CHAPTER IV
I
The company was already assembled both within and without Padley, whenRobin rode up from the riverside, on a fine, windy morning, for thesport of the day. Perhaps a dozen horses stood tethered at the entranceto the little court, with a man or two to look after them, for thegreater part of their riders were already within; and a continual comingand going of lads with dogs; falconers each with his cadge, orthree-sided frame on which sat the hawks; a barking of hounds, ascreaming of birds, a clatter of voices and footsteps in the court--allthis showed that the boy was none too early. A man stepped forward totake his mare and his hawks; and Robin slipped from his saddle and wentin.
* * * * *
Padley Hall was just such a house as would serve a wealthy gentleman whodesired a small country estate with sufficient dignity and not too manyresponsibilities. It stood upon the side of the hill, well set-up abovethe damps of the valley, yet protected from the north-easterly winds bythe higher slopes, on the tops of which lay Burbage Moor, where thehawking was to be held. On the south, over the valley, stood out themodest hall and buttery (as, indeed, they stand to this day), with adoor between them, well buttressed in two places upon the fallingground, in one by a chimney, in the other by a slope of masonry; andbehind these buildings stood the rest of the court, the stables, thewash-house, the bake-house and such like, below; and, above, thesleeping rooms for the family and the servants. On the first floor,above the buttery and the hall, were situated the ladies' parlour andchapel; for this, at least, Padley had, however little its dignity inother matters, that it retained its chapel served in these sorrowfuldays not, as once, by a chaplain, but by whatever travelling priestmight be there.
* * * * *
Robin entered through the great gate on the east side--a dark entrancekept by a porter who saluted him--and rode through into the court; andhere, indeed, was the company; for out of the windows of the low hall onhis left came a babble of tongues, while two or three gentlemen withpots in their hands saluted him from the passage door, telling him thatMr. Thomas FitzHerbert was within. Mr. Fenton was one of these, comeover from North Lees, where he had his manor, a brisk, middle-aged man,dressed soberly and well, with a pointed beard and pleasant, dancingeyes.
"And Mr. John, too, came last night," he said; "but he will not hawkwith us. He is ridden from London on private matters."
It was an exceedingly gay sight on which Robin looked as he turned intothe hall. It was a low room, ceiled in oak and wainscoted half-way up, atrifle dark, since it was lighted only by one or two little windows oneither side, yet warm and hospitable looking; with a great fire burningin a chimney on the south side, and perhaps a dozen and a half personssitting over their food and drink, since they were dining early to-dayto have the longer time for sport.
A voice hailed him as he came in; and he went up to pay his respects toMr. John FitzHerbert, a tall man, well past middle-age, who sat with hishat on his head, at the centre of the high table, with the arms of Eyreand FitzHerbert beneath the canopy, all emblazoned, to do the honoursof the day.
"You are late, sir, you are late!" he cried out genially. "We are justdone."
Robin saluted him. He liked this man, though he did not know him verywell; for he was continually about the country, now in London, now atNorbury, now at Swinnerton, always occupied with these endless mattersof fines and recusancy.
Robin saluted him then, and said a word or two; bowed to Mr. Thomas, hisson, who came up to speak with him; and then looked for Marjorie. Shesat there, at the corner of the table, with Mrs. Fenton at one side, andan empty seat on the other. Robin immediately sat down in it, to eat hisdinner, beginning with the "gross foods," according to the Englishcustom. There was a piece of Christmas brawn to-day, from a pig fattenedon oats and peas, and hardened by being lodged (while he lived) on aboarded floor; all this was told Robin across the table withparticularity, while he ate it, and drank, according to etiquette, a cupof bastard. He attended to all this zealously, while never for aninstant was he unaware of the girl.
They tricked their elders very well, these two innocent ones. You wouldhave sworn that Robin looked for another place and could not see one,you would have sworn that they were shy of one another, and spokescarcely a dozen sentences. Yet they did very well each in the companyof the other; and Robin, indeed, before he had finished his partridge,had conveyed to her that there was news that he had, and must give toher before the day was out. She looked at him with enough dismay in herface for him at least to read it; for she knew by his manner that itwould not be happy news.
So, too, when the fruit was done and dinner was over (for they had noopportunity to speak at any length), again you would have sworn that thelast idea in his mind, as in hers, was that he should be the one to helpher to her saddle. Yet he did so; and he fetched her hawk for her, andsettled her reins in her hand; and presently he on one side of her, withMr. Fenton on the other side, were riding up through Padley chase; andthe talk and the laughter went up too.
