CHAPTER VIII
I
In the following week Robin went home again.
The clear weather of Easter had broken, and racing clouds, thick as apall, sped across the sky that had been so blue and so cheerful; a windscreamed all day, now high, now low, shattering the tender flowers ofspring, ruffling the Derwent against its current, by which he rode, anddashing spatters of rain now and again on his back, tossing high andwide the branches under which he went, until the woods themselves becameas a great melancholy organ, making sad music about him.
When a mind is fluent and uncertain there is no describing it. Hethought he had come to a decision last week; he found that the decisionwas shattered as soon as made. He had talked to the priest; he hadresisted Marjorie; and yet to neither of them had he put into formalwords what it was that troubled him. He had asked questions aboutvocation, about the place that circumstance occupies in it, of the valueof dispositions, fears, scruples, and resistance. He had, that is,fingered his wound, half uncovered it, and then covered it up again,tormented it, glanced at it and then glanced aside; yet the one thing hehad not done was to probe it--not even to allow another to do so.
His mind, then, was fluent and distracted; it formed images before him,which dissolved as soon as formed; it whirled in little eddies; it threwup obscuring foam; it ran clear one instant, and the next broke itselfin rapids. He could neither ease it, nor dam it altogether, and he didnot know what to do.
As he rode through Froggatt, he saw a group of saddle-horses standingat the inn door, but thought nothing of it, till a man ran out of thedoor, still holding his pot, and saluted him, and he recognised him tobe one of Mr. Babington's men.
"My master is within, sir," he said; "he bade me look out for you."
Robin drew rein, and as he did so, Anthony, too, came out.
"Ah!" he said. "I heard you would be coming this way. Will you come in?I have something to say to you."
Robin slipped off, leaving his mare in the hands of Anthony's man, sincehe himself was riding alone, with his valise strapped on behind.
It was a little room, very trim and well kept, on the first floor, towhich his friend led him. Anthony shut the door carefully and cameacross to the settle by the window-seat.
"Well," he said, "I have bad news for you, my friend. Will you forgiveme? I have seen your father and had words with him."
"Eh?"
"I said nothing to you before," went on the other, sitting down besidehim. "I knew you would not have it so, but I went to see for myself andto put a question or two. He is your father, but he has also been myfriend. That gives me rights, you see!"
"Tell me," said Robin heavily.
It appeared that Anthony, who was a precise as well as an ardent youngman, had had scruples about trusting to hearsay. Certainly it wasrumoured far and wide that the squire of Matstead had done as he hadsaid he would do, and gone to church; but Mr. Anthony was one of thosespirits who will always have things, as they say, from thefountain-head; partly from instincts of justice, partly, no doubt, forthe pleasure of making direct observations to the principals concerned.This was what he had done in this case. He had ridden, without a word toany, up to Matstead, and had demanded to be led to the squire; and thereand then, refusing to sit down till he was answered, had put hisquestion. There had been a scene. The squire had referred to puppies whowanted drowning, to young sparks, and to such illustrative similes; andAnthony, in spite of his youthful years, had flared out about turncoatsand lick-spittles. There had been a very pretty ending: the squire hadshouted for his servants and Anthony for his, and the two parties hadeyed one another, growling like dogs, until bloodshed seemed imminent.Then the visitor had himself solved the situation by stalking out of thehouse from which the squire was proposing to flog him, mounting hishorse, and with a last compliment or two had ridden away. And here hewas at Froggatt on his return journey, having eaten there that dinnerwhich no longer would be spread for him at Matstead.
Robin sat silent till the tale was done, and at the end of it Anthonywas striding about the room, aflame again with wrath, gesticulating andraging aloud.
Then Robin spoke, holding up his hand for moderation. "You will have thewhole house here," he said. "Well, you have cooked my goose for me."
"Bah! that was cooked at Passiontide when you went to Booth's Edge. Doyou think he'll ever have a Papist in his house again?"
"Did he say so?"
"No; but he said enough about his 'young cub.'... Nonsense, man! Comehome with me to Dethick. We'll find occupation enough."
"Did he say he would not have me home again?"
"No," bawled Anthony. "I have told you he did not say so outright. Buthe said enough to show he'd have no rebels, as he called them, in hisProtestant house! Dick's to leave. Did you hear that?"
