“There are none others coming to Padley to-morrow?” asked Marjorie.
“None that I know of. They will come in sometimes without warning; but I cannot help that. Mr. Fenton will be at Tansley: he told me so.”
“How did the news come?” asked Robin.
“It seems that the preacher Walton, in Derby, hath been warned that we shall be delivered to him two days hence. It was his servant that told one of mine. I fear he will be a-preparing his sermons to us, all for nothing.”
He smiled bitterly again. Robin could see the misery in this man’s heart at the thought that it was his own son who had contrived this. Mr. Thomas had been quiet for many months, no doubt in order to strike the more surely in his new function as “sworn man” of her Grace. Yet he would seem to have failed.
“We shall not get our candles then, this year either,” smiled Mr. Thomas. “Lanterns are all that we shall have.”
There was not much time to be lost. Luggage had to be packed, since it would not be safe for the three to return until at least two or three weeks had passed; and Marjorie, besides, had to prepare a list of places and names that must be dealt with on their way—places where word must be left that the hunt was up again, and names of particular persons that were to be warned. Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam were in the county, and these must be specially informed, since they were known, and Mr. Garlick in particular had already suffered banishment and returned again, so that there would be no hope for him if he were once more captured.
The four sat late that night; and Robin wondered more than ever, not only at the self-command of the girl, but at her extraordinary knowledge of Catholic affairs in the county. She calculated, almost without mistake, as was afterwards shown, not only which priests were in Derbyshire, but within a very few miles of where they would be and at what time: she showed, half-smiling, a kind of chart which she had drawn up, of the movements of the persons concerned, explaining the plan by which each priest (if he desired) might go on his own circuit where he would be most needed. She lamented, however, the fewness of the priests, and attributed to this the growing laxity of many families—living, it might be, in upland farms or in inaccessible places, where they could but very seldom have the visits of the priest and the strength of the sacraments.
Before midnight, therefore, the two travellers had complete directions for their journey, as well as papers to help their memories, as to where the news was to be left. And at last Mr. John stood up and stretched himself.
“We must go to bed,” he said. “We must be booted by five.”
Marjorie nodded to Alice, who stood up, saying she would show him where his bed had been prepared.
Robin lingered for a moment to finish his last notes.
“Mr. Alban,” said Marjorie suddenly, without lifting her eyes from the paper on which she wrote.
“Yes?”
“You will take care to-morrow, will you not?” she said. “Mr. John is a little hot-headed. You must keep him to his route?”
“I will do my best,” said Robin, smiling.
She lifted her clear eyes to his without tremor or shame.
“My heart would be broken altogether if aught happened to you. I look to you as our Lord’s chief soldier in this county.”
“But——”
“That is so,” she said. “I do not know any man who has been made perfect in so short a time. You hold us all in your hands.”
CHAPTER II
I
IT WAS in Mr. Bassett’s house at Langley that the news of the attack on Padley reached the two travellers a month later, and it bore news in it that they little expected.
For it seemed that, entirely unexpectedly, there had arrived at Padley the following night no less than three of the FitzHerbert family, Mr. Anthony the seventh son, with two of his sisters, as well as Thomas FitzHerbert’s wife, who rode with them, whether as a spy or not was never known. Further, Mr. Fenton himself, hearing of their coming, had ridden up from Tansley, and missed the messenger that Marjorie had sent out. They had not arrived till late, missing again, by a series of mischances, the scouts Marjorie had posted; and, on discovering their danger, had further discovered the house to be already watched. They judged it better, therefore, as Marjorie said in her letter, to feign unconsciousness of any charge against them, since there was no priest in the house who could incriminate them.
All this the travellers learned for the first time at Langley.
They had gone through into Staffordshire, as had been arranged, and there had moved about from house to house of Catholic friends without any trouble. It was when at last they thought it safe to be moving homewards, and had arrived at Langley, that they found Marjorie’s letter awaiting them. It was addressed to Mr. John FitzHerbert and was brought by Robin’s old servant, Dick Sampson.
“The assault was made,” wrote Marjorie, “according to the arrangement. Mr. Columbell himself came with a score of men and surrounded the house very early, having set watchers all in place the evening before: they had made certain they should catch the master and at least a priest or two. But I have very heavy news, for all that; for there had come to the house after dark Mr. Anthony FitzHerbert, with two of his sisters, Mrs. Thomas FitzHerbert and Mr. Fenton himself, and they have carried the two gentlemen to the Derby gaol. I have had no word from Mr. Anthony, but I hear that he said that he was glad that his father was not taken, and that his own taking he puts down to his brother’s account, as yourself, sir, also did. The men did no great harm in Padley beyond breaking a panel or two: they were too careful, I suppose, of what they think will be Mr. Topcliffe’s property some day! And they found none of the hiding-holes, which is good news. The rest of the party they let go free again for the present.
“I have another piece of bad news, too—which is no more than what we had looked for: that Mr. Simpson at the Assizes was condemned to death, but has promised to go to church, so that his life is spared if he will do so. He is still in the gaol, however, where I pray God that Mr. Anthony may meet with him and bring him to a better mind; so that he hath not yet denied our Lord, even though he hath promised to do so.