II
Up on the high moors, in the frank-chase, here indeed was a day to makesad hearts rejoice. The air was soft, as if spring were come before histime; and in the great wind that blew continually from the south-west,bearing the high clouds swiftly against the blue, ruffling the stiffheather-twigs and bilberry beneath--here was wine enough for anymourners. Before them, as they went--two riding before, with falconerson either side a little behind and the lads with the dogs beside them,and the rest in a silent line some twenty yards to the rear--stretchedthe wide, flat moor like a tumbled table-cloth, broken here and there bygroups of wind-tossed beech and oak, backed by the tall limestone cragslike pillar-capitals of an upper world; with here and there a littleshallow quarry whence marble had been taken for Derby. But more lovelythan all were the valleys, seen from here, as great troughs up whosesides trooped the leafless trees--lit by the streams that threw back thesunlit sky from their bosoms; with here a mist of smoke blown all aboutfrom a village out of sight, here the shadow of a travelling cloud thatfled as swift as the wind that drove it, extinguishing the flash ofwater only to release it again, darkening a sweep of land only to makethe sunlight that followed it the more sweet.
Yet the two saw little of this, dear and familiar as they found it;since, first they rode together, and next, as it should be with younghearts, the sport presently began and drove all else away.
The sport was done in this way:
The two that rode in front selected each from the cadge one of his ownfalcons (it was peregrines that were used at the beginning of the day,since they were first after partridges), and so rode, carrying hisfalcon on his wrist, hooded, belled, and in the leash, ready to castoff. Immediately before them went a lad with a couple of dogs to nosethe game--these also in a leash until they stiffened. Then the ladreleased them and stepped softly back, while the riders moved on at afoot's-pace, and the spaniels behind rose on their hind legs, choked bythe chain, whimpering, fifty yards in the rear. Slowly the dogsadvanced, each a frozen model of craft and blood-lust, till an instantafterwards, with a whir and a chattering like a broken clock, the coveywhirled from the thick growth underfoot, and flashed away northwards;and, a moment later, up went the peregrines behind them. Then, indeed,it was _sauve qui peut_, for the ground was full of holes here andthere, though there were grass-stretches as well on which all rode withloose rein, the two whose falcons were sprung always in front, accordingto custom, and the rest in a medley behind. Away then went the birds,pursued and pursuers, till, like a falling star the falcon stooped, andthen, maybe, the other a moment later, down upon the quarry; and aminute later there was the falcon back again shivering with pride andecstasy, or all ruffle-feathered with shame, back on his master's wrist,and another torn partridge, or maybe two, in the bottom of the lad'sbag; and arguments went full pelt, and cries, and sometimes sharp words,and faults were found, and praise was given, and so, on for anotherpair.
It
was but natural that Robin and Marjorie should compete one againstthe other, for they were riding together and talked together. Sopresently Mr. Thomas called to them, and beckoned them to their places.Robin set aside Agnes on to the cadge and chose Magdalen, and Marjoriechose Sharpie. The array was set, and all moved forward.
It was a short chase and a merry one. Two birds rose from the heatherand flew screaming, skimming low, as from behind them moved on theshadows of death, still as clouds, with great noiseless sweeps ofsickle-shaped wings. Behind came the gallopers; Marjorie on her blackhorse, Robin on Cecily, seeming to compete, yet each content if eitherwon, each, maybe--or at least Marjorie--desiring that the other shouldwin. And the wind screamed past them as they went.
Then came the stoops--together as if fastened by one string--faultlessand exquisite; and, as the two rode up and drew rein, there, side byside on the windy turf, two fierce statues of destiny--cruel-eyed,blood-stained on the beaks, resolute and suspicious--eyed themmotionless, the claws sunk deeply through back and head--awaitingrecapture.
Marjorie turned swiftly to the boy as he leaped off.
"In the chapel," she said, "at Padley."
Robin stared at her. Then he understood and nodded his head, as Mr.Thomas rode up, his beard all blown about by the wind, breathless butcongratulatory.
III
It fell on Robin's mind with a certain heaviness and reproach that itshould have been she who should have carried in her head all day theunknown news that he was to give her and he who should have forgottenit. He understood then a little better of all that he must be to her,since, as he turned to her (his head full of hawks, and the glory of theshouting wind, and every thought of Faith and father clean blown away),it was to her mind that the under-thought had leapt, that here was theirfirst, and perhaps their last, chance of speaking in private.
It was indeed their last chance, for the sun already stood overChapel-le-Frith far away to the south-west; and they must begin theircircle to return, in which the ladies should fly their merlins afterlarks, and there was no hope henceforth for Robin. Henceforth she rodewith Mrs. Fenton and two or three more, while the gentlemen who lovedsport more than courtesy, turned to the left over the broken ground towork back once more after partridges. And Robin dared no more ride withhis love, for fear that his company all day with her should be marked.
