CHAPTER XIII
IN PRISON
Anthony found several friends in the Clink prison in Southwark, whitherhe was brought up from Stanfield Place after his arrest.
Life there was very strange, a combination of suffering and extraordinaryrelaxation. He had a tiny cell, nine feet by five, with one little windowhigh up, and for the first month of his imprisonment wore irons; at thesame time his gaoler was so much open to bribery that he always found hisdoor open on Sunday morning, and was able to shuffle upstairs and saymass in the cell of Ralph Emerson, once the companion of Campion, and alay-brother of the Society of Jesus. There he met a large number ofCatholics--some of whom he had come across in his travels--and he evenministered the sacraments to others who managed to come in from theoutside. His chief sorrow was that his friend and host had been taken tothe Counter in Wood Street.
It was a month before he heard all that had happened on the night of hisarrest, and on the previous days: he had been separated at once from hisfriends; and although he had heard his guards talking both in the hallwhere he had been kept the rest of the night, and during the long hotride to London the next day, yet at first he was so bewildered by Mary'sdeath that what they said made little impression on him. But after he hadbeen examined both by magistrates and the Commissioners, and very littleevidence was forthcoming, his irons were struck off and he was allowedmuch more liberty than before; and at last, to his great joy, Isabel wasadmitted to see him. She herself had come straight up to the Marretts'house, both of whom still lived on in Wharf Street, though old andinfirm; and day by day she attempted to get access to her brother; untilat last, by dint of bribery, she was successful.
Then she told him the whole story.
* * * *
"When we left the garden-house," she said, "we went straight back, andMary found Mr. Graves in the parlour off the hall. Oh, Anthony, how sheordered him about! And how frightened he was of her! The end was that hesent a message to the stables for her horses to be got ready, as shesaid. I went up with her to help her to make ready, and we kissed oneanother up there, for, you know, we dared not make as if we said good-byedownstairs. Then we came down for her to mount; and then we saw what wehad not known before, that all the stable-yard was filled with the men'shorses saddled and bridled. However, we said nothing, except that Maryasked a man what--what the devil he was looking at, when he stared up ather as she stood on the block drawing on her gloves before she mounted.There were one or two torches burning in cressets, and I saw her soplainly turn the corner down towards the church.
"Then I went upstairs again, but I could not go to my room, but stood atthe gallery window outside looking down at the court, for I knew that ifthere was any danger it would come from there.
"Then presently I heard a noise, and a shouting, and a man ran in throughthe gates to the stable-yard; and, almost directly it seemed, three orfour rode out, at full gallop across the court and down by the church.The window was open and I could hear the noise down towards the village.Then more and more came pouring out, and all turned the corner andgalloped; all but one, whose horse slipped and came down with a crash.Oh, Anthony! how I prayed!
"Then I saw Mr. Lackington"--Isabel stopped a moment at the name, andthen went on again--"and he was on horseback too in the court; but he wasshouting to two or three more who were just mounting. 'Across thefield--across the field---cut them off!' I could hear it so plainly; andI saw the stable-gate was open, and they went through, and I could hearthem galloping on the grass. And then I knew what was happening; and Iwent back to my room and shut the door."
Isabel stopped again; and Anthony took her hand softly in his own andstroked it. Then she went on.
"Well, I saw them bring you back, from the gallery window--and ran to thetop of the stairs and saw you go through into the hall where themagistrates were waiting, and the door was shut; and then I went back tomy place at the window--and then presently they brought in Mary. Ireached the bottom of the stairs just as they set her down. And I toldthem to bring her upstairs; and they did, and laid her on the bed wherewe had sat together all the afternoon.... And I would let no one in: Idid it all myself; and then I set the tapers round her, and put thecrucifix that was round my neck into her fingers, which I had laid on herbreast ... and there she lay on the great bed ... and her face was like achild's, fast asleep--smiling: and then I kissed her again, andwhispered, 'Thank you, Mary'; for, though I did not know all, I knewenough, and that it was for you."
