suffered the likein the matter of fines more than once. Hardly one of the folk there buthad paid a heavy price for his conscience; and all the worship that waspermitted to them, and that by circumstance, and not by law, was such asthey had engaged in that morning with shuttered windows and a sentinelfor fear that, too, should be silenced. 

They talked, then, guardedly of those things, since the servants were inand out continually, and though all professed the same faith as theirmasters, yet these were times that tried loyalty hard. Mr. John, indeed, gave news, of his brother Sir Thomas, and said how he did; and read aletter, too, from Italy, from his younger brother Nicholas, who was fledabroad after a year's prison at Oxford; but the climax of the talk camewhen dinner was over, and the muscadel, with the mould-jellies, had beenput upon the tables. It was at this moment that Mr. John nodded to hisson, who went to the door, to see the servants out, and stood by it tosee that none listened. Then his father struck his hands together forsilence, and himself spoke. 

"Mr. Simpson, " he said, "has something to say to us all. It is not amatter to be spoken of lightly, as you will understand presently. .. . Mr. Simpson. "

The priest looked up timidly, pulling out a paper from his pocket. 

"You have heard of Mr. Nelson?" he said to the company. "Well, he was apriest; and I have news of his death. He was executed in London on thethird of February for his religion. And another man, a Mr. Sherwood, wasexecuted a few days afterwards. "

There was a rustle along the benches. Some there had heard of the fact, but no more; some had heard nothing of either the man or his death. Twoor three faces turned a shade paler; and then the silence settled downagain. For here was a matter that touched them all closely enough; sinceup to now scarcely a priest except Mr. Cuthbert Maine had suffered deathfor his religion; and even of him some of the more tolerant said that itwas treason with which he was charged. They had heard, indeed, of apriest or two having been sent abroad into exile for his faith; but themost of them thought it a thing incredible that in England at this timea man should suffer death for it. Fines and imprisonment were one thing;to such they had become almost accustomed. But death was another matteraltogether. And for a priest! Was it possible that the days of KingHarry were coming back; and that every Catholic henceforth should go inperil of his life as well as of liberty?

The folks settled themselves then in their seats; one or two men drankoff a glass of wine. 

"I have heard from a good friend of mine in London, " went on the priest, looking at his paper, "one who followed every step of the trial; andwas present at the death. They suffered at Tyburn. .. . However, I willtell you what he says. He is a countryman of mine, from Yorkshire; aswas Mr. Nelson, too. 

"'Mr. Nelson was taken in London on the first of December last year. Hewas born at Shelton, and was about forty-three years old; he was the sonof Sir Nicholas Nelson. '

"So much, " said the priest, looking up from his paper, "I knew myself. Isaw him about four years ago just before he went to Douay, and he cameback to England as a priest, a year and a half after. Mr. Sherwood wasnot a priest; he had been at Douay, too, but as a scholar only. .. . Well, we will speak of Mr. Nelson first. This is what my friend says. "

He spread the paper before him on the table; and Marjorie, looking pasther mother, saw that his hands shook as he spread it. 

"'Mr. Nelson, '" began the priest, reading aloud with some difficulty, "'was brought before my lords, and first had tendered to him the oath ofthe Queen's supremacy. This he refused to take, saying that no layprince could have pre-eminence over Christ's Church; and, upon beingpressed as to who then could have it, answered, Christ's Vicar only, thesuccessor of Peter. Further, he proceeded to say, under questioning, that since the religion of England at this time is schismatic andheretical, so also is the Queen's Grace who is head of it. 

"'This, then, was what was wanted; and after a delay of a few weeks, thesame questions being put to him, and his answers being the same, he wassentenced to death. He was very fortunate in his imprisonment. I hadspeech with him two or three times and was the means, by God's blessing, of bringing another priest to him, to whom he confessed himself; andwith whom he received the Body of Christ a day before he suffered. 

"'On the third of February, knowing nothing of his death being so near, he was brought up to a higher part of the prison, and there told he wasto suffer that day. His kinsmen were admitted to him then, to bid himfarewell; and afterwards two ministers came to turn him from his faithif they could; but they prevailed nothing. '"

There was a pause in the reading; but there was no movement among anythat listened. Robin, watching from his place at the right-hand table, cold at heart, ran his eyes along the faces. The priest was as white asdeath, with the excitement, it seemed, of having to tell such a tale. His host beside him seemed downcast and quiet, but perfectly composed. Mrs. Manners had her eyes closed; Anthony Babington was frowning tohimself with tight lips; Marjorie he could not see. 

With a great effort the reader resumed:

"'When he was laid on the hurdle he refused to ask pardon of the Queen'sGrace; for, said he, I have never yet offended her. I was beside him, and heard it. And he added, when those who stood near stormed at him, that it was better to be hanged than to burn in hell-fire. 

"'There was a great concourse of people at Tyburn, but kept back by theofficers so that they could not come at him. When he was in the cart, first he commended his spirit into God's Hands, saying _In manus tuas_, etc. ; then he besought all Catholics that were present to pray for him;I saw a good many who signed themselves in the crowd; and then he saidsome prayers in Latin; with the psalms _Miserere_ and _De Profundis_. And then he addressed himself to the people, telling them he died forhis religion, which was the Catholic Roman one, and prayed, and desiredthem to pray, that God would bring all Englishmen into it. The crowdcried out at that, exclaiming against this _Catholic Romish Faith_; andso he said what he had to say, over again. Then, before the cart wasdrawn away from him to leave him to hang, he asked pardon of all them hehad offended, and even of the Queen, if he had indeed offended her. Thenone of the sheriffs called on the hangman to make an end; so Mr. Nelsonprayed again in silence, and then begged all Catholics that were thereonce more to pray that, by the bitter passion of Christ, his soul mightbe received into everlasting joy. And they did so; for as the cart wasdrawn away a great number cried out, and I with them, _Lord, receive hissoul_. 

"'He was cut down, according to sentence, before he was dead, and thebutchery begun on him; and when it was near over, he moved a little inhis pain, and said that he forgave the Queen and all that caused orconsented to his death: and so he died. '"

The priest's voice, which had shaken again and again, grew so tremulousas he ended that those that were at the end of the hall could scarcelyhear him; and, as it ceased, a murmur ran along the seats. 

Mr. FitzHerbert leaned over to the priest and whispered. The priestnodded, and the other held up his hand for silence. 

"There is more yet, " he said. 

Mr. Simpson, with a hand that still shook so violently that he couldhardly hold his glass, lifted and drank off a cup of muscadel. Then hecleared his throat, sat up a little in his chair, and resumed:

"'Next I went to see Mr. Sherwood, to talk to him in prison and toencourage him by telling him of the passion of the other and how bravelyhe bore it. Mr. Sherwood took it very well, and said that he was afraidof nothing, that he had reconciled his mind to it long ago, and hadrehearsed it all two or three times, so that he would know what to sayand how to bear himself. '"

Mr. FitzHerbert leaned over again to the priest at this point andwhispered something. Mr. Simpson nodded, and raised his eyes. 

"Mr. Sherwood, " he said, "was a scholar from Douay, but not a priest. Hewas lodging in the house of a Catholic lady, and had procured mass to besaid there, and it was through her son that he was taken and chargedwith recusancy. "

Again ran a rustle through the benches. This executing of the laity forreligion was a new thing in their experience. The priest lifted thepaper again. 

"'I found that Mr. Sherwood had been racked many times in the Tower, during the six months he was in prison, to force him to tell, if theycould, where he had heard mass and who had said it. But they couldprevail nothing. Further, no visitor was admitted to him all this time, and I was the first and the last that he had; and that though Mr. Roperhimself had tried to get at him for his relief; for he was confinedunderground and lay in chains and filth not to be described. I said whatI could to him, but he said he needed nothing and was content, thoughhis pain must have been very great all this while, what with the rackingrepeated over and over again and the place he lay in. 

"'I was present again when he suffered at Tyburn, but was too far awayto hear anything that he said, and scarcely, indeed, could see him; butI learned afterwards that he died well and courageously, as a Catholicshould, and made no outcry or complaint when the butchery was done onhim. 

"'This, then, is the news I have to send you--sorrowful, indeed, yetjoyful, too; for surely we may think that they who bore such pains forChrist's sake with such constancy will intercede for us whom they leavebehind. I am hoping myself to come North again before I go to Douay nextyear, and will see you then and tell you more. '"

The priest laid down the paper, trembling. 

Mr. FitzHerbert looked up. 

"It will give pleasure to the company, " he said, "to know that thewriter of the letter is Mr. Ludlam, from Radbourne, in this county. Asyou have heard, he, too, hopes by God's mercy to be made priest and tocome back to England. "

CHAPTER VIII

I

In the following week Robin went home again. 

The clear weather of Easter had broken, and racing clouds, thick as apall, sped across the sky that had been so blue and so cheerful; a windscreamed all day, now high, now low, shattering the tender flowers ofspring, ruffling the Derwent against its current, by which he rode, anddashing spatters of rain now and again on his back, tossing high andwide the branches under which he went, until the woods themselves becameas a great melancholy organ, making sad music about him. 

When a mind is fluent and uncertain there is no describing it. Hethought he had come to a decision last week; he found that the decisionwas shattered as soon as made. He had talked to the priest; he hadresisted Marjorie; and yet to neither of them had he put into formalwords what it was that troubled him. He had asked questions aboutvocation, about the place that circumstance occupies in it, of the valueof dispositions, fears, scruples, and resistance. He had, that is, fingered his wound, half uncovered it, and then covered it up again, tormented it, glanced at it and then glanced aside; yet the one thing hehad not done was to probe it--not even to allow another to do so. 

His mind, then, was fluent and distracted; it formed images before him, which dissolved as soon as formed; it whirled in little eddies; it threwup obscuring foam; it ran clear one instant, and the next broke itselfin rapids. He could neither ease it, nor dam it altogether, and he didnot know what to do. 

As he rode through Froggatt, he saw a group of saddle-horses standingat the inn door, but thought nothing of it, till a man ran out of thedoor, still holding his pot, and saluted him, and he recognised him tobe one of Mr. Babington's men. 

"My master is within, sir, " he said; "he bade me look out for you. "

Robin drew rein, and as he did so, Anthony, too, came out. 

"Ah!" he said. "I heard you would be coming this way. Will you come in?I have something to say to you. "

Robin slipped off, leaving his mare in the hands of Anthony's man, sincehe himself was riding alone, with his valise strapped on behind. 

It was a little room, very trim and well kept, on the first floor, towhich his friend led him. Anthony shut the door carefully and cameacross to the settle by the window-seat. 

"Well, " he said, "I have bad news for you, my friend. Will you forgiveme? I have seen your father and had words with him. "

"Eh?"

"I said nothing to you before, " went on the other, sitting down besidehim. "I knew you would not have it so, but I went to see for myself andto put a question or two. He is your father, but he has also been myfriend. That gives me rights, you see!"

"Tell me, " said Robin heavily. 

It appeared that Anthony, who was a precise as well as an ardent youngman, had had scruples about trusting to hearsay. Certainly it wasrumoured far and wide that the squire of Matstead had done as he hadsaid he would do, and gone to church; but Mr. Anthony was one of thosespirits who will always have things, as they say, from thefountain-head; partly from instincts of justice, partly, no doubt, forthe pleasure of making direct observations to the principals concerned. This was what he had done in this case. He had ridden, without a word toany, up to Matstead, and had demanded to be led to the squire; and thereand then, refusing to sit down till he was answered, had put hisquestion. There had been a scene. The squire had referred to puppies whowanted drowning, to young sparks, and to such illustrative similes; andAnthony, in spite of his youthful years, had flared out about turncoatsand lick-spittles. There had been a very pretty ending: the squire hadshouted for his servants and Anthony for his, and the two parties hadeyed one another, growling like dogs, until bloodshed seemed imminent. Then the visitor had himself solved the situation by stalking out of thehouse from which the squire was proposing to flog him, mounting hishorse, and with a last compliment or two had ridden away. And here hewas at Froggatt on his return journey, having eaten there that dinnerwhich no longer would be spread for him at Matstead. 

Robin sat silent till the tale was done, and at the end of it Anthonywas striding about the room, aflame again with wrath, gesticulating andraging aloud. 

Then Robin spoke, holding up his hand for moderation. "You will have thewhole house here, " he said. "Well, you have cooked my goose for me. "

"Bah! that was cooked at Passiontide when you went to Booth's Edge. Doyou think he'll ever have a Papist in his house again?"

"Did he say so?"

"No; but he said enough about his 'young cub. '. .. Nonsense, man! Comehome with me to Dethick. We'll find occupation enough. "

"Did he say he would not have me home again?"

"No, " bawled Anthony. "I have told you he did not say so outright. Buthe said enough to show he'd have no rebels, as he called them, in hisProtestant house! Dick's to leave. Did you hear that?"

"Dick!"

"Why, certainly. There was a to-do on Sunday, and Dick spoke his mind. He'll come to me, he says, if you have no service for him. "

Robin set his teeth. It seemed as if the pelting blows would nevercease. 

"Come with me to Dethick!" said Anthony again. "I tell you--"

"Well?"

"There'll be time enough to tell you when you come. But I promise youoccupation enough. "

He paused, as if he would say more and dared not. 

"You must tell me more, " said the lad slowly. "What kind of occupation?"

Then Anthony did a queer thing. He first glanced at the door, and thenwent to it quickly and threw it open. The little lobby was empty. Hewent out, leaned over the stair and called one of his men. 

"Sit you there, " he said, with the glorious nonchalance of a Babington, "and let no man by till I tell you. "

He came back, closed the door, bolted it, and then came across and satdown by his friend. 

"Do you think the rest of us are doing nothing?" he whispered. "Why, Itell you that a dozen of us in Derbyshire--" He broke off once more. "Imay not tell you, " he said, "I must ask leave first. "

A light began to glimmer before Robin's mind; the light broadenedsuddenly and intensely, and his whole soul leapt to meet it. 

"Do you mean--?" And then he, too, broke off, well knowing enough, though not all of, what was meant. 

 * * * * *

It was quiet here within this room, in spite of the village streetoutside. It was dinner-time, and all were within doors or out at theiraffairs; and except for the stamp of a horse now and again, and thescream of the wind in the keyhole and between the windows, there waslittle to hear. And in the lad's soul was a tempest. 

He knew well enough now what his friend meant, though nothing of thedetails; and from the secrecy and excitement of the young man's mannerhe understood what the character of his dealings would likely be, andtowards those dealings his whole nature leaped as a fish to the water. Was it possible that this way lay the escape from his own torment ofconscience? Yet he must put a question first, in honesty. 

"Tell me this much, " he said in a low voice. "Do you mean that this . .. This affair will be against men's lives . .. Or . .. Or such as even apriest might engage in?"

Then the light of fanaticism leaped to the eyes of his friend, and hisface brightened wonderfully. 

"Do they observe the courtesies and forms of law?" he snarled. "DidNelson die by God's law, or did Sherwood--those we know of? I will tellyou this, " he said, "and no more unless you pledge yourself to us . .. That we count it as warfare--in Christ's Name yes--but warfare for allthat. "

 * * * * *

There then lay the choice before this lad, and surely it was as hard achoice as ever a man had to make. On the one side lay such an excitementas he had never yet known--for Anthony was no merely mad fool--a path, too, that gave him hopes of Marjorie, that gave him an escape from homewithout any more ado, a task besides which he could tell himselfhonestly was, at least, for the cause that lay so near to Marjorie'sheart, and was beginning to lie near his own. And on the other there wasopen to him that against which he had fought now day after day, inmisery--a life that had no single attraction to the natural man in him, a life that meant the loss of Marjorie for ever. 

The colour died from his lips as he considered this. Surely all layAnthony's way: Anthony was a gentleman like himself; he would do nothingthat was not worthy of one. .. . What he had said of warfare was surelysound logic. Were they not already at war? Had not the Queen declaredit? And on the other side--nothing. Nothing. Except that a voice withinhim on that other side cried louder and louder--it seemed in despair:"This is the way; walk in it. "

"Come, " whispered Anthony again. 

Robin stood up; he made as if to speak; then he silenced himself andbegan to walk to and fro in the little room. He could hear voices fromthe room beneath--Anthony's men talking there no doubt. They might behis men, too, at the lifting of a finger--they and Dick. There were thehorses waiting without; he heard the jingle of a bit as one tossed hishead. Those were the horses that would go back to Dethick and Derby, and, may be, half over England. 

He walked to and fro half a dozen times without speaking, and, if he hadbut guessed it, he might have been comforted to know that his manhoodflowed in upon him, as a tide coming in over a flat beach. Theseinstants added more years to him than as many months that had gonebefore. His boyhood was passing, since experience and conflict, whetherit end in victory or defeat, give the years to a man far more than thepassing of time. So in God's sight Robin added many inches to thestature of his spirit in this little parlour of Froggatt. 

Yet, though he conquered then, he did not know that he conquered. Hestill believed, as he turned at last and faced his friend, that his mindwas yet to make up, and his whisper was harsh and broken. 

"I do not know, " he whispered. "I must go home first. "

II

Dick was waiting by the porter's lodge as the boy rode in, and walked upbeside him with his brown hand on the horse's shoulder. Robin could notsay much, and, besides, his confidence must be tied. 

"So you are going, " he said softly. 

The man nodded. 

"I met Mr. Babington. .. . You cannot do better, I think, than go to him. "

 * * * * *

It was with a miserable heart that an hour or two later he came down tosupper. His father was already at table, sitting grimly in his place; hemade no sign of welcome or recognition as his son came in. During themeal itself this was of no great consequence, as silence was the custom;but the boy's heart sank yet further as, still without a word to him, the squire rose from table at the end and went as usual through theparlour door. He hesitated a moment before following. Then he graspedhis courage and went after. 

All things were as usual there--the wine set out and the sweetmeats, andhis father in his usual place, Yet still there was silence. 

Robin began to meditate again, yet alert for a sign or a word. It wasin this little room, he understood, that the dispute with Anthony hadtaken place a few hours before, and he looked round it, almost wonderingthat all seemed so peaceful. It was this room, too, that was associatedwith so much that was happy in his life--drawn-out hours after supper, when his father was in genial moods, or when company was there--companythat would never come again--and laughter and gallant talk went round. There was the fire burning in the new stove--that which had so muchexcited him only a year or two ago, for it was then the first that hehad ever seen: there was the table where he had written his littleletter; there was "Christ carrying His Cross. "

"So you have sent your friend to insult me; now!"

Robin started. The voice was quiet enough, but full of a suppressedforce. 

"I have not, sir. I met Mr. Babington at Froggatt on his way back. Hetold me. I am very sorry for it. "

"And you talked with him at Padley, too, no doubt?"

"Yes, sir. "

His father suddenly wheeled round on him. 

"Do you think I have no sense, then? Do you think I do not know what youand your friends speak of?"

Robin was silent. 

He was astonished how little afraid he was. His heart beat loud enoughin his ears; yet he felt none of that helplessness that had fallen onhim before when his father was angry. .. . Certainly he had added to hisstature in the parlour at Froggatt. 

The old man poured out a glass of wine and drank it. His face wasflushed high, and he was using more words than usual. 

"Well, sir, there are other affairs we must speak of; and then no moreof them. I wish to know your meaning for the time to come. There must beno more fooling this way and that. I shall pay no fines for you--markthat! If you must stand on your own feet, stand on them. .. . Now then!"

"Do you mean, am I coming to church with you, sir?"

"I mean, who is to pay your fines?. .. Miss Marjorie?"

Robin set his teeth at the sneer. 

"I have not yet been fined, sir. "

"Now do you take me for a fool? D'you think they'll let you off? I wasspeaking--"

The old man stopped. 

"Yes, sir?"

The other wheeled his face on him. 

"If you will have it, " he said, "I was speaking to my two good friendswho dined here on Sunday. I was plain with them and they were plain withme. 'I shall not pay for my brat of a son, ' I said. 'Then he must payfor himself, ' said they, 'unless we lay him by the heels. ' 'Not in myhouse, I hope, ' I said; and they laughed at that. We were very merrytogether. "

"Yes, sir?"

"Good God! have I a fool for a son? I ask you again, Who is it to pay?"

"When will they demand it?"

"Why, they may demand it next week, if they will! You were not at churchon Sunday!"

"I was not in Matstead, " said the lad. 

"But--"

"And Mr. Barton will not, I think--"

The old man struck the table suddenly and violently. 

"I have dropped words enough, " he cried. "Where's the use of it? If youthink they will let you alone, I tell you they will not. There are to bedoings before Christmas, at latest; and what then?"

Then Robin drew his breath sharply between his teeth; and knew that onemore step had been passed, that had separated him from that which hefeared. .. . He had come just now, still hesitating. Still there had beenpassing through his mind hopes and ideas of what his father might do forhim. He knew well enough that he would never pay the fines, amountingsometimes to as much as twenty pounds a month; but he had thought thatperhaps his father would give him a sum of money and let him go to fendfor himself; that he might help him even to a situation somewhere; andnow hope had died so utterly that he did not even dare speak of it. Andhe had said "No" to Anthony; he said to himself at least that he hadmeant "No, " in spite of his hesitation. All doors seemed closing, savethat which terrified him. .. . 

"I have thought in my mind--" he began; and stopped, for the terror ofwhat was on his tongue grew suddenly upon him. 

"Eh?"

Robin stood up. 

"I must have time, sir, " he cried; "I must have time. Do not press metoo much. "

His father's eyes shone bright and wrathful. He beat on the table withhis open hand; but the boy was too quick for him. 

"I beg of you, sir, not to make me speak too soon. It may be that youwould hate that I should speak more than my silence. "

His whole person was tense and magnetic; his face was paler than ever;and it seemed as if his father understood enough, at least, to make himhesitate. The two looked at one another; and it was the man's eyes thattell first. 

"You may have till Pentecost, " he said. 

III

It would be at about an hour before dawn that Robin awoke for perhapsthe third or fourth time that night; for the conflict still roaredwithin his soul and would give him no peace. And, as he lay there, awakein an instant, staring up into the dark, once more weighing andbalancing this and the other, swayed by enthusiasm at one moment, weighed down with melancholy the next--there came to him, distinct andclear through the still night, the sound of horses' hoofs, perhaps ofthree or four beasts, walking together. 

Now, whether it was the ferment of his own soul, or the work of someinterior influence, or indeed, the very intimation of God Himself, Robinnever knew (though he inclined later to the last of these); yet itremains as a fact that when he heard that sound, so fierce was hiscuriosity to know who it was that rode abroad in company at such anhour, he threw off the blankets that covered him, went to his window andthrew it open. Further, when he had listened there a second or two, andhad heard the sound cease and then break out again clearer and nearer, signifying that the party was riding through the village, his curiositygrew so intense, that he turned from the window, snatched up and put ona few clothes, groping for them as well as he could in the dimness, andwas presently speeding, barefooted, downstairs, telling himself in onebreath that he was a fool, and in the next that he must reach thechurchyard wall before the horses did. 

It was but a short run when he had come down into the court, by thelittle staircase that led from the men's rooms; the ground was soakingwith the rains of yesterday, but he cared nothing for that; and, as theriding party turned up the little ascent that led beneath thechurchyard, Robin, on the other side of the wall, was keeping betweenthe tombstones to see, and not be seen. 

It was within an hour of dawn, at that time when the sky begins toglimmer with rifts above the two horizons, showing light enough at leastto distinguish faces. It was such a light as that in which he had seenthe deer looking at him motionless as he rode home with Dick. Yet thethree who now rode up towards him were so muffled about the faces thathe feared he would not know them. They were men, all three of them; andhe could make out valises strapped to the saddle of each; but, whatseemed strange, they did not speak as they came; and it appeared as ifthey wished to make no more noise than was necessary, since one of them, when his horse set his foot upon the cobblestones beside the lych-gate, pulled him sharply off them. 

And then, just as they rounded the angle of the wall where the boycrouched peeping, the man that rode in the middle, sighed as if withrelief, and pulled the cloak that was about him, so that the collar fellfrom his face, and at the same time turned to his companion on hisright, and said something in a low voice. 

But the boy heard not a word; for he found himself staring at thethin-faced young priest from whom he had received Holy Communion atPadley. It was but for an instant; for the man to whom the priest spokeanswered in the same low voice, and the other pulled his cloak againround his mouth. 

Yet the look was enough. The sight, once more, of this servant of God, setting out again upon his perilous travels--seen at such a moment, whenthe boy's judgment hung in the balance (as he thought); this one singlereminder of what a priest could do in these days of sorrow, and of whatGod called on him to do--the vision, for it was scarcely less, allthings considered, of a life such as this--presented, so to say, in thissingle scene of a furtive and secret ride before the dawn, leavingPadley soon after midnight--this, falling on a soul that already leanedthat way, finished that for which Marjorie had prayed, and against whichthe lad himself had fought so fiercely. 

 * * * * *

Half an hour later he stood by his father's bed, looking down on himwithout fear. 

"Father, " he said, as the old man stared up at him through sleep-riddeneyes, "I have come to give you my answer. It is that I must go to Rheimsand be a priest. "

Then he turned again and went out of the room, without waiting. 

CHAPTER IX

I

Mrs. Manners was still abed when her daughter came in to see her. Shelay in the great chamber that gave upon the gallery above the hallwhence, on either side, she could hear whether or no the maids were attheir business--which was a comfort to her if a discomfort to them. Andnow that her lord was in Derby, she lay here all alone. 

The first that she knew of her daughter's coming was a light in hereyes; and the next was a face, as of a stranger, looking at her withgreat eyes, exalted by joy and pain. The light, held below, cast shadowsupwards from chin and cheek, and the eyes shone in hollows. Then, as shesat up, she saw that it was her daughter, and that the maid held a paperin her hands; she was in her night-linen, and a wrap lay over hershoulders and shrouded her hair. 

"He is to be a priest, " she whispered sharply. "Thank our Lord with me. .. And . .. And God have mercy on me!"

Then Marjorie was on her knees by the bedside, sobbing so that thecurtains shook. 

 * * * * *

The mother got it all out of her presently--the tale of the girl's hearttorn two ways at once. On the one side there was her human love for thelad who had wooed her--as hot as fire, and as pure--and on the otherthat keen romance that had made her pray that he might be a priest. Thissecond desire had come to her, as sharp as a voice that calls, when shehad heard of the apostasy of his father; it had seemed to her theriposte that God made to the assault upon His honour. The father wouldno longer be His worshipper? Then let the son be His priest; and so thebalance be restored. And so the maid had striven with the two lovesthat, for once, would not agree together (as did the man in the Gospelswho wished to go and bury his father and afterwards to follow hisSaviour); she had not dared to say a word to the lad of anything of thislest it should be her will and not God's that should govern him, for sheknew very well what a power she had over him; but she had prayed God, and begged Robin to pray too and to listen to His voice; and now she hadher way, and her heart was broken with it, she said:

"And when I think, " she wailed across her mother's knees, "of what it isto be a priest; and of the life that he will lead, and of the death thathe may die!. .. And it is I . .. I . .. Who will have sent him to it. Mother!. .. "

Mrs. Manners was bethinking herself of a cordial just then, and how sheknew old Ann would be coming presently, and was listening with but halfan ear. 

"It's not you, my dear, " she said, patting the head beneath her hands. (The wrap was fallen off, and the maid's long hair was all over hershoulders. ) "And now--"

"But our Lord will take care of him, will He not? And not suffer--"

Mrs. Manners fell to patting her head again. 

"And who brought the message?" she asked. 

 * * * * *

Mrs. Manners was one of those experienced persons who are fullypersuaded that youth is a disease that must be borne with patiently. Time, indeed, will cure it; yet until the cure is complete, elders mustbear it as well as they can and not seem to pay too much attention toit. A rigorous and prudent diet; long hours of sleep, plenty ofoccupation--these are the remedies for the fever. So, while Marjoriefirst began to read the lad's letter, and then, breaking downaltogether, thrust it into her mother's hand, Mrs. Manners was searchingher memory as to whether any imprudence the day before, in food orbehaviour, could be the cause of this crisis. Love between boys andgirls was common enough; she herself twenty years ago had suffered fromthe sickness when young John had come wooing her; yet a love that couldthrust from it that which it loved, was beyond her altogether. EitherMarjorie loved the lad, or she did not, and if she loved him, why didshe pray that he might be a priest? That was foolishness; sincepriesthood was a bar to marriage. She began to conclude that Marjoriedid not love him; it had been but a romantic fancy; and she wasencouraged by the thought. 

"Madge, " she began, when she had read through the confused line or two, in the half-boyish, half-clerkly hand of Robin, scribbled and dispatchedby the hands of Dick scarcely two hours ago. "Madge--"

She was about to say something sensible when the maid interrupted heragain. 

"And it is I who have brought it all on him!" she wailed. "If it had notbeen for me--"

Her mother laid a firm hand on her daughter's mouth. It was not oftenthat she felt the superior of the two; yet here was a time, plainenough, when maturity and experience must take the reins. 

"Madge, " she said, "it is plain you do not love him; or you never--"

The maid started back, her eyes ablaze. 

"Not love him! Why--"

"That you do not love him truly; or you would never have wished this forhim. .. . Now listen to me!"

She raised an admonitory finger, complacent at last. But her speech wasnot to be made at that time; for her daughter swiftly rose to her feet, controlled at last by the shock of astonishment. 

"Then I do not think you know what love is, " she said softly. "To loveis to wish the other's highest good, as I understand it. "

Mrs. Manners compressed her lips, as might a prophetess before aprediction. But her daughter was beforehand with her again. 

"That is the love of a Christian, at least, " she said. Then she stooped, took the letter from her mother's knees, and went out. 

Mrs. Manners sat for a moment as her daughter left her. Then sheunderstood that her hour of superiority was gone with Marjorie's hour ofweakness; and she emitted a short laugh as she took her place againbehind the child she had borne. 

II

It was a strange time that Marjorie had until two days later, when Robincame and told her all, and how it had fallen out. For now, it seemed, she walked on air; now in shoes of lead. When she was at her prayers(which was pretty often just now), and at other times, when the airlightened suddenly about her and the burdens of earth were lifted as ifanother hand were put to them--at those times which every interior soulexperiences in a period of stress--why, then, all was glory, and she sawRobin as transfigured and herself beneath him all but adoring. Littlevisions came and went before her imagination. Robin riding, like someknight on an adventure, to do Christ's work; Robin at the altar, in hisvestments; Robin absolving penitents--all in a rosy light of faith andromance. She saw him even on the scaffold, undaunted and resolute, withGod's light on his face, and the crowd awed beneath him; she saw hissoul entering heaven, with all the harps ringing to meet him, andeternity begun. .. . And then, at other times, when the heaviness camedown on her, as clouds upon the Derbyshire hills, she understood nothingbut that she had lost him; that he was not to be hers, but Another's;that a loveless and empty life lay before her, and a womanhood that waswithout its fruition. And it was this latter mood that fell on her, swift and entire, when, looking out from her window a little beforedinner-time, she saw suddenly his hat, and Cecily's head, jerking up thesteep path that led to the house. 

She fell on her knees by her bedside. 

"Jesu!" she cried. "Jesu! Give me strength to meet him. "

 * * * * *

Mrs. Manners, too, hearing the horse's footsteps on the pavement aminute later, and Marjorie's steps going downstairs, also looked forthand saw him dismounting. She was a prudent woman, and did not stir afinger till she heard the bell ringing in the court for the dinner to beserved. They would have time, so she thought, to arrange theirattitudes. 

And, indeed, she was right: for it was two quiet enough persons who mether as she came down into the hall: Robin flushed with riding, yetwholly under his own command--bright-eyed, and resolute and natural(indeed, it seemed to her that he was more of a man than she had thoughthim). And her daughter, too, was still and strong; a trifle paler thanshe should be, yet that was to be expected. At dinner, of course, nothing could be spoken of but the most ordinary affairs--in suchspeaking, that is, as there was. It was not till they had gone out intothe walled garden and sat them down, all three of them, on the longgarden-seat beside the rose-beds, that a word was said on these newmatters. There was silence as they walked there, and silence as they satdown. 

"Tell her, Robin, " said the maid. 

 * * * * *

It appeared that matters were not yet as wholly decided as Mrs. Mannershad thought. Indeed, it seemed to her that they were not decided at all. Robin had written to Dr. Allen, and had found means to convey his letterto Mr. Simpson, who, in his turn, had undertaken to forward it at leastas far as to London; and there it would await a messenger to Douay. Itmight be a month before it would reach Douay, and it might be three orfour months, or even more, before an answer could come back. Next, thesquire had taken a course of action which, plainly, had disconcerted thelad, though it had its conveniences too. For, instead of increasing theold man's fury, the news his son had given him had had a contraryeffect. He had seemed all shaken, said Robin; he had spoken to himquietly, holding in the anger that surely must be there, the boythought, without difficulty. And the upshot of it was that no more hadbeen said as to Robin's leaving Matstead for the present--not one wordeven about the fines. It seemed almost as if the old man had been tryinghow far he could push his son, and had recoiled when he had learned theeffect of his pushing. 

"I think he is frightened, " said the lad gravely. "He had never thoughtthat I could be a priest. "

Mrs. Manners considered this in silence. 

"And it may be autumn before Dr. Allen's letter comes back?" she askedpresently. 

Robin said that that was so. 

"It may even be till winter, " he said. "The talk among the priests, Mr. Simpson tells me, is all about the removal from Douay. It may be made atany time, and who knows where they will go?"

Mrs. Manners glanced across at her daughter, who sat motionless, withher hands clasped. Then she was filled with the spirit of reasonablenessand sense: all this tragic to-do about what might never happen seemed toher the height of folly. 

"Nay, then, " she burst out, "then nothing may happen after all. Dr. Allen may say 'No;' the letter may never get to him. It may be that youwill forget all this in a month or two. "

Robin turned his face slowly towards her, and she saw that she hadspoken at random. Again, too, it struck her attention that his mannerseemed a little changed. It was graver than that to which she wasaccustomed. 

"I shall not forget it, " he said softly. "And Dr. Allen will get theletter. Or, if not he, someone else. "

There was silence again, but Mrs. Manners heard her daughter draw a longbreath. 

III

It was an hour later that Marjorie found herself able to say that whichshe knew must be said. 

Robin had lingered on, talking of this and that, though he had said halfa dozen times that he must be getting homewards; and at last, when herose, Mistress Manners, who was still wholly misconceiving thesituation, after the manner of sensible middle-aged folk, archly andtactfully took her leave and disappeared down towards the house, advancing some domestic reason for her departure. 

Robin sighed, and turned to the girl, who still sat quiet. But as heturned she lifted her eyes to him swiftly. 

"Good-bye, Mr. Robin, " she said. 

He pulled himself up. 

"You understand, do you not?" she said. "You are to be a priest. Youmust remember that always. You are a sort of student already. "

She could see him pale a little; his lips tightened. For a moment hesaid nothing; he was taken wholly aback. 

"Then I am not to come here again?"

Marjorie stood up. She showed no sign of the fierce self-control she wasusing. 

"Why, yes, " she said. "Come as you would come to any Catholicneighbours. But no more than that. .. . You are to be a priest. "

 * * * * *

The spring air was full of softness and sweetness as they stood there. On the trees behind them and on the roses in front the budding leaveshad burst into delicate green, and the copses on all sides sounded withthe twittering of birds. The whole world, it seemed, was kindling withlove and freshness. Yet these two had to stand here and be cold, one tothe other. .. . He was to be a priest; that must not be forgotten, andthey must meet no more on the old footing. That was gone. Already hestood among the Levites, at least in intention; and the Lord alone wasto be the portion of his inheritance and his Cup. 

It was a minute before either of them moved, and during that minute themaid felt her courage ebb from her like an outgoing tide, leaving adesolation behind. It was all that she could do not to cry out. 

But when at last Robin made a movement and she had to look him in theface, what she saw there braced and strengthened her. 

"You are right, Mistress Marjorie, " he said both gravely and kindly. "Iwill bid you good-day and be getting to my horse. "

He kissed her gently, as the manner was, and went down the path alone. 

PART II

CHAPTER I

I

It was with a sudden leap of her heart that Marjorie, looking out of herwindow at the late autumn landscape, her mind still running on the sheetof paper that lay before her, saw a capped head, and then a horse'screst, rise over the broken edge of land up which Robin had ridden sooften two and three years ago. Then she saw who was the rider, and laidher pen down again. 

 * * * * *

It was two years since the lad had gone to Rheims, and it would be fiveyears more, she knew (since he was not over quick at his books), beforehe would return a priest. She had letters from him: one would come nowand again, a month or two sometimes after the date of writing. It wasonly in September that she had had the letter which he had written heron hearing of her father's death, and Mr. Manners had died in June. Shehad written back to him then, a discreet and modest letter enough, telling him of how Mr. Simpson had read mass over the body before it wastaken down to Derby for the burying; and telling him, too, of hermother's rheumatics that kept her abed now three parts of the year. Forthe rest, the letters were dull enough reading to one who did notunderstand them: the news the lad had to give was of a kind that must bedisguised, lest the letters should fall into other hands, since itconcerned the coming and going of priests whose names must not appear. Yet, for all that, the letters were laid up in a press, and the heapgrew slowly. 

It was Mr. Anthony Babington who was come now to see her, and it washis third visit since the summer. But she knew well enough what he wascome for, since his young wife, whom he had married last year, was nouse to him in such matters: she had lately had a child, too, and livedquietly at Dethick with her women. His letters, too, would come atintervals, carried by a rider, or sometimes some farmer's man on his wayhome from Derby, and these letters, too, held dull reading enough forsuch as were not in the secret. Yet the magistrates at Derby would havegiven a good sum if they could have intercepted and understood them. 

It was in the upper parlour now that she received him. A fire wasburning there, as it had burned so long ago, when Robin found her freshfrom her linen, and Anthony sat down in the same place. She sat by thewindow, with the paper in her hands at which she had been writing whenshe first saw him. 

He had news for her, of two kinds, and, like a man, gave her first thatwhich she least wished to hear. (She had first showed him the paper. )

"That was the very matter I was come about, " he said. "You have only afew of the names, I see. Now the rest will be over before Christmas, andwill all be in London together. "

"Can you not give me the names?" she said. 

"I could give you the names, certainly. And I will do so before I leave;I have them here. But--Mistress Marjorie, could you not come to Londonwith me? It would ease the case very much. "

"Why, I could not, " she said. "My mother--And what good would itserve?"

"This is how the matter stands, " said Anthony, crossing his legs. "Wehave a dozen priests coming all together--at least, they will not traveltogether, of course; but they will all reach London before Christmas, and there they will hold counsel as to who shall go to the districts. Eight of them, I have no doubt, will come to the north. There are asmany priests in the south as are safe at the present time--or as areneeded. Now if you were to come with me, mistress--with a serving-maid, and my sister would be with us--we could meet these priests, and speakwith them, and make their acquaintance. That would remove a great dealof danger. We must not have that affair again which fell out lastmonth. "

Marjorie nodded slowly. (It was wonderful how her gravity had grown onher these last two years. )

She knew well enough what he meant. It was the affair of the clerk whohad come from Derby on a matter connected with her father's will aboutthe time she was looking for the arrival of a strange priest, and whohad been so mistaken by her. Fortunately he had been a well-disposedman, with Catholic sympathies, or grave trouble might have followed. Butthis proposal of a visit to London seemed to her impossible. She hadnever been to London in her life; it appeared to her as might a voyageto the moon. Derby seemed oppressingly large and noisy and dangerous;and Derby, she understood, was scarcely more than a village compared toLondon. 

"I could not do it, " she said presently. "I could not leave my mother. "

Anthony explained further. 

It was evident that Booth's Edge was becoming more and more a harbourfor priests, owing largely to Mistress Marjorie's courage and piety. Itwas well placed; it was remote; and it had so far avoided all suspicion. Padley certainly served for many, but Padley was nearer the main road;and besides, had fallen under the misfortune of losing its master forthe very crime of recusancy. It seemed to be all important, therefore, that the ruling mistress of Booth's Edge, since there was no master, should meet as many priests as possible, in order that she might bothknow and be known by them; and here was such an opportunity as would noteasily occur again. Here were a dozen priests, all to be together at onetime; and of these, at least two-thirds would be soon in the north. Howconvenient, therefore, it would be if their future hostess could butmeet them, learn their plans, and perhaps aid them by her counsel. 

But she shook her head resolutely. 

"I cannot do it, " she said. 

Anthony made a little gesture of resignation. But, indeed, he hadscarcely hoped to persuade her. He knew it was a formidable thing to askof a countrybred maid. 

"Then we must do as well as we can, " he said. "In any case, I must go. There is a priest I have to meet in any case; he is returning as soon ashe has bestowed the rest. "

"Yes?"

"His name is Ballard. He is known as Fortescue, and passes himself offas a captain. You would never know him for a priest. "

"He is returning, you say?"

A shade of embarrassment passed over the young man's face, and Marjoriesaw that there was something behind which she was not to know. 

"Yes, " he said, "I have business with him. He is not to come over on themission yet, but only to bring the others and see them safe--"

He broke off suddenly. 

"Why, I was forgetting, " he cried. "Our Robin is coming too. I had aletter from him, and another for you. "

He searched in the breast of his coat, and did not see the suddenrigidity that fell on the girl. For a moment she sat perfectly still;her heart had leapt to her throat, it seemed, and was hammeringthere. .. . But by the time he had found the letter she was herself again. 

"Here it is, " he said. 

She took it; but made no movement to open it. 

"But he is not to be a priest for five years yet?" she said quietly. 

"No; but they send them sometimes as servants and such like, to make aparty seem what it is not, as well as to learn how to avoid her Grace'sservants. He will go back with Mr. Ballard, I think, after three or fourweeks. You have had letters from him, you told me?"

She nodded. 

"Yes; but he said nothing of it, but only how much he longed to seeEngland again. "

"He could not. It has only just been arranged. He has asked to go. "

There was a silence for a moment. But Anthony did not understand what itmeant. He had known nothing of the affair of his friend and this girl, and he looked upon them merely as a pair of acquaintances, above all, when he had heard of Robin's determination to go to Rheims. Even thegirl saw that he knew nothing, in spite of her embarrassment, and thethought that had come to her when she had heard of Robin's coming toLondon grew on her every moment. But she thought she must gain time. 

She stood up. 

"You would like to see his letters?" she asked. "I will bring them. "

And she slipped out of the room. 

II

Anthony Babington sat still, staring up at Icarus in the chariot of theSun, with something of a moody look on his face. 

It was true that he was sincere and active enough in all that he did uphere in the north for the priests of his faith; indeed, he risked bothproperty and liberty on their behalf, and was willing to continue doingso as long as these were left to him. But it seemed to him sometimesthat too much was done by spiritual ways and too little by temporal. Certainly the priesthood and the mass were instruments--and, indeed, thehighest instruments in God's hand; it was necessary to pray and receivethe sacraments, and to run every risk in life for these purposes. Yet itappeared to him that the highest instruments were not always the bestfor such rough work. 

It was now over two years ago since the thought had first come to him, and since that time he had spared no effort to shape a certain otherweapon, which, he thought, would do the business straight and clean. Yethow difficult it had been to raise any feeling on the point. At first hehad spoken almost freely to this or that Catholic whom he could trust;he had endeavoured to win even Robin; and yet, with hardly an exception, all had drawn back and bidden him be content with a spiritual warfare. One priest, indeed, had gone so far as to tell him that he was ondangerous ground . .. And the one and single man who up to the presenthad seemed on his side, was the very man, Mr. Ballard, then a layman, whom he had met by chance in London, and who had been the occasion offirst suggesting any such idea. It was, in fact, for the sake of meetingBallard again that he was going to London; and, he had almost thoughtfrom his friend's last letter, it had seemed that it was for the sakeof meeting him that Mr. Ballard was coming across once more. 

So the young man sat, with that moody look on his face, until Marjoriecame back, wondering what news he would have from Mr. Ballard, andwhether the plan, at present only half conceived, was to go forward orbe dropped. He was willing enough, as has been said, to work forpriests, and he had been perfectly sincere in his begging Marjorie tocome with him for that very purpose; but there was another work which hethought still more urgent. .. . However, that was not to be Marjorie'saffair. .. . It was work for men only. 

 * * * * *

"Here they are, " she said, holding out the packet. 

He took them and thanked her. 

"I may read them at my leisure? I may take them with me?"

She had not meant that, but there was no help for it now. 

"Why, yes, if you wish, " she said. "Stay; let me show you which theyare. You may not wish to take them all. "

 * * * * *

The letters that the two looked over together in that wainscoted parlourat Booth's Edge lie now in an iron case in a certain muniment-room. Theyare yellow now, and the ink is faded to a pale dusky red; and they mustnot be roughly unfolded lest they should crack at the creases. But theywere fresh then, written on stout white paper, each occupying one sideof a sheet that was then folded three or four times, sealed, andinscribed to "Mistress Marjorie Manners" in the middle, with the word"Haste" in the lower corner. The lines of writing run close together, and the flourishes on one line interweave now and again with the tailson the next. 

The first was written within a week of Robin's coming to Rheims, andtold the tale of the sailing, the long rides that followed it, thepleasure the writer found at coming to a Catholic country, and somethingof his adventures upon his arrival with his little party. But names andplaces were scrupulously omitted. Dr. Allen was described as "my host";and, in more than one instance, the name of a town was inscribed with aline drawn beneath it to indicate that this was a kind of _alias_. 

The second letter gave some account of the life lived in Rheims--was areal boy's letter--and this was more difficult to treat with discretion. It related that studies occupied a certain part of the day; that"prayers" were held at such and such times, and that the sportsconsisted chiefly of a game called "Cat. "

So with the eight or nine that followed. The third and fourth werebolder, and spoke of certain definitely Catholic practices--of prayersfor the conversion of England, and of mass said on certain days for thesame intention. It seemed as if the writer had grown confident in hisplace of security. But later, again, his caution returned to him, and hespoke in terms so veiled that even Marjorie could scarcely understandhim. Yet, on the whole, the letters, if they had fallen into hostilehands, would have done no irreparable injury; they would only haveindicated that a Catholic living abroad, in some unnamed university orcollege, was writing an account of his life to a Catholic named MistressMarjorie Manners, living in England. 

 * * * * *

When the girl had finished her explaining, it was evident that there wasno longer any need for Anthony to take them with him. He said so. 

"Ah! but take them, if you will, " cried the girl. 

"It would be better not. You have them safe here. And--"

Marjorie flushed. She felt that her ruse had been too plain. 

"I would sooner you took them, " she said. "You can read them at yourleisure. "

So he accepted, and slipped them into his breast with what seemed to thegirl a lamentable carelessness. Then he stood up. 

"I must go, " he said. "And I have never asked after Mistress Manners. "

"She is abed, " said the girl. "She has been there this past month now. "

She went with him to the door, for it was not until then that she wascourageous enough to speak as she had determined. 

"Mr. Babington, " she said suddenly. 

He turned. 

"I have been thinking while we talked, " she said. "You think my comingto London would be of real service?"

"I think so. It would be good for you to meet these priests beforethey--"

"Then I will come, if my mother gives me leave. When will you go?"

"We should be riding in not less than a week from now. But, mistress--"

"No, I have thought of it. I will come--if my mother gives me leave. "

He nodded briskly and brightly. He loved courage, and he understood thatthis decision of hers had required courage. 

"Then my sister shall come for you, and--"

"No, Mr. Babington, there is no need. We shall start from Derby?"

"Why, yes. "

"Then my maid and I will ride down there and sleep at the inn, and beready for you on the day that you appoint. "

 * * * * *

When he was gone at last she went back again to the parlour, and satwithout moving and without seeing. She was in an agony lest she had beenunmaidenly in determining to go so soon as she heard that Robin was tobe there. 

CHAPTER II

I

Anthony lifted his whip and pointed. 

"London, " he said. 

Marjorie nodded; she was too tired to speak. 

 * * * * *

The journey had taken them some ten days, by easy stages; each nightthey had slept at an inn, except once, when they stayed with friends ofthe Babingtons and had heard mass. They had had the small and usualadventures: a horse had fallen lame; a baggage-horse had bolted; theyhad passed two or three hunting-parties; they had been stared at invillages and saluted, and stared at and not saluted. Rain had fallen;the clouds had cleared again; and the clouds had gathered once more andrain had again fallen. The sun, morning by morning, had stood on theleft, and evening by evening gone down again on the right. 

They were a small party for so long a journey--the three with fourservants--two men and two maids: the men had ridden armed, as the customwas; one rode in front, then came the two ladies with Anthony; then thetwo maids, and behind them the second man. In towns and villages theyclosed up together lest they should be separated, and then spread outonce more as the long, straight track lengthened before them. Anthonyand the two men-servants carried each a case of dags or pistols at thesaddle-bow, for fear of highwaymen. But none had troubled them. 

A strange dreamlike mood had come down on Marjorie. At times it seemedto her in her fatigue as if she had done nothing all her life but ride;at times, as she sat rocking, she was living still at home, sitting inthe parlour, watching her mother; the illusion was so clear andcontinuous that its departure, when her horse stumbled or a companionspoke, was as an awaking from a dream. At other times she looked abouther; talked; asked questions. 

She found Mistress Alice Babington a pleasant friend, some ten yearsolder than herself, who knew London well, and had plenty to tell her. She was a fair woman, well built and active; very fond of her brother, whom she treated almost as a mother treats a son; but she seemed not tobe in his confidence, and even not to wish to be; she thought more ofhis comfort than of his ideals. She was a Catholic, of course, but ofthe quiet, assured kind, and seemed unable to believe that anyone couldseriously be anything else; she seemed completely confident that thepresent distress was a passing one, and that when politics had run theircourse, it would presently disappear. Marjorie found her as comfortableas a pillow, when she was low enough to rest on her. .. . 

 * * * * *

Though Marjorie had nodded only when the spires of London shone upsuddenly in the evening light, a sharp internal interest awakened inher. It was as astonishing as a miracle that the end should be in sight;the past ten days had made it seem to her as if all things which shedesired must eternally recede. .. . She touched her horse unconsciously, and stared out between his ears, sitting upright and alert again. 

It was not a great deal that met the eye, but it was so disposed as tosuggest a great deal more. Far away to the right lay a faint haze, andin it appeared towers and spires, with gleams of sharp white here andthere, where some tall building rose above the dark roofs. To the leftagain appeared similar signs of another town--the same haze, towers andspires--linked to the first. She knew what they were; she had heard halfa dozen times already of the two towns that made London--runningcontinuously in one long line, however, which grew thin by St. Mary'sHospital and St. Martin's, she was told--the two troops of houses andchurches that had grown up about the two centres of Court and City, Westminster and the City itself. But it was none the less startling tosee these with her proper eyes. 

Presently, in spite of herself, as she saw the spire of St. Clement'sDane, where she was told they must turn City-wards, she began to talk, and Anthony to answer. 

II

Dark was beginning to fall and the lamps to be lighted as they rode inat last half an hour later, across the Fleet Ditch, through Ludgate andturned up towards Cheapside. They were to stay at an inn where Anthonywas accustomed to lodge when he was not with friends--an inn, too, ofwhich the landlord was in sympathy with the old ways, and where friendscould come and go without suspicion. It was here, perhaps, that letterswould be waiting for them from Rheims. 

Marjorie had known Derby only among the greater towns, and neither thisnor the towns where she had stayed, night by night, during the journey, had prepared her in the least for the amazing rush and splendour of theCity itself. A fine, cold rain was falling, and this, she was told, haddriven half the inhabitants within doors; but even so, it appeared toher that London was far beyond her imaginings. Beneath here, in the deepand narrow channel of houses up which they rode, narrowed yet furtherby the rows of stalls that were ranged along the pathways on eitherside, the lamps were kindling swiftly, in windows as well as in thestreet; here and there hung great flaring torches, and the vast eavesand walls overhead shone in the light of the fires where the richgilding threw it back. Beyond them again, solemn and towering, leanedover the enormous roofs; and everywhere, it seemed to her fresh from thesilence and solitude of the country, countless hundreds of moving faceswere turned up to her, from doorways and windows, as well as from thegroups that hurried along under the shelter of the walls; and the airwas full of talking and laughter and footsteps. It meant nothing to herat present, except inextricable confusion: the gleam of arms as a patrolpassed by; the important little group making its way with torches; thedogs that scuffled in the roadway; the party of apprentices singingtogether loudly, with linked arms, plunging up a side street; the hoodedwomen chattering together with gestures beneath a low-hung roof; thecalling, from side to side of the twisting street; the bargaining of thesellers at the stalls--all this, with the rattle of their own horses'feet and the jingling of the bits, combined only to make a noisy andbrilliant spectacle without sense or signification. 

Mistress Alice glanced at her, smiling. 

"You are tired, " she said; "we are nearly there. That is St. Paul's onthe right. "

Ah! that gave her peace. .. . 

They were turning off from the main street just as her friend spoke; butshe had time to catch a glimpse of what appeared at first sight a meregulf of darkness, and then, as they turned, resolved itself into a vastand solemn pile, grey-lined against black. Lights burned far across thewide churchyard, as well as in the windows of the high houses thatcrowned the wall, and figures moved against the glow, tiny as dolls. .. . Then she remembered again: how God had once been worshipped thereindeed, in the great house built to His honour, but was no longer soworshipped. Or, if it were the same God, as some claimed, at least thecharacter of Him was very differently conceived. .. . 

 * * * * *

The "Red Bull" again increased her sense of rest; since all inns arealike. A curved archway opened on the narrow street; and beneath thisthey rode, to find themselves in a paved court, already lighted, surrounded by window-pierced walls, and high galleries to right andleft. The stamping of horses from the further end; and, almostimmediately, the appearance of a couple of hostlers, showed where thestables lay. Beside it she could see through the door of thebrightly-lit bake-house. 

She was terribly stiff, as she found when she limped up the three orfour stairs that led up to the door of the living-part of the inn; andshe was glad enough to sit down in a wide, low parlour with her friendas Mr. Babington went in search of the host. The room was lighted onlyby a fire leaping in the chimney; and she could make out little, exceptthat pieces of stuff hung upon the walls, and a long row of metalvessels and plates were ranged in a rack between the windows. 

"It is a quiet inn, " said Alice. Marjorie nodded again. She was tootired to speak; and almost immediately Anthony came back, with a tall, clean-shaven, middle-aged man, in an apron, following behind. 

"It is all well, " he said. "We can have our rooms and the parlourcomplete. These are the ladies, " he added. 

The landlord bowed a little, with a dignity beyond that of his dress. 

"Supper shall be served immediately, madam, " he said, with a tactfulimpartiality towards them both. 

 * * * * *

They were indeed very pleasant rooms; and, as Anthony had describedthem to her, were situated towards the back of the long, low house, onthe first floor, with a private staircase leading straight up from theyard to the parlour itself. The sleeping-rooms, too, opened upon theparlour; that which the two ladies were to occupy was furthest from theyard, for quietness' sake; that in which Anthony and his man wouldsleep, upon the other side. The windows of all three looked straight outupon a little walled garden that appeared to be the property of someother house. The rooms were plainly furnished, but had a sort of dignityabout them, especially in the carved woodwork about the doors andwindows. There was a fireplace in the parlour, plainly a recentaddition; and a maid rose from kindling the logs and turf, as the twoladies came back after washing and changing. 

A table was already laid, lit by a couple of candles: it was laid withfine napery, and the cutlery was clean and solid. Marjorie looked roundthe room once more; and, as she sat down, Anthony came in, still in hismud-splashed dress, carrying three or four letters in his hands. 

"News, " he said. .. . "I will be with you immediately, " and vanished intohis room. 

 * * * * *

The sense of home was deepening on Marjorie every moment. This room inwhich she sat, might, with a little fancy, be thought to resemble thehall at Booth's Edge. It was not so high, indeed; but the plain solidityof the walls and woodwork, the aspect of the supper-table, and thequiet, so refreshing after the noises of the day, and, above all, afterthe din of their mile-long ride through the City--these little things, together with the knowledge that the journey was done at last, and thather old friend Robin was, if not already come, at least soon toarrive--these little things helped to soothe and reassure her. Shewondered how her mother found herself. .. . 

When Anthony came back, the supper was all laid out. He had given ordersthat no waiting was to be done; his own servants would do what wasnecessary. He had a bright and interested face, Marjorie thought; andthe instant they were sat down, she knew the reason of it. 

"We are just in time, " he said. "These letters have been lying here forme the last week. They will be here, they tell me, by to-morrow night. But that is not all--"

He glanced round the dusky room; then he laid down the knife with whichhe was carving; and spoke in a yet lower voice. 

"Father Campion is in the house, " he said. 

His sister started. 

"In the house?. .. Do you mean--"

He nodded mysteriously, as he took up the knife again. 

"He has been here three or four days. The rooms are full in the . .. Inthe usual place. And I have spoken with him; he is coming here aftersupper. He had already supped. "

Marjorie leaned back in her chair; but she said nothing. From beneath inthe house came the sound of singing, from the tavern parlour where boyswere performing madrigals. 

It seemed to her incredible that she should presently be speaking withthe man, whose name was already affecting England as perhaps no priest'sname had ever affected it. He had been in England, she knew, comparatively a short time; yet in that time, his name had run like firefrom mouth to mouth. To the minds of Protestants there was somethingalmost diabolical about the man; he was here, he was there, he waseverywhere, and yet, when the search was up, he was nowhere. Tales weretold of his eloquence that increased the impression that he made athousand-fold; it was said that he could wile birds off their branchesand the beasts from their lairs; and this eloquence, it was known, couldbe heard only by initiates, in far-off country houses, or in quiet, unsuspected places in the cities. He preached in some shrouded andlocked room in London one day; and the next, thirty miles off, in acow-shed to rustics. And his learning and his subtlety were equal to hiseloquence: her Grace had heard him at Oxford years ago, before hisconversion; and, it was said, would refuse him nothing, even now, if hewould but be reasonable in his religion; even Canterbury, it wasreported, might be his. And if he would not be reasonable--then, as wasfully in accordance with what was known of her Grace, nothing was toobad for him. 

Such feeling then, on the part of Protestants, found its fellow in thatof the Catholics. He was their champion, as no other man could be. Hadhe not issued his famous "challenge" to any and all of the Protestantdivines, to meet them in any argument on religion that they cared toselect, in any place and at any time, if only his own safe-conduct weresecure? And was it not notorious that none would meet him? He was, indeed, a fire, a smoke in the nostrils of his adversaries, a flame inthe hearts of his friends. Everywhere he ranged, he and his comrade, Father Persons, sometimes in company, sometimes apart; and wherever theywent the Faith blazed up anew from its dying embers, in the lives ofrustic knave and squire. 

And she was to see him!

 * * * * *

"He is here for four or five days only, " went on Anthony presently, still in a low, cautious voice. "The hunt is very hot, they say. Noteven the host knows who he is; or, at least, makes that he does not. Heis under another name, of course; it is Mr. Edmonds, this time. He wasin Essex, he tells me; but comes to the wolves' den for safety. It issafer, he says, to sit secure in the midst of the trap, than to wanderabout its doors; for when the doors are opened he can run out again, ifno one knows he is there. .. . "

III

When supper was finished at last, and the maids had borne away thedishes, there came almost immediately a tap upon the door; and beforeany could answer, there walked in a man, smiling. 