"Dick!"
"Why, certainly. There was a to-do on Sunday, and Dick spoke his mind.He'll come to me, he says, if you have no service for him."
Robin set his teeth. It seemed as if the pelting blows would nevercease.
"Come with me to Dethick!" said Anthony again. "I tell you--"
"Well?"
"There'll be time enough to tell you when you come. But I promise youoccupation enough."
He paused, as if he would say more and dared not.
"You must tell me more," said the lad slowly. "What kind of occupation?"
Then Anthony did a queer thing. He first glanced at the door, and thenwent to it quickly and threw it open. The little lobby was empty. Hewent out, leaned over the stair and called one of his men.
"Sit you there," he said, with the glorious nonchalance of a Babington,"and let no man by till I tell you."
He came back, closed the door, bolted it, and then came across and satdown by his friend.
"Do you think the rest of us are doing nothing?" he whispered. "Why, Itell you that a dozen of us in Derbyshire--" He broke off once more. "Imay not tell you," he said, "I must ask leave first."
A light began to glimmer before Robin's mind; the light broadenedsuddenly and intensely, and his whole soul leapt to meet it.
"Do you mean--?" And then he, too, broke off, well knowing enough,though not all of, what was meant.
* * * * *
It was quiet here within this room, in spite of the village streetoutside. It was dinner-time, and all were within doors or out at theiraffairs; and except for the stamp of a horse now and again, and thescream of the wind in the keyhole and between the windows, there waslittle to hear. And in the lad's soul was a tempest.
He knew well enough now what his friend meant, though nothing of thedetails; and from the secrecy and excitement of the young man's mannerhe understood what the character of his dealings would likely be, andtowards those dealings his whole nature leaped as a fish to the water.Was it possible that this way lay the escape from his own torment ofconscience? Yet he must put a question first, in honesty.
"Tell me this much," he said in a low voice. "Do you mean that this ...this affair will be against men's lives ... or ... or such as even apriest might engage in?"
Then the light of fanaticism leaped to the eyes of his friend, and hisface brightened wonderfully.
"Do they observe the courtesies and forms of law?" he snarled. "DidNelson die by God's law, or did Sherwood--those we know of? I will tellyou this," he said, "and no more unless you pledge yourself to us ...that we count it as warfare--in Christ's Name yes--but warfare for allthat."
* * * * *
There then lay the choice before this lad, and surely it was as hard achoice as ever a man had to make. On the one side lay such an excitementas he had never yet known--for Anthony was no merely mad fool--a path,too, that gave him hopes of Marjorie, that gave him an escape from homewithout any more ado, a task besides which he could tell himselfhonestly was, at least, for the cause that lay so near to Marjorie'sheart, and was beginning to lie near his own. And on the other there wasopen to him that against
which he had fought now day after day, inmisery--a life that had no single attraction to the natural man in him,a life that meant the loss of Marjorie for ever.
The colour died from his lips as he considered this. Surely all layAnthony's way: Anthony was a gentleman like himself; he would do nothingthat was not worthy of one.... What he had said of warfare was surelysound logic. Were they not already at war? Had not the Queen declaredit? And on the other side--nothing. Nothing. Except that a voice withinhim on that other side cried louder and louder--it seemed in despair:"This is the way; walk in it."
"Come," whispered Anthony again.
Robin stood up; he made as if to speak; then he silenced himself andbegan to walk to and fro in the little room. He could hear voices fromthe room beneath--Anthony's men talking there no doubt. They might behis men, too, at the lifting of a finger--they and Dick. There were thehorses waiting without; he heard the jingle of a bit as one tossed hishead. Those were the horses that would go back to Dethick and Derby,and, may be, half over England.
He walked to and fro half a dozen times without speaking, and, if he hadbut guessed it, he might have been comforted to know that his manhoodflowed in upon him, as a tide coming in over a flat beach. Theseinstants added more years to him than as many months that had gonebefore. His boyhood was passing, since experience and conflict, whetherit end in victory or defeat, give the years to a man far more than thepassing of time. So in God's sight Robin added many inches to thestature of his spirit in this little parlour of Froggatt.
