CHAPTER VII
I
The same Easter Day at Padley was another matter altogether.
As early as five o'clock in the morning the house was astir: lightsglimmered in upper rooms; footsteps passed along corridors and acrossthe court; parties began to arrive. All was done without ostentation,yet without concealment, for Padley was a solitary place, and had nofear, at this time, of a sudden descent of the authorities. For form'ssake--scarcely for more--a man kept watch over the valley road, andsignalled by the flashing of a lamp twice every party with which he wasacquainted, and there were no others than these to signal. A second manwaited by the gate into the court to admit them. They rode and walked infrom all round--great gentlemen, such as the North Lees family, camewith a small retinue; a few came alone; yeomen and farm servants, withtheir women-folk, from the Hathersage valley, came for the most part onfoot. Altogether perhaps a hundred and twenty persons were within PadleyManor--and the gate secured--by six o'clock.
Meanwhile, within, the priest had been busy since half-past four withthe hearing of confessions. He sat in the chapel beside the undeckedaltar, and they came to him one by one. The household and a few of thenearer neighbours had done their duty in this matter the day before, anda good number had already made their Easter duties earlier in Lent; soby six o'clock all was finished.
Then began the bustle.
A group of ladies, FitzHerberts and Fentons, entered, so soon as thepriest gave the signal by tapping on the parlour wall, bearing allthings necessary for the altar; and it was astonishing what fine thingsthese were; so that by the time that the priest was ready to vest, theplace was transformed. Stuffs and embroideries hung upon the wall aboutthe altar, making it seem, indeed, a sanctuary; two tall silvercandlesticks, used for no other purpose, stood upon the linen cloths,under which rested the slate altar-stone, taken, with the sacred vesselsand the vestments, from one of the privy hiding-holes, with whose secretnot a living being without the house, and not more than two or threewithin, was acquainted. It was rumored that half a dozen such places hadbeen contrived within the precincts, two of which were great enough tohold two or three men at a pinch.
* * * * *
Soon after six o'clock, then, the altar was ready and the priest stoodvested. He retired a pace from the altar, signed himself with the cross,and with Mr. John FitzHerbert and his son Thomas on either side of him,began the preparation....
It was a strange and an inspiriting sight that the young priest (for itwas Mr. Simpson who was saying the mass) looked upon as he turned roundafter the gospel to make his little sermon. From end to end the tinychapel was full, packed so that few could kneel and none sit down. Thetwo doors were open, and here two faces peered in; and behind, rankafter rank down the steps and along the little passage, the folk stoodor knelt, out of sight of both priest and altar, and almost out ofsound. The sanctuary was full of children--whose round-eyed, solemnfaces looked up at him--children who knew little or nothing of what waspassing, except that they were there to worship God, but who, for allthat, received impressions and associations that could never thereafterwholly leave them. The chapel was still completely dark, for the faintlight of dawn was excluded by the heavy hangings over the windows; andthere was but the light of the two tapers to show the people to oneanother and the priest to them all.
It was an inspiriting sight to him then--and one which well rewarded himfor his labours, since there was not a class from gentlemen to labourerswho was not represented there. The FitzHerberts, the Babingtons, theFentons--these, with their servants and guests, accounted for perhapshalf of the folk. From the shadow by the door peeped out the faces ofJohn Merton and his wife and son; beneath the window was the solemn faceof Mr. Manners the lawyer, with his daughter beside him, Robin Audreybeside her, and Dick his servant behind him. Surely, thought the youngpriest, the Faith could not be in its final decay, with such a gatheringas this.
His little sermon was plain enough for the most foolish there. He spokeof Christ's Resurrection; of how death had no power to hold Him, norpains nor prison to detain Him; and he spoke, too, of that mystical lifeof His which He yet lived in His body, which was the Church; of howDeath, too, stretched forth his hands against Him there, and yet had nomore force to hold Him than in His natural life lived on earth nearsixteen hundred years ago; how a Resurrection awaited Him here inEngland as in Jerusalem, if His friends would be constant andcourageous, not faithless, but believing.
