“I’ll be with you in a moment, mistress,” said his voice; and they heard his steps go on into the dark and cease.
Marjorie stood passive; she could feel the girl’s hands clasp her arm, and could hear her breath come like sobs. But before she could speak, a light shone somewhere on the roof; and almost immediately the man came back carrying another flambeau. He called to them civilly; they followed. Marjorie once trod on some soft, damp thing that crackled beneath her foot. They groped round one more corner; waited, while they heard a key turning in a lock. Then the man stood aside, and they went past into the room. A figure was standing there; but for the first moment they could see no more. Great shadows fled this way and that as the gaoler hung up the flambeau. Then the door closed again behind them; and Elizabeth flung herself into her husband’s arms.
II
When Marjorie could see him, as at last he put his wife into the single chair that stood in the cell and gave her the stool, himself sitting upon the table, she was shocked by the change in his face. It was true that she had only the wavering light of the flambeau to see him by, yet even that shadowy illumination could not account for his paleness and his fallen face. He was dressed miserably, too; his clothes were disordered and rusty-looking; and his features looked out, at once pinched and elongated. He blinked a little from time to time; his lips twitched beneath his ill-cut moustache and beard; and little spasms passed, as he talked, across his whole face. It was pitiful to see him; and yet more pitiful to hear him talk; for he assumed a kind of courtesy, mixed with bitterness. Now and again he fell silent, glancing with a swift and furtive movement of his eyes from one to the other of his visitors and back again. He attempted to apologise for the miserableness of the surroundings in which he received them—saying that her Grace his hostess could not be everywhere at once; and that her guests must do the best that they could. And all this was mixed with sudden wails from his wife, sudden graspings of his hands by hers. It all seemed to the quiet girl, who sat ill-at-ease on the little three-legged stool, that this was not the way to meet adversity. Then she drove down her criticism; and told herself that she ought rather to admire one of Christ’s confessors.
“And you bring me no hope, then, Mistress Manners?” he said presently (for she had told him that there was no talk yet of any formal trial)—“no hope that I may meet my accusers face to face? I had thought perhaps——”
He lifted his eyes swiftly to hers, and dropped them again.
She shook her head.
“And yet that is all that I ask now—only to meet my accusers. They can prove nothing against me—except, indeed, my recusancy; and that they have known this long time back. They can prove nothing as to the harbouring of any priests—not within the last year, at any rate, for I have not done so. It seemed to me——”
He stopped again, and passed his shaking hand over his mouth, eyeing the two women with momentary glances, and then looking down once more.
“Yes?” said Marjorie.
He slipped off from the table, and began to move about restlessly.
“I have done nothing—nothing at all,” he said. “Indeed, I thought——” And once more he was silent.
He began to talk presently of the Derbyshire hills—of Padley and of Norbury. He asked his wife of news from home, and she gave it him, interrupting herself with laments. Yet all the while his eyes strayed to Marjorie as if there was something he would ask of her, but could not. He seemed completely unnerved, and for the first time in her life the girl began to understand something of what gaol-life must signify. Yet she had never before imagined what that life of confinement might be, until she had watched this man, whom she had known in the world as a curt and almost masterful gentleman, careful of his dress, particular of the deference that was due to him, now become this worn prisoner, careless of his appearance, who stroked his mouth continually, once or twice gnawing his nails, who paced about in this abominable hole, where a tumbled heap of straw and blankets represented a bed, and a rickety table with a chair and a stool his sole furniture. It seemed as if a husk had been stripped from him, and a shrinking creature had come out of it which at present she could not recognise.
Then he suddenly wheeled on her, and for the first time some kind of forcefulness appeared in his manner.
“And my Uncle Bassett?” he cried abruptly. “What is he doing all this while?”
Marjorie said that Mr. Bassett had been most active on his behalf with the lawyers, but, for the present, was gone back again to his estates. Mr. Thomas snorted impatiently.
“Yes, he is gone back again,” he cried, “and he leaves me to rot here! He thinks that I can bear it for ever, it seems!”
“Mr. Bassett has done his utmost, sir,” said Marjorie. “He exposed himself here daily.”
“Yes, with twenty fellows to guard him, I suppose. I know my Uncle Bassett’s ways.… Tell me, if you please, how matters stand.”
Marjorie explained again. There was nothing in the world to be done until the order came for his trial—or, rather, everything had been done already. His lawyers were to rely exactly on the defence that had been spoken of just now; it was to be shown that the prisoner had harboured no priests; and the witnesses had already been spoken with—men from Norbury and Padley, who would swear that to their certain knowledge no priest had been received by Mr. FitzHerbert at least during the previous year or eighteen months. There was, therefore, no kind of reason why Mr. Bassett or Mr. John FitzHerbert should remain any longer in Derby. Mr. John had been there, but had gone again, under advice from the lawyers; but he was in constant communication with Mr. Biddell, who had all the papers ready and the names of the witnesses, and had made more than one application already for the trial to come on.
“And why has neither my father nor my Uncle Bassett come to see me?” snapped the man.
