“Anthony!” Mistress Babington knelt by his side, imploring him. “Anthony! Save yourself! For my sake, and for the sake of your unborn child!”
“For the sake of Thackers,” cried Mistress Foljambe, and Francis shook his arm in anger. He rose wearily and went out with Francis to call Tom Snowball and Adam. At once they carried stones and timbers to cover up the disturbed earth, but the ground was frozen and scarred, and the freshly disturbed soil betrayed them. Unlike the earlier shaft, hidden in the old barn under earth and bracken, this one was obviously a recent excavation.
I returned to the kitchen to whisper the sad news to Dame Cicely. The old woman went quietly on with her work as if she had known all the time, but it was the fatalism of her nature which made her accept so calmly the blows of destiny.
“It was not to be. Poor lady, she is doomed,” she murmured. “But Master Anthony, we must save him,” she cried with sudden resolution. “If they find the shaft and long tunnel they will know all, and they’ll come here first as he is lord of the manor. We can keep the pretence of lead-mining with the short unfinished shafts, but not with this.”
“What can we do?” I clutched her arm in my anxiety and trouble.
“We can pray to God to help us,” said Dame Cicely, and on her face came a transfigured look. Together we hurried across the little grassplat to the church. It was dark inside except for the candles burning on the altar, and we knelt down in the rustling straw and prayed for God’s help, for confusion to the searchers and deliverance for Thackers. “But if it be Thy will,” added Dame Cicely slowly, fumbling for her words, “if it be Thy will that all be discovered, then give us courage, good Lord, to face disaster bravely and to die if needs be.” We rose from our knees confident in a Divine help for the house we both served.
The fir branches and holly wreaths which decked the rood-screen shone darkly in the faint light of the candles, and a lantern flickered for a moment as Anthony and Francis went across the churchyard to the head of the shaft. We returned to the house, and went on with the cooking, for none in the village must suspect when they came for the mumming, and Sir Ralph Sadleir’s men would be less suspicious if they saw the ordinary preparations of a country house in progress.
The excavations were covered with branches and earth spread over the surface. Tools were cleaned and put away, but there were many traces of broken ground and torn grassy banks, and footprints deep in frozen mud. The men could do no more and Anthony went to his room to destroy papers if the house should be searched, and to hide others in the wood-stack in the orchard.
I stood in the porch and looked out, waiting for a miracle to happen, waiting for God to send fire from heaven to destroy the searchers, or a cohort of white-robed flaming angels to fly down with swords to defend our beloved Thackers. I had infinite faith in Dame Cicely’s prayer.
Jude was on the hill-side, on the look-out for the horsemen, ready to give warning when he sensed their approach, for although he was deaf, he knew by other means. But the old house wore its usual air of peacefulness, an ancient manor house prepared for Christmas, with horses in the stable, and cattle in the byres, and a great fire burning in the hall, and cooking and cheer in the kitchen.
Again I went to the porch and looked up in the clear sky at the glittering stars, at Orion serene over the great woods, and Sirius cold and brilliant, and the Great Bear, the homely constellation beloved by shepherds and farmers. A meteorite sped down the dark blue heavens, leaving a trail of gold, and I made my wish for Anthony. Surely God would send a host of shooting-stars to fling their arrows against the invader of this tranquillity! I thought of the sorrowing queen, and poor Anthony Babington with his hopes dashed, with cruel tragedy coming up that slope of hill-side in the east, to separate him from his wife and the unborn child.
Christmas Eve! Already the shepherds were starting to Bethlehem! O God, be quick!
The stars slowly faded as I stood there, the brightness was dimmed, a cloud seemed to move over the surface of the heavens and an icy stillness made me shiver with apprehension. Then there was a sound, so faint that I felt it with my own extreme consciousness, a movement as the earth listened also. A few feathers of snow shimmered through the air, then more and more, great flakes came fluttering down, caught in their beauty by the light from an unshuttered window, heralding a snowstorm.
“If it snows the traces will be hidden, and the ground covered so that they won’t find out,” I thought, my heart beating wildly. “Will it be in time? Will it be heavy enough? Will it hide the scars before the searchers come?” I asked myself.