"Even here," he said, "in this upper chamber, where we are gathered forfear of the Jews, comes Jesus and stands in the midst, the doors beingshut. Upon this altar He will be presently, the Lamb slain yet the Lambvictorious, to give us all that peace which the world can neither givenor take away."
And he added a few words of exhortation and encouragement, bidding themfear nothing whatever might come upon them in the future; to hold fastto the faith once delivered to the saints, and so to attain the heavenlycrown. He was not eloquent, for he was but a young man newly come fromcollege, with no great gifts. Yet not a soul there looked upon him, onhis innocent, wondering eyes and his quivering lips, but was moved bywhat he saw and heard.
The priest signed himself with the cross, and turned again to continuethe mass.
II
"You tell me, then," said the girl quietly, "that all is as it was withyou? God has told you nothing?"
Robin was silent.
* * * * *
Mass had been done an hour or more, and for the most part the companywas dispersed again, after refreshment spread in the hall, except forthose who were to stay to dinner, and these two had slipped away at lastto talk together in the woods; for the court was still filled withservants coming and going, and the parlours occupied. In one the ladieswere still busy with the altar furniture; in the other the priest sat totalk in private with those who were come from a distance; and as for thehall--this, too, was in the hands of the servants, since not less thanthirty gentle folk were to dine there that day.
Robin had come to Booth's Edge at the beginning of Passion week, and hadbeen there ever since. He had refrained, at Marjorie's entreaty, fromspeaking of her to her parents; and they, too, ruled by their daughter,had held their tongues on the matter. Everything else, however, hadbeen discussed--the effect of the squire's apostasy, the alternativesthat presented themselves to the boy, the future behaviour of him to hisfather--all these things had been spoken of; and even the priest calledinto council during the last two or three days. Yet not much had come ofit. If the worst came to the worst, the lawyer had offered the boy aplace in his office; Anthony Babington had proposed his coming toDethick if his father turned him out; while Robin himself inclined to athird alternative--the begging of his father to give him a sum of moneyand be rid of him; after which he proposed, with youthful vagueness, toset off for London and see what he could do there.
Marjorie, however, had seemed strangely uninterested in such proposals.She had listened with patience, bowing her head in assent to each,beginning once or twice a word of criticism, and stopping herself beforeshe had well begun. But she had looked at Robin with more than interest;and her mother had found her more than once on her knees in her ownchamber, in tears. Yet she had said nothing, except that she would speakher mind after Easter, perhaps.
And now, it seemed, she was doing it.
* * * * *
"You have had no other thought?" she said again, "besides those of whichyou talked with my father?"
They were walking together through the woods, half a mile along theHathersage valley. Beneath them the ground fell steeply away, above themit rose as steeply to the right. Underfoot the new life of spring wasbourgeoning in mould and grass and undergrowth; for the heather did notcome down so far as this; and the daffodils and celandine and wildhyacinth lay in carpets of yellow and blue, infinitely sweet, beneaththe shadow of the trees and in the open sunshine. (It was at this timethat the squire of Matstead
was entering the church and hearing of thepromises of the Lord to the sinner who forsook his sinful ways.)
"I have had other thoughts," said the boy slowly, "but they are so wildand foolish that I have determined to think no more of them."
"You are determined?"
He bowed his head.
"You are sure, then, that they are not from God?" asked the girl, tornbetween fear and hope. He was silent; and her heart sank again.
He looked, indeed, a bewildered boy, borne down by a weight that was tooheavy for his years. He walked with his hands behind his back, hishatless head bowed, regarding his feet and the last year's leaves onwhich he walked. A cuckoo across the valley called with the insistenceof one who will be answered.
"My Robin," said the girl, "the last thing I would have you do is totell me what you would not.... Will you not speak to the priest aboutit?"
"I have spoken to the priest."
"Yes?"
"He tells me he does not know what to think."
"Would you do this thing--whatever it may be--if the priest told you itwas God's will?"
There was a pause; and then:
"I do not know," said Robin, so low she could scarcely hear him.
She drew a deep breath to reassure herself.
