CHAPTER IX
THE ALARM
A very happy party sat down to supper that evening in Stanfield Place.
Anthony had taken Mr. Buxton aside privately when the first greetingswere over, and told him all that happened: the alarm at Stanstead; hisdevice, and the entire peace they had enjoyed ever since.
"Isabel," he ended, "certainly thought she saw a man behind us once; butwe were among the deer, and it was dusky in the woods; and, for myself, Ithink it was but a stag. But, if you think there is danger anywhere, Iwill gladly ride on."
Mr. Buxton clapped him on the shoulder.
"My dear friend," he said, "take care you do not offend me. I am a slowfellow, as you know; but even my coarse hide is pricked sometimes. Do notsuggest again that I could permit any priest--and much less my own dearfriend--to leave me when there was danger. But there is none in thiscase--you have shaken the rogues off, I make no doubt; and you will juststay here for the rest of the summer at the very least."
Anthony said that he agreed with him as to the complete baffling of thepursuers, but added that Isabel was still a little shaken, and would Mr.Buxton say a word to her.
"Why, I will take her round the hiding-holes myself after supper, andshow her how strong and safe we are. We will all go round."
In the withdrawing-room he said a word or two of reassurance to herbefore the others were down.
"Anthony has told me everything, Mistress Isabel; and I warrant that theknaves are cursing their stars still on Stanstead hills, twenty milesfrom here. You are as safe here as in Greenwich palace. But after supper,to satisfy you, we will look to our defences. But, believe me, there isnothing to fear."
He spoke with such confidence and cheerfulness that Isabel felt her fearsmelting, and before supper was over she was ashamed of them, and said so.
"Nay, nay," said Mr. Buxton, "you shall not escape. You shall see everyone of them for yourself. Mistress Corbet, do you not think that just?"
"You need a little more honest worldliness, Isabel," said Mary. "I do nothesitate to say that I believe God saves the priests that have the besthiding-holes. Now that is not profane, so do not look at me like that."
"It is the plainest sense," said Anthony, smiling at them both.
They went the round of them all with candles, and Anthony refreshed hismemory; they visited the little one in the chapel first, then thecupboard and portrait-door at the top of the corridor, the chamber overthe fireplace in the hall, and lastly, in the wooden cellar-steps theylifted the edge of the fifth stair from the bottom, so that its front andthe top of the stair below it turned on a hinge and dropped open, leavinga black space behind: this was the entrance to the passage that ledbeneath the garden to the garden-house on the far side of the avenue.
Mistress Corbet wrinkled her nose at the damp earthy smell that breathedout of the dark.
"I am glad I am not a priest," she said. "And I would sooner be burieddead than alive. And there is a rat there that sorely needs burying."
"My dear lady!" cried the contriver of the passage indignantly, "herGrace might sleep there herself and take no harm. There is not even thewhisker of a rat."
"It is not the whisker that I mind," said Mary, "it is the rest of him."
Mr. Buxton immediately set his taper down and climbed in.
"You shall see," he said, "and I in my best satin too!"
He was inside the stairs now and lying on his back on the smooth boardthat backed them. He sidled himself slowly along towards the wall.
"Press the fourth brick of the fourth row," he said.
"You remember, Father Anthony?"
He had reached now what seemed to be the brick wall against which theends of the stairs rested; and that closed that end of the cellarsaltogether. Anthony leaned in with a candle, and saw how that part of thewall against his friend's right side slowly turned into the dark as thefourth brick was pressed, and a little brick-lined passage appearedbeyond. Mr. Buxton edged himself sideways into the passage, and thenstood nearly upright. It was an excellent contrivance. Even if thesearchers should find the chamber beneath the stairs, which was unlikely,they would never suspect that it was only a blind to a passage beyond.The door into the passage consisted of a strong oaken door disguised onthe outside by a facing of brick-slabs; all the hinges were within.
"As sweet as a flower," said the architect, looking about him. His voicerang muffled and hollow.
"Then the friends have removed the corpse," said Mary, putting her headin, "while you were opening the door. There! come out; you will takecold. I believe you."
"Are you satisfied?" said Mr. Buxton to Isabel, as they went upstairsagain.
"What are your outer defences?" asked Mary, before Isabel could answer.
"You shall see the plan in the hall," said Mr. Buxton.
