Come Rack! Come Rope!

  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 continu
e 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.