"Listen!" she said. "I must say a little of what I think; but not all.Our Lord must finish it to you, if it is according to His will."
He glanced at her swiftly, and down again, like a frightened child. Yeteven in that glance he could see that it was all that she could do toforce herself to speak; and by that look he understood for the firsttime something of that which she was suffering.
"You know first," she said, "that I am promised to you. I hold thatpromise as sacred as anything on earth can be."
Her voice shook a little. The boy bowed his head again. She went on:
"But there are some things," she said, "more sacred than anything onearth--those things that come from heaven. Now, I wish to say this--andthen have done with it: that if such should be God's will, I would nothold you for a day. We are Catholics, you and I.... Your father--"
Her voice broke; and she stopped; yet without leaving go of her holdupon herself. Only she could not speak for a moment.
Then a great fury seized on the boy. It was one of those angers that fora while poison the air and turn all things sour; yet without obscuringthe mind--an anger in which the angry one strikes first at that which heloves most, because he loves it most, knowing, too, that the words hespeaks are false. For this, for the present, was the breaking-point inthe lad. He had suffered torments in his soul, ever since the hour inwhich he had ridden into the gate of his own home after his talk in theempty chapel; he had striven to put away from him that idea for whichthe girl's words had broken an entrance into his heart. And now shewould give him no peace; she continued to press on him from without thatwhich already pained him within; so he turned on her.
"You wish to be rid of me!" he cried fiercely.
She looked at him with her lips parted, her eyes astonished, and herface gone white.
"What did you say?" she said.
His conscience pierced him like a sword. Yet he set his teeth.
"You wish to be rid of me. You are urging me to leave you. You talk tome of God's will and God's voice, and you have no pity on me at all. Itis an excuse--a blind."
He stood raging. The very fact that he knew every word to be false madehis energy the greater; for he could not have said it otherwise.
"You think that!" she whispered.
There, then, they stood, eyeing one another. A stranger, coming suddenlyupon them, would have said it was a lovers' tiff, and have laughed atit. Yet it was a deeper matter than that.
Then there surged over the boy a wave of shame; and the truth prevailed.His fair face went scarlet; and his eyes filled with tears. He droppedon his knees in the leaves, seized her hand and kissed it.
"Oh! you must forgive me," he said. "But ... but I cannot do it!"
III
It was a great occasion in the hall that Easter Day. The three tables,which, according to custom, ran along the walls, were filled to-day withguests; and a second dinner was to follow, scarcely less splendid thanthe first, for their servants as well as for those of the household. Thefloor was spread with new rushes; jugs of March beer, a full month old,as it should be, were ranged down the tables; and by every plate lay aposy of flowers. From the passage outside came the sound of music.
The feast began with the reading of the Gospel; at the close, Mr. Johnstruck with his hand upon the table as a signal for conversation; thedoors opened; the servants came in, and a babble of talk broke out. Atthe high table the master of the house presided, with the priest on hisright, Mrs. Manners and Marjorie beyond him; on his left, Mrs. Fentonand her lord. At the other two tables Mr. Thomas presided at one and Mr.Babington at the other.
The talk was, of course, within the bounds of discretion; though onceand again sentences were spoken which would scarcely have pleased theminister of the parish. For they were difficult times in which theylived; and it is no wonder at all if bitterness mixed itself withcharity. Here was Mr. John, for instance, come to Padley expressly forthe selling of some meadows to meet his fines; here was his son Thomas,the heir now, not only to Padley, but to Norbury, whose lord, his uncle,lay in the Fleet Prison. Here was Mr. Fenton, who had suffered the likein the matter of fines more than once. Hardly one of the folk there buthad paid a heavy price for his conscience; and all the worship that waspermitted to them, and that by circumstance, and not by law, was such asthey had engaged in that morning with shuttered windows and a sentinelfor fear that, too, should be silenced.