“May God comfort and console you, Mr. FitzHerbert, for this news of Mr. Anthony that I send.”
The letter ended with messages to the party, with instructions for their way of return if they should come within the next week; and with the explanation, given above, of the series of misfortunes by which any came to be at Padley that night, and how it was that they did not attempt to break out again.
The capture of Mr. Anthony was, indeed, one more blow to his father; but Robin was astonished how cheerfully he bore it; and said as much when they two were alone in the garden.
The grey old man smiled, while his eyelids twitched a little.
“They say that when a man is whipped he feels no more after awhile. The former blows prepare him and dull his nerves for the later, which, I take it, is part of God’s mercy. Well, Mr. Alban, my father hath been in prison a great while now; my son Thomas is a traitor, and a sworn man of her Grace; I myself have been fined and persecuted till I have had to sell land to pay the fines with. I have seen family after family fall from their faith and deny it. So I take it that I feel the joy that I have a son who is ready to suffer for it, more than the pain I have in thinking on his sufferings. The one may perhaps atone for the sins of the other, and yet help him to repentance.”
Life here at Langley was more encouraging than the furtive existence necessary in the north of Derbyshire.
Mr. Bassett had a confident way with him that was like wine to fainting hearts, and he had every reason to be confident; since up to the present, beyond being forced to pay the usual fines for recusancy, he had scarcely been troubled at all, and lived in considerable prosperity, having even been sheriff of Stafford in virtue of his other estates at Blore. His house at Langley was a great one, standing in a park, and showing no signs of poverty; his servants were largely Catholic; he entertained priests and refugees of
all kinds freely, although discreetly; and he laughed at the notion that the persecution could be of long endurance.
The very first night the travellers had come he had spoken with considerable freedom after supper.
“Look more hearty!” he cried. “The Spanish fleet will be here before summer to relieve us of all troubles, as of all heretics, too. Her Grace will have to turn her coat once more, I think, when that comes to pass.”
Mr. John glanced at him doubtfully.
“First,” he said, “no man knows whether it will come. And, next, I for one am not sure if I even wish for it.”
Mr. Bassett laughed loudly.
“You will dance for joy!” he said. “And why do you not know whether you wish it to come?”
“I have no taste to be a Spanish subject.”
“Why, nor have I! But the King of Spain will but sail away again when he hath made terms against the privateers, whether they be those that ply on the high seas against men’s bodies, or here in England against their souls. There will be no subjection of England beyond that.”
Mr. John was silent.
“Why, I heard from Sir Thomas but a week ago, to ask for a little money to pay his fines with. He said that repayment should follow so soon as the fleet should come. Those were his very words.”
“You sent the money, then?”
“Why, yes; I made shift that a servant should throw down a bag with ten pounds in it, into a bush, and that Brittle-bank—your brother’s man—should see him do it! And lo! when we looked again, the bag was gone!”
He laughed again with open mouth. Certainly he was an inspiriting man with a loud bark of his own; but Robin imagined that he would not bite too cruelly for all that. But he saw another side of him presently.
“What was that matter of Mr. Sutton, the priest who was executed in Stafford last year?” asked Mr. John suddenly.
The face of the other changed as abruptly. His eyes became pin-points under his grey eyebrows and his mouth tightened.
“What of him?” he said.
“It was reported that you might have stayed the execution, and would not. I did not believe a word of it.”
“It is true,” said Mr. Bassett sharply—“at least a portion of it.”
“True?”
“Listen,” cried the other suddenly, “and tell me what you would have done. Mr. Sutton was taken, and was banished, and came back again, as any worthy priest would do. Then he was taken again, and condemned. I did my utmost to save him, but I could not. Then, as I would never have any part in the death of a priest for his religion, another was appointed to carry the execution through. Three days before news was brought to me by a private hand that Mr. Sutton had promised to give the names of priests whom he knew, and of houses where he had said Mass, and I know not what else; and it was said to me that I might on this account stay the execution until he had told all that he could. Now I knew that I could not save his life altogether; that was forfeited and there could be no forgiveness. All that I might do was to respite him for a little—and for what? That he might damn his own soul eternally and bring a great number of good men into trouble and peril of death for themselves. I sent the messenger away again, and said that I would listen to no such tales. And Mr. Sutton died like a good priest three days after, repenting, I doubt not, bitterly, of the weakness into which he had fallen. Now, sir, what would you have done in my place?”
He wagged his head fiercely from side to side.
Mr. John put his hand over his eyes and nodded without speaking. Robin sat silent: it was not only for priests, it seemed, that life presented a tangle.
II
The evening before the two left for the north again, Mr. Bassett took them both into his own study. It was a little room opening out of his bedroom, and was more full of books than Robin had ever seen, except in the library at Rheims, in any room in the world. A shelf ran round the room, high on the wall, and was piled with manuscripts to the ceiling. Beneath, the book-shelves that ran nearly round the room were packed with volumes, and a number more lay on the table and even in the corners.
