Feet ran across the floor on which his hands were gripped again, and down the stairs. He perceived two things: the chapel was empty again, and the priests below had been found.
V
He could follow every step of the drama after that, for he appeared to himself now as a mere witness, without personal part in it.
First, there were voices below him, so clear and close that he could distinguish the intonation, and who it was that spoke, though the words were inaudible.
It was Mr. Garlick who first spoke—a sentence of a dozen words, it might be, consenting, no doubt, to come out without being dragged; congratulating, perhaps (as the manner was), the searchers on their success. A murmur of answer came back, and then one sharp, peevish voice by itself. Again Mr. Garlick spoke, and there followed the shuffling of movements for a long while; and then, so far as the little chamber was concerned, empty silence. But from the hall rose up a steady murmur of talk once more.…
Again Robin’s heart leaped in him, for there came the rattle of a pike-end immediately below his feet. They were searching the little chamber beneath, from the level of the hall, to see if it were empty. The pike was presently withdrawn.
For a long while the talking went on. So far as the rest of the house was concerned, the hidden man could tell nothing, or whether Mr. John were taken, or whether the search were given up. He could not even fix his mind on the point; he was constructing for himself, furiously and intently, the scene he imagined in the hall below; he thought he saw the two priests barred in behind the high table; my lord Shrewsbury in the one great chair in the midst of the room; Mr. Columbell, perhaps, or Mr. John Manners talking in his ear; the men on guard over the priests and beside the door; and another, maybe, standing by the hearth.
He was so intent on this that he thought of little else; though still, on a strange background of another consciousness, moved scenes and ideas such as he had had at the beginning. And he was torn from this contemplation with the suddenness of a blow, by a voice speaking, it seemed, within a foot of his head.
“Well, we have those rats, at any rate.”
(He perceived instantly what had happened. The men were back again in the chapel, and he had not heard them come. He supposed that he could hear the words now, because of the breaking of the panel next to his own.)
“Ralph said he was sure of the other one, too,” said a second voice.
“Which was that one?”
“The fellow that was at Fotheringay.”
(Robin clenched his teeth like iron.)
“Well, he is not here.”
There was silence.
“I have sounded that side,” said the first voice sharply.
“Well, but——”
“I tell you I have sounded it. There is no time to be lost. My lord——”
“Hark!” said the second voice. “There is my lord’s man——”
There followed a movement of feet towards the door, as it seemed to the priest.
He could hear the first man grumbling to himself, and beating listlessly on the walls somewhere. Then a voice called something unintelligible from the direction of the stairs; the beating ceased, and footsteps went across the floor again into silence.
VI
He was dazed and blinded by the light when, after infinite hours, he drew the bolts and slid the panel open.
He had lost all idea of time utterly: he did not know whether he should find that night had come, or that the next day had dawned. He had waited there, period after period; he marked one of them by eating food that had no taste and drinking liquid that stung his throat but did not affect his palate; he had marked another by saying compline to himself in a whisper.
At a later period he had heard the horses being brought round the house; heard plainly the jingle of the bits and a sneeze or two. This had been followed by long interminable talking, muffled and indistinguishable, that came up to him from some unknown direction. Voices changed curiously in loudness and articulation as the speakers moved about.
At a later period a loud trampling had begun again, plainly from the hall: he had interpreted this to mean that the prisoners were being removed out of doors; and he had been confirmed in this by hearing immediately afterwards again the stamping of horses and the creaking of leather.
Again there had been a pause, broken suddenly by loud women’s wailing. And at last the noise of horses moving off; the noise grew less; a man ran suddenly through the archway and out again, and, little by little, complete silence once more.
Yet he had not dared to move. It was the custom, he knew, sometimes to leave three or four men on guard for a day or two after such an assault, in the hope of starving out any hidden fugitives that might still be left. So he waited again—period after period; he dozed a little for weariness, propped against the narrow walls of his hiding-hole; woke; felt again for food and found he had eaten it all … dozed again.
Then he had started up suddenly, for without any further warning there had come a tiny indeterminate tapping against his panel. He held his breath and listened. It came again. Then fearlessly he drew back the bolts, slid the panel open and shut his eyes, dazzled by the light.
He crawled out at last, spent and dusty. There was looking at him only the little red-eyed maid whom he had tried to comfort at some far-off hour in his life. Her face was all contorted with weeping, and she had a great smear of dust across it.
“What time is it?” he said.
“It … it is after two o’clock,” she whispered.
“They have all gone?”
She nodded, speechless.
“Whom have they taken?”
“Mr. FitzHerbert … the priests … the servants.”
“Mr. FitzHerbert? They found him, then?”
She stared at him with the dull incapacity to understand why he did not know all that she had seen.
“Where did they find him?” he repeated sharply.
“The master … he opened the door to them himself.”
Her face writhed itself again into grotesque lines, and she broke out into shrill wailing and weeping.
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 them together. 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 the parlour. He showed no signs of his experience, except perhaps by a certain 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 hardly spoke a single expression of relief at his safety. She was as quiet and business-like as ever.
“You must lie here to-night,” she said. “Janet hath your room ready. At one 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 red there is a shepherd’s hut; you cannot miss it if you follow the track I have marked. There will be meat and drink there. At night the shepherd will 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 by this time to-morrow, or even earlier. And I will send in that letter any news 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 flushed slightly. “Do you remember the hawking, that time after Christmas? It is 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 must have no lantern.”