He was of middle-size, dressed in a dark, gentleman's suit, carrying hisfeathered hat in his hand, with his sword. He appeared far younger thanMarjorie had expected--scarcely more than thirty years old, of a darkand yet clear complexion, large-eyed, with a look of humour; his hairwas long and brushed back; and a soft, pointed beard and moustachecovered the lower part of his face. He moved briskly and assuredly, asone wholly at his ease. 

"I am come to the right room?" he said. "That is as well. "

His voice, too, had a ring of gaiety in it; it was low, quite clear andvery sympathetic; and his manners, as Marjorie observed, were those of acultivated gentleman, without even a trace of the priest. She would nothave been astonished if she had been told that the man was of the court, or some great personage of the country. There was no trace of furtivehurry or of alarm about him; he moved deftly and confidently; and whenhe sat down, after the proper greetings, crossed one leg over the other, so that he could nurse his foot. It seemed more incredible even than shehad thought, that this was Father Campion!

"You have pleasant rooms here, and music to cheer you, too, " he said. "I understand that you are often here, Mr. Babington. "

Anthony explained that he found them convenient and very secure. 

"Roberts is a prudent landlord, " he said. 

Father Campion nodded. 

"He knows his own business, which is what few landlords do, in thesedegenerate days; and he knows nothing at all of his guests'. In that heis even more of an exception. "

His eyes twinkled delightfully at the ladies. 

"And so, " he said, "God blesses him in those who use his house. "

They talked for a few minutes in this manner. Father Campion spoke ofthe high duty that lay on all country ladies to make themselvesacquainted with the sights of the town; and spoke of three or four ofthese. Her Grace, of course, must be seen; that was the greatest sightof all. They must make an opportunity for that; and there would surelybe no difficulty, since her Grace liked nothing better than to be lookedat. And they must go up the river by water, if the weather allowed, fromthe Tower to Westminster; not from Westminster to the Tower, since thatwas the way that traitors came, and no good Catholic could, even inappearance, be a traitor. And, if they pleased, he would himself betheir guide for a part of their adventures. He was to lie hid, he toldthem; and he knew no better way to do that than to flaunt as boldly aspossible in the open ways. 

"If I lay in my room, " said he, "with a bolt drawn, I would soon havesome busy fellow knocking on the door to know what I did there. But if Icould but dine with her Grace, or take an hour with Mr. Topcliffe, Ishould be secure for ever. "

Marjorie glanced shyly towards Alice, as if to ask a question. (She waslistening, it seemed to her, with every nerve in her tired body. ) Thepriest saw the glance. 

"Mr. Topcliffe, madam? Well; let us say he is a dear friend of theLieutenant of the Tower, and has, I think, lodgings there just now. Andhe is even a friend of Catholics, too--to such, at least, as desire aheavenly crown. "

"He is an informer and a tormentor!" broke in Anthony harshly. 

"Well, sir; let us say that he is very loyal to the letter of the law;and that he presides over our Protestant bed of Procrustes. "

"The--" began Marjorie, emboldened by the kindness of the priest'svoice. 

"The bed of Procrustes, madam, was a bed to which all who lay upon ithad to be conformed. Those that were too long were made short; and thosethat were too short were made long. It is a pleasant classical name forthe rack. "

Marjorie caught her breath. But Father Campion went on smoothly. 

"We shall have a clear day to-morrow, I think, " he said. "If you are atliberty, sir, and these ladies are not too wearied--I have a littlebusiness in Westminster; and--"

"Why, yes, " said Anthony, "for to-morrow night we expect friends. FromRheims, sir. "

The priest dropped his foot and leaned forward. 

"From Rheims?" he said sharply. 

The other nodded. 

"Eight or ten at least will arrive. Not all are priests. One is a friendof our own from Derbyshire, who will not be made priest for five yearsyet. "

"I had not heard they were to come so soon, " said Father Campion. "Andwhat a company of them!"

"There are a few of them who have been here before. Mr. Ballard is oneof them. "

The priest was silent an instant. 

"Mr. Ballard, " he said. "Ballard! Yes; he has been here before. Hetravels as Captain Fortescue, does he not? You are a friend of his?"

"Yes, sir. "

Father Campion made as if he would speak; but interrupted himself andwas silent; and it seemed to Marjorie as if another mood was fallen onhim. And presently they were talking again of London and its sights. 

IV

In spite of her weariness, Marjorie could not sleep for an hour or twoafter she had gone to bed. It was an extraordinary experience to her tohave fallen in, on the very night of her coming to London, with the oneman whose name stood to her for all that was gallant in her faith. Asshe lay there, listening to the steady breathing of Alice, who knew nosuch tremors of romance, to the occasional stamp of a horse across theyard, and, once or twice, to voices and footsteps passing on some pavedway between the houses, she rehearsed again and again to herself thetales she had heard of him. 

Now and again she thought of Robin. She wondered whether he, too, oneday (and not of necessity a far-distant day, since promotion camequickly in this war of faith), would occupy some post like that whichthis man held so gaily and so courageously; and for the first time, perhaps, she understood not in vision merely, but in sober thought, whatthe life of a priest in those days signified. Certainly she had met manafter man before--she had entertained them often enough in her mother'splace, and had provided by her own wits for their security--men whowent in peril of liberty and even of life; but here, within the walls ofLondon, in this "wolves' den" as Father Campion had called it, where menbrushed against one another continually, and looked into a thousandfaces a day, where patrols went noisily with lights and weapons, wherethe great Tower stood, where her Grace, the mistress of the wolves, hadher dwelling--here, peril assumed another aspect, and pain and deathanother reality, from that which they presented on the wind-swept hillsand the secret valleys of the country from which they came. .. . And itwas with Father Campion himself, in his very flesh, that she had talkedthis evening--it was Father Campion who had given her that swift, kindlylook of commendation, as Mr. Babington had spoken of her reason forcoming to London, and of her hospitality to wandering priests--FatherCampion, the Angel of the Church, was in England. And to-morrow Robin, too, would be here. 

 * * * * *

Then, as sleep began to come down on her tired and excited brain, and toform, as so often under such conditions, little visible images, evenbefore the reason itself is lulled, there began to pass before her, first tiny and delicate pictures of what she had seen to-day--the lowhills to the north of London, dull and dark below the heavy sky, butlight immediately above the horizon as the sun sank down; the appearanceof her horse's ears--those ears and that tuft of wayward mane betweenthem of which she had grown so weary; the lighted walls of the Londonstreets; the monstrous shadows of the eaves; the flare of lights; themoving figures--these came first; and then faces--Father Campion's, smiling, with white teeth and narrowed eyes, bright against the darkchimney-breast; Alice's serene features, framed in flaxen hair; andthen, as sleep had all but conquered her, the imagination sent up onelast idea, and a face came into being before her, so formless yet sofull, so sinister, so fierce and so distorted, that she drew a suddenbreath and sat up, trembling. .. . 

. .. Why had they spoken to her of Topcliffe?. .. 

CHAPTER III

I

It was a soft winter's morning as the party came down the little slopetowards the entrance-gate of the Tower next day. The rain last night hadcleared the air, and the sun shone as through thin veils of haze, kindlyand sweet. The river on the right was at high tide, and up from thewater's edge came the cries of the boatmen, pleasant and invigorating. 

The sense of unreality was deeper than ever on Marjorie's mind. Oneincredible thing after another, known to her only in the past by rumourand description, and imagined in a frame of glory, was taking shapebefore her eyes. .. . She was in London; she had slept in Cheapside; shehad talked with Father Campion; he was with her now; this was the Towerof London that lay before her, a monstrous huddle of grey towers andbattlemented walls along which passed the scarlet of a livery and thegleam of arms. 

All the way that they had walked, her eyes had been about hereverywhere--the eyes of a startled child, through which looked the soulof a woman. She had seen the folks go past like actors in adrama--London merchants, apprentices, a party of soldiers, a group onhorseback: she had seen a congregation pour out of the doors of somechurch whose name she had asked and had forgotten again; the cobbledpatches of street had been a marvel to her; the endless roofs, the whiteand black walls, the leaning windows, the galleries where heads moved;the vast wharfs; the crowding masts, resembling a stripped forest; therolling-gaited sailors; and, above all, the steady murmur of voices andfootsteps, never ceasing, beyond which the crowing of cocks and thebarking of dogs sounded far off and apart--these things combined to makea kind of miracle that all at once delighted, oppressed and bewilderedher. 

Here and there some personage had been pointed out to her by the trim, merry gentleman who walked by her side with his sword swinging. (Anthonywent with his sister just behind, as they threaded their way through thecrowded streets, and the two men-servants followed. ) She saw a couple ofCity dignitaries in their furs, with stavesmen to clear their road; alittle troop of the Queen's horse, blazing with colour, under thecommand of a young officer who might have come straight from Romance. But she was more absorbed--or, rather, she returned every instant to theman who walked beside her with such an air and talked so loudly andcheerfully. Certainly, it seemed to her, his disguise was perfect, andhimself the best part of it. She compared him in her mind with a coupleof ministers, splendid and awful in their gowns and ruffs, whom they hadmet turning into one of the churches just now, and smiled at thecomparison; and yet perhaps these were preachers too, and eloquent intheir own fashion. 

And now, here was the Tower--the end of all things, so far as London wasconcerned. Beyond it she saw the wide rolling hills, the bright reachesof the river, and the sparkle of Placentia, far away. 

"Her Grace is at Westminster these days, " exclaimed the priest; "she ismoving to Hampton Court in a day or two; so I doubt not we shall be ableto go in and see a little. We shall see, at least, the outside of theParadise where so many holy ones have lived and died. There are three orfour of them here now; but the most of them are in the Fleet or theMarshalsea. "

Marjorie glanced at him. She did not understand. 

"I mean Catholic prisoners, mistress. There are several of them in wardhere, but we had better speak no names. "

He wheeled suddenly as they came out into the open and moved to theleft. 

"There is Tower Hill, mistress; where my lord Cardinal Fisher died, andThomas More. "

Marjorie stopped short. But there was nothing great to see--only arising ground, empty and bare, with a few trimmed trees; the ground waswithout grass; a few cobbled paths crossed this way and that. 

"And here is the gateway, " he said, "whence they come out to glory. .. . And there on the right" (he swept his arm towards the river) "you maysee, if you are fortunate, other criminals called pirates, hung theretill they be covered by three tides. "

 * * * * *

Still standing there, with Mr. Babington and his sister come up frombehind, he began to relate the names of this tower and of that, in thegreat tumbled mass of buildings surmounted by the high keep. ButMarjorie paid no great attention except with an effort: she was broodingrather on the amazing significance of all that she saw. It was underthis gateway that the martyrs came; it was from those windows in thattower which the priest had named just now, that they had looked. .. . Andthis was Father Campion. She turned and watched him as he talked. He wasdressed as he had been dressed last night, but with a small cloak thrownover his shoulders; he gesticulated freely and easily, pointing out thisand that; now and again his eyes met hers, and there was nothing but agrave merriment in them. .. . Only once or twice his voice softened, as hespoke of those great ones that had shown Catholics how both to die andlive. 

"And now, " he said, "with your permission I will go and speak to theguard, and see if we may have entrance. "

 * * * * *

It was almost with terror that she saw him go--a solitary man, with aprice on his head, straight up to those whose business it was to catchhim--armed men, as she could see--she could even see the quilted jacksthey wore--who, it may be, had talked of him in the guard-room only lastnight. But his air was so assured and so magnificent that even she beganto understand how complete such a disguise might be; and she watched himspeaking with the officer with a touch even of his own humour in herheart. Indeed, there was some truth in the charge of Jesuitry, afterall!

Then the figure turned and beckoned, and they went forward. 

II

A certain horror, in spite of herself and her company, fell on her asshe passed beneath the solid stone vaulting, passed along beneath thetowering wall, turned up from the water-gate, and came out into the widecourt round which the Lieutenant's lodgings, the little church, and theenormous White Tower itself are grouped. There was a space, not enclosedin any way, but situated within a web of paths, not far from the church, that caught her attention. She stood looking at it. 

"Yes, mistress, " said the priest behind her. "That is the place ofexecution for those who die within the Tower--those usually of royalblood. My Lady Salisbury died there, and my Lady Jane Grey, and others. "

He laid his hand gently on her arm. 

"You must not look so grave, " he said, "you must gape more. You are acountry-cousin, madam. "

And she smiled in spite of herself, as she met his eyes. 

"Tell me everything, " she said. 

They went together nearer to the church, and faced about. 

"We can see better from here, " he said. Then he began. 

First there was the Lieutenant's lodging on the right. They must lookwell at that. Interviews had taken place there that had made history. (He mentioned a few names. ) Then, further down on the right, beyond thatcorner round which they had come just now, was the famous water-gate, called "Traitors' Gate, " through which passed those convicted of treasonat Westminster, or, at least, those who were under grave suspicion. Suchas these came, of course, by water, as prisoners on whose behalf ademonstration might perhaps be made if they came by land. So, at least, he understood was the reason of the custom. 

"Her Grace herself once came that way, " he said with a twinkle. "Now shesends other folks in her stead. "

Then he pointed out more clearly the White Tower. It was there that theCouncil sat on affairs of importance. 

"And it is there--" began Anthony harshly. 

The priest turned to him, suddenly grave, as if in reproof. 

"Yes, " he said softly. "It is there that the passion of the martyrsbegins. "

Marjorie turned sharply. 

"You mean--"

"Well, " he said, "it is there that the Council sits to examine prisonersboth before and after the Question. They are taken downstairs to theQuestion, and brought back again after it. It was there that--"

He broke off. 

"Who is this?" he said. 

The court had been empty while they talked except that on the far side, beneath the towering cliff of the keep, a sentry went to and fro. Butnow another man had come into view, walking up from the way theythemselves had come; and it would appear from the direction he took thathe would pass within twenty or thirty yards of them. He was a tall man, dressed in sad-coloured clothes, with a felt hat on his head and theusual sword by his side. He was plainly something of a personage, for hewalked easily and confidently. He was still some distance off; but itwas possible to make out that he was sallowish in complexion, wore atrimmed beard, and had something of a long throat. 

Father Campion stared at him a moment, and, as he stared, Marjorie heardMr. Babington utter a sudden exclamation. Then the priest, with onequick glance at him, murmured something which Marjorie could not hear, and walked briskly off to meet the stranger. 

"Come, " said Anthony in a sharp, low voice, "we must see the church. "

"Who is it?" whispered Mistress Alice, with even her serene face alittle troubled. 

For the first moment, as they walked towards the entrance of the church, Anthony said nothing. Then as they reached it, he said, in a tone quitelow and yet full of suppressed passion of some kind, a name thatMarjorie could not catch. 

She turned before they went in, and looked again. 

The priest was talking to the stranger, and was making gestures, as ifasking for direction. 

"Who is it, Mr. Babington?" she asked again as they went in. "I didnot--"

"Topcliffe, " said Anthony. 

III

The horror was still on the girl, as they went, an hour later, up theebbing tide towards Westminster, in a boat rowed by a waterman and oneof their own servants. About them was a scene, of which the verythought, a month ago, would have absorbed and fascinated her. They hadscarcely passed through London Bridge finding themselves just in timebefore the fall of the water would have hindered their passage, leavingout of sight the grey sunlit heap of buildings from which they had come. All about them the river was gay with shipping. Wherries, like clumsywater-beetles, lurched along out of the current, or slipped out suddenlyto make their way across from one stairs to another; a great barge, coming down-stream, grew larger every instant, its prow bright withgilding, and the throb of the twelve oars in the row-locks coming tothem like the grunting of a beast. On either side of the broad streamrose the houses and the churches, those on this side visible down totheir shining window-panes in the sunlight, and the very texture oftheir tiled roofs; those on the other a mere huddle of countless wallsand gables, in the shadow; and between them showed the leafless trees, stretches of green meadow, across which moved tiny figures, and thebrown flats of the marshes beyond, broken here and there by outlyingvillages a mile or two away. Behind them now towered the great buildingson London Bridge--the chapel, the houses, the old gateway on the southend, above which the impaled heads of traitors stood out against thebright sky. It was a tolerable crop just now, the priest had said, bitterly smiling. But, above all else, as the boat moved up, Marjoriekept her eyes fixed on far-off Westminster, on the grey towers and thewhite walls where Elizabeth reigned and Saint Edward slept; while withinher mind, clear as a picture, she saw still the empty court, as she hadseen it when the priest fetched them out again from the church--empty atlast of the hateful presence which he had faced so confidently. 

 * * * * *

"It appeared to me best to speak with him openly, " said the priestquietly, as they had waited ten minutes later on the wharf outside theTower, while the men ran to make ready their boat. "I do not know why, but I suppose I am one of those who better like their danger in frontthan behind. I knew him at once; I have had him pointed out to me two orthree times before. So I looked him in the eyes, and asked him whethersome ladies from the country might be permitted to see the White Tower, and to whom we had best apply. He told me that was not his affair, andlooked me up and down as he said it. And then he went his way to . .. TheWhite Tower, where I doubt not he had business. "

"He said no more?" asked Anthony. 

"No, he said no more. But I shall know him again better next time, andhe me. "

 * * * * *

It seemed of evil omen to the girl that she should have had such anencounter on the day that Robin came back. Like all persons who dwellmuch in the country, a world that was neither that of the flesh nor yetof the spirit was that in which she largely moved--a world of strangelaws, and auspices, and this answering to this and that to that. It is astate inconceivable to those who live in the noise and movement oftown--who find town-life, that is, the life in which they are most atease. For where men have made the earth that is trodden underfoot, andhave largely veiled the heavens themselves, it is but natural that theyshould think that they have made everything, and that it is they whorule it. 

As they drew nearer Westminster then, it was with Marjorie as it hadbeen when they came to the Tower. The priest was busy pointing out thisor that building--the Palace towers, the Hall, the Abbey behind, and St. Margaret's Church, as well as the smaller buildings of the Court, andthe little town that lay round about. But she listened as she listenedto the noise that came from the streets clear across the water, attending to it, yet scarcely distinguishing one thing from another, andforgetting each as soon as she heard it. She was thinking all the whileof Robin, and of the man whose face she had seen, of his beard and hislong throat. Well, at least, Robin was not yet a priest. .. . 

 * * * * *

The boat was already nearing the King's Stairs at Westminster, when anew event happened that for a while distracted her. 

The first they saw of it was the sight of a number of men and womenrunning in a disorderly mob, calling out as they ran, along theriver-bank in the direction from Charing Old Cross towards Palace Yard. They appeared excited, but not by fear; and it was plain that somethingwas taking place of which they wished to have a sight. As the prieststood up in the boat in order to have a clearer sight of what lay abovethe bank, three or four trumpet-calls of a peculiar melody, rang outclear and distinct, echoed back by the walls round about, plainlyaudible above the rising noise of a crowd that, it seemed, must begathering out of sight. The priest sat down again and his face wasmerry. 

"You have come on a fortunate day, mistress, " he said to Marjorie. "First Topcliffe, and now her Grace; if we make haste we may see herpass by. "

"Her Grace?"

"She will be going to dinner in Whitehall, after having taken the airby the river. They will be passing the Abbey now. But she will not be inher supreme state; I am sorry for that. "

 * * * * *

As they rowed in quickly over the last hundred yards that lay betweenthem and the stairs, Marjorie listened to the priest as he describedsomething of what the "supreme state" signified. He spoke of the longlines of carriages, filled with the ladies and the infirm, preceded bythe pikemen, and the gentlemen pensioners carrying wands, and theknights followed by the heralds. Behind these, he said, came theofficers of State immediately before the Queen's carriage, and after herthe guards of her person. 

"But this will be but a tame affair, " he said. "I wish you could haveseen a Progress, with the arches and the speeches and the declamations, and the heathen gods and goddesses that reign round our Eliza, when shewill go to Ashridge or Havering. I have heard it said--"

And then the prow of the boat, turned deftly at the last instant, gratedalong the lowest stair, and the waterman was out to steady his craft. 

IV

It was the very crown and summit of new sensation that Marjorie attainedas she stood in an open gallery that looked on to the road fromWestminster to Whitehall. Father Campion, speaking of a "good friend" ofhis that had his lodgings there, led them by a short turning or two, that avoided the crowd, straight to the door of what appeared toMarjorie a mere warren of rooms, stairs and passages. A grave littleman, with a pen behind his ear, ran out upon their knocking at one ofthese doors, and led them straight through, smiling and talking, outinto this very gallery where they now stood; and then vanished again. 

The gallery was such as those which Marjorie had noted on the way to theTower; a high-hung, airy place, running the length of the house, contrived on the level of the second floor, with the first floor roofbeneath and overhanging attics above. It was supported on massive oakbeams, and protected from the street by a low balustrade of a height tolean the elbows upon it. It was on this balustrade that Marjorie leaned, looking down into the street. 

To the left the narrow roadway curved off out of sight in the directionof Palace Yard; on the right she could make out, a hundred yards away, some kind of a gateway, that strode across the street, and gave access, she supposed, to the Palace. Opposite, the windows were filled withfaces, and an enthusiastic loyalist was leaning, red-faced andvociferous, calling to a friend in the crowd beneath, from a gallerycorresponding to that from which the girl was looking. 

Of the procession nothing was at present to be seen. They had caught aglimpse of colour somewhere to the east of the Abbey as they turned offopposite Westminster Hall; and already the cry of the trumpets and theincreasing noise of a crowd out of sight, told the listeners that theywould not have long to wait. 

Beneath, the crowd was arranging itself with admirable discipline, dispersing in long lines two or three deep against the walls, so as toleave a good space, and laughing good-humouredly at a couple ofofficious persons in livery who had suddenly made their appearance. Andthen, as the country girl herself smiled down, an exclamation from Alicemade her turn. 

At first it was difficult to discern anything clearly in the streamwhose head began to discharge itself round the curve from the left. Arow of brightly-coloured uniforms, moving four abreast, came first, visible above the tossing heads of horses. Then followed a group ofguards, whose steel caps passed suddenly into the sunlight that caughtthem from between the houses, and went again into shadow. 

And then at last, she caught a glimpse of the carriage, followed byladies on grey horses; and forgot all the rest. 

This way and that she craned her head, gripping the oak post by whichshe leaned, unconscious of all except that she was to see her in whomEngland itself seemed to have been incarnated--the woman who, as perhapsno other earthly sovereign in the world at that time, or before her, hadher people in a grasp that was not one of merely regal power. Even faraway in Derbyshire--even in the little country manor from which the girlcame, the aroma of that tremendous presence penetrated--of the womanwhom men loved to hail as the Virgin Queen, even though they mightquestion her virginity; the woman--"our Eliza, " as the priest had namedher just now--who had made so shrewd an act of faith in her people thatthey had responded with an unreserved act of love. It was this woman, then, whom she was about to see; the sister of Mary and Edward, thedaughter of Henry and Anne Boleyn, who had received her kingdomCatholic, and by her own mere might had chosen to make it Protestant;the woman whose anointed hands were already red in the blood of God'sservants, yet hands which men fainted as they kissed. .. . 

Then on a sudden, as Elizabeth lifted her head this side and that, thegirl saw her. 

She was sitting in a low carriage, raised on cushions, alone. Four tallhorses drew her at a slow trot: the wheels of the carriage were deep inmud, since she had driven for an hour over the deep December roads; butthis added rather to the splendour within. But of this Marjorieremembered no more than an uncertain glimpse. The air was thick withcries; from window after window waved hands; and, more than all, theloyalty was real, and filled the air like brave music. 

There, then, she sat, smiling. 

She was dressed in some splendid stuff; jewels sparkled beneath herthroat. Once a hand in an embroidered glove rose to wave an answer tothe roar of salute; and, as the carriage came beneath, she raised herface. 

It was a thin face, sharply pear-shaped, ending in a pointed chin; atight mouth smiled at the corners; above her narrow eyes and high browsrose a high forehead, surmounted by strands of auburn hair drawn backtightly beneath the little head-dress. It was a strangely peaked face, very clear-skinned, and resembled in some manner a mask. But the look ofit was as sharp as steel; like a slender rapier, fragile and thin, yetkeen enough to run a man through. The power of it, in a word, was out ofall measure with the slightness of the face. .. . Then the face dropped;and Marjorie watched the back of the head bending this way and that, till the nodding heads that followed hid it from sight. 

Marjorie drew a deep breath and turned. The faces of her friends were aspale and intent as her own. Only the priest was as easy as ever. 

"So that is our Eliza, " he said. 

Then he did a strange thing. 

He lifted his cap once more with grave seriousness. "God save herGrace!" he said. 

CHAPTER IV

I

Robin bowed to her very carefully, and stood upright again. 

 * * * * *

She had seen in an instant how changed he was, in that swift instant inwhich her eyes had singled him out from the little crowd of men that hadcome into the room with Anthony at their head. It was a change which shecould scarcely have put into words, unless she had said that it was theconception of the Levite within his soul. He was dressed soberly andrichly, with a sword at his side, in great riding-boots splashed to theknees with mud, with his cloak thrown back; and he carried his greatbrimmed hat in his hand. All this was as it might have been in Derby, though, perhaps, his dress was a shade more dignified than that in whichshe had ever seen him. But the change was in his face and bearing; hebore himself like a man, and a restrained man; and there was besidesthat subtle air which her woman's eyes could see, but which even herwoman's wit could not properly describe. 

She made room for him to sit beside her; and then Father Campion's voicespoke:

"These are the gentlemen, then, " he said. "And two more are not yetcome. Gentlemen--" he bowed. "And which is Captain Fortescue?"

A big man, distinguished from the rest by a slightly military air, andby a certain vividness of costume and a bristling feather in his hat, bowed back to him. 

"We have met once before, Mr. --Mr. Edmonds, " he said. "At Valladolid. "

Father Campion smiled. 

"Yes, sir; for five or ten minutes; and I was in the same room with yourhonour once at the Duke of Guise's. .. . And now, sir, who are the rest ofyour company?"

The others were named one by one; and Marjorie eyed each of themcarefully. It was her business to know them again if ever they shouldmeet in the north; and for a few minutes the company moved here andthere, bowing and saluting, and taking their seats. There were still acouple of men who were not yet come; but these two arrived a few minuteslater; and it was not until she had said a word or two to them all, andFather Campion had named her and her good works, to them, that she foundherself back again with Robin in a seat a little apart. 

"You look very well, " she said, with an admirable composure. 

His eyes twinkled. 

"I am as weary as a man can be, " he said. "We have ridden since beforedawn. .. . And you, and your good works?"

Marjorie explained, describing to him something of the system by whichpriests were safeguarded now in the north--the districts into which thecounty was divided, and the apportioning of the responsibilities amongthe faithful houses. It was her business, she said, to receive messagesand to pass them on; she had entertained perhaps a dozen priests sincethe summer; perhaps she would entertain him, too, one day, she said. 

 * * * * *

The ordeal was far lighter than she had feared it would be. There was astrong undercurrent of excitement in her heart, flushing her cheeks andsparkling in her eyes; yet never for one moment was she even tempted toforget that he was now vowed to God. It seemed to her as if she talkedwith him in the spirit of that place where there is neither marrying norgiving in marriage. Those two years of quiet in the north, occupied, even more than she recognised, in the rearranging of her relations withthe memory of this young man, had done their work. She still kindled athis presence; but it was at the presence of one who had undertaken anadventure that destroyed altogether her old relations with him. .. . Shewas enkindled even more by the sense of her own security; and, as shelooked at him, by the sense of his security too. Robin was gone; here, instead, was young Mr. Audrey, seminary student, who even in a court oflaw could swear before God that he was not a priest, nor had been"ordained beyond the seas. "

So they sat and exchanged news. She told him of the rumours of hisfather that had come to her from time to time; he would be a magistrateyet, it was said, so hot was his loyalty. Even her Grace, it wasreported, had vowed she wished she had a thousand such country gentlemenon whose faithfulness she could depend. And Robin gave her news of theseminary, of the hours of rising and sleeping, of the sports there; ofthe confessors for the faith who came and went; of Dr. Allen. He toldher, too, of Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam; he often had talked with themof Derbyshire, he said. It was very peaceful and very stirring, too, tosit here in the lighted parlour, and hear and give the news; while thecompany, gathered round Anthony and Father Campion, talked in lowvoices, and Mistress Babington, placid, watched them and listened. Heshowed her, too, Mr. Maine's beads which she had given him so long ago, hung in a little packet round his neck. 

 * * * * *

More than once, as they talked, Marjorie found herself looking at Mr. Ballard, or, as he was called here, Captain Fortescue. It was he whoseemed the leader of the troop; and, indeed, as Robin told her in awhisper, that was what he was. He came and went frequently, he said; hismanner and his carriage were reassuring to the suspicious; he appeared, perhaps, the last man in the world to be a priest. He was a big man, ashas been said; and he had a frank assured way with him; he was leaningforward, even now, as she looked at him, and seemed laying down the law, though in what was almost a whisper. Father Campion was watching him, too, she noticed; and, what she had learned of Father Campion in thelast few hours led her to wonder whether there was not something ofdoubtfulness in his opinion of him. 

Father Campion suddenly shook his head sharply. 

"I am not of that view at all, " he said. "I--"

And once more his voice sank so low as to be inaudible; as the restleaned closer about him. 

II

Mr. Anthony Babington seemed silent and even a little displeased when, half an hour later, the visitors were all gone downstairs to supper. Three or four of them were to sleep in the house; the rest, of whomRobin was one, had Captain Fortescue's instructions as to where lodgingswere prepared. But the whole company was tired out with the long ridefrom the coast, and would be seen no more that night. 

 * * * * *

Marjorie knew enough of the divisions of opinion among Catholics, and ofMr. Babington in particular, to have a general view as to why hercompanion was displeased; but more than that she did not know, nor whatpoint in particular it was on which the argument had run. The oneparty--of Mr. Babington's kind--held that Catholics were, morally, in astate of war. War had been declared upon them, without justification, by the secular authorities, and physical instruments, includingpursuivants and the rack, were employed against them. Then why shouldnot they, too, employ the same kind of instruments, if they could, inreturn? The second party held that a religious persecution could not beheld to constitute a state of war; the Apostles Peter and Paul, forexample, not only did not employ the arm of flesh against the RomanEmpire, but actually repudiated it. And this party further held thateven the Pope's bull, relieving Elizabeth's subjects from theirallegiance, did so only in an interior sense--in such a manner thatwhile they must still regard her personal and individual rights--suchrights as any human being possessed--they were not bound to renderinterior loyalty to her as their Queen, and need not, for example(though they were not forbidden to do so), regard it as a duty to fightfor her, in the event, let us say, of an armed invasion from Spain. 

There, then, was the situation; and Mr. Anthony had, plainly, crossedswords this evening on the point. 

"The Jesuit is too simple, " he said suddenly, as he strode about. "Ithink--" He broke off. 

His sister smiled upon him placidly. 

"You are too hot, Anthony, " she said. 

The man turned sharply towards her. 

"All the praying in the world, " he said, "has not saved us so far. Itseems to me time--"

"Perhaps our Lord would not have us saved, " she said; "as you mean it. "

III

It was not until Christmas Eve that Marjorie went to St. Paul's, for allthat it was so close. But the days were taken up with the visitors; ahundred matters had to be arranged; for it was decided that before theNew Year all were to be dispersed. Captain Fortescue and Robin were toleave again for the Continent on the day following Christmas Day itself. 

Marjorie made acquaintance during these days with more than onemeeting-place of the Catholics in London. One was a quiet little housenear St. Bartholomew's-the-Great, where a widow had three or four setsof lodgings, occupied frequently by priests and by other Catholics, whowere best out of sight; and it was here that mass was to be said onChristmas Day. Another was in the Spanish Embassy; and here, to her joy, she looked openly upon a chapel of her faith, and from the galleryadored her Lord in the tabernacle. But even this was accomplished withan air of uneasiness in those round her; the Spanish priest who tookthem in walked quickly and interrupted them before they were done, andseemed glad to see the last of them. It was explained to Marjorie thatthe ambassador did not wish to give causeless offence to the Protestantcourt. 

And now, on Christmas Eve, Robin, Anthony and the two ladies entered theCathedral as dusk was falling--first passing through the burial-ground, over the wall of which leaned the rows of houses in whose windows lightswere beginning to burn. 

The very dimness of the air made the enormous heights of the greatchurch more impressive. Before them stretched the long nave, over sevenhundred feet from end to end; from floor to roof the eye travelled upthe bunches of slender pillars to the dark ceiling, newly restored afterthe fire, a hundred and fifty feet. The tall windows on either side, andthe clerestory lights above, glimmered faintly in the darkening light. 

But to the Catholic eyes that looked on it the desolation was moreapparent than the splendour. There were plenty of people here, indeed:groups moved up and down, talking, directing themselves more and moretowards the exits, as the night was coming on and the church would beclosed presently; in one aisle a man was talking aloud, as if lecturing, with a crowd of heads about him. In another a number of soberly dressedmen were putting up their papers and ink on the little tables that stoodin a row--this was Scriveners' Corner, she was told; from a third half adozen persons were dejectedly moving away--these were servants that hadwaited to be hired. But the soul of the place was gone. When they cameout into the transepts, Anthony stopped them with a gesture, while acouple of porters, carrying boxes on their heads, pushed by, on theirshort cut through the cathedral. 

"It was there, " he said, "that the altars stood. "

He pointed between the pillars on either side, and there, up littleraised steps, lay the floors of the chapels. But within all was empty, except for a tomb or two, some tattered colours and the _piscinæ_ stillin place. Where the altars had stood there were blank spaces of wall;piled up in one such place were rows of wooden seats set there for wantof room. 

Opposite the entrance to the choir, where once overhead had hung thegreat Rood, the four stood and looked in, through a gap which the masonswere mending in the high wall that had bricked off the chancel from thenave. On either side, as of old, still rose up the towering carvenstalls; the splendid pavement still shone beneath, refracting back fromits surface the glimmer of light from the stained windows above; but thehead of the body was gone. Somewhere, beneath the deep shadowed altarscreen, they could make out an erection that might have been an altar, only they knew that it was not. It was no longer the Stone ofSacrifice, whence the smoke of the mystical Calvary ascended day byday: it was the table, and no more, where bread and wine were eaten anddrunk in memory of an event whose deathless energy had ceased, in thisplace, at least, to operate. Yet it was here, thought Marjorie, thatonly forty years ago, scarcely more than twenty years before she wasborn, on this very Night, the great church had hummed and vibrated withlife. Round all the walls had sat priests, each in his place; and besideeach kneeled a penitent, making ready for the joy of Bethlehem onceagain--wise and simple--Shepherds and Magi--yet all simple before thebaffling and entrancing Mystery. There had been footsteps and voicesthere too--yet of men who were busy upon their Father's affairs in theirFather's house, and not upon their own. They were going from altar toaltar, speaking with their Friends at Court; and here, opposite whereshe stood and peeped in the empty cold darkness, there had burned lightsbefore the Throne of Him Who had made Heaven and earth, and did HisFather's Will on earth as it was done in Heaven. .. . Forty years ago thelife of this church was rising on this very night, with a hum as of anapproaching multitude, from hour to hour, brightening and quickening asit came, up to the glory of the Midnight Mass, the crowded church, alight from end to end, the smell of bog and bay in the air, soon to bemet and crowned by the savour of incense-smoke; and the world of spirit, too, quickened about them; and the angels (she thought) came down fromHeaven, as men up from the City round about, to greet Him who is King ofboth angels and men. 

And now, in this new England, the church, empty of the Divine Presence, was emptying, too, of its human visitors. She could hear great doorssomewhere crash together, and the reverberation roll beneath the stonevaulting. It would empty soon, desolate and dark; and so it would beall night. .. . Why did not the very stones cry out?

Mistress Alice touched her on the arm. 

"We must be going, " she said. "They are closing the church. "

IV

She had a long talk with Robin on Christmas night. 

The day had passed, making strange impressions on her, which she couldnot understand. Partly it was the contrast between the homelyassociations of the Feast, begun, as it was for her, with the massbefore dawn--the room at the top of the widow's house was crowded allthe while she was there--between these associations and theunfamiliarity of the place. She had felt curiously apart from all thatshe saw that day in the streets--the patrolling groups, the singers, themonstrous-headed mummers (of whom companies went about all day), two orthree glimpses of important City festivities, the garlands thatdecorated many of the houses. It seemed to her as a shadow-show withoutsense or meaning, since the heart of Christmas was gone. Partly, too, nodoubt, it was the memory of a former Christmas, three years ago, whenshe had begun to understand that Robin loved her. And he was with heragain; yet all that he had stood for, to her, was gone, and anothersignificance had taken its place. He was nearer to her heart, in onemanner, though utterly removed, in another. It was as when a friend wasdead: his familiar presence is gone; but now that one physical barrieris vanished, his presence is there, closer than ever, though in anotherfashion. .. . 

 * * * * *

Robin had come in to sup. Captain Fortescue would fetch him about nineo'clock, and the two were to ride for the coast before dawn. 

The four sat quiet after supper, speaking in subdued voices, of hopesfor the future, when England should be besieged, indeed, by thespiritual forces that were gathering overseas; but they slippedgradually into talk of the past and of Derbyshire, and of rides theyremembered. Then, after a while, Anthony was called away; Mistress Alicemoved back to the table to see her needlework the better, and Robin andMarjorie sat together by the fire. 

 * * * * *

He told her again of the journey from Rheims, of the inns where theylodged, of the extraordinary care that was taken, even in that Catholicland, that no rumour of the nature of the party should slip out, lestsome gossip precede them or even follow them to the coast of England. They carried themselves even there, he said, as ordinary gentlementravelling together; two of them were supposed to be lawyers; he himselfpassed as Mr. Ballard's servant. They heard mass when they could in thelarger towns, but even then not all together. 

The landing in England had been easier, he said, than he had thought, though he had learned afterwards that a helpful young man, who hadoffered to show him to an inn in Folkestone, and in whose presence Mr. Ballard had taken care to give him a good rating for dropping abag--with loud oaths--was a well-known informer. However, no harm wasdone: Mr. Ballard's admirable bearing, and his oaths in particular, hadseemed to satisfy the young man, and he had troubled them no more. 

Marjorie did not say much. She listened with a fierce attention, so muchinterested that she was scarcely aware of her own interest; she lookedup, half betrayed into annoyance, when a placid laugh from MistressAlice at the table showed that another was listening too. 

She too, then, had to give her news, and to receive messages for theDerbyshire folk whom Robin wished to greet; and it was not untilMistress Alice slipped out of the room that she uttered a word of whatshe had been hoping all day she might have an opportunity to say. 

"Mr. Audrey, " she said (for she was careful to use this form ofaddress), "I wish you to pray for me. I do not know what to do. "

He was silent. 

"At present, " she said, gathering courage, "my duty is clear. I must beat home, for my mother's sake, if for nothing else. And, as I told you, I think I shall be able to do something for priests. But if my motherdied--"

"Yes?" he said, as she stopped again. 

She glanced up at his serious, deep-eyed face, half in shadow and halfin light, so familiar, and yet so utterly apart from the boy she hadknown. 

"Well, " she said, "I think of you as a priest already, and I can speakto you freely. .. . Well, I am not sure whether I, too, shall not gooverseas, to serve God better. "

"You mean--"

"Yes. A dozen or more are gone from Derbyshire, whose names I know. Someare gone to Bruges; two or three to Rome; two or three more to Spain. Wewomen cannot do what priests can, but, at least, we can serve God inReligion. "

She looked at him again, expecting an answer. She saw him move his head, as if to answer. Then he smiled suddenly. 

"Well, however you look at me, I am not a priest. .. . You had best speakto one--Father Campion or another. "

"But--"

"And I will pray for you, " he said with an air of finality. 

Then Mistress Alice came back. 

 * * * * *

She never forgot, all her life long, the little scene that took placewhen Captain Fortescue came in with Mr. Babington, to fetch Robin away. Yet the whole of its vividness rose from its interior significance. Externally here was a quiet parlour; two ladies--for the girl afterwardsseemed to see herself in the picture--stood by the fireplace; MistressAlice still held her needlework gathered up in one hand, and her spoolsof thread and a pin-cushion lay on the polished table. And the twogentlemen--for Captain Fortescue would not sit down, and Robin had risenat his entrance--the two gentlemen stood by it. They were not in theirboots, for they were not to ride till morning; they appeared twoordinary gentlemen, each hat-in-hand, and Robin had his cloak across hisarm. Anthony Babington stood in the shadow by the door, and, beyond him, the girl could see the face of Dick, who had come up to say good-byeagain to his old master. 

That was all--four men and two ladies. None raised his voice, none madea gesture. The home party spoke of the journey, and of their hopes thatall would go well; the travellers, or rather the leader (for Robin spokenot one word, good or bad), said that he was sure it would be so; therewas not one-tenth of the difficulty in getting out of England as ofgetting into it. Then, again, he said that it was late; that he hadstill one or two matters to arrange; that they must be out of London assoon as the gates opened. And the scene ended. 

Robin bowed to the two ladies, precisely and courteously; making nodifference between them, and wheeled and went out, and she saw Dick'sface, too, vanish from the door, and heard the voices of the two on thestairs. Marjorie returned the salute of Mr. Ballard, longing to entreathim to take good care of the boy, yet knowing that she must not andcould not. 

Then he, too, was gone, with Anthony to see him downstairs; andMarjorie, without a word, went straight through to her room, fearing totrust her own voice, for she felt that her heart was gone with them. Yet, not for one moment did even her sensitive soul distrust any morethe nature of the love that she bore to the lad. 

But Mistress Alice sat down again to her sewing. 

CHAPTER V

I

Marjorie was sitting in her mother's room, while her mother slept. Shehad been reading aloud from a bundle of letters--news from Rheims; butlittle by little she had seen sleep come down on her mother's face, andhad let her voice trail away into silence. And so she sat quiet. 

 * * * * *

It seemed incredible that nearly a year had passed since her visit toLondon, and that Christmas was upon them again. Yet in this remotecountry place there was little to make time run slowly: the country-sidewheeled gently through the courses of the year; the trees put on theirgreen robes, changed them for russet and dropped them again; the dogsand the horses grew a little older, a beast died now and again, andothers were born. The faces that she knew, servants and farmers, agedimperceptibly. Here and there a family moved away, and another into itsplace; an old man died and his son succeeded him, but the mother andsisters lived on in the house in patriarchal fashion. Priests came andwent again unobserved; Marjorie went to the sacraments when she could, and said her prayers always. But letters came more frequently than everto the little remote manor, carried now by some farm-servant, now leftby strangers, now presented as credentials; and Booth's Edge becameknown in that underworld of the north, which finds no record in history, as a safe place for folks in trouble for their faith. For one wholemonth in the summer there had been a visitor at the house--a cousin ofold Mr. Manners, it was understood; and, except for the Catholics inthe place, not a soul knew him for a priest, against whom the hue andcry still raged in York. 

Derbyshire, indeed, had done well for the old Religion. Man after manwent in these years southwards and was heard of no more, till there cameback one day a gentleman riding alone, or with his servant; and itbecame known that one more Derbyshire man was come again to his ownplace to minister to God's people. Mr. Ralph Sherwine was one of them;Mr. Christopher Buxton another; and Mr. Ludlam and Mr. Garlick, it wasrumoured, would not be long now. .. . And there had been a wonderfulcessation of trouble, too. Not a priest had suffered since the two, thenews of whose death she had heard two years ago. 

 * * * * *

Marjorie, then, sitting quiet over the fire that burned now all thewinter in her mother's room, was thinking over these things. 

She had had more news from London from time to time, sent on to herchiefly by Mr. Babington, though none had come to her since the summer, and she had singled out in particular all that bore upon Father Campion. There was no doubt that the hunt was hotter every month; yet he seemedto bear a charmed life. Once he had escaped, she had heard, through thequick wit of a servant-maid, who had pushed him suddenly into ahorse-pond, as the officers actually came in sight, so that he came outall mud and water-weed; and had been jeered at for a clumsy lover by thevery men who were on his trail. .. . Marjorie smiled to herself as shenursed her knee over the fire, and remembered his gaiety and sharpness. 

Robin, too, was never very far from her thoughts. In some manner she putthe two together in her mind. She wondered whether they would evertravel together. It was her hope that her old friend might becomeanother Campion himself some day. 

A log rolled from its place in the fire, scattering sparks. She stoopedto put it back, glancing first at the bed to see if her mother weredisturbed; and, as she sat back again, she heard the blowing of a horseand a man's voice, fierce and low, from beyond the windows, bidding thebeast hold himself up. 

She was accustomed now to such arrivals. They came and went like this, often without warning; it was her business to look at any credentialsthey bore with them, and then, if all were well, to do what shecould-whether to set them on their way, or to give them shelter. A roomwas set aside now, in the further wing, and called openly and freely the"priest's room, "--so great was their security. 

She got up from her seat and went out quickly on tiptoe as she heard adoor open and close beneath her in the house, running over in her mindany preparations that she would have to make if the rider were one thatneeded shelter. 

As she looked down the staircase, she saw a maid there, who had run outfrom the buttery, talking to a man whom she thought she knew. Then helifted his face, and she saw that she was right: and that it was Mr. Babington. 

She came down, reassured and smiling; but her breath caught in herthroat as she saw his face. .. . She told the maid to be off and getsupper ready, but he jerked his head in refusal. She saw that he couldhardly speak. Then she led him into the hall, taking down the lanternthat hung in the passage, and placing it on the table. But her handshook in spite of herself. 

"Tell me, " she whispered. 

He sat down heavily on a bench. 

"It is all over, " he said. "The bloody murderers!. .. They were gibbetedthree days ago. "

The girl drew a long, steady breath. All her heart cried "Robin. "

"Who are they, Mr. Babington?"

"Why, Campion and Sherwine and Brian. They were taken a month or twoago. .. . I had heard not a word of it, and . .. And it ended three daysago. "

"I . .. I do not understand. "

The man struck his hand heavily on the long table against which heleaned. He appeared one flame of fury; courtesy and gentleness were allgone from him. 

"They were hanged for treason, I tell you. .. . Treason! . .. Campion!. .. By God! we will give them treason if they will have it so!"

All seemed gone from Marjorie except the white, splashed face thatstared at her, lighted up by the lantern beside him, glaring from thebackground of darkness. It was not Robin . .. Not Robin . .. Yet--

The shocking agony of her face broke through the man's heart-brokenfury, and he stood up quickly. 

"Mistress Marjorie, " he said, "forgive me. .. . I am like a madman. I amon my way from Derby, where the news came to me this afternoon. I turnedaside to tell you. They say the truce, as they call it, is at an end. Icame to warn you. You must be careful. I am riding for London. My menare in the valley. Mistress Marjorie--"

She waved him aside. The blood was beginning again to beat swiftly anddeafeningly in her ears, and the word came back. 

"I . .. I was shocked, " she said; ". .. You must pardon me. .. . Is itcertain?"

He tore out a bundle of papers from behind his cloak, detached one withshaking hands and thrust it before her. 

She sat down and spread it on the table. But his voice broke in andinterrupted her all the while. 

"They were all three taken together, in the summer. .. . I . .. Have beenin France; my letters never reached me. .. . They were rackedcontinually. .. . They died all together; praying for the Queen . .. AtTyburn. .. . Campion died the first. .. . "

She pushed the paper from her; the close handwriting was no more to herthan black marks on the paper. She passed her hands over her foreheadand eyes. 

"Mistress Marjorie, you look like death. See, I will leave the paperwith you. It is from one of my friends who was there. .. . "

The door was pushed open, and the servant came in, bearing a tray. 

"Set it down, " said Marjorie, as coolly as if death and horror were asfar from her as an hour ago. 

She nodded sharply to the maid, who went out again; then she rose andspread the food within the man's reach. He began to eat and drink, talking all the time. 

 * * * * *

As she sat and watched him and listened, remembering afterwards, as ifmechanically, all that he said, she was contemplating something else. She seemed to see Campion, not as he had been three days ago, not as hewas now . .. But as she had seen him in London--alert, brisk, quick. Eventhe tones of his voice were with her, and the swift merry look in hiseyes. .. . Somewhere on the outskirts of her thought there hung otherpresences: the darkness, the blood, the smoking cauldron. .. . Oh! shewould have to face these presently; she would go through this night, sheknew, looking at all their terror. But just now let her remember him ashe had been; let her keep off all other thoughts so long as shecould. .. . 

II

When she had heard the horse's footsteps scramble down the little steepascent in the dark, and then pass into silence on the turf beyond, sheclosed the outer door, barred it once more, and then went back straightinto the hall, where the lantern still burned among the plates. Shedared not face her mother yet; she must learn how far she still heldcontrol of herself; for her mother must not hear the news: theapothecary from Derby who had ridden up to see her this week had beenvery emphatic. So the girl must be as usual. There must be no sign ofdiscomposure. To-night, at least, she would keep her face in the shadow. But her voice? Could she control that too?

After she had sat motionless in the cold hall a minute or two, shetested herself. 

"He is dead, " she said softly. "He is quite dead, and so are the others. They--"

But she could not go on. Great shuddering seized on her; she shook fromhead to foot. .. . 

Later that night Mrs. Manners awoke. She tried to move her head, but thepain was shocking, and still half asleep, she moaned aloud. 

Then the curtains moved softly, and she could see that a face waslooking at her. 

"Margy! Is that you?"

"Yes, mother. "

"Move my head; move my head. I cannot bear--"

She felt herself lifted gently and strongly. The struggle and the painexhausted her for a minute, and she lay breathing deeply. Then the easeof the shifted position soothed her. 

"I cannot see your face, " she said. "Where is the light?"

The face disappeared, and immediately, through the curtains, the mothersaw the light. But still she could not see the girl's face. She said sopeevishly. 

"It will weary your eyes. Lie still, mother, and go to sleep again. "

"What time is it?"

"I do not know. "

"Are you not in bed?"

"Not yet, mother. "

The sick woman moaned again once or twice, but thought no more of it. And presently the deep sleep of sickness came down on her again. 

 * * * * *

They rose early in those days in England; and soon after six o'clock, asJanet had seen nothing of her young mistress, she opened the door of thesleeping-room and peeped in. .. . A minute later Marjorie's mind rose upout of black gulfs of sleep, in which, since her falling asleep an houror two ago, she had wandered, bearing an intolerable burden, which shecould neither see nor let fall, to find the rosy-streaked face of Janet, all pinched with cold, peering into her own. She sat up, wide awake, yetwith all her world still swaying about her, and stared into her maid'seyes. 

"What is it? What time is it?"

"It is after six, mistress. And the mistress seems uneasy. I--"

Marjorie sprang up and went to the bed. 

III

On the evening of that day her mother died. 

 * * * * *

There was no priest within reach. A couple of men had ridden out early, dispatched by Marjorie within half an hour of her awaking--to Dethick, to Hathersage, and to every spot within twenty miles where a priestmight be found, with orders not to return without one. But the long dayhad dragged out: and when dusk was falling, still neither had come back. The country was rain-soaked and all but impassable, she learned later, across valley after valley, where the streams had risen. And nowherecould news be gained that any priest was near; for, as a furtherdifficulty, open inquiry was not always possible, in view of the newsthat had come to Booth's Edge last night. The girl had understood thatthe embers were rising again to flame in the south; and who could tellbut that a careless word might kindle the fire here, too. She had beenurged by Anthony to hold herself more careful than ever, and she hadbeen compelled to warn her messengers. 

 * * * * *

It was soon after dusk had fallen--the heavy dusk of a Decemberday--that her mother had come back again to consciousness. She openedher eyes wearily, coming back, as Marjorie had herself that morning, from that strange realm of heavy and deathly sleep, to the pale phantomworld called "life"; and agonising pain about the heart stabbed her wideawake. 

"O Jesu!" she screamed. 

Then she heard her daughter's voice, very steady and plain, in her ear. 

"There is no priest, mother dear. Listen to me. "

"I cannot! I cannot!. .. Jesu!"

Her eyes closed again for torment, and the sweat ran down her face. Theslow poison that had weighted and soaked her limbs so gradually thesemany months past, was closing in at last upon her heart, and her painwas gathering to its last assault. The silent, humorous woman waschanged into one twitching, uncontrolled incarnation of torture. 

Then again the voice began:

"Jesu, Who didst die for love of me--upon the Cross--let me die--forlove of Thee. "

"Christ!" moaned the woman more softly. 

"Say it in your heart, after me. There is no priest. So God will acceptyour sorrow instead. Now then--"

Then the old words began--the old acts of sorrow and love and faith andhope, that mother and daughter had said together, night after night, forso many years. Over and over again they came, whispered clear and sharpby the voice in her ear; and she strove to follow them. Now and againthe pain closed its sharp hands upon her heart so cruelly that all thaton which she strove to fix her mind, fled from her like a mist, and shemoaned or screamed, or was silent with her teeth clenched upon her lip. 

"My God--I am very sorry--that I have offended Thee. "

"Why is there no priest?. .. Where is the priest?"

"Mother, dear, listen. I have sent for a priest . .. But none has come. You remember now?. .. You remember that priests are forbidden now--"

"Where is the priest?"

"Mother, dear. Three priests were put to death only three days ago inLondon--for . .. For being priests. Ask them to pray for you. .. . Say, Edmund Campion pray for me. Perhaps . .. Perhaps--"

The girl's voice died away. 

For, for a full minute, an extraordinary sensation rested on her. Itbegan with a sudden shiver of the flesh, as sharp and tingling as water, dying away in long thrills amid her hair--that strange advertisementthat tells the flesh that more than flesh is there, and that the worldof spirit is not only present, but alive and energetic. Then, as itpassed, the whole world, too, passed into silence. The curtains thatshook just now hung rigid as sheets of steel; the woman in the bed laysuddenly still, then smiled with closed eyes. The pair of maids, kneeling out of sight beyond the bed, ceased to sob; and, while theseconds went by, as real as any knowledge can be in which the senseshave no part, the certain knowledge deepened upon the girl who knelt, arrested in spite of herself, that a priestly presence was hereindeed. .. . 

Very slowly, as if lifting great weights, she raised her eyes, knowingthat there, across the tumbled bed, where the darkness of the roomshowed between the parted curtains, the Presence was poised. Yet therewas nothing there to see--no tortured, smoke-stained, throttlingface--ah! that could not be--but neither was there the merry, kindlyface, with large cheerful eyes and tender mouth smiling; no hand heldthe curtains that the face might peer in. Neither then nor at any timein all her life did Marjorie believe that she saw him; yet neither thennor in all her life did she doubt he had been there while her motherdied. 

Again her mother smiled--and this time she opened her eyes to the full, and there was no dismay in them, nor fear, nor disappointment; and shelooked a little to her left, where the parted curtains showed thedarkness of the room. .. . 

Then Marjorie closed her eyes, and laid her head on the bed where hermother's body sank back and down into the pillows. Then the girlslipped heavily to the floor, and the maids sprang up screaming. 

IV

It was not till two hours later that Mr. Simpson arrived. He had beenfound at last at Hathersage, only a few miles away, as one of the men, on his return ride, had made one last inquiry before coming home; andthere he ran into the priest himself in the middle of the street. Thepriest had taken the man's horse and pushed on as well as he couldthrough the dark, in the hopes he might yet be in time. 

Marjorie came to him in the parlour downstairs. She nodded her headslowly and gravely. 

"It is over, " she said; and sat down. 

"And there was no priest?"

She said nothing. 

She was in her house-dress, with the hood drawn over her head as it wasa cold night. He was amazed at her look of self-control; he had thoughtto find her either collapsed or strainedly tragic: he had wondered as hecame how he would speak to her, how he would soothe her, and he sawthere was no need. 

She told him presently of the sudden turn for the worse early thatmorning as she herself fell asleep by the bedside; and a little of whathad passed during the day. Then she stopped short as she approached theend. 

"Have you heard the news from London?" she said. "I mean, of our prieststhere?"

His young face grew troubled, and he knit his forehead. 

"They are in ward, " he said; "I heard a week ago. .. . They will banishthem from England--they dare not do more!"

"It is all finished, " she said quietly. 

"What!"

"They were hanged at Tyburn three days ago--the three of them together. "

He drew a hissing breath, and felt the skin of his face tingle. 

"You have heard that?"

"Mr. Babington came to tell me last night. He left a paper with me: Ihave not read it yet. "

He watched her as she drew it out and put it before him. The terror wason him, as once or twice before in his journeyings, or as when the newsof Mr. Nelson's death had reached him--a terror which shamed him to theheart, and which he loathed yet could not overcome. He still stared intoher pale face. Then he took the paper and began to read it. 

 * * * * *

Presently he laid it down again. The sick terror was beginning to pass;or, rather, he was able to grip it; and he said a conventional word ortwo; he could do no more. There was no exultation in his heart; nothingbut misery. And then, in despair, he left the subject. 

"And you, mistress, " he said, "what will you do now? Have you no aunt orfriend--"

"Mistress Alice Babington once said she would come and live with me--if. .. When I needed it. I shall write to her. I do not know what else todo. "

"And you will live here?"

"Why; more than ever!" she said, smiling suddenly. "I can work inearnest now. "

CHAPTER VI

I

It was on a bright evening in the summer that Marjorie, with her maidJanet, came riding down to Padley, and about the same time a young mancame walking up the track that led from Derby. In fact, the young mansaw the two against the skyline and wondered who they were. Further, there was a group of four or five walking on the terrace below thehouse, that saw both the approaching parties, and commented upon theircoming. 

To be precise, there were four persons in the group on the terrace, anda man-servant who hung near. The four were Mr. John FitzHerbert, his sonThomas, his son's wife, and, in the midst, leaning on Mrs. FitzHerbert'sarm, was old Sir Thomas himself, and it was for his sake that theservant was within call, for he was still very sickly after his longimprisonment, in spite of his occasional releases. 

Mr. John saw the visitors first. 

"Why, here is the company all arrived together, " he said. "Now, ifanything hung on that--" his son broke in, uneasily. 

"You are sure of young Owen?" he said. "Our lives will all hang on himafter this. "

His father clapped him gently on the shoulder. 

"Now, now!" he said. "I know him well enough, from my lord. He hath madea dozen such places in this county alone. "

Mr. Thomas glanced swiftly at his uncle. 

"And you have spoken with him, too, uncle?"

The old man turned his melancholy eyes on him. 

"Yes; I have spoken with him, " he said. 

 * * * * *

Five minutes later Marjorie was dismounted, and was with him. Shegreeted old Sir Thomas with particular respect; she had talked with hima year ago when he was first released that he might raise his fines; andshe knew well enough that his liberty was coming to an end. In fact, hewas technically a prisoner even now; and had only been allowed to comefor a week or two from Sir Walter Aston's house before going back againto the Fleet. 

"You are come in good time, " said Sir John, smiling. 

"That is young Owen himself coming up the path. "

There was nothing particularly noticeable about the young man who aminute later was standing before them with his cap in his hand. He wasplainly of the working class; and he had over his shoulder a bag oftools. He was dusty up to the knees with his long tramp. Mr. John gavehim a word of welcome; and then the whole group went slowly togetherback to the house, with the two men following. Sir Thomas stumbled alittle going up the two or three steps into the hall. Then they all satdown together; the servant put a big flagon and a horn tumbler besidethe traveller, and went out, closing the doors. 