“This is my own privy chamber,” said Mr. Bassett to the priest. “My other friends have seen it many a time, but I thought I would show it to your Reverence, too.”
Robin looked round him in wonder: he had no idea that his host was a man of such learning.
“All the books are ranged in their proper places,” went on the other. “I could put my finger on any of them blindfold. But this is the shelf I wished you to see.”
He took him to one that was behind the door, holding up the candle that he might see. The shelf had a box or two on it, besides books, and these he opened and set on the table. Robin looked in, as he was told, but could understand nothing that he saw: in one was a round ball of crystal on a little gold stand, wrapped round in velvet; in another some kind of a machine with wheels; in a third, some dried substances, as of herbs, tied together with silk. He inspected them gravely, but was not invited to touch them. Then his host touched him on the breast with one finger, and recoiled, smiling.
“This is my magic,” he said. “John here does not like it; neither did poor Mr. Fenton when he was here; but I hold there is no harm in such things if one does but observe caution.”
“What do you do with them, sir?” inquired the priest curiously, for he was not sure whether the man was serious.
“Well, sir, I hold that God has written His will in the stars, and in the burning of herbs, and in the shining of the sun, and such things. There is no black magic here. But, just as we read in the sky at morning, if it be red or yellow, whether it will be foul or fair, so I hold that God has written other secrets of His in other things; and that by observing them and judging rightly we may guess what He has in store. I knew that a prince was to die last year before ever it happened. I knew that a fleet of ships will come to England this year, before ever an anchor is weighed. And I would have you notice that here are Mr. FitzHerbert and your Reverence, too, fleeing for your lives; and here sit I safe at home; and all, as I hold, because I have been able to observe by my magic what is to come to pass.” Then, suddenly, an intense curiosity overcame Robin.
His life was a strange and perilous one; he carried it in his hand every day. In the morning he could not be sure but that he would be fleeing before evening. As he fell asleep, he could not be sure that he would not be awakened to a new dream. He had long ago conquered those moods of terror which, in spite of his courage, had come down on him sometimes, in some lonely farm, perhaps, where flight would be impossible—or, in what was far more dangerous, in some crowded inn where every movement was known—these had passed, he thought, never to come back.
But in that little book-lined room, with these curious things in boxes on the table, and his merry host peering at him gravely, and the still evening outside; with the knowledge that to-morrow he was to ride back to his own country, whence he had fled for fear of his life, six weeks ago; leaving the security of this ex-sheriff’s house for the perils of the Peak and all that suspected region from which even now, probably, the pursuit had not altogether died away—here a sudden intense desire to know what the future might hold overcame him.
“Tell me, sir,” he said. “You have told Mr. FitzHerbert’s fortune, you say, as well as others. Have you told mine since I have been here?”
There was a moment’s silence. Mr. John was silent, with his back turned. Robin looked up at his host, wondering why he did not answer. Then Mr. Bassett took up the candle.
“Come,” he said, “we have been here long enough.”
CHAPTER III
I
“THERE WILL be a company of us to-night,” said Mr. John to the two priests, as he helped them to dismount. “Mr. Alban has sent his man forward from Derby to say that he will be here before night.”
“Mr. Ludlam and I are together for once,” said Mr. Garlick. “We must separate again to-morrow, he is for the north again, he tells me. There has been no more tr
ouble?”
“Not a word of it. They were beaten last time and will not try again, I think, for the present. You heard of the attempt at Candlemas, then?”
It had been a quiet time enough ever since Lent, throughout the whole county; and it seemed as if the heat of the assault had cooled for want of success. And, indeed, it was time that the Catholics should have a little breathing-space. Things had been very bad with them—the growing luke-warmness of families that seldom saw a priest; the blows struck at the FitzHerbert family; and, above all, the defection of Mr. Thomas—all these things had brought the hearts of the faithful very low. Mr. John himself had had an untroubled time since his return a little before Easter; but he had taken the precaution not to remain too long at Padley at one time.
It was only last night, indeed, that the master had returned, in time to meet the two priests who had asked for shelter for a day or two. There were a couple of rooms kept vacant always for “men of God”; and all priests who came were instructed, of course (in case of necessity), as to the hiding-holes that Mr. Owen had contrived a few years before. Never, however, had there been any use made of them.
It was a hot July afternoon when the two priests were met to-day by Mr. John outside the arched gate that ran between the hall and the buttery.
They were plain men, these two; though Mr. Garlick had been educated at Oxford. In appearance he was a breezy sunburnt man, with very little of the clerk about him, and devoted to outdoor sports. He spoke in a loud voice with a strong Derbyshire accent, which he had never lost and now deliberately used. Mr. Ludlam looked far more of the priest: he was a clean-shaven man, of middle-age, with hair turning to grey on his temples, and with a very pleasant disarming smile; he spoke very little, but listened with an interested and attentive air. Both were, of course, dressed in the usual riding costume of gentlemen, and used good horses.
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