Now Anthony Babington was one of those spirits that live largely within themselves, and therefore see that which is without through a haze or mist of their own moods. He read much in the poets; you would say that Vergil and Ovid, as well as the poets of his own day, were his friends; he lived within, surrounded by his own images, and therefore he loved and hated with ten times the ardour of a common man. He was furious for the Old Faith, furious against the new; he dreamed of wars and gallantry and splendour; you could see it even in his dress, in his furred doublet, the embroideries at his throat, his silver-hilted rapier, as well as in his port and countenance: and the burning heart of all his images, the mirror on earth of Mary in heaven, the emblem of his piety, the mistress of his dreams—she who embodied for him what the courtiers in London protested that Elizabeth embodied for them—the pearl of great price, the one among ten thousand—this, for him, was Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, now prisoner in her cousin’s hands, going to and fro from house to house, with a guard about her, yet with all the seeming of liberty and none of its reality….
The rough bitterness died out of the boy’s face, and a look came upon it as of one who sees a vision.
“Queen Mary?” he said, as if he pronounced the name of the Mother of God. “Yes; I have heard of her.… She is in Norfolk, I think.”
Then he let flow out of him the stream that always ran in his heart like sorrowful music ever since the day when first, as a page, in my Lord Shrewsbury’s house in Sheffield, he had set eyes on that queen of sorrows. Then, again, upon the occasion of his journey to Paris, he had met with Mr. Morgan, her servant, and the Bishop of Glasgow, her friend, whose talk had excited and inspired him. He had learned from them something more of her glories and beauties, and remembering what he had seen of her, adored her the more. He leaned back now, shading his eyes from the candles upon the table, and began to sing his love and his queen. He told of new insults that had been put upon her, new deprivations of what was left to her of liberty; he did not speak now of Elizabeth by name, since a fountain, even of talk, should not give out at once sweet water and bitter; but he spoke of the day when Mary should come herself to the throne of England, and take that which was already hers; and the Faith should come again like the flowing tide, and all things be again as they had been from the beginning. It was rank treason that he talked, such as would have brought him to Tyburn if it had been spoken in London in indiscreet company; it was that treason which her Grace herself had made possible by her faithlessness to God and man; such treason as God Himself must have mercy upon, since He reads all hearts and their intentions. The others kept silence.
At the end he stood up. Then he stooped for his boots.
“I must be riding, sir,” he said.
Mr. Audrey raised his hand to the latten bell that stood beside him on the table.
“I will take Anthony to his horse,” said Robin suddenly, for a thought had come to him.
“Then good-night, sir,” said Anthony, as he drew on his second boot and stood up.
The sky was all ablaze with stars now as they came out into the court. On their right shone the high windows of the little hall where peace now reigned, except for the clatter of the boys who took away the dishes; and the night was very still about them in the grip of the frost, for the village went early to bed, and even the dogs were asleep.
Robin said nothing as they went over the paving, for his determination was not yet ripe, and Anthony was still aglow with his own talk. Then, as the servant who waited for his master, with the horses, showed himself in the stable-arch with a lantern, Robin’s mind was made up.
“I have something to tell you,” he said softly. “Tell your man to wait.”
“Eh?”
“Tell your man to wait with the horses.”
His heart beat hot and thick in his throat as he led the way through the screens and out beyond the hall and down the steps again into the pleasaunce. Anthony took him by the sleeve once or twice, but he said nothing, and went on across the grass, and out through the open iron gate that gave upon the woods. He dared not say what he had to say within the precincts of the house, for fear he should be overheard. Then, when they had gone a little way into the wood, into the dark out of the starlight, Robin turned; and, as he turned, saw the windows of the hall go black as the boys extinguished the torches.
“Well?” whispered Anthony sharply (for a fool could see that the news was to be weighty, and Anthony was no fool).
Robin stood still, silent, breathing so heavily that Anthony heard him.
“Tell me, Rob; tell me quickly.”
Robin drew a long breath.
“You saw that my father was silent?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Stay.… Will you swear to me by the Mass that you will tell no one what you will hear from me till you hear it from others?”
“I will swear it,” whispered Anthony in the darkness.
Again Robin sighed in a long, shuddering breath. Anthony could hear him tremble with cold and pain.
“Well,” he said, “my father will leave the Church next Easter. He is tired of paying fines, he says. And he has bidden me to come with him to Matstead Church.”
There was dead silence.
“I went to tell Marjorie to-day,” whispered Robin. “She has promised to be my wife some day; so I told her, but no one else. She has bidden me to leave Matstead for Easter, and pray to God to show me what to do afterwards. Can you help me, Anthony?”
He was seized suddenly by the arms.
“Robin … No … no! It is not possible!”
“It is certain. I have never known my father to turn from his word.”
From far away in the wild woods came a cry as the two stood there. It might be a wolf or fox, if any were there, or some strange night-bird, or a woman in pain. It rose, it seemed, to a scream, melancholy and dreadful, and then died again. The two heard it, but said nothing, one to the other. No doubt it was some beast in a snare or a-hunting, but it chimed in with the desolation of their hearts so as to seem but a part of it. So the two stood in silence.… It was not until this instant that Robin understood the utter shame and the black misery of that which he had said, and the other heard.
