CHAPTER IV
I
Marjorie was still in bed when the news was brought her by her friend.She did not move or speak when Mistress Alice said shortly that Mr.FitzHerbert had been taken with ten of his servants and two priests.
"You understand, my dear.... They have ridden away to Derby, all of themtogether. But they may come back here suddenly."
Marjorie nodded.
"Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam were in the chimney-hole of the hall,"whispered Mistress Alice, glancing fearfully behind her.
Marjorie lay back again on her pillows.
"And what of Mr. Alban?" she asked.
"Mr. Alban was upstairs. They missed him. He is coming here after dark,the maid says."
* * * * *
An hour after supper-time the priest came quietly upstairs to theparlour. He showed no signs of his experience, except perhaps by acertain brightness in his eyes and an extreme self-repression of manner.Marjorie was up to meet him; and had in her hands a paper. She hardlyspoke a single expression of relief at his safety. She was as quiet andbusiness-like as ever.
"You must lie here to-night," she said. "Janet hath your room ready. Atone o'clock in the morning you must ride: here is a map of your journey.They may come back suddenly. At the place I have marked here with redthere is a shepherd's hut; you cannot miss it if you follow the track Ihave marked. There will be meat and drink there. At night the shepherdwill come from the westwards; he is called David, and you may trust him.You must lie there two weeks at least."
"I must have news of the other priests," he said.
Marjorie bowed her head.
"I will send a letter to you by Dick Sampson at the end of two weeks.Until that I can promise nothing. They may have spies round the house bythis time to-morrow, or even earlier. And I will send in that letter anynews I can get from Derby."
"How shall I find my way?" asked Robin.
"Until it is light you will be on ground that you know." (She flushedslightly.) "Do you remember the hawking, that time after Christmas? Itis all across that ground. When daylight comes you can follow this map."(She named one or two landmarks, pointing to them on the map.) "You musthave no lantern."
They talked a few minutes longer as to the way he must go and theprovision that would be ready for him. He must take no mass requisiteswith him. David had made that a condition. Then Robin suddenly changedthe subject.
"Had my father any hand in this affair at Padley?"
"I am certain he had not."
"They will execute Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam, will they not?"
She bowed her head in assent.
"The Summer Assizes open on the eighteenth," she said. "There is nodoubt as to how all will go."
Robin rose.
"It is time I were in bed," he said, "if I must ride at one."
The two women knelt for his blessing.
At one o'clock Marjorie heard the horse brought round. She steppedsoftly to the window, knowing herself to be invisible, and peeped out.
All was as she had ordered. There was no light of any kind: she couldmake out but dimly in the summer darkness the two figures of horse andgroom. As she looked, a third figure appeared beneath; but there was noword spoken that she could hear. This third figure mounted. She caughther breath as she heard the horse scurry a little with freshness, sinceevery sound seemed full of peril. Then the mounted figure faded one wayinto the dark, and the groom another.
II
It was two weeks to the day that Robin received his letter.
* * * * *
He had never before been so long in utter solitude; for the visits ofDavid did not break it; and, for other men, he saw none except ahog-herd or two in the distance once or twice. The shepherd came butonce a day, carrying a great jug and a parcel of food, and set them downwithout the hut; he seemed to avoid even looking within; but merely tookthe empty jug of the day before and went away again. He was an old, bentman, with a face like a limestone cliff, grey and weather-beaten; helived half the year up here in the wild Peak country, caring for a fewsheep, and going down to the village not more than once or twice a week.There was a little spring welling up in a hollow not fifty yards awayfrom the hut, which itself stood in a deep, natural rift among the highhills, so that men might search for it a lifetime and not come acrossit.
Robin's daily round was very simple. He had leave to make a fire by day,but he must extinguish it at night lest its glow should be seen, so hebegan his morning by mixing a little oatmeal, and then preparing hisdinner. About noon, so near as he could judge by the sun, he dined;sometimes off a partridge or rabbit; on Fridays off half a dozen tinytrout; and set aside part of the cold food for supper; he had one goodloaf of nearly black bread every day, and the single jug of small beer.
The greater part of the day he spent within the hut, for safety's sake,sleeping a little, and thinking a good deal. He had no books with him;even his breviary had been forbidden, since David, as a shrewd man, hadmade conditions, first that he should not have to speak with anyrefugee, second, that if the man were a priest he should have nothingabout him that could prove him to be so. Mr. Maine's beads, only, hadbeen permitted, on condition that they were hidden always beneath astone outside the hut.
