Come Rack! Come Rope!

  CHAPTER IX

  I

  Mrs. Manners was still abed when her daughter came in to see her. Shelay in the great chamber that gave upon the gallery above the hallwhence, on either side, she could hear whether or no the maids were attheir business--which was a comfort to her if a discomfort to them. Andnow that her lord was in Derby, she lay here all alone.

  The first that she knew of her daughter's coming was a light in hereyes; and the next was a face, as of a stranger, looking at her withgreat eyes, exalted by joy and pain. The light, held below, cast shadowsupwards from chin and cheek, and the eyes shone in hollows. Then, as shesat up, she saw that it was her daughter, and that the maid held a paperin her hands; she was in her night-linen, and a wrap lay over hershoulders and shrouded her hair.

  "He is to be a priest," she whispered sharply. "Thank our Lord with me... and ... and God have mercy on me!"

  Then Marjorie was on her knees by the bedside, sobbing so that thecurtains shook.

  * * * * *

  The mother got it all out of her presently--the tale of the girl's hearttorn two ways at once. On the one side there was her human love for thelad who had wooed her--as hot as fire, and as pure--and on the otherthat keen romance that had made her pray that he might be a priest. Thissecond desire had come to her, as sharp as a voice that calls, when shehad heard of the apostasy of his father; it had seemed to her theriposte that God made to the assault upon His honour. The father wouldno longer be His worshipper? Then let the son be His priest; and so thebalance be restored. And so the maid had striven with the two lovesthat, for once, would not agree together (as did the man in the Gospelswho wished to go and bury his father and afterwards to follow hisSaviour); she had not dared to say a word to the lad of anything of thislest it should be her will and not God's that should govern him, for sheknew very well what a power she had over him; but she had prayed God,and begged Robin to pray too and to listen to His voice; and now she hadher way, and her heart was broken with it, she said:

  "And when I think," she wailed across her mother's knees, "of what it isto be a priest; and of the life that he will lead, and of the death thathe may die!... And it is I ... I ... who will have sent him to it.Mother!..."

  Mrs. Manners was bethinking herself of a cordial just then, and how sheknew old Ann would be coming presently, and was listening with but halfan ear.

  "It's not you, my dear," she said, patting the head beneath her hands.(The wrap was fallen off, and the maid's long hair was all over hershoulders.) "And now--"

  "But our Lord will take care of him, will He not? And not suffer--"

  Mrs. Manners fell to patting her head again.

  "And who brought the message?" she asked.

  * * * * *

  Mrs. Manners was one of those experienced persons who are fullypersuaded that youth is a disease that must be borne with patiently.Time, indeed, will cure it; yet until the cure is complete, elders mustbear it as well as they can and not seem to pay too much attention toit. A rigorous and prudent diet; long hours of sleep, plenty ofoccupation--these are the remedies for the fever. So, while Marjoriefirst began to read the lad's letter, and then, breaking downaltogether, thrust it into her mother's hand, Mrs. Manners was searchingher memory as to whether any imprudence the day before, in food orbehaviour, could be the cause of this crisis. Love between boys andgirls was common enough; she herself twenty years ago had suffered fromthe sickness when young John had come wooing her; yet a love that couldthrust from it that which it loved, was beyond her altogether. EitherMarjorie loved the lad, or she did not, and if she loved him, why didshe pray that he might be a priest? That was foolishness; sincepriesthood was a bar to marriage. She began to conclude that Marjoriedid not love him; it had been but a romantic fancy; and she wasencouraged by the thought.

  "Madge," she began, when she had read through the confused line or two,in the half-boyish, half-clerkly hand of Robin, scribbled and dispatchedby the hands of Dick scarcely two hours ago. "Madge--"

  She was about to say something sensible when the maid interrupted heragain.

  "And it is I who have brought it all on him!" she wailed. "If it had notbeen for me--"

  Her mother laid a firm hand on her daughter's mouth. It was not oftenthat she felt the superior of the two; yet here was a time, plainenough, when maturity and experience must take the reins.

  "Madge," she said, "it is plain you do not love him; or you never--"

  The maid started back, her eyes ablaze.

  "Not love him! Why--"

  "That you do not love him truly; or you would never have wished this forhim.... Now listen to me!"

  She raised an admonitory finger, complacent at last. But her speech wasnot to be made at that time; for her daughter swiftly rose to her feet,controlled at last by the shock of astonishment.

  "Then I do not think you know what love is," she said softly. "To loveis to wish the other's highest good, as I understand it."

  Mrs. Manners compressed her lips, as might a prophetess before aprediction. But her daughter was beforehand with her again.

  "That is the love of a Christian, at least," she said. Then she stooped,took the letter from her mother's knees, and went out.

  Mrs. Manners sat for a moment as her daughter left her. Then sheunderstood that her hour of superiority was gone with Marjorie's hour ofweakness; and she emitted a short laugh as she took her place againbehind the child she had borne.

  II

  It was a strange time that Marjorie had until two days later, when Robincame and told her all, and how it had fallen out. For now, it seemed,she walked on air; now in shoes of lead. When she was at her prayers(which was pretty often just now), and at other times, when the airlightened suddenly about her and the burdens of earth were lifted as ifanother hand were put to them--at those times which every interior soulexperiences in a period of stress--why, then, all was glory, and she sawRobin as transfigured and herself beneath him all but adoring. Littlevisions came and went before her imagination. Robin riding, like someknight on an adventure, to do Christ's work; Robin at the altar, in hisvestments; Robin absolving penitents--all in a rosy light of faith andromance. She saw him even on the scaffold, undaunted and resolute, withGod's light on his face, and the crowd awed beneath him; she saw hissoul entering heaven, with all the harps ringing to meet him, andeternity begun.... And then, at other times, when the heaviness camedown on her, as clouds upon the Derbyshire hills, she understood nothingbut that she had lost him; that he was not to be hers, but Another's;that a loveless and empty life lay before her, and a womanhood that waswithout its fruition. And it was this latter mood that fell on her,swift and entire, when, looking out from her window a little beforedinner-time, she saw suddenly his hat, and Cecily's head, jerking up thesteep path that led to the house.