"Now, my man, " said Mr. John. "Do you eat and drink while I do thetalking. I understand you are a man of your hands, and that you havebusiness elsewhere. "

"I must be in Lancashire by the end of the week, sir. "

"Very well, then. We have business enough for you, God knows! This isMistress Manners, whom you may have heard of. And after you have lookedat the places we have here--you understand me?--Mistress Manners wantsyou at her house at Booth's Edge. .. . You have any papers?"

Owen leaned back and drew out a paper from his bag of tools. 

"This is from Mr. Fenton, sir. "

Mr. John glanced at the address; then he turned it over and broke theseal. He stared for a moment at the open sheet. 

"Why, it is blank!" he said. 

Owen smiled. He was a grave-looking lad of eighteen or nineteen yearsold; and his face lighted up very pleasantly. 

"I have had that trick played on me before, sir, in my travels. Iunderstand that Catholic gentlemen do so sometimes to try the fidelityof the messenger. "

The other laughed out loud, throwing back his head. 

"Why, that is a poor compliment!" he said. "You shall have a better onefrom us, I have no doubt. "

Mr. Thomas leaned over the table and took the paper. He examined it verycarefully; then he handed it back. His father laughed again as he tookit. 

"You are very cautious, my son, " he said. "But it is wise enough. .. . Well, then, " he went on to the carpenter, "you are willing to do thiswork for us? And as for payment--"

"I ask only my food and lodging, " said the lad quietly; "and enough tocarry me on to the next place. "

"Why--" began the other in a protest. 

"No, sir; no more than that. .. . " He paused an instant. "I hope to beadmitted to the Society of Jesus this year or next. "

There was a pause of astonishment. And then old Sir Thomas' deep voicebroke in. 

"You do very well, sir. I heartily congratulate you. And I would I weretwenty years younger myself. .. . "

II

After supper that night the entire party went upstairs to the chapel. 

Young Hugh Owen even already was beginning to be known among Catholics, for his extraordinary skill in constructing hiding-holes. Up to thepresent not much more had been attempted than little secret recesseswhere the vessels of the altar and the vestments might be concealed. Butthe young carpenter had been ingenious enough in two or three houses towhich he had been called, to enlarge these so considerably that even twoor three men might be sheltered in them; and, now that it seemed as ifthe persecution of recusants was to break out again, the idea began tospread. Mr. John FitzHerbert while in London had heard of his skill, andhad taken means to get at the young man, for his own house at Padley. 

 * * * * *

Owen was already at work when the party came upstairs. He had suppedalone, and, with a servant to guide him, had made the round of thehouse, taking measurements in every possible place. He was seated on thefloor as they came in; three or four panels lay on the ground besidehim, and a heap of plaster and stones. 

He looked up as they came in. 

"This will take me all night, sir, " he said. "And the fire must be putout below. "

He explained his plan. The old hiding-place was but a poor affair; itconsisted of a space large enough for only one man, and was contrived bya section of the wall having been removed, all but the outer row ofstones made thin for the purpose; the entrance to it was through a tallsliding panel on the inside of the chapel. Its extreme weakness as ahiding-hole lay in the fact that anyone striking on the panel could notfail to hear how hollow it rang. This he proposed to do away with, unless, indeed, he left a small space for the altar vessels; and toconstruct instead a little chamber in the chimney of the hall that wasbuilt against this wall; he would contrive it so that an entrance wasstill from the chapel, as well as one that he would make over the hearthbelow; and that the smoke should be conducted round the little enclosedspace, passing afterwards up the usual vent. The chamber would be largeenough, he thought, for at least two men. He explained, too, his methodof deadening the hollowness of the sound if the panel were knocked upon, by placing pads of felt on struts of wood that would be set against thepanel-door. 

"Why, that is very shrewd!" cried Mr. John. He looked round the facesfor approval. 

For an hour or so, the party sat and watched him at his work; andMarjorie listened to their talk. It was of that which filled the heartsof all Catholics at this time; of the gathering storm in England, of thepriests that had been executed this very year--Mr. Paine at Chelmsford, in March; Mr. Forde, Mr. Shert and Mr. Johnson, at Tyburn in May, thefirst of the three having been taken with Father Campion atLyford--deaths that were followed two days later by the execution offour more--one of whom, Mr. Filbie, had also been arrested at Lyford. And there were besides a great number more in prison--Mr. Cottam, it wasknown, had been taken at York, scarcely a week ago, and, it was said, would certainly suffer before long. 

They talked in low voices; for the shadow was on all their hearts. Ithad been possible almost to this very year to hope that the misery wouldbe a passing one; but the time for hope was gone. It remained only tobear what came, to multiply priests, and, if necessary, martyrs, andmeantime to take such pains for protection as they could. 

"He will be a clever pursuivant who finds this one out, " said Mr. John. 

The carpenter looked up from his work. 

"But a clever one will find it, " he said. 

Mr. Thomas was heard to sigh. 

III

It was on the afternoon of the following day that Marjorie rode up toher house with Janet beside her, and Hugh Owen walking by her horse. 

He had finished his work at Padley an hour or two after dawn--for heworked at night when he could, and had then gone to rest. But he hadbeen waiting for her when her horses were brought, and asked if he mightwalk with her; he had asked it simply and easily, saying that it mightsave his losing his way, and time was precious to him. 

 * * * * *

Marjorie felt very much interested by this lad, for he was no more thanthat. In appearance he was like any of his kind, with a countryman'sface, in a working-dress: she might have seen him by chance a hundredtimes and not known him again. But his manner was remarkable, so whollysimple and well-bred: he was courteous always, as suited his degree; buthe had something of the same assurance that she had noticed so plainlyin Father Campion. (He talked with a plain, Northern dialect. )

Presently she opened on that very point; for she could talk freelybefore Janet. 

"Did you ever know Father Campion?" she asked. 

"I have never spoken with him, mistress. I have heard him preach. It wasthat which put it in my heart to join the company. "

"You heard him preach?"

"Yes, mistress; three or four times in Essex and Hertfordshire. I heardhim preach upon the young man who came to our Saviour. "

"Tell me, " she said, looking down at what she could see of his face. 

"It was liker an angel than a man, " he said quietly. "I could not takemy eyes off him from his first word to the last. And all were the samethat were there. "

"Was he eloquent?"

"Aye; you might call it that. But I thought it to be the Spirit of God. "

"And it was then you made up your mind to join the Society?"

"There was no rest for me till I did. 'And Christ also went awaysorrowful, ' were his last words. And I could not bear to think that. "

Marjorie was silent through pure sympathy. This young man spoke alanguage she understood better than that which some of her friendsused--Mr. Babington, for instance. It was the Person of Jesus Christthat was all her religion to her; it was for this that she was devout, that she went to mass and the sacraments when she could; it was thisthat made Mary dear to her. Was He not her son? And, above all, it wasfor this that she had sacrificed Robin: she could not bear that heshould not serve Him as a priest, if he might. But the other talk thatshe had heard sometimes--of the place of religion in politics, and thejustification of this or that course of public action--well, she knewthat these things must be so; yet it was not the manner of her own mostintimate thought, and the language of it was not hers. 

The two went together so a few paces, without speaking. Then she had asudden impulse. 

"And do you ever think of what may come upon you?" she asked. "Do youever think of the end?

"Aye, " he said. 

"And what do you think the end will be?"

She saw him raise his eyes to her an instant. 

"I think, " he said, "that I shall die for my faith some day. "

That same strange shiver that passed over her at her mother's bedside, passed over her again, as if material things grew thin about her. Therewas a tone in his voice that made it absolutely clear to her that he wasnot speaking of a fancy, but of some certain knowledge that he had. Yetshe dared not ask him, and she was a middle-aged woman before the newscame to her of his death upon the rack. 

IV

It was a sleepy-eyed young man that came into the kitchen early nextmorning, where the ladies and the maids were hard at work all togetherupon the business of baking. The baking was a considerable task eachweek, for there were not less than twenty mouths, all told, to feed inthe hall day by day, including a widow or two that called each day forrations; and a great part, therefore, of a mistress's time in suchhouses was taken up with such things. 

Marjorie turned to him, with her arms floured to the elbow. 

"Well?" she said, smiling. 

"I have done, mistress. Will it please you to see it before I go andsleep?"

They had examined the house carefully last night, measuring and soundingin the deep and thin walls alike, for there was at present noconvenience at all for a hunted man. Owen had obtained her consent totwo or three alternative proposals, and she had then left him tohimself. From her bed, that she had had prepared, with AliceBabington's, in a loft--turning out for the night the farm-men who hadusually slept there, she had heard more than once the sound of distanthammering from the main front of the house where her own room lay, thathad been once her mother's as well. 

The possibilities in this little manor were small. To construct apassage, giving an exterior escape, as had been made in some houses, would have meant here a labour of weeks, and she had told the young manshe would be content with a simple hiding-hole. Yet, although she didnot expect great things, and knew, moreover, the kind of place that hewould make, she was as excited as a child, in a grave sort of way, atwhat she would see. 

He took her first into the parlour, where years ago Robin had talkedwith her in the wintry sunshine. The open chimney was on the right asthey entered, and though she knew that somewhere on that same side wouldbe one of the two entrances that had been arranged, all the differenceshe could see was that a piece of the wall-hanging that had been betweenthe window and the fire was gone, and that there hung in its place anold picture painted on a panel. She looked at this without speaking: thewall was wainscoted in oak, as it had always been, six feet up from thefloor. Then an idea came to her: she tilted the picture on one side. Butthere was no more to be seen than a cracked panel, which, it seemed toher, had once been nearer the door. She rapped upon this, but it gaveback the dull sound as of wood against stone. 

She turned to the young man, smiling. He smiled back. 

"Come into the bedroom, mistress. "

He led her in there, through the passage outside into which the twodoors opened at the head of the outside stairs; but here, too, all thatshe could see was that a tall press that had once stood between thewindows now stood against the wall immediately opposite to the paintedpanel on the other side of the wall. She opened the doors of the press, but it was as it had always been: there even hung there the three orfour dresses that she had taken from it last night and laid on the bed. 

She laughed outright, and, turning, saw Mistress Alice Babington beamingtranquilly from the door of the room. 

"Come in, Alice, " she said, "and see this miracle. "

Then he began to explain it. 

 * * * * *

On this side was the entrance proper, and, as he said so, he stepped upinto the press and closed the doors. They could hear him fumblingwithin, then the sound of wood sliding, and finally a muffled voicecalling to them. Marjorie flung the doors open, and, save for thedresses, it was empty. She stared in for a moment, still hearing themovements of someone beyond, and at last the sound of a snap; and as shewithdrew her head to exclaim to Alice, the young man walked into theroom through the open door behind her. 

Then he explained it in full. 

The back of the press had been removed, and then replaced, in such amanner that it would slide out about eighteen inches towards the window, but only when the doors of the press were closed; when they were opened, they drew out simultaneously a slip of wood on either side that pulledthe sliding door tight and immovable. Behind the back of the press, thusremoved, a corresponding part of the wainscot slid in the same way, giving a narrow doorway into the cell which he had excavated between thedouble beams of the thick wall. Next, when the person that had takenrefuge was inside, with the two sliding doors closed behind him, it waspossible for him, by an extremely simple device, to turn a wooden buttonand thus release a little wooden machinery which controlled a furtheropening into the parlour, and which, at the same time, was bracedagainst the hollow panelling and one of the higher beams in such amanner as to give it, when knocked upon, the dullness of sound the girlhad noticed just now. But this door could only be opened from within. Neither a fugitive nor a pursuer could make any entrance from theparlour side, unless the wainscoting itself were torn off. Lastly, thecrack in the woodwork, corresponding with two minute holes bored in thepainted panel, afforded, when the picture was hung exactly straight, aview of the parlour that commanded nearly all the room. 

"I do not pretend that it is a fortress, " said the young man, smilinggravely. "But it may serve to keep out a country constable. And, indeed, it is the best I can contrive in this house. "

CHAPTER VII

I

Marjorie found it curious, even to herself, how the press that faced thefoot of the two beds where she and Alice slept side by side, becameassociated in her mind with the thought of Robin; and she began toperceive that it was largely with the thought of him in her intentionthat the idea had first presented itself of having the cell constructedat all. It was not that in her deliberate mind she conceived that hewould be hunted, that he would fly here, that she would save him; butrather in that strange realm of consciousness which is called sometimesthe Imagination, and sometimes by other names--that inner shadow-show onwhich move figures cast by the two worlds--she perceived him in thisplace. .. . 

It was in the following winter that she was reminded of him by othermeans than those of his letters. 

 * * * * *

The summer and autumn had passed tranquilly enough, so far as thisoutlying corner of England was concerned. News filtered through of thestirring world outside, and especially was there conveyed to her, through Alice for the most part, news that concerned the fortunes ofCatholics. Politics, except in this connection, meant little enough tosuch as her. She heard, indeed, from time to time vague rumours offighting, and of foreign Powers; and thought now and again of Spain, asof a country that might yet be, in God's hand, an instrument for therestoring of God's cause in England; she had heard, too, in this year, of one more rumour of the Queen's marriage with the Duke d'Alençon, andthen of its final rupture. But these matters were aloof from her; rathershe pondered such things as the execution of two more priests at York inAugust, Mr. Lacy and Mr. Kirkman, and of a third, Mr. Thompson, inNovember at the same place. It was on such affairs as these that shepondered as she went about her household business, or sat in the chamberupstairs with Mistress Alice; and it was of these things that she talkedwith the few priests that came and went from time to time in theircircuits about Derbyshire. It was a life of quietness and monotonyinconceivable by those who live in towns. Its sole incident lay in thatlife which is called Interior. .. . 

It was soon after the New Year that she met the squire of Matstead faceto face. 

 * * * * *

She and Alice, with Janet and a man riding behind, were on their wayback from Derby, where they had gone for their monthly shopping. Theyhad slept at Dethick, and had had news there of Mr. Anthony, who wasagain in the south on one of his mysterious missions, and started againsoon after dawn next day to reach home, if they could, for dinner. 

She knew Alice now for what she was--a woman of astounding dullness, ofsterling character, and of a complete inability to understand any shadesor tones of character or thought that were not her own, and yet a friendin a thousand, of an immovable stability and loyalty, one of no words atall, who dwelt in the midst of a steady kind of light which knew no dawnnor sunset. The girl entertained herself sometimes with conceiving ofher friend confronted with the rack, let us say, or the gallows; andperceived that she knew with exactness what her behaviour would be: Shewould do all that was required of her with out speeches or protest; shewould place herself in the required positions, with a faint smile, unwavering; she would suffer or die with the same tranquil steadiness asthat in which she lived; and, best of all, she would not be aware, evenfor an instant, that anything in her behaviour was in the leastadmirable or exceptional. She resembled, to Marjorie's mind, that forwhich a strong and well-built arm-chair stands in relation to the body:it is the same always, supporting and sustaining always, and cannot evenbe imagined as anything else. 

 * * * * *

It was a brilliant frosty day, as they rode over the rutted trackbetween hedges that served for a road, that ran, for the most part, afield or two away from the black waters of the Derwent. The birchesstood about them like frozen feathers; the vast chestnuts toweredoverhead, motionless in the motionless air. As they came towardsMatstead, and, at last, rode up the street, naturally enough Marjorieagain began to think of Robin. As they came near where the track turnedthe corner beneath the churchyard wall, where once Robin had watched, himself unseen, the three riders go by, she had to attend to her horse, who slipped once or twice on the paved causeway. Then as she lifted herhead again, she saw, not three yards from her, and on a level with herown face, the face of the squire looking at her from over the wall. 

She had not seen him, except once in Derby, a year or two before, andthat at a distance, since Robin had left England; and at the sight shestarted so violently, in some manner jerking the reins that she held, that her horse, tired with the long ride of the day before, slipped onceagain, and came down all asprawl on the stones, fortunately throwing herclear of his struggling feet. She was up in a moment, but again sankdown, aware that her foot was in some way bruised or twisted. 

There was a clatter of hoofs behind her as the servants rode up; achild or two ran up the street, and when, at last, on Janet's arm, sherose again to her feet, it was to see the squire staring at her, withhis hands clasped behind his back. 

"Bring the ladies up to the house, " he said abruptly to the man; andthen, taking the rein of the girl's horse that had struggled up again, he led the way, without another word, without even turning his head, round to the way that ran up to his gates. 

II

It was not with any want of emotion that Marjorie found herselfpresently meekly seated upon Alice's horse, and riding up at afoot's-pace beneath the gatehouse of the Hall. Rather it was the balanceof emotions that made her so meek and so obedient to her friend'stranquil assumption that she must come in as the squire said. She wasaware of a strong resentment to his brusque order, as well as to thethought that it was to the house of an apostate that she was going; yetthere was a no less strong emotion within her that he had a sort ofright to command her. These feelings, working upon her, dazed as she wasby the sudden sharpness of her fall, and the pain in her foot, combinedto drive her along in a kind of resignation in the wake of the squire. 

Still confused, yet with a rapid series of these same emotions runningbefore her mind, she limped up the steps, supported by Alice and hermaid, and sat down on a bench at the end of the hall. The squire, whohad shouted an order or two to a peeping domestic, as he passed up thecourt, came to her immediately with a cup in his hand. 

"You must drink this at once, mistress. "

She took it at once, drank and set it down, aware of the keen, angry-looking face that watched her. 

"You will dine here, too, mistress--" he began, still with a sharpkindness. .. . And then, on a sudden, all grew dark about her; there was aroaring in her ears, and she fainted. 

 * * * * *

She came out of her swoon again, after a while, with that strange andinnocent clearness that usually follows such a thing, to find Alicebeside her, a tapestried wall behind Alice, and the sound of a cracklingfire in her ears. Then she perceived that she was in a small room, lyingon her back along a bench, and that someone was bathing her foot. 

"I . .. I will not stay here--" she began. But two hands held her firmlydown, and Alice's reassuring face was looking into her own. 

 * * * * *

When her mind ran clearly again, she sat up with a sudden movement, drawing her foot away from Janet's ministrations. 

"I do very well, " she said, after looking at her foot, and then puttingit to the ground amid a duet of protestations. (She had looked round theroom to satisfy herself that no one else was there, and had seen that itmust be the parlour that she was in. A newly-lighted fire burned on thehearth, and the two doors were closed. )

Then Alice explained. 

It was impossible, she said, to ride on at once; the horse even now wasbeing bathed in the stable, as his mistress in the parlour. The squirehad been most considerate; he had helped to carry her in here just now, had lighted the fire with his own hands, and had stated that dinnerwould be sent in here in an hour for the three women. He had offered tosend one of his own men on to Booth's Edge with the news, if MistressMarjorie found herself unable to ride on after dinner. 

"But . .. But it is Mr. Audrey!" exclaimed Marjorie. 

"Yes, my dear, " said Alice. "I know it is. But that does not mend yourfoot, " she said, with unusual curtness. And Marjorie saw that she stilllooked at her anxiously. 

 * * * * *

The three women dined together, of course, in an hour's time. There wasno escape from the pressure of circumstance. It was unfortunate thatsuch an accident should have fallen out here, in the one place in allthe world where it should not; but the fact was a fact. Meanwhile, itwas not only resentment that Marjorie felt: it was a strange sort ofterror as well--a terror of sitting in the house of an apostate--of onewho had freely and deliberately renounced that faith for which sheherself lived so completely; and that it was the father of one whom sheknew as she knew Robin--with whose fate, indeed, her own had been sointimately entwined--this combined to increase that indefinable fearthat rested on her as she stared round the walls, and sat over the foodand drink that this man provided. 

The climax came as they were finishing dinner: for the door from thehall opened abruptly, and the squire came in. He bowed to the ladies, asthe manner was, straightening his trim, tight figure again defiantly;asked a civil question or two; directed a servant behind him to bringthe horses to the parlour door in half an hour's time; and then snappedout the sentence which he was, plainly, impatient to speak. 

"Mistress Manners, " he said, "I wish to have a word with you privately. "

Marjorie, trembling at his presence, turned a wavering face to herfriend; and Alice, before the other could speak, rose up, and went out, with Janet following. 

"Janet--" cried the girl. 

"If you please, " said the old man, with such a decisive air that shehesitated. Then she nodded at her maid; and a moment later the doorclosed. 

III

"I have two matters to speak of, " said the squire abruptly, sitting downin the chair that Alice had left; "the first concerns you closely; andthe other less closely. "

She looked at him, summoning all her power to appear at her ease. 

He seemed far older than when she had last spoken with him, perhaps fiveyears ago; and had grown a little pointed beard; his hair, too, seemedthinner--such of it as she could see beneath the house-cap that he wore;his face, especially about his blue, angry-looking eyes, was coveredwith fine wrinkles, and his hands were clearly the hands of an old man, at once delicate and sinewy. He was in a dark suit, still with his cloakupon him; and in low boots. He sat still as upright as ever, turned alittle in his chair, so as to clasp its back with one strong hand. 

"Yes, sir?" she said. 

"I will begin with the second first. It is of my son Robin: I wish toknow what news you have of him. He hath not written to me this sixmonths back. And I hear that letters sometimes come to you from him. "

Marjorie hesitated. 

"He is very well, so far as I know, " she said. 

"And when is he to be made priest?" he demanded sharply. 

Marjorie drew a breath to give herself time; she knew that she must notanswer this; and did not know how to say so with civility. 

"If he has not told you himself, sir, " she said, "I cannot. "

The old man's face twitched; but he kept his manners. "I understand you, mistress. .. . " But then his wrath overcame him. "But he must understandhe will have no mercy from me, if he comes my way. I am a magistrate, now, mistress, and--"

A thought like an inspiration came to the girl; and she interrupted; forshe longed to penetrate this man's armour. 

"Perhaps that was why he did not tell you when he was to be madepriest, " she said. 

The other seemed taken aback. 

"Why, but--"

"He did not wish to think that his father would be untrue to his newcommission, " she said, trembling at her boldness and yet exultant too;and taking no pains to keep the irony out of her voice. 

Again that fierce twitch of the features went over the other's face; andhe stared straight at her with narrowed eyes. Then a change again cameover him; and he laughed, like barking, yet not all unkindly. 

"You are very shrewd, mistress. But I wonder what you will think of mewhen I tell you the second matter, since you will tell me no more of thefirst. "

He shifted his position in his chair, this time clasping both his handstogether over the back. 

"Well; it is this in a word, " he said: "It is that you had best look toyourself, mistress. My lord Shrewsbury even knows of it. "

"Of what, if you please?" asked the girl, hoping she had not turnedwhite. 

"Why, of the priests that come and go hereabouts! It is all known; andher Grace hath sent a message from the Council--"

"What has this to do with me?"

He laughed again. 

"Well; let us take your neighbours at Padley. They will be in trouble ifthey do not look to their goings. Mr. FitzHerbert--"

But again she interrupted him. She was determined to know how much heknew. She had thought that she had been discreet enough, and that nonews had leaked out of her own entertaining of priests; it was chieflythat discretion might be preserved that she had set her hands to thework at all. With Padley so near it was thought that less suspicionwould be aroused. Her name had never yet come before the authorities, sofar as she knew. 

"But what has all this to do with me, sir?" she asked sharply. "It istrue that I do not go to church, and that I pay my fines when they aredemanded: Are there new laws, then, against the old faith?"

She spoke with something of real bitterness. It was genuine enough; heronly art lay in her not concealing it; for she was determined to pressher question home. And, in his shrewd, compelling face, she read heranswer even before his words gave it. 

"Well, mistress; it was not of you that I meant to speak--so much as ofyour friends. They are your friends, not mine. And as your friends, Ithought it to be a kindly action to send them an advertisement. If theyare not careful, there will be trouble. "

"At Padley?"

"At Padley, or elsewhere. It is the persons that fall under the law, notplaces!"

"But, sir, you are a magistrate; and--"

He sprang up, his face aflame with real wrath. 

"Yes, mistress; I am a magistrate: the commission hath come at last, after six months' waiting. But I was friend to the FitzHerberts beforeever I was a magistrate, and--"

Then she understood; and her heart went out to him. She, too, stood up, catching at the table with a hiss of pain as she threw her weight on thebruised foot. He made a movement towards her; but she waved him aside. 

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Audrey, with all my heart. I had thought thatyou meant harm, perhaps, to my friends and me. But now I see--"

"Not a word more! not a word more!" he cried harshly, with a desperatekind of gesture. "I shall do my duty none the less when the timecomes--"

"Sir!" she cried out suddenly. "For God's sake do not speak ofduty--there is another duty greater than that. Mr. Audrey--"

He wheeled away from her, with a movement she could not interpret. Itmight be uncontrolled anger or misery, equally. And her heart went outto him in one great flood. 

"Mr. Audrey. It is not too late. Your son Robin--"

Then he wheeled again; and his face was distorted with emotion. 

"Yes, my son Robin! my son Robin!. .. How dare you speak of him to me?. .. Yes; that is it--my son Robin--my son Robin!"

He dropped into the chair again, and his face fell upon his claspedhands. 

IV

She scarcely knew how circumstances had arranged themselves up to thetime when she found herself riding away again with Alice, while a man ofMr. Audrey's led her horse. They could not talk freely till he leftthem at the place where the stony road turned to a soft track, and itwas safe going once more. Then Alice told her own side of it. 

"Yes, my dear; I heard him call out. I was walking in the hall withJanet to keep ourselves warm. But when I ran in he was sitting down, andyou were standing. What was the matter?"

"Alice, " said the girl earnestly, "I wish you had not come in. He isvery heart-broken, I think. He would have told me more, I think. It isabout his son. "

"His son! Why, he--"

"Yes; I know that. And he would not see him if he came back. He has hadhis magistrate's commission; and he will be true to it. But he isheart-broken for all that. He has not really lost the Faith, I think. "

"Why, my dear; that is foolish. He is very hot in Derby, I hear, againstthe Papists. There was a poor woman who could not pay her fines; and--"

Marjorie waved it aside. 

"Yes; he would be very hot; but for all that, there is his son Robin youknow--and his memories. And Robin has not written to him for six months. That would be about the time when he told him he was to be amagistrate. "

Then Marjorie told her of the whole that had passed, and of his mentionof the FitzHerberts. 

"And what he meant by that, " she said, "I do not know; but I will tellthem. "

 * * * * *

She was pondering deeply all the way as she rode home. Mistress Alicewas one of those folks who so long as they are answered in words arecontent; and Marjorie so answered her. And all the while she thoughtupon Robin, and his passionate old father, and attempted to understandthe emotions that fought in the heart that had so disclosed itself toher--its aged obstinacy, its loyalty and its confused honourableness. She knew very well that he would do what he conceived to be his dutywith all the more zeal if it were an unpleasant duty; and she thankedGod that it was not for a good while yet that the lad would come home apriest. 

CHAPTER VIII

I

The warning which she had had with regard to her friends, and which shewrote on to them at once, received its fulfilment within a very fewweeks. Mr. John, who was on the eve of departure for London again toserve his brother there, who was back again in the Fleet by now, wrotethat he knew very well that they were all under suspicion, that he hadsent on to his son the message she had given, but that he hoped theywould yet weather the storm. 

"And as to yourself, Mistress Marjorie, " he wrote, "this makes it allthe more necessary that Booth's Edge should not be suspected; for whatwill our men do if Padley be closed to them? You have heard of ourfriend Mr. Garlick's capture? But that was no fault of yours. The manwas warned. I hear that they will send him into banishment, only, thistime. "

 * * * * *

The news came to her as she sat in the garden over her needlework on ahot evening in June. There it was as cool as anywhere in thecountryside. She sat at the top of the garden, where her mother and shehad sat with Robin so long before; the breeze that came over the moorbore with it the scent of the heather; and the bees were busy in thegarden flowers about her. 

It was first the gallop of a horse that she heard; and even at thatsound she laid down her work and stood up. But the house below herblocked the most of her view; and she sat down again when she heard thedull rattle of the hoofs die away again. When she next looked up a manwas running towards her from the bottom of the garden, and Janet waspeeping behind him from the gate into the court. As she again stood up, she saw that it was Dick Sampson. 

He was so out of breath, first with his ride and next with his run upthe steep path, that for a moment or two he could not speak. He wasdusty, too, from foot to knee; his cap was awry and his collarunbuttoned. 

"It is Mr. Thomas, mistress, " he gasped presently. "I was in Derby andsaw him being taken to the gaol. .. . I could not get speech with him. .. . I rode straight up to Padley, and found none there but the servants, andthem knowing nothing of the matter. And so I rode on here, mistress. "

He was plainly all aghast at the blow. Hitherto it had been enough thatSir Thomas was in ward for his religion; and to this they had becomeaccustomed. But that the heir should be taken, too, and that without ahint of what was to happen, was wholly unexpected. She made him sitdown, and presently drew from him the whole tale. 

Mr. Anthony Babington, his master, was away to London again, leaving thehouse in Derby in the hands of the servants. He then--Dick Sampson--wasriding out early to take a horse to be shoed, and had come back throughthe town-square, when he saw the group ride up to the gaol door near theFriar Gate. He, too, had ridden up to ask what was forward, and had beenjust in time to see Mr. Thomas taken in. He had caught his eye, but hadfeigned not to know him. Then the man had attempted to get at what hadhappened from one of the fellows at the door, but could get no more fromhim than that the prisoner was a known and confessed recusant, and hadbeen laid by the heels according to orders, it was believed, sent downby the Council. Then, Dick had ridden slowly away till he had turnedthe corner, and then, hot foot for Padley. 

"And I heard the fellow say to one of his company that an informer wascoming down from London on purpose to deal with Mr. Thomas. "

Marjorie felt a sudden pang; for she had never forgotten the one she hadset eyes on in the Tower. 

"His name?" she said breathlessly. "Did you hear his name?"

"It was Topcliffe, mistress, " said Dick indifferently. "The other calledit out. "

 * * * * *

Marjorie sat silent. Not only had the blow fallen more swiftly than shewould have thought possible, but it was coupled with a second of whichshe had never dreamed. That it was this man, above all others, thatshould have come; this man, who stood to her mind, by a mere chance, forall that was most dreadful in the sinister forces arrayed againsther--this brought misery down on her indeed. For, besides her ownpersonal reasons for terror, there was, besides, the knowledge that thebringing of such a man at all from London on such business meant thatthe movement beginning here in her own county was not a mere caprice. 

She sat silent then--seeing once more before her the wide court of theTower, the great keep opposite, and in the midst that thin figure movingto his hateful business. .. . And she knew now, in this instant, as neverbefore, that the chief reason for her terror was that she had coupled inher mind her own friend Robin with the thought of this man, as if bysome inner knowledge that their lives must cross some day--a knowledgewhich she could neither justify nor silence. Thank God, at least, thatRobin was still safe in Rheims!

II

She sent him off after a couple of hours' rest, during which once morehe had told his story to Mistress Alice, with a letter to Mr. Thomas'swife, who, no doubt, would have followed her lord to Derby. She had goneapart with Alice, while Dick ate and drank, to talk the affair out, andhad told her of Topcliffe's presence, at which news even the placid faceof her friend looked troubled; but they had said nothing more on thepoint, and had decided that a letter should be written in MistressBabington's name, offering Mrs. FitzHerbert the hospitality of BabingtonHouse, and any other services she might wish. Further, they had decidedthat the best thing to do was to go themselves to Derby next day, inorder to be at hand; since Mr. John was in London, and the sooner Mrs. Thomas had friends with her, the better. 

"They may keep him in ward a long time, " said Mistress Alice, "beforethey bring him into open court--to try his courage. That is the way theydo. The charge, no doubt, will be that he has harboured and assistedpriests. "

 * * * * *

It seemed to Marjorie, as she lay awake that night, staring through thesummer dusk at the tall press which hid so much beside her dresses, thatthe course on which her life moved was coming near to the rapids. Eversince she had first put her hand to the work, ever since, even, she hadfirst offered her lover to God and let him go from her, it appeared asif God had taken her at her word, and accepted in an instant that whichshe offered so tremblingly. Her sight of London--the great buildings, the crowds, the visible forces of the Crown, the company of gallantgentlemen who were priests beneath their ruffs and feathers, the Tower, her glimpse of Topcliffe--these things had shown her the dreadfulreality that lay behind this gentle scheming up in Derbyshire. Again, there was Mr. Babington; here, too, she had perceived a mystery whichshe could not understand: something moved behind the surface of whichnot even Mr. Babington's sister knew anything, except that, indeed, itwas there. Again, there was the death of Father Campion--the very manwhom she had taken as a symbol of the Faith for which she fought withher woman's wits; there was the news that came so suddenly and terriblynow and again, of one more priest gone to his death. .. . It was like theslow rising of a storm: the air darkens; a stillness falls on thecountryside; the chirp of the birds seems as a plaintive word of fear;then the thunder begins--a low murmur far across the horizons; then awhisk of light, seen and gone again, and another murmur after it. And soit gathers, dusk on dusk, stillness on stillness, murmur on murmur, deepening and thickening; yet still no rain, but a drop or two thatfalls and ceases again. And from the very delay it is all the moredreadful; for the storm itself must break some time, and the artillerywar in the heavens, and the rain rush down, and flash follow flash, andpeal peal, and the climax come. 

So, then, it was with her. There was no drawing back now, even had shewished it. And she wished it indeed, though she did not will it; sheknew that she must stand in her place, now more than ever, when the blowhad fallen so near. Now more than ever must she be discreet andresolute, since Padley itself was fallen, in effect, if not in fact; andBooth's Edge, in this valley at least, was the one hope of hunted men. She must stand, then, in her place; she must plot and conspire andscheme; she must govern her face and her manner more perfectly thanever, for the sake of that tremendous Cause. 

As she lay there, listening to her friend's breathing in the darkness, staring now at the doors of the press, now at the baggage that layheaped ready for the early start, these and a thousand other thoughtspassed before her. It was a long plot that had ended in this: it musthave reached its maturity weeks ago; the decision to strike must havebeen reached before even Squire Audrey had given her the warning--for itwas only by chance that she had met him and he had told her. .. . And he, too, Robin's father, would be in the midst of it all; he, too, that wasa Catholic by baptism, must sit with the other magistrates and threatenand cajole as the manner was; and quiet Derby would be all astir; andthe Bassetts would be there, and Mr. Fenton, to see how their friendfared in the dock; and the crowds would gather to see the prisonerbrought out, and the hunt would be up. And she herself, she, too, mustbe there with the tearful little wife, who could do so little. .. . 

Thank God Robin was safe in Rheims!. .. 

III

Derby was, indeed, astir as they rode in, with the servants and thebaggage following behind, on the late afternoon of the next day. Theyhad ridden by easy stages, halting at Dethick for dinner, where theBabingtons' house already hummed with dismay at the news that had comefrom Derby last night. Mr. Anthony was away, and all seemed distracted. 

They rode in by the North road, seeing for the last mile or two of theirride the towering spire of All Saints' Church high above the smoke ofthe houses; they passed the old bridge half a mile from themarket-place, near the ancient camp; and even here overheard a sentenceor two from a couple of fellows that were leaning on the parapet, thattold them what was the talk of the town. It was plain that othersbesides the Catholics understood the taking of Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert tobe a very significant matter. 

Babington House stood on the further side of the market-place from thaton which they entered, and Alice was for going there through sidestreets. 

"They will take notice if we go straight through, " she said. "It ischeese-market to-day. "

"They will take notice in any case, " said Marjorie. "It will be over thetown to-morrow that Mistress Babington is here, and it is best, therefore, to come openly, as if without fear. "

And she turned to beckon the servants to draw up closer behind. 

 * * * * *

The square was indeed crowded as they came in. From all the countryround, and especially from Dovedale, the farmers came in on this day, orsent their wives, for the selling of cheeses; and the small oblong ofthe market--the smaller from its great Conduit and Cross--was full withrows of stalls and carts, with four lanes only left along the edges bywhich the traffic might pass; and even here the streams of passengersforced the horses to go in single file. Groups of men--farmers' servantswho had driven in the carts, or walked with the pack-beasts--to whomthis day was a kind of feast, stood along the edges of the booths eyeingall who went by. The inns, too, were doing a roaring trade, and it wasfrom one of these that the only offensive comment was made. 

Mistress Babington rode first, as suited her dignity, preceded by one ofthe Dethick men whom they had taken up on their way, and who had pushedforward when they came into the town to clear the road; and MistressManners rode after her. The men stood aside as the cavalcade began togo between the booths, and the most of them saluted Mistress Babington. But as they were almost out of the market they came abreast one of theinns from whose wide-open doors came a roar of voices from those thatwere drinking within, and a group that was gathered on the step stoppedtalking as the party came up. Marjorie glanced at them, and noticedthere was an air about two or three of the men that was plainlytown-bred; there was a certain difference in the cut of their clothesand the way they wore them. Then she saw two or three whisperingtogether, and the next moment came a brutal shout. She could not catchthe sentence, but she heard the word "Papist" with an adjective, andcaught the unmistakable bullying tone of the man. The next instant therebroke out a confusion: a man dashed up the step from the crowd beneath, and she caught a glimpse of Dick Sampson's furious face. Then the groupbore back, fighting, into the inn door; the Dethick servant leapt offhis horse, leaving it in some fellow's hands, and vanished up the step;there was a rush of the crowd after him, and then the way was clear infront, over the little bridge that spanned Bramble brook. 

When she drew level with Alice, she saw her friend's face, pale andagitated. 

"It is the first time I have ever been cried at, " she said. "Come; weare nearly home. There is St. Peter's spire. "

"Shall we not--?" began Marjorie. 

"No, no" (and the pale face tightened suddenly). "My fellows will givethem a lesson. The crowd is on our side as yet. "

IV

As they rode in under the archway that led in beside the great doors ofBabington House, three or four grooms ran forward at once. It was plainthat their coming was looked far with some eagerness. 

Alice's manner seemed curiously different from that of the quiet womanwho had sat so patiently beside Marjorie in the manor among the hills: acertain air of authority and dignity sat on her now that she was back inher own place. 

"Is Mrs. FitzHerbert here?" she asked from the groom who helped her tothe ground. 

"Yes, mistress; she came from the inn this morning, and--"

"Well?"

"She is in a great taking, mistress. She would eat nothing, they said. "

Alice nodded. 

"You had best be off to the inn, " she said, with a jerk of her head. "ALondon fellow insulted us just now, and Sampson and Mallow--"

She said no more. The man who held her horse slipped the reins into thehands of the younger groom who stood by him, and was away and out of thecourt in an instant. Marjorie smiled a little, astonished at her ownsense of exultation. The blows were not to be all one side, sheperceived. Then she followed Alice into the house. 

As they came through into the hall by the side-door that led throughfrom the court where they had dismounted, a figure was plainly visiblein the dusky light, going to and fro at the further end, with a quick, nervous movement. The figure stopped as they advanced, and then dartedforward, crying out piteously:

"Ah! you have come, thank God! thank God! They will not let me see him. "

"Hush! hush!" said Alice, as she caught her in her arms. 

"Mr. Bassett has been here, " moaned the figure, "and he says it isTopcliffe himself who has come down on the matter. .. . He says he is thegreatest devil of them all; and Thomas--"

Then she burst out crying again. 

 * * * * *

It was an hour before they could get the full tale out of her. They tookher upstairs and made her sit down, for already a couple of faces peepedfrom the buttery, and the servants would have gathered in another fiveminutes; and together they forced her to eat and drink something, forshe had not tasted food since her arrival at the inn yesterday; and so, little by little, they drew the story out. 

Mr. Thomas and his wife were actually on their way from Norbury when thearrest had been made. Mr. Thomas had intended to pass a couple of nightsin Derby on various matters of the estates; and although, his wife said, he had been somewhat silent and quiet since the warning had come to himfrom Mr. Audrey, even he had thought it no danger to ride through Derbyon his way to Padley. He had sent a servant ahead to order rooms at theinn for those two nights, and it was through that, it appeared, that thenews of his coming had reached the ears of the authorities. However thatwas, and whether the stroke had been actually determined upon longbefore, or had been suddenly decided upon at the news of his coming, itfell out that, as the husband and wife were actually within sight ofDerby, on turning a corner they had found themselves surrounded by menon horses, plainly gathered there for the purpose, with a magistrate inthe midst. Their names had been demanded, and, upon Mr. Thomas'hesitation, they had been told that their names were well known, and awarrant was produced, on a charge of recusancy and of aiding her Grace'senemies, drawn out against Thomas FitzHerbert, and he had been placedunder arrest. Further, Mrs. FitzHerbert had been told she must not enterthe town with the party, but must go either before them or after them, which she pleased. She had chosen to go first, and had been at thewindows of the inn in time to see her husband go by. There had been noconfusion, she said; the townsfolk appeared to know nothing of what washappening until Mr. Thomas was safely lodged in the ward. 

Then she burst out crying again, lamenting the horrible state of theprison, as it had been described to her, and demanding to know whereGod's justice was in allowing His faithful servants to be so tormentedand harried. .. . 

 * * * * *

Marjorie watched her closely. She had met her once at Babington House, when she was still Elizabeth Westley, but had thought little or nothingof her since. She was a pale little creature, fair-haired and timorous, and had now a hunted look of misery in her eyes that was very piteous tosee. It was plain they had done right in coming: this woman would be oflittle service to her husband. 

Then when Alice had said a word or two, Marjorie began her questions. 

"Tell me, " she said gently, "had you no warning of this?"

The girl shook her head. 

"Not beyond that which came from yourself, " she said; "and we neverthought--"

"Hath Mr. Thomas had any priests with him lately?"

"We have not had one at Norbury for the last six months, whilst we werethere, at least. My husband said it was better not, and that there was aplenty of places for them to go to. "

"And you have not heard mass during that time?"

The girl looked at her with tear-stained eyes. 

"No, " she said. "But why do you ask that? My husband says--"

"And when was the first you heard of Topcliffe? And what have you heardof him?"

The other's face fell into lines of misery. 

"I have heard he is the greatest devil her Grace uses. He hath authorityto question priests and others in his own house. He hath a rack therethat he boasts makes all others as Christmas toys. My husband--"

Marjorie patted her arm gently. 

"There! there!" she said kindly. "Your husband is not in Topcliffe'shouse. There will be no question of that. He is here in his own county, and--"

"But that will not save him!" cried the girl. "Why--"

"Tell me" interrupted Marjorie, "was Topcliffe with the men that tookMr. Thomas?"

The other shook her head. 

"No; I heard he was not. He was come from London yesterday morning. Thatwas the first I heard of him. "

Then Alice began again to soothe her gently, to tell her that herhusband was in no great danger as yet, that he was well known for hisloyalty, and to do her best to answer the girl's pitiful questions. AndMarjorie sat back and considered. 

Marjorie had a remarkable knowledge of the methods of the Government, gathered from the almost endless stories she had heard from travellingpriests and others; it was her business, too, to know them. Two or threethings, therefore, if the girl's account was correct, were plain. First, that this was a concerted plan, and not a mere chance arrest. Mr. Audrey's message to her showed so much, and the circumstances ofTopcliffe's arrival confirmed it. Next, it must be more than a simpleblow struck at one man, Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert: Topcliffe would nothave come down from London at all unless it were a larger quarry thanMr. Thomas that was aimed at. Thirdly, and in conclusion, it would notbe easy therefore to get Mr. Thomas released again. There remained anumber of questions which she had as yet no means of answering. Was itbecause Mr. Thomas was heir to the enormous FitzHerbert estates in thiscounty and elsewhere, that he was struck at? Or was it the beginning, merely, of a general assault on Derbyshire, such as had taken placebefore she was born? Or was it that Mr. Thomas' apparent coolnesstowards the Faith (for that was evident by his not having heard mass forso long, and by his refusal to entertain priests just at present)--wasit that lack of zeal on his part, which would, of course, be known tothe army of informers scattered now throughout England, which had markedhim out as the bird to be flown at? It would be, indeed, a blow to theCatholic gentry of the county, if any of the FitzHerberts should fall!

She stood up presently, grave with her thoughts. Mistress Alice glancedup. 

"I am going out for a little, " said Marjorie. 

"But--"

"May two of your men follow me at a little distance? But I shall be safeenough. I am going to a friend's house. "

 * * * * *

Marjorie knew Derby well enough from the old days when she rode insometimes with her father and slept at Mr. Biddell's; and, above all, she knew all that Derby had once been. In one place, outside the town, was St. Mary-in-Pratis, where the Benedictine nuns had lived; St. Leonard's had had a hospital for lepers; St. Helen's had had theAugustinian hospital for poor brothers and sisters; St. Alkmund's hadheld a relic of its patron saint; all this she knew by heart; and it wasbitter now to be here on such business. But she went briskly out fromthe hall; and ten minutes later she was knocking at the door of a littleattorney, the old partner of her father's, whose house faced theGuildhall across the little market-square. It was opened by an old womanwho smiled at the sight of her. 

"Eh! come in, mistress. The master saw you ride into town. He is in theupstairs parlour, with Mr. Bassett. "

The girl nodded to her bodyguard, and followed the old woman in. Shebowed as she passed the lawyer's confidential clerk and servant, Mr. George Beaton, in the passage--a big man, with whom she had hadcommunications more than once on Popish affairs. 

Mr. John Biddell, like Marjorie's own father and his partner, was one ofthose quiet folks who live through storms without attracting attentionfrom the elements, yet without the sacrifice of principle. He was aCatholic, and never pretended to be anything else; but he was so littleand so harmless that no man ever troubled him. He pleaded before themagistrates unobtrusively and deftly; and would have appeared before herGrace herself or the Lord of Hell with the same timid and respectfulair, in his iron-rimmed spectacles, his speckless dark suit, and hislittle black cap drawn down to his ears. He had communicated withMarjorie again and again in the last two or three years on the subjectof wandering priests, calling them "gentlemen, " with the greatest care, and allowing no indiscreet word ever to appear in his letters, Heremembered King Harry, whom he had seen once in a visit of his toLondon; he had assisted the legal authorities considerably in therestoration under Queen Mary; and he had soundlessly acquiesced in thechanges again under Elizabeth--so far, at least, as mere law wasconcerned. 

Mr. William Bassett was a very different man. First he was thebrother-in-law of Sir Thomas FitzHerbert himself; and was entirely ofthe proper spirit to mate with that fearless family. He had considerableestates, both at Langley and Blore, in both of which places hecheerfully evaded the new laws, maintaining and helping priests in alldirections; a man, in fact, of an ardent and boisterous faith which heextended (so the report ran) even to magic and astrology; a man ofmeans, too, in spite of his frequent fines for recusancy, and aged aboutfifty years old at this time, with a high colour in his face and bright, merry eyes. Marjorie had spoken with him once or twice only. 

These two men, then, first turned round in their chairs, and then stoodup to salute Marjorie, as she came into the upstairs parlour. It was asomewhat dark room, panelled where there was space for it between thebooks, and with two windows looking out on to the square. 

"I thought we should see you soon, " said the attorney. "We saw you come, mistress; and the fellows that cried out on you. "

"They had their deserts, " said Marjorie, smiling. 

Mr. Bassett laughed aloud. 

"Indeed they did, " he said in his deep, pleasant voice. "There were twoof them with bloody noses before all was done. .. . You have come for thenews, I suppose, mistress?"

He eyed her genially and approvingly. He had heard a great deal of thisyoung lady in the last three or four years; and wished there were moreof her kind. 

"That is what I have come for, " said Marjorie. "We have Mrs. Thomas overat Babington House. "

"She'll be of no great service to her husband, " said the other. "Shecries and laments too much. Now--"

He stopped himself from paying his compliments. It seemed to him thatthis woman, with her fearless, resolute face, would do very well withoutthem. 

Then he set himself to relate the tale. 

It seemed that little Mrs. Thomas had given a true enough report. It wastrue that Topcliffe had arrived from London on the morning of thearrest; and Mistress Manners was perfectly right in her opinion thatthis signified a good deal. But, it seemed to Mr. Bassett, the Councilhad made a great mistake in striking at the FitzHerberts. The quarry wastoo strong, he said, for such birds as the Government used--too strongand too many. For, first, no FitzHerbert had ever yet yielded in hisallegiance either to the Church or to the Queen's Grace; and it was notlikely that Mr. Thomas would begin: and, next, if one yielded (_suadentediabolo_, and _Deus avertat_!) a dozen more would spring up. But theposition was serious for all that, said Mr. Bassett (and Mr. Biddellnodded assent), for who would deal with the estates and make suitablearrangements if the heir, who already largely controlled them, were laidby the heels? But that the largeness of the undertaking was recognisedby the Council, was plain enough, in that no less a man than Topcliffe(Mr. Bassett spat on the floor as he named him), Topcliffe, "the devilpossessed by worse devils, " was sent down to take charge of the matter. 

Marjorie listened carefully. 

"You have no fear for yourself, sir?" she asked presently, as the mansat back in his chair. 

Mr. Bassett smiled broadly, showing his strong white teeth between theiron-grey hair that fringed his lips. 

"No; I have no fear, " he said. "I have a score of my men quartered inthe town. "

"And the trial? When will that--"

"The trial! Why, I shall praise God if the trial falls this year. Theywill harry him before magistrates, no doubt; and they will squeeze himin private. But the trial!. .. Why, they have not a word of treasonagainst him; and that is what they are after, no doubt. "

"Treason?"

"Why, surely. That is what they seek to fasten upon us all. It would notsound well that Christian should shed Christian's blood forChristianity; but that her Grace should sorrowfully arraign her subjectswhom she loves and cossets so much, for treason--Why, that is as sound acause as any in the law-books!"

He smiled in a manner that was almost a snarl, and his eyes grew narrowwith ironic merriment. 

"And Mr. Thomas--" began Marjorie hesitatingly. 

He whisked his glance on her like lightning. 

"Mr. Thomas will laugh at them all, " he cried. "He is as staunch as anyof his blood. I know he has been careful of late; but, then, you mustremember how all the estates hang on him. But when he has his back tothe wall--or on the rack for that matter--he will be as stiff as iron. They will have their work to bend him by a hair's breadth. "

Marjorie drew a breath of relief. She did not question Mr. Bassett'sjudgment. But she had had an uneasy discomfort in her heart till he hadspoken so plainly. 

"Well, sir, " she said, "that is what I chiefly came for. I wished toknow if I could do aught for Mr. Thomas or his wife; and--"

"You can do a great deal for his wife, " said he. "You can keep her quietand comfort her. She needs it, poor soul! I have told her for hercomfort that we shall have Thomas out again in a month--God forgive mefor the lie!"

Marjorie stood up; and the men rose with her. 

"Why, what is that?" she said; and went swiftly to the window; for thenoise of the crying of the cheeses and the murmur of voices had ceasedall on a sudden. 

Straight opposite the window where she stood was the tiled flight ofstairs that ran up from the market-place to the first floor of theGuildhall, a great building where the business of the town was largelydone, and where the magistrates sat when there was need; and a lane thatwas clear of booths and carts had been left leading from that doorstraight across the square, so that she could see the two littlebrobonets--or iron guns--that guarded the door on either side. It was upthis lane that she looked, and down it that there advanced a littleprocession, the very sight of which, it seemed, had stricken the squareto silence. Already the crowd was dividing from end to end, rangingitself on either side--farmers' men shambled out of the way and turnedto see; women clambered on the carts holding up their children to see, and from across the square came country-folk running, that they toomight see. The steps of the Cross were already crowded with sightseers. 

Yet, to outward sight, the little procession was ordinary enough. Firstcame three or four of the town-guard in livery, carrying their staves;then half a dozen sturdy fellows; then a couple of dignifiedgentlemen--one of them she knew: Mr. Roger Columbell, magistrate of thetown--and then, walking all alone, the figure of a man, tall and thin, alittle rustily, but very cleanly dressed in a dark suit, who carried hishead stooping forward as if he were looking on the ground for something, or as if he deprecated so much notice. 

Marjorie saw no more than this clearly. She did not notice the group ofmen that followed in case protection were needed for the agent of theCouncil, nor the crowd that swirled behind. For, as the solitary figurecame beneath the windows she recognised the man whom she had seen oncein the Tower of London. 

"God smite the man!" growled a voice in her ear. "That is Topcliffe, going to the prison, I daresay. "

And as Marjorie turned her pale face back, she saw the face of kindlyMr. Bassett, suffused and convulsed with fury. 

CHAPTER IX

I

"Marjorie! Marjorie! Wake up! the order hath come. It is for to-night. "

Very slowly Marjorie rose out of the glimmering depths of sleep intowhich she had fallen on the hot August afternoon, sunk down upon the armof the great chair that stood by the parlour window, and saw Mrs. Thomasradiant before her, waving a scrap of paper in her hand. 

Nearly two months were passed; and as yet no opportunity had been givento the prisoner's wife to visit him, and during that time it had beenimpossible to go back into the hills and leave the girl alone. The heatof the summer had been stifling, down here in the valley; a huge plagueof grasshoppers had ravaged all England; and there were times when evenin the grass-country outside Derby, their chirping had becomeintolerable. The heat, and the necessary seclusion, and the anxiety hadtold cruelly upon the country girl; Marjorie's face had perceptiblythinned; her eyes had shadows above and beneath; yet she knew she mustnot go; since the young wife had attached herself to her altogether, finding Alice (she said) too dull for her spirits. Mr. Bassett was goneagain. There was no word of a trial; although there had been a hearingor two before the magistrates; and it was known that Topcliffecontinually visited the prison. 

One piece of news only had there been to comfort her during this time, and that, that Mr. John's prediction had been fulfilled with regard tothe captured priest, Mr. Garlick, who, back from Rheims only a fewmonths, had been deported from England, since it was his first offence, But he would soon be over again, no doubt, and next time with death asthe stake in the game. 

 * * * * *

Marjorie drew a long breath, and passed her hands over her forehead. 

"The order?" she said. "What order?"

The girl explained, torrentially. A man had come just now from theGuildhall; he had asked for Mrs. FitzHerbert; she had gone down into thehall to see him; and all the rest of the useless details. But the effectwas that leave had been given at last to visit the prisoner--for twopersons, of which Mrs. FitzHerbert must be one; and that they mustpresent the order to the gaoler before seven o'clock, when they would beadmitted. She looked--such was the constitution of her mind--as happy asif it were an order for his release. Marjorie drove away the last shredsof sleep; and kissed her. 

"That is very good news, " she said. "Now we will begin to do something. "

 * * * * *

The sun had sunk so far, when they set out at last, as to throw thewhole of the square into golden shade; and, in the narrow, overhungFriar's Gate, where the windows of the upper stories were so near that aman might shake hands with his friend on the other side, the twilighthad already begun. They had determined to walk, in order less to attractattention, in spite of the filth through which they knew they must pass, along the couple of hundred yards that separated them from the prison. For every housewife emptied her slops out of doors, and swept her house(when she did so at all) into the same place: now and again the heapswould be pushed together and removed, but for the most part they laythere, bones and rags and rotten fruit, --dusty in one spot, so that allblew about--dampened in others where a pail or two had been pouredforth. The heat, too, was stifling, cast out again towards evening fromthe roofs and walls that had drunk it in all day from the burning skies. 

As they stood before the door at last and waited, after beating thegreat iron knocker on the iron plate, a kind of despair came down onMarjorie. They had advanced just so far in two months as to be allowedto speak with the prisoner; and, from her talkings with Mr. Biddell, hadunderstood how little that was. Indeed, he had hinted to her plainlyenough that even in this it might be that they were no more than pawnsin the enemy's hand; and that, under a show of mercy, it was oftenallowed for a prisoner's friends to have free access to him in order toshake his resolution. If there was any cause for congratulation then, itlay solely in the thought that other means had so far failed. One thingat least they knew, for their comfort, that there had been no talk oftorture. .. . 

It was a full couple of minutes before the door opened to show them athin, brown-faced man, with his sleeves rolled up, dressed over hisshirt and hose in a kind of leathern apron. He nodded as he saw theladies, with an air of respect, however, and stood aside to let themcome in. Then, with the same civility, he asked for the order, and readit, holding it up to the light that came through the little barredwindow over the door. 

It was an unspeakably dreary little entrance passage in which theystood, wainscoted solidly from floor to ceiling with wood that lookeddamp and black from age; the ceiling itself was indistinguishable in thetwilight; the floor seemed composed of packed earth, three or four doorsshowed in the woodwork; that opposite to the one by which they hadentered stood slightly ajar, and a smoky light shone from beyond it. The air was heavy and hot and damp, and smelled of mildew. 

The man gave the order back when he had read it, made a little gesturethat resembled a bow, and led the way straight forward. 

They found themselves, when they had passed through the half-open door, in another passage running at right-angles to the entrance, withwindows, heavily barred, so as to exclude all but the faintest twilight, even though the sun was not yet set; there appeared to be foliage ofsome kind, too, pressing against them from outside, as if a littlecentral yard lay there; and the light, by which alone they could seetheir way along the uneven earth floor, came from a flambeau which hungby the door, evidently put there just now by the man who had opened tothem; he led them down this passage to the left, down a couple of steps;unlocked another door of enormous weight and thickness and closed thisbehind them. They found themselves in complete darkness. 

"I'll be with you in a moment, mistress, " said his voice; and they heardhis steps go on into the dark and cease. 

Marjorie stood passive; she could feel the girl's hands clasp her arm, and could hear her breath come like sobs. But before she could speak, alight shone somewhere on the roof; and almost immediately the man cameback carrying another flambeau. He called to them civilly; theyfollowed. Marjorie once trod on some soft, damp thing that crackledbeneath her foot. They groped round one more corner; waited, while theyheard a key turning in a lock. Then the man stood aside, and they wentpast into the room. A figure was standing there; but for the firstmoment they could see no more. Great shadows fled this way and that asthe gaoler hung up the flambeau. Then the door closed again behindthem; and Elizabeth flung herself into her husband's arms. 

II

When Marjorie could see him, as at last he put his wife into the singlechair that stood in the cell and gave her the stool, himself sittingupon the table, she was shocked by the change in his face. It was truethat she had only the wavering light of the flambeau to see him by (forthe single barred window was no more than a pale glimmer on the wall), yet even that shadowy illumination could not account for his palenessand his fallen face. He was dressed miserably, too; his clothes weredisordered and rusty-looking; and his features looked out, at oncepinched and elongated. He blinked a little from time to time; his lipstwitched beneath his ill-cut moustache and beard; and little spasmspassed, as he talked, across his whole face. It was pitiful to see him;and yet more pitiful to hear him talk; for he assumed a kind ofcourtesy, mixed with bitterness. Now and again he fell silent, glancingwith a swift and furtive movement of his eyes from one to the other ofhis visitors and back again. He attempted to apologise for themiserableness of the surroundings in which he received them--saying thather Grace his hostess could not be everywhere at once; and that herguests must do the best that they could. And all this was mixed withsudden wails from his wife, sudden graspings of his hands by hers. Itall seemed to the quiet girl, who sat ill-at-ease on the littlethree-legged stool, that this was not the way to meet adversity. Thenshe drove down her criticism; and told herself that she ought rather toadmire one of Christ's confessors. 

"And you bring me no hope, then, Mistress Manners?" he said presently(for she had told him that there was no talk yet of any formaltrial)--"no hope that I may meet my accusers face to face? I had thoughtperhaps--"

He lifted his eyes swiftly to hers, and dropped them again. 

She shook her head. 

"And yet that is all that I ask now--only to meet my accusers. They canprove nothing against me--except, indeed, my recusancy; and that theyhave known this long time back. They can prove nothing as to theharbouring of any priests--not within the last year, at any rate, for Ihave not done so. It seemed to me--"

He stopped again, and passed his shaking hand over his mouth, eyeing thetwo women with momentary glances, and then looking down once more. 

