CHAPTER VII
I
Marjorie found it curious, even to herself, how the press that faced thefoot of the two beds where she and Alice slept side by side, becameassociated in her mind with the thought of Robin; and she began toperceive that it was largely with the thought of him in her intentionthat the idea had first presented itself of having the cell constructedat all. It was not that in her deliberate mind she conceived that hewould be hunted, that he would fly here, that she would save him; butrather in that strange realm of consciousness which is called sometimesthe Imagination, and sometimes by other names--that inner shadow-show onwhich move figures cast by the two worlds--she perceived him in thisplace....
It was in the following winter that she was reminded of him by othermeans than those of his letters.
* * * * *
The summer and autumn had passed tranquilly enough, so far as thisoutlying corner of England was concerned. News filtered through of thestirring world outside, and especially was there conveyed to her,through Alice for the most part, news that concerned the fortunes ofCatholics. Politics, except in this connection, meant little enough tosuch as her. She heard, indeed, from time to time vague rumours offighting, and of foreign Powers; and thought now and again of Spain, asof a country that might yet be, in God's hand, an instrument for therestoring of God's cause in England; she had heard, too, in this year,of one more rumour of the Queen's marriage with the Duke d'Alencon, andthen of its final rupture. But these matters were aloof from her; rathershe pondered such things as the execution of two more priests at York inAugust, Mr. Lacy and Mr. Kirkman, and of a third, Mr. Thompson, inNovember at the same place. It was on such affairs as these that shepondered as she went about her household business, or sat in the chamberupstairs with Mistress Alice; and it was of these things that she talkedwith the few priests that came and went from time to time in theircircuits about Derbyshire. It was a life of quietness and monotonyinconceivable by those who live in towns. Its sole incident lay in thatlife which is called Interior....
It was soon after the New Year that she met the squire of Matstead faceto face.
* * * * *
She and Alice, with Janet and a man riding behind, were on their wayback from Derby, where they had gone for their monthly shopping. Theyhad slept at Dethick, and had had news there of Mr. Anthony, who wasagain in the south on one of his mysterious missions, and started againsoon after dawn next day to reach home, if they could, for dinner.
She knew Alice now for what she was--a woman of astounding dullness, ofsterling character, and of a complete inability to understand any shadesor tones of character or thought that were not her own, and yet a friendin a thousand, of an immovable stability and loyalty, one of no words atall, who dwelt in the midst of a steady kind of light which knew no dawnnor sunset. The girl entertained herself sometimes with conceiving ofher friend confronted with the rack, let us say, or the gallows; andperceived that she knew with exactness what her behaviour would be: Shewould do all that was required of her with out speeches or protest; shewould place herself in the required positions, with a faint smile,unwavering; she would suffer or die with the same tranquil steadiness asthat in which she lived; and, best of all, she would not be aware, evenfor an instant, that anything in her behaviour was in the leastadmirable or exceptional. She resembled, to Marjorie's mind, that forwhich a strong and well-built arm-chair stands in relation to the body:it is the same always, supporting and sustaining always, and cannot evenbe imagined as anything else.
* * * * *
It was a brilliant frosty day, as they rode over the rutted trackbetween hedges that served for a road, that ran, for the most part, afield or two away from the black waters of the Derwent. The birchesstood about them like frozen feathers; the vast chestnuts toweredoverhead, motionless in the motionless air. As they came towardsMatstead, and, at last, rode up the street, naturally enough Marjorieagain began to think of Robin. As they came near where the track turnedthe corner beneath the churchyard wall, where once Robin had watched,himself unseen, the three riders go by, she had to attend to her horse,who slipped once or twice on the paved causeway. Then as she lifted herhead again, she saw, not three yards from her, and on a level with herown face, the face of the squire looking at her from over the wall.
She had not seen him, except once in Derby, a year or two before, andthat at a distance, since Robin had left England; and at the sight shestarted so violently, in some manner jerking the reins that she held,that her horse, tired with the long ride of the day before, slipped onceagain, and came down all asprawl on the stones, fortunately throwing herclear of his struggling feet. She was up in a moment, but again sankdown, aware that her foot was in some way bruised or twisted.
There was a clatter of hoofs behind her as the servants rode up; achild or two ran up the street, and when, at last, on Janet's arm, sherose again to her feet, it was to see the squire staring at her, withhis hands clasped behind his back.
"Bring the ladies up to the house," he said abruptly to the man; andthen, taking the rein of the girl's horse that had struggled up again,he led the way, without another word, without even turning his head,round to the way that ran up to his gates.
II
It was not with any want of emotion that Marjorie found herselfpresently meekly seated upon Alice's horse, and riding up at afoot's-pace beneath the gatehouse of the Hall. Rather it was the balanceof emotions that made her so meek and so obedient to her friend'stranquil assumption that she must come in as the squire said. She wasaware of a strong resentment to his brusque order, as well as to thethought that it was to the house of an apostate that she was going; yetthere was a no less strong emotion within her that he had a sort ofright to command her. These feelings, working upon her, dazed as she wasby the sudden sharpness of her fall, and the pain in her foot, combinedto drive her along in a kind of resignation in the wake of the squire.