  She fell on her knees by her bedside.

  "Jesu!" she cried. "Jesu! Give me strength to meet him."

  * * * * *

  Mrs. Manners, too, hearing the horse's footsteps on the pavement aminute later, and Marjorie's steps going downstairs, also looked forthand saw him dismounting. She was a prudent woman, and did not stir afinger till she heard the bell ringing in the court for the dinner to beserved. They would have time, so she thought, to arrange theirattitudes.

  And, indeed, she was right: for it was two quiet enough persons who mether as she came down into the hall: Robin flushed with riding, yetwholly under his own command--bright-eyed, and resolute and natural(indeed, it seemed to her that he was more of a man than she had thoughthim). And her daughter, too, was still and strong; a trifle paler thanshe should be, yet that was to be expected. At dinner, of course,nothing could be spoken of but the most ordinary affairs--in suchspeaking, that is, as there was. It was not till they had gone out intothe walled garden and sat them down, all three of them, on the longgarden-seat beside the rose-beds, that a word was said on these newmatters. There was silence as they walk
ed there, and silence as they satdown.

  "Tell her, Robin," said the maid.

  * * * * *

  It appeared that matters were not yet as wholly decided as Mrs. Mannershad thought. Indeed, it seemed to her that they were not decided at all.Robin had written to Dr. Allen, and had found means to convey his letterto Mr. Simpson, who, in his turn, had undertaken to forward it at leastas far as to London; and there it would await a messenger to Douay. Itmight be a month before it would reach Douay, and it might be three orfour months, or even more, before an answer could come back. Next, thesquire had taken a course of action which, plainly, had disconcerted thelad, though it had its conveniences too. For, instead of increasing theold man's fury, the news his son had given him had had a contraryeffect. He had seemed all shaken, said Robin; he had spoken to himquietly, holding in the anger that surely must be there, the boythought, without difficulty. And the upshot of it was that no more hadbeen said as to Robin's leaving Matstead for the present--not one wordeven about the fines. It seemed almost as if the old man had been tryinghow far he could push his son, and had recoiled when he had learned theeffect of his pushing.

  "I think he is frightened," said the lad gravely. "He had never thoughtthat I could be a priest."

  Mrs. Manners considered this in silence.

  "And it may be autumn before Dr. Allen's letter comes back?" she askedpresently.

  Robin said that that was so.

  "It may even be till winter," he said. "The talk among the priests, Mr.Simpson tells me, is all about the removal from Douay. It may be made atany time, and who knows where they will go?"

  Mrs. Manners glanced across at her daughter, who sat motionless, withher hands clasped. Then she was filled with the spirit of reasonablenessand sense: all this tragic to-do about what might never happen seemed toher the height of folly.

  "Nay, then," she burst out, "then nothing may happen after all. Dr.Allen may say 'No;' the letter may never get to him. It may be that youwill forget all this in a month or two."

  Robin turned his face slowly towards her, and she saw that she hadspoken at random. Again, too, it struck her attention that his mannerseemed a little changed. It was graver than that to which she wasaccustomed.

  "I shall not forget it," he said softly. "And Dr. Allen will get theletter. Or, if not he, someone else."

  There was silence again, but Mrs. Manners heard her daughter draw a longbreath.

  III

  It was an hour later that Marjorie found herself able to say that whichshe knew must be said.

  Robin had lingered on, talking of this and that, though he had said halfa dozen times that he must be getting homewards; and at last, when herose, Mistress Manners, who was still wholly misconceiving thesituation, after the manner of sensible middle-aged folk, archly andtactfully took her leave and disappeared down towards the house,advancing some domestic reason for her departure.

  Robin sighed, and turned to the girl, who still sat quiet. But as heturned she lifted her eyes to him swiftly.

  "Good-bye, Mr. Robin," she said.

  He pulled himself up.

  "You understand, do you not?" she said. "You are to be a priest. Youmust remember that always. You are a sort of student already."

  She could see him pale a little; his lips tightened. For a moment hesaid nothing; he was taken wholly aback.

  "Then I am not to come here again?"

  Marjorie stood up. She showed no sign of the fierce self-control she wasusing.

  "Why, yes," she said. "Come as you would come to any Catholicneighbours. But no more than that.... You are to be a priest."

  * * * * *

  The spring air was full of softness and sweetness as they stood there.On the trees behind them and on the roses in front the budding leaveshad burst into delicate green, and the copses on all sides sounded withthe twittering of birds. The whole world, it seemed, was kindling withlove and freshness. Yet these two had to stand here and be cold, one tothe other.... He was to be a priest; that must not be forgotten, andthey must meet no more on the old footing. That was gone. Already hestood among the Levites, at least in intention; and the Lord alone wasto be the portion of his inheritance and his Cup.

  It was a minute before either of them moved, and during that minute themaid felt her courage ebb from her like an outgoing tide, leaving adesolation behind. It was all that she could do not to cry out.

  But when at last Robin made a movement and she had to look him in theface, what she saw there braced and strengthened her.

  "You are right, Mistress Marjorie," he said both gravely and kindly. "Iwill bid you good-day and be getting to my horse."

  He kissed her gently, as the manner was, and went down the path alone.

  PART II