He took down the frame that held the plan of the house, and showed themthe outer doors. There was first the low oak front door on the north,opening on to the little court; this was immensely strong and would standbattering. Then on the same side farther east, within the stable-court,there was the servants' door, protected by chains, and an oak bolt thatran across. On the extreme east end of the house there was a door openinginto the garden from the withdrawing-room, the least strong of all; therewas another on the south side, opposite the front door--that gave on tothe garden; and lastly there was an entrance into the priests' end of thehouse, at the extreme west, from the little walled garden where Anthonyhad meditated years ago. This walled garden had a very strong door of itsown opening on to the lane between the church and the house.
"But there are only three ways out, really," said Mr. Buxton, "for thegarden walls are high and strong. There is the way of the walled garden;the iron-gates across the drive; and through the stable-yard on to thefield-path to East Maskells. All the other gates are kept barred; andindeed I scarcely know where the keys are."
"I am bewildered," said Mary.
"Shall we go round?" he asked.
"To-morrow," said Mary; "I am tired to-night, and so is this poor child.Come, we will go to bed."
Anthony soon went too. Both he and Isabel were tired with the journey andthe strain of anxiety, and it was a keen joy to him to be back again inhis own dear room, with the tapestry of St. Thomas of Aquin and St. Clareopposite the bed, and the wide curtained bow-window which looked out onthe little walled garden.
* * * *
Mr. Buxton was left alone in the great hall below with the two tapersburning, and the starlight with all the suffused glow of a summer nightmaking the arms glimmer in the tall windows that looked south. Lower, thewindows were open, and the mellow scents of the June roses, and of thesweet-satyrian and lavender poured in; the night was very still, but thefaintest breath came from time to time across the meadows and rustled inthe stiff leaves with the noise of a stealthy movement.
"I will look round," said Mr. Buxton to himself.
He stepped out immediately into the garden by the hall door, and turnedto the east, passing along the lighted windows. His step sounded on thetiles, and a face looked out swiftly from Isabel's room overhead; but hisfigure was plain in the light from the windows as he came out round thecorner; and the face drew back. He crossed the east end of the house, andwent through a little door into the stable-yard, locking it after him. Inthe kennels in the corner came a movement, and a Danish hound came outsilently into the cage before her house, and stood up, like a slendergrey ghost, paws high up in the bars, and whimpered softly to her lord.He quieted her, and went to the door in the yard that opened on to thefield-path to East Maskells, unbarred it and stepped through. There was adry ditch on his left, where nettles quivered in the stirring air; and aheavy clump of bushes rose beyond, dark and impenetrable. Mr. Buxtonstared straight at these a moment or two, and then out towards EastMaskells. There lay his own meadows, and the cattle and horses secure andsleeping. Then he stepped back again; b
arred the door and walked upthrough the stable-yard into the front court. There the great iron gatesrose before him, diaphanous-looking and flimsy in the starlight. He wentup to them and shook them; and a loose shield jangled fiercely overhead.Then he peered through, holding the bars, and saw the familiar patch ofgrass beyond the gravel sweep, and the dark cottages over the way. Thenhe made his way back to the front door, unlocked it with his private key,passed through the hall, through a parlour or two into the lower floor ofthe priests' quarters; unlocked softly the little door into the walledgarden, and went out on tip-toe once more. Even as he went, Anthony'slight overhead went out. Mr. Buxton went to the garden door, unfastenedit, and stepped out into the road. Above him on his left rose up thechancel of the parish church, the roofs crowded behind; and immediatelyin front was the high-raised churchyard, with the tall irregular wall andthe trees above all, blotting out the stars.
Then he came back the same way, fastening the doors as he passed, andreached the hall, where the tapers still burned. He blew out one and tookthe other.
"I suppose I am a fool," he said; "the lad is as safe as in his mother'sarms." And he went upstairs to bed.
* * * *
Mary Corbet rose late next morning, and when she came down at last foundthe others in the garden. She joined them as they walked in the littleavenue.
"Have not the priest-hunters arrived?" she asked. "What are they about?And you, dear Isabel, how did you sleep?"
Isabel looked a little heavy-eyed. "I did not sleep well," she said.
"I fear I disturbed her," said Mr. Buxton. "She heard me as I went roundthe house."
"Why did you go round the house?" asked Anthony.
"I often do," he said shortly.
"And there was no one?" asked Mary.
"There was no one."
"And what would you have done if there had been?"
"Yes," said Anthony, "what would you have done to warn us all?"
Mr. Buxton considered.
"I should have rung the alarm, I think," he said.
"But I did not know you had one," said Mary.
Mr. Buxton pointed to a turret peeping between two high gables, above hisown room.
"And what does it sound like?"
"It is deep, and has a dash of sourness or shrillness in it. I cannotdescribe it. Above all, it is marvellous loud."