At the same moment I heard the dull tramp of feet. My heart leapt again to choke me. They were coming already, and the snow had not whitened the ground. I stood waiting, waiting. But merry voices came from the dark figures who turned in at the drive, and dancing gleams of light came through the bare trees. These were no horsemen seeking plotters against the throne, but villagers carrying lanterns on long poles, prancing on wooden steeds, mocking and laughing and singing snatches of song. They were the mummers, coming for the festival of Christmas Eve.
Their faces were masked, some had cow-horns and the antlers of deer fastened to their heads, others wore devil’s tails. Dark cloaks hung from their shoulders, concealing their multi-coloured jerkins, their painted bladders and jesters’ toys and wooden swords. They came up the drive to the front of the house and the dogs rushed out barking wildly. Mistress Babington put her hand on her heart, near fainting, and Anthony caught his breath when he heard the sound, but in a minute all was laughter, as the men’s voices could be heard talking in good broad Darbyshire.
“Are we ready? Are ye in good voice? Now, Dick Woodiwiss, and Will Bestwick, and Robin Clay. Get ye ready. Pipe up! Give it ’em tunefully, and don’t beat so masterful on the tabor, Sam Taylor, or ye’ll drown our words. Now! Men! Give it ’em.”
They all sang in harmony, with the beating tabor and a flute and pipe, the Wassailing song:
Here we come a-was sailing
Among the leaves so green.
Here we come a-wandering,
So fair to be seen.
God bless the master of this house,
God bless the mistress too,
And all the little childer
That round the table go.
The powerful manly voices came ringing through the air, and the snow fell in a mad dance upon their hooded and cloaked figures, upon the flickering lanterns and the flaming torches and the wooden horse-heads which some of them rode.
“It’s snowing,” I sobbed, as I rushed indoors and clasped Aunt Cicely. “The mummers have come and it’s snowing.”
“God be thanked,” cried Dame Cicely. “He has answered our prayer. This day he has saved Thackers and all the people in it.”
She knelt down on the sanded floor and clasped her hands together, and I stood there awed by the deep content on her furrowed face. Above her hung the kissing-bunch, and the Christmas holly and bay, and the firelight played on her white coif and her dark-stained hands. Then she rose from her knees, took a lantern and flung wide the door.
“Come ye all in! Welcome! Welcome Dick Woodiwiss, and Robin Clay, and William Bestwick, and Will Archer and all. You’ve come in good time and brought real Christmas weather with you. There’s plenty to eat and drink, and Mistress Babington and Master Anthony will be pleased to hear thy songs and see thy play-acting,” she cried.
They entered, stamping their feet and shaking their cloaks which they flung in a pile in the porch. They stood by the great fire and warmed their chapped hands, speaking of the suddenness of the snowfall which nobody, not even the oldest gaffer, had expected on such a bright and starry night.
Outside the snow fell in a thick pall, hiding the walls and buildings, covering the earth. Those at Thackers knew that no trace of the secret passage would be found as long as the snow remained, and when it melted there would be a chance of the scars being healed.
A dim shape came from the churchyard, stag
gering blindly in the whiteness. It was Francis with a sack wrapped round his head.
“Master Anthony is safe. Nobody can find out now,” I cried. “The snow has come and God sent it.”
“Yes, Penelope,” sighed Francis wearily. “It’s snowing hard. A blizzard sprang up like a flash. It’s a miracle. We are safe, thank God.” Then he saw the cloaks and staves and lanterns in the porch.
“What’s this? Are they here already? Have they come on foot? Why didn’t Jude warn us?”
“It’s only the mummers, Francis, come a-wassailing,” I whispered, touching his arm, and reassuring him.
“Ah! Thank God!” He sank back exhausted. From the kitchen came the laughter and talk of the mummers and the clink of tankards.
“Francis,” I said, kneeling by his side. “They’ll ride from Wingfield and search the house, but they will find only Christmas festivities, and the table laid, and my marchpane Thackers there, and the wassail cup moving from one to another, and the mummers drinking and perhaps Mistress Babington singing her sweet carol. They will never suspect, will they, Francis?”
He laughed softly, and put his arms around me. “I think you are right, Penelope. We are safe this time. We have another chance. Thackers is delivered too. Penelope! Penelope!”
He stooped over me and kissed me, and for a moment I lay in his arms. “Don’t leave me, Penelope,” he whispered.
But I sprang to my feet. “It’s still snowing,” I cried, pointing to the sky, and when I turned to him again, he was gone.
