CHAPTER VII
I
There was a vast crowd in the market-place at Michaelmas to see thejudges come--partly because there was always excitement at the visiblemajesty of the law; partly because the tale of one at least of theprisoners had roused interest. It was a dramatic tale: he was first aseminary priest and a Derbyshire man (many remembered him riding as alittle lad beside his father); he was, next, a runaway to Rheims forreligion's sake, when his father conformed; third, he had been taken inthe house of Mistress Manners, to whom, report said, he had once beenbetrothed; last, he had been taken by his father himself. All thisfurnished matter for a quantity of conversation in the taverns; and itwas freely discussed by the sentimental whether or no, if the priestyielded and conformed, he would yet find Mistress Manners willing to wedhim.
* * * * *
Signs of the Armada rejoicings still survived in the market-place as thejudges rode in. Streamers hung in the sunshine, rather bedraggled afterso long, from the roof and pillars of the Guildhall, and a greatsmoke-blackened patch between the conduit and the cross marked where theox had been roasted. There was a deal of loyal cheering as theprocession went by; for these splendid personages on horseback stood tothe mob for the power that had repelled the enemies of England; and herGrace's name was received with enthusiasm. Behind the judges and theirescort came a cavalcade of riders--gentlemen, grooms, servants, andagents of all sorts. But not a Derby man noticed or recognised a thingentleman who rode modestly in the midst, with a couple of personalservants on either side of him. It was not until the visitors hadseparated to the various houses and inns where they were to be lodged,and the mob was dispersing home again, that it began to be rumouredeverywhere that Mr. Topcliffe was come again to Derby on a specialmission.
II
The tidings came to Marjorie as she leaned back in her chair in Mr.Biddell's parlour and listened to the last shoutings.
* * * * *
She had been in town now three days.
Ever since the capture she had been under guard in her own house tillthree days ago. Four men had been billeted upon her, not, indeed, by theorders of Mr. Audrey, since Mr. Audrey was in no condition to controlaffairs any longer, but by the direction of Mr. Columbell, who hadhimself ridden out to take charge at Booth's Edge, when the news of thearrest had come, with the prisoner himself, to the city. It was he, too,who had seen to the removal of Mr. Audrey a week later, when he hadrecovered from the weakness caused by the fit sufficiently to travel asfar as Derby; for it was thought better that the magistrate who hadeffected the capture should be accessible to the examining magistrates.It was, of course, lamentable, said Mr. Columbell, that father and sonshould have been brought into such relations, and he would do all thathe could to relieve Mr. Audrey from any painful task in which they coulddo without him. But her Grace's business must be done, and he had hadspecial messages from my lord Shrewsbury himself that the prisoner mustbe dealt with sternly. It was believed, wrote my lord, that Mr. Alban,as he called himself, had a good deal more against him than the merefact of being a seminary priest: it was thought that he had beeninvolved in the Babington plot, and had at least once had access to theQueen of the Scots since the fortunate failure of the conspiracy.
All this, then, Marjorie knew from Mr. Biddell, who seemed always toknow everything; but it was not until the evening on which the judgesarrived that she learned the last and extreme measures that wouldbe taken to establish these suspicions. She had ridden openly to Derby sosoon as the news came from there that for the present she might be setat liberty.
The lawyer came into the darkening room as the square outside began togrow quiet, and Marjorie opened her eyes to see who it was.
He said nothing at first, but sat down close beside her. He knew shemust be told, but he hated the telling. He carried a little paper in hishand. He would begin with that little bit of good news first, he said tohimself.
"Well, mistress," he said, "I have the order at last. We are to see himto-night. It is 'for Mr. Biddell and a friend.'"
She sat up, and a little vitality came back to her face; for a momentshe almost looked as she had looked in the early summer.
"To-night?" she said. "And when--"
"He will not be brought before my lords for three or four days yet.There is a number of cases to come before his. It will give us those twoor three days, at least, to prepare our case."
He spoke heavily and dejectedly. Up to the present he had been utterlyrefused permission to see his client; and though he knew the outlines ofthe affair well enough, he knew very little of the thousand details onwhich the priest would ask his advice. It was a hopeless affair, itappeared to the lawyer, in any case. And now, with this last piece oftidings, he knew that there was, indeed, nothing to be said except wordsof encouragement.
He listened with the same heavy air to Mistress Manners as she said aword or two as to what must be spoken of to Robin. She was very quietand collected, and talked to the point. But he said nothing.
"What is the matter, sir?" she said.
He lifted his eyes to hers. There was still enough light from thewindows for him to see her eyes, and that there was a spark in them thathad not been there just now. And it was for him to extinguish it.... Hegripped his courage.
"I have had worse news than all," he said.
Her lips moved, and a vibration went over her face. Her eyes blinked, asat a sudden light.
"Yes?"
He put his hand tenderly on her arm.
"You must be courageous," he said. "It is the worst news that ever cameto me. It concerns one who is come from London to-day, and rode in withmy lords."
She could not speak, but her great eyes entreated him to finish hermisery.
"Yes," he said, still pressing his hand on to her arm. "Yes; it is Mr.Topcliffe who is come."
* * * * *
He felt the soft muscles harden like steel.... There was no sound exceptthe voices talking in the square and the noise of footsteps across thepavements. He could not look at her.
Then he heard her draw a long breath and breathe it out again, and hertaut muscles relaxed.
"We ... we are all in Christ's hands," she said.... "We must tell him."