"Then, if we hear it, we shall know the priest-hunters are on us?" askedMary. Mr. Buxton bowed.
"Or that the house is afire," he said, "or that the French or Spanish arelanded."
To tell the truth, he was just slightly uneasy. Isabel had been far moresilent than he had ever known her, and her nerves were plainly at anacute tension; she started violently even now, when a servant came outbetween two yew-hedges to call Mr. Buxton in. Her alarm had affected him,and besides, he knew something of the extraordinary skill and patience ofWalsingham's agents, and even the story of the ferry had startled him.Could it really be, he had wondered as he tossed to and fro in the hotnight, that this innocent priest had thrown off his pursuers socompletely as had appeared? In the morning he had sent down a servant tothe inn to inquire whether anything had been seen or heard of adisquieting nature; now the servant had come to tell him, as he hadordered, privately. He went with the man in through the hall-door,leaving the others to walk in the avenue, and then faced him.
"Well?" he said sharply.
"No, sir, there is nothing. There is a party there travelling on toBrighthelmstone this afternoon, and four drovers who came in last night,sir; and two gentlemen travelling across country; but they left earlythis morning."
"They left, you say?"
"They left at eight o'clock, sir."
Mr. Buxton's attention was attracted to these two gentlemen.
"Go and find out where they came from," he said, "and let me know afterdinner."
The man bowed and left the room, and almost immediately the dinner-bellrang.
Mary was frankly happy; she loved to be down here in this superb weatherwith her friends; she enjoyed this beautiful house with its furniture andpictures, and even took a certain pleasure in the hiding-holesthemselves; although in this case she was satisfied they would not beneeded. She had heard the tale of the Stanstead woods, and had no shadowof doubt but that the searchers, if, indeed, they were searchers at all,were baffled. So at dinner she talked exactly as usual; and the cloud ofslight discomfort that still hung over Isabel grew lighter and lighter asshe listened. The windows of the hall were flung wide, and the warmsummer air poured from the garden into the cool room with its polishedfloor, and table decked with roses in silver bowls, with its gravetapestries stirring on the walls behind the grim visors and pikes thathung against them.
The talk turned on music.
"Ah! I would I had my lute," sighed Mary, "but my woman forgot to bringit. What a garden to sing in, in the shade of the yews, with thegarden-house behind to make the voice sound better than it is!"
Mr. Buxton made a complimentary murmur.
"Thank you," she said, "Master Anthony, you are wool-gathering."
"Indeed not," he said, "but I was thinking where I had seen a lute. Ah!it is in the little west parlour."
"A lute!" cried Mary. "Ah! but I have no music; and I have not thecourage to sing the only song I know, over and over again."
"But there is music too," said Anthony.
Mary clapped her hands.
"When dinner is over," she said, "you and I will go to find it."
Dinner was over at last, and the four rose.
"Come," said Mary; while Isabel turned into the garden and Mr. Buxtonwent to his room. "We will be with you presently," she cried afterIsabel.
Then the two went together to the little west parlour, oak-panelled, witha wide fireplace with the logs in their places, and the latticed windowswith their bottle-end glass, looking upon the walled garden. Anthonystood on a chair and opened the top window, letting a flood of summernoises into the room.
They found the lute music, written over its six lines with the queer F'sand double F's and numerals--all Hebrew to Anthony, but bursting andblossoming with delicate melodies to Mary's eyes. Then she took up thelute, and tuned it on her knee, still sitting in a deep lounging-chair,with her buckled feet before her; while Anthony sat opposite and watchedher supple flashing fingers busy among the strings, and her graveabstracted look as she listened critically. Then she sounded the stringsin little rippling chords.
"Ah! it is a sweet old lute," she said. "Put the music before me."
Anthony propped it on a chair.
"Is that the right side up?" he asked.
Mary smiled and nodded, still looking at the music.
"Now then," she said, and began the prelude.
* * * *
Anthony threw himself back in his chair as the delicate tinkling began topour out and overscore the soft cooing of a pigeon on the roofs somewhereand the murmur of bees through the open window. It was an old preciselittle love-song from Italy, with a long prelude, suggesting by itstender minor chords true and restrained love, not passionate but tender,not despairing but melancholy; it was a love that had for its symbols notthe rose and the lily, but the lavender and thyme--acrid in itssweetness. The prelude had climbed up by melodious steps to the keynote,and was now rippling down again after its aspirations.
Mary stirred herself.
Ah! now the voice would come in the last chord----when all the music wasfirst drowned and then ceased, as with crash after crash a great bell,sonorous and piercing, began to sound from overhead.
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