CHAPTER I
I
"There is no more to be said, then," said Marjorie, and leaned back,with a white, exhausted face. "We can do no more."
* * * * *
It was a little council of Papists that was gathered--a year after theQueen's death at Fotheringay--in Mistress Manners' parlour. Mr. JohnFitzHerbert was there; he had ridden up an hour before with heavy newsfrom Padley and its messenger. Mistress Alice was there, quiet as ever,yet paler and thinner than in former years (Mistress Babington herselfhad gone back to her family last year). And, last, Robin himself wasthere, having himself borne the news from Derby.
He had had an eventful year, yet never yet had he come within reach ofthe pursuivant. But he had largely effected this by the particular carewhich he had observed with regard to Matstead, and his silence as to hisown identity. Extraordinary care, too, was observed by his friends, whohad learned by now to call him even in private by his alias; and itappeared certain that beyond a dozen or two of discreet persons it wasutterly unsuspected that the stately bearded young gentleman named Mr.Robert Alban--the "man of God," as, like other priests, he was commonlycalled amongst the Catholics--had any connection whatever with thehawking, hunting, and hard-riding lover of Mistress Manners. It wasknown, indeed, that Mr. Robin had gone abroad years ago to be madepriest; but those who thought of him at all, or, at least as returned,believed him sent to some other part of England, for the sake of hisfather, and it was partly because of the very fact that his father wasso hot against the Papists that it had been thought safe at Rheims tosend him to Derbyshire, since this would be the very last place in whichhe would be looked for.
He had avoided Matstead then--riding through it once only by night, withstrange emotions--and had spent most of his time in the south ofDerbyshire, crossing more than once over into Stafford and Chester, andreturning to Padley or to Booth's Edge once in every three or fourmonths. He had learned a hundred lessons in these wanderings of his.
The news that he had now brought with him was of the worst. He had heardfrom Catholics in Derby that Mr. Simpson, returned again after hisbanishment, recaptured a month or two ago, and awaiting trial at theLent Assizes, was beginning to falter. Death was a certainty for himthis time, and it appeared that he had seemed very timorous before twoor three friends who had visited him in gaol, declaring that he had doneall that a man could do, that he was being worn out by suffering andprivation, and that there was some limit, after all, to what GodAlmighty should demand.
Marjorie had cried out just now, driven beyond herself at the thought ofwhat all this must mean for the Catholics of the countryside, many ofwhom already had fallen away during the last year or two beneath thepitiless storm of fines, suspicions, and threats--had cried out that itwas impossible that such a man as Mr. Simpson could fall; that the ruinit would bring upon the Faith must be proportionate to the influence healready had won throughout the country by his years of labour;entreating, finally, when the trustworthiness of the report had beenforced upon her at last, that she herself might be allowed to go andsee him and speak with him in prison.
This, however, had been strongly refused by her counsellors just now.They had declared that her help was invaluable; that the amazing mannerin which her little retired house on the moors had so far evaded gravesuspicion rendered it one of the greatest safeguards that the huntedCatholics possessed; that the work she was doing by her organization ofmessengers and letters must not be risked, even for the sake of a matterlike this....
She had given in at last. But her spirit seemed broken altogether.
II
"There is one more matter," said Robin presently, uncrossing onesplashed leg from over the other. "I had not thought to speak of it; butI think it best now to do so. It concerns myself a little; and,therefore, if I may flatter myself, it concerns my friends, too."
He smiled genially upon the company; for if there was one thing morethan another he had learned in his travels, it was that the tragic airnever yet helped any man.
Marjorie lifted her eyes a moment.
"Mistress Manners," he said, "you remember my speaking to you afterFotheringay, of a fellow of my lord Shrewsbury's who honoured me withhis suspicions?"
She nodded.
"I have never set eyes on him from that day to this--to this," he added."And this morning in the open street in Derby whom should I meet withbut young Merton and his father. (Her Grace's servants have sufferedhorribly since last year. But that is a tale for another day.) Well: Istopped to speak with these two. The young man hath left Mr. Melville'sservice a while back, it seems; and is to try his fortune in France.Well; we were speaking of this and that, when who should come by but aparty of men and my lord Shrewsbury in the midst, riding with Mr. RogerColumbell; and immediately behind them my friend of the 'New Inn' ofFotheringay. It was all the ill-fortune in the world that it should beat such moment; if he had seen me alone he would have thought no more ofme; but seeing me with young Jack Merton, he looked from one to theother. And I will stake my hat he knew me again."
Marjorie was looking full at him now.
"What was my lord Shrewsbury doing in Derby with Mr. Columbell?" musedMr. John, biting his moustaches.
"It was the very question I put to myself," said Robin. "And I took theliberty of seeing where they went. They went to Mr. Columbell's ownhouse, and indoors of it. The serving-men held the horses at the door. Iwatched them awhile from Mr. Biddell's window; but they were still therewhen I came away at last."