Anthony had thrown his arms on the table and his face was buried in them.Isabel put out her hand and stroked his curly head gently as she went on,and told him in the same quiet voice of how Mary had tried to save him bylashing his horse, as she caught sight of the man waiting at the entranceof the field-path, and riding in between him and Anthony. The man haddeclared in his panic of fear before the magistrates that he had neverdreamt of doing Mistress Corbet an injury, but that she had ridden acrossjust as he drew the trigger to shoot the priest's horse and stop him thatway.
When Isabel had finished Anthony still lay with his head on his arms.
"Why, Anthony, my darling," she said, "what could be more perfect? Howproud I am of you both!"
She told him, too, how they had been tracked to Stanfield--Lackington hadlet it out in his exultation.
The sailor at Greenhithe was one of his agents--an apostate, like hismaster. He had recognised that the party consisted of Catholics byAnthony's breaking of the bread. He had been placed there to watch theferry; and had sent messages at once to Nichol and Lackington. Then theparty had been followed, but had been lost sight of, thanks to Anthony'sruse. Nichol had then flung out a cordon along the principal roads thatbounded Stanstead Woods on the south; and Lackington, when he arrived afew hours later, had kept them there all night. The cordon consisted ofidlers and children picked up at Wrotham; and the tramp who feigned to beasleep had been one of them. When they had passed, he had given thesignal to his nearest neighbour, and had followed them up. Nichol wassoon at the place, and after them; and had followed to Stanfield withLackington behind. Then watchers had been set round the house; themagistrates communicated with; and as soon as Hubert and Mr. Graves hadarrived the assault had been made. Hubert had not been told who thepriest was; but he had leapt at an opportunity to harass Mr. Buxton: hehad been given to understand that Anthony and Isabel were still in thenorth.
"He did not know; indeed he did not," cried Isabel piteously.
At another time, when she had gained admittance to him, she gave himmessages from the Marretts, who had kept a great affection for the lad,who had told them tales of College that Christmas time; and she told himtoo of the coming of an old friend to see her there.
"It was poor Mr. Dent," she said; "he looks so old now. His wife diedthree years ago; you know he has a city-living and does chaplain's workat the Tower sometimes; and he is coming to see you, Anthony, and talk toyou."
Three or four days later he came.
Anthony was greatly touched at his kindness in coming. He lookedconsiderably older than his age; his hair had grown thin and grey abouthis temples, and the sharp birdlike outline of his face and featuresseemed blurred and indeterminate. His creed too, and his whole manner oflooking at things of faith, seemed to have undergone a similar process.The two had a long talk.
"I am not going to argue with you, Mr. Norris," he said, "though I stillthink your religion wrong. But I have learnt this at least, that thegreatest of all is charity, and if we love the same God, and His BlessedSon, and one another, I think that is best of all. I have learnt thatfrom my wife--my dear wife," he added softly. "I used to hold much withdoctrine at one time, and loved to chop arguments; but our Saviour didnot, and so I will not."
Anthony was delighted that he took this line, for he knew there are someminds that apparently cannot be loyal to both charity and truth at thesame time, and Mr. Dent's seemed to be one of them; so
the two talked ofold times at Great Keynes, and of the folks there, and at last of Hubert.
"I saw him in the City last week," said Mr. Dent, "and he is a changedman. He looks ten years older than this time last year; I scarcely knowwhat has come to him. I know he has thrown up his magistracy, and theLindfield parson tells me that the talk is that Mr. Maxwell is going onanother voyage, and leaving his wife and children behind him again."
Anthony told him gently of Hubert's share in the events at Stanfield,adding what real and earnest attempts he had made to repair the injury hehad done as soon as he had learnt that it was his friend that was inhiding.
"There was no treachery against me, Mr. Dent, you see," he added.
Mr. Dent pecked a little in the air with pursed lips and eyes fixed onthe ground; and a vision of the pulpit at Great Keynes moved beforeAnthony's eyes.
"Yes, yes, yes," he said; "I understand--I quite understand."
Before Mr. Dent took his leave he unburdened himself of what he hadreally come to say.