“They have tried again and again, sir,” said Marjorie. “But permission was refused. They will no doubt try again, now that Mrs. FitzHerbert has been admitted.”
He paced up and down again for a few steps without speaking. Then again he turned on her, and she could see his face working uncontrolledly.
“And they will enjoy the estates, they think, while I rot here!”
“Oh, my Thomas!” moaned his wife, reaching out to him. But he paid no attention to her.
“While I rot here!” he cried again. “But I will not! I tell you I will not!”
“Yes, sir?” said Marjorie gently, suddenly aware that her heart had begun to beat swiftly.
He glanced at her, and his face changed a little.
“I will not,” he murmured. “I must break out of my prison. Only their accursed——”
Again he interrupted himself, biting sharply on his lip.
For an instant the girl had thought that all her old distrust of him was justified, and that he contemplated in some way the making of terms that would be disgraceful to a Catholic. But what terms could these be? He was a FitzHerbert; there was no evading his own blood; and he was the victim chosen by the Council to answer for the rest. Nothing, then, except the denial of his faith—a formal and deliberate apostasy—could serve him; and to think that of the nephew of old Sir Thomas, and the son of John, was inconceivable. There seemed no way out; the torment of this prison must be borne. She only wished he could have borne it more manfully.
Then he resumed his pacing; and, three or four times as he turned, the girl caught his eyes fixed on hers for one instant. She wondered what was in his mind to say.
Even as she wondered there came a single loud rap upon the door, and then she heard the key turning. He wheeled round, and seemed to come to a determination.
“My dearest,” he said to his wife, “here is the gaoler come to turn you out again. I will ask him——” He broke off as the man stepped in.
“Mr. Gaoler,” he said, “my wife would speak alone with you a moment.” (He nodded and winked at his wife, as if to tell her that this was the time to give him the money.)
Then Marjorie understood that she had been right.
The man who held the keys nodded without speaking.
“Then, my dearest wife,” said Thomas, embracing her all of a sudden, and simultaneously drawing her towards the door, “we will leave you to speak with the man. He will come back for Mistress Manners directly.”
“Oh! my Thomas!” wailed the girl, clinging to him.
“There, there, my dearest. And you will come and see me again as soon as you can get the order.”
The instant the door was closed he came up to Marjorie and his face looked ghastly.
“Mistress Manners,” he said, “I dare not speak to my wife. But … but, for Jesu’s sake, get me out of here. I … I cannot bear it.… Topcliffe comes to see me every day.… He … he speaks to me continually of——O Christ! Christ! I cannot bear it!”
He dropped suddenly on to his knees by the table and hid his face.
III
At Babington House Marjorie slept, as was often the custom, in the same room with her maid—a large, low room, hung all round with painted cloths above the low wainscoting.
On the night after the visit to the prison, Janet noticed that her mistress was restless; and that while she would say nothing of what was troubling her, and only bade her go to bed and to sleep, she herself would not go to bed. At last, in sheer weariness, the maid slept.
She awakened later, at what time she did not know, and, in her uneasiness, sat up and looked about her; and there, still before the crucifix, where she had seen her before she slept, kneeled her mistress. She cried out in a loud whisper:
“Come to bed, mistress; come to bed.”
And, at the word, Marjorie started; then she rose, turned, and in the twilight of the summer night began to prepare herself for bed, without speaking. Far away across the roofs of Derby came the crowing of a cock to greet the dawn.
CHAPTER X
I
IT WAS a fortnight later that there came suddenly to Babington House old Mr. Biddell himself. He appeared in the great hall an hour before dinner-time, as the tables were being set, and sent a servant for Mistress Manners.
“Hark you!” he said; “you need not rouse the whole house. It is with Mistress Manners alone that my business lies.”
He broke off, as Mrs. FitzHerbert looked over the gallery.
“Mr. Biddell!” she cried.
He shook his head, but he seemed to speak with some difficulty.
“It is just a rumour,” he said, “such as there hath been before. I beg you——”
“That … there will be no trial at all?”
“It is just a rumour,” he repeated. “I did not even come to trouble you with it. It is with Mistress Manners that——”
“I am coming down,” cried Mrs. Thomas, and vanished from the gallery.
Mr. Biddell acted with decision. He whisked out again into the passage from the court, and there ran straight into Marjorie, who was coming in from the little enclosed garden at the back of the house.
“Quick!” he said. “Quick! Mrs. Thomas is coming, and I do not wish——”
She led the way without a word back into the court, along a few steps, and up again to the house into a little back parlour that the steward used when the house was full. She locked the door when he had entered, and came and sat down out of sight of any that might be passing.
“Sit here,” she said; and then: “Well?” she asked.
He looked at her gravely and sadly, shaking his head once or twice. Then he drew out a paper or two from a little lawyer’s valise that he carried, and, as he did so, heard a hand try the door outside.
“That is Mrs. Thomas,” whispered the girl. “She will not find us.”
He waited till the steps moved away again. Then he began. He looked anxious and dejected.