Still confused, yet with a rapid series of these same emotions runningbefore her mind, she limped up the steps, supported by Alice and hermaid, and sat down on a bench at the end of the hall. The squire, whohad shouted an order or two to a peeping domestic, as he passed up thecourt, came to her immediately with a cup in his hand.
"You must drink this at once, mistress."
She took it at once, drank and set it down, aware of the keen,angry-looking face that watched her.
"You will dine here, too, mistress--" he began, still with a sharpkindness.... And then, on a sudden, all grew dark about her; there was aroaring in her ears, and she fainted.
* * * * *
She came out of her swoon again, after a while, with that strange andinnocent clearness that usually follows such a thing, to find Alicebeside her, a tapestried wall behind Alice, and the sound of a cracklingfire in her ears. Then she perceived that she was in a small room, lyingon her back along a bench, and that someone was bathing her foot.
"I ... I will not stay here--" she began. But two hands held her firmlydown, and Alice's reassuring face was looking into her own.
* * * * *
When her mind ran clearly again, she sat up with a sudden movement,drawing her foot away from Janet's ministrations.
"I do very well," she said, after looking at her foot, and then puttingit to the ground amid a duet of protestations. (She had looked round theroom to satisfy herself that no one else was there, and had seen that itmust be the parlour that she was in. A newly-lighted fire burned on thehearth, and the two doors were closed.)
Then Alice explained.
It was impossible, she said, to ride on at once; the horse even now wasbeing bathed in the stable, as his mistress in the parlour. The squirehad been most considerate; he had helped to carry her in here just now,had lighted the fire with his own hands, and had stated that dinnerwould be sent in here in an hour for the three women. He had offered tosend one of his own me
n on to Booth's Edge with the news, if MistressMarjorie found herself unable to ride on after dinner.
"But ... but it is Mr. Audrey!" exclaimed Marjorie.
"Yes, my dear," said Alice. "I know it is. But that does not mend yourfoot," she said, with unusual curtness. And Marjorie saw that she stilllooked at her anxiously.
* * * * *
The three women dined together, of course, in an hour's time. There wasno escape from the pressure of circumstance. It was unfortunate thatsuch an accident should have fallen out here, in the one place in allthe world where it should not; but the fact was a fact. Meanwhile, itwas not only resentment that Marjorie felt: it was a strange sort ofterror as well--a terror of sitting in the house of an apostate--of onewho had freely and deliberately renounced that faith for which sheherself lived so completely; and that it was the father of one whom sheknew as she knew Robin--with whose fate, indeed, her own had been sointimately entwined--this combined to increase that indefinable fearthat rested on her as she stared round the walls, and sat over the foodand drink that this man provided.
The climax came as they were finishing dinner: for the door from thehall opened abruptly, and the squire came in. He bowed to the ladies, asthe manner was, straightening his trim, tight figure again defiantly;asked a civil question or two; directed a servant behind him to bringthe horses to the parlour door in half an hour's time; and then snappedout the sentence which he was, plainly, impatient to speak.
"Mistress Manners," he said, "I wish to have a word with you privately."
Marjorie, trembling at his presence, turned a wavering face to herfriend; and Alice, before the other could speak, rose up, and went out,with Janet following.
"Janet--" cried the girl.
"If you please," said the old man, with such a decisive air that shehesitated. Then she nodded at her maid; and a moment later the doorclosed.
III
"I have two matters to speak of," said the squire abruptly, sitting downin the chair that Alice had left; "the first concerns you closely; andthe other less closely."
She looked at him, summoning all her power to appear at her ease.
He seemed far older than when she had last spoken with him, perhaps fiveyears ago; and had grown a little pointed beard; his hair, too, seemedthinner--such of it as she could see beneath the house-cap that he wore;his face, especially about his blue, angry-looking eyes, was coveredwith fine wrinkles, and his hands were clearly the hands of an old man,at once delicate and sinewy. He was in a dark suit, still with his cloakupon him; and in low boots. He sat still as upright as ever, turned alittle in his chair, so as to clasp its back with one strong hand.
"Yes, sir?" she said.
"I will begin with the second first. It is of my son Robin: I wish toknow what news you have of him. He hath not written to me this sixmonths back. And I hear that letters sometimes come to you from him."
Marjorie hesitated.
"He is very well, so far as I know," she said.
"And when is he to be made priest?" he demanded sharply.
Marjorie drew a breath to give herself time; she knew that she must notanswer this; and did not know how to say so with civility.
"If he has not told you himself, sir," she said, "I cannot."
The old man's face twitched; but he kept his manners. "I understand you,mistress...." But then his wrath overcame him. "But he must understandhe will have no mercy from me, if he comes my way. I am a magistrate,now, mistress, and--"
A thought like an inspiration came to the girl; and she interrupted; forshe longed to penetrate this man's armour.
"Perhaps that was why he did not tell you when he was to be madepriest," she said.
The other seemed taken aback.