"Yes?" said Marjorie. 

He slipped off from the table, and began to move about restlessly. 

"I have done nothing--nothing at all, " he said. "Indeed, I thought--"And once more he was silent. 

 * * * * *

He began to talk presently of the Derbyshire hills of Padley and ofNorbury. He asked his wife of news from home, and she gave it him, interrupting herself with laments. Yet all the while his eyes strayed toMarjorie as if there was something he would ask of her, but could not. He seemed completely unnerved, and for the first time in her life thegirl began to understand something of what gaol-life must signify. Shehad heard of death and the painful Question; and she had perceivedsomething of the heroism that was needed to meet them; yet she had neverbefore imagined what that life of confinement might be, until she hadwatched this man, whom she had known in the world as a curt and almostmasterful gentleman, careful of his dress, particular of the deferencethat was due to him, now become this worn prisoner, careless of hisappearance, who stroked his mouth continually, once or twice gnawing hisnails, who paced about in this abominable hole, where a tumbled heap ofstraw and blankets represented a bed, and a rickety table with a chairand a stool his sole furniture. It seemed as if a husk had been strippedfrom him, and a shrinking creature had come out of it which at presentshe could not recognise. 

Then he suddenly wheeled on her, and for the first time some kind offorcefulness appeared in his manner. 

"And my Uncle Bassett?" he cried abruptly. "What is he doing all thiswhile?"

Marjorie said that Mr. Bassett had been most active on his behalf withthe lawyers, but, for the present, was gone back again to his estates. Mr. Thomas snorted impatiently. 

"Yes, he is gone back again, " he cried, "and he leaves me to rot here!He thinks that I can bear it for ever, it seems!"

"Mr. Bassett has done his utmost, sir, " said Marjorie. "He exposedhimself here daily. "

"Yes, with twenty fellows to guard him, I suppose. I know my UncleBassett's ways. .. . Tell me, if you please, how matters stand. "

Marjorie explained again. There was nothing in the world to be doneuntil the order came for his trial--or, rather, everything had been donealready. His lawyers were to rely exactly on the defence that had beenspoken of just now; it was to be shown that the prisoner had harbouredno priests; and the witnesses had already been spoken with--men fromNorbury and Padley, who would swear that to their certain knowledge nopriest had been received by Mr. FitzHerbert at least during the previousyear or eighteen months. There was, therefore, no kind of reason whyMr. Bassett or Mr. John FitzHerbert should remain any longer in Derby. Mr. John had been there, but had gone again, under advice from thelawyers; but he was in constant communication with Mr. Biddell, who hadall the papers ready and the names of the witnesses, and had made morethan one application already for the trial to come on. 

"And why has neither my father nor my Uncle Bassett come to see me?"snapped the man. 

"They have tried again and again, sir, " said Marjorie. "But permissionwas refused. They will no doubt try again, now that Mrs. FitzHerbert hasbeen admitted. "

He paced up and down again for a few steps without speaking. Then againhe turned on her, and she could see his face working uncontrolledly. 

"And they will enjoy the estates, they think, while I rot here!"

"Oh, my Thomas!" moaned his wife, reaching out to him. But he paid noattention to her. 

"While I rot here!" he cried again. "But I will not! I tell you I willnot!"

"Yes, sir?" said Marjorie gently, suddenly aware that her heart hadbegun to beat swiftly. 

He glanced at her, and his face changed a little. 

"I will not, " he murmured. "I must break out of my prison. Only theiraccursed--"

Again he interrupted himself, biting sharply on his lip. 

 * * * * *

For an instant the girl had thought that all her old distrust of him wasjustified, and that he contemplated in some way the making of terms thatwould be disgraceful to a Catholic. But what terms could these be? Hewas a FitzHerbert; there was no evading his own blood; and he was thevictim chosen by the Council to answer for the rest. Nothing, then, except the denial of his faith--a formal and deliberate apostasy--couldserve him; and to think that of the nephew of old Sir Thomas, and theson of John, was inconceivable. There seemed no way out; the torment ofthis prison must be borne. She only wished he could have borne it moremanfully. 

It seemed, as she watched him, that some other train of thought hadfastened upon him. His wife had begun again her lamentations, bewailinghis cell and his clothes, and his loss of liberty, asking him whether hewere not ill, whether he had food enough to eat; and he hardly answeredher or glanced at her, except once when he remembered to tell her that agood gift to the gaoler would mean a little better food, and perhapsmore light for himself. And then he resumed his pacing; and, three orfour times as he turned, the girl caught his eyes fixed on hers for oneinstant. She wondered what was in his mind to say. 

Even as she wondered there came a single loud rap upon the door, andthen she heard the key turning. He wheeled round, and seemed to come toa determination. 

"My dearest, " he said to his wife, "here is the gaoler come to turn youout again. I will ask him--" He broke off as the man stepped in. 

"Mr. Gaoler, " he said, "my wife would speak alone with you a moment. "(He nodded and winked at his wife, as if to tell her that this was thetime to give him the money. )

"Will you leave Mistress Manners here for a minute or two while my wifespeaks with you in the passage?"

Then Marjorie understood that she had been right. 

The man who held the keys nodded without speaking. 

"Then, my dearest wife, " said Thomas, embracing her all of a sudden, and simultaneously drawing her towards the door, "we will leave you tospeak with the man. He will come back for Mistress Manners directly. "

"Oh! my Thomas!" wailed the girl, clinging to him. 

"There, there, my dearest. And you will come and see me again as soon asyou can get the order. "

 * * * * *

The instant the door was closed he came up to Marjorie and his facelooked ghastly. 

"Mistress Manners, " he said, "I dare not speak to my wife. But . .. But, for Jesu's sake, get me out of here. I . .. I cannot bear it. .. . Topcliffe comes to see me every day. .. . He . .. He speaks to mecontinually of--O Christ! Christ! I cannot bear it!"

He dropped suddenly on to his knees by the table and hid his face. 

III

At Babington House Marjorie slept, as was often the custom, in the sameroom with her maid--a large, low room, hung all round with paintedcloths above the low wainscoting. 

On the night after the visit to the prison, Janet noticed that hermistress was restless; and that while she would say nothing of what wastroubling her, and only bade her go to bed and to sleep, she herselfwould not go to bed. At last, in sheer weariness, the maid slept. 

She awakened later, at what time she did not know, and, in heruneasiness, sat up and looked about her; and there, still before thecrucifix, where she had seen her before she slept, kneeled her mistress. She cried out in a loud whisper:

"Come to bed, mistress; come to bed. "

And, at the word, Marjorie started; then she rose, turned, and in thetwilight of the summer night began to prepare herself for bed, withoutspeaking. Far away across the roofs of Derby came the crowing of a cockto greet the dawn. 

CHAPTER X

I

It was a fortnight later that there came suddenly to Babington House oldMr. Biddell himself. Up to the present he had been careful not to do so. He appeared in the great hall an hour before dinner-time, as the tableswere being set, and sent a servant for Mistress Manners. 

"Hark you!" he said; "you need not rouse the whole house. It is withMistress Manners alone that my business lies. "

He broke off, as Mrs. FitzHerbert looked over the gallery. 

"Mr. Biddell!" she cried. 

He shook his head, but he seemed to speak with some difficulty. 

"It is just a rumour, " he said, "such as there hath been before. I begyou--"

"That . .. There will be no trial at all?"

"It is just a rumour, " he repeated. "I did not even come to trouble youwith it. It is with Mistress Manners that--"

"I am coming down, " cried Mrs. Thomas, and vanished from the gallery. 

Mr. Biddell acted with decision. He whisked out again into the passagefrom the court, and there ran straight into Marjorie, who was coming infrom the little enclosed garden at the back of the house. 

"Quick!" he said. "Quick! Mrs. Thomas is coming, and I do not wish--"

She led the way without a word back into the court, along a few steps, and up again to the house into a little back parlour that the stewardused when the house was full. It was unoccupied now, and looked out intothe garden whence she was just come. She locked the door when he hadentered, and came and sat down out of sight of any that might bepassing. 

"Sit here, " she said; and then: "Well?" she asked. 

He looked at her gravely and sadly, shaking his head once or twice. Thenhe drew out a paper or two from a little lawyer's valise that hecarried, and, as he did so, heard a hand try the door outside. 

"That is Mrs. Thomas, " whispered the girl. "She will not find us. "

He waited till the steps moved away again. Then he began. He lookedanxious and dejected. 

"I fear it is precisely as you thought, " he said. "I have followed upevery rumour in the place. And the first thing that is certain is thatTopcliffe leaves Derby in two days from now. I had it as positiveinformation that his men have orders to prepare for it. The second thingis that Topcliffe is greatly elated; and the third is that Mr. FitzHerbert will be released as soon as Topcliffe is gone. "

"You are sure this time, sir?"

He assented by a movement of his head. 

"I dared not tell Mrs. Thomas just now. She would give me no peace. Isaid it was but a rumour, and so it is; but it is a rumour that hathtruth behind it. He hath been moved, too, these three days back, toanother cell, and hath every comfort. "

He shook his head again. 

"But he hath made no promise--" began Marjorie breathlessly. 

"It is exactly that which I am most afraid of, " said the lawyer. "If hehad yielded, and, consented to go to church, it would have been inevery man's mouth by now. But he hath not, and I should fear it less ifhe had. That's the very worst part of my news. "

"I do not understand--"

Mr. Biddell tapped his papers on the table. 

"If he were an open and confessed enemy, I should fear it less, " herepeated. "It is not that. But he must have given some promise toTopcliffe that pleases the fellow more. And what can that be but that--"

Marjorie turned yet whiter. She sighed once as if to steady herself. Shecould not speak, but she nodded. 

"Yes, Mistress Manners, " said the old man. "I make no doubt at all thathe hath promised to assist him against them all--against Mr. John hisfather, it may be, or Mr. Bassett, or God knows whom! And yet stillfeigning to be true! And that is not all. "

She looked at him. She could not conceive worse than this, if indeed itwere true. 

"And do you think, " he continued, "that Mr. Topcliffe will do all thisfor love, or rather, for mere malice? I have heard more of the fellowsince he hath been in Derby than in all my life before; and, I tell you, he is for feathering his own nest if he can. " He stopped. 

"Mistress, did you know that he had been out to Padley three or fourtimes since he came to Derby?. .. Well, I tell you now that he has. Mr. John was away, praise God; but the fellow went all round the place andgreatly admired it. "

"He went out to see what he could find?" asked the girl, stillwhispering. 

The other shook his head. 

"No, mistress; he searched nothing. I had it all from one of hisfellows, through one of mine. He searched nothing; he sat a great whilein the garden, and ate some of the fruit; he went through the hall andthe rooms, and admired all that was to be seen there. He went up intothe chapel-room, too, though there was nothing there to tell him what itwas; and he talked a great while to one of the men about the farms, andthe grazing, and such-like, but he meddled with nothing. " (The old man'sface suddenly wrinkled into fury. ) "The devil went through it all likethat, and admired it; and he came out to it again two or three times anddid the like. "

He stopped to examine the notes he had made, and Marjorie sat still, staring on him. 

It was worse than anything she could have conceived possible. That aFitzHerbert should apostatise was incredible enough; but that one shouldsell his family--It was impossible. 

"Mr. Biddell, " she whispered piteously, "it cannot be. It is some--"

He shook his head suddenly and fiercely. 

"Mistress Manners, it is as plain as daylight to me. Do you think Icould believe it without proof? I tell you I have lain awake all lastnight, fitting matters one into the other. I did not hear about Padleytill last night, and it gave me all that I needed. I tell you Topcliffehath cast his foul eyes on Padley and coveted it; and he hath demandedit as a price for Mr. Thomas' liberty. I do not know what else he hathpromised, but I will stake my fortune that Padley is part of it. That iswhy he is so elated. He hath been here nearly this three months back; hehath visited Mr. FitzHerbert nigh every day; he hath cajoled him, hehath threatened him; he hath worn out his spirit by the gaol and thestinking food and the loneliness; and he hath prevailed, as he hathprevailed with many another. And the end of it all is that Mr. FitzHerbert hath yielded--yet not openly. Maybe that is part of thebargain upon the other side, that he should keep his name before theworld. And on this side he hath promised Padley, if that he may but keepthe rest of the estates, and have his liberty. I tell you that alonecuts all the knots of this tangle. .. . Can you cut them in any othermanner?"

 * * * * *

There was a long silence. From the direction of the kitchen came thesound of cheerful voices, and the clatter of lids, and from the walledgarden outside the chatter of birds. .. . 

At last the girl spoke. 

"I cannot believe it without evidence, " she said. "It may be so. Godknows! But I do not. .. . Mr. Biddell?"

"Well, mistress?"

The lawyer's head was sunk on his breast; he spoke listlessly. 

"He will have given some writing to Mr. Topcliffe, will he not? if thisbe true. Mr. Topcliffe is not the man--"

The old man lifted his head sharply; then he nodded. 

"That is the shrewd truth, mistress. Mr. Topcliffe will not trust toanother's honour; he hath none of his own!"

"Well, " said Marjorie, "if all this be true, Mr. Topcliffe will alreadyhave that writing in his possession. "

She paused. 

"Eh?" said the lawyer. 

They looked at one another again in silence. It would have seemed toanother that the two minds talked swiftly and wordlessly together, thetrained thought of the lawyer and the quick wit of the woman; for whenthe man spoke again, it was as if they had spoken at length. 

"But we must not destroy the paper, " he said, "or the fat will be inthe fire. We must not let Mr. FitzHerbert know that he is found out. "

"No, " said the girl. "But to get a view of it. .. . And a copy of it, tosend to his family. "

Again the two looked each at the other in silence--as if they wereequals--the old man and the girl. 

II

It was the last night before the Londoners were to return. 

They had lived royally these last three months. The agent of the Councilhad had a couple of the best rooms in the inn that looked on to themarket-square, where he entertained his friends, and now and then amagistrate or two. Even Mr. Audrey, of Matstead, had come to him oncethere, with another, but had refused to stay to supper, and had riddenaway again alone. 

Downstairs, too, his men had fared very well indeed. They knew how tomake themselves respected, for they carried arms always now, since theunfortunate affair a day after the arrival, when two of them had beengravely battered about by two rustic servants, who, they learned, weremembers of a Popish household in the town. But all the provincialfellows were not like this. There was a big man, half clerk and halfman-servant to a poor little lawyer, who lived across the square--a manof no wit indeed, but, at any rate, one of means and of generosity, too, as they had lately found out--means and generosity, they understood, that were made possible by the unknowing assistance of his master. In aword it was believed among Mr. Topcliffe's men that all the refreshmentwhich they had lately enjoyed, beyond that provided by their master, wasat old Mr. Biddell's expense, though he did not know it, and thatGeorge Beaton, fool though he was, was a cleverer man than his employer. Lately, too, they had come to learn, that although George Beaton washalf clerk, half man-servant, to a Papist, he was yet at heart as stouta Protestant as themselves, though he dared not declare it for fear oflosing his place. 

On this last night they made very merry indeed, and once or twice thelandlord pushed his head through the doorway. The baggage was packed, and all was in readiness for a start soon after dawn. 

There came a time when George Beaton said that he was stifling with theheat; and, indeed, in this low-ceilinged room after supper, with thelittle windows looking on to the court, the heat was surprising. The mensat in their shirts and trunks. So that it was as natural as possiblethat George should rise from his place and sit down again close to thedoor where the cool air from the passage came in; and from there, oncemore, he led the talk, in his character of rustic and open-handed boor;he even beat the sullen man who was next him genially over the head tomake him give more room, and then he proposed a toast to Mr. Topcliffe. 

It was about half an hour later, when George was becoming a littleanxious, that he drew out at last a statement that Mr. Topcliffe had agreat valise upstairs, full of papers that had to do with his lawbusiness. (He had tried for this piece of information last night and thenight before, but had failed to obtain it. ) Ten minutes later again, then, when the talk had moved to affairs of the journey, and the valisehad been forgotten, it was an entirely unsuspicious circumstance thatGeorge and the man that sat next him should slip out to take the air inthe stable-court. The Londoner was so fuddled with drink as to thinkthat he had gone out at his own deliberate wish; and there, in thefresh air, the inevitable result followed; his head swam, and he leanedon big George for support. And here, by the one stroke of luck thatvisited poor George this evening, it fell that he was just in time tosee Mr. Topcliffe himself pass the archway in the direction of Friar'sGate, in company with a magistrate, who had supped with him upstairs. 

Up to this point George had moved blindly, step by step. He had had hisinstructions from his master, yet all that he had been able to determinewas the general plan to find out where the papers were kept, to remainin the inn till the last possible moment, and to watch for any chancethat might open to him. Truly, he had no more than that, except, indeed, a vague idea that it might be necessary to bribe one of the men to robhis master. Yet there was everything against this, and it was, indeed, alast resort. It seemed now, however, that another way was open. It wasexceedingly probable that Mr. Topcliffe was off for his last visit tothe prisoner, and, since a magistrate was with him, it was exceedinglyimprobable that he would take the paper with him. It was not the kind ofpaper--if, indeed, it existed at all--that more persons would be allowedto see than were parties to the very discreditable affair. 

And now George spoke earnestly and convincingly. He desired to see thebaggage of so great a man as Mr. Topcliffe; he had heard so much of him. His friend was a good fellow who trusted him (here George embraced himwarmly). Surely such a little thing would be allowed as for him, George, to step in and view Mr. Topcliffe's baggage, while the faithful servantkept watch in the passage! Perhaps another glass of ale--

III

"Yes, sir, " said George an hour later, still a little flushed with theamount of drink he had been forced to consume. "I had some trouble toget it. But I think this is what your honour wanted. "

He began to search in his deep breast-pocket. 

"Tell me, " said Mr. Biddell. 

"I got the fellow to watch in the passage, sir; him that I had madedrunk, while I was inside. There were great bundles of papers in thevalise. .. . No, sir, it was strapped up only. .. . The most of the paperswere docketed very legally, sir; so I did not have to search long. Therewere three or four papers in a little packet by themselves; besides agreat packet that was endorsed with Mr. FitzHerbert's name, as well asMr. Topcliffe's and my lord Shrewsbury's; and I think I should not havehad time to look that through. But, by God's mercy, it was one of thethree or four by themselves. "

He had the paper in his hand by now. The lawyer made a movement to takeit. Then he restrained himself. 

"Tell me, first, " he said. 

"Well, sir, " said George, with a pardonable satisfaction in spinning thematter out, "one was all covered with notes, and was headed 'Padley. ' Iread that through, sir. It had to do with the buildings and the acres, and so forth. The second paper I could make nothing out of; it was incypher, I think. The third paper was the same; and the fourth, sir, wasthat which I have here. "

The lawyer started. 

"But I told you--"

"Yes, sir; I should have said that this is the copy--or, at least, anabstract. I made the abstract by the window, sir, crouching down so thatnone should see me. Then I put all back as before, and came out again;the fellow was fast asleep against the door. "

"And Topcliffe--"

"Mr. Topcliffe, sir, returned half an hour afterwards in company againwith Mr. Hamilton. I waited a few minutes to see that all was well, andthen I came to you, sir. "

There was silence in the little room for a moment. It was the small backoffice of Mr. Biddell, where he did his more intimate business, lookingout on to a paved court. The town was for the most part asleep, andhardly a sound came through the closed windows. 

Then the lawyer turned and put out his hand for the paper without aword. He nodded to George, who went out, bidding him good-night. 

 * * * * *

Ten minutes later Mr. Biddell walked quietly through the passengers'gate by the side of the great doors that led to the court besideBabington House, closing it behind him. He knew that it would be leftunbarred till eleven o'clock that night. He passed on through the court, past the house door, to the steward's office, where through heavycurtains a light glimmered. As he put his hand on the door it opened, and Marjorie was there. He said nothing, nor did she. Her face was paleand steady, and there was a question in her eyes. For answer he put thepaper into her hands, and sat down while she read it. The stillness wasas deep here as in the office he had just left. 

IV

It was a minute or two before either spoke. The girl read the papertwice through, holding it close to the little hand-lamp that stood onthe table. 

"You see, mistress, " he said, "it is as bad as it can be. "

She handed back the paper to him; he slid out his spectacles, put themon, and held the writing to the light. 

"Here are the points, you see . .. " he went on. "I have annotated them inthe margin. First, that Thomas FitzHerbert be released from Derby gaolwithin three days from the leaving of Topcliffe for London, and that hebe no more troubled, neither in fines nor imprisonment; next, that hehave secured to him, so far as the laws shall permit, all hisinheritance from Sir Thomas, from his father, and from any otherbequests whether of his blood-relations or no; thirdly, that Topcliffedo 'persecute to the death'"--(the lawyer paused, cast a glance at thedowncast face of the girl) "'--do persecute to the death' his uncle SirThomas, his father John, and William Bassett his kinsman; and, in returnfor all this, Thomas FitzHerbert shall become her Grace's swornservant--that is, Mistress Manners, her Grace's spy, pursuivant, informer and what-not--and that he shall grant and secure to RichardTopcliffe, Esquire, and to his heirs for ever, 'the manors of OverPadley and Nether Padley, on the Derwent, with six messuages, twocottages, ten gardens, ten orchards, a thousand acres of land, fivehundred acres of meadow-land, six hundred acres of pasture, threehundred acres of wood, a thousand acres of furze and heath, in Padley, Grindleford and Lyham, in the parish of Hathersage, in consideration ofeight hundred marks of silver, to be paid to Thomas FitzHerbert, Esquire, etc. '"

The lawyer put the paper down, and pushed his spectacles on to hisforehead. 

"That is a legal instrument?" asked the girl quietly, still withdowncast eyes. 

"It is not yet fully completed, but it is signed and witnessed. It canbecome a legal instrument by Topcliffe's act; and it would passmuster--"

"It is signed by Mr. Thomas?"

He nodded. 

She was silent again. He began to tell her of how he had obtained it, and of George's subtlety and good fortune; but she seemed to pay noattention. She sat perfectly still. When he had ended, she spoke again. 

"A sworn servant of her Grace--" she began. 

"Topcliffe is a sworn servant of her Grace, " he said bitterly; "you mayjudge by that what Thomas FitzHerbert hath become. "

"We shall have his hand, too, against us all, then?"

"Yes, mistress; and, what is worse, this paper I take it--" (he tappedit) "this paper is to be a secret for the present. Mr. Thomas will stillfeign himself to be a Catholic, with Catholics, until he comes into allhis inheritances. And, meantime, he will supply information to his newmasters. "

"Why cannot we expose him?"

"Where is the proof? He will deny it. "

She paused. 

"We can at least tell his family. You will draw up the informations?"

"I will do so. "

"And send them to Sir Thomas and Mr. Bassett?"

"I will do so. "

"That may perhaps prevent his inheritance coming to him as quickly as hethinks. "

The lawyer's eyes gleamed. 

"And what of Mrs. Thomas, mistress?"

Marjorie lifted her eyes. 

"I do not think a great deal of Mrs. Thomas, " she said. "She is honest, I think; but she could not be trusted with a secret. But I will tellMistress Babington, and I will warn what priests I can. "

"And if it leaks out?"

"It must leak out. "

"And yourself? Can you meet Mr. Thomas again just now? He will be out inthree days. "

Marjorie drew a long breath. 

"No, sir; I cannot meet him. I should betray what I felt. I shall makeexcuses to Mrs. Thomas, and go home to-morrow. "

PART III

CHAPTER I

I

The "Red Bull" in Cheapside was all alight; a party had arrived therefrom the coast not an hour ago, and the rooms that had been bespoken bycourier occupied the greater part of the second floor; the rest of thehouse was already filled by another large company, spoken for by Mr. Babington, although he himself was not one of them. And it seemed to theshrewd landlord that these two parties were not wholly unknown to oneanother, although, as a discreet man, he said nothing. 

The latest arrived party was plainly come from the coast. They hadarrived a little after sunset on this stormy August day, splashed to theshoulders by the summer-mud, and drenched to the skin by the heavythunder-showers. Their baggage had a battered and sea-going air aboutit, and the landlord thought he would not be far away if he conjecturedRheims as their starting-point; there were three gentlemen in the party, and four servants apparently; but he knew better than to ask questionsor to overhear what seemed rather over-familiar conversation between themen and their masters. There was only one, however, whom he rememberedto have lodged before, over five years ago. The name of this one was Mr. Alban. But all this was not his business. His duty was to be hearty anddeferential and entirely stupid; and certainly this course of behaviourbrought him a quantity of guests. 

 * * * * *

Mr. Alban, about half-past nine o'clock, had finished unstrapping hisluggage. It was of the most innocent description, and contained nothingthat all the world might not see. He had made arrangements that articlesof another kind should come over from Rheims under the care of one ofthe "servants, " whose baggage would be less suspected. The distributionwould take place in a day or two. These articles comprised five sets ofaltar vessels, five sets of mass-vestments, made of a stuff woven of allthe liturgical colours together, a dozen books, a box of medals, anotherof _Agnus Deis_--little wax medallions stamped with the figure of a Lambsupporting a banner--a bunch of beads, and a heavy little square packageof very thin altar-stones. 

As he laid out the suit of clothes that he proposed to wear next day, there was a rapping on his door. 

"Mr. Babington is come--sir. " (The last word was added as an obviousafterthought, in case of listeners. )

Robin sprang up; the door was opened by his "servant, " and Anthony camein, smiling. 

 * * * * *

Mr. Anthony Babington had broadened and aged considerably during thelast five years. He was still youthful-looking, but he was plainly a manand no longer a boy. And he presently said as much for his friend. 

"You are a man, Robin, " he said. --"Why, it slipped my mind!"

He knelt down promptly on the strip of carpet and kissed the palms ofthe hands held out to him, as is the custom to do with newly-ordainedpriests, and Robin murmured a blessing. 

Then the two sat down again. 

"And now for the news, " said Robin. 

Anthony's face grew grave. 

"Yours first, " he said. 

So Robin told him. He had been ordained priest a month ago, atChâlons-sur-Marne. .. . The college was as full as it could hold. .. . Theyhad had an unadventurous journey. 

Anthony put a question or two, and was answered. 

"And now, " said Robin, "what of Derbyshire; and of the country; and ofmy father? And is it true that Ballard is taken?"

Anthony threw an arm over the back of his chair, and tried to seem athis ease. 

"Well, " he said, "Derbyshire is as it ever was. You heard of ThomasFitzHerbert's defection?"

"Mistress Manners wrote to me of it, more than two years ago. "

"Well, he does what he can: he comes and goes with his wife or withouther. But he comes no more to Padley. And he scarcely makes a feint evenbefore strangers of being a Catholic, though he has not declaredhimself, nor gone to church, at any rate in his own county. Here inLondon I have seen him more than once in Topcliffe's company. But Ithink that every Catholic in the country knows of it by now. That isMistress Manners' doing. My sister says there has never been a womanlike her. "

Robin's eyes twinkled. 

"I always said so, " he said. "But none would believe me. She has the witand courage of twenty men. What has she been doing?"

"What has she not done?" cried Anthony. "She keeps herself for the mostpart in her house; and my sister spends a great deal of time with her;but her men, who would die for her, I think, go everywhere; and half thehog-herds and shepherds of the Peak are her sworn men. I have given yourDick to her; he was mad to do what he could in that cause. So her men gothis way and that bearing her letters or her messages to priests who areon their way through the county; and she gets news--God knows how!--ofwhat is a-stirring against us. She has saved Mr. Ludlam twice, and Mr. Garlick once, as well as Mr. Simpson once, by getting the news to themof the pursuivants' coming, and having them away into the Peak. And yetwith all this, she has never been laid by the heels. "

"Have they been after her, then?" asked Robin eagerly. 

"They have had a spy in her house twice to my knowledge, but neveropenly; and never a shred of a priest's gown to be seen, though mass hadbeen said there that day. But they have never searched it by force. AndI think they do not truly suspect her at all. "

"Did I not say so?" cried Robin. "And what of my father? He wrote to methat he was to be made magistrate; and I have never written to himsince. "

"He hath been made magistrate, " said Anthony drily; "and he sits on thebench with the rest of them. "

"Then he is all of the same mind?"

"I know nothing of his mind. I have never spoken with him this six yearsback. I know his acts only. His name was in the 'Bond of Association, 'too!"

"I have heard of that. "

"Why, it is two years old now. Half the gentry of England have joinedit, " said Anthony bitterly. "It is to persecute to the death anypretender to the Crown other than our Eliza. "

There was a pause. Robin understood the bitterness. 

"And what of Mr. Ballard?" asked Robin. 

"Yes; he is taken, " said Anthony slowly, watching him. "He was taken aweek ago. "

"Will they banish him, then?"

"I think they will banish him. "

"Why, yes--it is the first time he hath been taken. And there isnothing great against him?"

"I think there is not, " said Anthony, still with that strangedeliberateness. 

"Why do you look at me like that?"

Anthony stood up without answering. Then he began to pace about. As hepassed the door he looked to the bolt carefully. Then he turned again tohis friend. 

"Robin, " he said, "would you sooner know a truth that will make youunhappy, or be ignorant of it?"

"Does it concern myself or my business?" asked Robin promptly. 

"It concerns you and every priest and every Catholic in England. It iswhat I have hinted to you before. "

"Then I will hear it. "

"It is as if I told it in confession?"

Robin paused. 

"You may make it so, " he said, "if you choose. "

Anthony looked at him an instant. "Well, " he said, "I will not make aconfession, because there is no use in that now--but--Well, listen!" hesaid, and sat down. 

II

When he ceased, Robin lifted his head. He was as white as a sheet. 

"You have been refused absolution before for this?"

"I was refused absolution by two priests; but I was granted it by athird. "

"Let me see that I have the tale right. 

"Yourself, with a number of others, have bound yourselves by an oath tokill her Grace, and to set Mary on the throne. This has taken shape nowsince the beginning of the summer. You yourself are now living in Mr. Walsingham's house, in Seething Lane, under the patronage of her Grace, and you show yourself freely at court. You have proceeded so far, underfear of Mr. Ballard's arrest, as to provide one of your company withclothes and necessaries that can enable him to go to court; and it wasyour intention, as well as his, that he should take opportunity to killher Grace. But to-day only you have become persuaded that the old designwas the better; and you wish first to arrange matters with the Queen ofthe Scots, so that when all is ready, you may be the more sure of arising when that her Grace is killed, and that the Duke of Parma may bein readiness to bring an army into England. It is still your intentionto kill her Grace?"

"By God! it is!" said Anthony, between clenched teeth. 

"Then I could not absolve you, even if you came to confession. You maybe absolved from your allegiance, as we all are; but you are notabsolved from charity and justice towards Elizabeth as a woman. I haveconsulted theologians on the very point; and--"

Then Anthony sprang up. 

"See here, Robin; we must talk this out. " He flicked his fingerssharply. "See--we will talk of it as two friends. "

"You had better take back those words, " said the priest gravely. 

"Why?"

"It would be my duty to lay an information! I understood you spoke to meas to a priest, though not in confession. "

"You would!" blazed the other. 

"I should do so in conscience, " said the priest. "But you have not yettold me as a friend, and--"

"You mean--"

"I mean that so long as you choose to speak to me of it, now and here, it remains that I choose to regard it as _sub sigillo_ in effect. Butyou must not come to me to-morrow, as if I knew it all in a plain way. Ido not. I know it as a priest only. "

There was silence for a moment. Then Anthony stood up. 

"I understand, " he said. "But you would refuse me absolution in anycase?"

"I could not give you absolution so long as you intended to kill herGrace. "

Anthony made an impatient gesture. 

"See here, " he said. "Let me tell you the whole matter from thebeginning. Now listen. "

He settled himself again in his chair, and began. 

 * * * * *

"Robin, " he said, "you remember when I spoke to you in the inn on theway to Matstead; it must be seven or eight years gone now? Well, thatwas when the beginning was. There was no design then, such as we haveto-day; but the general purpose was there. I had spoken with man afterman; I had been to France, and seen Mr. Morgan there, Queen Mary's man, and my lord of Glasgow; and all that I spoke with seemed of onemind--except my lord of Glasgow, who did not say much to me on thematter. But all at least were agreed that there would be no peace inEngland so long as Elizabeth sat on the throne. 

"Well: it was after that that I fell in with Ballard, who was over hereon some other affair; and I found him a man of the same mind as myself;he was all agog for Mary, and seemed afraid of nothing. Well; nothingwas done for a great while. He wrote to me from France; I wrote back tohim again, telling him the names of some of my friends. I went to seehim in France two or three times; and I saw him here, when you yourselfcame over with him. But we did not know whom to trust. Neither had weany special design. Her Grace of the Scots went hither and thitherunder strong guards; and what I had done for her before--"

Robin looked up. He was still quite pale and quite quiet. 

"What was that?" he said. 

Anthony again made his impatient gesture. He was fiercely excited; butkept himself under tolerable control. 

"Why, I have been her agent for a great while back, getting her lettersthrough to her, and such like. But last year, when that damned Sir AmyasPaulet became her gaoler, I could do nothing. Two or three times mymessenger was stopped, and the letters taken from him. Well; after thattime I could do no more. There her Grace was, back again at Tutbury, andnone could get near her. She might no more give alms, even, to the poor;and all her letters must go through Walsingham's hands. And then Godhelped us: she was taken last autumn to Chartley, near by which is thehouse of the Giffords; and since that time we have been almost merry. Doyou know Gilbert Gifford?"

"He hath been with the Jesuits, hath he not?"

"That is the man. Well, Mr. Gilbert Gifford hath been God's angel to us. A quiet, still kind of a man--you have seen him?"

"I have spoken with him at Rheims, " said Robin. "I know nothing of him. "

"Well; he contrived the plan. He hath devised a beer-barrel that haththe beer all roundabout, so that when they push their rods in, thereseems all beer within. But in the heart of the beer there is secured alittle iron case; and within the iron case there is space for papers. Well, this barrel goes to and fro to Chartley and to a brewer that is agood Catholic; and within the case there are the letters. And in thisway, all has been prepared--"

Robin looked up again. He remained quiet through all the story; andlifted no more than his eyes. His fingers played continually with abutton on his doublet. 

"You mean that Queen Mary hath consented to this?"

"Why, yes!"

"To her sister's death?"

"Why, yes!"

"I do not believe it, " said the priest quietly. "On whose word does thatstand?"

"Why, on her own! Whose else's?" snapped Anthony. 

"You mean, you have it in her own hand, signed by her name?"

"It is in Gifford's hand! Is not that enough? And there is her seal toit. It is in cypher, of course. What would you have?"

"Where is she now?" asked Robin, paying no attention to the question. 

"She hath just now been moved again to Tixall. "

"For what?"

"I do not know. What has that to do with the matter? She will be backsoon again. I tell you all is arranged. "

"Tell me the rest of the story, " said the priest. 

"There is not much more. So it stands at present. I tell you her Gracehath been tossed to and fro like a ball at play. She was at Chatsworth, as you know; she has been shut up in Chartley like a criminal; she wasat Babington House even. God! if I had but known it in time!"

"In Babington House! Why, when was that?"

"Last year, early--with Sir Ralph Sadler, who was her gaoler then!"cried Anthony bitterly; "but for a night only. .. . I have sold thehouse. "

"Sold it!"

"I do not keep prisons, " snapped Anthony. "I will have none of it!"

"Well?"

"Well, " resumed the other man quietly. "I must say that when Ballard wastaken--"

"When was that?"

"Last week only. Well, when he was taken I thought perhaps all wasknown. But I find Mr. Walsingham's conversation very comforting, thoughlittle he knows it, poor man! He knows that I am a Catholic; and he waslamenting to me only three days ago of the zeal of these informers. Hesaid he could not save Ballard, so hot was the pursuit after him; thathe would lose favour with her Grace if he did. "

"What comfort is there in that?"

"Why; it shows plain enough that nothing is known of the true facts. Ifthey were after him for this design of ours do you think that Walsinghamwould speak like that? He would clap us all in ward--long ago. "

The young priest was silent. His head still whirled with the tale, andhis heart was sick at the misery of it all. This was scarcely thehome-coming he had looked for! He turned abruptly to the other. 

"Anthony, lad, " he said, "I beseech you to give it up. "

Anthony smiled at him frankly. His excitement was sunk down again. 

"You were always a little soft, " he said. "I remember you would havenought to do with us before. Why, we are at war, I tell you; and it isnot we who declared it! They have made war on us now for the last twentyyears and more. What of all the Catholics--priests and others--who havedied on the gibbet, or rotted in prison? If her Grace makes war upon us, why should we not make war upon her Grace? Tell me that, then!"

"Anthony, I beseech you to give it up. I hate the whole matter, and fearit, too. "

"Fear it? Why, I tell you, we hold them _so_. " (He stretched out hislean, young hand, and clenched the long fingers slowly together. ) "Wehave them by the throat. You will be glad enough to profit by it, whenMary reigns. What is there to fear?"

"I do not know; I am uneasy. But that is not to the purpose. I tell youit is forbidden by God's--"

"Uneasy! Fear it! Why, tell me what there is to fear? What hole can youfind anywhere?"

"I do not know. I hardly know the tale yet. But it seems to me theremight be a hundred. "

"Tell me one of them, then. "

Anthony threw himself back with an indulgent smile on his face. 

"Why, if you will have it, " said Robin, roused by the contempt, "thereis one great hole in this. All hangs upon Gifford's word, as it seems tome. You have not spoken with Mary; you have not even her own hand onit. "

"Bah! Why, her Grace of the Scots cannot write in cypher, do you think?"

"I do not know how that may be. It may be so. But I say that all hangsupon Gifford. "

"And you think Gifford can be a liar and a knave!" sneered Anthony. 

"I have not one word against him, " said the priest. "But neither had Iagainst Thomas FitzHerbert; and you know what has befallen--"

Anthony snorted with disdain. 

"Put your finger through another hole, " he said. 

"Well--I like not the comfort that Mr. Secretary Walsingham has givenyou. You told me a while ago that Ballard was on the eve of going toFrance. Now Walsingham is no fool. I would to God he were! He has laidenough of our men by the heels already. "

"By God!" cried Anthony, roused again. "I would not willingly call youa fool either, my man! But do you not understand that Walsinghambelieves me as loyal as himself? Here have I been at court for the lastyear, bowing before her Grace, and never a word said to me on myreligion. And here is Walsingham has bidden me to lodge in his house, inthe midst of all his spider's webs. Do you think he would do that if--"

"I think he might have done so, " said Robin slowly. 

Anthony sprang to his feet. 

"My Robin, " he said, "you were right enough when you said you would notjoin with us. You were not made for this work. You would see an enemy inyour own father--"

He stopped confounded. 

Robin smiled drearily. 

"I have seen one in him, " he said. 

Anthony clapped him on the shoulder, not unkindly. 

"Forgive me, my Robin. I did not think what I said. Well; we will leaveit at that. And you would not give me absolution?"

The priest shook his head. 

"Then give me your blessing, " said Anthony, dropping on his knees. "Andso we will close up the _quasi-sigillum confessionis_. "

III

It was a heavy-hearted priest that presently, downstairs, stood withAnthony in one of the guest-rooms, and was made known to half a dozenstrangers. Every word that he had heard upstairs must be as if it hadnever been spoken, from the instant at which Anthony had first sat downto the instant in which he had kneeled down to receive his blessing. Somuch he knew from his studies at Rheims. He must be to each man that hemet, that which he would have been to him an hour ago. Yet, though as aman he must know nothing, his priest's heart was heavy in his breast. Itwas a strange home-coming--to pass from the ordered piety of thecollege: to the whirl of politics and plots in which good and evil spanround together--honest and fiery zeal for God's cause, mingled with whathe was persuaded was crime and abomination. He had thought that apriest's life would be a simple thing, but it seemed otherwise now. 

He spoke with those half-dozen men--those who knew him well enough for apriest; and presently, when some of his own party came, drew aside againwith Anthony, who began to tell him in a low voice of the personagesthere. 

"These are all my private friends, " he said, "and some of them be men ofsubstance in their own place. There is Mr. Charnoc, of Lancashire, hewith the gilt sword. He is of the Court of her Grace, and comes and goesas he pleases. He is lodged in Whitehall, and comes here but to see hisfriends. And there is Mr. Savage, in the new clothes, with his beard cutshort. He is a very honest fellow, but of a small substance, though ofgood family enough. "

"Her Grace has some of her ladies, too, that are Catholics, has shenot?" asked Robin. 

"There are two or three at least, and no trouble made. They hear masswhen they can at the Embassies. Mendoza is a very good friend of ours. "

Mr. Charnoc came up presently to the two. He was a cheerful-looking man, of northern descent, very particular in his clothes, with large goldear-rings; he wore a short, pointed beard above his stiff ruff, and hiseyes were bright and fanatical. 

"You are from Rheims, I understand, Mr. Alban. "

He sat down with something of an air next to Robin. 

"And your county--?" he asked. 

"I am from Derbyshire, sir, " said Robin. 

"From Derbyshire. Then you will have heard of Mistress Marjorie Manners, no doubt. "

"She is an old friend of mine, " said Robin, smiling. (The man had agreat personal charm about him. )

"You are very happy in your friends, then, " said the other. "I havenever spoken with her myself; but I hear of her continually as assistingour people--sending them now up into the Peak country, now into thetowns, as the case may be--and never a mistake. "

 * * * * *

It was delightful to Robin to hear her praised, and he talked of herkeenly and volubly. Exactly that had happened which five years ago hewould have thought impossible; for every trace of his old feelingtowards her was gone, leaving behind, and that only in the very deepestintimacies of his thought, a sweet and pleasant romance, like the glowin the sky when the sun is gone down. Little by little that had comeabout which, in Marjorie, had transformed her when she first sent him toRheims. It was not that reaction had followed; there was no contempt, either of her or of himself, for what he had once thought of her; butanother great passion had risen above it--a passion of which the humanlover cannot even guess, kindled for one that is greater than man; apassion fed, trained and pruned by those six years of studious peace atRheims, directed by experts in humanity. There he had seen what Lovecould do when it could rise higher than its human channels; he had seenyoung men, scarcely older than himself, set out for England, as fortheir bridals, exultant and on fire; and back to Rheims had come againthe news of their martyrdom: this one died, crying to Jesu as ahome-coming child cries to his mother at the garden-gate; this one hadsaid nothing upon the scaffold, but his face (they said who brought thenews) had been as the face of Stephen at his stoning; and others hadcome back themselves, banished, with pain of death on their returning, yet back once more these had gone. And, last, more than once, there hadcrept back to Rheims, borne on a litter all the way from the coast, thephantom of a man who a year or two ago had played "cat" and shouted atthe play--now a bent man, grey-haired, with great scars on wrists andankles. .. . _Te Deums_ had been sung in the college chapel when the newsof the deaths had come: there were no _requiems_ for such as these; andthe place of the martyr in the refectory was decked with flowers. .. . Robin had seen these things, and wondered whether his place, too, wouldsome day be so decked. 

For Marjorie, then, he felt nothing but a happy friendliness, and a realdelight when he thought of seeing her again. It was glorious, hethought, that she had done so much; that her name was in all men'smouths. And he had thought, when he had first gone to Rheims, that hewould do all and she nothing! He had written to her then, freely andhappily. He had told her that she must give him shelter some day, as shewas doing for so many. 

Meanwhile it was pleasant to hear her praises. 

"'Eve would be Eve, '" quoted Mr. Charnoc presently, in speaking of piouswomen's obstinacy, "'though Adam would say Nay. '"

 * * * * *

Then, at last, when Mr. Charnoc said that he must be leaving for his ownlodgings, and stood up; once more upon Robin's heart there fell thehorrible memory of all that he had heard upstairs. 

CHAPTER II

I

It was strange to Robin to walk about the City, and to view all that hesaw from his new interior position. The last time that he had been inhis own country on that short visit with "Captain Fortescue, " he hadbeen innocent in the eyes of the law, or, at least, no more guilty thanany 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 lawframed expressly against such cases as his; he had studied abroad, hehad been "ordained beyond the seas"; he had read his mass in his ownbedchamber; he had, practically, received a confession; and it was hisfixed and firm intention to "reconcile" as many of "her Grace'ssubjects" as possible to the "Roman See. " And, to tell the truth, hefound pleasure in the sheer adventure of it, as would every young man ofspirit; and he wore his fine clothes, clinked his sword, and cocked hissecular hat with delight. 

The burden of what he had heard still was heavy on him. It was true thatin a manner inconceivable to any but a priest it lay apart altogetherfrom his common consciousness: he had talked freely enough to Mr. Charnoc and the rest; he could not, even by a momentary lapse, allowwhat he knew to colour even the thoughts by which he dealt with men inordinary 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 todistract him, when the cloud came down again; and there were moments, too, in spite of himself, when his heart beat with another emotion, whenhe pictured what might not be five years hence, if Elizabeth were takenout of the way and Mary reigned in her stead. He knew from his fatherhow swiftly and enthusiastically the old Faith had come back with MaryTudor after the winter of Edward's reign. And if, as some estimated, athird of England were still convincedly Catholic, and perhaps not morethan one twentieth convincedly Protestant, might not Mary Stuart, withher charm, accomplish more even than Mary Tudor with her lack of it?

 * * * * *

He saw many fine sights during the three or four days after his comingto London; for he had to wait there at least that time, until a partythat was expected from the north should arrive with news of where he wasto go. These were the instructions he had had from Rheims. So he walkedfreely abroad during these days to see the sights; and even ventured topay a visit to Fathers Garnett and Southwell, two Jesuits that arrived amonth ago, and were for the present lodging in my Lord Vaux's house inHackney. 

He was astonished at Father Southwell's youthfulness. 

This priest had landed but a short while before, and, for the present, was remaining quietly in the edge of London with the older man; forhimself was scarcely twenty-five years old, and looked twenty at themost. He was very quiet and sedate, with a face of almost femininedelicacy, and passed a good deal of his leisure, as the old lord toldRobin, in writing verses. He appeared a strangely fine instrument forsuch heavy work as was a priest's. 

On another day Robin saw the Archbishop land at Westminster Stairs. 

It was a brilliant day of sunshine as he came up the river-bank, and alittle crowd of folks at the head of the stairs drew his attention. Thenhe heard, out of sight, the throb of oars grow louder; then a cry ofcommand; and, as he reached the head of the stairs and looked over, theArchbishop, with a cloak thrown over his rochet, was just stepping outof the huge gilded barge, whose blue-and-silver liveried oarsmensteadied the vessel, or stood at the salute. It was a gay and dignifiedspectacle as he perceived, in spite of his intense antipathy to thesight of a man who, to him, was no better than an usurper and a deceiverof the people. Dr. Whitgift, too, was no friend to Catholics: he had, for instance, deliberately defended the use of the rack against them andothers, unashamed; and in one particular instance, at least, as Bishopof Worcester, had directed its exercise in the county of Denbigh. Thesethings were perfectly known, of course, even beyond the seas, to thepriests who were to go on the English mission, in surprising detail. Robin knew even that this man was wholly ignorant of Greek; he looked athim carefully as he came up the stairs, and was surprised at the kindlyface of him, thin-lipped, however, though with pleasant, searching eyes. His coach was waiting outside Old Palace Yard, and Robin, following withthe rest of the little crowd, saluted him respectfully as he climbedinto it, followed by a couple of chaplains. 

As he walked on, he glanced back across the river at Lambeth. There itlay, then, the home of Warham and Pole and Morton, with the waterlapping its towers. It had once stood for the spiritual State of God inEngland, facing its partner--(and sometimes its rival)--Westminster andWhitehall; now it was a department of the civil State merely. It wasoccupied by men such as Dr. Grindal, sequestrated and deprived of evenhis spiritual functions by the woman who now grasped all the reins ofthe Commonwealth; and now again by the man whom he had just seen, placedthere by the same woman to carry out her will more obediently againstall who denied her supremacy in matters spiritual as well as temporal, whether Papists or Independents. 

 * * * * *

The priest was astonished, as he reached the precincts of Whitehall, toobserve the number of guards that were everywhere visible. He had beenwarned at Rheims not to bring himself into too much notice, no more thanmarkedly to avoid it; so he did not attempt to penetrate even the outercourts or passages. Yet it seemed to him that an air of watchfulness waseverywhere. At the gate towards which he looked at least half a dozenmen were on formal guard, their uniforms and weapons sparklingbrilliantly in the sunshine; and besides these, within the open doors hecaught sight of a couple of officers. As he stood there, a man came outof one of the houses near the gate, and turned towards it: he wasimmediately challenged, and presently passed on within, where one of theofficers came forward to speak to him. Then Robin thought he had stoodlooking long enough, and moved away. 

 * * * * *

He came back to the City across the fields, half a mile away from theriver, and, indeed, it was a glorious sight he had before him. Here, about him, was open ground on either side of the road on which hewalked; and there, in front, rose up on the slope of the hill the longline of great old houses, beyond the stream that ran down into theThames--old Religious Houses for the most part, now disguised and pulledabout beyond recognition, ranging right and left from the Ludgateitself: behind these rose again towers and roofs, and high above all thetall spire of the Cathedral, as if to gather all into one, culminantaspiration. .. . The light from the west lay on every surface that lookedto his left, golden and rosy; elsewhere lay blue and dusky shadows. 

II

"There is a letter for you, air, " said the landlord, who had an uneasylook on his face, as the priest came through the entrance of the inn. 

Robin took it. Its superscription ran shortly: "To Mr. Alban, at the RedBull Inn in Cheapside. Haste. Haste. Haste. "

He turned it over; it was sealed plainly on the back without arms or anydevice; it was a thick package, and appeared as if it might hold anenclosure or two. 

Robin had learned caution in a good school, and what is yet more vitalin true caution, an appearance of carelessness. He weighed the packeteasily in his hand, as if it were of no value, though he knew it mightcontain very questionable stuff from one of his friends, and glanced ata quantity of baggage that lay heaped beside the wall. 

"What is all this?" he said. "Another party arrived?"

"No, sir; the party is leaving. Rather, it is left already; and thegentlemen bade me have the baggage ready here. They would send for itlater, they told me. "

This was unusually voluble from this man. Robin looked at him quickly, and away again. 

"What party?" he said. 

"The gentlemen you were with this two nights past, sir, " said thelandlord keenly. 

Robin was aware of a feeling as if a finger had been laid on his heart;but not a muscle of his face moved. 

"Indeed!" he said. "They told me nothing of it. "

Then he moved on easily, feeling the landlord's eyes in every inch ofhis back, and went leisurely upstairs. 

He reached his room, bolted the door softly behind him, and sat down. His heart was going now like a hammer. Then he opened the packet; anenclosure fell out of it, also sealed, but without direction of anykind. Then he saw that the sheet in which the packet had come was itselfcovered with writing, rather large and sprawling, as if written inhaste. He put the packet aside, and then lifted the paper to read it. 

 * * * * *

When he had finished, he sat quite still. The room looked to him mistyand unreal; the paper crackled in his shaking fingers, and a drop ofsweat ran suddenly into the corner of his dry lips. Then he read thepaper again. It ran as follows:

"It is all found out, we think. I find myself watched at every point, and I can get no speech with B. I cannot go forth from the house withouta fellow to follow me, and two of my friends have found the same. Mr. G. , too, hath been with Mr. W. This three hours back. By chance I sawhim come in, and he has not yet left again. Mr. Ch. Is watching for mewhile I write this, and will see that this letter is bestowed on atrusty man who will bring it to your inn, and, with it, another letterto bid our party save themselves while they can. I do not know how weshall fare, but we shall meet at a point that is fixed, and after thatevade or die together. You were right, you see. Mr. G. Has acted thetraitor throughout, with Mr. W. 's connivance and assistance. I beg ofyou, then, to carry this letter, which I send in this, to Her for whomwe have forfeited our lives, or, at least, our country; or, if youcannot take it with safety, master the contents of it by note anddeliver it to her with your own mouth. She has been taken back to C. Again, whither you must go, and all her effects searched. "

There was no signature, but there followed a dash of the pen, and then ascrawled "A. B. , " as if an interruption had come, or as if the man whowas with the writer would wait no longer. 

 * * * * *

A third time Robin read it through. It was terribly easy ofinterpretation. "B. " was Ballard; "G. " was Gifford; "W. " was Walsingham;"Ch. " was Charnoc; "Her" was Mary Stuart; "C. " was Chartley. It fittedand made sense like a child's puzzle. And, if the faintest doubt couldremain in the most incredulous mind as to the horrible reality of itall, there was the piled luggage downstairs, that would never be "sentfor" (and never, indeed, needed again by its owners in this world). 

Then he took up the second sealed packet, and held it unbroken, whilehis mind flew like a bird, and in less than a minute he decided, andopened it. 

It was a piteous letter, signed again merely "A. B. , " and might have beenwritten by any broken-hearted reverent lover to his beloved. It spoke aneternal good-bye; the writer said that he would lay down his life gladlyagain in such a cause if it were called for, and would lay down athousand if he had them; he entreated her to look to herself, for thatno doubt every attempt would now be made to entrap her; and it warnedher to put no longer any confidence in a "detestable knave, G. G. "Finally, he begged that "Jesu would have her in His holy keeping, " andthat if matters fell out as he thought they would, she would pray forhis soul, and the souls of all that had been with him in the enterprise. 

He read it through three or four times; every line and letter burneditself into his brain. Then he tore it across and across; then he torethe letter addressed to himself in the same manner; then he went throughall the fragments, piece by piece, tearing each into smaller fragments, till there remained in his hands just a bunch of tiny scraps, smallerthan snowflakes, and these he scattered out of the window. 

Then he went to his door, unbolted it, and walked downstairs to find thelandlord. 

III

It was not until ten days later, soon after dawn, that Robin set out onhis melancholy errand. He rode out northward as soon as the gates wereopened, with young "Mr. Arnold, " a priest ordained with him in Rheims, and one of his party, disguised as a servant, following him on apack-horse with the luggage. It was a misty morning, white andcheerless, with the early fog that had drifted up from the river. Lastnight the news had come in that Anthony and at least one other had beentaken near Harrow, in disguise, and the streets had been full of riotousrejoicing over the capture. 

He had thought it more prudent to wait till after receiving the news, which he so much dreaded, lest haste should bring suspicion on himself, and the message that he carried; since for him, too, to disappear atonce would have meant an almost inevitable association of him with theparty of plotters; but it had been a hard time to pass through. Early inthe morning, after Anthony's flight, he had awakened to hear a rappingupon the inn door, and, peeping from his window, had seen a couple ofplainly dressed men waiting for admittance; but after that he had seenno more of them. He had deliberately refrained from speaking with thelandlord, except to remark again upon the luggage of which he caught asight, piled no longer in the entrance, but in the little room that theman himself used. The landlord had said shortly that it had not yet beensent for. And the greater part of the day--after he had told thecompanions that had come with him from Rheims that he had had a letter, which seemed to show that the party with whom they had made friends haddisappeared, and were probably under suspicion, and had made thenecessary arrangements for his own departure with young Mr. Arnold--hespent in walking abroad as usual. The days that followed had been bitterand heavy. He had liked neither to stop within doors nor to go abroad, since the one course might arouse inquiry and the second lead to hisidentification. He had gone to my Lord Vaux's house again and again, with his friend and without him; he had learned of the details ofAnthony's capture, though he had not dared even to attempt to get speechwith him; and, further, that unless the rest of the men were caught, itwould not be easy to prove anything against him. One thing, therefore, he prayed for with all his heart--that the rest might yet escape. Hetold his party something of the course of events, but not too much. Onthe Sunday that intervened he went to hear mass in Fetter Lane, wherenumbers of Catholics resorted; and there, piece by piece, learned moreof the plot than even Anthony had told him. 

Mr. Arnold was a Lancashire man and a young convert of Oxford--one ofthat steady small stream that poured over to the Continent--asufficiently well-born and intelligent man to enjoy acting as a servant, which he did with considerable skill. It was common enough for gentlemento ride side by side with their servants when they had left the town;and by the time that the two were clear of the few scattered housesoutside the City gates, Mr. Arnold urged on his horse; and they rodetogether. Robin was in somewhat of a difficulty as to how far he wasjustified in speaking of what he knew. It was true that he was not atliberty to use what Anthony had originally told him; but the letter andthe commission which he had received certainly liberated his conscienceto some degree, since it told him plainly enough that there was a ploton behalf of Mary, that certain persons, one or two of whom he knew forhimself, were involved in it, that they were under suspicion, and thatthey had fled. Ordinary discretion, however, was enough to make him holdhis tongue, beyond saying, as he had said already to the rest of them, that he was the bearer of a message from Mr. Babington, now in prison, to Mary Stuart. Mr. Arnold had been advertised that he might take up hisduties in Lancashire as soon as he liked; but, because of hisinexperience and youth, it had been decided that he had better ride with"Mr. Alban" so far as Chartley at least, and thence, if all were well, go on to Lancaster itself, where his family was known, and whither hecould return, for the present, without suspicion. 

 * * * * *

The roads, such as they were, were in a terrible state still with theheavy rain of a few days ago, and the further showers that had fallen inthe night. They made very poor progress, and by dinner-time were not yetin sight of Watford. But they pushed on, coming at last about oneo'clock to that little town, all gathered together in the trench of thelow hills. There was a modest inn in the main street, with a littlegarden behind it; and while Mr. Arnold took the horses off for watering, Robin went through to the garden, sat down, and ordered food to beserved for himself and his man together. The day was warmer, and the suncame out as they sat over their meal. When they had done, Robin sent hisfriend off again for the horses. They must not delay longer than wasnecessary, if they wished to sleep at Leighton, and give the horsestheir proper rest. 

 * * * * *

When he was left alone, he fell a-thinking once more; and, what with themorning's ride and the air and the sunshine, and the sense of liberty, he was inclined to be more cheerful. Surely England was large enough tohide the rest of the plotters for a time, until they could get out ofit. Anthony was taken, indeed, yet, without the rest, he might very wellescape conviction. Robin had not been challenged in any way; thegatekeepers had looked at him, indeed, as he came out of the City; butso they always did, and the landlady here had run her eyes over him; butthat was the way of landladies who wished to know how much should becharged to travellers. And if he had come out so easily, why should nothis friends? All turned now, to his mind, on whether the rest of theconspirators could evade the pursuivants or not. 

He stood up presently to stretch his legs before mounting again, and ashe stood up he heard running footsteps somewhere beyond the house: theydied away; but then came the sound of another runner, and of another, and he heard voices calling. Then a window was flung up beyond thehouse; steps came rattling down the stairs within and passed out intothe street. It was probably a bull that had escaped, or a mad dog, hethought, or some rustic excitement of that kind, and he thought he wouldgo and see it for himself; so he passed out through the house, just intime to meet Mr. Arnold coming round with the horses. 

"What was the noise about?" he asked. 

The other looked at him. 

"I heard none, sir, " he said. "I was in the stable. "

Robin looked up and down the street. It seemed as empty as it should beon a summer's day; two or three women were at the doors of their houses, and an old dog was asleep in the sun. There was no sign of anydisturbance. 

"Where is the woman of the house?" asked Robin. 

"I do not know, sir. "

They could not go without paying; but Robin marvelled at the simplicityof these folks, to leave a couple of guests free to ride away; he wentwithin again and called out, but there was no one to be seen. 

