Come Rack! Come Rope!

  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.

&nbsp
; 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."