CHAPTER VII
A MESSAGE FROM THE CITY
Sir Francis Walsingham sat in his private room a month after FatherCampion's death.
He had settled down again now to his work which had been so grievouslyinterrupted by his mission to France in connection with a new treatybetween that country and England in the previous year. The secretdetective service that he had inaugurated in England chiefly for theprotection of the Queen's person was a vast and complicated business, andthe superintendence of this, in addition to the other affairs of hisoffice, made him an exceedingly busy man. England was honeycombed withmines and countermines both in the political and the religious world, andit needed all this man's brilliant and trained faculties to keep abreastwith them. His spies and agents were everywhere; and not only in England:they circled round Mary of Scotland like flies round a wounded creature,seeking to settle and penetrate wherever an opening showed itself. TheseScottish troubles would have been enough for any ordinary man; butWalsingham was indefatigable, and his agents were in every prison,lurking round corridors in private houses, found alike in thieves'kitchens and at gentlemen's tables.
Just at present Walsingham was anxious to give all the attention he couldto Scottish affairs; and on this wet dreary Thursday morning in Januaryas he sat before his bureau, he was meditating how to deal with an affairthat had come to him from the heart of London, and how if possible toshift the conduct of it on to other shoulders.
He sat and drummed his fingers on the desk, and stared meditatively atthe pigeon-holes before him. His was an interesting face, with large,melancholy, and almost fanatical eyes, and a poet's mouth and forehead;but it was probably exactly his imaginative faculties that enabled him topicture public affairs from the points of view of the very variouspersons concerned in them; and thereby to cope with the complicationsarising out of these conflicting interests.
He stroked his pointed beard once or twice, and then struck a hand-bellat his side; and a servant entered.
"If Mr. Lackington is below," he said, "show him here immediately," andthe servant went out.
Lackington, sometime servant to Sir Nicholas Maxwell, had entered SirFrancis' service instead, at the same time that he had exchanged theCatholic for the Protestant religion; and he was now one of his mosttrusted agents. But he had been in so many matters connected withrecusancy, that a large number of the papists in London were beginning toknow him by sight; and the affairs were becoming more and more scarce inwhich he could be employed among Catholics with any hope of success. Itwas his custom to call morning by morning at Sir Francis' office andreceive his instructions; and just now he had returned from business inthe country. Presently he entered, closing the door behind him, and bowedprofoundly to his master.
"I have a matter on hand, Lackington," said Sir Francis, without lookingat him, and without any salutation beyond a glance and a nod as heentered,--"a matter which I have not leisure to look into, as it is not,I think, anything more than mere religion; but which might, I think,repay you for your trouble, if you can manage it in any way. But it is atroublesome business. These are the facts.
"No. 3 Newman's Court, in the City, has been a suspected house for somewhile. I have had it watched, and there is no doubt that the papists useit. I thought at first that the Scots were mixed up with it; but that isnot so. Yesterday, a boy of twelve years old, left the house in theafternoon, and was followed to a number of houses, of which I will giveyou the list presently; and was finally arrested in Paul's Churchyard andbrought here. I frightened him with talk of the rack; and I think I havethe truth out of him now; I have tested him in the usual ways--and allthat I can find is that the house is used for mass now and then; and thathe was going to the papists' houses yesterday to bid them come for nextSunday morning. But he was stopped too soon: he had not yet told thepriest to come. Now unless the priest is told to-night by one whom hetrusts, there will be no mass on Sunday, and the nest of papists willescape us. It is of no use to send the boy; as he will betray all by hisbehaviour, even if we frighten him into saying what we wish to thepriest. I suppose it is of no use your going to the priest and feigningto be a Catholic messenger; and I cannot at this moment see what is to bedone. If there were anything beyond mere religion in this, I would spareno pains to hunt them out; but it is not worth my while. Yet there is thereward; and if you think that you can do anything, you can have it foryour pains. I can spare you till Monday, and of course you shall havewhat men you will to surround the house and take them at mass, if you canbut get the priest there."
"Thank you, sir," said Lackington deferentially. "Have I your honour'sleave to see the boy in your presence?"
Walsingham struck the bell again.
"Bring the lad that is locked in the steward's parlour," he said, whenthe servant appeared.--"Sit down, Lackington, and examine him when hecomes."