"This is laughable, " he said, coming out again. "Shall we leave a markbehind us and be off?"

"Are they all gone, sir?" asked the other, staring at him. 

"I heard some running and calling out just now, " said Robin. "I supposea message must have been brought to the house. "

Then, as he stood still, hesitating, a noise of voices arose suddenlyround the corner of the street, and a group of men with pitchforks ranout from a gateway on the other side, fifty yards away, crossed theroad, and disappeared again. Behind them ran a woman or two, a barkingdog, and a string of children. But Robin thought he had caught a glimpseof some kind of officer's uniform at the head of the running men, andhis heart stood still. 

IV

Neither of the two spoke for a moment. 

"Wait here with the horses, " said Robin. "I must see what all this isabout. "

 * * * * *

Mr. Arnold was scarcely more than a boy still, and he had all the desireof a boy, if he saw an excited crowd, to join himself to it. But he wasbeing a servant just now, and must do what he was told. So he waitedpatiently with the two horses that tossed their jingling heads andstamped and attempted to kick flies off impossibly remote parts of theirbodies. Certainly, the excitement was growing. After he had seen hisfriend walk quickly down the road and turn off where the group ofrustically-armed men had disappeared in the direction where newly-madehaystacks shaded their gables beyond the roofs of the houses, severalother figures appeared through the opposite gateway in hot pursuit. Onewas certainly a guard of some kind, a stout, important-looking fellow, who ran and wheezed as he ran loud enough to be heard at the inn door. The women standing before the houses, too, presently were after therest--all except one old dame, who put her head forth, and peered thisway and that with a vindictive anger at having been left all alone. Moreyet showed themselves--children dragging puppies after them, an old manwith a large rusty sword, a couple of lads each with a pike--theseappeared, like figures in a pantomime play, whisking into sight frombetween the houses, and all disappearing again immediately. 

And then, all on a sudden, a great clamour of voices began, all shoutingtogether, as if some quarry had been sighted: it grew louder, sharpcries of command rang above the roar. Then there burst out of the side, where all had gone in, a ball of children, which exploded into fragmentsand faced about, still with a couple of puppies that barked shrilly; andthen, walking very fast and upright, came Mr. Robin Audrey, white-facedand stern, straight up to where the lad waited with the horses. 

Robin jerked his head. 

"Quick!" he said. "We must be off, or we shall be here all night. " Hegathered up his reins for mounting. 

"What is it, sir?" asked the other, unable to be silent. 

"They have caught some fellows, " he said. 

"And the inn-account, sir?"

Robin pulled out a couple of coins from his pouch. 

"Put that on the table within, " he said. "We can wait no longer. Give meyour reins!"

His manner was so dreadful that the young man dared ask no more. He ranin, laid the coins down (they were more than double what could have beenasked for their entertainment), came out again, and mounted his ownhorse that his friend held. As they rode down the street, he could notrefrain from looking back, as a great roar of voices broke out again;but he could see no more than a crowd of men, with the pitchforks movinglike spears on the outskirt, as if they guarded prisoners within, comeout between the houses and turn up towards the inn they themselves hadjust left. 

 * * * * *

As they came clear of the village and out again upon the open road, Robin turned to him, and his face was still pale and stern. 

"Mr. Arnold, " he said, "those were the last of my friends that I toldyou of. Now they have them all, and there is no longer any hope. Theyfound them behind the haystacks next to the garden where we dined. Theymust have been there all night. "

CHAPTER III

I

It was in the evening of the fourth day after their start that, ridingup alongside of the Blythe, they struck out to the northwest, away fromthe trees, and saw the woods of Chartley not half a mile away. Robinsighed with relief, though, as a fact, his adventure was scarcely morethan begun, since he had yet to learn how he could get speech with theQueen; but, at least, he was within sight of her, and of his own countryas well. Far away, eastwards, beyond the hills, not twenty miles off, lay Derby. 

 * * * * *

It had been a melancholy ride, in spite of the air of freedom throughwhich they rode, since news had come to them, in more than one place, ofthe fortunes of the Babington party. A courier, riding fast, had passedthem as they sighted Buckingham; and by the time they came in, he wasgone again, on Government business (it was said), and the little townhummed with rumours, out of which emerged, at any rate, the certaintythat the whole company had been captured. At Coventry, again, thetidings had travelled faster than themselves; for here it was reportedthat Mr. Babington and Mr. Charnoc had been racked; and in Lichfield, last of all, the tale was complete, and (as they learned later)tolerably accurate too. 

It was from a clerk in the inn there that the story came, who declaredthat there was no secrecy about the matter any longer, and that hehimself had seen the tale in writing. It ran as follows:

The entire plot had been known from the beginning, Gilbert Gifford hadbeen an emissary of Walsingham's throughout; and every letter thatpassed to and from the various personages had passed through theSecretary's hands and been deciphered in his house. There never had beenone instant in which Mr. Walsingham had been at fault, or in the dark:he had gone so far, it was reported, as to insert in one of the lettersthat was to go to Mr. Babington a request for the names of all theconspirators, and in return there had come from him, not only a list ofthe names, but a pictured group of them, with Mr. Babington himself inthe midst. This picture had actually been shown to her Grace in orderthat she might guard herself against private assassination, since two orthree of the group were in her own household. 

"It is like to go hard with the Scots Queen!" said the clerk bitterly. "She has gone too far this time. "

Robin said nothing to commit himself, for he did not know on which sidethe man ranged himself; but he drew him aside after dinner, and askedwhether it might be possible to get a sight of the Queen. 

"I am riding to Derby, " he said, "with my man. But if to turn aside atChartley would give us a chance of seeing her, I would do so. A queen incaptivity is worth seeing. And I can see you are a man of influence. "

The clerk looked at him shrewdly; he was a man plainly in love with hisown importance, and the priest's last words were balm to him. 

"It might be done, " he said. "I do not know. "

Robin saw the impression he had made, and that the butter could not betoo thick. 

"I am sure you could do it for me, " he said, "if any man could. But Iunderstand that a man of your position may be unwilling--"

The clerk solemnly laid a hand on the priest's arm. 

"Well, I will tell you this, " he said. "Get speech with Mr. Bourgoign, her apothecary. He alone has access to her now, besides her own women. It might be he could put you in some private place to see her go by. "

This was not much use, thought Robin; but, at least, it gave himsomething to begin at: so he thanked the clerk solemnly andreverentially, and was rewarded by another discreet pat on the arm. 

 * * * * *

The sight of the Chartley woods, tall and splendid in the light of thesetting sun, and already tinged here and there with the first marks ofautumn, brought his indecision to a point; and he realized that he hadno plan. He had heard that Mary occasionally rode abroad, and he hopedperhaps to get speech with her that way; but what he had heard from theclerk and others showed him that this small degree of liberty was nowdenied to the Queen. In some way or another he must get news of Mr. Bourgoign. Beyond that he knew nothing. 

 * * * * *

The great gates of Chartley were closed as the two came up to them. There was a lodge beside them, and a sentry stood there. A bell wasringing from the great house within the woods, no doubt for supper-time, but there was no other human being besides the sentry to be seen. SoRobin did not even check his weary horse; but turned only, with adeliberately curious air, as he went past and rode straight on. Then, ashe rounded a corner he saw smoke going up from houses, it seemed, outside the park. 

"What is that?" asked Arnold suddenly. "Do you hear--?"

A sound of a galloping horse grew louder behind them, and a momentafterwards the sound of another. The two priests were still in view ofthe sentry; and knowing that Chartley was guarded now as if it had allthe treasures of the earth within, Robin reflected that to show toolittle interest might arouse as sharp suspicion as too much. So hewheeled his horse round and stopped to look. 

They heard the challenge of the sentry within, and then the unbarring ofthe gates. An instant later a courier dashed out and wheeled to theright, while at the same time the second galloper came to view--anothercourier on a jaded horse; and the two passed--the one plainly riding toLondon, the second arriving from it. The gates were yet open; but thesecond was challenged once more before he was allowed to pass and hishoofs sounded on the road that led to the house. Then the gates clashedtogether again. 

Robin turned his horse's head once more towards the houses, consciousmore than ever how near he was to the nerves of England's life, and whattragic ties they were between the two royal cousins, that demanded sucha furious and frequent exchange of messages. 

"We must do our best here, " he said, nodding towards the little hamlet. 

II

It was plainly a newly-grown little group of houses that bordered theside of the road away from the enclosed park--sprung up as a kind ofoverflow lodging for the dependants necessary to such a suddenlyincreased household; for the houses were no more than wooden dwellings, ill-roofed and ill-built, with the sap scarcely yet finished oozing fromthe ends of the beams and the planks. Smoke was issuing, in most cases, from rough holes cut in the roofs, and in the last rays of sunshine twoor three men were sitting on stools set out before the houses. 

Robin checked his horse before a man whose face seemed kindly, and whosaluted courteously the fine gentleman who looked about with such anair. 

"My horse is dead-spent, " he said curtly. "Is there an inn here where myman and I can find lodging?"

The man shook his head, looking at the horse compassionately. He had theair of a groom about him. 

"I fear not, sir, not within five miles; at least, not with a room tospare. "

"This is Chartley, is it not?" asked the priest, noticing that the nextman, too, was listening. 

"Aye, sir. "

"Can you tell me if my friend Mr. Bourgoign lodges in the house, orwithout the gates?"

"Mr. Bourgoign, sir? A friend of yours?"

"I hope so, " said Robin, smiling, and keeping at least within the letterof truth. 

The man mused a moment. 

"It is possible he might help you, sir. He lodges in the house; but hecomes sometimes to see a woman that is sick here. "

Robin demanded where she lived. 

"At the last house, sir--a little beyond the rest. She is one of herGrace's kitchen-women. They moved her out here, thinking it might be thefever she had. "

This was plainly a communicative fellow; but the priest thought it wisernot to take too much interest. He tossed the man a coin and rode on. 

 * * * * *

The last house was a little better built than the others, and stoodfurther back from the road. Robin dismounted here, and, with a nod toMr. Arnold, who was keeping his countenance admirably, walked up to thedoor and knocked on it. It was opened instantly, as if he were expected, but the woman's face fell when she saw him. 

"Is Mr. Bourgoign within?" asked the priest. 

The woman glanced over him before answering, and then out to where thehorses waited. 

"No, sir, " she said at last. "We were looking for him just now. .. . "(She broke off. ) "He is coming now, " she said. 

Robin turned, and there, walking down the road, was an old man, leaningon a stick, richly and soberly dressed in black, wearing a black beaverhat on his head. A man-servant followed him at a little distance. 

The priest saw that here was an opportunity ready-made; but there wasone more point on which he must satisfy himself first, and what seemedto him an inspiration came to his mind. 

"He looks like a minister, " he said carelessly. 

A curious veiled look came over the woman's face. Robin made a boldventure. He smiled full in her face. 

"You need not fear, " he said. "I quarrel with no man's religion;" and, at the look in her face at this, he added: "You are a Catholic, Isuppose? Well, I am one too. And so, I suppose, is Mr. Bourgoign. "

The woman smiled tremulously, and the fear left her eyes. 

"Yes, sir, " she said. "All the friends of her Grace are Catholics, Ithink. "

He nodded to her again genially. Then, turning, he went to meet theapothecary, who was now not thirty yards away. 

 * * * * *

It was a pathetic old figure that was hobbling towards him. He seemed aman of near seventy years old, with a close-cropped beard and spectacleson his nose, and he carried himself heavily and ploddingly. Robin arguedto himself that it must be a kindly man who would come out at thishour--perhaps the one hour he had to himself--to visit a poor dependant. Yet all this was sheer conjecture; and, as the old man came near, he sawthere was something besides kindliness in the eyes that met his own. 

He saluted boldly and deferentially. 

"Mr. Bourgoign, " he said in a low voice, "I must speak five minutes withyou. And I ask you to make as if you were my friend. "

The old man stiffened like a watch-dog. It was plain that he was on hisguard. 

"I do not know you, sir. "

"I entreat you to do as I ask. I am a priest, sir. I entreat you to takemy hand as if we were friends. "

A look of surprise went over the physician's face. 

"You can send me packing in ten minutes, " went on Robin rapidly, at thesame time holding out his hand. "And we will talk here in the road, ifyou will. "

There was still a moment's hesitation. Then he took the priest's hand. 

"I am come straight from London, " went on Robin, still speaking clearly, yet with his lips scarcely moving. "A fortnight ago I talked with Mr. Babington. "

The old man drew his arm close within his own. 

"You have said enough, or too much, at present, sir. You shall walk withme a hundred yards up this road, and justify what you have said. "

"We have had a weary ride of it, Mr. Bourgoign. .. . I am on the road toDerby, " went on Robin, talking loudly enough now to be overheard, as hehoped, by any listeners. "And my horse is spent. .. . I will tell you mybusiness, " he added in a lower tone, "as soon as you bid me. "

Fifty yards up the road the old man pressed his arm again. 

"You can tell me now, sir, " he said. "But we will walk, if you please, while you do so. "

 * * * * *

"First, " said Robin, after a moment's consideration as to his bestbeginning, "I will tell you the name I go by. It is Mr. Alban. I am anewly-made priest, as I told you just now; I came from Rheims scarcely afortnight ago. I am from Derbyshire; and I will tell you my proper nameat the end, if you wish it. "

"Repeat the blessing of the deacon by the priest at mass, " murmured Mr. Bourgoign to the amazement of the other, without the change of aninflection in his voice or a movement of his hand. 

"_Dominus sit in corde tuo et in labiis_--" began the priest. 

"That is enough, sir, for the present. Well?"

"Next, " said Robin, hardly yet recovered from the extraordinarypromptness of the challenge--"Next, I was speaking with Mr. Babington afortnight ago. "

"In what place?"

"In the inn called the 'Red Bull, ' in Cheapside. "

"Good. I have lodged there myself, " said the other. "And you are one--"

"No, sir, " said Robin, "I do not deny that I spoke with them all--withMr. Charnoc and--"

"That is enough of those names, sir, " said the other, with a small andfearful lift of his white eyebrows, as if he dreaded the very trees thatnearly met overhead in this place. "And what is your business?"

"I have satisfied you, then--" began Robin. 

"Not at all, sir. You have answered sufficiently so far; that is all. Iwish to know your business. "

"The night following the day on which the men fled, of whom I have justspoken, I had a letter from--from their leader. He told me that all waslost, and he gave me a letter to her Grace here--"

He felt the thin old sinews under his hand contract suddenly, andpaused. 

"Go on, sir, " whispered the old voice. 

"A letter to her Grace, sir. I was to use my discretion whether Icarried it with me, or learned it by rote. I have other interests atstake besides this, and I used my discretion, and destroyed the letter. "

"But you have some writing, no doubt--"

"I have none, " said Robin. "I have my word only. "

There was a pause. 

"Was the message private?"

"Private only to her Grace's enemies. I will tell you the substance ofit now, if you will. "

The old man, without answering, steered his companion nearer to thewall; then he relinquished the supporting arm, and leaned himselfagainst the stones, fixing his eyes full upon the priest, and searching, as it seemed, every feature of his face and every detail of his dress. 

"Was the message important, sir?"

"Important only to those who value love and fidelity. "

"I could deliver it myself, then?"

"Certainly, sir. If you will give me your word to deliver it to herGrace, as I deliver it to you, and to none else, I will ride on andtrouble you no more. "

"That is enough, " said the physician decidedly. "I am completelysatisfied, Mr. Alban. All that remains is to consider how I can get youto her Grace. "

"But if you yourself will deliver--" began Robin. 

An extraordinary spasm passed over the other's face, that might denoteany fierce emotion, either of anger or grief. 

"Do you think it is that?" he hissed. "Why, man, where is yourpriesthood? Do you think the poor dame within would not give her soulfor a priest?. .. Why, I have prayed God night and day to send us apriest. She is half mad with sorrow; and who knows whether ever again inthis world--"

He broke off, his face all distorted with pain; and Robin felt a strangethrill of glory at the thought that he bore with him, in virtue of hispriesthood only, so much consolation. He faced for the first time thattremendous call of which he had heard so much in Rheims--that desolatecry of souls that longed and longed in vain for those gifts which apriest of Christ could alone bestow. .. . 

". .. The question is, " the old man was saying more quietly, "how to getyou in to her Grace. Why, Sir Amyas opens her letters even, and resealsthem again! He thinks me a fool, and that I do not know what he does. .. . Do you know aught of medicine?" he asked abruptly. 

"I know only what country folks know of herbs. "

"And their names--their Latin names, man?" pursued the other, leaningforward. 

Robin half smiled. 

"Now you speak of it, " he said, "I have learned a good many, as apastime, when I was a boy. I was something of a herbalist, even. But Ihave forgotten--"

"Bah! that would be enough for Sir Amyas--"

He turned and spat venomously at the name. 

"Sir Amyas knows nothing save his own vile trade. He is a lout--no more. He is as grim as a goose, always. And you have a town air about you, " hewent on, running his eyes critically over the young man's dress. "Thoseare French clothes?"

"They were bought in France. "

The two stood silent. Robin's excitement beat in all his veins, in spiteof his weariness. He had come to bear a human message only to abereaved Queen; and it seemed as if his work were to be rather thebearing of a Divine message to a lonely soul. He watched the old man'sface eagerly. It was sunk in thought. .. . Then Mr. Bourgoign took himabruptly by the arm. 

"Give me your arm again, " he said. "I am an old man. We must be goingback again. It seems as if God heard our prayers after all. I will seeyou disposed for to-night--you and your man and the horses, and I willsend for you myself in the morning. Could you say mass, think you? if Ifound you a secure place--and bring Our Lord's Body with you in themorning?"

He checked the young man, to hear his answer. 

"Why, yes, " said Robin. "I have all things that are needed. "

"Then you shall say mass in any case . .. And reserve our Lord's Body ina pyx. .. . Now listen to me. If my plan falls as I hope, you must be aphysician to-morrow, and have practised your trade in Paris. You havebeen in Paris?"

"No, sir. "

"Bah!. .. Well, no more has Sir Amyas!. .. You have practised your tradein Paris, and God has given you great skill in the matter of herbs. And, upon hearing that I was in Chartley, you inquired for your old friend, whose acquaintance you had made in Paris, five years ago. And I, uponhearing you were come, secured your willingness to see my patient, ifyou would but consent. Your reputation has reached me even here; youhave attended His Majesty in Paris on three occasions; you restoredMademoiselle Élise, of the family of Guise, from the very point ofdeath. You are but a young man still; yet--Bah! It is arranged. Youunderstand? Now come with me. "

CHAPTER IV

I

In spite of his plans and his hopes and his dreams, it was with anamazement beyond all telling, that Mr. Robert Alban found himself, atnine o'clock next morning, conducted by two men through the hall atChartley to the little parlour where he was to await Sir Amyas Pauletand the Queen's apothecary. 

 * * * * *

Matters had been arranged last night with that promptness which alonecould make the tale possible. He had walked back with the old man infull view of the little hamlet, to all appearances, the best of oldfriends; and after providing for a room in the sick woman's house forRobin himself, another in another house for Mr. Arnold, and stabling forthe horses in a shed where occasionally the spent horses of the courierswere housed when Chartley stables were overflowing--after all this hadbeen arranged by Mr. Bourgoign in person, the two walked on to the greatgates of the park, where they took an affectionate farewell withinhearing of the sentry, the apothecary promising to see Sir Amyas thatnight and to communicate with his friend in the morning. Robin hadlearned previously how strict was the watch set about the Queen'sperson, particularly since the news of the Babington plot had firstreached the authorities, and of the extraordinary difficulty to theapproach of any stranger to her presence. Nau and Curle, her twosecretaries, had been arrested and perhaps racked a week or ten daysbefore; all the Queen's papers had been taken from her, and even herjewellery and pictures sent off to Elizabeth; and the only personsordinarily allowed to speak with her, besides her gaoler, were two ofher women, and Mr. Bourgoign himself. 

That morning then, before six o'clock, Robin had said mass in the sickwoman's room and given her communion, with her companion, who answeredhis mass, as it was thought more prudent that the other priest shouldnot even be present; and, at the close of the mass he had reserved in alittle pyx, hidden beneath his clothes, a consecrated particle. Mr. Bourgoign had said that he would see to it that the Queen should befasting up to ten o'clock that day. 

And now the last miracle had been accomplished. A servant had come downlate the night before, with a discreet letter from the apothecary, saying that Sir Amyas had consented to receive and examine for himselfthe travelling physician from Paris; and here now went Robin, strivingto remember the old Latin names he had learned as a boy, and to carry amedical air with him. 

 * * * * *

The parlour in which he found himself was furnished severely and evenrather sparely, owing, perhaps, he thought, to the temporary nature ofthe household. It was the custom in great houses to carry with thefamily, from house to house, all luxuries such as extra hangings orpainted pictures or carpets, as well as even such things as cookingutensils; and in the Queen's sudden removal back again from Tixall, manymatters must have been neglected. The oak wainscoting was completelybare; and over the upper parts of the walls in many places the stonesshowed through between the ill-fitting tapestries. A sheaf of pikesstood in one corner; an oil portrait of an unknown worthy in the dressof fifty years ago hung over one of the doors; a large round oak table, with ink-horn and pounce-box, stood in the centre of the room withstools beside it: there was no hearth or chimney visible; and there wasno tapestry upon the floor: a skin only lay between the windows. Thepriest sat down and waited. 

He had enough to occupy his mind; for not only had he the thought of thecharacter he was to sustain presently under the scrutiny of a suspiciousman; but he had the prospect, as he hoped, of coming into the presenceof the most-talked-of woman in Europe, and of ministering to her as apriest alone could do, in her sorest need. His hand went to his breastas he considered it, and remembered What he bore . .. And he felt thetiny flat circular case press upon his heart. .. . 

For his imagination was all aflame at the thought of Mary. Not only hadhe been kindled again and again in the old days by poor Anthony's talk, until the woman seemed to him half-deified already; but man after manhad repeated the same tale, that she was, in truth, that which her leancousin of England desired to be thought--a very paragon of women, innocent, holy, undefiled, yet of charm to drive men to their kneesbefore her presence. It was said that she was as one of those strangemoths which, confined behind glass, will draw their mates out of thedarkness to beat themselves to death against her prison; she wasexquisite, they said, in her pale beauty, and yet more exquisite in herpain; she exuded a faint and intoxicating perfume of womanliness, like acrushed herb. Yet she was to be worshipped, rather than loved--asacrament to be approached kneeling, an incarnate breath of heaven, themore lovely from the vileness into which her life had been cast and theslanders that were about her name. .. . More marvellous than all was thatthose who knew her best and longest loved her most; her servants wept orgroaned themselves into fevers if they were excluded from her too long;of her as of the Wisdom of old might it be said that, "They who ate herhungered yet, and they who drank her thirsted yet. ". .. It was to thismiracle of humanity, then, that this priest was to come. .. . 

 * * * * *

He sat up suddenly, once more pressing his hand to his breast, where hisTreasure lay hidden, as he heard steps crossing the paved hall outside. Then he rose to his feet and bowed as a tall man came swiftly in, followed by the apothecary. 

II

It was a lean, harsh-faced man that he saw, long-moustached andmelancholy-eyed--"grim as a goose, " as the physician had said--wearing, even in this guarded household, a half-breast and cap of steel. A longsword jingled beside him on the stone floor and clashed with his spurredboots. He appeared the last man in the world to be the companion of asorrowing Queen; and it was precisely for this reason that he had beenchosen to replace the courtly lord Shrewsbury and the gentle Sir RalphSadler. (Her Grace of England said that she had had enough of nurses forgaolers. ) His voice, too, resembled the bitter clash of a key in a lock. 

"Well, sir, " he said abruptly, "Mr. Bourgoign tells me you are a friendof his. "

"I have that honour, sir. "

"You met in Paris, eh?. .. And you profess a knowledge of herbs beyondthe ordinary?"

"Mr. Bourgoign is good enough to say so. "

"And you are after her Grace of Scotland, as they call her, like all therest of them, eh?"

"I shall be happy to put what art I possess at her Grace of Scotland'sservice. "

"Traitors say as much as that, sir. "

"In the cause of treachery, no doubt, sir. "

Sir Amyas barked a kind of laugh. 

"_Vous avez raisong_, " he said with a deplorable accent. "As her Gracewould say. And you come purely by chance to Chartley, no doubt!"

The sneer was unmistakable. Robin met it full. 

"Not for one moment, sir. I was on my way to Derby. I could have saved afew miles if I had struck north long ago. But Chartley is interesting inthese days. "

(He saw Mr. Bourgoign's eyes gleam with satisfaction. )

"That is honest at least, sir. And why is Chartley interesting?"

"Because her Grace is here, " answered Robin with sublime simplicity. 

Sir Amyas barked again. It seemed he liked this way of talk. For amoment or two his eyes searched Robin--hard, narrow eyes like a dog's;he looked him up and down. 

"Where are your drugs, sir?"

Robin smiled. 

"A herbalist does not need to carry drugs, " he said. "They grow in everyhedgerow if a man has eyes to see what God has given him. "

"That is true enough. I would we had more talk about God His Majesty inthis household, and less of Popish trinkets and fiddle-faddle. .. . Well, sir; do you think you can cure her ladyship?"

"I have no opinion on the point at all, sir. I do not know what is thematter with her--beyond what Mr. Bourgoign has told me, " he addedhastily, remembering the supposed situation. 

The soldier paid no attention. Like all slow-witted men, he wasfollowing up an irrelevant train of thought from his own last sentencebut one. 

"Fiddle-faddle!" he said again. "I am sick of her megrims and hervapours and her humours. Has she not blood and bones like the rest ofus? And yet she cannot take her food nor her drink, nor sleep like anhonest woman. And I do not wonder at it; for that is what she is not. They will say she is poisoned, I dare say. .. . Well, sir; I suppose youhad best see her; but in my presence, remember, sir; in my presence. "

Robin's spirits sank like a stone. .. . Moreover, he would be instantlydetected as a knave (though that honestly seemed a lesser matter tohim), if he attempted to talk medically in Sir Amyas' presence; unlessthat warrior was truly as great a clod as he seemed. He determined torisk it. He bowed. 

"I can at least try my poor skill, sir, " he said. 

Sir Amyas instantly turned, with a jerk of his head to beckon them, andclanked out again into the hall. There was not a moment's opportunityfor the two conspirators to exchange even a word; for there, in thehall, stood the two men who had brought Robin in, to keep guard; and asthe party passed through to the foot of the great staircase, he saw oneach landing that was in sight another sentry, and, at a door at the endof the overhead gallery, against which hung a heavy velvet curtain, stood the last, a stern figure to keep guard on the rooms of a Queen, with his body-armour complete, a steel hat on his head and a pike in hishand. 

It was to this door that Sir Amyas went, acknowledging with a lift ofthe finger the salute of his men. (It was plain that this place wasunder strict military discipline. ) With the two, the real and the falsephysician following him, he pulled aside the curtain and rappedimperiously on the door. It was opened after a moment's delay by afrightened-faced woman. 

"Her Grace?" demanded the officer sharply. "Is she still abed?"

"Her Grace is risen, sir, " said the woman tremulously; "she is in theinner room. "

Sir Amyas strode straight on, pulled aside a second curtain hanging overthe further door, rapped upon that, too, and without even waiting for ananswer this time, beyond the shrill barking of dogs within, opened itand passed in. Mr. Bourgoign followed; and Robin came last. The doorclosed softly behind him. 

III

The room was furnished with more decency than any he had seen in thisharsh house; for, although at the time he thought that he had no eyesfor anything but one figure which it contained, he found himselfafterwards able to give a very tolerable account of its generalappearance. The walls were hung throughout with a dark-blue velvethanging, stamped with silver fleur-de-lys. There were tapestries on thefloor, between which gleamed the polished oak boards, perfectly kept, bythe labours (no doubt) of her Grace's two women (since such things wouldbe mere "fiddle-faddle" to the honest soldier); a graceful French tableran down the centre of the room, very delicately carved, and beneath ittwo baskets from which looked out the indignant heads of a couple oflittle spaniels; upon it, at the nearer end, were three or four cages ofturtle-doves, melancholy-looking in this half-lit room; old, sun-bleached curtains of the same material as that which hung on thewalls, shrouded the two windows on the right, letting but a half lightinto the room: there was a further door, also curtained, diagonallyopposite that by which the party had entered; and in the centre of thesame wall a tall blue canopy, fringed with silver, rose to the ceiling. Beneath it, on a daïs of a single step, stood a velvet chair, withgilded arms, and worked with the royal shield in the embroidery of theback--with a crowned lion _sejant, guardant_, for the crest above thecrown. Half a dozen more chairs were ranged about the table; and, on acouch, with her feet swathed in draperies, with a woman standing overher behind, as if she had just risen up from speaking in her ear, laythe Queen of the Scots. A tall silver and ebony crucifix, with a coupleof velvet-bound, silver-clasped little books, stood on the table withinreach of her hand, and a folded handkerchief beside them. 

Mary was past her prime long ago; she was worn with sorrow and slandersand miseries; yet she appeared to the priest's eyes, even then, like afigure of a dream. It was partly, no doubt, the faintness of the lightthat came in through the half-shrouded windows that obliterated thelines and fallen patches that her face was beginning to bear; and shelay, too, with her back even to such light as there was. Yet for allthat, and even if he had not known who she was, Robin could not havetaken his eyes from her face. She lay there like a fallen flower, paleas a lily, beaten down at last by the waves and storms that had goneover her; and she was more beautiful in her downfall and disgrace, athousand times, than when she had come first to Holyrood, or danced inthe Courts of France. 

Now it is not in the features one by one that beauty lies but rather inthe coincidence of them all. Her face was almost waxen now, blueshadowed beneath the two waves of pale hair; she had a small mouth, adelicate nose, and large, searching hazel eyes. Her head-dress was ofwhite, with silver pins in it; a light white shawl was claspedcross-wise over her shoulders; and she wore a loose brocadeddressing-gown beneath it. Her hands, clasped as if in prayer, emergedout of deep lace-fringed sleeves, and were covered with rings. But itwas the air of almost superhuman delicacy that breathed from her mostforcibly; and, when she spoke, a ring of assured decision revealed herquiet consciousness of royalty. It was an extraordinary mingling offragility and power, of which this feminine and royal room was theproper frame. 

Sir Amyas knelt perfunctorily, as if impatient of it; and rose up againat once without waiting for the signal. Mary lifted her fingers a littleas a sign to the other two. 

"I have brought the French doctor, madam, " said the soldier abruptly. "But he must see your Grace in my presence. "

"Then you might as well have spared him, and yourself, the pains, sir, "came the quiet, dignified voice. "I do not choose to be examined in yourpresence. "

Robin lifted his eyes to her face; but although he thought he caught anunder air of intense desire towards him and That which he bore, therewas no faltering in the tone of her voice. It was, as some man said, as"soft as running water heard by night. "

"This is absurd, madam. I am responsible for your Grace's security andgood health. But there are lengths--"

"You have spoken the very word, " said the Queen. "There are lengths towhich none of us should go, even to preserve our health. "

"I tell you, madam--"

"There is no more to be said, sir, " said the Queen, closing her eyesagain. 

"But what do I know of this fellow? How can I tell he is what heprofesses to be?" barked Sir Amyas. 

"Then you should never have admitted him at all, " said the Queen, opening her eyes again. "And I will do the best that I can--"

"But, madam, your health is my care; and Mr. Bourgoign here tells me--"

"The subject does not interest me, " murmured the Queen, apparently halfasleep. 

"But I will retire to the corner and turn my back, if that isnecessary, " growled the soldier. 

There was no answer. She lay with closed eyes, and her woman began againto fan her gently. 

 * * * * *

Robin began to understand the situation a little better. It was plainthat Sir Amyas was a great deal more anxious for the Queen's health thanhe pretended to be, or he would never have tolerated such objections. The Queen, too, must know of this, or she would not have ventured, withso much at stake, to treat him with such maddening rebuffs. There hadbeen rumours (verified later) that Elizabeth had actually caused it tobe suggested to Sir Amyas that he should poison his prisoner decentlyand privately, and thereby save a great deal of trouble and scandal; andthat Sir Amyas had refused with indignation. Perhaps, if all this weretrue, thought Robin, the officer was especially careful on this veryaccount that the Queen's health should be above suspicion. He rememberedthat Sir Amyas had referred just now to a suspicion of poison. .. . Hedetermined on the bold line. 

"Her Grace has spoken, sir, " he said modestly. "And I think I shouldhave a word to say. It is plain to me, by looking at her Grace, that herhealth is very far from what it should be--" (he pausedsignificantly)--"I should have to make a thorough examination, if Iprescribed at all; and, even should her Grace consent to this being donepublicly, for my part I would not consent. I should be happy to have herwomen here, but--"

Sir Amyas turned on him wrathfully. 

"Why, sir, you said downstairs--"

"I had not then seen her Grace. But there is no more to be said--" Hekneeled again as if to take his leave, stood up, and began to retire tothe door. Mr. Bourgoign stood helpless. 

Then Sir Amyas yielded. 

"You shall have fifteen minutes, sir. No more, " he cried harshly. "And Ishall remain in the next room. "

He made a perfunctory salute and strode out. 

The Queen opened her eyes, waited for one tense instant till the doorclosed; then she slipped swiftly off the couch. 

"The door!" she whispered. 

The woman was across the room in an instant, on tip-toe, and drew thesingle slender bolt. The Queen made a sharp gesture; the woman fled backagain on one side, and out through the further door, and the old manhobbled after her. It was as if every detail had been rehearsed. Thedoor closed noiselessly. 

Then the Queen rose up, as Robin, understanding, began to fumble withhis breast. And, as he drew out the pyx, and placed it on thehandkerchief (in reality a corporal), apparently so carelessly laid bythe crucifix, Mary sank down in adoration of her Lord. 

"Now, _mon père_, " she whispered, still kneeling, but lifting herstar-bright eyes. And the priest went across to the couch where theQueen had lain, and sat down on it. 

"_In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti_--" began Mary. 

IV

When the confession was finished, Robin went across, at the Queen'sorder, and tapped with his finger-nail upon the door, while she herselfremained on her knees. The door opened instantly, and the two came in, the woman first, bearing two lighted tapers. She set these down one oneither side of the crucifix, and herself knelt with the old physician. 

. .. Then Robin gave holy communion to the Queen of the Scots. .. . 

V

She was back again on her couch now, once more as drowsy-looking asever. The candlesticks were gone again; the handkerchief still in itsplace, and the woman back again behind the couch. The two men kneeledclose beside her, near enough to hear every whisper. 

"Listen, gentlemen, " she said softly, "I cannot tell you what you havedone for my soul to-day--both of you, since I could never have had thepriest without my friend. .. . I cannot reward you, but our Lord will doso abundantly. .. . Listen, I know that I am going to my death, and Ithank God that I have made my peace with Him. I do not know if they willallow me to see a priest again. But I wish to say this to both ofyou--as I said just now in my confession, to you, _mon père_--that I amwholly and utterly guiltless of the plot laid to my charge; that I hadneither part nor wish nor consent in it. I desired only to escape frommy captivity. .. . I would have made war, if I could, yes, but as foraccomplishing or assisting in her Grace's death, the thought was nevernear me. Those whom I thought my friends have entrapped me, and havegiven colour to the tale. I pray our Saviour to forgive them as I do;and with that Saviour now in my breast I tell you--and you may tell allthe world if you will--that I am guiltless of what they impute to me. Ishall die for my Religion, and nothing but that. And I thank you again, _mon père, et vous, mon ami, que vous avez_. .. . "

Her voice died away in inaudible French, and her eyes closed. 

 * * * * *

Robin's eyes were raining tears, but he leaned forward and kissed herhand as it lay on the edge of the couch. He felt himself touched on theshoulder, and he stood up. The old man's eyes, too, were brimming withtears. 

"I must let Sir Amyas in, " he whispered. "You must be ready. "

"What shall I say?"

"Say that you will prescribe privately, to me: and that her Grace'shealth is indeed delicate, but not gravely impaired. .. . You understand?"

Robin nodded, passing his sleeve over his eyes. The woman touched theQueen's shoulder to rouse her, and Mr. Bourgoign opened the door. 

VI

"And now, sir, " said Mr. Bourgoign, as the two passed out from the househalf an hour later, "I have one more word to say to you. Listencarefully, if you please, for there is not much time. "

He glanced behind him, but the tall figure was gone from the door; thereremained only the two pikemen that kept ward over the great house on thesteps. 

"Come this way, " said the physician, and led the priest through into thelittle walled garden on the south. "He will think we are finishing ourconsultation. "

 * * * * *

"I cannot tell you, " he said presently, "all that I think of yourcourage and your wit. You made a told stroke when you told him you wouldbegone again, unless you could see her Grace alone, and again when yousaid you had come to Chartley because she was here. And you may goagain now, knowing you have comforted a woman in her greatest need. Theysent her chaplain from her when she left here for Tixall in July, andshe has not had him again yet. She is watched at every point. They havetaken all her papers from her, and have seduced M. Nau, I fear. Did youhear anything of him in town?"

"No, " said the priest. "I know nothing of him. "

"He is a Frenchman, and hath been with her Grace more than ten years. Hehath written her letters for her, and been privy to all her counsels. And I fear he hath been seduced from her at last. It was said that Mr. Walsingham was to take him into his house. .. . Well, but we have not timefor this. What I have to ask you is whether you could come again to us?"

He peered at the priest almost timorously. Robin was startled. 

"Come again?" he said. "Why--"

"You see you have already won to her presence, and Sir Amyas iscommitted to it that you are a safe man. I shall tell her Grace, too, that she must eat and drink well, and get better, if she would see youagain, for that will establish you in Sir Amyas' eyes. "

"But will she not have a priest?"

"I know nothing, Mr. Alban. They even shut me up here when they took herto Tixall; and even now none but myself and her two women have access toher. I do not know even if her Grace will be left here. There has beentalk among the men of going to Fotheringay. I know nothing, from day today. It is a . .. A _cauchemar_. But they will certainly do what they canto shake her. It grows more rigorous every day. And I thought, that ifyou would tell me whether a message could reach you, and if her chaplainis not allowed to see her again, you might be able to come again. Iwould tell Sir Amyas how much good you had done to her last time, withyour herbs; and, it might be, you could see her again in a month or twoperhaps--or later. "

Robin was silent. 

The greatness of the affair terrified him; yet its melancholy drew him. He had seen her on whom all England bent its thoughts at this time, whowas a crowned Queen, with broad lands and wealth, who called Elizabeth"sister"; yet who was more of a prisoner than any in the Fleet orWestminster Gatehouse, since those at least could have their friends tocome to them. Her hidden fires, too, had warmed him--that passion forGod that had burst from her when her gaoler left her, and she had flungherself on her knees before her hidden Saviour. It may be he had doubtedher before (he did not know); but there was no more doubt in him afterher protestation of her innocence. He began to see now that she stoodfor more than her kingdom or her son or the plots attributed to her, that she was more than a mere great woman, for whose sake men could bothlive and die; he began to see in her that which poor Anthony had seen--achampion for the Faith of them all, an incarnate suffering symbol, inflesh and blood, of that Religion for which he, too, was in peril--thatReligion, which, in spite of all clamour to the contrary, was the realstorm-centre of England's life. 

He turned then to the old man with a suddenly flushed face. 

"A message will always reach me at Mistress Manners' house, at Booth'sEdge, near Hathersage, in Derbyshire. And I will come from there, orfrom the world's end, to serve her Grace. "

CHAPTER V

I

"First give me your blessing, Mr. Alban, " said Marjorie, kneeling downbefore him in the hall in front of them all. She was as pale as a ghost, but her eyes shone like stars. 

 * * * * *

It was a couple of months after his leaving Chartley before he came atlast to Booth's Edge. First he had had to bestow Mr. Arnold inLancashire, for suspicion was abroad; and it was a letter from Marjorieherself, reaching him in Derby, at Mr. Biddell's house, that had toldhim of it, and bidden him go on with his friend. The town had never beenthe same since Topcliffe's visit; and now that Babington House was nolonger in safe Catholic hands, a great protection was gone. He hadbetter go on, she said, as if he were what he professed to be--agentleman travelling with his servant. A rumour had come to her earsthat the talk in the town was of the expected arrival of a new priest totake Mr. Garlick's place for the present, and every stranger wasscrutinised. So he had taken her advice; he had left Derby againimmediately, and had slowly travelled north; then, coming round aboutfrom the north, after leaving his friend, saying mass here and therewhere he could, crossing into Yorkshire even as far west as Wakefield, he had come at last, through this wet November day, along the Derwentvalley and up to Booth's Edge, where he arrived after sunset, to findthe hall filled with folks to greet him. 

He was smiling himself, though his eyes were full of tears, by the timethat he had done giving his blessings. Mr. John FitzHerbert was come upfrom Padley, where he lived now for short times together, greyer thanever, but with the same resolute face. Mistress Alice Babington wasthere, still serene looking, but with a new sorrow in her eyes; and, clinging to her, a thin, pale girl all in black, who only two monthsbefore had lost both daughter and husband; for the child had diedscarcely a week or two before her father, Anthony Babington, had diedmiserably on the gallows near St. Giles' Fields, where he had so oftenmet his friends after dark. It was a ghastly tale, told in fragments toRobin here and there during his journeyings by men in taverns, beforewhom he must keep a brave face. And a few farmers were there, old Mr. Merton among them, come in to welcome the son of the Squire of Matstead, returned under a feigned name, unknown even to his father, and there, too, was honest Dick Sampson, come up from Dethick to see his oldmaster. So here, in the hall he knew so well, himself splashed with redmarl from ankle to shoulder, still cloaked and spurred, one by one theseknelt before him, beginning with Marjorie herself, and ending with theyoungest farm-boy, who breathed heavily as he knelt down and got upround-eyed and staring. 

"And his Reverence will hear confessions, " proclaimed Marjorie to themultitude, "at eight o'clock to-night; and he will say mass and giveholy communion at six o'clock to-morrow morning. "

II

He had to hear that night, after supper, and before he went to keep hisengagement in the chapel-room, the entire news of the county; and, inhis turn, to tell his own adventures. The company sat together beforethe great hall-fire, to take the dessert, since there would have been noroom in the parlour for all who wished to hear. (He heard the tale ofMr. Thomas FitzHerbert, traitor, apostate and sworn man of her Grace, later, when he had come down again from the chapel-room, and theservants had gone. ) But now it was of less tragic matters, and moretriumphant, that they talked: he told of his adventures since he hadlanded in August; of his riding in Lancashire and Yorkshire, and of thefervour that he met with there (in one place, he said, he had reconciledthe old minister of the parish, that had been made priest under Marythirty years ago, and now lay dying); but he said nothing at that timeof what he had seen of her Grace of Scotland, and Chartley: and therest, on the other hand, talked of what had passed in Derby, of all thatMr. Ludlam and Mr. Garlick had done; of the arrest and banishment of thelatter, and his immediate return; of the hanging of Mr. Francis Ingolby, in York, which had made a great stir in the north that summer, since hewas the son of Sir Francis, of Ripley Castle; as well as of the deathsof many others--Mr. Finglow in August; Mr. Sandys, in the same month, inGloucester; and of Mr. Lowe, Mr. Adams and Mr. Dibdale, all together atTyburn, the news of which had but just come to Derbyshire; and ofMistress Clitheroe, that had been pressed to death in York, for the verycrime which Mistress Marjorie Manners was perpetrating at this moment, namely, the assistance and harbourage of priests; or, rather, forrefusing to plead when she had been arrested for that crime, lest sheshould bring them into trouble. 

And then at last they began to speak of Mary in Fotheringay and at thata maid came in to say that it was eight o'clock, and would his Reverencecome up, as a few had to travel home that night and to come again nextday. .. . 

 * * * * *

It was after nine o'clock before he came downstairs again, to find thegentlefolk alone in the little parlour that opened from the hall. Itgave him a strange thrill of pleasure to see them there in thefirelight; the four of them only--Mr. John in the midst, with the threeladies; and an empty chair waiting for the priest. He would hear theirconfessions presently when the servants were gone to bed. A great mug ofwarm ale stood by his place, to comfort him after his long ride and hisspiritual labours. 

Mr. John told him first the news of his own son, as was his duty to do;and he told it without bitterness, in a level voice, leaning his cheekon his hand. 

It appeared that Mr. Thomas still passed for a Catholic among thesimpler folk; but with none else. All the great houses round about hadthe truth as an open secret; and their doors were closed to him; neitherhad any priest been near him, since the day when Mr. Simpson met himalone on the moors and spoke to him of his soul. Even then Mr. Thomashad blustered and declared that there was no truth in the tale; and hadso ridden away at last, saying that such pestering was enough to make aman lose his religion altogether. 

"As for me, " said Mr. John, "he has not been near me, nor I near him. Helives at Norbury for the most part. My brother is attempting to setaside the disposition he had made in his favour; but they say that itwill be made to stand; and that my son will get it all yet. But he hasnot troubled us at Padley; nor will he, I think. "

"He is at Norbury, you say, sir?"

"Yes; but he goes here and there continually. He has been to London tolay informations, I have no doubt, for I know that he hath been seenthere in Topcliffe's company. .. . It seems that we are to be in the thickof the conflict. We have had above a dozen priests in this county alonearraigned for treason, and the most of them executed. "

His voice had gone lower, and trembled once or twice as he talked. Itwas plain that he could not bear to speak much more against the son thathad turned against him and his Faith, for the sake of his own libertyand the estates he had hoped to have. Robin made haste to turn the talk. 

"And my father, sir?"

Mr. John looked at him tenderly. 

"You must ask Mistress Marjorie of him, " he said. "I have not seen himthese three years. "

Robin turned to the girl. 

"I have had no more news of him since what I wrote to you, " she saidquietly. "After I had spoken with him, and he had given me the warning, he held himself aloof. "

"Hath he been at any of the trials at Derby?"

She bowed her head. 

"He was at the trial of Mr. Garlick, " she said; "last year; and was oneof those who spoke for his banishment. "

 * * * * *

And then, on a sudden, Mistress Alice moved in her corner, where she satwith the widow of her brother. 

"And what of her Grace?" she said. "Is it true what Dick told us beforesupper, that Parliament hath sentenced her?"

Robin shook his head. 

"I hear so much gossip, " he said, "in the taverns, that I believenothing. I had not heard that. Tell me what it was. "

He was in a torment of mind as to what he should say of his ownadventure at Chartley. On the one side it was plain that no rumour ofthe tale must get abroad or he would never be able to come to her again;on the other side, no word had come from Mr. Bourgoign, though twomonths had passed. He knew, indeed, what all the world knew by now, thata trial had been held by over forty lords in Fotheringay Castle, whitherthe Queen had been moved at the end of September, and that reports hadbeen sent of it to London. But for the rest he knew no more than theothers. Tales ran about the country on every side. One man would saythat he had it from London direct that Parliament had sentenced her;another that the Queen of England had given her consent too; a third, that Parliament had not dared to touch the matter at all; a fourth, thatElizabeth had pardoned her. But, for Robin, his hesitation largely layin his knowledge that it was on the Babington plot that all would turn, and that this would have been the chief charge against her; and here, but a yard away from him, in the gloom of the chimney-breast satAnthony's wife and sister. How could he say that this was so, and yetthat he believed her wholly innocent of a crime which he detested? Hehad dreaded this talk the instant that he had seen them in the hall andheard their names. 

But Mistress Alice would not be put off. She repeated what she had said. Dick had come up from Dethick only that afternoon, and was now goneagain, so that he could not be questioned; but he had told his mistressplainly that the story in Derby, brought in by couriers, was thatParliament had consented and had passed sentence on her Grace; that herGrace herself had received the news only the day before; but that thewarrant was not signed. 

"And on what charge?" asked Robin desperately. Mistress Alice's voicerang out proudly; but he saw her press the girl closer as she spoke. 

"That she was privy to the plot which my . .. My brother had a hand in. "

Then Robin drew a breath and decided. 

"It may be so, " he said. "But I do not believe she was privy to it. Ispoke with her Grace at Chartley--"

There was a swift movement in the half circle. 

"I spoke with her Grace at Chartley, " he said. "I went to her underguise of a herbalist: I heard her confession and gave her communion; andshe declared publicly, before two witnesses, after she had hadcommunion, that she was guiltless. "

 * * * * *

Robin was no story-teller; but for half an hour he was forced to becomeone, until his hearers were satisfied. Even here, in the distant hills, Mary's name was a key to a treasure-house of mysteries. It was throughthis country, too, that she had passed again and again. It was at oldChatsworth--the square house with the huge Italian and Dutch gardens, that a Cavendish had bought thirty years ago from the Agards--that shehad passed part of her captivity; it was in Derby that she had haltedfor a night last year; it was near Burton that she had slept two monthsago on her road to Fotheringay; and to hear now of her, from one who hadspoken to her that very autumn, was as a revelation. So Robin told it aswell as he could. 

"And it may be, " he said, "that I shall have to go again. Mr. Bourgoignsaid that he would send to me if he could. But I have heard no word fromhim. " (He glanced round the watching faces. ) "And I need not say that Ishall hear no word at all, if the tale I have told you leak out. "

"Perhaps she hath a chaplain again, " said Mr. John, after pause. 

"I do not think so, " said the priest. "If she had none at Chartley, shewould all the less have one at Fotheringay. "

"And it may be you will be sent for again?" asked Marjorie's voicegently from the darkness. 

"It may be so, " said the priest. 

"The letter is to be sent here?" she asked. 

"I told Mr. Bourgoign so. "

"Does any other know you are here?"

"No, Mistress Marjorie. "

There was a pause. 

"It is growing late, " said Mr. John. "Will your Reverence go upstairswith me; and these ladies will come after, I think. "

III

If it had been a great day for Robin that he should come back to his owncountry after six years, and be received in this house of strangememories; that he should sit upstairs as a priest, and hear confessionsin that very parlour where nearly seven years ago he had sat withMarjorie as her accepted lover--if all this had been charged, to him, with emotions and memories which, however he had outgrown them, yetechoed somewhere wonderfully in his mind; it was no less a kind ofclimax and consummation to the girl whose house this was, and who hadwaited so long to receive back a lover who came now in so different aguise. 

But it must be made plain that to neither of them was there a thought ora memory that ought not to be. To those who hold that men are no better, except for their brains, than other animals; that they are but, afterall, bundles of sense from which all love and aspiration take theirrise--to such the thing will seem simply false. They will say that itwas not so; that all that strange yearning that Marjorie had to see theman back again; that the excitement that beat in Robin's heart as he hadridden up the well-remembered slope, all in the dark, and had seen thelighted windows at the top; that these were but the old loves in thedisguise of piety. But to those who understand what priesthood is, forhim that receives it, and for the soul that reverences it, the thing isa truism. For the priest was one who loved Christ more than all theworld; and the woman one who loved priesthood more than herself. 

Yet her memories of him that remained in her had, of course, a place inher heart; and, though she knelt before him presently in the littleparlour where once he had kneeled before her, as simply as a childbefore her father, and told her sins, and received Christ's pardon, andwent away to make room for the next--though all this was without areproach in her eyes; yet, as she went she knew that she must face afresh struggle, and a temptation that would not have been one-tenth sofierce if it had been some other priest that was in peril. That perilwas Fotheringay, where (as she knew well enough) every strange facewould be scrutinized as perhaps nowhere else in all England; and thattemptation lay in the knowledge that when that letter should come (asshe knew in her heart it would come), it would be through her hands thatit would pass--if it passed indeed. 

 * * * * *

While the others went to the priest one by one, Marjorie kneeled in herroom, fighting with a devil that was not yet come to her, as is the waywith sensitive consciences. 

CHAPTER VI

I

The suspense at Fotheringay grew deeper with every day that passed. 

Christmas was come and gone, and no sign was made from London, so far, at least, as the little town was concerned. There came almost daily fromthe castle new tales of slights put upon the Queen, and now and again ofnew favours granted to her. Her chaplain, withdrawn for a while, hadbeen admitted to her again a week before Christmas; a crowd hadcollected to see the Popish priest ride in, and had remarked on histimorous air; and about the same time a courier had been watched as herode off to London, bearing, it was rumoured, one last appeal from oneQueen to the other. On the other hand, it was known that Mary no longerhad her daïs in her chamber, and that the billiard-table, which shenever used, had been taken away again. 

But all this had happened before Christmas, and now a month had gone by, and although this or that tale of discourtesy from gaoler to prisonerleaked out through the servants; though it was known that the crucifixwhich Mary had hung up in the place where her daïs had stood remainedundisturbed--though this argument or the other could be advanced in turnby men sitting over their wine in the taverns, that the Queen's causewas rising or falling, nothing was truly known the one way or the other. It had been proclaimed, by trumpet, in every town in England, thatsentence of death was passed; yet this was two or three months ago, andthe knowledge that the warrant had not yet been signed seemed anargument to some that now it never would be. 

 * * * * *

A group was waiting (as a group usually did wait) at the villageentrance to the new bridge lately built by her Grace of England, towardssunset on an evening late in January. This situation commanded, so faras was possible, every point of interest. It was the beginning of theLondon road, up which so many couriers had passed; it was over thisbridge that her Grace of Scotland herself had come from hercross-country journey from Chartley. On the left, looking northwards, rose the great old collegiate church, with its graceful lantern tower, above the low thatched stone houses of the village; on the right, adjoining the village beyond the big inn, rose the huge keep of thecastle and its walls, within its double moats, ranged in form of afetterlock of which the river itself was its straight side. Beyond, thelow rolling hills and meadows met the chilly January sky. 

For four months now the village had been transformed into a kind ofcamp. The castle itself was crammed to bursting. The row of littlewindows beside the hall on the first floor, visible only from the roadthat led past the inn parallel to the river, marked the lodgings of theQueen, where, with the hall also for her use, she lived continually; therest of the castle was full of men-at-arms, officers, great lords whocame and went--these, with the castellan's rooms and those of hispeople, Sir Amyas' lodgings, and the space occupied by Mary's ownservants--all these filled the castle entirely. For the rest--thegarrison not on duty, the grooms, the couriers, the lesser servants, thesuites of the visitors, and even many of the visitors themselves--thesefilled the two inns of the little town completely, and overflowedeverywhere into the houses of the people. It was a vision of a garrisonin war-time that the countryfolk gaped at continually; the streetsparkled all day with liveries and arms; archers went to and fro; thetrample of horses, the sharp military orders at the changings of guardoutside and within the towered gateway that commanded the entrance overthe moats, the songs of men over their wine in the tavern-parlours--these things had become matters of common observation, and fired many ayoung farm-man with a zeal for arms. 

The Queen herself was a mystery. 

They had seen, for a moment, as she drove in after dark last September, a coach (in which, it was said, she had sat with her back to the horses)surrounded by guards; patient watchers had, perhaps, half a dozen timesaltogether caught a glimpse of a woman's face, at a window that wassupposed to be hers, look out for an instant over the wall that skirtedthe moat. But that was all. They heard the trumpets' cry within thecastle; and even learned to distinguish something of what eachsignified--the call for the changing of guards, the announcement ofdinner and supper; the warning to the gatekeepers that persons were topass out. But of her, round whom all this centred, of the prison-queenof this hive of angry bees, they knew less than of her Grace of Englandwhom once they had seen ride in through these very gates. Tales, ofcourse, were abundant--gossip from servant to servant, filtering down atlast, distorted or attenuated, to the rustics who watched and exclaimed;but there was not a soldier who kept her, not a cook who served her, ofwhom they did not know more than of herself. There were even parties inthe village; or, rather, there was a silent group who did not join inthe universal disapproval, but these were queer and fantastic persons, who still held to the old ways and would not go to church with the rest. 

A little more material had been supplied for conversation by the eventsof to-day. It had positively been reported, by a fellow who had been tosee about a room for himself in the village, that he had been turned outof the castle to make space for her Grace's chaplain. This was puzzling. Had not the Popish priest already been in the castle five or six weeks?Then why should he now require another chamber?

The argument waxed hot by the bridge. One said that it was anotherpriest that was come in disguise; another, that once a Popish priest gota foothold in a place he was never content till he got the whole forhimself; a third, that the fellow had simply lied, and that he wasturned out because he had been caught by Sir Amyas making love to one ofthe maids. Each was positive of his own thesis, and argued for it by theprocess of re-assertion that it was so, and that his opponents werefools. They spat into the water; one got out a tobacco pipe that asoldier had given him and made a great show of filling it, though he hadno flint to light it with; another proclaimed that for two figs he wouldgo and inquire at the gateway itself. .. . 

To this barren war of the schools came a fact at last, and its bearerwas a gorgeous figure of a man-at-arms (who, later, got into trouble bytalking too much), who came swaggering down the road from the New Inn, blowing smoke into the air, with his hat on one side, and hisbreast-piece loose; and declared in that strange clipped London-Englishof his that he had been on guard at the door of Sir Amyas' room, and hadheard him tell Melville the steward and De Préau the priest that theymust no longer have access to her Grace, but must move their lodgingselsewhere within the castle. 

This, then, had to be discussed once more from the beginning. One saidthat this was an evident sign that the end was to come and that Madamwas to die; another that, on the contrary, it was plain that this wasnot so, but that rather she was to be compelled by greater strictness toacknowledge her guilt; a third, that it was none of these things, butrather that Madam was turning Protestant at last in order to save herlife, and had devised this manner of ridding herself of the priest. Andthe soldier damned them all round as block-fools, who knew nothing andtalked all the more for it. 

 * * * * *

The dark was beginning to fall before the group broke up, and none ofthem took much notice of a young man on a fresh horse, who rode quietlyout of the yard of the New Inn as the saunterers came up. One of them, three minutes later, however, heard suddenly from across the bridge thesound of a horse breaking into a gallop and presently dying awaywestwards beyond Perry Lane. 

II

Within the castle that evening nothing happened that was of any note toits more careless occupants. All was as usual. 

The guard at the towers that controlled the drawbridge across the outermoat was changed at four o'clock; six men came out, under an officer, from the inner court; the words were exchanged, and the six that wentoff duty marched into the armoury to lay by their pikes and presentlydispersed, four to their rooms in the east side of the quadrangle, twoto their quarters in the village. From the kitchen came the clash ofdishes. Sir Amyas came out from the direction of the keep, where he hadbeen conferring with Mr. FitzWilliam, the castellan, and passed acrossto his lodging on the south. A butcher hurried in, under escort of acouple of men from the gate, with a covered basket and disappeared intothe kitchen entry. All these things were observed idly by the dozenguards who stood two at each of the five doors that gave upon thecourtyard. Presently, too, hardly ten minutes after the guard waschanged, three figures came out at the staircase foot where Sir Amyashad just gone in, and stood there apparently talking in low voices. Thenone of them, Mr. Melville, the Queen's steward, came across the courtwith Mr. Bourgoign towards the outer entrance, passed under it, andpresently Mr. Bourgoign came back and wheeled sharply in to the right bythe entry that led up to the Queen's lodging. Meanwhile the thirdfigure, whom one of the men had thought to be M. De Préau, had gone backagain towards Mr. Melville's rooms. 

That was all that was to be seen, until half an hour later, a fewminutes before the drawbridge was raised for the night, the steward cameback, crossed the court once more and vanished into the entry opposite. 

It was about this time that the young man had ridden out from the NewInn. 