They talked, then, guardedly of those things, since the servants were inand out continually, and though all professed the same faith as theirmasters, yet these were times that tried loyalty hard. Mr. John, indeed,gave news, of his brother Sir Thomas, and said how he did; and read aletter, too, from Italy, from his younger brother Nicholas, who was fledabroad after a year's prison at Oxford; but the climax of the talk camewhen dinner was over, and the muscadel, with the mould-jellies, had beenput upon the tables. It was at this moment that Mr. John nodded to hisson, who went to the door, to see the servants out, and stood by it tosee that none listened. Then his father struck his hands together forsilence, and himself spoke.
"Mr. Simpson," he said, "has something to say to us all. It is not amatter to be spoken of lightly, as you will understand presently.... Mr.Simpson."
The priest looked up timidly, pulling out a paper from his pocket.
"You have heard of Mr. Nelson?" he said to the company. "Well, he was apriest; and I have news of his death. He was executed in London on thethird of February for his religion. And another man, a Mr. Sherwood, wasexecuted a few days afterwards."
There was a rustle along the benches. Some there had heard of the fact,but no more; some had heard nothing of either the man or his death. Twoor three faces turned a shade paler; and then the silence settled downagain. For here was a matter that touched them all closely enough; sinceup to now scarcely a priest except Mr. Cuthbert Maine had suffered deathfor his religion; and even of him some of the more tolerant said that itwas treason with which he was charged. They had heard, indeed, of apriest or two having been sent abroad into exile for his faith; but themost of them thought it a thing incredible that in England at this timea man should suffer death for it. Fines and imprisonment were one thing;to such they had become almost accustomed. But death was another matteraltogether. And for a priest! Was it possible that the days of KingHarry were coming back; and that every Catholic henceforth should go inperil of his life as well as of liberty?
The folks settled themselves then in their seats; one or two men drankoff a glass of wine.
"I have heard from a good friend of mine in London," went on the priest,looking at his paper, "one who followed every step of the trial; andwas present at the death. They suffered at Tyburn.... However, I willtell you what he says. He is a countr
yman of mine, from Yorkshire; aswas Mr. Nelson, too.
"'Mr. Nelson was taken in London on the first of December last year. Hewas born at Shelton, and was about forty-three years old; he was the sonof Sir Nicholas Nelson.'
"So much," said the priest, looking up from his paper, "I knew myself. Isaw him about four years ago just before he went to Douay, and he cameback to England as a priest, a year and a half after. Mr. Sherwood wasnot a priest; he had been at Douay, too, but as a scholar only.... Well,we will speak of Mr. Nelson first. This is what my friend says."
He spread the paper before him on the table; and Marjorie, looking pasther mother, saw that his hands shook as he spread it.
"'Mr. Nelson,'" began the priest, reading aloud with some difficulty,"'was brought before my lords, and first had tendered to him the oath ofthe Queen's supremacy. This he refused to take, saying that no layprince could have pre-eminence over Christ's Church; and, upon beingpressed as to who then could have it, answered, Christ's Vicar only, thesuccessor of Peter. Further, he proceeded to say, under questioning,that since the religion of England at this time is schismatic andheretical, so also is the Queen's Grace who is head of it.
"'This, then, was what was wanted; and after a delay of a few weeks, thesame questions being put to him, and his answers being the same, he wassentenced to death. He was very fortunate in his imprisonment. I hadspeech with him two or three times and was the means, by God's blessing,of bringing another priest to him, to whom he confessed himself; andwith whom he received the Body of Christ a day before he suffered.
"'On the third of February, knowing nothing of his death being so near,he was brought up to a higher part of the prison, and there told he wasto suffer that day. His kinsmen were admitted to him then, to bid himfarewell; and afterwards two ministers came to turn him from his faithif they could; but they prevailed nothing.'"
There was a pause in the reading; but there was no movement among anythat listened. Robin, watching from his place at the right-hand table,cold at heart, ran his eyes along the faces. The priest was as white asdeath, with the excitement, it seemed, of having to tell such a tale.His host beside him seemed downcast and quiet, but perfectly composed.Mrs. Manners had her eyes closed; Anthony Babington was frowning tohimself with tight lips; Marjorie he could not see.
With a great effort the reader resumed:
"'When he was laid on the hurdle he refused to ask pardon of the Queen'sGrace; for, said he, I have never yet offended her. I was beside him,and heard it. And he added, when those who stood near stormed at him,that it was better to be hanged than to burn in hell-fire.