CHAPTER II
I
THERE WERE excuses in plenty for Robin to ride abroad, to the north towards Hathersage or to the south towards Dethick, as the whim took him; for he was learning to manage the estate that should be his one day. At one time it was to quiet a yeoman whose domain had been ridden over and his sown fields destroyed; at another, to dispute with a miller who claimed for injury through floods for which he held his lord responsible; at a third, to see to the woodland or the fences broken by the deer. He came and went then as he willed; and on the second day, after Anthony’s visit, set out before dinner to meet him, that they might speak at length of what lay now upon both their hearts.
He turned southwards through the village for the Dethick road. At the entrance to the village he passed the minister, Mr. Barton, coming out of his house, that had been the priest’s lodging, a middle-aged man, made a minister under the new Prayer-Book, and therefore, no priest as were some of the ministers about, who had been made priests under Mary. He was a solid man, of no great wit or learning, but there was not an ounce of harm in him. (They were fortunate, indeed, to have such a minister; since many parishes had but laymen to read the services; and in one, not twenty miles away, the squire’s falconer held the living.) Mr. Barton was in his sad-coloured cloak and round cap, and saluted Robin heartily in his loud, bellowing voice.
“Riding abroad again,” he cried, “on some secret errand!”
“I will give your respects to Mr. Babington,” said Robin, smiling heavily. “I am to meet him about a matter of a tithe too!”
“Ah! you Papists would starve us altogether if you could,” roared the minister, who wished no better than to be at peace with his neighbours, and was all for liberty.
“You will get your tithe
safe enough—one of you, at least,” said Robin. “It is but a matter as to who shall pay it.”
He waved good-day to the minister and set his horse to the Dethick track.
There was no going fast to-day along this country road. The frosts and the thaws had made of it a very way of sorrows. Here in the harder parts was a tumble of ridges and holes, with edges as hard as steel; here in the softer, the faggots laid to build it up were broken or rotted through, making it no better than a trap for horses’ feet; and it was a full hour before Robin finished his four miles and turned up through the winter woodland to the yeoman’s farm where he was to meet Anthony. It was true, as he had said to Mr. Barton, that they were to speak of a matter of tithe—this was to be their excuse if his father questioned him—for there was a doubt as to in which parish stood this farm, for the yeoman tilled three meadows that were in the Babington estate and two in Matstead.
As he came up the broken ground on to the crest of the hill, he saw Anthony come out of the yard-gate and the yeoman with him. Then Anthony mounted his horse and rode down towards him, bidding the man stay, over his shoulder.
“It is all plain enough,” shouted Anthony loud enough for the man to hear. “It is Dethick that must pay. You need not come up, Robin; we must do the paying.”
Robin checked his mare and waited till the other came near enough to speak.
“Young Thomas FitzHerbert is within. He is riding round his new estates,” said the other beneath his breath. “I thought I would come out and tell you; and I do not know where we can talk or dine. I met him on the road, and he would come with me. He is eating his dinner there.”
“But I must eat my dinner too,” said Robin, in dismay.
“Will you tell him of what you have told me? He is safe and discreet, I think.”
“Why, yes, if you think so,” said Robin. “I do not know him very well.”
“Oh! he is safe enough, and he has learned not to talk. Besides, all the country will know it by Easter.”
So they turned their horses back again and rode up to the farm.
It was a great day for a yeoman when three gentlemen should take their dinners in his house; and the place was in a respectful uproar. From the kitchen vent went up a pillar of smoke, and through its door, in and out continually, fled maids with dishes. The yeoman himself, John Merton, a dried-looking, lean man, stood cap in hand to meet the gentlemen; and his wife, crimson-faced from the fire, peeped and smiled from the open door of the living-room that gave immediately upon the yard. For these gentlemen were from three of the principal estates here about. The Babingtons had their country house at Dethick and their town house in Derby; the Audreys owned a matter of fifteen hundred acres at least all about Matstead; and the FitzHerberts, it was said, scarcely knew themselves all that they owned, or rather all that had been theirs until the Queen’s Grace had begun to strip them of it little by little on account of their faith. The two Padleys, at least, were theirs, besides their principal house at Norbury; and now that Sir Thomas was in the Fleet Prison for his religion, young Mr. Thomas, his heir, was of more account than ever.
He was at his dinner when the two came in, and he rose and saluted them. He was a smallish kind of man, with a little brown beard, and his short hair, when he lifted his flapped cap to them, showed upright on his head; he smiled pleasantly enough, and made space for them to sit down, one at each side.
“We shall do very well now, Mrs. Merton,” he said, “if you will bring in that goose once more for these gentlemen.”
Then he made excuses for beginning his dinner before them: he was on his way home and must be off again presently.
It was a well-furnished table for a yeoman’s house. There was a linen napkin for each guest. The twelve silver spoons were laid out on the smooth elm-table, and a silver salt stood before Mr. Thomas. There was, of course, an abundance to eat and drink, even though no more than two had been expected; and John Merton himself stood hatless on the further side of the table and took the dishes from the bare-armed maids to place them before the gentlemen.