And Sir Francis took down some papers from a pigeon-hole, sorted out oneor two, and saying, "Here are his statements," handed them to the agent;who began to glance through them at once. Walsingham then turned to histable again and began to go on with his letters.
In a moment or two the door opened, and a little lad of twelve years old,came in, followed by the servant.
"That will do," said Walsingham, without looking up; "You can leave himhere," and the servant went out. The boy stood back against the wall bythe door, his face was white and his eyes full of horror, and he lookedin a dazed way at the two men.
"What is your name, boy?" began Lackington in a sharp, judicial tone.
"John Belton," said the lad in a tremulous voice.
"And you are a little papist?" asked the agent.
"No sir; a Protestant."
"Then how is it that you go on errands for papists?"
"I am a servant, sir," said the boy imploringly.
Lackington turned the papers over for a moment or two.
"Now you know," he began again in a threatening voice, "that thisgentleman has power to put you on the rack; you know what that is?"
The boy nodded in mute white-faced terror.
"Well, now, he will hear all you say; and will know whether you say thetruth or not. Now tell me if you still hold to what you said yesterday."
And then Lackington with the aid of the papers ran quickly over the storythat Sir Francis had related. "Now do you mean to tell me, John Belton,"he added, "that you, a Protestant, and a lad of twelve, are employed onthis work by papists, to gather them for mass?"
The boy looked at him with the same earnest horror.
"Yes, sir, yes, sir," he said, and there was a piteous sob in his voice."Indeed it is all true: but I do not often go on these messages for mymaster. Mr. Roger generally goes: but he is sick."
"Oho!" said Lackington, "you did not say that yesterday."
The boy was terrified.
"No, sir," he cried out miserably, "the gentleman did not ask me."
"Well, who is Mr. Roger? What is he like?"
"He is my master's servant, sir; and he wears a patch over his eye; andstutters a little in his speech."
These kinds of details were plainly beyond a frightened lad's power ofinvention, and Lackington was more satisfied.
"And what was the message that you were to give to the folk and thepriest?"
"Please, sir, 'Come, for all things are now ready.'"
This was such a queer answer that Lackington gave an incredulousexclamation.
"It is probably true," said Sir Francis, without looking up from hisletters; "I have come across the same kind of cypher, at least oncebefore."
"Thank you, sir," said the agent. "And now, my boy, tell me this. How didyou know what it meant?"
"Please, sir," said the lad, a little encouraged by the kinder tone, "Ihave noticed that twice before when Mr. Roger could not go, and I wassent with the same message, all the folks and the priest came on the nextSunday; and I think that it means that all is safe, and that they cancome."
"Yo
u are a sharp lad," said the spy approvingly. "I am satisfied withyou."
"Then, sir, may I go home?" asked the boy with hopeful entreaty in hisvoice.
"Nay, nay," said the other, "I have not done with you yet. Answer me somemore questions. Why did you not go to the priest first?"
"Because I was bidden to go to him last," said the boy. "If I had been toall the other houses by five o'clock last night, then I was to meet thepriest at Papists' Corner in Paul's Church. But if I had not donethem--as I had not,--then I was to see the priest to-night at the sameplace."
Lackington mused a moment.
"What is the priest's name?" he asked.
"Please, sir, Mr. Arthur Oldham."
The agent gave a sudden start and a keen glance at the boy, and thensmiled to himself; then he meditated, and bit his nails once or twice.
"And when was Mr. Roger taken ill?"
"He slipped down at the door of his lodging and hurt his foot, atdinner-time yesterday; and he could not walk."
"His lodging? Then he does not sleep in the house?"
"No sir; he sleeps in Stafford Alley, round the corner."
"And where do you live?"
"Please, sir, I go home to my mother nearly every night; but not always."
"And where does your mother live?"
"Please, sir, at 4 Bell's Lane."
Lackington remained deep in thought, and looked at the boy steadily for aminute or two.
"Now, sir; may I go?" he asked eagerly.
Lackington paid no attention, and he repeated his question. The agentstill did not seem to hear him, but turned to Sir Francis, who was stillat his letters.
"That is all, sir, for the present," he said. "May the boy be kept heretill Monday?"
