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?...