After nightfall Robin went out to attend to his horse that was tetheredin the next ravine, over a crag; to shift his peg and bring him a goodarmful of cut grass and a bucket of water. (The saddle and bridle werehidden beneath a couple of great stones that leaned together not faraway.) After doing what was necessary for his horse, he went to drawwater for himself; and then took his exercise, avoiding carefully,according to instructions, every possible skyline. And it was then, forthe most part, that he did his clear thinking.... He tried to fancyhimself in a fortnight's retreat, such as he had had at Rheims beforehis reception of orders.
* * * * *
The evening of the twenty-fifth of July closed in stormy; and Robin, inan old cloak he had found placed in the hut for his own use, made hasteto attend to what was necessary, and hurried back as quickly as hecould. He sat a while, listening to the thresh of the rain and the cryof the wind; for, up here in the high land the full storm broke on him.(The hut was wattled of osiers and clay, and kept out the wet tolerablywell.)
He could see nothing from the door of his hut except the dim outline ofthe nearer crag thirty or forty yards off; and he went presently to bed.
* * * * *
He awoke suddenly, wide awake--as is easy for a man who is sleeping incontinual expectation of an alarm--at the flash of light in his eyes.But he was at once reassured by Dick's voice.
"I have come, sir; and I have brought the mistress' letter."
Robin sat up and took the packet. He saw now that the man carried alittle lantern with a slide over it that allowed only a thin funnel oflight to escape that could be shut off in an instant.
"All well, Dick? I did not hear you coming."
"The storm's too loud, sir."
"All well?"
"Mistress Manners thinks you had best stay here a week longer, sir."
"And ... and the news?"
"It is all in the letter, sir."
Robin looked for the inscription, but there was none. Then he broke thetwo seals, opened the paper and began to read. For the next five minutesthere was no sound, except the thresh of the rain and the cry of thewind. The letter ran as follows:
III
"Three more have glorified God to-day by a good confession--Mr. Garlick,Mr. Ludlam and Mr. Simpson. That is the summary. The tale in detailhath been brought to me to-day by an eye-witness.
"The trial went as all thought it would. There was never the leastquestion of it; for not only were the two priests taken with signs oftheir calling upon them, but both of them had been in the hands of themagistrates before. There was no shrinking nor fear showed of any kind.But the chief marvel was that these two priests m
et with Mr. Simpson inthe gaol; they put them together in one room, I think, hoping that Mr.Simpson would prevail upon them to do as he had promised to do; but, bythe grace of God, it was all the other way, and it was they whoprevailed upon Mr. Simpson to confess himself again openly as aCatholic. This greatly enraged my lord Shrewsbury and the rest; so thatthere was less hope than ever of any respite, and sentence was passedupon them all together, Mr. Simpson showing, at the reading of it, asmuch courage as any. This was all done two days ago at the Assizes; andit was to-day that the sentence was carried out.
"They were all three drawn on hurdles together to the open space by St.Mary's Bridge, where all was prepared, with gallows and cauldron andbutchering block; and a great company went after them. I have not heardthat they spoke much, on the way, except that a friend of Mr. Garlick'scried out to him to remember that they had often shot off together onthe moors; to which Mr. Garlick made answer merrily that it was true;but that 'I am now to shoot off such a shot as I never shot in all mylife.' He was merry at the trial, too, I hear; and said that 'he was notcome to seduce men, but rather to induce them to the Catholic religion,that to this end he had come to the country, and for this that he wouldwork so long as he lived.' And this he did on the scaffold, speaking tothe crowd about him of the salvation of their souls, and casting papers,which he had written in prison, in proof of the Catholic faith.
"Mr. Garlick went up the ladder first, kissing and embracing it as theinstrument of his death, and to encourage Mr. Simpson, as it wasthought, since some said he showed signs of timorousness again when hecame to the place. But he showed none when his turn came, but ratherexhibited the same courage as them both. Mr. Ludlam stood by smilingwhile all was done; and smiling still when his turn came. His last wordswere, '_Venite benedicti Dei_'; and this he said, seeming to see avision of angels come to bear his soul away.
"They were cut down, all three of them, before they were dead; and thebutchery done on them according to sentence; yet none of them cried outor made the least sound; and their heads and quarters were set upimmediately afterwards on poles in divers places of Derby; some of themabove the house that stands on the bridge and others on the bridgeitself. But these, I hear, will not be there long.
"So these three have kept the faith and finished their course with joy._Laus Deo_. Mr. John is in ward, for harbouring of the priests; butnothing hath been done to him yet.