"Why, but--"
"He did not wish to think that his father would be untrue to his newcommission," she said, trembling at her boldness and yet exultant too;and taking no pains to keep the irony out of her voice.
Again that fierce twitch of the features went over the other's face; andhe stared straight at her with narrowed eyes. Then a change again cameover him; and he laughed, like barking, yet not all unkindly.
"You are very shrewd, mistress. But I wonder what you will think of mewhen I tell you the second matter, since you will tell me no more of thefirst."
He shifted his position in his chair, this time clasping both his handstogether over the back.
"Well; it is this in a word," he said: "It is that you had best look toyourself, mistress. My lord Shrewsbury even knows of it."
"Of what, if you please?" asked the girl, hoping she had not turnedwhite.
"Why, of the priests that come and go hereabouts! It is all known; andher Grace hath sent a message from the Council--"
"What has this to do with me?"
He laughed again.
"Well; let us take your neighbours at Padley. They will be in trouble ifthey do not look to their goings. Mr. FitzHerbert--"
But again she interrupted him. She was determined to know how much heknew. She had thought that she had been discreet enough, and that nonews had leaked out of her own entertaining of priests; it was chieflythat discretion might be preserved that she had set her hands to thework at all. With Padley so near it was thought that less suspicionwould be aroused. Her name had never yet come before the authorities, sofar as she knew.
"But what has all this to do with me, sir?" she asked sharply. "It istrue that I do not go to church, and that I pay my fines when they aredemanded: Are there new laws, then, against the old faith?"
She spoke with something of real bitterness. It was genuine enough; heronly art lay in her not concealing it; for she was determined to pressher question home. And, in his shrewd, compelling face, she read heranswer even before his words gave it.
"Well, mistress; it was not of you that I meant to speak--so much as ofyour friends. They are your friends, not mine. And as your friends, Ithought it to be a kindly action to send them an advertisement. If theyare not careful, there will be trouble."
"At Padley?"
"At Padley, or elsewhere. It is the persons that fall under the law, notplaces!"
"But, sir, you are a magistrate; and--"
He sprang up, his face aflame with real wrath.
"Yes, mistress; I am a magistrate: the commission hath come at last,after six months' waiting. But I was friend to the FitzHerberts beforeever I was a magistrate, and--"
Then she understood; and her heart went out to him. She, too, stood up,catching at the table with a hiss of pain as she threw her weight on thebruised foot. He made a movement towards her; but she waved him aside.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Audrey, with all my heart. I had thought thatyou meant harm, perhaps, to my friends and me. But now I see--"
"Not a word more! not a word more!" he cried harshly, with a desperatekind of gesture. "I shall do my duty none the less when the timecomes--"
"Sir!" she cried out suddenly. "For God's sake do not speak ofduty--there is another duty greater than that. Mr. Audrey--"
He wheeled away from her, with a movement she could not interpret. Itmight be uncontrolled anger or misery, equally. And her heart went outto him in one great flood.
"Mr. Audrey. It is not too late. Your son Robin--"
Then he wheeled again; and his face was distorted with emotion.
"Yes, my son Robin! my son Robin!... How dare you speak of him to me?...Yes; that is it--my son Robin--my son Robin!"
He dropped into the chair again, and his face fell upon his claspedhands.
IV
She scarcely knew how circumstances had arranged themselves up to thetime when she found herself riding away again with Alice, while a man ofMr. Audrey's led her horse. They could not talk freely till he leftthem at the place where the stony road turned to a soft track, and itwas safe going once more. Then Alice told her own side of it.
"Yes, my dear; I heard him call out. I was walking in the hall withJanet to keep ourselves warm. But when I r
an in he was sitting down, andyou were standing. What was the matter?"
"Alice," said the girl earnestly, "I wish you had not come in. He isvery heart-broken, I think. He would have told me more, I think. It isabout his son."
"His son! Why, he--"
"Yes; I know that. And he would not see him if he came back. He has hadhis magistrate's commission; and he will be true to it. But he isheart-broken for all that. He has not really lost the Faith, I think."
"Why, my dear; that is foolish. He is very hot in Derby, I hear, againstthe Papists. There was a poor woman who could not pay her fines; and--"
Marjorie waved it aside.
"Yes; he would be very hot; but for all that, there is his son Robin youknow--and his memories. And Robin has not written to him for six months.That would be about the time when he told him he was to be amagistrate."
Then Marjorie told her of the whole that had passed, and of his mentionof the FitzHerberts.
"And what he meant by that," she said, "I do not know; but I will tellthem."
* * * * *
She was pondering deeply all the way as she rode home. Mistress Alicewas one of those folks who so long as they are answered in words arecontent; and Marjorie so answered her. And all the while she thoughtupon Robin, and his passionate old father, and attempted to understandthe emotions that fought in the heart that had so disclosed itself toher--its aged obstinacy, its loyalty and its confused honourableness.She knew very well that he would do what he conceived to be his dutywith all the more zeal if it were an unpleasant duty; and she thankedGod that it was not for a good while yet that the lad would come home apriest.