"Master Anthony," he said, standing up and fingering his hat round andround, "I said I talked no doctrine now; but I must unsay that; and--youwill not think me impertinent if I ask you something?"
"My dear Mr. Dent----" began the other, standing and smiling too.
"Thank you, thank you--I felt sure--then it is this: I do not know muchabout the Popish religion, though I used to once, and I may be verymistaken; but I would like you to satisfy me before I go on one point";and he fixed his anxious peering eyes on Anthony's face. "Can you say,Master Anthony, from a full heart, that you fix all your hope andconfidence for salvation in Christ's merits alone?"
Anthony smiled frankly in his face.
"Indeed, in none other," he said, "and from a full heart."
"Ah well," and the birdlike face began to beam and twitch, "and--andthere is nothing of confidence in yourself and your works--and--and thereis no talk of Holy Mary in the matter?"
Anthony smiled again. He wished to avoid useless controversy.
"Briefly," he said, "my belief is that I am a very great sinner, that Ideserve eternal hell; but I humbly place all my trust in the PreciousBlood of my Saviour, and in that alone. Does that satisfy you?"
Mr. Dent's face was breaking into smiles, and at the end he took thepriest's face in his hands and kissed him gently twice on the cheeks.
"Then, my dear boy, I fear nothing for you. May that salvation you hopefor be yours." And then without a word he was gone.
Anthony's conscience reproached him a little that he had said nothing ofthe Church to the minister; but Mr. Dent had been so peremptory aboutdoctrine that it was hard for the younger man to say what he would havewished. He told him, however, plainly on his next visit that he heldwhole-heartedly too that the Catholic Church was the treasury of Gracethat Christ had instituted, and added a little speech about his longingto see his old friend a Catholic too; but Mr. Dent shook his head. Thecorners of his eyes wrinkled a little, and a shade of his old fretfulnesspassed over his face.
"Nay, if you talk like that," he said, "I must be gone. I am notheologian. You must let me alone."
He gave him news this time of Mr. Buxton.
"He is in the Counter, as you know," he said, "and is a very bright andcheerful person, it seems to me. Mistress Isabel asked me to see him andgive her news of him, for she cannot get admittance. He is in a cell,little and nasty; but he said to me that a Protestant prison was aPapist's pleasaunce--in fact he said it twice. And he asked very eagerlyafter you and Mistress Isabel. He tried, too, to inveigle me into talk ofPeter his prerogative, but I would not have it. It was Lammas Day when Isaw him, and he spoke much of it."
Anthony asked whether there was anything said of what punishment Mr.Buxton would suffer.
"Well," said Mr. Dent, "the Lieutenant of the Tower told me that herGrace was so sad at the death of Mistress Corbet that she was determinedthat no more blood should be shed than was obliged over this matter; andthat Mr. Buxton, he thought, would be but deprived of his estates andbanished; but I know not how that may be. But we shall soon know."
These weeks of waiting were full of consolation and refreshment toAnthony: the nervous stress of the life of the seminary priest inEngland, full of apprehension and suspense, crowned, as it had been inhis case, by the fierce excitement of the last days of his liberty--allthis had strained and distracted his soul, and the peace of the prisonlife, with the certainty that no efforts of his own could help him now,quieted and strengthened him for the ordeal he foresaw. At this time,too, he used to spend two or three hours a day in meditation, and foundthe greatest benefit in following the tranquil method of prayerprescribed by Louis de Blois, with whose writings he had madeacquaintance at Douai. Each morning, too, he said a "dry mass," andduring the whole of his imprisonment at the Clink managed to make hisconfession at least once a week, and besides his communion at mass onSundays, communicated occasionally from the Reserved Sacrament, which hewas able to keep in a neighbouring cell, unknown to his gaoler.
And so the days went by, as orderly as in a Religious House; he rose at afixed hour, observed the greatest exactness in his devotions, and did hisutmost to prevent any visitors being admitted to see him, or any fromanother cell coming into his own, until he had finished his firstmeditation and said his office. And there began to fall upon him a kindof mellow peace that rose at times of communion and prayer to a point soravishing, that he began to understand that it would not be a light crossfor which such preparatory graces were necessary.