Yet, though he conquered then, he did not know that he conquered. Hestill believed, as he turned at last and faced his friend, that his mindwas yet to make up, and his whisper was harsh and broken.
"I do not know," he whispered. "I must go home first."
II
Dick was waiting by the porter's lodge as the boy rode in, and walked upbeside him with his brown hand on the horse's shoulder. Robin could notsay much, and, besides, his confidence must be tied.
"So you are going," he said softly.
The man nodded.
"I met Mr. Babington.... You cannot do better, I think, than go to him."
* * * * *
It was with a miserable heart that an hour or two later he came down tosupper. His father was already at table, sitting grimly in his place; hemade no sign of welcome or recognition as his son came in. During themeal itself this was of no great consequence, as silence was the custom;but the boy's heart sank yet further as, still without a word to him,the squire rose from table at the end and went as usual through theparlour door. He hesitated a moment before following. Then he graspedhis courage and went after.
All things were as usual there--the wine set out and the sweetmeats, andhis father in his usual place, Yet still there was silence.
Robin began to meditate again, yet alert for a sign or a word. It wasin this little room, he understood, that the dispute with Anthony hadtaken place a few hours before, and he looked round it, almost wonderingthat all seemed so peaceful. It was this room, too, that was associatedwith so much that was happy in his life--drawn-out hours after supper,when his father was in genial moods, or when company was there--companythat would never come again--and laughter and gallant talk went round.There was the fire burning in the new stove--that which had so muchexcited him only a year or two ago, for it was then the first that hehad ever seen: there was the table where he had written his littleletter; there was "Christ carrying His Cross."
"So you have sent your friend to insult me; now!"
Robin started. The voice was quiet enough, but full of a suppressedforce.
"I have not, sir. I met Mr. Babington at Froggatt on his way back. Hetold me. I am very sorry for it."
"And you talked with him at Padley, too, no doubt?"
"Yes, sir."
His father suddenly wheeled round on him.
"Do you think I have no sense, then? Do you think I do not know what youand your friends speak of?"
Robin was silent.
He was astonished how little afraid he was. His heart beat loud enoughin his ears; yet he felt none of that helplessness that had fallen onhim before when his father was angry.... Certainly he had added to hisstature in the parlour at Froggatt.
The old man poured out a glass of wine and drank it. His face wasflushed high, and he was using more words than usual.
"Well, sir, there are other affairs we must speak of; and then no moreof them. I wish to know your meaning for the time to come. There must beno more fooling this way and that. I shall pay no fines for you--markthat! If you must stand on your own feet, stand on them.... Now then!"
"Do you mean, am I coming to church with you, sir?"
"I mean, who is to pay your fines?... Miss Marjorie?"
Robin set his teeth at the sneer.
"I have not yet been fined, sir."
"Now do you take me for a fool? D'you think they'll let you off? I wasspeaking--"
The old man stopped.
"Yes, sir?"
The other wheeled his face on him.
"If you will have it," he said, "I was speaking to my two good friendswho dined here on Sunday. I was plain with them and they were plain withme. 'I shall not pay for my brat of a son,' I said. 'Then he must payfor himself,' said they, 'unless we lay him by the heels.' 'Not in myhouse, I hope,' I said; and they laughed at that. We were very merrytogether."
"Yes, sir?"
"Good God! have I a fool for a son? I ask you again, Who is it to pay?"
"When will they demand it?"
"Why, they may demand it next week, if they will! You were not at churchon Sunday!"
"I was not in Matstead," said the lad.
"But--"
"And Mr. Barton will not, I think--"
The old man struck the table suddenly and violently.
"I have dropped words enough," he cried. "Where's the use of it? If youthink they will let you alone, I tell you they will not. There are to bedoings before Christmas, at latest; and what then?"
Then Robin drew his breath sharply between his teeth; and knew that onemore step had been passed, that had separated him from that which hefeared.... He had come just now, still hesitating. Still there had beenpassing through his mind hopes and ideas of what his father might do forhim. He knew well enough that he would never pay the fines, amountingsometimes to as much as twenty pounds a month; but he had thought thatperhaps his father would give him a sum of money and let him go to fendfor himself; that he might help him even to a situation somewhere; andnow hope had died so utterly that he did not even dare speak of it. Andhe had said "No" to Anthony; he said to himself at least that he hadmeant "No," in spite of his hesitation. All doors seemed closing, savethat which terrified him....