Then the sun went down; the flambeaux were lighted beneath the two greatentrances--in the towered archway across the moat, and the smallervaulted archway within, as well as one more flambeau stuck into the ironring by each of the four more court-doors, and lights began to burn inthe windows round about. The man at Sir Amyas' staircase looked acrossthe court and idly wondered what was passing in the rooms opposite onthe first floor where the Queen was lodged. He had heard that the priesthad been forced to change his room, and was to sleep in Mr. Melville'sfor the present; so her Grace would have to get on without him as wellas she could. There would be no Popish mass to-morrow, then, in theoratory that he had heard was made upstairs. .. . He marvelled at thesuperstition that made this a burden. .. . 

At a quarter before six a trumpet blew, and presently the tall windowsof the hall across the court from him began to kindle. That was for herGrace's supper to be served. At five minutes to six another trumpetsounded, and M. Landet, the Queen's butler, hurried out with his whiterod to take his place for the entrance of the dishes. Finally, throughthe ground-floor window at the foot of the Queen's stair, the man caughta glimpse of moving figures passing towards the hall. That would be herGrace going in state to her supper with her women; but, for the firsttime, without either priest to say grace or steward to escort her. Hesaw, too, the couple of guards under the inner archway come to thesalute as the little procession came for an instant within their view;and Mr. Newrins, the butler of the castle, stop suddenly and pull offhis cap as he was hurrying in to be in time for the supper of thegentlemen that was served in the keep half an hour after the Queen's. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile, ten miles away, along the Uppingham and Leicester track, rodea young man through the dark. 

III

Sunday, too, passed as usual. 

At half-past eight the bells of the church pealed out for the morningservice, and the village street was thronged with worshippers and a fewsoldiers. At nine o'clock they ceased, and the street was empty. Ateleven o'clock the trumpets sounded to announce change of guard, and totell the kitchen folk that dishing-time was come. Half an hour lateronce more the little procession glinted a moment through theground-floor window of the Queen's stair as her Grace went to dinner. (She was not very well, the cooks had reported, and had eaten but littlelast night. ) At twelve o'clock she came out again and went upstairs; andat the same time, in Leicester, a young man, splashed from head to foot, slipped off a draggled and exhausted horse and went into an inn, ordering a fresh horse to be ready for him at three o'clock. 

And so once more the sun went down, and the little rituals wereperformed, and the guards were changed, and M. Landet, for the last timein his life (though he did not know it), came out from the kitchen withhis white rod to bear it before the dishes of a Queen; and Sir Amyaswalked in from the orchard and was saluted, and Mr. FitzWilliam went hisrounds, and the drawbridge was raised. And, at the time that thedrawbridge was raised, a young man on a horse was wondering when heshould see the lights of Burton. .. . 

IV

The first that Mistress Manners knew of his coming in the early hours ofMonday morning, was when she was awakened by Janet in the pitch darknessshaking her shoulder. 

"It is a young man, " she said, "on foot. His horse fell five miles off. He is come with a letter from Derby. "

Sleep fell from Marjorie like a cloak. This kind of thing had happenedto her before. Now and then such a letter would come from a priest wholacked money or desired a guide or information. She sprang out of bedand began to put on her outer dress and her hooded cloak, as the nightwas cold. 

"Bring him into the hall, " she said. "Get beer and some food, and blowthe fire up. "

Janet vanished. 

When the mistress came down five minutes later, all had been done as shehad ordered. The turf and wood fire leaped in the chimney; a young man, still with his hat on his head and drawn down a little over his face, was sitting over the hearth, steaming like a kettle, eating voraciously. Janet was waiting discreetly by the doors. Marjorie nodded to her, andshe went out; she had learned that her mistress's secrets were notalways her own as well. 

"I am Mistress Manners, " she said. "You have a letter for me?"

The young man stood up. 

"I know you well enough, mistress, " he said. "I am John Merton's son. "

Marjorie's heart leaped with relief. In spite of her determination thatthis must be a letter from a priest, there had still thrust itselfbefore her mind the possibility that it might be that other letter whosecoming she had feared. She had told herself fiercely as she camedownstairs just now, that it could not be. No news was come fromFotheringay all the winter; it was common knowledge that her Grace had apriest of her own. And now that this was John Merton's son--

She smiled. 

"Give me the letter, " she said. "I should have known you, too, if itwere not for the dark. "

"Well, mistress, " he said, "the letter was to be delivered to you, Mr. Melville said; but--"

"Who?"

"Mr. Melville, mistress: her Grace's steward at Fotheringay. "

 * * * * *

He talked on a moment or two, beginning to say that Mr. Melville himselfhad come out to the inn, that he, as Melville's own servant, had beenlodging there, and had been bidden to hold himself in readiness, sincehe knew Derbyshire. .. . But she was not listening. She only knew thatthat had fallen which she feared. 

"Give me the letter, " she said again. 

He sat down, excusing himself, and fumbled with his boot; and by thetime that he held it out to her, she was in the thick of the conflict. She knew well enough what it meant--that there was no peril in allEngland like that to which this letter called her friend, there, waitingfor him in Fotheringay where every strange face was suspected, where aPopish priest was as a sheep in a den of wolves, where there would be nomercy at all if he were discovered; and where, if he were to be of useat all, he must adventure himself in the very spot where he would bemost suspected, on a task that would be thought the last word in treasonand disobedience. And, worst of all, this priest had lodged in thetavern where the conspirators had lodged; he had talked with them thenight before their flight, and now, here he was, striving to get accessto her for whom all had been designed. Was there a soul in England thatcould doubt his complicity?. .. And it was to her own house here inDerbyshire that he had come for shelter; it was here that he had saidmass yesterday; and it must be from this house that he must ride, on oneof her horses; and it must be her hand that gave him the summons. Lastof all, it was she, Marjorie Manners, that had sent him to this life, six years ago. 

Then, as she took the letter, the shrewd woman in her spoke. It wasirresistible, and she seemed to listen to voice that was not hers. 

"Does any here know that you are come?"

"No, mistress. "

"If I bade you, and said that I had reasons for it, you would ride awayagain alone, without a word to any?"

"Why, yes, mistress!"

(Oh! the plan was irresistible and complete. She would send thismessenger away again on one of her own horses as far as Derby; he couldleave the horse there, and she would send a man for it to-morrow. Hewould go back to Fotheringay and would wait, he and those that had senthim. And the priest they expected would not come. He, too, himself, hadceased to expect any word from Mr. Bourgoign; he had said a month agothat surely none would come now. He had been away from Booth's Edge, infact, for nearly a month, and had scarcely even asked on his return lastSaturday to Padley, whether any message had come. Why, it wascomplete--complete and irresistible! She would burn the letter here inthis hall-fire when the man was gone again; and say to Janet that theletter had been from a travelling priest that was in trouble, and thatshe had sent the answer. And Robin would presently cease to look fornews, and the end would come, and there would be no more trouble. )

"Do you know what is in the letter?" she whispered sharply. ("Sit downagain and go on eating. ")

He obeyed her. 

"Yes, mistress, " he said. "The priest was taken from her on Saturday. Mr. Bourgoign had arranged all in readiness for that. "

"You said Mr. Melville. "

"Mr. Melville is a Protestant, mistress; but he is very well devoted toher Grace, and has done as Mr. Bourgoign wished. "

"Why must her Grace have a priest at once? Surely for a few days--"

He glanced up at her, and she, conscious of her own falseness, thoughthe looked astonished. 

"I mean that they will surely give her her priest back, again presently;and"--(her voice faltered)--"and Mr. Alban is spent with histravelling. "

"They mean to kill her, mistress. There is no doubt of it amongst thoseof us that are Catholics. And it is that she may have a priest beforeshe dies, that--"

He paused. 

"Yes?" she said. 

"Her Grace had a fit of crying, it is said, when her priest was takenfrom her. Mr. Melville was crying himself, even though--"

He stopped, himself plainly affected. 

 * * * * *

Then, in a great surge, her own heart rose up, and she understood whatshe was doing. As in a vision, she saw her own mother crying out for thepriest that never came; and she understood that horror of darkness thatfalls on one who, knowing what the priest can do, knowing the infiniteconsolations which Christ gives, is deprived, when physical deathapproaches, of that tremendous strength and comfort. Indeed, sherecognised to the full that when a priest cannot be had, God will saveand forgive without him; yet what would be the heartlessness, to saynothing of the guilt, of one that would keep him away? For what, exceptthat this strength and comfort might be at the service of Christ'sflock, had her own life been spent? It was expressly for this that shehad lived on in England when peace and the cloister might be herselsewhere; and now that her own life was touched, should she fail?. .. The blindness passed like a dream, and her soul rose up again on a waveof pain and exaltation. .. . 

"Wait, " she said. "I will go and awaken him, and bid him come down. "

V

An hour later, as the first streaks of dawn slit the sky to theeastwards over the moors, she stood with Janet and Mistress Alice andRobin by the hall fire. 

She had said not a word to any of the struggle she had passed through. She had gone upstairs resolutely and knocked on his door till he hadanswered, and then whispered, "The letter is come. .. . I will have foodready"; slipping the letter beneath the door. 

Then she had sent Janet to awaken a couple of men that slept over thestables; and bid them saddle two horses at once; and herself had gone tothe buttery to make ready a meal. Then Mistress Alice had awakened andcome downstairs, and the three women had waited on the priest, as, inboots and cloak, he had taken some food. 

Then, as the sound of the horses' feet coming round from the stables atthe back had reached them, she had determined to tell Robin before hewent of how she had played the coward. 

She went out with him to the entry between the hall and the buttery, holding the others back with a glance. 

"I near destroyed the letter, " she said simply, with downcast eyes, "andsent the man away again. I was afraid of what might fall atFotheringay. .. . May Christ protect you!"

She said no more than that, but turned and called the others before hecould speak. 

As he gathered up the reins a moment later, before mounting, the threewomen kneeled down in the lighted entry and the two farm-men by thehorses' heads, and the priest gave them his blessing. 

CHAPTER VII

I

It was not until after dawn on Wednesday, the twenty-fifth of January, as the bells were ringing in the parish church for the Conversion of St. Paul, that the two draggled travellers rode in over the bridge ofFotheringay, seeing the castle-keep rise grim and grey out of theriver-mists on the right; and, passing on, dismounted in the yard of theNew Inn. They had had one or two small misadventures by the way, andyoung Merton, through sheer sleepiness, had so reeled in his saddle onthe afternoon of Monday, that the priest had insisted that they shouldboth have at least one good night's rest. But they had ridden allTuesday night without drawing rein, and Robin, going up to the room thathe was to share with the young man, fell upon the bed, and asleep, allin one act. 

 * * * * *

He was awakened by the trumpets sounding for dinner in the castle-yard, and sat up to find young John looking at him. The news that he broughtdrove the last shreds of sleep from his brain. 

"I have seen Mr. Melville, my master, sir. He bids me say it is uselessfor Mr. Bourgoign, or anyone else, to attempt anything with Sir Amyasfor the present. Mr. Melville hath spoken to Sir Amyas as to hisseparation from her Grace, and could get no reason for it. But the sameday--it was of Monday--her Grace's butler was forbidden any more tocarry the white rod before her dishes. This is as much as to signify, Mr. Melville says, that her Grace's royalty shall no longer protect her. It is their intention, he says, to degrade her first, before theyexecute her. And we may look for the warrant any day, my master says. "

The young man stared at him mournfully. 

"And M. De Préau?"

"M. De Préau goes about as a ghost. He will come and speak with yourReverence before the day is out. Meanwhile, Mr. Melville says you maywalk abroad freely. Sir Amyas never goes forth of the castle now, andnone will notice. But they might take notice, Mr. Melville says, if youwere to lie all day in your chamber. "

 * * * * *

It was after dinner, as Robin rose from the table in a parlour, where hehad dined with two or three lawyers and an officer of Mr. FitzWilliam, that John Merton came to him and told him that a gentleman was waiting. He went upstairs and found the priest, a little timorous-looking man, dressed like a minister, pacing quickly to and fro in the tiny room atthe top of the house where John and he were to sleep. The Frenchmanseized his two hands and began to pour out in an agitated whisper atorrent of French and English. Robin disengaged himself. 

"You must sit down, M. De Préau, " he said, "and speak slowly, or I shallnot understand one word. Tell me precisely what I must do. I am here toobey orders--no more. I have no design in my head at all. I will do whatMr. Bourgoign and yourself decide. "

 * * * * *

It was pathetic to watch the little priest. He interrupted himself by athousand apostrophes; he lifted hands and eyes to the ceilingrepeatedly; he named his poor mistress saint and martyr; he cried outagainst the barbarian land in which he found himself, and thebloodthirsty tigers with whom, like a second Daniel, he himself had toconsort; he expatiated on the horrible risk that he ran in venturingforth from the castle on such an errand, saying that Sir Amyas wouldwring his neck like a hen's, if he so much as suspected the nature ofhis business. He denounced, with feeble venom, the wickedness of thesemurderers, who would not only slay his mistress's body, but her soul aswell, if they could, by depriving her of a priest. Incidentally, however, he disclosed that at present there was no plan at all forRobin's admission. Mr. Bourgoign had sent for him, hoping that he mightbe able to reintroduce him once more on the same pretext as at Chartley;but the incident of Monday, when the white rod had been forbidden, andthe conversation of Sir Amyas to Mr. Melville had made it evident thatan attempt at present would be worse than useless. 

"You must yourself choose!" he cried, with an abominable accent. "If youwill imperil your life by remaining, our Lord will no doubt reward youin eternity; but, if not, and you flee, not a man will blame you--leastof all myself, who would, no doubt, flee too, if I but dared. "

This was frank and humble, at any rate. Robin smiled. 

"I will remain, " he said. 

The Frenchman seized his hands and kissed them. 

"You are a hero and a martyr, monsieur! We will perish together, therefore. "

II

After the Frenchman's departure, and an hour's sleep in that profundityof unconsciousness that follows prolonged effort, Robin put on his swordand hat and cloak, having dressed himself with care, and went slowly outof the inn to inspect the battlefield. He carried himself deliberately, with a kind of assured insolence, as if he had supreme rights in thisplace, and were one of that crowd of persons--great lords, lawyers, agents of the court--to whom for the last few months Fotheringay hadbecome accustomed. He turned first to the right towards the castle, andpresently was passing down its long length. 

It looked, indeed, a royal prison. A low wall on his right protected theroad from the huge outer moat that ran, in the shape of a fetterlock, completely round all the buildings; and beyond it, springing immediatelyfrom the edge of the water, rose the massive outer wall, pierced hereand there with windows. He thought that he could make out the tops ofthe hall windows in one place, beyond the skirting wall, the pinnaclesof the chapel in another, and a row of further windows that might belodgings in a third; but from without here nothing was certain, exceptthe gigantic keep, that stood high to the west, and the strong towersthat guarded the drawbridge; this, as he went by, was lowered to itsplace, and he could look across it into the archway, where four menstood on guard with their pikes. The inner doors, however, were closedbeyond them, and he could see nothing of the inner moat that surroundedthe court, nor the yard itself. Neither did he think it prudent to askany questions, though he looked freely about him; since the part he mustplay for the present plainly was that of one who had a right here andknew what he did. 

He came back to the inn an hour later, after a walk through the villageand round the locked church: this was a splendid building, with flyingbuttresses and a high tower, with exterior carvings of saints andevangelists all in place. But it looked desolate to him, and he was themore dejected, as he seemed no nearer to the Queen than before, and withlittle chance of getting there. Meanwhile, there was but one thing to bedone, and that the hardest of all--to wait. Perhaps in a few days hemight get speech with Mr. Bourgoign; yet for the present than, too, asthe priest had told him, was out of the question. 

III

Five days were gone by, Sunday had come and gone, and yet there had beenno news, except a letter conveyed to him by Merton, written by Mr. Bourgoign himself, telling him that he had news that Mr. Beale, theClerk of the Council, was to arrive some time that week, and that thispresaged the approach of the end. He would, therefore, do his utmostwithin the next few days to approach Sir Amyas and ask for the admissionof the young herbalist who had done her Grace so much good at Chartley. He added that if any question were to be raised as to why he had been solong in the place, and why, indeed, he had come at all, he was to answerfearlessly that Mr. Bourgoign had sent for him. 

On the Sunday night Robin could not sleep. Little by little the hideoussuspense was acting upon him, and the knowledge that not a hundred yardsaway from him the wonderful woman whom he had seen at Chartley, theloving and humble Catholic, who had kneeled so ardently before her Lord, the Queen who had received from him the sacraments for which shethirsted--the knowledge that she was breaking her heart, so near, forthe consolation which a priest only could give, and that he, a priest, was free to go through all England, except through that towered gatewaypast which he walked every day--this increased his misery and hislonging. 

The very day he had been through--the Sunday on which he could neithersay nor even hear mass (for, because of the greatness of that which wasat stake, he had thought it wiser to bring with him nothing that couldarouse suspicion)--and the hearing of the bells from the church callingto Protestant prayers, and the sight of the crowds going andreturning--this brought him lower than he had been since his firstcoming to England. He lay then in the darkness, turning from side toside, thinking of these things, listening to the breathing of the youngman who lay on blankets at the foot of his bed. 

About midnight he could lie there no longer. He got out of bednoiselessly, stepped across the other, went to the window-seat and satdown there, staring out, with eyes well accustomed to the darkness, towards the vast outline against the sky which he knew was the keep ofthe castle. No light burned there to relieve its brutality. It remainedthere, implacable as English justice, immovable as the heart ofElizabeth and the composure of the gaoler who kept it. .. . Then hedrew out Mr. Maine's rosary and began to recite the "SorrowfulMysteries. ". .. 

He supposed afterwards that he had begun to doze; but he started, wide-awake, at a sudden glare of light in his eyes, as if a beacon hadflared for an instant somewhere within the castle enclosure. It was goneagain, however; there remained the steady monstrous mass of building andthe heavy sky. Then, as he watched, it came again, without warning andwithout sound--that same brilliant flare of light, against which thetowers and walls stood out pitch-black. A third time it came, and allwas dark once more. 

 * * * * *

In the morning, as he sat over his ale in the tavern below, he listened, without lifting his eyes, engrossed, it seemed, in a little book he wasreading, to the excited talk of a group of soldiers. One of them, hesaid, had been on guard beneath the Queen's windows last night, andbetween midnight and one o'clock had seen three times a brilliant lightexplode itself, like soundless gunpowder, immediately over the roomwhere she slept. And this he asserted, over and over again. 

IV

On the following Saturday John Merton came up into the room where thepriest was sleeping after dinner and awakened him. 

"If you will come at once with me, sir, you can have speech with Mr. Bourgoign. My master has sent me to tell you so; Mr. Bourgoign has leaveto go out. "

Robin said nothing. It was the kind of opportunity that must not beimperilled by a single word that might be overheard. He threw on hisgreat cloak, buckled his sword on, and followed with every nerve awake. They went up the street leading towards the church, and turned down alittle passage-way between two of the larger houses; the young manpushed on a door in the wall; and Robin went through, to find himself ina little enclosed garden with Mr. Bourgoign gathering herbs from theborder, not a yard from him. The physician said nothing; he glancedsharply up and pointed to a seat set under the shelter of the wall thathid the greater part of the garden from the house to which it belonged;and as Robin reached it, Mr. Bourgoign, still gathering his herbs, beganto speak in an undertone. 

"Do not speak except very softly, if you must, " he said. "The Queen issick again; and I have leave to gather herbs for her in two or threegardens. It was refused to me at first and then granted afterwards. Fromthat I look for the worst. .. . Beale will come to-morrow, I hear. .. . Paulet refused me leave the first time, I make no doubt, knowing thatall was to end within a day or two: then he granted it me, for fear Ishould suspect his reason. (Can you hear me, sir?)"

Robin nodded. His heart thumped within him. 

"Well, sir; I shall tell Sir Amyas to-morrow that my herbs do nogood--that I do not know what to give her Grace. I have seen her Gracecontinually, but with a man in the room always. .. . Her Grace knows thatyou are here, and bids me thank you with all her heart. .. . I shall speakto Sir Amyas, and shall tell him that you are here: and that I sent foryou, but did not dare to ask leave for you until now. If he refuses Ishall know that all is finished, and that Beale has brought the warrantwith him. .. . If he consents I shall think that it is put off for alittle. .. . "

He was very near to Robin now, still, with a critical air pushing theherbs this way and that, selecting one now and again. 

"Have you anything to say to me, sir? Do not speak loud. The fellow thatconducted me from the castle is drinking ale in the house behind. He didnot know of this door on the side. .. . Have you anything to say?"

"Yes, " said Robin. 

"What is it?"

"Two things. The first is that I think one of the fellows in the inn isdoubtful of me. Merton tells me he has asked a great number of questionsabout me. What had I best do?"

"Who is he?"

"He is a servant of my lord Shrewsbury's who is in the neighbourhood. "

The doctor was silent. 

"Am I in danger?" asked the priest quietly. "Shall I endanger herGrace?"

"You cannot endanger her Grace. She is near her end in any case. Butfor yourself--"

"Yes. "

"You are endangering yourself every instant by remaining, " said thedoctor dryly. 

"The second matter--" began Robin. 

"But what of yourself--"

"Myself must be endangered, " said Robin softly. "The second matter iswhether you cannot get me near her Grace in the event of her execution. I could at least give her absolution _sub conditione_. "

Mr. Bourgoign shot a glance at him which he could not interpret. 

"Sir, " he said; "God will reward you. .. . As regards the second matter itwill be exceedingly difficult. If it is to be in the open court, I mayperhaps contrive it. If it is to be in the hall, none but known personswould be admitted. .. . Have you anything more, sir?"

"No. "

"Then you had best be gone again at once. .. . Her Grace prays for you. .. . She had a fit of weeping last night to know that a priest was here andshe not able to have him. .. . Do you pray for her. .. . "

V

Sunday morning dawned; the bells pealed out; the crowds went by thechurch and came back to dinner; and yet no word had come to the inn. Robin scarcely stirred out all that day for fear a summons should comeand he miss it. He feigned a little illness and sat wrapped up in thecorner window of the parlour upstairs, whence he could command bothroads--that which led to the Castle, and that which led to the bridgeover which Mr. Beale must come. He considered it prudent also to dothis, because of the fellow of whom Merton had told him--a man thatlooked like a groom, and who was lent, he heard, with one or two othersby his master to do service at the Castle. 

Robin's own plan had been distinct ever since M. De Préau had broughthim the first message. He bore himself, as has been said, assuredly andconfidently; and if he were questioned would simply have said that hehad business connected with the Castle. This, asserted in a proper tone, would probably have its effect. There was so much mystery, involvingsuch highly-placed personages from the Queen of England downwards, thatdiscretion was safer than curiosity. 

 * * * * *

It was growing towards dark when Robin, after long and fruitless staringdown the castle road, turned himself to the other. The parlour was emptyat this hour except for himself. 

He saw the group gathering as usual at the entrance to the bridge towatch the arrivals from London, who, if there were any, generally cameabout this time. 

Then, as he looked, he saw two horsemen mount the further slope of thebridge, and come full into view. 

Now there was nothing whatever about these two persons, in outwardappearance, to explain the strange effect they had upon the priest. Theycould not possibly be the party for which he was watching. Mr. Bealewould certainly come with a great company. They were, besides, plainlyno more than serving-men: one wore some kind of a livery; the other, astrongly-built man who sat his horse awkwardly, was in new clothes thatdid not fit him. They rode ordinary hackneys; and each had luggagestrapped behind his saddle. All this the priest saw as they came up thenarrow street and halted before the inn door. They might, perhaps, beservants of Mr. Beale; yet that did not seem probable as there was nosign of a following party. The landlord came out on to the stepsbeneath; and after a word or two, they slipped off their horses wearily, and led them round into the court of the inn. 

All this was usual enough; the priest had seen such arrivals a dozentimes at this very door; yet he felt sick as he looked at them. Thereappeared to him something terrible and sinister about them. He had seenthe face of the liveried servant; but not of the other: this one hadcarried his head low, with his great hat drawn down on his head. Thepriest wondered, too, what they carried in their trunks. 

 * * * * *

When he went down to supper in the great room of the inn, he could notforbear looking round for them. But only one was to be seen--theliveried servant who had done the talking. 

Robin turned to his neighbour--a lawyer with whom he had spoken a fewtimes. 

"That is a new livery to me, " he said, nodding towards the stranger. 

"That?" said the lawyer. "That? Why, that is the livery of Mr. Walsingham. I have seen it in London. "

 * * * * *

Towards the end of supper a stir broke out among the servants who sat atthe lower end of the room near the windows that looked out upon thestreets. Two or three sprung up from the tables and went to look out. 

"What is that?" cried the lawyer. 

"It is Mr. Beale going past, sir, " answered a voice. 

Robin lifted his eyes with an effort and looked. Even as he did so therecame a trampling of horses' hoofs; and then, in the light that streamedfrom the windows, there appeared a company on horseback. They were toofar away from where he sat, and the lights were too confusing, for himto see more than the general crowd that went by--perhaps from a dozen totwenty all told. But by them ran the heads of men who had waited at thebridge to see them go by; and a murmuring of voices came even throughthe closed windows. It was plain that others besides those who wereclose to her Grace, saw a sinister significance in Mr. Beale's arrival. 

VI

Robin had hardly reached his room after supper and a little dessert inthe parlour, before Merton came in. He drew his hand out of his breastas he entered, and, with a strange look, gave the priest a foldedletter. Robin took it without a word and read it through. 

After a pause he said to the other:

"Who were those two men that came before supper? I saw them ride up. "

"There is only one, sir. He is one of Mr. Walsingham's men. "

"There were two, " said the priest. 

"I will inquire, sir, " said the young man, looking anxiously from thepriest's face to the note and back again. 

Robin noticed it. 

"It is bad news, " he said shortly. "I must say no more. .. . Will youinquire for me; and come and tell me at once. "

When the young man had gone Robin read the note again before destroyingit. 

"I spoke to Sir A. To-day. He will have none of it. He seemed highlysuspicious when I spoke to him of you. If you value your safety morethan her Grace's possible comfort, you had best leave at once. In anycase, use great caution. "

Then, in a swift, hurried hand there followed a post-script:

"Mr. B. Is just now arrived, and is closeted with Sir A. All is over, Ithink. "

 * * * * *

Ten minutes later Merton came back and found the priest still in thesame attitude, sitting on the bed. 

"They will have none of it, sir, " he said. "They say that one only came, in advance of Mr. Beale. "

He came a little closer, and Robin could see that he was excited. 

"But you are right, sir, for all their lies. I saw supper plates and anempty flagon come down from the stair that leads to the little chamberabove the kitchen. "

CHAPTER VIII

I

Overhead lay the heavy sky of night-clouds like a curved sheet of darksteel, glimmering far away to the left with gashes of pale light. Infront towered the twin gateway, seeming in the gloom to lean forward toits fall. Lights shone here and there in the windows, vanished andappeared again, flashing themselves back from the invisible waterbeneath. About, behind and on either side, there swayed and murmuredthis huge crowd--invisible in the darkness--peasants, gentlemen, clerks, grooms--all on an equality at last, awed by a common tragedyinto silence, except for words exchanged here and there in an undertone, or whispered and left unanswered, or sudden murmured prayers to a Godwho hid Himself indeed. Now and again, from beyond the veiling wallscame the tramp of men; once, three or four brisk notes blown on a horn;once, the sudden rumble of a drum; and once, when the silence grewprofound, three or four blows of iron on wood. But at that the murmurrose into a groan and drowned it again. .. . 

So the minutes passed. .. . Since soon after midnight the folks had beengathering here. Many had not slept all night, ever since the report hadrun like fire through the little town last evening, that the sentencehad been delivered to the prisoner. From that time onwards the road thatled down past the Castle had never been empty. It was now moving on todawn, the late dawn of February; and every instant the scene grew moredistinct. It was possible for those pushed against the wall, or againstthe chains of the bridge that had been let down an hour ago, to lookdown into the chilly water of the moat; to see not the silhouette onlyof the huge fortress, but the battlements of the wall, and now and againa steel cap and a pike-point pass beyond it as the sentry went to andfro. Noises within the Castle grew more frequent. The voice of anofficer was heard half a dozen times; the rattle of pike-butts, theclash of steel. The melancholy bray of the horn-blower ran up a minorscale and down again; the dub-dub of a drum rang out, and was thrownback in throbs by the encircling walls. The galloping of horses washeard three or four times as a late-comer tore up the village street andwas forced to halt far away on the outskirts of the crowd--some countrysquire, maybe, to whom the amazing news had come an hour ago. Stillthere was no movement of the great doors across the bridge. The men onguard there shifted their positions; nodded a word or two across to oneanother; changed their pikes from one hand to the other. It seemed as ifday would come and find the affair no further advanced. .. . 

Then, without warning (for so do great climaxes always come), the doorswheeled back on their hinges, disclosing a line of pikemen drawn upunder the vaulted entrance; a sharp command was uttered by an officer attheir head, causing the two sentries to advance across the bridge; agreat roaring howl rose from the surging crowd; and in an instant thewhole lane was in confusion. Robin felt himself pushed this way andthat; he struggled violently, driving his elbows right and left; waslifted for a moment clean from his feet by the pressure about him;slipped down again; gained a yard or two; lost them; gained three orfour in a sudden swirl; and immediately found his feet on wood insteadof earth; and himself racing desperately as a loose group of runners, across the bridge; and beneath the arch of the castle-gate. 

II

When he was able to take breath again, and to substitute thought forblind instinct, he found himself tramping in a kind of stream of meninto what appeared an impenetrably packed crowd. He was going betweenropes, however, which formed a lane up which it was possible to move. This lane, after crossing half the court, wheeled suddenly to one sideand doubled on itself, conducting the newcomers behind the crowd ofprivileged persons that had come into the castle overnight, or had beenadmitted three or four hours ago. These persons were all people ofquality; many of them, out of a kind of sympathy for what was to happen, were in black. They stood there in rows, scarcely moving, scarcelyspeaking, some even bare-headed, filling up now, so far as the priestcould see, the entire court, except in that quarter in which hepresently found himself--the furthest corner away from where rose up thetall carved and traceried windows of the banqueting-hall. Yet, though noman spoke above an undertone, a steady low murmur filled the court fromside to side, like the sound of a wagon rolling over a paved road. 

He reached his place at last, actually against the wall of the soldiers'lodgings, and found, presently, that a low row of projecting stonesenabled him to raise himself a few inches, and see, at any rate, alittle better than his neighbours. He had perceived one thinginstantly--namely, that his dream of getting near enough to the Queen togive her absolution before her death was an impossible one. He had knownsince yesterday that the execution was to take place in the hall, andhere was he, within the court certainly, yet as far as possible awayfrom where he most desired to be. 

 * * * * *

The last two days had gone by in a horror that there is no describing. All the hours of them he had passed at his parlour window, waitinghopelessly for the summons which never came. John Merton had gone to thecastle and come back, each time with more desolate news. There was not apossibility, he said, when the news was finally certified, of getting aplace in the hall. Three hundred gentlemen had had those places alreadyassigned; four or five hundred more, it was expected, would have spacereserved for them in the courtyard. The only possibility was to be earlyat the gateway, since a limited number of these would probably beadmitted an hour or so before the time fixed for the execution. 

The priest had seen many sights from his parlour window during those twodays. 

On Monday he had seen, early in the morning, Mr. Beale ride out with hismen to go to my lord Shrewsbury, who was in the neighbourhood, and hadseen him return in time for dinner, with a number of strangers, amongwhom was an ecclesiastic. On inquiry, he found this to be Dr. Fletcher, Dean of Peterborough, who had been appointed to attend Mary both in herlodgings and upon the scaffold. In the afternoon the street was notempty for half an hour. From all sides poured in horsemen; gentlemenriding in with their servants; yeomen and farmers come in from thecountryside, that they might say hereafter that they had at least beenin Fotheringay when a Queen suffered the death of the axe. So the darkhad fallen, yet lights moved about continually, and horses' hoofs neverceased to beat or the voices of men to talk. Until he fell asleep atlast in his window-seat, he listened always to these things; watchedthe lights; prayed softly to himself; clenched his nails into his handsfor indignation; and looked again. On the Tuesday morning came thesheriff, to dine at the castle with Sir Amyas--a great figure of a man, dignified and stalwart, riding in the midst of his men. After dinnercame the Earl of Kent, and, last of all, my lord Shrewsbury himself--hewho had been her Grace's gaoler, until he proved too kind forElizabeth's taste--now appointed, with peculiar malice, to assist at herexecution. He looked pale and dejected as he rode past beneath thewindow. 

Yet all this time the supreme horror had been that the end was notabsolutely certain. All in Fotheringay were as convinced as men couldbe, who had not seen the warrant nor heard it read, that Mr. Beale hadbrought it with him on Sunday night; the priest, above all, from hiscommunications with Mr. Bourgoign, was morally certain that the terrorwas come at last. .. . It was not until the last night of Mary's life onearth was beginning to close in that John Merton came up to the parlour, white and terrified, to tell him that he had been in his master's roomhalf an hour ago, and that Mr. Melville had come in to them, his faceall slobbered with tears, and had told him that he had but just comefrom her Grace's rooms, and had heard with his own ears the sentenceread to her, and her gallant and noble answer. .. . He had bidden him togo straight off to the priest, with a message from Mr. Bourgoign andhimself, to the effect that the execution was appointed for eighto'clock next morning; and that he was to be at the gate of the castlenot later than three o'clock, if, by good fortune, he might be admittedwhen the gates were opened at seven. 

III

And now that the priest was in his place, he began again to think overthat answer of the Queen. The very words of it, indeed, he did not knowfor a month or two later, when Mr. Bourgoign wrote to him at length; butthis, at least, he knew, that her Grace had said (and no mancontradicted her at that time) that she would shed her blood to-morrowwith all the happiness in the world, since it was for the cause of theCatholic and Roman Church that she died. It was not for any plot thatshe was to die: she professed again, kissing her Bible as she did so, that she was utterly guiltless of any plot against her sister. She diedbecause she was of that Faith in which she had been born, and whichElizabeth had repudiated. As for death, she did not fear it; she hadlooked for it during all the eighteen years of her imprisonment. 

It was at a martyrdom, then, that he was to assist. .. . He had knownthat, without a doubt, ever since the day that Mary had declared herinnocence at Chartley. There had been no possibility of thinkingotherwise; and, as he reflected on this, he remembered that he, too, wasguilty of the same crime;. .. And he wondered whether he, too, would dieas manfully, if the need for it ever came. 

 * * * * *

Then, in an instant, he was called back, by the sudden crash of hornsand drums playing all together. He saw again the ranks of heads beforehim: the great arched windows of the hall on the other side of thecourt, the grim dominating keep, and the merciless February morning skyover all. 

It was impossible to tell what was going on. 

On all sides of him men jostled and murmured aloud. One said, "She iscoming down"; another, "It is all over"; another, "They have awakenedher. " "What is it? what is it?" whispered Robin to the air, watchingwaves of movement pass over the serried heads before him. The lightswere still burning here and there in the windows, and the tall panes ofthe hall were all aglow, as if a great fire burned within. Overhead thesky had turned to daylight at last, but they were grey clouds thatfilled the heavens so far as he could see. Meanwhile, the horns brayedin unison, a rough melody like the notes of bugles, and the drums beatout the time. 

Again there was a long pause--in which the lapse of time wasincalculable. Time had no meaning here: men waited from incident toincident only--the moving of a line of steel caps, a pause in the music, a head thrust out from a closed window and drawn back again. .. . Againthe music broke out, and this time it was an air that they played--alilting melancholy melody, that the priest recognised, yet could notidentify. Men laughed subduedly near him; he saw a face wrinkled withbitter mirth turned back, and he heard what was said. It was "JumpingJoan" that was being played--the march consecrated to the burning ofwitches. He had heard it long ago, as a boy. .. . 

Then the rumour ran through the crowd, and spent itself at last in thecorner where the priest stood trembling with wrath and pity. 

"She is in the hall. "

It was impossible to know whether this were true, or whether she had notbeen there half an hour already. The horror was that all might be over, or not yet begun, or in the very act of doing. He had thought that therewould be some pause or warning--that a signal would be given, perhaps, that all might bare their heads or pray, at this violent passing of aQueen. But there was none. The heads surged and quieted; murmurs burstout and died again; and all the while the hateful, insolent melody roseand fell; the horns bellowed; the drums crashed. It sounded like someshocking dance-measure; a riot of desperate spirits moved in it, trampling up and down, as if in one last fling of devilish gaiety. .. . 

 * * * * *

Then suddenly the heads grew still; a wave of motionlessness passed overthem, as if some strange sympathy were communicated from within thosetall windows. The moments passed and passed. It was impossible to hearthose murmurs, through the blare of the instruments; there was one soundonly that could penetrate them; and this, rising from what seemed atfirst the wailing of a child, grew and grew into the shrill cries of adog in agony. At the noise once more a roar of low questioning surged upand fell. Simultaneously the music came to an abrupt close; and, as ifat a signal, there sounded a great roar of voices, all shouting togetherwithin the hall. It rose yet louder, broke out of doors, and was takenup by those outside. The court was now one sea of tossing heads and openmouths shouting--as if in exultation or in anger. Robin fought for hisplace on the projecting stones, clung to the rough wall, gripped awindow-bar and drew himself yet higher. 

Then, as he clenched himself tight and stared out again towards the tallwindows that shone in bloody flakes of fire from the roaring logswithin; a sudden and profound silence fell once more before beingshattered again by a thousand roaring throats. .. . 

For there, in full view beyond the clear glass stood a tall, blackfigure, masked to the mouth, who held in his out-stretched hands a widesilver dish, in which lay something white and round and slashed withcrimson. .. . 

PART IV

CHAPTER I

I

"There is no more to be said, then, " said Marjorie, and leaned back, with a white, exhausted face. "We can do no more. "

 * * * * *

It was a little council of Papists that was gathered--a year after theQueen's death at Fotheringay--in Mistress Manners' parlour. Mr. JohnFitzHerbert was there; he had ridden up an hour before with heavy newsfrom Padley and its messenger. Mistress Alice was there, quiet as ever, yet paler and thinner than in former years (Mistress Babington herselfhad gone back to her family last year). And, last, Robin himself wasthere, having himself borne the news from Derby. 

He had had an eventful year, yet never yet had he come within reach ofthe pursuivant. But he had largely effected this by the particular carewhich he had observed with regard to Matstead, and his silence as to hisown identity. Extraordinary care, too, was observed by his friends, whohad learned by now to call him even in private by his alias; and itappeared certain that beyond a dozen or two of discreet persons it wasutterly unsuspected that the stately bearded young gentleman named Mr. Robert Alban--the "man of God, " as, like other priests, he was commonlycalled amongst the Catholics--had any connection whatever with thehawking, hunting, and hard-riding lover of Mistress Manners. It wasknown, indeed, that Mr. Robin had gone abroad years ago to be madepriest; but those who thought of him at all, or, at least as returned, believed him sent to some other part of England, for the sake of hisfather, and it was partly because of the very fact that his father wasso hot against the Papists that it had been thought safe at Rheims tosend him to Derbyshire, since this would be the very last place in whichhe would be looked for. 

He had avoided Matstead then--riding through it once only by night, withstrange emotions--and had spent most of his time in the south ofDerbyshire, crossing more than once over into Stafford and Chester, andreturning to Padley or to Booth's Edge once in every three or fourmonths. He had learned a hundred lessons in these wanderings of his. 

The news that he had now brought with him was of the worst. He had heardfrom Catholics in Derby that Mr. Simpson, returned again after hisbanishment, recaptured a month or two ago, and awaiting trial at theLent Assizes, was beginning to falter. Death was a certainty for himthis time, and it appeared that he had seemed very timorous before twoor three friends who had visited him in gaol, declaring that he had doneall that a man could do, that he was being worn out by suffering andprivation, and that there was some limit, after all, to what GodAlmighty should demand. 

Marjorie had cried out just now, driven beyond herself at the thought ofwhat all this must mean for the Catholics of the countryside, many ofwhom already had fallen away during the last year or two beneath thepitiless storm of fines, suspicions, and threats--had cried out that itwas impossible that such a man as Mr. Simpson could fall; that the ruinit would bring upon the Faith must be proportionate to the influence healready had won throughout the country by his years of labour;entreating, finally, when the trustworthiness of the report had beenforced upon her at last, that she herself might be allowed to go andsee him and speak with him in prison. 

This, however, had been strongly refused by her counsellors just now. They had declared that her help was invaluable; that the amazing mannerin which her little retired house on the moors had so far evaded gravesuspicion rendered it one of the greatest safeguards that the huntedCatholics possessed; that the work she was doing by her organization ofmessengers and letters must not be risked, even for the sake of a matterlike this. .. . 

She had given in at last. But her spirit seemed broken altogether. 

II

"There is one more matter, " said Robin presently, uncrossing onesplashed leg from over the other. "I had not thought to speak of it; butI think it best now to do so. It concerns myself a little; and, therefore, if I may flatter myself, it concerns my friends, too. "

He smiled genially upon the company; for if there was one thing morethan another he had learned in his travels, it was that the tragic airnever yet helped any man. 

Marjorie lifted her eyes a moment. 

"Mistress Manners, " he said, "you remember my speaking to you afterFotheringay, of a fellow of my lord Shrewsbury's who honoured me withhis suspicions?"

She nodded. 

"I have never set eyes on him from that day to this--to this, " he added. "And this morning in the open street in Derby whom should I meet withbut young Merton and his father. (Her Grace's servants have sufferedhorribly since last year. But that is a tale for another day. ) Well: Istopped to speak with these two. The young man hath left Mr. Melville'sservice a while back, it seems; and is to try his fortune in France. Well; we were speaking of this and that, when who should come by but aparty of men and my lord Shrewsbury in the midst, riding with Mr. RogerColumbell; and immediately behind them my friend of the 'New Inn' ofFotheringay. It was all the ill-fortune in the world that it should beat such moment; if he had seen me alone he would have thought no more ofme; but seeing me with young Jack Merton, he looked from one to theother. And I will stake my hat he knew me again. "

Marjorie was looking full at him now. 

"What was my lord Shrewsbury doing in Derby with Mr. Columbell?" musedMr. John, biting his moustaches. 

"It was the very question I put to myself, " said Robin. "And I took theliberty of seeing where they went. They went to Mr. Columbell's ownhouse, and indoors of it. The serving-men held the horses at the door. Iwatched them awhile from Mr. Biddell's window; but they were still therewhen I came away at last. "

"What hour was that?" asked the old man. 

"That would be after dinner-time. I had dined early; and I met themafterwards. My lord would surely be dining with Mr. Columbell. But thatis no answer to my question. It rather pierces down to the furtherpoint, Why was my lord Shrewsbury dining with Mr. Columbell? Shrewsburyis a great lord; Mr. Columbell is a little magistrate. My lord hath hisown house in the country, and there be good inns in Derby. "

He stopped short. 

"What is the matter, Mistress Manners?" he asked. 

"What of yourself?" she said sharply; "you were speaking of yourself. "

Robin laughed. 

"I had forgotten myself for once!. .. Why, yes; I intended to ask thecompany what I had best do. What with this news of Mr. Simpson, and thereport Mistress Manners gives us of the country-folk, a poor priest mustlook to himself in these days; and not for his own sake only. Now, mylord Shrewsbury's man knows nothing of me except that I had strangebusiness at Fotheringay a year ago. But to have had strange business atFotheringay a year ago is a suspicious circumstance; and--"

"Mr. Alban, " broke in the old man, "you had best do nothing at all. Youwere not followed from Derby; you are as safe in Padley or here as youcould be anywhere in England. All that you had best do is to remain herea week or two and not go down to Derby again for the present. I thinkthat showing of yourself openly in towns hath its dangers as well as itssafeguards. "

Mr. John glanced round. Marjorie bowed her head in assent. 

"I will do precisely as you say, " said Robin easily. "And now for thenews of her Grace's servants. "

He had already again and again told the tale of Fotheringay so far as hehad seen it in this very parlour. At first he had hardly found himselfable to speak of it without tears. He had described the scene he hadlooked upon when, in the rush that had been made towards the hall afterMary's head had been shown at the window, he had found a place, and hadbeen forced along, partly with his will and partly against it, rightthrough the great doors into the very place where the Queen hadsuffered; and he had told the story so well that his listeners hadseemed to see it for themselves--the great hall hung with blackthroughout; the raised scaffold at the further end beside the fire thatblazed on the wide hearth; the Queen's servants being led awayhalf-swooning as he came in; the dress of velvet, the straw and thebloody sawdust, the beads and all the other pitiful relics being heapedupon the fire as he stood there in the struggling mob; and, above all, the fallen body, in its short skirt and bodice lying there where it fellbeside the low, black block. He had told all this as he had seen it forhimself, until the sheriff's men drove them all forth again into thecourt; and he had told, too, of all that he had heard afterwards, thathad happened until my lord Shrewsbury's son had ridden out at a gallopto take the news to court, and the imprisoned watchers had been allowedto leave the Castle; how the little dog, that he had heard wailing, hadleapt out as the head fell at the third stroke, so that he was allbathed in his mistress' blood--one of the very spaniels, no doubt, whichhe himself had seen at Chartley; how the dog was taken away and washedand given afterwards into Mr. Melville's charge; how the body and thehead had been taken upstairs, had been roughly embalmed, and laid in alocked chamber; how her servants had been found peeping through thekeyhole and praying aloud there, till Sir Amyas had had the hole stoppedup. He had told them, too, of the events that followed; of the mass M. De Préau had been permitted to say in the Queen's oratory on the morningafter; and of the oath that he had been forced to take that he would notsay it again; of the destruction of the oratory and the confiscation ofthe altar furniture and vestments. 

All this he had told, little by little; and of the Queen's noble bearingupon the scaffold, her utter fearlessness, her protestations that shedied for her religion and for that only, and of the pesterings of Dr. Fletcher, Dean of Peterborough, who had at last given over in despair, and prayed instead. The rest they knew for themselves--of the miserablefalseness of Elizabeth, who feigned, after having signed the warrant andsent it, that it was Mr. Davison's fault for doing as she told him; andof her accusations (accusations that deceived no man) against those whohad served her; of the fires made in the streets of all great towns as amark of official rejoicing over Mary's death; and of the pitifulrestitution made by the great funeral in Peterborough, six months after, and the royal escutcheons and the tapers and the hearse, and all therest of the lying pretences by which the murderess sought to absolve hervictim from the crime of being murdered. Well; it was all over. .. . 

 * * * * *

And now he told them of what he had heard to-day from young Merton inDerby; of how Nau, Mary's French secretary--the one who had served herfor eleven years and had been loaded by her kindness--had been rewardedalso by Elizabeth, and that the nature of his services was unmistakable;while all the rest of them, who had refused utterly to take any part inthe insolent mourning at Peterborough, either in the Cathedral or at thebanquet, had fallen under her Grace's displeasure, so that some of them, even now, were scarcely out of ward, Mr. Bourgoign alone excepted, sincehe was allowed to take the news of the death to their Graces of France, and had, most wisely, remained there ever since. 

 * * * * *

So the party sat round the fire in the same little parlour where theyhad sat so often before, with the lutes and wreaths embroidered on thehangings and Icarus in the chariot of the sun; and Robin, after tellinghis tale, answered question after question, till silence fell, and allsat motionless, thinking of the woman who, while dead, yet spoke. 

Then Mr. John stood up, clapped the priest on the back, and said thatthey two must be off to Padley for the night. 

III

They had all risen to their feet when a knocking came on the door, andJanet looked in. She seemed a little perturbed. 

"If you please, sir, " she said to Mr. John, "one of your men is come upfrom Padley; and wishes to speak to you alone. "

Mr. John gave a quick glance at the others. 

"If you will allow me, " he said, "I will go down and speak with him inthe hall. "

The rest sat down again. It was the kind of interruption that might bewholly innocent; yet, coming when it did, it affected them a little. There seemed to be nothing but bad news everywhere. 

The minutes passed, yet no one returned. Once Marjorie went to the doorand listened, but there was only the faint wail of the winter wind upthe stairs to be heard. Then, five minutes later, there were steps andMr. John came in. His face looked a little stern, but he smiled with hismouth. 

"We poor Papists are in trouble again, " he said. "Mistress Manners, youmust let us stay here all night, if you will; and we will be off earlyin the morning. There is a party coming to us from Derby--to-morrow ornext day: it is not known which. "

"Why, yes! And what party?" said Marjorie, quietly enough, though shemust have guessed its character. The smile left his mouth. 

"It is my son that is behind it, " he said. "I had wondered we had nothad news of him! There is to be a general search for seminarists in theHigh Peak" (he glanced at Robin), "by order of my lord Shrewsbury. Yournamesake, mistress, Mr. John Manners, and our friend Mr. Columbell, arecommissioned to search; and Mr. Fenton and myself are singled out to beapprehended immediately. Thomas knows that I am at Padley, and that Mr. Eyre will come in there for Candlemas, the day after to-morrow; in thatI recognize my son's knowledge. Well, I will dispatch my man who broughtthe news to Mr. Eyre to bid him to avoid the place; and we two, Mr. Alban and myself, will make our way across the border into Stafford. "

"There are none others coming to Padley to-morrow?" asked Marjorie. 

"None that I know of. They will come in sometimes without warning; but Icannot help that. Mr. Fenton will be at Tansley: he told me so. "

"How did the news come?" asked Robin. 

"It seems that the preacher Walton, in Derby, hath been warned that weshall be delivered to him two days hence. It was his servant that toldone of mine. I fear he will be a-preparing his sermons to us, all fornothing. "

He smiled bitterly again. Robin could see the misery in this man's heartat the thought that it was his own son who had contrived this. Mr. Thomas had been quiet for many months, no doubt in order to strike themore surely in his new function as "sworn man" of her Grace. Yet hewould seem to have failed. 

"We shall not get our candles then, this year either, " smiled Mr. Thomas. "Lanterns are all that we shall have. "

 * * * * *

There was not much time to be lost. Luggage had to be packed, since itwould not be safe for the three to return until at least two or threeweeks had passed; and Marjorie, besides, had to prepare a list of placesand names that must be dealt with on their way--places where word mustbe left that the hunt was up again, and names of particular personsthat were to be warned. Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam were in the county, and these must be specially informed, since they were known, and Mr. Garlick in particular had already suffered banishment and returnedagain, so that there would be no hope for him if he were once morecaptured. 

The four sat late that night; and Robin wondered more than ever, notonly at the self-command of the girl, but at her extraordinary knowledgeof Catholic affairs in the county. She calculated, almost withoutmistake, as was afterwards shown, not only which priests were inDerbyshire, but within a very few miles of where they would be and atwhat time: she showed, half-smiling, a kind of chart which she had drawnup, of the movements of the persons concerned, explaining the plan bywhich each priest (if he desired) might go on his own circuit where hewould be most needed. She lamented, however, the fewness of the priests, and attributed to this the growing laxity of many families--living, itmight be, in upland farms or in inaccessible places, where they couldbut very seldom have the visits of the priest and the strength of thesacraments. 

Before midnight, therefore, the two travellers had complete directionsfor their journey, as well as papers to help their memories, as to wherethe news was to be left. And at last Mr. John stood up and stretchedhimself. 

"We must go to bed, " he said. "We must be booted by five. "

Marjorie nodded to Alice, who stood up, saying she would show him wherehis bed had been prepared. 

Robin lingered for a moment to finish his last notes. 

"Mr. Alban, " said Marjorie suddenly, without lifting her eyes from thepaper on which she wrote. 

"Yes?"

"You will take care to-morrow, will you not?" she said. "Mr. John is alittle hot-headed. You must keep him to his route?"

"I will do my best, " said Robin, smiling. 

She lifted her clear eyes to his without tremor or shame. 

"My heart would be broken altogether if aught happened to you. I look toyou as our Lord's chief soldier in this county. "

"But--"

"That is so, " she said. "I do not know any man who has been made perfectin so short a time. You hold us all in your hands. "

CHAPTER II

I

It was in Mr. Bassett's house at Langley that the news of the attack onPadley reached the two travellers a month later, and it bore news in itthat they little expected. 

For it seemed that, entirely unexpectedly, there had arrived at Padleythe following night no less than three of the FitzHerbert family, Mr. Anthony the seventh son, with two of his sisters, as well as ThomasFitzHerbert's wife, who rode with them, whether as a spy or not wasnever known. Further, Mr. Fenton himself, hearing of their coming, hadridden up from Tansley, and missed the messenger that Marjorie had sentout. They had not arrived till late, missing again, by a series ofmischances, the scouts Marjorie had posted; and, on discovering theirdanger, had further discovered the house to be already watched. Theyjudged it better, therefore, as Marjorie said in her letter, to feignunconsciousness of any charge against them, since there was no priest inthe house who could incriminate them. 

All this the travellers learned for the first time at Langley. 

They had gone through into Staffordshire, as had been arranged, andthere had moved about from house to house of Catholic friends withoutany trouble. It was when at last they thought it safe to be movinghomewards, and had arrived at Langley, that they found Marjorie's letterawaiting them. It was addressed to Mr. John FitzHerbert and was broughtby Robin's old servant, Dick Sampson. 

"The assault was made, " wrote Marjorie, "according to the arrangement. Mr. Columbell himself came with a score of men and surrounded the housevery early, having set watchers all in place the evening before: theyhad made certain they should catch the master and at least a priest ortwo. But I have very heavy news, for all that; for there had come to thehouse after dark Mr. Anthony FitzHerbert, with two of his sisters, Mrs. Thomas FitzHerbert and Mr. Fenton himself, and they have carried the twogentlemen to the Derby gaol. I have had no word from Mr. Anthony, but Ihear that he said that he was glad that his father was not taken, andthat his own taking he puts down to his brother's account, as yourself, sir, also did. The men did no great harm in Padley beyond breaking apanel or two: they were too careful, I suppose, of what they think willbe Mr. Topcliffe's property some day! And they found none of thehiding-holes, which is good news. The rest of the party they let go freeagain for the present. 

"I have another piece of bad news, too--which is no more than what wehad looked for: that Mr. Simpson at the Assizes was condemned to death, but has promised to go to church, so that his life is spared if he willdo so. He is still in the gaol, however, where I pray God that Mr. Anthony may meet with him and bring him to a better mind; so that hehath not yet denied our Lord, even though he hath promised to do so. 

"May God comfort and console you, Mr. FitzHerbert, for this news of Mr. Anthony that I send. "

 * * * * *

The letter ended with messages to the party, with instructions for theirway of return if they should come within the next week; and with theexplanation, given above, of the series of misfortunes by which any cameto be at Padley that night, and how it was that they did not attempt tobreak out again. 

 * * * * *

The capture of Mr. Anthony was, indeed, one more blow to his father; butRobin was astonished how cheerfully he bore it; and said as much whenthey two were alone in the garden. 

The grey old man smiled, while his eyelids twitched a little. 

"They say that when a man is whipped he feels no more after awhile. Theformer blows prepare him and dull his nerves for the later, which, Itake it, is part of God's mercy. Well, Mr. Alban, my father hath been inprison a great while now; my son Thomas is a traitor, and a sworn man ofher Grace; I myself have been fined and persecuted till I have had tosell land to pay the fines with. I have seen family after family fallfrom their faith and deny it. So I take it that I feel the joy that Ihave a son who is ready to suffer for it, more than the pain I have inthinking on his sufferings. The one may perhaps atone for the sins ofthe other, and yet help him to repentance. "

 * * * * *

Life here at Langley was more encouraging than the furtive existencenecessary in the north of Derbyshire. 

Mr. Bassett had a confident way with him that was like wine to faintinghearts, and he had every reason to be confident; since up to thepresent, beyond being forced to pay the usual fines for recusancy, hehad scarcely been troubled at all; and lived in considerable prosperity, having even been sheriff of Stafford in virtue of his other estates atBlore. His house at Langley was a great one, standing in a park, andshowing no signs of poverty; his servants were largely Catholic; heentertained priests and refugees of all kinds freely, althoughdiscreetly; and he laughed at the notion that the persecution could beof long endurance. 

The very first night the travellers had come he had spoken withconsiderable freedom after supper. 

"Look more hearty!" he cried. "The Spanish fleet will be here beforesummer to relieve us of all troubles, as of all heretics, too. Her Gracewill have to turn her coat once more, I think, when that comes to pass. "

Mr. John glanced at him doubtfully. 

"First, " he said, "no man knows whether it will come. And, next, I forone am not sure if I even wish for it. "

Mr. Bassett laughed loudly. 

"You will dance for joy!" he said. "And why do you not know whether youwish it to come?"

"I have no taste to be a Spanish subject. "

"Why, nor have I! But the King of Spain will but sail away again when hehath made terms against the privateers, whether they be those that plyon the high seas against men's bodies, or here in England against theirsouls. There will be no subjection of England beyond that. "

Mr. John was silent. 

"Why, I heard from Sir Thomas but a week ago, to ask for a little moneyto pay his fines with. He said that repayment should follow so soon asthe fleet should come. Those were his very words. "

"You sent the money, then?"

"Why, yes; I made shift that a servant should throw down a bag with tenpounds in it, into a bush, and that Brittlebank--your brother'sman--should see him do it! And lo! when we looked again, the bag wasgone!"

He laughed again with open mouth. Certainly he was an inspiriting manwith a loud bark of his own; but Robin imagined that he would not bitetoo cruelly for all that. But he saw another side of him presently. 

"What was that matter of Mr. Sutton, the priest who was executed inStafford last year?" asked Mr. John suddenly. 

The face of the other changed as abruptly. His eyes became pin-pointsunder his grey eyebrows and his mouth tightened. 

"What of him?" he said. 

"It was reported that you might have stayed the execution, and wouldnot. I did not believe a word of it. "

"It is true, " said Mr. Bassett sharply--"at least a portion of it. "

"True?"

"Listen, " cried the other suddenly, "and tell me what you would havedone. Mr. Sutton was taken, and was banished, and came back again, asany worthy priest would do. Then he was taken again, and condemned. Idid my utmost to save him, but I could not. Then, as I would never haveany part in the death of a priest for his religion, another wasappointed to carry the execution through. Three days before news wasbrought to me by a private hand that Mr. Sutton had promised to give thenames of priests whom he knew, and of houses where he had said mass, andI know not what else; and it was said to me that I might on this accountstay the execution until he had told all that he could. Now I knew thatI could not save his life altogether; that was forfeited and there couldbe no forgiveness. All that I might do was to respite him for alittle--and for what? That he might damn his own soul eternally andbring a great number of good men into trouble and peril of death forthemselves. I sent the messenger away again, and said that I wouldlisten to no such tales. And Mr. Sutton died like a good priest threedays after, repenting, I doubt not, bitterly, of the weakness into whichhe had fallen. Now, sir, what would you have done in my place?"

He wagged his face fiercely from side to side. 

Mr. John put his hand over his eyes and nodded without speaking. Robinsat silent: it was not only for priests, it seemed, that life presenteda tangle. 

II

The evening before the two left for the north again, Mr. Bassett tookthem both into his own study. It was a little room opening out of hisbedroom, and was more full of books than Robin had ever seen, except inthe library at Rheims, in any room in the world. A shelf ran round theroom, high on the wall, and was piled with manuscripts to the ceiling. Beneath, the book-shelves that ran nearly round the room were packedwith volumes, and a number more lay on the table and even in thecorners. 