* * * * *
It was within an hour of sunset that Robin, riding ahead, having lost ahawk and his hat, having fallen into a bog-hole, being one mask of mudfrom head to foot, slid from his horse into Dick's hands and demanded ifthe ladies were back.
"Yes, sir; they are back half an hour ago. They are in the parlour."
Robin knew better. "I shall be riding in ten minutes," he said; "givethe mare a mouthful."
He limped across the court, and looking behind him to see if any saw,and finding the court at that instant empty, ran up, as well as hecould, the stone staircase that rose from the outside to the chapeldoor. It was unlatched. He pushed it open and went in.
* * * * *
It was a brave thing that the FitzHerberts did in keeping such a placeat all, since the greatest Protestant fool in the valley knew what thelittle chamber was that had the angels carved on the beam-ends, and thepiscina in the south wall. Windows looked out every way; through thoseon the south could be seen now the darkening valley and the sunlithills, and, yet more necessary, the road by which any travellers fromthe valley must surely come. Within, too, scarcely any pains were takento disguise the place. It was wainscoted from roof to floor--veiled,floored and walled in oak. A great chest stood beneath the little eastwindow of two lights, that cried "Altar" if any chest ever did so. Agreat press stood against the wooden screen that shut the room from theladies' parlour next door; filled in three shelves with innocent linen,for this was the only disguise that the place stooped to put on. Youcould not swear that mass was said there, but you could swear that itwas a place in which mass would very suitably be said. A couple ofbenches were against the press, and three or four chairs stood about thefloor.
Robin saw her against the light as soon as he came in. She was still inher blue riding-dress, with the hood on her shoulders, and held her whipin her hand; but he could see no more of her head than the paleness ofher face and the gleam on her black hair.
"Well, then?" she whispered sharply; and then: "Why, what a state youare in!"
"It's nothing," said Robin. "I rolled in a bog-hole."
She looked at him anxiously.
"You are not hurt?... Sit down at least."
He sat down stiffly, and she beside him, still watching to see if hewere the worse for his falling. He took her hand in his.
"I am not fit to touch you," he said.
"Tell me the news; tell me quickly."
So he told her; of the wrangle in the parlour and what had passedbetween his father and him; of his own bitterness; and his letter, andthe way in which the old man had taken it.
"He has not spoken to me since," he said, "except in public before theservants. Both nights after supper he has sat silent and I beside him."
"And you have not spoken to him?" she asked quickly.
"I said something to him after supper on Sunday, and he made no answer.He has done all his writing himself. I think it is for him to speak now.I should only anger him more if I tried it again."
She sighed suddenly and swiftly, but said nothing. Her hand lay passivein his, but her face was turned now to the bright southerly window, andhe could see her puzzled eyes and her down-turned, serious mouth. Shewas thinking with all her wits, and, plainly, could come to noconclusion.
She turned to him again.
"And you told him plainly that you and I ... that you and I--"
"That you and I loved one another? I told him plainly. And it was hiscontempt that angered me."
She sighed again.
* * * * *
It was a troublesome situation in which these two children foundthemselves. Here was the father of one of them that knew, yet not theparents of the other, who should know first of all. Neither was thereany promise of secrecy and no hope of obtaining it. If she should nottell her parents, then if the old man told them, deception would becharged against her; and if she should tell them, perhaps he would nothave done so, and so all be brought to light too soon and without cause.And besides all this there were the other matters, heavy enough before,yet far more heavy now--matters of their hopes for the future, thecomplications with regard to the Religion, what Robin should do, what heshould not do.
So they sat there silent, she thinking and he waiting upon her thought.
She sighed again and turned to him her troubled eyes.
"My Robin," she said, "I have been thinking so much about you, and Ihave feared sometimes--"
She stopped herself, and he looked for her to finish. She drew her handaway and stood up.
"Oh! it is miserable!" she cried. "And all might have been so happy."
The tears suddenly filled her eyes so that they shone like flowers indew.
He stood up, too, and put his muddy arm about her shoulders. (She feltso slight and slender.)
"It will be happy," he said. "What have you been fearing?"
She shook her head and the tears ran down.
"I cannot tell you yet.... Robin, what a holy man that travelling priestmust be, who said mass on Sunday."
The lad was bewildered at her swift changes of thought, for he did notyet see the chain on which they hung. He strove to follow her.
"It seemed so to me too," he said. "I think I have never seen--"
"It seemed so to you too," she cried. "Why, what do you know of him?"
He was amazed at her vehemence. She had drawn herself clear of his armand was looking at him full in the face.
"I met him on the moor," he said. "I had some talk with him. I got hisblessing."
"You got his blessing! Why, so did I, after
the mass, when you weregone."
"Then that should join us more closely than ever," he said.
"In Heaven, perhaps, but on earth--" She checked herself again. "Tell mewhat you thought of him, Robin."