"'There was a great concourse of people at Tyburn, but kept back by theofficers so that they could not come at him. When he was in the cart,first he commended his spirit into God's Hands, saying _In manus tuas_,etc.; then he besought all Catholics that were present to pray for him;I saw a good many who signed themselves in the crowd; and then he saidsome prayers in Latin; with the psalms _Miserere_ and _De Profundis_.And then he addressed himself to the people, telling them he died forhis religion, which was the Catholic Roman one, and prayed, and desiredthem to pray, that God would bring all Englishmen into it. The crowdcried out at that, exclaiming against this _Catholic Romish Faith_; andso he said what he had to say, over again. Then, before the cart wasdrawn away from him to leave him to hang, he asked pardon of all them hehad offended, and even of the Queen, if he had indeed offended her. Thenone of the sheriffs called on the hangman to make an end; so Mr. Nelsonprayed again in silence, and then begged all Catholics that were thereonce more to pray that, by the bitter passion of Christ, his soul mightbe received into everlasting joy. And they did so; for as the cart wasdrawn away a great number cried out, and I with them, _Lord, receive hissoul_.
"'He was cut down, according to sentence, before he was dead, and thebutchery begun on him; and when it was near over, he moved a little inhis pain, and said that he forgave the Queen and all that caused orconsented to his death: and so he died.'"
The priest's voice, which had shaken again and again, grew so tremulousas he ended that those that were at the end of the hall could scarcelyhear him; and, as it ceased, a murmur ran along the seats.
Mr. FitzHerbert leaned over to the priest and whispered. The priestnodded, and the other held up his hand for silence.
"There is more yet," he said.
Mr. Simpson, with a hand that still shook so violently that he couldhardly hold his glass, lifted and drank off a cup of muscadel. Then hecleared his throat, sat up a little in his chair, and resumed:
"'Next I went to see Mr. Sherwood, to talk to him in prison and toencourage him by telling him of the passion of the other and how bravelyhe bore it. Mr. Sherwood took it very well, and said that he was afraidof nothing, that he had reconciled his mind to it long ago, and hadrehearsed it all two or three times, so that he would know what to sayand how to bear himself.'"
Mr. FitzHerbert leaned over again to the priest at this point andwhispered something. Mr. Simpson nodded, and raised his eyes.
"Mr. Sherwood," he said, "was a scholar from Douay, but not a priest. Hewas lodging in the house of a Catholic lady, and had procured mass to besaid there, and it was through her son that he was taken and chargedwith recusancy."
Again ran a rustle through the benches. This executing of the laity forreligion was a new thing in their experience. The priest lifted thepaper again.
"'I found that Mr. Sherwood had been racked many times in the Tower,during the six months he was in prison, to force him to tell, if theycould, where he had heard mass and who had said it. But they couldprevail nothing. Further, no visitor was admitted to him all this time,and I was the first and the last that he had; and that though Mr. Roperhimself had tried to get at him for his relief; for he was confinedunderground and lay in chains and filth not to be described. I said whatI could to him, but he said he needed nothing and was content, thoughhis pain must have been very great all this while, what with the rackingrepeated over and over again and the place he lay in.
"'I was present again when he suffered at Tyburn, but was too far awayto hear anything that he said, and scarcely, indeed, could see him; butI learned afterwards that he died well and courageously, as a Catholicshould, and made no outcry or complaint when the butchery was done onhim.
"'This, then, is the news I have to send you--sorrowful, indeed, yetjoyful, too; for surely we may think that they who bore such pains forChrist's sake with such constancy will intercede for us whom they leavebehind. I am hoping myself to come North again before I go to Douay nextyear, and will see you then and tell you more.'"
The priest laid down the paper, trembling.
Mr. FitzHerbert looked up.
"It will give pleasure to the company," he said, "to know that thewriter of the letter is Mr. Ludlam, from Radbourne, in this county. Asyou have heard, he, too, hopes by God's mercy to be made priest and tocome back to England."