"What hour was that?" asked the old man.
"That would be after dinner-time. I had dined early; and I met themafterwards. My lord would surely be dining with Mr. Columbell. But thatis no answer to my question. It rather pierces down to the furtherpoint, Why was my lord Shrewsbury dining with Mr. Columbell? Shrewsburyis a great lord; Mr. Columbell is a little magistrate. My lord hath hisown house in the country, and there be good inns in Derby."
He stopped short.
"What is the matter, Mistress Manners?" he asked.
"What of yourself?" she said sharply; "you were speaking of yourself."
Robin laughed.
"I had forgotten myself for once!... Why, yes; I intended to ask thecompany what I had best do. What with this news of Mr. Simpson, and thereport Mistress Manners gives us of the country-folk, a poor priest mustlook to himself in these days; and not for his own sake only. Now, mylord Shrewsbury's man knows nothing of me except that I had strangebusiness at Fotheringay a year ago. But to have had strange business atFotheringay a year ago is a suspicious circumstance; and--"
"Mr. Alban," broke in the old man, "you had best do nothing at all. Youwere not followed from Derby; you are as safe in Padley or here as youcould be anywhere in England. All that you had best do is to remain herea week or two and not go down to Derby again for the present. I thinkthat showing of yourself openly in towns hath its dangers as well as itssafeguards."
Mr. John glanced round. Marjorie bowed her head in assent.
"I will do precisely as you say," said Robin easily. "And now for thenews of her Grace's servants."
He had already again and again told the tale of Fotheringay so far as hehad seen it in this very parlour. At first he had hardly found himselfable to speak of it without tears. He had described the scene he hadlooked upon when, in the rush that had been made towards the hall afterMary's head had been shown at the window, he had found a place, and hadbeen forced along, partly with his will and partly against it, rightthrough the great doors into the very place where the Queen hadsuffered; and he had told the story so well that his listeners hadseemed to see it for themselves--the great hall hung with blackthroughout; the raised scaffold at the further end beside the fire thatblazed on the wide hearth; the Queen's servants being led awayhalf-swooning as he came in; the dress of velvet, the straw and thebloody sawdust, the beads and all the other pitiful relics being heapedupon the fire as he stood there in the struggling mob; and, above all,the fallen body, in
its short skirt and bodice lying there where it fellbeside the low, black block. He had told all this as he had seen it forhimself, until the sheriff's men drove them all forth again into thecourt; and he had told, too, of all that he had heard afterwards, thathad happened until my lord Shrewsbury's son had ridden out at a gallopto take the news to court, and the imprisoned watchers had been allowedto leave the Castle; how the little dog, that he had heard wailing, hadleapt out as the head fell at the third stroke, so that he was allbathed in his mistress' blood--one of the very spaniels, no doubt, whichhe himself had seen at Chartley; how the dog was taken away and washedand given afterwards into Mr. Melville's charge; how the body and thehead had been taken upstairs, had been roughly embalmed, and laid in alocked chamber; how her servants had been found peeping through thekeyhole and praying aloud there, till Sir Amyas had had the hole stoppedup. He had told them, too, of the events that followed; of the mass M.de Preau had been permitted to say in the Queen's oratory on the morningafter; and of the oath that he had been forced to take that he would notsay it again; of the destruction of the oratory and the confiscation ofthe altar furniture and vestments.
All this he had told, little by little; and of the Queen's noble bearingupon the scaffold, her utter fearlessness, her protestations that shedied for her religion and for that only, and of the pesterings of Dr.Fletcher, Dean of Peterborough, who had at last given over in despair,and prayed instead. The rest they knew for themselves--of the miserablefalseness of Elizabeth, who feigned, after having signed the warrant andsent it, that it was Mr. Davison's fault for doing as she told him; andof her accusations (accusations that deceived no man) against those whohad served her; of the fires made in the streets of all great towns as amark of official rejoicing over Mary's death; and of the pitifulrestitution made by the great funeral in Peterborough, six months after,and the royal escutcheons and the tapers and the hearse, and all therest of the lying pretences by which the murderess sought to absolve hervictim from the crime of being murdered. Well; it was all over....
* * * * *
And now he told them of what he had heard to-day from young Merton inDerby; of how Nau, Mary's French secretary--the one who had served herfor eleven years and had been loaded by her kindness--had been rewardedalso by Elizabeth, and that the nature of his services was unmistakable;while all the rest of them, who had refused utterly to take any part inthe insolent mourning at Peterborough, either in the Cathedral or at thebanquet, had fallen under her Grace's displeasure, so that some of them,even now, were scarcely out of ward, Mr. Bourgoign alone excepted, sincehe was allowed to take the news of the death to their Graces of France,and had, most wisely, remained there ever since.