"I thought it was strange that such a man as that should live such arough life. If he were in the seminary now, safe at Douay--"
She seemed a shade paler, but her eyes did not flicker.
"Yes," she said. "And you thought--?"
"I thought that it was not that kind of man who should fare so hardly.If it were a man like John Merton, who is accustomed to such things, ora man like me--"
Again he stopped; he did not know why. But it was as if she had criedout, though she neither spoke nor moved.
"You thought that, did you, Robin?" she said presently, never moving hereyes from his face. "I thought so, too."
"But I do not know why we are talking about Mr. Simpson," said the lad."There are other affairs more pressing."
"I am not sure," said she.
"Marjorie, my love, what are you thinking about?"
She had turned her eyes and was looking out through the little window.Outside the red sunlight still lay on the crags and slopes beyond thedeep valley beneath them, and her face was bright in the reflectedbrightness. Yet he thought he had never seen her look so serious. Sheturned her eyes back to him as he spoke.
"I am thinking of a great many things," she said. "I am thinking of theFaith and of sorrow and of love."
"My love, what do you mean?"
Suddenly she made a swift movement towards him and took him by thelapels. He could see her face close beneath his, yet it was in shadowagain, and he could make out of it no more than the shadows of mouth andeyes.
"Robin," she said, "I cannot tell you unless God tells you Himself. I amtold that I am too scrupulous sometimes.... I do not know what I think,nor what is right, nor what are fancies.... But ... but I know that Ilove you with all my heart ... and ... and that I cannot bear--"
Then her face was on his breast in a passion of weeping, and his armswere round her, and his lips on her hair.
IV
Dick found his master a poor travelling companion as they rode home. Hemade a few respectful remarks as to the sport of the day, but he wasanswered by a wandering eye and a complete lack of enthusiasm. Mr. Robinrode loosely and heavily. Three or four times his mare stumbled (and nowonder, after all that she had gone through), and he jerked hersavagely.
Then Dick tried another tack and began to speak of the company, but withno greater success. He discoursed on the riding of Mrs. Fenton, and theperegrine of Mr. Thomas, who had distinguished herself that day, and hewas met by a lack-lustre eye once more.
Finally he began to speak of the religious gossip of thecountryside--how it was said that another priest, a Mr. Nelson, had beentaken, in London, as Mr. Maine had been in Cornwall; that, it was saidagain, priests would have to look to their lives in future, and not onlyto their liberty; how the priest, Mr. Simpson, was said to be a nativeof Yorkshire, and how he was ridden northwards again, still with Mr.Ludlam. And here he met with a little more encouragement. Mr. Robinasked where was Mr. Simpson gone to, and Dick told him he did not know,but that he would be back again by Easter, it was thought, or, if not,another priest would be in the district. Then he began to gossip of Mr.Ludlam; how a man had told him that his cousin's wife thought that Mr.Ludlam was to go abroad to be made priest himself, and that perhaps Mr.Garlick would go too.
"That is the kind of priest we want, sir," said Dick.
"Eh?"
"That is the kind of priest we want, sir," repeated Dick solemnly. "Weshould do better with natives than foreigners. We want priests who knowthe county and the ways of the people--and men too, I think, sir, whocan ride and know something of sport, and can talk of it. I told Mr.Simpson, sir, of the sport we were to have to-day, and he seemed to carenothing about it!"
Robin sighed aloud.
"I suppose so," he said.
"Mr. John looked well, sir," pursued Dick, and proceeded to speak atlength of the FitzHerbert troubles, and the iniquities of the Queen'sGrace. He was such a man as was to be found throughout all Englandeverywhere at this time--a man whose religion was a part of hispolitics, and none the less genuine for that. He was a shrewd man in hisway, with the simplicity which belongs to such shrewdness; he dislikedthe new ways which he experienced chiefly in the towns, and put themdown, not wholly without justice, to the change of which religion formedan integral part; he hated the beggars and would gladly have gone to seeone flogged; and he disliked the ministers and their sermons and their"prophesyings" with all the healthy ardour of prejudice. Once in theyear did Dick approach the sacraments, and a great business he made ofit, being unusually morose before them and almost indecently boisterousafter them. He was feudal to the very heart of him; and it was hisfeudality that made him faithful to his religion as well as to hismasters, for either of which he would resolutely have died. And what inthe world he would do when he discovered, at Easter, that the objects ofhis fidelity were to take opposite courses, Robin could not conceive.
As they rode in at last, Robin, who had fallen silent again after Dick'slast piece of respectful vehemence, suddenly beat his own leg with hiswhip and uttered an inaudible word. It seemed to Dick that the youngmaster had perceived clearly that which plainly had been worrying himall the way home, and that he did not like it.