“I fear it is precisely as you thought,” he said. “I have followed up every rumour in the place. And the first thing that is certain is that Topcliffe leaves Derby in two days from now. I had it as positive information that his men have orders to prepare for it. The second thing is that Topcliffe is greatly elated; and the third is that Mr. FitzHerbert will be released as soon as Topcliffe is gone.”
“You are sure this time, sir?”
He assented by a movement of his head.
“I dared not tell Mrs. Thomas just now. She would give me no peace. I said it was but a rumour, and so it is; but it is a rumour that hath truth behind it. He hath been moved, too, these three days back, to another cell, and hath every comfort.”
He shook his head again.
“But he hath made no promise——” began Marjorie breathlessly.
“It is exactly that which I am most afraid of,” said the lawyer. “If he had yielded, and consented to go to church, it would have been in every man’s mouth by now. But he hath not, and I should fear it less if he had. That’s the very worst part of my news.”
“I do not understand——”
Mr. Biddell tapped his papers on the table.
“If he were an open and confessed enemy, I should fear it less,” he repeated. “It is not that. But he must have given some promise to Topcliffe that pleases the fellow more. And what can that be but that——”
Marjorie turned yet whiter. She sighed once as if to steady herself. She could not speak, but she nodded.
“Yes, Mistress Manners,” said the old man. “I make no doubt at all that he hath promised to assist him against them all—against Mr. John his father, it may be, or Mr. Bassett, or God knows whom! And yet still feigning to be true! And that is not all.”
She looked at him. She could not conceive worse than this, if indeed it were true.
“And do you think,” he continued, “that Mr. Topcliffe will do all this for love, or rather, for mere malice? I have heard more of the fellow since he hath been in Derby than in all my life before; and, I tell you, he is for feathering his own nest if he can.” He stopped.
“Mistress, did you know that he had been out to Padley three or four times since he came to Derby? … Well, I tell you now that he has. Mr. John was away, praise God; but the fellow went all round the place and greatly admired it.”
“He went out to see what he could find?” asked the girl, still whispering.
The other shook his head.
“No, mistress; he searched nothing. I had it all from one of his fellows through one of mine. He searched nothing; he sat a great while in the garden, and ate some of the fruit; he went through the hall and the rooms, and admired all that was to be seen there. He went up into the chapel-room, too, though there was nothing there to tell him what it was; and he talked a great while to one of the men about the farms, and the grazing, and such-like, but he meddled with nothing.” (The old man’s face suddenly wrinkled into fury.) “The devil went through it all like that, and admired it; and he came out to it again two or three times and did the like.”
He stopped to examine the notes he had made, and Marjorie sat still, staring on him.
It was worse than anything she could have conceived possible. That a FitzHerbert should apostatise was incredible enough; but that one should sell his family——It was impossible.
“Mr. Biddell,” she whispered piteously, “it cannot be. It is some——”
He shook his head suddenly and fiercely.
“Mistress Manners, it is as plain as daylight to me. I tell you Topcliffe hath cast his foul eyes on Padley and coveted it; and he hath demanded it as a price for Mr. Thomas’ liberty. That is why he is so elated. He hath visited Mr. FitzHerbert nigh every day; he hath cajoled him, he hath threatened him; he hath worn out his spirit by the gaol and the stinking food and the loneliness; and he hath prevailed, as he hath prevailed with many another. And the end of it all is that Mr. FitzHerbert hath yielded—yet not openly. Maybe that is part of the bargain upon the other side, that he should keep his name befor
e the world. And on this side he hath promised Padley, if that he may but keep the rest of the estates, and have his liberty. I tell you that alone cuts all the knots of this tangle.… Can you cut them in any other manner?”
There was a long silence. From the direction of the kitchen came the sound of cheerful voices, and the clatter of lids, and from the walled garden outside the chatter of birds.…
At last the girl spoke.
“I cannot believe it without evidence,” she said. “It may be so. God knows! But I do not.… Mr. Biddell?”
“Well, mistress?”
The lawyer’s head was sunk on his breast; he spoke listlessly.
“He will have given some writing to Mr. Topcliffe, will he not? if this be true. Mr. Topcliffe is not the man——”
The old man lifted his head sharply; then he nodded.
“That is the shrewd truth, mistress. Mr. Topcliffe will not trust to another’s honour; he hath none of his own!”
“Well,” said Marjorie, “if all this be true, Mr. Topcliffe will already have that writing in his possession.”
She paused.
“Eh?” said the lawyer.
They looked at one another again in silence. It would have seemed to another that the two minds talked swiftly and wordlessly together, the trained thought of the lawyer and the quick wit of the woman; for when the man spoke again, it was as if they had spoken at length.
“But we must not destroy the paper,” he said, “or the fat will be in the fire. We must not let Mr. FitzHerbert know that he is found out.”
“No,” said the girl. “But to get a view of it.… And a copy of it, to send to his family.”
Again the two looked each at the other in silence—as if they were equals—the old man and the girl.
II
It was the last night before the Londoners were to return.
Come Rack, Come Rope Page 18
