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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 Protesta
nt 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 com
pared 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. Itsdais 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 dais 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, an
d 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.