The lad broke out into wailing; but Lackington turned on him a face sosavage that his whimpers died away into horror-stricken silence.
"As you will," said Sir Francis, pausing for a moment in his writing, andstriking the bell again; and, on the servant's appearance, gave ordersthat John Belton should be taken again to the steward's parlour untilfurther directions were received. The boy went sobbing out and down thepassage again under the servant's charge, and the door closed.
"And the mother?" asked Walsingham abruptly, pausing with pen upraised.
"With your permission, sir, I will tell her that her boy is in trouble,and that if his master sends to inquire for him, she is to say he is sickupstairs."
"And you will report to me on Monday?"
"Yes, sir; by then I shall hope to have taken the crew."
Sir Francis nodded his head sharply, and the pen began to fly over thepaper again; as Lackington slipped out.
* * * *
Anthony Norris was passing through the court of Lambeth House in theafternoon of the same day, when the porter came to him and said there wasa child waiting in the Lodge with a note for him; and would Master Norriskindly come to see her. He found a little girl on the bench by the gate,who stood up and curtseyed as the grand gentleman came striding in; andhanded him a note which he opened at once and read.
"For the love of God," the note ran, "come and aid one who can be ofservice to a friend: follow the little maid Master Norris, and she willbring you to me. If you have any friends at _Great Keynes_, for the loveyou bear to them, come quickly."
Anthony turned the note over; it was unsigned, and undated. On hisinquiry further from the little girl, she said she knew nothing about thewriter; but that a gentleman had given her the note and told her to bringit to Master Anthony Norris at Lambeth House; and that she was to takehim to a house that she knew in the city; she did not know the name ofthe house, she said.
It was all very strange, thought Anthony, but evidently here was some onewho knew about him; the reference to Great Keynes made him think uneasilyof Isabel and wonder whether any harm had happened to her, or whether anydanger threatened. He stood musing with the note between his fingers, andthen told the child to go straight down to Paul's Cross and await himthere, and he would follow immediately. The child ran off, and Anthonywent round to the stables to get his horse. He rode straight down to thecity and put up his horse in the Bishop's stables, and then went roundwith his riding-whip in his hand to Paul's Cross.
It was a dull miserable afternoon, beginning to close in with a fine rainfalling, and very few people were about; and he found the child crouchedup against the pulpit in an attempt to keep dry.
"Come," he said kindly, "I am ready; show me the way."
The child led him along by the Cathedral through the churchyard, and thenby winding passages, where Anthony kept a good look-out at the corners;for a stab in the back was no uncommon thing for a well-dressed gentlemanoff his guard. The houses overhead leaned so nearly together that thedarkening sky disappeared altogether now and then; at one spot Anthonycaught a glimpse high up of Bow Church spire; and after a corner or twothe child stopped before a doorway in a little flagged court.
"It is here," she said; and before Anthony could stop her she had slippedaway and disappeared through a passage. He looked at the house. It was atumble-down place; the door was heavily studded with nails, and gave amost respectable air to the house: the leaded windows were just over hishead, and tightly closed. There was an air of mute discretion and silenceabout the place that roused a vague discomfort in Anthony's mind; heslipped his right hand into his belt and satisfied himself that the hiltof his knife was within reach. Overhead the hanging windows and eavesbulged out on all sides; but there was no one to be seen; it seemed aplace that had slipped into a backwater of the humming stream of thecity. The fine rain still falling added to the dismal aspect of thelittle court. He looked round once more; and then rapped sharply at thedoor to which the child had pointed.
There was silence for at least a minute; then as he was about to knockagain there was a faint sound overhead, and he looked up in time to see aface swiftly withdrawn from one of the windows. Evidently an occupant ofthe house had been examining the visitor. Then shuffling footsteps camealong a passage within, and a light shone under the door. There was anoise of bolts being withdrawn, and the rattle of a chain; and then thehandle turned and the door opened slowly inwards, and an old woman stoodthere holding an oil lamp over her head. This was not very formidable atany rate.
"I have been bidden to come here," he said, "by a letter delivered to mean hour ago."
"Ah," said the old woman, and looked at him peeringly, "then you are forMr. Roger?"
"I daresay," said Anthony, a little sharply. He was not accustomed to betreated like this. The old woman still looked at him suspiciously; andthen, as Anthony made a movement of impatience, she stepped back.