* * * *
Towards the middle of September he received intelligence that evidencehad been gathering against him, and that one or two were come fromLancashire under guard; and that he would be brought before theCommissioners again immediately.
Within two days this came about. He was sent for across the water to theTower, and after waiting an hour or two with his gaoler downstairs in thebasement of the White Tower, was taken up into the great Hall where theCouncil sat. There was a table at the farther end where they weresitting, and as Anthony looked round he saw through openings all round inthe inner wall the little passage where the sentries walked, and heardtheir footfalls.
The preliminaries of identification and the like had been disposed of atprevious examinations before Mr. Young--a name full of sinistersuggestiveness to the Catholics; and so, after he had been given a seatat a little distance from the table behind which the Commissioners sat,he was questioned minutely as to his journey in the North of England.
"What were you there for, Mr. Norris?" inquired the Secretary of theCouncil.
"I went to see friends, and to do my business."
"Then that resolves itself into two heads: One, Who are your friends.Two, What was your business?"
Now it had been established beyond a doubt at previous examinations thathe was a priest; a student of Douai who had apostatised had positivelyidentified him; so Anthony answered boldly:
"My friends were Catholics; and my business was the reconciling of soulsto their Creator."
"And to the Pope of Rome," put in Wade.
"Who is Christ's Vicar," continued Anthony.
"And a pestilent knave," concluded a fiery-faced man whom Anthony did notknow.
But the Commissioners wanted more than that; it was true that Anthony wasalready convicted of high treason in having been ordained beyond the seasand in exercising his priestly functions in England; but the exacting ofthe penalty for religion alone was apt to raise popular resentment; andit was far preferable in the eyes of the authorities to entangle a priestin the political net before killing him. So they passed over for thepresent his priestly functions and first demanded a list of all theplaces where he had stayed in the north.
"You ask what is impossible," said Anthony, with his eyes on the groundand his heart beating sharply, for he knew that now peril was near.
"Well," said Wade, "let us put it another way. We know that you were atSpeke Hall, Blainscow, an
d other places. I have a list here," and hetapped the table, "but we want your name to it."
"Let me see the paper," said Anthony.
"Nay, nay, tell us first."
"I cannot sign the paper except I see it," said Anthony, smiling.
"Give it him," said a voice from the end of the table.
"Here then," said Wade unwillingly.
Anthony got up and took the paper from him, and saw one or two placesnamed where he had not been, and saw that it had been drawn up at anyrate partly on guesswork.
He put the paper down and went back to his chair and sat down.
"It is not true," he said, looking steadily at the Secretary; "I cannotsign it."
"Do you deny that you have been to any of these places?" inquired Wadeindignantly.
"The paper is not true," said Anthony again.
"Well, then, show us what is not true upon it."
"I cannot."
"We will find means to persuade you," said the Secretary.
"If God permits," said Anthony.
Wade glanced round inquiringly and shrugged his shoulders; one or twoshook their heads.
"Well, then, we will turn to another point. There are known to have beencertain Jesuit priests in Lancashire in November of last year--do youdeny that, sir?"
"You ask too much," said Anthony, smiling again; "they may have beenthere for aught I know, for I certainly did not see them elsewhere at thetime you mention."
Wade frowned, but the one at the end laughed loud.
"He has you there, Wade," he said.
"This is foolery," said the Secretary. "Well, these two, Father EdwardOldcorne and Father Holtby were in Lancashire in November; and you, Mr.Norris, spoke with them then. We wish to know where they are now, and youmust tell us."
"You have yet to prove that I spoke with them," said Anthony, for thetrap was too transparent.
"But we know that."
"That may or may not be; but it is for you to prove it."
"Nay, for you to tell us."
"For you to prove it."
Wade lost his temper.
"Well, then," he cried, "take this paper and see which of us is in theright."