"I have thought in my mind--" he began; and stopped, for the terror ofwhat was on his tongue grew suddenly upon him.
"Eh?"
Robin stood up.
"I must have time, sir," he cried; "I must have time. Do not press metoo much."
His father's eyes shone bright and wrathful. He beat on the table withhis open hand; but the boy was too quick for him.
"I beg of you, sir, not to make me speak too soon. It may be that youwould hate that I should speak more than my silence."
His whole person was tense and magnetic; his face was paler than ever;and it seemed as if his father understood enough, at least, to make himhesitate. The two looked at one another; and it was the man's eyes thattell first.
"You may have till Pentecost," he said.
III
It would be at about an hour before dawn that Robin awoke for perhapsthe third or fourth time that night; for the conflict still roaredwithin his soul and would give him no peace. And, as he lay there, awakein an instant, staring up into the dark, once more weighing andbalancing this and the other, swayed by enthusiasm at one moment,weighed down with melancholy the next--there came to him, distinct andclear through the still night, the sound of horses' hoofs, perhaps ofthree or
four beasts, walking together.
Now, whether it was the ferment of his own soul, or the work of someinterior influence, or indeed, the very intimation of God Himself, Robinnever knew (though he inclined later to the last of these); yet itremains as a fact that when he heard that sound, so fierce was hiscuriosity to know who it was that rode abroad in company at such anhour, he threw off the blankets that covered him, went to his window andthrew it open. Further, when he had listened there a second or two, andhad heard the sound cease and then break out again clearer and nearer,signifying that the party was riding through the village, his curiositygrew so intense, that he turned from the window, snatched up and put ona few clothes, groping for them as well as he could in the dimness, andwas presently speeding, barefooted, downstairs, telling himself in onebreath that he was a fool, and in the next that he must reach thechurchyard wall before the horses did.
It was but a short run when he had come down into the court, by thelittle staircase that led from the men's rooms; the ground was soakingwith the rains of yesterday, but he cared nothing for that; and, as theriding party turned up the little ascent that led beneath thechurchyard, Robin, on the other side of the wall, was keeping betweenthe tombstones to see, and not be seen.
It was within an hour of dawn, at that time when the sky begins toglimmer with rifts above the two horizons, showing light enough at leastto distinguish faces. It was such a light as that in which he had seenthe deer looking at him motionless as he rode home with Dick. Yet thethree who now rode up towards him were so muffled about the faces thathe feared he would not know them. They were men, all three of them; andhe could make out valises strapped to the saddle of each; but, whatseemed strange, they did not speak as they came; and it appeared as ifthey wished to make no more noise than was necessary, since one of them,when his horse set his foot upon the cobblestones beside the lych-gate,pulled him sharply off them.
And then, just as they rounded the angle of the wall where the boycrouched peeping, the man that rode in the middle, sighed as if withrelief, and pulled the cloak that was about him, so that the collar fellfrom his face, and at the same time turned to his companion on hisright, and said something in a low voice.
But the boy heard not a word; for he found himself staring at thethin-faced young priest from whom he had received Holy Communion atPadley. It was but for an instant; for the man to whom the priest spokeanswered in the same low voice, and the other pulled his cloak againround his mouth.
Yet the look was enough. The sight, once more, of this servant of God,setting out again upon his perilous travels--seen at such a moment, whenthe boy's judgment hung in the balance (as he thought); this one singlereminder of what a priest could do in these days of sorrow, and of whatGod called on him to do--the vision, for it was scarcely less, allthings considered, of a life such as this--presented, so to say, in thissingle scene of a furtive and secret ride before the dawn, leavingPadley soon after midnight--this, falling on a soul that already leanedthat way, finished that for which Marjorie had prayed, and against whichthe lad himself had fought so fiercely.
* * * * *
Half an hour later he stood by his father's bed, looking down on himwithout fear.
"Father," he said, as the old man stared up at him through sleep-riddeneyes, "I have come to give you my answer. It is that I must go to Rheimsand be a priest."
Then he turned again and went out of the room, without waiting.