"Come in, sir," she said.
He stepped in, and she closed and fastened the door again behind him; andthen, holding the oil-lamp high over her head, she advanced in herslippers towards the staircase, and Anthony followed. On the stairs sheturned once to see if he was coming, and beckoned him on with a movementof her head. Anthony looked about him as he went up: there was nothingremarkable or suspicious about the house in any way. It was cleaner thanhe had been led to expect by its outside aspect; wainscoted to theceiling with oak; and the stairs were strong and well made. It wasplainly a very tolerably respectable place; and Anthony began to thinkfrom its appearance that he had been admitted at the back door of somewell-to-do house off Cheapside. The banisters were carved with somedistinction; and there were the rudimentary elements of linen-patterndesign on the panels that lined the opposite walls up to the height ofthe banisters. The woman went up and up, slowly, panting a little; ateach landing she turned and glanced back to see that her companion wasfollowing: all the doors that they passed were discreetly shut; and thehouse was perfectly dark except for the flickering light of the woman'slamp, and silent except for the noise of the footsteps and the rush of amouse now and then behind the woodwork.
At the third landing she stopped, and came close up to Anthony.
"That
is the door," she whispered hoarsely; and pointed with her thumbtowards a doorway that was opposite the staircase. "Ask for MasterRoger."
And then without saying any more, she set the lamp down on the flat headof the top banister and herself began to shuffle downstairs again intothe dark house.
Anthony stood still a moment, his heart beating a little. What was thisstrange errand? and Isabel! what had she to do with this house buriedaway in the courts of the great city? As he waited he heard a door closesomewhere behind him, and the shuffling footsteps had ceased. He touchedthe hilt of his knife once again to give himself courage; and then walkedslowly across and rapped on the door. Instantly a voice full of tremblingexpectancy, cried to him to come in; he turned the handle and steppedinto the fire-lit room.
It was extremely poorly furnished; a rickety table stood in the centrewith a book or two and a basin with a plate, a saucepan hissed andbubbled on the fire; in the corner near the window stood a poor bed; andto this Anthony's attention was immediately directed by a voice thatcalled out hoarsely:
"Thank God, sir, thank God, sir, you have come! I feared you would not."
Anthony stepped towards it wondering and expectant, but reassured. Lyingin the bed, with clothes drawn up to the chin was the figure of a man.There was no light in the room, save that given by the leaping flames onthe hearth; and Anthony could only make out the face of a man with apatch over one eye; the man stretched a hand over the bed clothes as hecame near, and Anthony took it, a little astonished, and received astrong trembling grip of apparent excitement and relief: "Thank God,sir!" the man said again, "but there is not too much time."
"How can I serve you?" said Anthony, sitting on a chair near the bedside."Your letter spoke of friends at Great Keynes. What did you mean bythat?"
"Is the d-door closed, sir?" asked the man anxiously; stuttering a littleas he spoke.
Anthony stepped up and closed it firmly; and then came back and sat downagain.
"Well then, sir; I believe you are a friend of the priest Mr.M-Maxwell's."
Anthony shook his head.
"There is no priest of that name that I know."
"Ah," cried the man, and his voice shook, "have I said too much? You areMr. Anthony Norris of the Dower House, and of the Archbishop'shousehold?"...
"I am," said Anthony, "but yet----"
"Well, well," said the man, "I must go forward now. He whom you know asMr. James Maxwell is a Catholic p-priest, known to many under the name ofMr. Arthur Oldham. He is in sore d-danger."
Anthony was silent through sheer astonishment. This then was the secretof the mystery that had hung round Mr. James so long. The few times hehad met him in town since his return, it had been on the tip of histongue to ask what he did there, and why Hubert was to be master of theHall; but there was something in Mr. James' manner that made the askingof such a question appear an impossible liberty; and it had remainedunasked.
"Well," said the man in bed, in anxious terror, "there is no mistake, isthere?"
"I said nothing," said Anthony, "for astonishment; I had no idea that hewas a priest. And how can I serve him?"