"As for your reverence, I am of opinion that you had best wait anotherweek where you are. There has been a man or two seen hereabouts whomnone knew, as well as at Padley. It hath been certified, too, that Mr.Thomas was at the root of it all, that he gave the information that Mr.John and at least a priest or two would be at Padley at that time,though no man knows how he knew it, unless through servants' talk; andsince Mr. Thomas knows your reverence, it will be better to be hid for alittle longer. So, if you will, in a week from now, I will send Dickonce, again to tell you if all be well. I look for no letter back forthis since you have nothing to write with in the hut, as I know; butDick will tell me how you do; as well as anything you may choose to sayto him.
"I ask your reverence's blessing again. I do not forget your reverencein my poor prayers."
* * * * *
And so it ended, without signature--for safety's sake.
IV
Robin looked up when he had finished to where the faint outline of theservant could be seen behind the lantern, against the greater darknessof the wall.
"You know of all that has fallen at Derby?" he said, with somedifficulty.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, pray God we may be willing, too, if He bids us to it."
"Yes, sir."...
"You had best lose no time if you are to be home before dawn. Say toMistress Manners that I thank her for her letter; that I praise God forthe graces she relates in it; and that I will do as she bids.... Dick."
"Yes, sir."
"Is Mr. Audrey in any of this?"
"I do not know, sir.... I heard--" The man's voice hesitated.
"What did you hear?"
"I heard that my lord Shrewsbury wondered at his absence from the trial;and ... and that a message would be sent to Mr. Audrey to look to it tobe more zealous on her Grace's commission."
"That was all?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then you had best be gone. There is no more to be said. Bring me whatnews you can when you come again. Good-night, Dick."
"Good-night, sir.... God bless your reverence."
* * * * *
An hour later, with the first coming of the dawn, the storm ceased. (Itwas that same storm, if he had only known it, that had blown upon theSpanish Fleet at sea and driven it towards destruction. But of this heknew nothing.) He had not slept since Dick had gone, but had lain on hisback on the turfed and blanketed bed in the corner, his hands claspedbehind his head, thinking, thinking and re-thinking all that he had readjust now. He had known it must happen; but there seemed to him all thedifference in the world between an event and its mere certainty.... Thething was done--out to every bitter detail of the loathsome, agonizingdeath--and it had been two of the men whom he had seen say mass afterhimself--the ruddy-faced, breezy countryman, yet anointed with thesealing oil, and the gentle, studious, smiling man who had been no lessvigorous than his friend....
But there was one thing he had not known, and that, the recovery of thefaint heart which they had inspirited. And then, in an instant heremembered how he had seen the three, years ago, against the sunset, ashe rode with Anthony....
* * * * *
His mind was full of the strange memory as he came out at last, when theblack darkness began to fade to grey, and the noise of the rain on theroof had ceased, and the wind had fallen.
It was a view of extraordinary solemnity that he looked on, as he stoodleaning against the rough door-post. The night was still stronger thanday; overhead was as black as ever, and stars shone in it through thedissolving clouds that were passing at last. But, immediately over thegrim, serrated edge of the crag that faced him to the east, a faint andtender light was beginning to burn, so faint that, as yet it seemed anabsence of black rather than as of a colour itself; and in the midst ofit, like a crumb of diamond, shone a single dying star. This high landwas as still now as a sheltered valley, a tuft of springy grass stoodout on the crag as stiff as a thin plume; and the silence, as at Padleytwo weeks ago, was marked rather than broken by the tinkle of water fromhis spring fifty yards away. The air was cold and fresh and marvellouslyscented, after the rain, with the clean smell of strong turf and rushes.It was as different from the peace he had had at Padley as water isdifferent from wine; yet it was Peace, too, a confident and expectantpeace that precedes the battle, rather than the rest which followsit....
How was it he had seen the three men on the moor; as he turned withAnthony? They were against the crimson west, as against a glory, the twolaymen on either side, the young priest in the middle.... They hadseemed to bear him up and support him; the colour of the sky was as astain of blood; and their shadows had stretched to his own feet....
* * * * *
And there came on him in that hour one of those vast experiences thatcan never be told, when a flood rises in earth and air that turns themall to wine, that wells up through tired limbs, and puzzled brain andbeating heart, and soothes and enkindles, all in one; when it is not amere vision of peace that draws the eyes up in an ecstasy of sight, buta bathing in it, and an envelopment in it, of every fibre of life; whenthe lungs draw deep breaths of it; and the heart beats in it, and theeyes are enlightened by it; when the things of earth become at onceeternal and fixed and of infinite value, and at the same instant of lessvalue than the dust that floats in space; when there no longer appearsany distinction between the finite and the eternal, between time andinfinity; when the soul for that moment at least finds that rest that isthe magnet and the end of all human stri
ving; and that comfort whichwipes away all tears.