Anthony rose again, wondering what the paper could be, and came towardsthe table. He saw it bore a name at the end, and as he advanced saw thatit had an official appearance. Wade still held it; but Anthony took it inhis hand too to steady it, and began to read; but as he read a mist rosebefore his eyes, and the paper shook violently. It was a warrant to puthim to the torture.
Wade laughed a little.
"Why, see, Mr. Norris, how you tremble at the warrant; what will it bewhen you----"
But a voice murmured "Shame!" and he stopped and stared.
Anthony passed his hand over his eyes and went back to his chair and satdown; he saw his knees trembling as he sat, and hated himself for it; buthe cried bravely:
"The flesh is weak, but, please God, the spirit is willing."
"Well, then," said Wade again, "must we execute this warrant, or will youtell us what we would know?"
"You must do what God permits," said Anthony.
Wade sat down, throwing the warrant on the table, and began to talk in alow voice to those who sat next him. Anthony fixed his eyes on theground, and did his utmost to keep his thoughts steady.
Now he realised where he was, and what it all meant. The little door tothe left, behind him, that he had noticed as he came in, was the door ofwhich he had heard other Catholics speak, that led down to the greatcrypt, where so many before him had screamed and fainted and called onGod, from the rack that stood at the foot of the stairs, or from thepillar with the fixed ring at its summit.
He had faced all this in his mind again and again, but it was a differentthing to have the horror within arm's length; old phrases he had heard ofthe torture rang in his mind--a boast of Norton's, the rackmaster, whohad racked Brian, and which had been repeated from mouth to mouth--thathe had "made Brian a foot longer than God made him"; words of JamesMaxwell's that he had let drop at Douai; the remembrance of his limp; andof Campion's powerlessness to raise his hand when called upon toswear--all these things crowded on him now; and there seemed to rest onhim a crushing swarm of fearful images and words. He made a great effort,and closed his eyes, and repeated the holy name of Jesus over and overagain; but the struggle was still fierce when Wade's voice, harsh anddry, broke in and scattered the confusion of mind that bewildered him.
"Take the prisoner to a cell; he is not to go back to the Clink."
Anthony felt a hand on his arm, and the gaoler was looking at him withcompassion.
"Come, sir," he said.
Anthony rose feeling heavy and exhausted; but remembered to bow to theCommissioners, one or two of whom returned it. Then he followed thegaoler out into the ante-room, who handed him over to one of the Towerofficials.
"I must leave you here, sir," he said; "but keep a good heart; it willnot be for to-day."
* * * *
When Anthony got to his new cell, which was in the Salt Tower, he wasbitterly angry and disappointed with himself. Why, he had turned whiteand sick like a child, not at the pain of the rack, not even at the sightof it, but at the mere warrant! He threw himself on his knees, and boweddown till his head beat against the boards.
"O Lord Jesus," he prayed, "give me of Thy Manhood."
* * * *
He found that this prison was more rigorous than the Clink; no liberty toleave the cell could possibly be obtained, and no furniture was provided.The gaoler, when he had brought up his dinner, asked whether he couldsend any message for him for a bed. Anthony gave Isabel's address,knowing that the authorities were already aware that she was a Catholic,and indeed she had given bail to come up for trial if called upon, andthat his information could injure neither her nor the Marretts, who weresound Church of England people; and in the afternoon a mattress and someclothes arrived for him.
Anthony noticed at dinner that the knife provided was of a veryinconvenient shape, having a round blunt point, and being sharp only at alower part of the blade; and when the keeper came up with his supper heasked him to bring him another kind. The man looked at him with a queerexpression.
"What is the matter?" asked Anthony; "cannot you oblige me?"
The man shook his head.
"They are the knives that are always given to prisoners under warrant fortorture."
Anthony did not understand him, and looked at him, puzzled.
"For fear they should do themselves an injury," added the gaoler.
Then the same shudder ran over his body again.
"You mean--you mean...." he began. The gaoler nodded, still looking athim oddly, and went out; and Anthony sat, with his supper untasted,staring before him.
* * * *
By a kind of violent reaction he had a long happy dream that night. Thefierce emotions of that day had swept over his imagination and scoured itas with fire, and now the underlying peace rose up and flooded it withsweetness.