"He is in sore danger," said the man, and again and again there came thestutter. "Now I am a Catholic: you see how much I t-trust you sir. I amthe only one in this house. I was entrusted with a m-message to Mr.Maxwell to put him on his guard against a danger that threatens him. Iwas to meet him this very evening at five of the clock; and thisafternoon as I left my room, I slipped and so hurt my foot that I cannotput it to the ground. I dared not send a l-letter to Mr. Maxwell, forfear the child should be followed; I dared not send to another Catholic;nor indeed did I know where to find one whom Mr. M-Maxwell would know andtrust, as he is new to us here; but I had heard him speak of his friendMr. Anthony Norris, who was at Lambeth House; and I determined, sir, tosend the child to you; and ask you to do this service for your friend;for an officer of the Archbishop's household is beyond suspicion. N-now,sir, will you do this service? If you do it not, I know not where to turnfor help."
Anthony was silent. He felt a little uneasy. Supposing that there wassedition mixed up in this! How could he trust the man's story? How couldhe be certain in fact that he was a Catholic at all? He looked at himkeenly in the fire-light. The man's one eye shone in deep anxiety, andhis forehead was wrinkled; and he passed his hand nervously over hismouth again and again.
"How can I tell," said Anthony, "that all this is true?"
The man with an impatient movement unfastened his shirt at the neck anddrew up on a string that was round his neck a little leather case.
"Th-there, sir," he stammered, drawing the string over his head. "T-takethat to the fire and see what it is."
Anthony took it curiously, and holding it close to the fire drew off thelittle case; there was the wax medal stamped with the lamb, called_Agnus Dei_.
"Th-there," cried the man from the bed, "now I have p-put myself in yourhands--and if more is w-wanted----" and as Anthony came back holding themedal, the man fumbled beneath the pillow and drew out a rosary.
"N-now, sir, do you believe me?"
It was felony to possess these things and Anthony had no more doubts.
"Yes," he said, "and I ask your pardon." And he gave back the _AgnusDei_. "But there is no sedition in this?"
"N-none, sir, I give you my word," said the man, apparently greatlyrelieved, and sinking back on his pillow. "I will tell you all, and youcan judge for yourself; but you will promise to be secret." And whenAnthony had given his word, he went on.
"M-Mass was to have been said in Newman's Court on Sunday, at number 3,but that c-cursed spy Walsingham, hath had wind of it. His men have beenlurking round there; and it is not safe. However, there is no need to saythat to Mr. Maxwell; he will understand enough if you will give him amessage of half a dozen words from me,--Mr. Roger. You can tell him thatyou saw me, if you wish to. But ah! sir, you give me your word to say nomore to any one, not even to Mr. Maxwell himself, for it is in a publicplace. And then I will tell you the p-place and the m-message; but wemust be swift, because the time is near; it is at five of the clock thathe will look for a messenger."
"I give you my word," said Anthony.
"Well, sir, the place is Papists' Corner in the Cathedral, and the wordsare these, 'Come, for all things are now ready.' You know sir, that weCatholics go in fear of our lives, and like the poor hares have to doubleand turn if we would escape. If any overhears that message, he will neverknow it to be a warning. And it was for that that I asked your word tosay no more than your message, with just the word that you had seen meyourself. You may tell him, of course sir, that Mr. Roger had a patchover his eye and st-stuttered a little in his speech; and he will know itis from me then. Now, sir, will you tell me what the message is, and theplace, to be sure that you know them; and then, sir, it will be time togo; and God bless you, sir. God bless you for your kindness to us poorpapists!"
The man seized Anthony's gloved hand and kissed it fervently once ortwice.
Anthony repeated his instructions carefully. He was more touched than hecared to show by the evident gratitude and relief of this poor terrifiedCatholic.
"Th-that is right, sir; that is right; and now, sir, if you please, begone at once; or the Father will have left the Cathedral. The child willbe in the court below to show you the way out to the churchyard. Godbless you, sir; and reward you for your kindness!"
And as Anthony went out of the room he heard benedictions mingled withsobs following him. The woman was nowhere to be seen; so he took theoil-lamp from the landing, and found his way downstairs again, unfastenedthe front door, and went out, leaving the lamp on the floor. The childwas leaning against the wall opposite; he could just see the glimmer ofher face in the heavy dusk.
"Come, my child," he said, "show me the way to the churchyard."