They talked a few minutes longer as to the way he must go and the provision that would be ready for him. He must take no Mass requisites with him. David had made that a condition. Then Robin suddenly changed the 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 no doubt 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 stepped softly 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 could make out but dimly in the summer darkness the two figures of horse and groom. As she looked, a third figure appeared beneath; but there was no word spoken that she could hear. This third figure mounted. She caught her breath as she heard the horse scurry a little with freshness, since every sound seemed full of peril. Then the mounted figure faded one way into 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 of David did not break it; and, for other men, he saw none except a hog-herd or two in the distance once or twice. The shepherd came but once a day, carrying a great jug and a parcel of food, and set them down without the hut; he seemed to avoid even looking within; but merely took the empty jug of the day before and went away again. He was an old, bent man, with a face like a limestone cliff, grey and weather-beaten; he lived half the year up here in the wild Peak country, caring for a few sheep, 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 away from the hut, which itself stood in a deep, natural rift among the high hills, so that men might search for it a lifetime and not come across it.
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 he began his morning by mixing a little oatmeal, and then preparing his dinner. 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 tiny trout; and set aside part of the cold food for supper; he had one good loaf 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, had made conditions, first that he should not have to speak with any refugee, second, that if the man were a priest he should have nothing about him that could prove him to be so. Mr. Maine’s beads, only, had been permitted, on condition that they were hidden always beneath a stone outside the hut.
After nightfall Robin went out to attend to his horse that was tethered in the next ravine, over a crag; to shift his peg and bring him a good armful of cut grass and a bucket of water. (The saddle and bridle were hidden beneath a couple of great stones that leaned together not far away.) After doing what was necessary for his horse, he went to draw water for himself; and then took his exercise, avoiding carefully, according to instructions, every possible skyline. And it was then, for the most part, that he did his clear thinking.… He tried to fancy himself in a fortnight’s retreat, such as he had had at Rheims before his reception of orders.
The evening of the twenty-fifth of July closed in stormy; and Robin, in an old cloak he had found placed in the hut for his own use, made haste to attend to what was necessary, and hurried back as quickly as he could. He sat a while, listening to the thresh of the rain and the cry of 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 tolerably well.)
He could see nothing from the door of his hut except the dim outline of the 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 in continual 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 a little lantern with a slide over it that allowed only a thin funnel of light 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 the two seals, opened the paper and began to read. For the next five minutes there was no sound, except the thresh of the rain and the cry of the wind. 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 detail hath been brought to me today by an eye-witness.
“The trial went as all thought it would. There was never the least question of it; for not only were the two priests taken with signs of their calling upon them, but both of them had been in the hands of the magistrates before. There was no shrinking nor fear showed of any kind. But the chief marvel was that these two priests met with Mr. Simpson in the 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, by the grace of God, it was all the other way, and it was they who prevailed upon Mr. Simpson to confess himself again openly as a Catholic. This greatly enraged my lord Shrewsbury and the rest; so that there was less hope than ever of any respite, and sentence was passed upon them all together, Mr. Simpson showing, at the reading of it, as much courage as any. This was all done two days ago at the Assizes; and it 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 and butchering block; and a great company went after them. I have not heard that they spoke much on the way, except that a friend of Mr. Garlick’s cried out to him to remember that they had often shot off together on the 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 my life.’ He was merry at the trial, too, I hear; and said that ‘he was not come 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 would work so long as he lived.’ And this he did on the scaffold, speaking to the 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 the instrument of his death, and to encourage Mr. Simpson, as it was thought, since some said he showed signs of timorousness again when he came to the place. But he showed none when his turn came, but rather exhibited the same courage as them both. Mr. Ludlam stood by smiling while all was done; and smiling still when his turn came. His last words were, ‘Venite benedicti Dei’; and this he said, seeming to see a vision of angels come to bear his soul away.
“They were cut down, all three of them, before they were dead; and the butchery done on them according to sentence; yet none of them cried out or made the least sound; and their heads and quarters were set up immediately afterwards on poles in divers places of Derby; some of them above the house that stands on the bridge and others on the bridge itself. 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; but nothing hath been done to him yet.
“As for your reverence, I am of opinion that you had best wait another week where you are. There has been a man or two seen hereabouts whom none 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; and since Mr. Thomas knows your reverence, it will be better to be hid for a little longer. So, if you will, in a week from now, I will send Dick once again to tell you if all be well. I look for no letter back for this since you have nothing to write with in the hut, as I know; but Dick will tell me how you do; as well as anything you may choose to say to him.
“I ask your reverence’s blessing again. I do not forget your reverence in my poor prayers.”
And so it ended, without signature—for safety’s sake.
An hour later, with the first coming of the dawn, the storm ceased. (It was the same storm, if he had only known it, that had blown upon the Spanish Fleet at sea and driven it towards destruction. But of this he knew nothing.) He had not slept since Dick had gone, but had lain on his back on the turfed and blanketed bed in the corner, his hands clasped behind his head, thinking, thinking and re-thinking all that he had read just now. He had known it must happen; but there seemed to him all the difference in the world between an event and its mere certainty. It had been two of the men whom he had seen say Mass after himself—the ruddy-faced, breezy countryman, yet anointed with the sealing oil, and the gentle, studious, smiling man who had been no less vigorous than his friend.…
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