He thought he was in the north again, high up on a moor, walking with onewho was quite familiar to him, but whose person he could not rememberwhen he woke; he did not even know whether it was man or woman. It was aperfect autumn day, he thought, like one of those he had spent there lastyear; the heather and the gorse were in flower, and the air was redolentfrom their blossoms; he commented on this to the person at his side, whotold him it was always so there. Mile after mile the moor rose anddipped, and, although Skiddaw was on his right, purple and grey, yet tohis left there was a long curved horizon of sparkling blue sea. It was acloudless day overhead, and the air seemed kindling and fresh round himas it blew across the stretches of heather from the western sea. Hehimself felt full of an extraordinary vitality, and the mere movement ofhis limbs gave him joy as he went swiftly and easily forward over theheather. There was the sound of the wind in hi
s ears, and again and againthere came the gush of water from somewhere out of sight--as he had heardit in the church by Skiddaw. There was no house or building of any kindwithin sight, and he felt a great relief in these miles of heath and thesense of holiday that they gave him. But all the joy round him and in hisheart found their point for him in the person that went with him; thispresence was their centre, as a diamond in a gold ring, or as a thronedfigure in a Court circle. All else existed for the sake of thisperson;--the heather blossomed and the gorse incensed the air, and thesea sparkled, and the sky was blue, and the air kindled, and his ownheart warmed and throbbed, for that only. When he tried to see who itwas, there was nothing to see; the presence existed there as a centre ina sphere, immeasurable and indiscernible; sometimes he thought it wasMary, sometimes he thought it Henry Buxton, sometimes Isabel--once evenhe assured himself it was Mistress Margaret, and once James Maxwell--andwith the very act of identification came indecision again. Thisuncertainty waxed into a torment, and yet a sweet torment, as of a loverwho watches his mistress' shuttered house; and this torment swelled yethigher and deeper until it was so great that it had absorbed the wholeradiant fragrant circle of the hills where he walked; and then came theblinding knowledge that the Presence was all these persons so dear tohim, and far more; that every tenderness and grace that he had loved inthem--Mary's gallantry and Isabel's serene silence and his friend'sfellowship, and the rest--floated in the translucent depths of it,stained and irradiated by it, as motes in a sunbeam.
And then he woke, and it was through tears of pure joy that he saw therafters overhead, and the great barred door, and the discoloured wallabove his bed.
* * * *
When his gaoler brought him dinner that day it was half an hour earlierthan usual; and when Anthony asked him the reason he said that he did notknow, but that the orders had run so; but that Mr. Norris might takeheart; it was not for the torture, for Mr. Topcliffe, who superintendedit, had told the keeper of the rack-house that nothing would be wantedthat day.
He had hardly finished dinner when the gaoler came up again and said thatthe Lieutenant was waiting for him below, and that he must bring his hatand cloak.
Since his arrest he had worn his priest's habit every day, so he nowthrew the cloak over his arm and took his hat, and followed the gaolerdown.
In passing through the court he went by a group of men that were talkingtogether, and he noticed very especially a tall old man with a grey head,in a Court suit with a sword, and very lean about the throat, who lookedat him hard as he passed. As he reached the archway where the Lieutenantwas waiting, he turned again and saw the sunken eyes of the old man stilllooking after him; when he turned to the gaoler he saw the same odd lookin his face that he had noticed before.
"Why do you look like that?" he asked. "Who is that old man?"
"That is Mr. Topcliffe," said the keeper.
The Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir Richard Barkley, saluted him kindly atthe gate, and begged him to follow him; the keeper still came after andanother stepped out and joined them, and the group of four togetherpassed out through the Lion's Tower and across the moat to a littledoorway where a closed carriage was waiting. The Lieutenant and Anthonystepped inside; the two keepers mounted outside; and the carriage setoff.
Then the Lieutenant turned to the priest.
"Do you know where you are going, Mr. Norris?"
"No, sir."
"You are going to Whitehall to see the Queen's Grace."