She came forward, and he began to follow her out of the little flaggedcourt. He turned round as he left the court and saw high up against theblackness overhead a square of window li
ghted with a glow from within;and simultaneously there came the sound of bolts being shut in the doorthat he had just left. Evidently the old woman had been on the watch, andwas now barring the door behind him.
It wanted courage to do as Anthony was doing, but he was not lacking inthat; it was not a small matter to go to Papists' Corner and give awarning to a Catholic priest: but firstly, James Maxwell was his friend,and in danger: secondly, Anthony had no sympathy with religiouspersecution; and thirdly, as has been seen, the last year had made areally deep impression upon him: he was more favourably inclined to theCatholic cause than he had ever imagined to be possible.
As he followed the child through the labyrinth of passages, passing everynow and then the lighted front of a house, or a little group of idlers(for the rain had now ceased) who stared to see this gentleman in suchcompany, his head was whirling with questions and conjectures. Was it notafter all a dishonourable act to the Archbishop in whose service he was,thus to take the side of the Papists? But that it was too late toconsider now.--How strange that James Maxwell was a priest! That ofcourse accounted at once for his long absence, no doubt in the seminaryabroad, and his ultimate return, and for Hubert's inheriting the estates.And then he passed on to reflect as he had done a hundred times before onthis wonderful Religion that allured men from home and wealth andfriends, and sent them rejoicing to penury, suspicion, hatred, peril, anddeath itself, for the kingdom of heaven's sake.
Suddenly he found himself in the open space opposite the Cathedral--thechild had again disappeared.
It was less dark here; the leaden sky overhead still glimmered with apale sunset light; and many house-windows shone out from within. Hepassed round the south side of the Cathedral, and entered the westerndoor. The building was full of deep gloom only pricked here and there byan oil-lamp or two that would presently be extinguished when theCathedral was closed. The air was full of a faint sound, made up fromechoes of the outside world and the footsteps of a few people who stilllingered in groups here and there in the aisles, and talked amongthemselves. The columns rose up in slender bundles and faded into thepale gloom overhead; as he crossed the nave on the way to Papists' Cornerfar away to the east rose the dark carving of the stalls against theglimmering stone beyond. It was like some vast hall of the dead; thenoise of the footsteps seemed like an insolent intrusion on this templeof silence; and the religious stillness had an active and sombrecharacter of its own more eloquent and impressive than all the tumultthat man could make.
As Anthony came to Papists' Corner he saw a very tall solitary figurepassing slowly from east to west; it was too dark to distinguish faces;so he went towards it, so that at the next turn they would meet face toface. When he was within two or three steps the man before him turnedabruptly; and Anthony immediately put out his hand smiling.
"Mr. Arthur Oldham," he said.
The man started and peered curiously through the gloom at him.
"Why Anthony!" he exclaimed, and took his hand, "what is your businesshere?" And they began slowly to walk westwards together.
"I am come to meet Mr. Oldham," he said, "and to give him a message; andthis is it, 'Come, for all things are now ready!'"
"My dear boy," said James, stopping short, "you must forgive me; but whatin the world do you mean by that?"
"I come from Mr. Roger," said Anthony, "you need not be afraid. He hashad an accident and sent for me."
"Mr. Roger?" said James interrogatively.
"Yes," said Anthony, "he hath a patch over one eye; and stutterssomewhat."
James gave a sigh of relief.
"My dear boy," he said, "I cannot thank you enough. You know what itmeans then?"
"Why, yes," said Anthony.
"And you a Protestant, and in the Archbishop's household?"
"Why, yes," said Anthony, "and a Christian and your friend."
"God bless you, Anthony," said the priest; and took his hand and pressedit.
They were passing out now under the west door, and stood together for amoment looking at the lights down Ludgate Hill. The houses about AmenCourt stood up against the sky to their right.
"I must not stay," said Anthony, "I must fetch my horse and be back atLambeth for evening prayers at six. He is stabled at the Palace here."
"Well, well," said the priest, "I thank God that there are true heartslike yours. God bless you again my dear boy--and--and make you one of ussome day!"
Anthony smiled at him a little tremulously, for the gratitude and theblessing of this man was dear to him; and after another hand grasp, heturned away to the right, leaving the priest still half under the shadowof the door looking after him.
He had done his errand promptly and discreetly.