"This is my own privy chamber, " said Mr. Bassett to the priest. "Myother friends have seen it many a time, but I thought I would show it toyour Reverence, too. "

Robin looked round him in wonder: he had no idea that his host was a manof such learning. 

"All the books are ranged in their proper places, " went on the other. "Icould put my finger on any of them blind-fold. But this is the shelf Iwished you to see. "

He took him to one that was behind the door, holding up the candle thathe might see. The shelf had a box or two on it, besides books, and thesehe opened and set on the table. Robin looked in, as he was told, butcould understand nothing that he saw: in one was a round ball of crystalon a little gold stand, wrapped round in velvet; in another some kind ofa machine with wheels; in a third, some dried substances, as of herbs, tied together with silk. He inspected them gravely, but was not invitedto touch them. Then his host touched him on the breast with one finger, and recoiled, smiling. 

"This is my magic, " he said. "John here does not like it; neither didpoor Mr. Fenton when he was here; but I hold there is no harm in suchthings if one does but observe caution. "

"What do you do with them, sir?" inquired the priest curiously, for hewas not sure whether the man was serious. 

"Well, sir, I hold that God has written His will in the stars, and inthe burning of herbs, and in the shining of the sun, and such things. There is no black magic here. But, just as we read in the sky atmorning, if it be red or yellow, whether it will be foul or fair, so Ihold that God has written other secrets of His in other things; and thatby observing them and judging rightly we may guess what He has in store. I knew that a prince was to die last year before ever it happened. Iknew that a fleet of ships will come to England this year, before everan anchor is weighed. And I would have you notice that here are Mr. FitzHerbert and your Reverence, too, fleeing for your lives; and heresit I safe at home; and all, as I hold, because I have been able toobserve by my magic what is to come to pass. "

"But that strikes at the doctrine of free-will, " cried the priest. 

"No, sir; I think it does not. God's foreknowledge doth not hinder theuse of our free-will (which is a mystery, no doubt, yet none the lesstrue). Then why should God's foreknowledge any more hinder ourfree-will, when He chooses to communicate it to us?"

Robin was silent. He knew little or nothing of these things, except fromhis theological reading. Yet he felt uneasy. The other said nothing. 

"And the stars, too?" he asked. 

"I hold, " said Mr. Bassett, "that the stars have certain influences andpowers upon those that are born under their signs. I do not hold that weare so ruled by these that we have no action of our own, any more thanwe are compelled to be wet through by rain or scorched by the sun: wemay always come into a house or shelter beneath a tree, and thus escapethem. So, too, I hold, with the stars. There is an old saying, sir: 'Thefool is ruled by his stars; the wise man rules them. ' That is, in anutshell, my faith in the matter. I have told Mr. Fenton's fortune here, and Mr. FitzHerbert's, only they will never listen to me. "

Robin looked round the room. It was dark outside long ago; they hadsupped at sunset, and sat for half an hour over their banquet ofsweetmeats and wine before coming upstairs. And the room, too, was asdark as night, except where far off in the west, beyond the tall treesof the park, a few red streaks lingered. He felt oppressed andmiserable. The place seemed to him sinister. He hated these fumblings atlocks that were surely meant to remain closed. Yet he did not know whatto say. Mr. John had wandered off to one of the windows and was humminguneasily to himself. 

Then, suddenly, an intense curiosity overcame him. 

His life was a strange and perilous one; he carried it in his hand everyday. In the morning he could not be sure but that he would be fleeingbefore evening. As he fell asleep, he could not be sure that he wouldnot be awakened to a new dream. He had long ago conquered those moods ofterror which, in spite of his courage, had come down on him sometimes, in some lonely farm, perhaps, where flight would be impossible--or, inwhat was far more dangerous, in some crowded inn where every movementwas known--these had passed, he thought, never to come back. 

But in that little book-lined room, with these curious things in boxeson the table, and his merry host peering at him gravely, and the stillevening outside; with the knowledge that to-morrow he was to ride backto his own country, whence he had fled for fear of his life, six weeksago; leaving the security of this ex-sheriff's house for the perils ofthe Peak and all that suspected region from which even now, probably, the pursuit had not altogether died away--here a sudden intense desireto know what the future might hold overcame him. 

"Tell me, sir, " he said. "You have told Mr. FitzHerbert's fortune, yousay, as well as others. Have you told mine since I have been here?"

There was a moment's silence. Mr. John was silent, with his back turned. Robin looked up at his host, wondering why he did not answer. Then Mr. Bassett took up the candle. 

"Come, " he said; "we have been here long enough. "

CHAPTER III

I

"There will be a company of us to-night, " said Mr. John to the twopriests, as he helped them to dismount. "Mr. Alban has sent his manforward from Derby to say that he will be here before night. "

"Mr. Ludlam and I are together for once, " said Mr. Garlick. "We mustseparate again to-morrow, he is for the north again, he tells me. Therehas been no more trouble?"

"Not a word of it. They were beaten last time and will not try again, Ithink, for the present. You heard of the attempt at Candlemas, then?"

 * * * * *

It had been a quiet time enough ever since Lent, throughout the wholecounty; and it seemed as if the heat of the assault had cooled for wantof success. Plainly a great deal had been staked upon the attack onPadley, which, for its remoteness from towns, was known to be ameeting-place where priests could always find harbourage. And, indeed, it was time that the Catholics should have a little breathing space. Things had been very bad with them--the arrest of Mr. Simpson, and, still more, his weakness (though he had not as yet actually fulfilledhis promise of going to church, and was still detained in gaol); thegrowing lukewarmness of families that seldom saw a priest; the blowsstruck at the FitzHerbert family; and, above all, the defection of Mr. Thomas--all these things had brought the hearts of the faithful verylow. Mr. John himself had had an untroubled time since his return alittle before Easter; but he had taken the precaution not to remain toolong at Padley at one time; he had visited his other estates atSwynnerton and elsewhere, and had even been back again at Langley. Butthere had been no hint of any pursuit. Padley had remained untouched;the men went about their farm business; the housekeeper peered from herwindows, without a glimpse of armed men such as had terrified thehousehold on Candlemas day. 

It was only last night, indeed, that the master had returned, in time tomeet the two priests who had asked for shelter for a day or two. Theyhad stayed here before continually, as well as at Booth's Edge, duringtheir travels, both in the master's absence and when he was at home. There were a couple of rooms kept vacant always for "men of God"; andall priests who came were instructed, of course (in case of necessity), as to the hiding-holes that Mr. Owen had contrived a few years before. Never, however, had there been any use made of them. 

 * * * * *

It was a hot July afternoon when the two priests were met to-day by Mr. John outside the arched gate that ran between the hall and the buttery. They had already dined at a farm a few miles down the valley, but theywere taken round the house at once to the walled garden, where drink andfood were set out. Here their dusty boots were pulled off; they laidaside their hats, and were presently at their ease again. 

They were plain men, these two; though Mr. Garlick had been educated atOxford, and, before his going to Rheims, had been schoolmaster atTideswell. In appearance he was a breezy sunburnt man, with very littleof the clerk about him, and devoted to outdoor sports (which wassomething of a disguise to him since he could talk hawking and ridingin mixed company with a real knowledge of the facts). He spoke in a loudvoice with a strong Derbyshire accent, which he had never lost and nowdeliberately used. Mr. Ludlam looked far more of the priest: he was aclean-shaven man, of middle-age, with hair turning to grey on histemples, and with a very pleasant disarming smile; he spoke very little, but listened with an interested and attentive air. Both were, of course, dressed in the usual riding costume of gentlemen, and used good horses. 

It was exceedingly good to sit here, with the breeze from over the moorscoming down on them, with cool drink before them, and the prospect of asecure day, at any rate, in this stronghold. Their host, too, wascontented and serene, and said so, frankly. 

"I am more at peace, gentlemen, " he said, "than I have been for the pastfive years. My son is in gaol yet; and I am proud that he should bethere, since my eldest son--" (he broke off a moment). "And I think theworst of the storm is over. Her Grace is busying herself with othermatters. "

"You mean the Spanish fleet, sir?" said Mr. Garlick. 

He nodded. 

"It is not that I look for final deliverance from Spain, " he said. "Ihave no wish to be aught but an Englishman, as I said to Mr. Bassett awhile ago. But I think the fleet will distract her Grace for a while;and it may very well mean that we have better treatment hereafter. "

"What news is there, sir?"

"I hear that the Londoners buzz continually with false alarms. It wasthought that the fleet might arrive on any day; but I understand thatthe fishing-boats say that nothing as yet been seen. By the end of themonth, I daresay, we shall have news. "

So they talked pleasantly in the shade till the shadows began tolengthen. They were far enough here from the sea-coast to feel somewhatdetached from the excitement that was beginning to seethe in the south. At Plymouth, it was said, all had been in readiness for a month or twopast; at Tilbury, my lord Leicester was steadily gathering troops. Buthere, inland, it was more of an academic question. The little happeningsin Derby; the changes of weather in the farms; the deaths of old peoplefrom the summer heats--these things were far more vital and significantthan the distant thunders of Spain. A beacon or two had been piled onthe hills, by order of the authorities, to pass on the news when itshould come; a few lads had disappeared from the countryside to drill inDerby marketplace; but except for these things, all was very much as ithad been from the beginning. The expected catastrophe meant little moreto such folk than the coming of the Judgment Day--certain, butinfinitely remote from the grasp of the imagination. 

 * * * * *

The three were talking of Robin as they came down towards the house forsupper, and, as they turned the corner, he himself was at that momentdismounting. 

He looked surprisingly cool and well-trimmed, considering his ride upthe hot valley. He had taken his journey easily, he said, as he had hada long day yesterday. 

"And I made a round to pay a visit to Mistress Manners, " he said. "Ifound her a-bed when I got there; and Mrs. Alice says she will not be atmass to-morrow. She stood too long in the sun yesterday, at the carryingof the hay; it is no more than that. "

"Mistress Manners is a marvel to me, " said Garlick, as they went towardsthe house. "Neither wife nor nun. And she rules her house like a man;and she knows if a priest lift his little finger in Derby. She sent memy whole itinerary for this last circuit of mine; and every point fellout as she said. "

 * * * * *

Robin thought that he had seldom had so pleasant a supper as on thatnight. The windows of the low hall where he had dined so often as a boy, were flung wide to catch the scented evening air. The sun was round tothe west and threw long, golden rays, that were all lovely light and noheat, slantways on the paved floor and the polished tables and thebright pewter. Down at the lower end sat the servants, brown men, burnedby the sun; lean as panthers, scarcely speaking, ravenous after theirlong day in the hayfields; and up here three companions with whom he waswholly at his ease. The evening was as still as night, except for thefaint peaceful country sounds that came up from the valley below--thesong of a lad riding home; the barking of a dog; the bleat of sheep--allminute and delicate, as unperceived, yet as effective, as a rich fabricon which a design is woven. It seemed to him as he listened to thetalk--the brisk, shrewd remarks of Mr. Garlick; the courteous and rathermelancholy answers of his host; as he watched the second priest's eyeslooking gently and pleasantly about him; as he ate the plain, good foodand drank the country drink, that, in spite of all, his lot was cast invery sweet places. There was not a hint here of disturbance, or of men'spassions, or of ugly strife: there was no clatter, as in the streets ofDerby, or pressure of humanity, or wearying politics of themarket-place. He found himself in one of those moods that visit all mensometimes, when the world appears, after all, a homely and a genialplace; when the simplest things are the best; when no excitement orambition or furious zeal can compare with the gentle happiness of atired body that is in the act of refreshment, or of a driven mind thatis finding its relaxation. At least, he said to himself, he would enjoythis night and the next day and the night after, with all his heart. 

 * * * * *

The four found themselves so much at ease here, that the dessert wasbrought in to them where they sat; and it was then that the firstunhappy word was spoken. 

"Mr. Simpson!" said Garlick suddenly. "Is there any more news of him?"

Mr. John shook his head. 

"He hath not yet been to church, thank God!" he said. "So much I knowfor certain. But he hath promised to go. "

"Why is he not yet gone? He promised a great while ago. "

"I hear he hath been sick. Derby gaol is a pestiferous place. They arewaiting, I suppose, till he is well enough to go publicly, that all theworld may be advertised of it!"

Mr. Garlick gave a bursting sigh. 

"I cannot understand it at all, " he said. "There has never been sozealous a priest. I have ridden with him again and again before I was apriest. He was always quiet; but I took him to be one of thosestout-hearted souls that need never brag. Why, it was here that we heardhim tell of Mr. Nelson's death!"

Mr. John threw out his hands. 

"These prisons are devilish, " he said; "they wear a man out as the rackcan never do. Why, see my son!" he cried. "Oh! I can speak of him if Iam but moved enough! It was that same Derby gaol that wore him out too!It is the darkness, and the ill food, and the stenches and the misery. Aman's heart fails him there, who could face a thousand deaths in thesunlight. Man after man hath fallen there--both in Derby, and in Londonand in all the prisons. It is their heart that goes--all the courageruns from them like water, with their health. If it were the rack andthe rope only, England would be Catholic, yet, I think. "

The old man's face blazed with indignation; it was not often that he sospoke out his mind. It was very easy to see that he had thoughtcontinually of his son's fall. 

"Mistress Manners hath told me the very same thing, " said Robin. "Shevisited Mr. Thomas in gaol once at least. She said that her heart failedher altogether there. "

Mr. Ludlam smiled. 

"I suppose it is so, " he said gently, "since you say so. But I think itwould not be so with me. The rack and the rope, rather, are what wouldshake me to the roots, unless God His Grace prevailed more than it everyet hath with see. "

He smiled again. 

Robin shook his head sharply. 

"As for me--!" he said grimly, with tight lips. 

 * * * * *

It was a lovely night of stars as the four stepped out of the archwaybefore going upstairs to the parlour. Behind them stood the square andsolid house, resembling a very fortress. The lights that had beenbrought in still shone through the windows, and a hundred night insectsleapt and poised in the brightness. 

And before them lay the deep valley--silent now except for the trickleof the stream; dark (since the moon was not yet risen), except for onelight that burned far away in some farm-house on the other side; andthis light went out, like a closing eye, even as they looked. Butoverhead, where God dwelt, all heaven was alive. The huge arch resting, as it appeared, on the monstrous bases of the moors and hills standinground this place, like the mountains about Jerusalem, was one shimmeringvault of glory, as if it was there that the home of life had its place, and this earth beneath but a bedroom for mortals, or for those that weretoo weary to aspire or climb. The suggestion was enormously powerful. Here was this mortal earth that needed rest so cruelly--that must havedarkness to refresh its tired eyes, coolness to recuperate its passion, and silence, if ever its ears were to hear again. But there was radianceunending. All day a dome of rigid blue; all night a span of glitteringlights--the very home of a glory that knows no waste and that thereforeneeds no reviving: it was to that only, therefore, that a life must bechained which would not falter or fail in the unending tides and changesof the world. .. . 

A soft breeze sprang up among the tops of the chestnuts; and the soundwas as of the going of a great company that whispered for silence. 

II

It was within an hour of dawn that the first mass was said next morningby Mr. Robert Alban. 

The chapel was decked out as they seldom dared to deck it in those days;but the failure of the last attempt on this place, and the peace thathad followed, made them bold. 

The carved chest of newly-cut oak was in its place, with a rich carpetof silk spread on its face; and, on the top, the three linen cloths asprescribed by the Ritual. Two silver candlesticks, that stood usually onthe high shelf over the hall-fire, and a silver crucifix of Flemishwork, taken from the hiding-place, were in a row on the back, with redand white flowers, between. Beneath the linen cloths a tiny flatelevation showed where the altar stone lay. The rest of the chapel, inits usual hangings, had only sweet herbs on the floor; with two or threelong seats carried up from the hall below. An extraordinary sweetnessand peace seemed in the place both to the senses and the soul of theyoung priest as he went up to the altar to vest. Confessions had beenheard last night; and, as he turned, in the absolute stillness of themorning, and saw, beneath those carved angels that still to-day leanfrom the beams of the roof, the whole little space already filled withfarm-lads, many of whom were to approach the altar presently, and thegrey head of their master kneeling on the floor to answer the mass, itappeared to him as if the promise of last night were reversed, and thatit was, after all, earth rather than heaven that proclaimed the peaceand the glory of God. .. . 

 * * * * *

Robin served the second mass himself, said by Mr. Garlick, and made histhanksgiving as well as he could meanwhile; but he found what appearedto him at the time many distractions, in watching the tanned face andhands of the man who was so utterly a countryman for nine-tenths of hislife, and so utterly a priest for the rest. His very sturdiness andbreeziness made his reverence the more evident and pathetic: he read themass rapidly, in a low voice, harshened by shouting in the open air overhis sports, made his gestures abruptly, and yet did the whole with anextraordinary attention. After the communion, when he turned for thewine and water, his face, as so often with rude folk in a great emotion, browned as it was with wind and sun, seemed lighted from within; heseemed etherealized, yet with his virility all alive in him. A phrase, wholly inapplicable in its first sense, came irresistibly to the youngerpriest's mind as he waited on him. "When the strong man, armed, keepethhis house, his goods are in peace. "

Robin heard the third mass, said by Mr. Ludlam, from a corner near thedoor; and this one, too, was a fresh experience. The former priest hadresembled a strong man subdued by grace; the second, a weak man ennobledby it. Mr. Ludlam was a delicate soul, smiling often, as has been said, and speaking little--"a mild man, " said the countryfolk. Yet, at thealtar there was no weakness in him; he was as a keen, sharp blade, fitted as a heavy knife cannot be, for fine and peculiar work. Hisfather had been a yeoman, as had the other's; yet there must have beensome unusual strain of blood in him, so deft and gentle he was--more athis ease here at God's Table than at the table of any man. .. . So he, too, finished his mass, and began to unvest. .. . 

Then, with a noise as brutal as a blasphemy, there came a thunder offootsteps on the stairs; and a man burst into the room, with glaringeyes and rough gestures. 

"There is a company of men coming up from the valley, " he cried; "andanother over the moor. .. . And it is my lord Shrewsbury's livery. "

III

In an instant all was in confusion; and the peace had fled. Mr. John wasgone; and his voice could be heard on the open stairs outside speakingrapidly in sharp, low whispers to the men gathered beneath; and, meanwhile, three or four servants, two men and a couple of maids, previously drilled in their duties, were at the altar, on which Mr. Ludlam had but that moment laid down his amice. The three priests stoodtogether waiting, fearing to hinder or to add to the bustle. A lowwailing rose from outside the door; and Robin looked from it to see ifthere were anything he could do. But it was only a little countryservant crouching on the tiny landing that united the two sets of stairsfrom the court, with her apron over her head: she must have been in thepartitioned west end of the chapel to hear the mass. He said a word toher; and the next instant was pushed aside, as a man tore by bearing agreat bundle of stuffs--vestments and the altar cloths. When he turnedagain, the chapel was become a common room once more: the chest stoodbare, with a great bowl of flowers on it; the candlesticks were gone;and the maid was sweeping up the herbs. 

"Come, gentlemen, " said a sharp voice at the door, "there is no time tolose. "

He went out with the two others behind, and followed Mr. Johndownstairs. Already the party of servants was dispersed to theirstations; two or three to keep the doors, no doubt, and the rest back tokitchen work and the like, to give the impression that all was as usual. 

The four went straight down into the hall, to find it empty, except forone man who stood by the fire-place. But a surprising change had takenplace here. Instead of the solemn panelling, with the carved shield thatcovered the wall over the hearth, there was a great doorway opened, through which showed, not the bricks of the chimney-breast, but a blackspace large enough to admit a man. 

"See here, " said Mr. John, "there is room for two here, but no more. There is room for a third in another little chamber upstairs that isnearly joined on to this: but it is not so good. Now, gentlemen--"

"This is the safer of the two?" asked Robin abruptly. 

"I think it to be so. Make haste, gentlemen. "

Robin wheeled on the others. He said that there was no time to argue in. 

"See!" he said. "I have not yet been taken at all. Mr. Garlick hathbeen taken; and Mr. Ludlam hath had a warning. There is no question thatyou must be here. "

"I utterly refuse--" began Garlick. 

Robin went to the door in three strides; and was out of it. He closedthe door behind him and ran upstairs. As he reached the head his eyecaught a glint of sunlight on some metal far up on the moor beyond thebelt of trees. He did not turn his head again; he went straight in andwaited. 

Presently he heard steps coming up, and Mr. John appeared smiling andout of breath. 

"I have them in, " he said, "by promising that there was no greatdifference after all; and that there was no time. Now, sir--" And hewent towards the wall at which, long ago, Mr. Owen had worked so hard. 

"And yourself, sir?" asked Robin, as once more an innocent piece ofpanelling moved outwards under Mr. John's hand. 

"I'll see to that; but not until you are in--"

"But--"

The old man's face blazed suddenly up. 

"Obey me, if you please. I am the master here. I tell you I have a verygood place. "

There was no more to be said. Robin advanced to the opening, and satdown to slide himself in. It was a little door about two feet square, with a hole beneath it. 

"Drop gently, Mr. Alban, " whispered the voice in his ear. "The altarvessels are at the bottom, with the crucifix, on some soft stuff. .. . That is it. Slide in and let yourself slip. There is some food and drinkthere, too. "

Robin did so. The floor of the little chamber was about five feet down, and he could feel woodwork on all three sides of him. 

"When the door is closed, " said the voice from the daylight, "push apair of bolts on right and left till they go home. Tap upon the shutterwhen it is done. "

The light vanished, and Robin was aware of a faint smell of smoke. Thenhe remembered that he had noticed a newly lit fire on the hearth of thehall. .. . He found the bolts, pushed them, and tapped lightly threetimes. He heard a hand push on the shutter to see that all was secure, and then footsteps go away over the floor on a level with his chin. 

Then he remembered that he must be in the same chamber with his twofellow-priests, separated from them by the flooring on which he stood. He rapped gently with his foot twice. Two soft taps came back. Silencefollowed. 

IV

Time, as once before in his experience, seemed wholly banished from thisplace. There were moments of reflection when he appeared to himself ashaving but just entered; there were other moments when he might havebeen here for an eternity that had no divisions to mark it. He was incomplete and utter darkness. There was not a crack anywhere in thewoodwork (so perfect had been the young carpenter's handiwork) by whicheven a glimmer of light could enter. A while ago he had been in theearly morning sunlight; now he might be in the grave. 

For a while his emotions and his thoughts raced one another, tumbling ininextricable confusion; and they were all emotions and thoughts of thepresent: intense little visions of the men closing round the house, cutting off escape from the valley on the one side and from the wildupland country on the other; questions as to where Mr. John would hidehimself; minute sensible impressions of the smoky flavour of the air, the unplaned woodwork, the soft stuffs beneath his feet. Then they beganto extend themselves wider, all with that rapid unjarring swiftness: heforesaw the bursting in of his stronghold; the footsteps within threeinches of his head; the crash as the board was kicked in: then thecapture; the ride to Derby, bound on a horse; the gaol; the questioning;the faces of my lord Shrewsbury and the magistrates . .. And the end. .. . 

There were moments when the sweat ran down his face, when he bit hislips in agony, and nearly moaned aloud. There were others in which heabandoned himself to Christ crucified; placed himself in EverlastingHands that were mighty enough to pluck him not only out of this snare, but from the very hands that would hold him so soon; Hands that couldlift him from the rack and scaffold and set him a free man among hishills again: yet that had not done so with a score of others whom heknew. He thought of these, and of the girl who had done so much to savethem all, who was now saved herself by sickness, a mile or two away, from these hideous straits. Then he dragged out Mr. Maine's beads andbegan to recite the "Mysteries. ". .. 

 * * * * *

There broke in suddenly the first exterior sign that the hunters were onthem--a muffled hammering far beneath his feet. There were pauses; thenvoices carried up from the archway nearly beneath through the hollowedwalls; then hammering again; but all was heard as through wool. 

As the first noise broke out his mind rearranged itself and seemed tohave two consciousnesses. In the foreground he followed, intently andeagerly, every movement below; in the background, there still movedbefore him the pageant of deeper thoughts and more remote--of prayer andwonder and fear and expectation; and from that onwards it continued sowith him. Even while he followed the sounds, he understood why my lordShrewsbury had made this assault so suddenly, after months of peace. .. . He perceived the hand of Thomas FitzHerbert, too, in the precision withwhich the attack had been made, and the certain information he must havegiven that priests would be in Padley that morning. 

There were noises that he could not interpret--vague tramplings from adirection which he could not tell; voices that shouted; the sound ofmetal on stone. 

He did interpret rightly, however, the sudden tumult as the gate wasunbarred at last, and the shrill screaming of a woman as the companypoured through into the house; the clamour of voices from beneath as thehall below was filled with men; the battering that began almostimmediately; and, finally, the rush of shod feet up the outsidestaircases, one of which led straight into the chapel itself. Then, indeed, his heart seemed to spring upwards into his throat, and to beatthere, as loud as knocking, so loud that it appeared to him that all thehouse must hear it. 

 * * * * *

Yet it was still some minutes before the climax came to him. He wasstill standing there, listening to voices talking, it seemed, almost inhis ears, yet whose words he could not hear; the vibration of feet thatshook the solid joist against which he had leaned his head, with closedeyes; the brush of a cloak once, like a whisper, against the very panelthat shut him in. He could attend to nothing else; the rest of the dramawas as nothing to him: he had his business in hand--to keep away fromhimself, by the very intentness of his will and determination, the feetthat passed so close. 

The climax came in a sudden thump of a pike foot within a yard of hishead, so imminent, that for an instant he thought it was at his ownpanel. There followed a splintering sound of a pike-head in the sameplace. He understood. They were sounding on the woodwork and piercingall that rang hollow. .. . His turn, then, would come immediately. 

Talking voices followed the crash; then silence; then the vibration offeet once more. The strain grew unbearable; his fingers twisted tight inhis rosary, lifted themselves once or twice from the floor edge on whichthey were gripped, to tear back the bolts and declare himself. It seemedto him in those instants a thousand times better to come out of his ownwill, rather than to be poked and dragged from his hole like a badger. In the very midst of such imaginings there came a thumping blow withinthree inches of his face, and then silence. He leaned back desperatelyto avoid the pike-thrust that must follow, with his eyes screwed tightand his lips mumbling. He waited;. .. And then, as he waited, he drew anirrepressible hissing breath of terror, for beneath the soft paddingunder his feet he could feel movements; blow follow blow, from the samedirection, and last a great clamour of voices all shouting together. 

Feet ran across the floor on which his hands were gripped again, anddown the stairs. He perceived two things: the chapel was empty again, and the priests below had been found. 

V

He could follow every step of the drama after that, for he appeared tohimself now as a mere witness, without personal part in it. 

First, there were voices below him, so clear and close that he coulddistinguish the intonation, and who it was that spoke, though the wordswere inaudible. 

It was Mr. Garlick who first spoke--a sentence of a dozen words, itmight be, consenting, no doubt, to come out without being dragged;congratulating, perhaps (as the manner was), the searchers on theirsuccess. A murmur of answer came back, and then one sharp, peevish voiceby itself. Again Mr. Garlick spoke, and there followed the shuffling ofmovements for a long while; and then, so far as the little chamber wasconcerned, empty silence. But from the hall rose up a steady murmur oftalk once more. .. . 

Again Robin's heart leaped in him, for there came the rattle of apike-end immediately below his feet. They were searching the littlechamber beneath, from the level of the hall, to see if it were empty. The pike was presently withdrawn. 

For a long while the talking went on. So far as the rest of the housewas concerned, the hidden man could tell nothing, or whether Mr. Johnwere taken, or whether the search were given up. He could not even fixhis mind on the point; he was constructing for himself, furiously andintently, the scene he imagined in the hall below; he thought he saw thetwo priests barred in behind the high table; my lord Shrewsbury in theone great chair in the midst of the room; Mr. Columbell, perhaps, or Mr. John Manners talking in his ear; the men on guard over the, priests andbeside the door; and another, maybe, standing by the hearth. 

He was so intent on this that he thought of little else; though still, on a strange background of another consciousness, moved scenes and ideassuch as he had had at the beginning. And he was torn from thiscontemplation with the suddenness of a blow, by a voice speaking, itseemed, within a foot of his head. 

"Well, we have those rats, at any rate. "

(He perceived instantly what had happened. The men were back again inthe chapel, and he had not heard them come. He supposed that he couldhear the words now, because of the breaking of the panel next to hisown. )

"Ralph said he was sure of the other one, too, " said a second voice. 

"Which was that one?"

"The fellow that was at Fotheringay. "

(Robin clenched his teeth like iron. )

"Well, he is not here. "

There was silence. 

"I have sounded that side, " said the first voice sharply. 

"Well, but--"

"I tell you I have sounded it. There is no time to be lost. My lord--"

"Hark!" said the second voice. "There is my lord's man--"

There followed a movement of feet towards the door, as it seemed to thepriest. 

He could hear the first man grumbling to himself, and beating listlesslyon the walls somewhere. Then a voice called something unintelligiblefrom the direction of the stairs; the beating ceased, and footsteps wentacross the floor again into silence. 

VI

He was dazed and blinded by the light when, after infinite hours, hedrew the bolts and slid the panel open. 

 * * * * *

He had lost all idea of time utterly: he did not know whether he shouldfind that night had come, or that the next day had dawned. He had waitedthere, period after period; he marked one of them by eating food thathad no taste and drinking liquid that stung his throat but did notaffect his palate; he had marked another by saying compline to himselfin a whisper. 

During the earlier part of those periods he had followed--he thoughtwith success--the dreadful drama that was acted in the house. Someonehad made a formal inspection of all the chambers--a man who said littleand moved heavily with something of a limp (he had thought this to be mylord Shrewsbury himself, who suffered from the gout): this man hadwalked slowly through the chapel and out again. 

At a later period he had heard the horses being brought round the house;heard plainly the jingle of the bits and a sneeze or two. This had beenfollowed by long interminable talking, muffled and indistinguishable, that came up to him from some unknown direction. Voices changedcuriously in loudness and articulation as the speakers moved about. 

At a later period a loud trampling had begun again, plainly from thehall: he had interpreted this to mean that the prisoners were beingremoved out of doors; and he had been confirmed in this by hearingimmediately afterwards again the stamping of horses and the creaking ofleather. 

Again there had been a pause, broken suddenly by loud women's wailing. And at last the noise of horses moving off; the noise grew less; a manran suddenly through the archway and out again, and, little by little, complete silence once more. 

Yet he had not dared to move. It was the custom, he knew, sometimes toleave three or four men on guard for a day or two after such an assault, in the hope of starving out any hidden fugitives that might still beleft. So he waited again--period after period; he dozed a little forweariness, propped against the narrow walls of his hidinghole; woke;felt again for food and found he had eaten it all . .. Dozed again. 

Then he had started up suddenly, for without any further warning therehad come a tiny indeterminate tapping against his panel. He held hisbreath and listened. It came again. Then fearlessly he drew back thebolts, slid the panel open and shut his eyes, dazzled by the light. 

He crawled out at last, spent and dusty. There was looking at him onlythe little red-eyed maid whom he had tried to comfort at some far-offhour in his life. Her face was all contorted with weeping, and she had agreat smear of dust across it. 

"What time is it?" he said. 

"It . .. It is after two o'clock, " she whispered. 

"They have all gone?"

She nodded, speechless. 

"Whom have they taken?"

"Mr. FitzHerbert . .. The priests . .. The servants. "

"Mr. FitzHerbert? They found him, then?"

She stared at him with the dull incapacity to understand why he did notknow all that she had seen. 

"Where did they find him?" he repeated sharply. 

"The master . .. He opened the door to them himself. "

Her face writhed itself again into grotesque lines, and she broke outinto shrill wailing and weeping. 

CHAPTER IV

I

Marjorie was still in bed when the news was brought her by her friend. She did not move or speak when Mistress Alice said shortly that Mr. FitzHerbert had been taken with ten of his servants and two priests. 

"You understand, my dear. .. . They have ridden away to Derby, all of themtogether. But they may come back here suddenly. "

Marjorie nodded. 

"Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam were in the chimney-hole of the hall, "whispered Mistress Alice, glancing fearfully behind her. 

Marjorie lay back again on her pillows. 

"And what of Mr. Alban?" she asked. 

"Mr. Alban was upstairs. They missed him. He is coming here after dark, the maid says. "

 * * * * *

An hour after supper-time the priest came quietly upstairs to theparlour. He showed no signs of his experience, except perhaps by acertain brightness in his eyes and an extreme self-repression of manner. Marjorie was up to meet him; and had in her hands a paper. She hardlyspoke a single expression of relief at his safety. She was as quiet andbusiness-like as ever. 

"You must lie here to-night, " she said. "Janet hath your room ready. Atone o'clock in the morning you must ride: here is a map of your journey. They may come back suddenly. At the place I have marked here with redthere is a shepherd's hut; you cannot miss it if you follow the track Ihave marked. There will be meat and drink there. At night the shepherdwill come from the westwards; he is called David, and you may trust him. You must lie there two weeks at least. "

"I must have news of the other priests, " he said. 

Marjorie bowed her head. 

"I will send a letter to you by Dick Sampson at the end of two weeks. Until that I can promise nothing. They may have spies round the house bythis time to-morrow, or even earlier. And I will send in that letter anynews I can get from Derby. "

"How shall I find my way?" asked Robin. 

"Until it is light you will be on ground that you know. " (She flushedslightly. ) "Do you remember the hawking, that time after Christmas? Itis all across that ground. When daylight comes you can follow this map. "(She named one or two landmarks, pointing to them on the map. ) "You musthave no lantern. "

They talked a few minutes longer as to the way he must go and theprovision that would be ready for him. He must take no mass requisiteswith him. David had made that a condition. Then Robin suddenly changedthe subject. 

"Had my father any hand in this affair at Padley?"

"I am certain he had not. "

"They will execute Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam, will they not?"

She bowed her head in assent. 

"The Summer Assizes open on the eighteenth, " she said. "There is nodoubt as to how all will go. "

Robin rose. 

"It is time I were in bed, " he said, "if I must ride at one. "

The two women knelt for his blessing. 

At one o'clock Marjorie heard the horse brought round. She steppedsoftly to the window, knowing herself to be invisible, and peeped out. 

All was as she had ordered. There was no light of any kind: she couldmake out but dimly in the summer darkness the two figures of horse andgroom. As she looked, a third figure appeared beneath; but there was noword spoken that she could hear. This third figure mounted. She caughther breath as she heard the horse scurry a little with freshness, sinceevery sound seemed full of peril. Then the mounted figure faded one wayinto the dark, and the groom another. 

II

It was two weeks to the day that Robin received his letter. 

 * * * * *

He had never before been so long in utter solitude; for the visits ofDavid did not break it; and, for other men, he saw none except ahog-herd or two in the distance once or twice. The shepherd came butonce a day, carrying a great jug and a parcel of food, and set them downwithout the hut; he seemed to avoid even looking within; but merely tookthe empty jug of the day before and went away again. He was an old, bentman, with a face like a limestone cliff, grey and weather-beaten; helived half the year up here in the wild Peak country, caring for a fewsheep, and going down to the village not more than once or twice a week. There was a little spring welling up in a hollow not fifty yards awayfrom the hut, which itself stood in a deep, natural rift among the highhills, so that men might search for it a lifetime and not come acrossit. 

Robin's daily round was very simple. He had leave to make a fire by day, but he must extinguish it at night lest its glow should be seen, so hebegan his morning by mixing a little oatmeal, and then preparing hisdinner. About noon, so near as he could judge by the sun, he dined;sometimes off a partridge or rabbit; on Fridays off half a dozen tinytrout; and set aside part of the cold food for supper; he had one goodloaf of nearly black bread every day, and the single jug of small beer. 

The greater part of the day he spent within the hut, for safety's sake, sleeping a little, and thinking a good deal. He had no books with him;even his breviary had been forbidden, since David, as a shrewd man, hadmade conditions, first that he should not have to speak with anyrefugee, second, that if the man were a priest he should have nothingabout him that could prove him to be so. Mr. Maine's beads, only, hadbeen permitted, on condition that they were hidden always beneath astone outside the hut. 

After nightfall Robin went out to attend to his horse that was tetheredin the next ravine, over a crag; to shift his peg and bring him a goodarmful of cut grass and a bucket of water. (The saddle and bridle werehidden beneath a couple of great stones that leaned together not faraway. ) After doing what was necessary for his horse, he went to drawwater for himself; and then took his exercise, avoiding carefully, according to instructions, every possible skyline. And it was then, forthe most part, that he did his clear thinking. .. . He tried to fancyhimself in a fortnight's retreat, such as he had had at Rheims beforehis reception of orders. 

 * * * * *

The evening of the twenty-fifth of July closed in stormy; and Robin, inan old cloak he had found placed in the but for his own use, made hasteto attend to what was necessary, and hurried back as quickly as hecould. He sat a while, listening to the thresh of the rain and the cryof the wind; for, up here in the high land the full storm broke on him. (The hut was wattled of osiers and clay, and kept out the wet tolerablywell. )

He could see nothing from the door of his hut except the dim outline ofthe nearer crag thirty or forty yards off; and he went presently to bed. 

 * * * * *

He awoke suddenly, wide awake--as is easy for a man who is sleeping incontinual expectation of an alarm--at the flash of light in his eyes. But he was at once reassured by Dick's voice. 

"I have come, sir; and I have brought the mistress' letter. "

Robin sat up and took the packet. He saw now that the man carried alittle lantern with a slide over it that allowed only a thin funnel oflight to escape that could be shut off in an instant. 

"All well, Dick? I did not hear you coming. "

"The storm's too loud, sir. "

"All well?"

"Mistress Manners thinks you had best stay here a week longer, sir. "

"And . .. And the news?"

"It is all in the letter, sir. "

Robin looked for the inscription, but there was none. Then he broke thetwo seals, opened the paper and began to read. For the next five minutesthere was no sound, except the thresh of the rain and the cry of thewind. The letter ran as follows:

III

"Three more have glorified God to-day by a good confession--Mr. Garlick, Mr. Ludlam and Mr. Simpson. That is the summary. The tale in detailhath been brought to me to-day by an eye-witness. 

"The trial went as all thought it would. There was never the leastquestion of it; for not only were the two priests taken with signs oftheir calling upon them, but both of them had been in the hands of themagistrates before. There was no shrinking nor fear showed of any kind. But the chief marvel was that these two priests met with Mr. Simpson inthe gaol; they put them together in one room, I think, hoping that Mr. Simpson would prevail upon them to do as he had promised to do; but, bythe grace of God, it was all the other way, and it was they whoprevailed upon Mr. Simpson to confess himself again openly as aCatholic. This greatly enraged my lord Shrewsbury and the rest; so thatthere was less hope than ever of any respite, and sentence was passedupon them all together, Mr. Simpson showing, at the reading of it, asmuch courage as any. This was all done two days ago at the Assizes; andit was to-day that the sentence was carried out. 

"They were all three drawn on hurdles together to the open space by St. Mary's Bridge, where all was prepared, with gallows and cauldron andbutchering block; and a great company went after them. I have not heardthat they spoke much, on the way, except that a friend of Mr. Garlick'scried out to him to remember that they had often shot off together onthe moors; to which Mr. Garlick made answer merrily that it was true;but that 'I am now to shoot off such a shot as I never shot in all mylife. ' He was merry at the trial, too, I hear; and said that 'he was notcome to seduce men, but rather to induce them to the Catholic religion, that to this end he had come to the country, and for this that he wouldwork so long as he lived. ' And this he did on the scaffold, speaking tothe crowd about him of the salvation of their souls, and casting papers, which he had written in prison, in proof of the Catholic faith. 

"Mr. Garlick went up the ladder first, kissing and embracing it as theinstrument of his death, and to encourage Mr. Simpson, as it wasthought, since some said he showed signs of timorousness again when hecame to the place. But he showed none when his turn came, but ratherexhibited the same courage as them both. Mr. Ludlam stood by smilingwhile all was done; and smiling still when his turn came. His last wordswere, '_Venite benedicti Dei_'; and this he said, seeming to see avision of angels come to bear his soul away. 

"They were cut down, all three of them, before they were dead; and thebutchery done on them according to sentence; yet none of them cried outor made the least sound; and their heads and quarters were set upimmediately afterwards on poles in divers places of Derby; some of themabove the house that stands on the bridge and others on the bridgeitself. But these, I hear, will not be there long. 

"So these three have kept the faith and finished their course with joy. _Laus Deo_. Mr. John is in ward, for harbouring of the priests; butnothing hath been done to him yet. 

"As for your reverence, I am of opinion that you had best wait anotherweek where you are. There has been a man or two seen hereabouts whomnone knew, as well as at Padley. It hath been certified, too, that Mr. Thomas was at the root of it all, that he gave the information that Mr. John and at least a priest or two would be at Padley at that time, though no man knows how he knew it, unless through servants' talk; andsince Mr. Thomas knows your reverence, it will be better to be hid for alittle longer. So, if you will, in a week from now, I will send Dickonce, again to tell you if all be well. I look for no letter back forthis since you have nothing to write with in the hut, as I know; butDick will tell me how you do; as well as anything you may choose to sayto him. 

"I ask your reverence's blessing again. I do not forget your reverencein my poor prayers. "

 * * * * *

And so it ended, without signature--for safety's sake. 

IV

Robin looked up when he had finished to where the faint outline of theservant could be seen behind the lantern, against the greater darknessof the wall. 

"You know of all that has fallen at Derby?" he said, with somedifficulty. 

"Yes, sir. "

"Well, pray God we may be willing, too, if He bids us to it. "

"Yes, sir. ". .. 

"You had best lose no time if you are to be home before dawn. Say toMistress Manners that I thank her for her letter; that I praise God forthe graces she relates in it; and that I will do as she bids. .. . Dick. "

"Yes, sir. "

"Is Mr. Audrey in any of this?"

"I do not know, sir. .. . I heard--" The man's voice hesitated. 

"What did you hear?"

"I heard that my lord Shrewsbury wondered at his absence from the trial;and . .. And that a message would be sent to Mr. Audrey to look to it tobe more zealous on her Grace's commission. "

"That was all?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Then you had best be gone. There is no more to be said. Bring me whatnews you can when you come again. Good-night, Dick. "

"Good-night, sir. .. . God bless your reverence. "

 * * * * *

An hour later, with the first coming of the dawn, the storm ceased. (Itwas that same storm, if he had only known it, that had blown upon theSpanish Fleet at sea and driven it towards destruction. But of this heknew nothing. ) He had not slept since Dick had gone, but had lain on hisback on the turfed and blanketed bed in the corner, his hands claspedbehind his head, thinking, thinking and re-thinking all that he had readjust now. He had known it must happen; but there seemed to him all thedifference in the world between an event and its mere certainty. .. . Thething was done--out to every bitter detail of the loathsome, agonizingdeath--and it had been two of the men whom he had seen say mass afterhimself--the ruddy-faced, breezy countryman, yet anointed with thesealing oil, and the gentle, studious, smiling man who had been no lessvigorous than his friend. .. . 

But there was one thing he had not known, and that, the recovery of thefaint heart which they had inspirited. And then, in an instant heremembered how he had seen the three, years ago, against the sunset, ashe rode with Anthony. .. . 

 * * * * *

His mind was full of the strange memory as he came out at last, when theblack darkness began to fade to grey, and the noise of the rain on theroof had ceased, and the wind had fallen. 

It was a view of extraordinary solemnity that he looked on, as he stoodleaning against the rough door-post. The night was still stronger thanday; overhead was as black as ever, and stars shone in it through thedissolving clouds that were passing at last. But, immediately over thegrim, serrated edge of the crag that faced him to the east, a faint andtender light was beginning to burn, so faint that, as yet it seemed anabsence of black rather than as of a colour itself; and in the midst ofit, like a crumb of diamond, shone a single dying star. This high landwas as still now as a sheltered valley, a tuft of springy grass stoodout on the crag as stiff as a thin plume; and the silence, as at Padleytwo weeks ago, was marked rather than broken by the tinkle of water fromhis spring fifty yards away. The air was cold and fresh and marvellouslyscented, after the rain, with the clean smell of strong turf and rushes. It was as different from the peace he had had at Padley as water isdifferent from wine; yet it was Peace, too, a confident and expectantpeace that precedes the battle, rather than the rest which followsit. .. . 

How was it he had seen the three men on the moor; as he turned withAnthony? They were against the crimson west, as against a glory, the twolaymen on either side, the young priest in the middle. .. . They hadseemed to bear him up and support him; the colour of the sky was as astain of blood; and their shadows had stretched to his own feet. .. . 

 * * * * *

And there came on him in that hour one of those vast experiences thatcan never be told, when a flood rises in earth and air that turns themall to wine, that wells up through tired limbs, and puzzled brain andbeating heart, and soothes and enkindles, all in one; when it is not amere vision of peace that draws the eyes up in an ecstasy of sight, buta bathing in it, and an envelopment in it, of every fibre of life; whenthe lungs draw deep breaths of it; and the heart beats in it, and theeyes are enlightened by it; when the things of earth become at onceeternal and fixed and of infinite value, and at the same instant of lessvalue than the dust that floats in space; when there no longer appearsany distinction between the finite and the eternal, between time andinfinity; when the soul for that moment at least finds that rest that isthe magnet and the end of all human striving; and that comfort whichwipes away all tears. 

CHAPTER V

I

It was the sixth night after Dick Sampson had come back with news of Mr. Alban; and he had already received instructions as to how he was to gotwenty-four hours later. He was to walk, as before, starting after dark, not carrying a letter this time, after all, in spite of the news that hemight have taken with him; for the priest would be back before morningand could hear it all then at his ease. 

Every possible cause of alarm had gone; and Marjorie, for the first timefor three weeks, felt very nearly as content as a year ago. Not one moredoubtful visitor had appeared anywhere; and now she thought herselfmistaken even about those solitary figures she had suspected before. After all, they had only been a couple of men, whose faces her servantsdid not know, who had gone past on the track beneath the house; onemounted, and the other on foot. 

There had been something of a reaction, too, in Derby. The deaths of thethree priests had made an impression; there was no doubt of that. Mr. Biddell had written her a letter on the point, saying that the blood ofthose martyrs might well be the peace, if it might not be the seed, ofthe Church in the district. Men openly said in the taverns, he reported, that it was hard that any should die for religion merely; politics wereone matter and religion another. Yet the deaths had dismayed the simpleCatholics, too, for the present; and at Hathersage church, scarcely tenmiles away, above two hundred came to the Protestant sermon preachedbefore my lord Shrewsbury on the first Sunday after. 

The news of the Armada, too, had distracted men's minds wonderfully inanother direction. News had come in already, she was informed, of anengagement or two in the English Channel, all in favour of itsdefenders. More than that was not known. But the beacons had blazed; andthe market-place of Derby had echoed with the tramp of the train-bands;and it was not likely that at such a time the attention of themagistrates would be given to anything else. 

So her plans were laid. Mr. Alban was to come here for three or fourdays; be provided with a complete change of clothes (all of which shehad ready); shave off his beard; and then set out again for the border. He had best go to Staffordshire, she thought, for a month or two, beforebeginning once more in his own county. 

 * * * * *

She went to bed that night, happy enough, in spite of the cause, whichshe loved so much, seeming to fail everywhere. It was true that, underthis last catastrophe, great numbers had succumbed; but she hoped thatthis would be but for a time. Let but a few more priests come fromRheims to join the company that had lost so heavily, and all would bewell again. So she said to herself: she did not allow even in her ownsoul that the security of her friend and the thought that he would bewith her in a day or two, had any great part in her satisfaction. 

 * * * * *

She awaked suddenly. At the moment she did not know what time it was orhow long she had slept; but it was still dark and deathly still. Yet shecould have sworn that she had heard her name called. The rushlight wasburned out; but in the summer night she could still make out the outlineof Mistress Alice's bed. Yet all was still there, except for the gentlebreathing: it could not have been she who had called out in her sleep, or she would surely show some signs of restlessness. 

She sat up listening; but there was not a sound. She lay down again; andthe strange fancy seized her that it had been her mother's voice thatshe had heard. .. . It was in this room that her mother had died. .. . Againshe sat up and looked round. All was quiet as before: the tall press atthe foot of her bed glimmered here and there with lines and points ofstarlight. 

Then, as again she began to lie down, there came the signal for whichher heart was expectant, though her mind knew nothing of its coming. Itwas a clear rap, as of a pebble against the glass. 

She was up and out of bed in a moment, and was peering out under thethick arch of the little window. And a figure stood there, bending, itseemed, for another pebble; in the very place where she had seen it, shethought, nearly three weeks ago, standing ready to mount a horse. 

Then she was at Alice's bedside. 

"Alice, " she whispered. "Alice! Wake up. .. . There is someone come. Youmust come with me. I do not know--" Her voice faltered: she knew thatshe knew, and fear clutched her by the throat. 

 * * * * *

The porter was fast asleep, and did not move, as carrying a rushlightshe went past the buttery with her friend behind her saying no word. Thebolts were well oiled, and came back with scarcely a sound. Then as thedoor swung slowly back a figure slipped in. 

"Yes, " he said, "it is I. .. . I think I am followed. .. . I have butcome--"

"Come in quickly, " she said, and closed and bolted the door once more. 

II

It was a horrible delight to sit, wrapped in her cloak with the hoodover her head, listening to his story in the hall, and to know that itwas to her house that he had come for safety. It was horrible to herthat he needed it--so horrible that every shred of interior peace hadleft her; she was composed only in her speech, and it was a strangedelight that he had come so simply. He sat there; she could see hisoutline and the pallor of his face under his hat, and his voice wasperfectly resolute and quiet. This was his tale. 

"Twice this afternoon, " he said, "I saw a man against the sky, oppositemy hut. It was the same man both times; he was not a shepherd or afarmer's man. The night before, when David came, he did not speak to me;but for the first time he put his head in at the hut-door when hebrought the food and made gestures that I could not understand. I lookedat him and shook my head, but he would say nothing, and I remembered thebond and said nothing myself. All that he would do was to shut his eyesand wave his hands. Then this last night he brought no food at all. 

"I was uneasy at the sight of the man, too, in the afternoon. I think hethought that I was asleep; for when I saw him for the first time I waslying down and looking at the crag opposite. And I saw him raise himselfon his hands against the sky, as if he had been lying flat on his facein the heather. I looked at him for a while, and then I flung my handout of bed suddenly, and he was gone in a whisk. I went to the doorafter a time, stretching myself as if I were just awakened, and therewas no sign of him. 

"About an hour before sunset I was watching again; and I saw, on asudden, a covey of birds rise suddenly about two hundred yards away tothe north of the hut--that is, by the way that I should have to go downto the valleys again. They rose as if they were frightened. I kept myeyes on the place, and presently I saw a man's hat moving very slowly. It was the movement of a man crawling on his hands, drawing his legsafter him. 

"Then I waited for David to come, but he did not come, and I determinedthen to make my way down here as well as I could after dark. If therewere any fellows after me, I should have a better chance of escape thanif I stayed in the hut, I thought, until they could fetch up the rest;and, if not, I could lose nothing by coming a day too soon. "

"But--" began the girl eagerly. 

"Wait, " said Robin quietly. "That is not all. I made very poor way onfoot (for I thought it better to come quietly than on a horse), and Iwent round about again and again in the precipitous ground so that, ifthere were any after me, they could not tell which way I meant to go. For about two hours I heard and saw nothing of any man, and I began tothink I was a fool for all my pains. So I sat down a good while andrested, and even thought that I would go back again. But just as I wasabout to get up again I heard a stone fall a great way behind me: it wason some rocky ground about two hundred yards away. The night was quitestill, and I could hear the stone very plainly. .. . It was I that crawledthen, further down the hill, and it was then that I saw once more aman's head move against the stars. 

"I went straight on then, as quietly as I could. I made sure that it wasbut one that was after me, and that he would not try to take me byhimself, and I saw no more of him till I came down near Padley--"

"Near Padley? Why--"

"I meant to go there first, " said the priest, "and lie, there tillmorning. But as I came down the hill I heard the steps of him again agreat way off. So I turned sharp into a little broken ground that liesthere, and hid myself among the rocks--"

 * * * * *

Mistress Alice lifted her hand suddenly. 

"Hark!" she whispered. 

Then as the three sat motionless, there came, distinct and clear, from alittle distance down the hill, the noise of two or three horses walkingover stony ground. 

III

For one deathly instant the two sat looking each into the other's whiteface--since even the priest changed colour at the sound. (While they hadtalked the dawn had begun to glimmer, and the windows showed grey andghostly on the thin morning mist. ) Then they rose together. Marjorie wasthe first to speak. 

"You must come upstairs at once, " she said. "All is ready there, as youknow. "

The priest's lips moved without speaking. Then he said suddenly:

"I had best be off the back way; that is, if it is what I think--"

"The house will be surrounded. "

"But you will have harboured me--"

Marjorie's lips opened in a smile. 

"I have done that in any case, " she said. She caught up the candle andblew it out, as she went towards the door. 

"Come quickly, " she said. 

At the door Janet met them. Her old face was all distraught with fear. She had that moment run downstairs again on hearing the noise. Marjoriesilenced her by a gesture. .. . 

The young carpenter had done his work excellently, and Marjorie hadtaken care that there had been no neglect since the work had been done. Yet so short was the time since the hearing of the horses' feet, that asthe girl slipped out of the press again after drawing back the secretdoor, there came the loud knocking beneath, for which they had waitedwith such agony. 

"Quick!" she said. .. . 

From within, as she waited, came the priest's whisper. "Is this to bepushed--?"

"Yes; yes. "

There was the sound of sliding wood and a little snap. Then she closedthe doors of the press again. 

IV

Mr. Audrey outside grew indignant, and the more so since he was unhappy. 

 * * * * *

He had had the message from my lord Shrewsbury that a magistrate of herGrace should show more zeal; and, along with this, had come a privateintimation that it was suspected that Mr. Audrey had at least oncewarned the recusants of an approaching attack. It would be as well, then, if he would manifest a little activity. .. . 

But it appeared to him the worst luck in the world that the hunt shouldlead him to Mistress Manners' door. 

It was late in the afternoon that the informer had made his appearanceat Matstead, thirsty and dishevelled, with the news that a man thoughtto be a Popish priest was in hiding on the moors; that he was being keptunder observation by another informer; and that it was to be suspectedthat he was the man who had been missed at Padley when my lord had takenGarlick and Ludlam. If it were the man, it would be the priest known bythe name of Alban--the fellow whom my lord's man had so much distrustedat Fotheringay, and whom he had seen again in Derby a while later. Next, if it were this man, he would almost certainly make for Padley if hewere disturbed. 

Mr. Audrey had bitten his nails a while as he listened to this, and thenhad suddenly consented. The plan suggested was simple enough. One littletroop should ride to Padley, gathering reinforcements on the way, andanother on foot should set out for the shepherd's hut. Then, if thepriest should be gone, this second party should come on towards Padleyimmediately and join forces with the riders. 

All this had been done, and the mounted company, led by the magistratehimself, had come up from the valley in time to see the signalling fromthe heights (contrived by the showing of lights now and again), whichindicated that the priest was moving in the direction that had beenexpected, and that one man at least was on his track. They had waitedthere, in the valley, till the intermittent signals had reached thelevel ground and ceased, and had then ridden up cautiously in time tomeet the informer's companion, and to learn that the fugitive haddoubled suddenly back towards Booth's Edge. There they had waited then, till the dawn was imminent, and, with it, there came the party on foot, as had been arranged; then, all together, numbering about twenty-fivemen, they had pushed on in the direction of Mistress Manners' house. 

As the house came into view, more than ever Mr. Audrey reproached hisevil luck. Certainly there still were two or three chances to one thatno priest would be taken at all; since, first, the man might not be apriest, and next, he might have passed the manor and plunged back againinto the hills. But it was not very pleasant work, this rousing of ahouse inhabited by a woman for whom the magistrate had very far fromunkindly feelings, and on such an errand. .. . So the informers marvelledat the venom with which Mr. Audrey occasionally whispered at them in thedark. 

His heart sank as he caught a glimpse of a light first showing, and thensuddenly extinguished, in the windows of the hall, but he was relievedto hear no comment on it from the men who walked by his horse; he evenhoped that they had not seen it. .. . But he must do his duty, he said tohimself. 

 * * * * *

He grew a little warm and impatient when no answer came to the knocking. He said such play-acting was absurd. Why did not the man come outcourageously and deny that he was a priest? He would have a far betterexcuse for letting him go. 

"Knock again, " he cried. 

And again the thunder rang through the archway, and the summons in theQueen's name to open. 

Then at last a light shone beneath the door. (It was brightening rapidlytowards the dawn here in the open air, but within it would still bedark. ) Then a voice grumbled within. 

"Who is there?"

"Man, " bellowed the magistrate, "open the door and have done with it. Itell you I am a magistrate!"

There was silence. Then the voice came again. 

"How do I know that you are?"

Mr. Audrey slipped off his horse, scrambled to the door, set his handson his knees and his mouth to the keyhole. 

"Open the door, you fool, in the Queen's name. .. . I am Mr. Audrey, ofMatstead. "

Again came the pause. The magistrate was in the act of turning to bidhis men beat the door in, when once more the voice came. 

"I'll tell the mistress, sir. .. . She's a-bed. "

 * * * * *

His discomfort grew on him as he waited, staring out at the fastyellowing sky. (Beneath him the slopes towards the valley and thefar-off hills on the other side appeared like a pencil drawing, delicate, minute and colourless, or, at the most, faintly tinted inphantoms of their own colours. The sky, too, was grey with the nightmists not yet dissolved. ) It was an unneighbourly action, this of his, he thought. He must do his best to make it as little offensive as hecould. He turned to his men. 

"Now, men, " he said, glaring like a judge, "no violence here, unless Igive the order. No breaking of aught in the house. The lady here is afriend of mine; and--"

The great bolts shot back suddenly; he turned as the door opened; andthere, pale as milk, with eyes that seemed a-fire, Marjorie's face waslooking at him; she was wrapped in her long cloak and her hood was drawnover her head. The space behind was crowded with faces, unrecognizablein the shadow. 

 * * * * *

He saluted her. 

"Mistress Manners, " he said, "I am sorry to incommode you in this way. But a couple of fellows tell me that a man hath come this way, whom theythink to be a priest. I am a magistrate, mistress, and--"

He stopped, confounded by her face. It was not like her face at all--theface, rather, seemed as nothing; her whole soul was in her eyes, cryingto him some message that he could not understand. It appearedimpossible to him that this was a mere entreaty that he should leave onemore priest at liberty; impossible that the mere shock and surpriseshould have changed her so. .. . He looked at her. .. . Then he began again:

"It is no will of mine, mistress, beyond my duty. But I hold her Grace'scommission--"

She swept back again, motioning him to enter. He was astonished at hisown discomfort, but he followed, and his men pressed close after; and henoticed, even in that twilight, that a look of despair went over thegirl's face, sharp as pain, as she saw them. 

"You have come to search my house, sir?" she asked. Her voice was ascolourless as her features. 

"My commission, mistress, compels me--"

Then he noticed that the doors into the hall had been pushed open, andthat she was moving towards them. And he thought he understood. 