III
It appeared to the girl as if she were moving on a kind of set stage,with every movement and incident designed beforehand, in a play that wasitself a kind of destiny--above all, when she went at last into Robin'scell and saw him standing there, and found it to be that in which solong ago she had talked with Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert....
The great realities were closing round her, as irresistible as wheelsand bars. There was scarcely a period in her life, scarcely a voluntaryaction of hers for good or evil, that did not furnish some part of thisvast machine in whose grip both she and her friend were held so fast. Nocalculation on her part could have contrived so complete a climax; yethardly a calculation that had not gone astray from that end to which shehad designed it. It was as if some monstrous and ironical power had beenbeneath and about her all her life long, using those thoughts andactions that she had intended in one way to the development of another.
First, it was she that had first turned her friend's mind to the life ofa priest. Had she submitted to natural causes, she would have been hiswife nine years ago; they would have been harassed no doubt andtroubled, but no more. It was she again that had encouraged his returnto Derbyshire. If it had not been for that, and for the efforts she hadmade to do what she thought good work for God, he might have been sentelsewhere. It was in her house that he had been taken, and in the veryplace she had designed for his safety. If she had but sent him on, as hewished, back to the hills again, he might never have been taken at all.These, and a score of other thoughts, had raced continually through hermind; she felt even as if she were responsible for the manner of histaking, and for the horror that it had been his father who hadaccomplished it; if she had said more, or l
ess, in the hall of that darkmorning; if she had not swooned; if she had said bravely: "It is yourson, sir, who is here," all might have been saved. And now it wasTopcliffe who was come--(and she knew all that this signified)--the veryman at whose mere bodily presence she had sickened in the court of theTower. And, last, it was she who had to tell Robin of this.
So tremendous, however, had been the weight of these thoughts upon her,crowned and clinched (so to say) by finding that the priest was even inthe same cell as that in which she had visited the traitor, that therewas no room any more for bitterness. Even as she waited, with Mr.Biddell behind her, as the gaoler fumbled with the keys, she was awarethat the last breath of resentment had been drawn.... It was, indeed, amonstrous Power that had so dealt with her.... It was none other thanthe Will of God, plain at last.
* * * * *
She knelt down for the priest's blessing, without speaking, as the doorclosed, and Mr. Biddell knelt behind her. Then she rose and went forwardto the stool and sat upon it.
* * * * *
He was hardly changed at all. He looked a little white and drawn in thewavering light of the flambeau; but his clothes were orderly and clean,and his eyes as bright and resolute as ever.
"It is a great happiness to see you," he said, smiling, and then no morecompliments.
"And what of my father?" he added instantly.
She told him. Mr. Audrey was in Derby, still sick from his fit. He wasin Mr. Columbell's house. She had not seen him.
"Robin," she said (and she used the old name, utterly unknowing that shedid so), "we must speak with Mr. Biddell presently about your case. Butthere is a word or two I have to say first. We can have two hours here,if you wish it."
Robin put his hands behind him on to the table and jumped lightly, sothat he sat on it, facing her.
"If you will not sit on the table, Mr. Biddell, I fear there is onlythat block of wood."
He pointed to a, block of a tree set on end. It served him, laid flat,as a pillow. The lawyer went across to it.
"The judges, I hear, are come to-night," said the priest.
She bowed.
"Yes; but your case will not be up for three or four days yet."
"Why, then, I shall have time--"
She lifted her hand sharply a little to check him.
"You will not have much time," she said, and paused again. A sharpcontraction came and went in the muscles of her throat. It was as if aband gripped her there, relaxed, and gripped again. She put up her ownhand desperately to tear at her collar.
"Why, but--" began the priest.
She could bear it no more. His resolute cheerfulness, his frankastonishment, were like knives to her. She gave one cry.
"Topcliffe is come ... Topcliffe!..." she cried. Then she flung her armacross the table and dropped her face on it. No tears came from hereyes, but tearing sobs shook and tormented her.
It was quite quiet after she had spoken. Even in her anguish she knewthat. The priest did not stir from where he sat a couple of feet away;only the swinging of his feet ceased. She drove down her convulsions;they rose again; she drove them down once more. Then the tears surgedup, her whole being relaxed, and she felt a hand on her shoulder.
"Marjorie," said the grave voice, as steady as it had ever been,"Marjorie. This is what we looked for, is it not?... Topcliffe is come,is he? Well, let him come. He or another. It is for this that we haveall looked since the beginning. Christ His Grace is strong enough, is itnot? It hath been strong enough for many, at least; and He will notsurely take it from me who need it so much...." (He spoke in pauses, buthis voice never faltered.) "I have prayed for that grace ever since Ihave been here.... He hath given me great peace in this place.... Ithink He will give it me to the end.... You must pray, my ... my child;you must not cry like that."
(She lifted her agonized face for a moment, then she let it fall again.It seemed as if he knew the very thoughts of her.)
"This all seems very perfect to me," he went on. "It was yourself whofirst turned me to this life, and you knew surely what you did. I knew,at least, all the while, I think; and I have never ceased to thank God.And it was through your hands that the letter came to me to go toFotheringay. And it was in your house that I was taken.... And it wasMr. Maine's beads that they found on me when they searched me here--thepair of beads you gave me."
Again she stared at him, blind and bewildered.
He went on steadily:
"And now it is you again who bring me the first news of my passion. Itis yourself, first and last, under God, that have brought me all thesegraces and crosses. And I thank you with all my heart.... But you mustpray for me to the end, and after it, too."