* * * * *
So the party sat round the fire in the same little parlour where theyhad sat so often before, with the lutes and wreaths embroidered on thehangings and Icarus in the chariot of the sun; and Robin, after tellinghis tale, answered question after question, till silence fell, and allsat motionless, thinking of the woman who, while dead, yet spoke.
Then Mr. John stood up, clapped the priest on the back, and said thatthey two must be off to Padley for the night.
III
They had all risen to their feet when a knocking came on the door, andJanet looked in. She seemed a little perturbed.
"If you please, sir," she said to Mr. John, "one of your men is come upfrom Padley; and wishes to speak to you alone."
Mr. John gave a quick glance at the others.
"If you will allow me," he said, "I will go down and speak with him inthe hall."
The rest sat down again. It was the kind of interruption that might bewholly innocent; yet, coming when it did, it affected them a little.There seemed to be nothing but bad news everywhere.
The minutes passed, yet no one returned. Once Marjorie went to the doorand listened, but there was only the faint wail of the winter wind upthe stairs to be heard. Then, five minutes later, there were steps andMr. John came in. His face looked a little stern, but he smiled with hismouth.
"We poor Papists are in trouble again," he said. "Mistress Manners, youmust let us stay here all night, if you will; and we will be off earlyin the morning. There is a party coming to us from Derby--to-morrow ornext day: it is not known which."
"Why, yes! And what party?" said Marjorie, quietly enough, though shemust have guessed its character. The smile left his mouth.
"It is my son that is behind it," he said. "I had wondered we had nothad news of him! There is to be a general search for seminarists in theHigh Peak" (he glanced at Robin), "by order of my lord Shrewsbury. Yournamesake, mistress, Mr. John Manners, and our friend Mr. Columbell, arecommissioned to search; and Mr. Fenton and myself are singled out to beapprehended immediately. Thomas knows that I am at Padley, and that Mr.Eyre will come in there for Candlemas, the day after to-morrow; in thatI recognize my son's knowledge. Well, I will dispatch my man who broughtthe news to Mr. Eyre to bid him to avoid the place; and we two, Mr.Alban and myself, will make our way across the border into Stafford."
"There are none others coming to Padley to-morrow?" asked Marjorie.
"None that I know of. They will come in sometimes without warning; but Icannot help that. Mr. Fenton will be at Tansley: he told me so."
"How did the news come?" asked Robin.
"It seems that the preacher Walton, in Derby, hath been warned that weshall be delivered to him two days hence. It was his servant that toldone of mine. I fear he will be a-preparing his sermons to us, all fornothing."
He smiled bitterly again. Robin could see the misery in this man's heartat the thought that it was his own son who had contrived this. Mr.Thomas had been quiet for many months, no doubt in order to strike themore surely in his new function as "sworn man" of her Grace. Yet hewould seem to have failed.
"We shall not get our candles then, this year either," smiled Mr.Thomas. "Lanterns are all that we shall have."
* * * * *
There was not much time to be lost. Luggage had to be packed, since itwould not be safe for the three to return until at least two or threeweeks had passed; and Marjorie, besides, had to prepare a list of placesand names that must be dealt with on their way--places where word mustbe left that the hunt was up again, and names of particular personsthat were to be warned. Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam were in the county,and these must be specially informed, since they were known, and Mr.Garlick in particular had already suffered banishment and returnedagain, so that there would be no hope for him if he were once morecaptured.
The four sat late that night; and Robin wondered more than ever, notonly at the self-command of the girl, but at her extraordinary knowledgeof Catholic affairs in the county. She calculated, almost withoutmistake, as was afterwards shown, not only which priests were inDerbyshire, but within a very few miles of where they would be and atwhat time: she showed, half-smiling, a kind of chart which she had drawnup, of the movements of the persons concerned, explaining the plan bywhich each priest (if he desired) might go on his own circuit where hewould be most needed. She lamented, however, the fewness of the priests,and attributed to this the growing laxity of many families--living, itmight be, in upland farms or in inaccessible places, where they couldbut very seldom have the visits of the priest and the strength of thesacraments.
Before midnight, therefore, the two travellers had complete directionsfor their journey, as well as papers to help their memories, as to wherethe news was to be left. And at last Mr. John stood up and stretchedhimself.
"We must go to bed," he said. "We must be booted by five."
Marjorie nodded to Alice, who stood up, saying she would show him wherehis bed had been prepared.
Robin lingered for a moment to finish his last notes.
"Mr. Alban," said Marjorie suddenly, without lifting her eyes from thepaper on which she wrote.
"Yes?"
"You will take care to-morrow, will you not?" she said. "Mr
. John is alittle hot-headed. You must keep him to his route?"
"I will do my best," said Robin, smiling.
She lifted her clear eyes to his without tremor or shame.
"My heart would be broken altogether if aught happened to you. I look toyou as our Lord's chief soldier in this county."
"But--"
"That is so," she said. "I do not know any man who has been made perfectin so short a time. You hold us all in your hands."