"Stand back, men, " he barked, so fiercely that they recoiled. "This ladyshall speak with me first. "

 * * * * *

He passed up the hall after her. He was as unhappy as possible. Hewondered what she could have to say to him; she must surely understandthat no pleading could turn him; he must do his duty. Yet he wouldcertainly do this with as little offence as he could. 

"Mistress Manners--" he began. 

Then she turned on him again. They were at the further end of the hall, and could speak low without being overheard. 

"You must begone again, " she whispered. "Oh! you must begone again. Youdo not understand; you--"

Her eyes still burned with that terrible eloquence; it was as the faceof one on the rack. 

"Mistress, I cannot begone again. I must do my duty. But I promiseyou--"

She was close to him, staring into his face; he could feel the heat ofher breath on his face. 

"You must begone at once, " she whispered, still in that voice of agony. He saw her begin to sway on her feet and her eyes turn glassy. He caughther as she swayed. 

"Here! you women!" he cried. 

 * * * * *

It was all that he could do to force himself out through the crowd offolks that looked on him. It was not that they barred his way. Ratherthey shrank from him; yet their eyes pulled and impeded him; it was by aseparate effort that he put each foot before the other. Behind he couldhear the long moan that she had given die into silence, and thechattering whispers of her women who held her. He reassured himselfsavagely; he would take care that no one was taken . .. She would thankhim presently; he would but set guards at all the doors and make acursory search; he would break a panel or two; no more. And that wouldsave both his face and her own. .. . Yet he loathed even such work asthis. .. . 

He turned abruptly as he came into the buttery passage. 

"All the women in the hall, " he said sharply. "Jack, keep the door fasttill we are done. "

V

He took particular pains to do as little damage as possible. 

First he went through the out-houses, himself with a pike testing thehaystacks, where he was sure that no man could be hidden. The beaststurned slow and ruminating eyes upon him as he went by their stalls. 

As he passed, a little later, the inner door into the buttery passage, he could hear the beating of hands on the hall-door. He went on quicklyto the kitchen, hating himself, yet determined to get all done quickly, and drove the kitchen-maid, who was crouching by the unlighted fire, outbehind him, sending a man with her to bestow her in the hall. She wailedas she went by him, but it was unintelligible, and he was in no mood forlistening. 

"Take her in, " he said; "but let no one out, nor a message, till all isdone. " (He thought that the kinder course. )

Then at last he went upstairs, still with his little bodyguard of four, of whom one was the man who had followed the fugitive down from thehills. 

He began with the little rooms over the hall: a bedstead stood in one;in another was a table all piled with linen a third had its floorcovered with early autumn fruit, ready for preserving. He struck on apanel or two as he went, for form's sake. 

As he came out again he turned savagely on the informer. 

"It is damned nonsense, " he said; "the fellow's not here at all. I toldyou he'd have gone back to the hills. "

The man looked up at him with a furtive kind of sneer in his face; he, too, was angry enough; the loss of the priest meant the loss of theheavy reward. 

"We have not searched a room rightly yet, sir, " he snarled. "There are ahundred places--"

"Not searched! You villain! Why, what would you have?"

"It's not the manner I've done it before, sir. A pike-thrust here, and ablow there--"

"I tell you I will not have the house injured! Mistress Manners--"

"Very good, sir. Your honour is the magistrate. .. . I am not. "

The old man's temper boiled over. They were passing at that instant ahalf-open door, and within he could see a bare little parlour, withlinen presses against the walls. It would not hide a cat. 

"Do you search, then!" he cried. "Here, then, and I will watch you! Butyou shall pay for any wanton damage, I tell you. "

The man shrugged his shoulders. 

"What is the use, then--" he began. 

"Bah! search, then, as you will. I will pay. "

 * * * * *

The noise from the hall had ceased altogether as the four men went intothe parlour. It was a plain little room, with an open fireplace and agreat settle beside it. There were hangings here and there. That overthe hearth presented Icarus in the chariot of the sun. It seemed such aplace as that in which two lovers might sit and talk together atsunset. .. . In one place hung a dark oil painting. 

The old man went across to the window and stared out. 

The sun was up by now, far away out of sight; and the whole sunlitvalley lay stretched beneath beyond the slopes that led down to Padley. The loathing for his work rose up again and choked him--this desperatebullying of a few women; and all to no purpose. He stared out at thehorses beneath, and at the couple of men gossiping together at theirheads. .. . He determined to see Mistress Manners again alone presently, when she should be recovered, and have a word with her in private. Shewould forgive him, perhaps, when she saw him ride off empty-handed, ashe most certainly meant to do. 

He thought, too, of other things, this old man, as he stood, with hisshoulders squared, resolute in his lack of attention to the mean workgoing on behind him. .. . He wondered whether God were angry or no. Whether this kind of duty were according to His will. Down there wasPadley, where he had heard mass in the old days; Padley, where the twopriests had been taken a few weeks ago. He wondered--

"If it please your honour we will break in this panel, " came the smooth, sneering voice that he loathed. 

He turned sullenly. 

They were opposite the old picture. Beneath it there showed a crack inthe wainscoting. .. . He could scarcely refuse leave. Besides, thewoodwork was flawed in any case--he would pay for a new panel himself. 

"There is nothing there!" he said doubtfully. 

"Oh, no, sir, " said the man with a peculiar look. "It is but to make ashow--"

The old man's brows came down angrily. Then he nodded; and, leaningagainst the window, watched them. 

 * * * * *

One of his own men came forward with a hammer and chisel. He placed thechisel at the edge of the cracked panel, where the informer directed, and struck a blow or two. There was the unmistakable dull sound of woodagainst stone--not an echo of resonance. The old man smiled grimly tohimself. The man must be a fool if he thought there could be any holethere!. .. Well; he would let them do what they would here; and thenforbid any further damage. .. . He wondered if the priest really were inthe house or no. 

The two men had their heads together now, eyeing the crack they hadmade. .. . Then the informer said something in a low voice that the oldman could not hear; and the other, handing him the chisel and hammer, went out of the room, beckoning to one of the two others that stoodwaiting at the door. 

"Well?" sneered the old man. "Have you caught your bird?

"Not yet, sir. "

He could hear the steps of the others in the next room; and thensilence. 

"What are they doing there?" he asked suddenly. 

"Nothing, sir. .. . I just bade a man wait on that side. "

The man was once more inserting the chisel in the top of thewainscoting; then he presently began to drive it down with the hammer asif to detach it from the wall. 

Suddenly he stopped; and at the same instant the old man heard somefaint, muffled noise, as of footsteps moving either in the wall orbeyond it. 

"What is that?"

The man said nothing; he appeared to be listening. 

"What is that?" demanded the other again, with a strange uneasiness athis heart. Was it possible, after all! Then the man dropped his chiseland hammer and darted out and vanished. A sudden noise of voices andtramplings broke out somewhere out of sight. 

"God's blood!" roared the old man in anger and dismay. "I believe theyhave the poor devil!"

 * * * * *

He ran out, two steps down the passage and in again at the door of thenext room. It was a bedroom, with two beds side by side: a great presswith open doors stood between the hearth and the window; and, in themidst of the floor, five men struggled and swayed together. The fifthwas a bearded young man, well dressed; but he could not see his face. 

Then they had him tight; his hands were twisted behind his back; an armwas flung round his neck; and another man, crouching, had his legsembraced. He cried out once or twice. .. . The old man turned sick . .. Agreat rush of blood seemed to be hammering in his ears and dilating hiseyes. .. . He ran forward, tearing at the arm that was choking theprisoner's throat, and screaming he knew not what. 

And it was then that he knew for certain that this was his son. 

CHAPTER VI

I

Robin drew a long breath as the door closed behind him. Then he wentforward to the table, and sat on it, swinging his feet, and lookingcarefully and curiously round the room, so far as the darkness wouldallow him; his eyes had had scarcely time yet to become accustomed tothe change from the brilliant sunshine outside to the gloom of theprison. It was his first experience of prison, and, for the present, hewas more interested than subdued by it. 

 * * * * *

It seemed to him that a lifetime had passed since the early morning, upin the hills, when he had attempted to escape by the bedroom, and hadbeen seized as he came out of the press. Of course, he had fought; itwas his right and his duty; and he had not known the utter uselessnessof it, in that guarded house. He had known nothing of what was goingforward. He had heard the entrance of the searchers below, and now andagain their footsteps. .. . Then he had seen the wainscoting begin to gapebefore him, and had understood that his only chance was by the way hehad entered. Then, as he had caught sight of his father, he had ceasedhis struggles. 

He had not said one word to him. The shock was complete and unexpected. He had seen the old man stagger back and sink on the bed. Then he hadbeen hurried from the room and downstairs. As the party came into thebuttery entrance, there had been a great clamour; the man on guard atthe hall doors had run forward; the doors had opened suddenly andMarjorie had come out, with a surge of faces behind her. But to her, too, he had said nothing; he had tried to smile; he was still faint andsick from the fight upstairs. But he had been pushed out into the air, where he saw the horses waiting, and round the corner of the house intoan out-building, and there he had had time to recover. 

 * * * * *

It was strange how little religion had come to his aid during that hourof waiting; and, indeed, during the long and weary ride to Derby. He hadtried to pray; but he had had no consolation, such as he supposed mustsurely come to all who suffered for Christ. It had been, instead, thetiny things that absorbed his attention; the bundle of hay in thecorner; an ancient pitch-fork; the heads of his guards outside thelittle barred window; the sound of their voices talking. Later, when aman had come out from the house, and looked in at his door, telling himthat they must start in ten minutes, and giving him a hunch of bread toeat, it had been the way the man's eyebrows grew over his nose, and thecreases of his felt hat, to which he gave his mind. Somewhere, farbeneath in himself, he knew that there were other considerations andmemories and movements, that were even fears and hopes and desires; buthe could not come at these; he was as a man struggling to dive, held upon the surface by sheets of cork. He knew that his father was in thathouse; that it was his father who had been the means of taking him; thatMarjorie was there--yet these facts were as tales read in a book. So, too, with his faith; his lips repeated words now and then; but God wasas far from him and as inconceivably unreal, as is the thought ofsunshine and a garden to a miner freezing painlessly in the dark. .. . 

In the same state he was led out again presently, and set on a horse. And while a man attached one foot to the other by a cord beneath thehorse's belly, he looked like a child at the arched doorway of thehouse; at a patch of lichen that was beginning to spread above thelintel; at the open window of the room above. 

He vaguely desired to speak with Marjorie again; he even asked the manwho was tying his feet whether he might do so; but he got no answer. Agroup of men watched him from the door, and he noticed that they weresilent. He wondered if it were the tying of his feet in which they wereso much absorbed. 

 * * * * *

Little by little, as they rode, this oppression began to lift. Half adozen times he determined to speak with the man who rode beside him andheld his horse by a leading rein; and each time he did not speak. Neither did any man speak to him. Another man rode behind; and a dozenor so went on foot. He could hear them talking together in low voices. 

He was finally roused by his companion's speaking. He had noticed theman look at him now and again strangely and not unkindly. 

"Is it true that you are a son of Mr. Audrey, sir?"

He was on the point of saying "Yes, " when his mind seemed to come backto him as clear as an awakening from sleep. He understood that he mustnot identify himself if he could help it. He had been told at Rheimsthat silence was best in such matters. 

"Mr. Audrey?" he said. "The magistrate?"

The man nodded. He did not seem an unkindly personage at all. Then hesmiled. 

"Well, well, " he said. "Less said--"

He broke off and began to whistle. Then he interrupted himself oncemore. 

"He was still in his fit, " he said, "when we came away. Mistress Mannerswas with him. "

Intelligence was flowing back in Robin's brain like a tide. It seemed tohim that he perceived things with an extraordinary clearness andrapidity. He understood he must show no dismay or horror of any kind; hemust carry himself easily and detachedly. 

"In a fit, was he?"

The other nodded. 

"I am arrested on his warrant, then? And on what charge?"

The man laughed outright. 

"That's too good, " he said. "Why, we, have a bundle of popery on thehorse behind! It was all in the hiding-hole!"

"I am supposed to be a priest, then?" said Robin, with admirabledisdain. 

Again the man laughed. 

"They will have some trouble in proving that, " said Robin viciously. 

 * * * * *

He learned presently whither they were going. He was right in thinkingit to be Derby. There he was to be handed over to the gaoler. The trialwould probably come on at the Michaelmas assizes, five or six weekshence. He would have leave to communicate with a lawyer when he was oncesafely bestowed there; but whether or no his lawyer or any othervisitors would be admitted to him was a matter for the magistrates. 

They ate as they rode, and reached Derby in the afternoon. 

At the very outskirts the peculiar nature of this cavalcade wasobserved; and by the time that they came within sight of themarket-square a considerable mob was hustling along on all sides. Therewere a few cries raised. Robin could not distinguish the words, but itseemed to him as if some were raised for him as well as against him. Hekept his head somewhat down; he thought it better to risk nocomplications that might arise should he be recognised. 

As they drew nearer the market-place the progress became yet slower, forthe crowd seemed suddenly and abnormally swelled. There was a greatshouting of voices, too, in front, and the smell of burning camedistinctly on the breeze. The man riding beside Robin turned his headand called out; and in answer one of the others riding behind pushed hishorse up level with the other two, so that the prisoner had a guard oneither side. A few steps further, and another order was issued, followedby the pressing up of the men that went on foot so as to form a completesquare about the three riders. 

Robin put a question, but the men gave him no answer. He could see thatthey were preoccupied and anxious. Then, as step by step they made theirway forward and gained the corner of the market-place, he saw the reasonof these precautions; for the whole square was one pack of heads, exceptwhere, somewhere in the midst, a great bonfire blazed in the sunlight. The noise, too, was deafening; drums were beating, horns blowing, menshouting aloud. From window after window leaned heads, and, as the partyadvanced yet further, they came suddenly in view of a scaffold hung withgay carpets and ribbons, on which a civil dignitary, in some officialdress, was gesticulating. 

It was useless to ask a question; not a word could have been heardunless it were shouted aloud; and presently the din redoubled, for outof sight, round some corner, guns were suddenly shot off one afteranother; and the cheering grew shrill and piercing in contrast. 

As they came out at last, without attracting any great attention, intothe more open space at the entrance of Friar's Gate, Robin turned againand asked what the matter was. It was plainly not himself, as he had atfirst almost believed. 

The man turned an exultant face to him. 

"It's the Spanish fleet!" he said. "There's not a ship of it left, theysay. "

When they halted at the gate of the prison there was another pause, while the cord that tied his feet was cut, and he was helped from hishorse, as he was stiff and constrained from the long ride under suchcircumstances. He heard a roar of interest and abuse, and, perhaps, alittle sympathy, from the part of the crowd that had followed, as thegate close behind him. 

II

As his eyes became better accustomed to the dark, he began to see whatkind of a place it was in which he found himself. It was a square littleroom on the ground-floor, with a single, heavily-barred window, againstwhich the dirt had collected in such quantities as to exclude almost alllight. The floor was beaten earth, damp and uneven; the walls were builtof stones and timber, and were dripping with moisture; there was a tableand a stool in the centre of the room, and a dark heap in the corner. Heexamined this presently, and found it to be rotting hay covered withsome kind of rug. The whole place smelled hideously foul. 

From far away outside came still the noise of cheering, heard as throughwool, and the sharp reports of the cannon they were still firing. TheArmada seemed very remote from him, here in ward. Its destructionaffected him now hardly at all, except for the worse, since ananti-Catholic reaction might very well follow. .. . He set himself, withscarcely an effort, to contemplate more personal matters. 

He was astonished that his purse had not been taken from him. He hadbeen searched rapidly just now, in an outer passage, by a couple of men, one of whom he understood to be his gaoler; and a knife and a chain andhis rosary had been taken from him. But the purse had been put backagain. .. . He remembered presently that the possession of money made aconsiderable difference to a prisoner's comfort; but he determined to doas little as he was obliged in this way. He might need the money moreurgently by and by. 

 * * * * *

By the time that he had gone carefully round his prison-walls, evenreaching up to the window and testing the bars, pushing as noiselesslyas he could against the door, pacing the distances in everydirection--he had, at the same time, once more arranged and rehearsedevery piece of evidence that he possessed, and formed a number ofresolutions. 

He was perfectly clear by now that his father had been wholly ignorantof the identity of the man he was after. The horror in the gasping facethat he had seen so close to his own, above the strangling arm, set thatbeyond a doubt; the news of the fit into which his father had fallenconfirmed it. 

Next, he had been right in believing himself watched in the shepherd'shut, and followed down from it. This hiding of his in the hills, thediscovery of him in the hiding-hole, together with the vestments--thesetwo things were the heaviest pieces of testimony against him. Moreremote testimony might be brought forward from his earlieradventures--his presence at Fotheringay, his recognition by my lord'sman. But these were, in themselves, indifferent. 

His resolutions were few and simple. 

He would behave himself quietly in all ways: he would make no demand tosee anyone; since he knew that whatever was possible would be done forhim by Marjorie. He would deny nothing and assert very little if he werebrought before the magistrates. Finally, he would say, if he could, adry mass every day; and observe the hours of prayer so far as he could. He had no books with him of any kind. But he could pray God forfortitude. 

 * * * * *

Then he knelt down on the earth floor and said his first prayer inprison; the prayer that had rung so often in his mind since Mary herselfhad prayed it aloud on the scaffold; and Mr. Bourgoign had repeated itto him. 

"As Thy arms, O Christ, were extended on the Cross; even so receive meinto the arms of Thy mercy, and blot out all my sins with Thy mostprecious Blood. "

CHAPTER VII

I

There was a vast crowd in the market-place at Michaelmas to see thejudges come--partly because there was always excitement at the visiblemajesty of the law; partly because the tale of one at least of theprisoners had roused interest. It was a dramatic tale: he was first aseminary priest and a Derbyshire man (many remembered him riding as alittle lad beside his father); he was, next, a runaway to Rheims forreligion's sake, when his father conformed; third, he had been taken inthe house of Mistress Manners, to whom, report said, he had once beenbetrothed; last, he had been taken by his father himself. All thisfurnished matter for a quantity of conversation in the taverns; and itwas freely discussed by the sentimental whether or no, if the priestyielded and conformed, he would yet find Mistress Manners willing to wedhim. 

 * * * * *

Signs of the Armada rejoicings still survived in the market-place as thejudges rode in. Streamers hung in the sunshine, rather bedraggled afterso long, from the roof and pillars of the Guildhall, and a greatsmoke-blackened patch between the conduit and the cross marked where theox had been roasted. There was a deal of loyal cheering as theprocession went by; for these splendid personages on horseback stood tothe mob for the power that had repelled the enemies of England; and herGrace's name was received with enthusiasm. Behind the judges and theirescort came a cavalcade of riders--gentlemen, grooms, servants, andagents of all sorts. But not a Derby man noticed or recognised a thingentleman who rode modestly in the midst, with a couple of personalservants on either side of him. It was not until the visitors hadseparated to the various houses and inns where they were to be lodged, and the mob was dispersing home again, that it began to be rumouredeverywhere that Mr. Topcliffe was come again to Derby on a specialmission. 

II

The tidings came to Marjorie as she leaned back in her chair in Mr. Biddell's parlour and listened to the last shoutings. 

 * * * * *

She had been in town now three days. 

Ever since the capture she had been under guard in her own house tillthree days ago. Four men had been billeted upon her, not, indeed, by theorders of Mr. Audrey, since Mr. Audrey was in no condition to controlaffairs any longer, but by the direction of Mr. Columbell, who hadhimself ridden out to take charge at Booth's Edge, when the news of thearrest had come, with the prisoner himself, to the city. It was he, too, who had seen to the removal of Mr. Audrey a week later, when he hadrecovered from the weakness caused by the fit sufficiently to travel asfar as Derby; for it was thought better that the magistrate who hadeffected the capture should be accessible to the examining magistrates. It was, of course, lamentable, said Mr. Columbell, that father and sonshould have been brought into such relations, and he would do all thathe could to relieve Mr. Audrey from any painful task in which they coulddo without him. But her Grace's business must be done, and he had hadspecial messages from my lord Shrewsbury himself that the prisoner mustbe dealt with sternly. It was believed, wrote my lord, that Mr. Alban, as he called himself, had a good deal more against him than the merefact of being a seminary priest: it was thought that he had beeninvolved in the Babington plot, and had at least once had access to theQueen of the Scots since the fortunate failure of the conspiracy. 

All this, then, Marjorie knew from Mr. Biddell, who seemed always toknow everything; but it was not until the evening on which the judgesarrived that she learned the last and extreme measures that wouldbetaken to establish these suspicions. She had ridden openly to Derby sosoon as the news came from there that for the present she might be setat liberty. 

The lawyer came into the darkening room as the square outside began togrow quiet, and Marjorie opened her eyes to see who it was. 

He said nothing at first, but sat down close beside her. He knew shemust be told, but he hated the telling. He carried a little paper in hishand. He would begin with that little bit of good news first, he said tohimself. 

"Well, mistress, " he said, "I have the order at last. We are to see himto-night. It is 'for Mr. Biddell and a friend. '"

She sat up, and a little vitality came back to her face; for a momentshe almost looked as she had looked in the early summer. 

"To-night?" she said. "And when--"

"He will not be brought before my lords for three or four days yet. There is a number of cases to come before his. It will give us those twoor three days, at least, to prepare our case. "

He spoke heavily and dejectedly. Up to the present he had been utterlyrefused permission to see his client; and though he knew the outlines ofthe affair well enough, he knew very little of the thousand details onwhich the priest would ask his advice. It was a hopeless affair, itappeared to the lawyer, in any case. And now, with this last piece oftidings, he knew that there was, indeed, nothing to be said except wordsof encouragement. 

He listened with the same heavy air to Mistress Manners as she said aword or two as to what must be spoken of to Robin. She was very quietand collected, and talked to the point. But he said nothing. 

"What is the matter, sir?" she said. 

He lifted his eyes to hers. There was still enough light from thewindows for him to see her eyes, and that there was a spark in them thathad not been there just now. And it was for him to extinguish it. .. . Hegripped his courage. 

"I have had worse news than all, " he said. 

Her lips moved, and a vibration went over her face. Her eyes blinked, asat a sudden light. 

"Yes?"

He put his hand tenderly on her arm. 

"You must be courageous, " he said. "It is the worst news that ever cameto me. It concerns one who is come from London to-day, and rode in withmy lords. "

She could not speak, but her great eyes entreated him to finish hermisery. 

"Yes, " he said, still pressing his hand on to her arm. "Yes; it is Mr. Topcliffe who is come. "

 * * * * *

He felt the soft muscles harden like steel. .. . There was no sound exceptthe voices talking in the square and the noise of footsteps across thepavements. He could not look at her. 

Then he heard her draw a long breath and breathe it out again, and hertaut muscles relaxed. 

"We . .. We are all in Christ's hands, " she said. .. . "We must tell him. "

III

It appeared to the girl as if she were moving on a kind of set stage, with every movement and incident designed beforehand, in a play that wasitself a kind of destiny--above all, when she went at last into Robin'scell and saw him standing there, and found it to be that in which solong ago she had talked with Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert. .. . 

The great realities were closing round her, as irresistible as wheelsand bars. There was scarcely a period in her life, scarcely a voluntaryaction of hers for good or evil, that did not furnish some part of thisvast machine in whose grip both she and her friend were held so fast. Nocalculation on her part could have contrived so complete a climax; yethardly a calculation that had not gone astray from that end to which shehad designed it. It was as if some monstrous and ironical power had beenbeneath and about her all her life long, using those thoughts andactions that she had intended in one way to the development of another. 

First, it was she that had first turned her friend's mind to the life ofa priest. Had she submitted to natural causes, she would have been hiswife nine years ago; they would have been harassed no doubt andtroubled, but no more. It was she again that had encouraged his returnto Derbyshire. If it had not been for that, and for the efforts she hadmade to do what she thought good work for God, he might have been sentelsewhere. It was in her house that he had been taken, and in the veryplace she had designed for his safety. If she had but sent him on, as hewished, back to the hills again, he might never have been taken at all. These, and a score of other thoughts, had raced continually through hermind; she felt even as if she were responsible for the manner of histaking, and for the horror that it had been his father who hadaccomplished it; if she had said more, or less, in the hall of that darkmorning; if she had not swooned; if she had said bravely: "It is yourson, sir, who is here, " all might have been saved. And now it wasTopcliffe who was come--(and she knew all that this signified)--the veryman at whose mere bodily presence she had sickened in the court of theTower. And, last, it was she who had to tell Robin of this. 

So tremendous, however, had been the weight of these thoughts upon her, crowned and clinched (so to say) by finding that the priest was even inthe same cell as that in which she had visited the traitor, that therewas no room any more for bitterness. Even as she waited, with Mr. Biddell behind her, as the gaoler fumbled with the keys, she was awarethat the last breath of resentment had been drawn. .. . It was, indeed, amonstrous Power that had so dealt with her. .. . It was none other thanthe Will of God, plain at last. 

 * * * * *

She knelt down for the priest's blessing, without speaking, as the doorclosed, and Mr. Biddell knelt behind her. Then she rose and went forwardto the stool and sat upon it. 

 * * * * *

He was hardly changed at all. He looked a little white and drawn in thewavering light of the flambeau; but his clothes were orderly and clean, and his eyes as bright and resolute as ever. 

"It is a great happiness to see you, " he said, smiling, and then no morecompliments. 

"And what of my father?" he added instantly. 

She told him. Mr. Audrey was in Derby, still sick from his fit. He wasin Mr. Columbell's house. She had not seen him. 

"Robin, " she said (and she used the old name, utterly unknowing that shedid so), "we must speak with Mr. Biddell presently about your case. Butthere is a word or two I have to say first. We can have two hours here, if you wish it. "

Robin put his hands behind him on to the table and jumped lightly, sothat he sat on it, facing her. 

"If you will not sit on the table, Mr. Biddell, I fear there is onlythat block of wood. "

He pointed to a, block of a tree set on end. It served him, laid flat, as a pillow. The lawyer went across to it. 

"The judges, I hear, are come to-night, " said the priest. 

She bowed. 

"Yes; but your case will not be up for three or four days yet. "

"Why, then, I shall have time--"

She lifted her hand sharply a little to check him. 

"You will not have much time, " she said, and paused again. A sharpcontraction came and went in the muscles of her throat. It was as if aband gripped her there, relaxed, and gripped again. She put up her ownhand desperately to tear at her collar. 

"Why, but--" began the priest. 

She could bear it no more. His resolute cheerfulness, his frankastonishment, were like knives to her. She gave one cry. 

"Topcliffe is come . .. Topcliffe!. .. " she cried. Then she flung her armacross the table and dropped her face on it. No tears came from hereyes, but tearing sobs shook and tormented her. 

It was quite quiet after she had spoken. Even in her anguish she knewthat. The priest did not stir from where he sat a couple of feet away;only the swinging of his feet ceased. She drove down her convulsions;they rose again; she drove them down once more. Then the tears surgedup, her whole being relaxed, and she felt a hand on her shoulder. 

"Marjorie, " said the grave voice, as steady as it had ever been, "Marjorie. This is what we looked for, is it not?. .. Topcliffe is come, is he? Well, let him come. He or another. It is for this that we haveall looked since the beginning. Christ His Grace is strong enough, is itnot? It hath been strong enough for many, at least; and He will notsurely take it from me who need it so much. .. . " (He spoke in pauses, buthis voice never faltered. ) "I have prayed for that grace ever since Ihave been here. .. . He hath given me great peace in this place. .. . Ithink He will give it me to the end. .. . You must pray, my . .. My child;you must not cry like that. "

(She lifted her agonized face for a moment, then she let it fall again. It seemed as if he knew the very thoughts of her. )

"This all seems very perfect to me, " he went on. "It was yourself whofirst turned me to this life, and you knew surely what you did. I knew, at least, all the while, I think; and I have never ceased to thank God. And it was through your hands that the letter came to me to go toFotheringay. And it was in your house that I was taken. .. . And it wasMr. Maine's beads that they found on me when they searched me here--thepair of beads you gave me. "

Again she stared at him, blind and bewildered. 

He went on steadily:

"And now it is you again who bring me the first news of my passion. Itis yourself, first and last, under God, that have brought me all thesegraces and crosses. And I thank you with all my heart. .. . But you mustpray for me to the end, and after it, too. "

CHAPTER VIII

I

"Water, " said a sharp voice, pricking through the enormous thickness ofthe bloodshot dark that had come down on him. There followed a sound offloods; then a sense of sudden coolness, and he opened his eyes oncemore, and became aware of unbearable pain in arms and feet. Again thewhirling dark, striped with blood colour, fell on him like a blanket;again the sound of waters falling and the sense of coolness, and againhe opened his eyes. 

 * * * * *

For a minute or two it was all that he could do to hold himself inconsciousness. It appeared to him a necessity to do so. He could see asmoke-stained roof of beams and rafters, and on these he fixed his eyes, thinking that he could hold himself so, as by thin, wiry threads ofsight, from falling again into the pit where all was black orblood-colour. The pain was appalling, but he thought he had gripped itat last, and could hold it so, like a wrestler. 

As the pain began to resolve itself into throbs and stabs, from thecontinuous strain in which at first it had shown itself--a strain thatwas like a shrill horn blowing, or a blaze of bluish light--he began tosee more, and to understand a little. There were four or five faceslooking down on him: one was the face of a man he had seen somewhere inan inn . .. It was at Fotheringay; it was my lord Shrewsbury's man. Another was a lean face; a black hat came and went behind it; the lipswere drawn in a sort of smile, so that he could see the teeth. .. . Thenhe perceived next that he himself was lying in a kind of shallow troughof wood upon the floor. He could see his bare feet raised a little andtied with cords. 

Then, one by one, these sights fitted themselves into one another andmade sense. He remembered that he was in Derby gaol--not in his owncell; that the lean face was of a man called Topcliffe; that a physicianwas there as well as the others; that they had been questioning him onvarious points, and that some of these points he had answered, whileothers he had not, and must not. Some of them concerned her Grace of theScots. .. . These he had answered. Then, again, association came back. .. . 

"As Thy arms, O Christ . .. " he whispered. 

"Now then, " came the sharp voice in his ear, so close and harsh as todistress him. "These questions again. .. . Were there any other placesbesides at Padley and Booth's Edge, in the parish of Hathersage, whereyou said mass?"

". .. O Christ, were extended on the Cross--" began the tortured mandreamily. "Ah-h-h!". .. . 

It was a scream, whispered rather than shrieked, that was torn from himby the sharpness of the agony. His body had lifted from the floorwithout will of his own, twisting a little; and what seemed as stringsof fiery pain had shot upwards from his feet and downwards from hiswrists as the roller was suddenly jerked again. He hung there perhapsten or fifteen seconds, conscious only of the blinding pain--questions, questioners, roof and faces all gone and drowned again in a whirlingtumult of darkness and red streaks. The sweat poured again suddenly fromhis whole body. .. . Then again he sank relaxed upon the floor, and thepulses beat in his head, and he thought that Marjorie and her mother andhis own father were all looking at him. .. . 

He heard presently the same voice talking:

"--and answer the questions that are put to you. .. . Now then, we willbegin the others, if it please you better. .. . In what month was it thatyou first became privy to the plot against her Grace?"

"Wait!" whispered the priest. "Wait, and I will answer that. " (Heunderstood that there was a trap here. The question had been frameddifferently last time. But his mind was all a-whirl; and he feared hemight answer wrongly if he could not collect himself. He still wonderedwhy so many friends of his were in the room--even Father Campion. .. . )

He drew a breath again presently, and tried to speak; but his voicebroke like a shattered trumpet, and he could not command it. .. . He mustwhisper. 

"It was in August, I think. .. . I think it was August, two years ago. ". .. 

"August . .. You mean May or April. "

"No; it was August. .. . At least, all that I know of the plot was when. .. When--" (His thoughts became confused again; it was like strings ofwool, he thought, twisted violently together; a strand snapped now andagain. He made a violent effort and caught an end as it was slippingaway. ) "It was in August, I think; the day that Mr. Babington fled, thathe wrote to me; and sent me--" (He paused: he became aware that here, too, lurked a trap if he were to say he had seen Mary; he would surelybe asked what he had seen her for, and his priesthood might be so provedagainst him. .. . He could not remember whether that had been proved; andso . .. Would Father Campion advise him perhaps whether. .. . )

The voice jarred again; and startled him into a flash of coherence. Hethought he saw a way out. 

"Well?" snapped the voice. "Sent you?. .. Sent you whither?"

"Sent me to Chartley; where I saw her Grace . .. Her Grace of the Scots;and . .. 'As Thy arms, O Christ. .. . '"

"Now then; now then--! So your saw her Grace? And what was that for?"

"I saw her Grace . .. And . .. And told her what Mr. Babington had toldme. "

"What was that, then?"

"That . .. That he was her servant till death; and . .. And a thousand ifhe had them. And so, 'As Thy arms, O--'"

"Water, " barked the voice. 

Again came the rush as of cataracts; and a sensation of drowning. Therefollowed an instant's glow of life; and then the intolerable pain cameback; and the heavy, red-streaked darkness. .. . 

II

He found himself, after some period, lying more easily. He could notmove hand or foot. His body only appeared to live. From his shoulders tohis thighs he was alive; the rest was nothing. But he opened his eyesand saw that his arms were laid by his side; and that he was no longerin the wooden trough. He wondered at his hands; he wondered even if theywere his . .. They were of an unusual colour and bigness; and there wassomething like a tight-fitting bracelet round each wrist. Then heperceived that he was shirtless and hoseless; and that the braceletswere not bracelets, but rings of swollen flesh. But there was no longerany pain or even sensation in them; and he was aware that his mouthglowed as if he had drunk ardent spirits. 

He was considering all this, slowly, like a child contemplating a newtoy. Then there came something between him and the light; he saw acouple of faces eyeing him. Then the voice began again, at firstconfused and buzzing, then articulate; and he remembered. 

"Now, then, " said the voice, "you have had but a taste of it. .. . " ("Ataste of it; a taste of it. " The phrase repeated itself like the catchof a song. .. . When he regained his attention, the sentence had movedon. )

". .. These questions. I will put them to you again from the beginning. You will give your answer to each. And if my lord is not satisfied, wemust try again. "

"My lord!" thought the priest. He rolled his eyes round a littlefurther. (He dared not move his head; the sinews of his throat burnedlike red-hot steel cords at the thought of it. ) And he saw a littletable floating somewhere in the dark; a candle burned on it; and amelancholy face with dreamy eyes was brightly illuminated. .. . That wasmy lord Shrewsbury, he considered. .. . 

". .. In what month that you first became privy to the plot against herGrace?"

(Sense was coming back to him again now. He remembered what he had saidjust now. )

"It was in August, " he whispered, "in August, I think; two years ago. Mr. Babington wrote to me of it. "

"And you went to the Queen of the Scots, you say?"

"Yes. "

"And what did you there?"

"I gave the message. "

"What was that?"

". .. That Mr. Babington was her servant always; that he regrettednothing, save that he had failed. He begged her to pray for his soul, and for all that had been with him in the enterprise. "

(It appeared to him that he was astonishingly voluble, all at once. Hereflected that he must be careful. )

"And what did she say to that?"

"She declared herself guiltless of the plot . .. That she knew nothing ofit; and that--"

"Now then; now then. You expect my lord to believe that?"

"I do not know. .. . But it was what was said. "

"And you profess that you knew nothing of the plot till then?"

"I knew nothing of it till then, " whispered the priest steadily. "But--"

(A face suddenly blotted out more of the light. )

"Yes?"

"Anthony--I mean Mr. Babington--had spoken to me a great whilebefore--in . .. In some village inn. .. . I forget where. It was when I wasa lad. He asked whether I would join in some enterprise. He did not saywhat it was. .. . But I thought it to be against the Queen of England. .. . And I would not. ". .. 

He closed his eyes again. There had begun a slow heat of pain in anklesand wrists, not wholly unbearable, and a warmth began to spread in hisbody. A great shudder or two shook him. The voice said something hecould not hear. Then a metal rim was pressed to his mouth; and a streamof something at once icy and fiery ran into his mouth and out at thecorners. He swallowed once or twice; and his senses came back. 

"You do not expect us to believe all that!" came the voice. 

"It is the truth, for all that, " murmured the priest. 

The next question came sudden as a shot fired:

"You were at Fotheringay?"

"Yes. "

"In what house?"

"I was in the inn--the 'New Inn, ' I think it is. 

"And you spoke with her Grace again?"

"No; I could not get at her. But--"

"Well?"

"I was in the court of the castle when her Grace was executed. "

There was a murmur of voices. He thought that someone had moved over tothe table where my lord sat; but he could not move his eyes again, thelabour was too great. 

"Who was with you in the inn--as your friend, I mean?"

"A . .. A young man was with me. His name was Merton. He is in France, Ithink. "

"And he knew you to be a priest?" came the voice without an instant'shesitation. 

"Why--" Then he stopped short, just in time. 

"Well?"

"How should he think that?" asked Robin. 

There was a laugh somewhere. Then the voice went on, almostgood-humouredly. 

"Mr. Alban; what is the use of this fencing? You were taken in ahiding-hole with the very vestments at your feet. We _know_ you to be apriest. We are not seeking to entrap you in that, for there is no need. But there are other matters altogether which we must have from you. Youhave been made priest beyond the seas, in Rheims--"

"I swear to you that I was not, " whispered Robin instantly and eagerly, thinking he saw a loophole. 

"Well, then, at Châlons, or Douay: it matters not where. That is not ouraffair to-day. All that will be dealt with before my lords at theAssizes. But what we must have from you now is your answer to some otherquestions. "

"Assuming me to be a priest?"

"Mr. Alban, I will talk no more on that point. I tell you we know it. But we must have answers on other points. I will come back to Mertonpresently. These are the questions. I will read them through to you. Then we will deal with them one by one. "

There was the rustle of a paper. An extraordinary desire for sleep camedown on the priest; it was only by twitching his head a little, andcausing himself acute shoots of pain in his neck that he could keephimself awake. He knew that he must not let his attention wander again. He remembered clearly how that Father Campion was dead, and thatMarjorie could not have been here just now. .. . He must take great carenot to become so much confused again. 

 * * * * *

"The first question, " read the voice slowly, "is, Whether you have saidmass in other places beside Padley and the manor at Booth's Edge. Weknow that you must have done so; but we must have the names of theplaces, and of the parties present, so far as you can remember them. 

"The second question is, the names of all those other priests with whomyou have spoken in England, since you came from Rheims; and the names ofall other students, not yet priests, or scarcely, whom you knew atRheims, and who are for England. 

"The third question is, the names of all those whom you know to befriends of Mr. John FitzHerbert, Mr. Bassett and Mr. Fenton--not beingpriests; but Papists. 

"These three questions will do as a beginning. When you have answeredthese, there is a number more. Now, sir. "

The last two words were rapped out sharply. Robin opened his eyes. 

"As to the first two questions, " he whispered. "These assume that I ama priest myself. Yet that is what you, have to prove against me. Thethird question concerns . .. Concerns my loyalty to my friends. But Iwill tell you--"

"Yes?" (The voice was sharp and eager. )

"I will tell you the names of two friends of each of those gentlemen youhave named. "

A pen suddenly scratched on paper. He could not see who held it. 

"Yes?" said the voice again. 

"Well, sir. The names of two of the friends of Mr. FitzHerbert are, Mr. Bassett and Mr. Fenton. The names--"

"Bah!" (The word sounded like the explosion of a gun. )

"You are playing with us--"

"The names, " murmured the priest slowly, "of two of Mr. Fenton's friendsare Mr. FitzHerbert and--"

A face, upside-down, thrust itself suddenly almost into his. He couldfeel the hot breath on his forehead. 

"See here, Mr. Alban. You are fooling us. Do you think this is aChristmas game? I tell you it is not yet three o'clock. There are threehours more yet--"

A smooth, sad voice interrupted. (The reversed face vanished. )

"You have threatened the prisoner, " it said, "but you have not yet toldhim the alternative. "

"No, my lord. .. . Yes, my lord. Listen, Mr. Alban. My lord here says thatif you will answer these questions he will use his influence on yourbehalf. Your life is forfeited, as you know very well. There is not adog's chance for you. Yet, if you will but answer these threequestions--and no more--(No more, my lord?)--Yes; these three questionsand no more, my lord will use his influence for you. He can promisenothing, he says, but that; but my lord's influence--well, we need sayno more on that point. If you refuse to answer, on the other hand, thereare yet three hours more to-day; there is all to-morrow, and the nextday. And, after that, your case will be before my lords at the Assizes. You have had but a taste of what we can do. .. . And then, sir, my lorddoes not wish to be harsh. .. . "

There was a pause. 

Robin was counting up the hours. It was three o'clock now. Then he hadbeen on the rack, with intervals, since nine o'clock. That was sixhours. There was but half that again for to-day. Then would come thenight. He need not consider further than that. .. . But he must guard histongue. It might speak, in spite---

"Well, Mr. Alban?"

He opened his eyes. 

"Well, sir?"

"Which is it to be?"

The priest smiled and closed his eyes again. If he could but fix hisattention on the mere pain, he thought, and refuse utterly to considerthe way of escape, he might be able to keep his unruly tongue in check. 

"You will not, then?"

"No. "

 * * * * *

The appalling pain ran through him again like fiery snakes of iron--fromwrist to shoulders, from ankles to thighs, as the hands seized him andlifted him. .. . 

There was a moment or two of relief as he sank down once more into thetrough of torture. He could feel that his feet were being handled, butit appeared as if nothing touched his flesh. He gave a great sighingmoan as his arms were drawn back over his head; and the sweat pouredagain from all over his body. 

Then, as the cords tightened:

"As Thy arms, O Christ, were extended . .. " he whispered. 

CHAPTER IX

I

A great murmuring crowd filled every flat spot of ground and pavementand parapet. They stood even on the balustrade of St. Mary's Bridge;there were fringes of them against the sky on the edges of roofs aquarter of a mile away. No flat surface was to be seen anywhere excepton the broad reach of the river, and near the head of the bridge, in thecircular space, ringed by steel caps and pike-points, where the gallowsand ladder rose. Close beside them a column of black smoke rose heavilyinto the morning air, bellying away into the clear air. A continualsteady low murmur of talking went up continually. 

 * * * * *

There had been no hanging within the memory of any that had roused suchinterest. Derbyshire men had been hung often enough; a criminal usuallyhad a dozen friends at least in the crowd to whom he shouted from theladder. Seminary priests had been executed often enough now to havedestroyed the novelty of it for the mob; why, three had been done todeath here little more than two months ago in this very place. They gaveno sport, certainly; they died too quietly; and what peculiar interestthere was in it lay in the contemplation of the fact that it was forreligion that they died. Gentlemen, too, had been hanged here now andthen--polished persons, dressed in their best, who took off their outerclothes carefully, and in one or two cases had handed them to a servant;gentlemen with whom the sheriff shook hands before the end, who eyed themob imperturbably or affected even not to be aware of the presence ofthe vulgar. But this hanging was sublime. 

First, he was a Derbyshire man, a seminary priest and a gentleman--threepoints. Yet this was no more than the groundwork of his surpassinginterest. For, next, he had been racked beyond belief. It was for threedays before his sentence that Mr. Topcliffe himself had dealt with him. (Yes, Mr. Topcliffe was the tall man that had his rooms in themarket-place, and always went abroad with two servants. .. . He was tohave Padley, too, it was said, as a reward for all his zeal. ) Of course, young Mr. Audrey (for that was his real name--not Alban; that was aPopish _alias_ such as they all used)--Mr. Audrey had not been on therack for the whole of every day. But he had been in the rack-house eightor nine hours on the first day, four the second, and six or seven thethird. And he had not answered one single question differently from themanner in which he had answered it before ever he had been on the rackat all. (There was a dim sense of pride with regard to this, in manyDerbyshire minds. A Derbyshire man, it appeared, was more than a matchfor even a Londoner and a sworn servant of her Grace. ) It was said thatMr. Audrey would have to be helped up the ladder, even though he had notbeen racked for a whole week since his sentence. 

Next, the trial itself had been full of interest. A Papist priest was, of course, fair game. (Why, the Spanish Armada itself had been full ofthem, it was said, all come to subdue England. .. . Well, they had hadtheir bellyful of salt water and English iron by now. ) But this Papisherhad hit back and given sport. He had flatly refused to be caught, thoughthe questions were swift and subtle enough to catch any clerk. Certainlyhe had not denied that he was a priest; but he had said that that waswhat the Crown must prove: he was not there as a witness, he had said, but as a prisoner; he had even entreated them to respect their ownlegal dignities! But there had been a number of things against him, andeven if none of these had been proved, still, the mere sum of them wasenough; there could be no smoke without fire, said the proverb-quoters. It was alleged that he had been privy to the plot against the Queen (theplot of young Mr. Babington, who had sold his house down there a week ortwo only before his arrest); he had denied this, but he had allowed thathe had spoken with her Grace immediately after the plot; and this was ahighly suspicious circumstance: if he allowed so much as this, the restmight be safely presumed. Again, it was said that he had had part inattempts to free the Queen of the Scots, even from Fotheringay itself;and had been in the castle court, with a number of armed servants, atthe very time of her execution. Again, if he allowed that he had beenpresent, even though he denied the armed servants, the rest might bepresumed. Finally, since he were a priest, and had seen her Grace at atime when there was no chaplain allowed to her, it was certain that hemust have ministered their Popish superstitions to her, and this wasneither denied nor affirmed: he had said to this that they had yet toprove him a priest at all. The very spectacle of the trial, too, hadbeen remarkable; for, first, there was the extraordinary appearance ofthe prisoner, bent double like an old man, with the face of a dead one, though he could not be above thirty years old at the very most; and thenthere was the unusual number of magistrates present in court besides thejudges, and my lord Shrewsbury himself, who had presided at the racking. It was one of my lord's men, too, that had helped to identify theprisoner. 

But the supreme interest lay in even more startling circumstances--inthe history of Mistress Manners, who was present through the trial withMr. Biddell the lawyer, and who had obtained at least two interviewswith the prisoner, one before the torture and the other after sentence. It was in Mistress Manners' house at Booth's Edge that the priest hadbeen taken; and it was freely rumoured that although Mr. Audrey had oncebeen betrothed to her, yet that she had released and sent him herself toRheims, and all to end like this. And yet she could bear to come and seehim again; and, it was said, would be present somewhere in the crowdeven at his death. 

Finally, the tale of how the priest had been taken by his ownfather--old Mr. Audrey of Matstead--him that was now lying sick in Mr. Columbell's house--this put the crown on all the rest. A hundred rumoursflew this way and that: one said that the old man had known nothing ofhis son's presence in the country, but had thought him to be still inforeign parts. Another, that he knew him to be in England, but not thathe was in the county; a third, that he knew very well who it was in thehouse he went to search, and had searched it and taken him on purpose toset his own loyalty beyond question. Opinions differed as to thepropriety of such an action. .. . 

 * * * * *

So then the great crowd of heads--men from all the countryside, fromfarms and far-off cottages and the wild hills, mingling with thetownsfolk--this crowd, broken up into levels and patches by river andhouses and lanes, moved to and fro in the October sunshine, and sent up, with the column of smoke that eddied out from beneath the bubblingtar-cauldron by the gallows, a continual murmur of talking, like thesound of slow-moving wheels of great carts. 

He felt dazed and blind, yet with a kind of lightness too as he cameout of the gaol-gate into that packed mass of faces, held back by guardsfrom the open space where the horse and the hurdle waited. A dozenpersons or so were within the guards; he knew several of them by sight;two or three were magistrates; another was an officer; two wereministers with their Bibles. 

It is hard to say whether he were afraid. Fear was there, indeed--heknew well enough that in his case, at any rate, the execution would bedone as the law ordered; that he would be cut down before he had time todie, and that the butchery would be done on him while he would still beconscious of it. Death, too, was fearful, in any case. .. . Yet there wereso many other things to occupy him--there was the exhilarating knowledgethat he was to die for his faith and nothing else; for they had offeredhim his life if he would go to church; and they had proved nothing as toany complicity of his in any plot, and how could they, since there wasnone? There was the pain of his tormented body to occupy him; a painthat had passed from the acute localized agonies of snapped sinews andwrenched joints into one vast physical misery that soaked his whole bodyas in a flood; a pain that never ceased; of which he dreamed darkly, asa hungry man dreams of food which he cannot eat, to which he awoke againtwenty times a night as to a companion nearer to him than the thoughtswith which he attempted to distract himself. This pain, at least, wouldhave an end presently. Again, there was an intermittent curiosity as tohow and what would befall his flying soul when the butchery was done. "To sup in Heaven" was a phrase used by one of his predecessors on thethreshold of death. .. . For what did that stand?. .. And at other timesthere had been no curiosity, but an acquiescence in old childish images. Heaven at such times appeared to him as a summer garden, with pavilions, and running water and the song of birds . .. A garden where he would lieat ease at last from his torn body and that feverish mind, which was allthat his pain had left to him; where Mary went, gracious and motherly, with her virgins about her; where the Crucified Lamb of God would talkwith him as a man talks with his friend, and allow him to lie at thePierced Feet . .. Where the glory of God rested like eternal sunlight onall that was there; on the River of Life, and the wood of the trees thatare for the healing of all hurts. 

And, last of all, there was a confused medley of more human thoughtsthat concerned persons other than himself. He could not remember all thepersons clearly; their names and their faces came and went. Marjorie, his father, Mr. John FitzHerbert and Mr. Anthony, who had been allowedto come and see him; Dick Sampson, who had come in with Marjorie thesecond time and had kissed his hands. One thing at least he rememberedclearly as he stood here, and that was how he had bidden MistressManners, even now, not to go overseas and become a nun, as she hadwished; but rather to continue her work in Derbyshire, if she could. 

So then he stood, bent double on two sticks, blinking and peering out atthe faces, wondering whether it was a roar of anger or welcome orcompassion that had broken out at his apparition, and smiling--smilingpiteously, not of deliberation, but because the muscles of his mouth somoved, and he could not contract them again. 

 * * * * *

He understood presently that he was to lie down on the hurdle, with hishead to the horses' heels. 

This was a great business, to be undertaken with care. He gave his twosticks to a man, and took his arm. Then he kneeled, clinging to the armas a child to a swimmer's in a rough sea, and sank gently down. But hecould not straighten his legs, so they allowed him to lie halfside-ways, and tied him so. It was amazingly uncomfortable, and, beforehe was settled, twice the sweat suddenly poured from his face as hefound some new channel of pain in his body. .. . 

An order or two was issued in a loud, shouting voice; there was a greatconfusion and scuffling, and the crack of a whip. Then, with a jerk thattore his whole being, he was flicked from his place; the pain swelledand swelled till there seemed no more room for it in all God's world;and he closed his eyes so as not to see the house-roofs and the facesand the sky whirl about in that mad jigging dance. .. . 

After that he knew very little of the journey. For the most part hiseyes were tight closed; he sobbed aloud half a dozen times as the hurdlelifted and dropped over rough places in the road. Two or three times heopened his eyes to see what the sounds signified, especially a loud, bellowing voice almost in his ear that cried texts of Scripture at him. 

"_We have but one Mediator between God and man, the Man ChristJesus_. .. . "

"_We then, being justified by faith. .. . For if by the works of the Lawwe are justified_. .. . "

He opened his eyes wide at that, and there was the face of one of theministers bobbing against the sky, flushed and breathless, yetindomitable, bawling aloud as he trotted along to keep pace with thehorse. 

Then he closed his eyes again. He knew that he, too, could bandy textsif that were what was required. Perhaps, if he were a better man andmore mortified, he might be able to do so as the martyrs sometimes haddone. But he could not . .. He would have a word to say presentlyperhaps, if it were permitted; but not now. His pain occupied him; hehad to deal with that and keep back, if he could, those sobs that werewrenched from him now and again. He had made but a poor beginning in hisjourney, he thought; he must die more decently than that. 

 * * * * *

The end came unexpectedly. Just when he thought he had gained hisself-control again, so as to make no sound at any rate, the hurdlestopped. He clenched his teeth to meet the dreadful wrench with which itwould move again; but it did not. Instead there was a man down by him, untying his bonds. He lay quite still when they were undone; he did notknow which limb to move first, and he dreaded to move any. 

"Now then, " said the voice, with a touch of compassion, he thought. 

He set his teeth, gripped the arm and raised himself--first to hisknees, then to his feet, where he stood swaying. An indescribable roarascended steadily on all sides; but he could see little of the crowd asyet. He was standing in a cleared space, held by guards. A couple ofdozen persons stood here; three or four on horseback; and one of thesehe thought to be my lord Shrewsbury, but he was not sure, since his headwas against the glare of the sun. He turned a little, still holding tothe man's arm, and not knowing what to do, and saw a ladder behind him;he raised his eyes and saw that its head rested against the cross-beamof a single gallows, that a rope hung from this beam, and that a figuresitting astride of this cross-beam was busy with this rope. The shock ofthe sight cooled and nerved him; rather, it drew his attention all fromhimself. .. . He looked lower again, and behind the gallows was a columnof heavy smoke going up, and in the midst of the smoke a cauldron hungon a tripod. Beside the cauldron was a great stump of wood, with achopper and a knife lying upon it. .. . He drew one long steady breath, expelled it again, and turned back to my lord Shrewsbury. As he turned, he saw him make a sign, and felt himself grasped from behind. 

III

He reached at last with his hands the rung of the ladder on which theexecutioner's foot rested, hearing, as he went painfully up, the roar ofvoices wax to an incredible volume. It was impossible for any to speakso that he could hear, but he saw the hands above him in eloquentgesture, and understood that he was to turn round. He did so cautiously, grasping the man's foot, and so rested, half sitting on a rung, andholding it as well as he could with his two hands. Then he felt a ropepass round his wrists, drawing them closer together. .. . As he turned, the roar of voices died to a murmur; the murmur died to silence, and heunderstood and remembered. It was now the time to speak. .. . He gatheredfor the last time all his forces together. With the sudden silence, clearness came back to his mind, and he remembered word for word thelittle speech he had rehearsed so often during the last week. He hadlearned it by heart, fearful lest God should give him no words if hetrusted to the moment, lest God should not see fit to give him even thatinterior consolation which was denied to so many of the saints--yetwithout which he could not speak from the heart. He had been right, heknew now: there was no religious consolation; he felt none of thatstrange heart-shaking ecstasy that had transfigured other deaths likehis; he had none of the ready wit that Campion had showed. He sawnothing but the clear October sky above him, cut by the roofs fringedwith heads (a skein of birds passed slowly over it as he raised hiseyes); and, beneath, that irreckonable pavement of heads, motionless nowas a cornfield in a still evening, one glimpse of the river--the river, he remembered even at this instant, that came down from Hathersage andPadley and his old home. But there was no open vision, such as he hadhalf hoped to see, no unimaginable glories looming slowly through theveils in which God hides Himself on earth, no radiant face smiling intohis own--only this arena of watching human faces turned up to his, waiting for his last sermon. .. . He thought he saw faces that he knew, though he lost them again as his eyes swept on--Mr. Barton, the oldminister of Matstead; Dick; Mr. Bassett. .. . Their faces lookedterrified. .. . However, this was not his affair now. 

As he was about to speak he felt hands about his neck, and then thetouch of a rope passed across his face. For an indescribable instant aterror seized on him; he closed his eyes and set his teeth. The spasmpassed, and so soon as the hands were withdrawn again, he began:

 * * * * *

"Good people"--(at the sound of his voice, high and broken, the silencebecame absolute. A thin crowing of a cock from far off in the countrycame like a thread and ceased)--"Good people: I die here as a Catholicman, for my priesthood, which I now confess before all the world. " (Astir of heads and movements below distracted him. But he went on atonce. ) "There have been alleged against me crimes in which I had neitheract nor part, against the life of her Grace and the peace of herdominions. "

"Pray for her Grace, " rang out a sharp voice below him. 

"I will do so presently. .. . It is for that that I am said to die, inthat I took part in plots of which I knew nothing till all was done. YetI was offered my life, if I would but conform and go to church; so yousee very well--"

A storm of confused voices interrupted him. He could distinguish nosentence, so he waited till they ceased again. 

"So you see very well, " he cried, "for what it is that I die. It is forthe Catholic faith--"

"Beat the drums! beat the drums!" cried a voice. There began a drumming;but a howl like a beast's surged up from the whole crowd. When it diedagain the drum was silent. He glanced down at my lord Shrewsbury and sawhim whispering with an officer. Then he continued:

"It is for the Catholic faith, then, that I die--that which was once thefaith of all England--and which, I pray, may be one day its faith again. In that have I lived, and in that will I die. And I pray God, further, that all who hear me to-day may have grace to take it as I do--as thetrue Christian Religion (and none other)--revealed by our SaviourChrist. "

The crowd was wholly quiet again now. My lord had finished hiswhispering, and was looking up. But the priest had made his littlesermon, and thought that he had best pray aloud before his strengthfailed him. His knees were already shaking violently under him, and thesweat was pouring again from his face, not so much from the effort ofhis speech as from the pain which that effort caused him. It seemed thatthere was not one nerve in his body that was not in pain. 

"I ask all Catholics, then, that hear me to join with me in prayer. .. . First, for Christ's Catholic Church throughout the world, for her peaceand furtherance. .. . Next, for our England, for the conversion of all herchildren; and, above all, for her Grace, my Queen and yours, that Godwill bless and save her in this world, and her soul eternally in thenext. For these and all other such matters I will beg all Catholics tojoin with me and to say the _Our Father_; and when I am in my agony tosay yet another for my soul. "

"_Our Father_. .. . "

From the whole packed space the prayer rose up, in great and heavy wavesof sound. There were cries of mockery three or four times, but each wassuddenly cut off. .. . The waves of sound rolled round and ceased, and thesilence was profound. The priest opened his eyes; closed them again. Then with a loud voice he began to cry:

"O Christ, as Thine arms were extended--"

 * * * * *

He stopped again, shaken even from that intense point of concentrationto which he was forcing himself, by the amazing sound that met his ears. He had heard, at the close of the _Our Father_, a noise which he couldnot interpret: but no more had happened. But now the whole world seemedscreaming and swaying: he heard the trample of horses beneathhim--voices in loud expostulation. 

He opened his eyes; the clamour died again at the same instant. .. . For amoment his eyes wandered over the heads and up to the sky, to see ifsome vision. .. . Then he looked down. .. . 

Against the ladder on which he stood, a man's figure was writhing andembracing the rungs kneeling on the ground. He was strangely dressed, insome sort of a loose gown, in a tight silk night-cap, and his feet werebare. The man's head was dropped, and the priest could not see his face. He looked beyond for some explanation, and there stood, all alone, agirl in a hooded cloak, who raised her great eyes to his. As he lookeddown again the man's head had fallen back, and the face was staring upat him, so distorted with speechless entreaty, that even he, at first, did not recognize it. .. . 

Then he saw it to be his father, and understood enough, at least, to actas a priest for the last time. 

He smiled a little, leaned his own head forward as from a cross, andspoke. .. . 

"_Absolvo te a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et SpiritusSancti_. .. . "

VI

He only awoke once again, after the strangling and the darkness hadpassed. He could see nothing, nor hear, except a heavy murmuring noise, not unpleasant. But there was one last Pain not into which all othershad passed, keen and cold like water, and it was about his heart. 

"O Christ--" he whispered, and so died. 

THE END