They talked of this and of that and of the other, freely and easily. John Merton inquired after Sir Thomas, and openly shook his head when he heard of his sufferings; and when the room was empty for a moment of the maids, spoke of a priest who, he had been told, would say Mass in Tansley next day. Then, when the maids came in again, the battle of the tithe was fought once more, and Mr. Thomas pronounced sentence for the second time.
They blessed themselves, all four of them, openly at the end, and went out at last to their horses.
“Will you ride with us, sir?” asked Anthony; “we can go your way. Robin here has something to say to you.”
“I shall be happy if you will give me your company for a little. I must be at Padley before dark, if I can, and must visit a couple of houses on the way.”
He called out to his two servants, who ran out from the kitchen wiping their mouths, telling them to follow at once, and the three rode off down the hill.
Then Robin told him.
He was silent for a while after he had put a question or two, biting his lower lip a little, and putting his little beard into his mouth. Then he burst out.
“And I dare not ask you to come to me for Easter,” he said. “God only knows where I shall be at Easter. I shall be married, too, by then. My father is in London now and may send for me. My uncle is in the Fleet. I am here now only to see what money I can raise for the fines and for the solace of my uncle. I cannot ask you, Mr. Audrey, though God knows that I would do anything that I could. Have you nowhere to go? Will your father hold to what he says?”
Robin told him yes; and he added that there were four or five places he could go to. He was not asking for help or harbourage, but advice only.
“And even of that I have none,” cried Mr. Thomas. “I need all that I can get myself. I am distracted, Mr. Babington, with all these troubles.”
Robin asked him whether the priests who came and went should be told of the blow that impended; for at those times every apostasy was of importance to priests who had to run here and there for shelter.
“I will tell one or two of the more discreet ones myself,” said Mr. Thomas, “if you will give me leave. I would that they were all discreet, but they are not. We will name no names, if you please; but some of them are unreasonable altogether and think nothing of bringing us all into peril.”
He began to bite his beard again.
“Do you think the Commissioners will visit us again?” asked Anthony. “Mr. Fenton was telling me——”
“It is Mr. Fenton and the like that will bring them down on us if any will,” burst out Mr. FitzHerbert peevishly. “I am as good a Catholic, I hope, as any in the world; but we can surely live without the sacraments for a month or two sometimes! But it is this perpetual coming and going of priests that enrages her Grace and her counsellors. I do not believe her Grace has any great enmity against us; but she soon will, if men like Mr. Fenton and Mr. Bassett are for ever harbouring priests and encouraging them. It is the same in London, I hear; it is the same in Lancashire; it is the same everywhere. And all the world knows it, and thinks that we do contemn her Grace by such boldness. All the mischief came in with that old Bull, Regnans in Excelsis, in ’69, and——”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” came in a quiet voice from beyond him; and Robin, looking across, saw Anthony with a face as if frozen.
“Pooh! pooh!” burst out Mr. Thomas, with an uneasy air. “The Holy Father, I take it, may make mistakes, as I understand it, in such matters, as well as any man. Why, a dozen priests have said to me they thought it inopportune; and——”
“I do not permit,” said Anthony with an air of dignity beyond his years, “that any man should speak so in my company.”
“Well, well; you are too hot altogether, Mr. Babington. I admire such zeal indeed, as I do in the saints; but we are not bound to imitate all that we admire. Say no more, sir; and I will say no more either.”
It was, indeed, one of those matters that were in dispute at that time amongst the Catholics. The Pope was not swift enough for some, and too swift for others. He had thundered too soon, said one party, if, indeed, it was right to thunder at all, and not to wait in patience till the Queen’s Grace should repent herself; and he had thundered not soon enough, said the other. Whence it may at least be argued that he had been exactly opportune. Yet it could not be denied that since the day when he had declared Elizabeth cut off from the unity of the Church and her subjects absolved from their allegiance—though never, as some pretended then and have pretended ever since, that a private person might kill her and do no wrong—ever since that day her bitterness had increased yearly against her Catholic people, who desired no better than to serve both her and their God, if she would but permit that to be possible.
II
It would be an hour later that they bid good-bye to Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert, high among the hills to the east of the Derwent River; and when they had seen him ride off towards Wingerworth, rode yet a few furlongs together to speak of what had been said.
“He can do nothing, then,” said Robin; “not even to give good counsel.”
“I have never heard him speak so before,” cried Anthony; “he must be near mad, I think. It must be his marriage, I suppose.”
“He is full of his own troubles; that is plain enough, without seeking others. Well, I must bear mine as best I can.”
They were just parting—Anthony to ride back to Dethick, and Robin over the moors to Matstead, when over a rise in the ground they saw the heads of three horsemen approaching. It was a wild country that they were in; there were no houses in sight; and in such circumstances it was but prudent to remain together until the character of the travellers should be plain; so the two, after a word, rode gently forward, hearing the voices of the three talking to one another, in the still air, though without catching a word. For, as they came nearer the voices ceased, as if the talkers feared to be overheard.
Come Rack, Come Rope Page 3