14. The Snow Falls
“It’s still snowing, and they will ride over from Wingfield but they will find nothing,” I said aloud, and I held up my hands to catch the dancing flakes. “Nothing! Nothing!” came a ghostly echo, and the songs of the mummers and the laughter of the serving maids died away. But the warm touch of Francis’s arm, and the look he had bent on me remained, and I waited there, longing and despairing. “Nothing!” whispered the falling snow petals, and my heart took up that cry: “Nothing.”
I leaned against the porch, fumbling with trembling fingers for the stones, sinking half-dead upon the snow-covered seat. For a moment I heard the harsh clatter of swords and the neighing of horses and shouts of men, and then all was silent. A shadow moved over the yard, and a lighted lamp sent its beams on the snow from the kitchen window. Aunt Tissie sang in her cracked old voice as she walked about the room, and the words came to me as I bowed myself in sorrow by the door. “Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,” and I too whispered, “Abide with me, Francis. Abide with me.”
Then the sound of a horse’s hooves trotting down the road came beating rhythmically out of the night, and Jess hurried from the stable, buttoning his coat.
“They’re here,” he called, and he ran down and opened the big gate. The horse came clicking up the drive to the house. The light from the trap lamps moved in long jagged beams on the walls. I saw Mother and Father, with Alison squeezed against Uncle Barnabas’s bulky form and Ian shutting the gate after them.
“Welcome to Thackers,” cried Aunt Tissie, running to the porch with the warming-pan in one hand and a lighted candle in the other. “I was just going to run this over their bed, Penelope,” said she as she saw me, “and here they come before their time.”
There was such a confusion of people talking and dogs barking that I felt that this was the unreal life and the tragedy going on at the same time in the unseen part of the house was the reality. For once I did not want to come back, not even to see my own mother and father, who spoke a different language with their high polite voices, instead of the sweet low burr of the country folk, of Aunt Tissie and Uncle Barny, of Tabitha and Dame Cicely and even of Francis and Anthony Babington.
“Aren’t you pleased to see us, darling Penelope?” asked Mother wistfully, as I stood staring blankly at them with never a word or smile, not even returning their embraces.
“Yes, only I didn’t expect you,” I faltered.
“Why, my dear, I wrote to say we were coming, and Uncle Barnabas came to meet us! Are you asleep Penelope? Aren’t you well? What is the matter?” Mother’s voice was sharply anxious as she drew me to the light and looked keenly at me.
“Yes— No—It’s the snow, Mother,” I stammered, shivering. “I’ve been watching it, and I feel dazed with its dancing,” I excused myself.
“She’s been sitting in the porch,” explained my aunt, and she brushed the snow from my hair. “I thought she was looking out for you, she sat so still. But come along, dear Carlin and Charles. I’m very glad to see ye both and I hope ye are quite well.”
Aunt Tissie enveloped them all in her arms, and led them to the fire in the parlour. I followed with slow reluctant steps, half-glancing back into the kitchen, peering for the mummers, listening for other voices beside those of my parents. But I was quickly called to attention, to carry the cloaks and hats to dry in the brewhouse, to fetch cans of hot water for the bedrooms, and to refill the kettle for cups of tea.
“How beautiful it is,” sighed my mother, as she held her hands to the fire. “You don’t know how I have been looking forward to bringing Charles to see you, dear Aunt Tissie.” And my father wandered about the room, uneasy and curious in the old country house.
“Take them upstairs, Penelope,” said Aunt Tissie. “Get the candles and take them to their rooms.”
“All the bedroom fires are lighted, my dear Carlin,” she turned to my mother, “and you need have no fear of damp beds, for we have been airing them for a week. I have put you and Charles in the best bedchamber, and there is a monstrous fire burning, and I beg you to take care and not set the house afire by putting more logs on!”
“I’ll take care, Aunt Tissie,” laughed Mother. “We won’t set darling Thackers ablaze.” I went to the candle cupboard and got out the pewter candlesticks which were polished and fitted ready for the guests, and I lighted them, stooping over the fire, lingering as long as I dare.
So I led the way, but as I went up the crooked stair, carrying my candle aloft, I felt I was taking strangers to Anthony’s house, and they had no right to be there.
I flung open the door of the best bedchamber, where the fire burned brightly, and shadows swept up and down, mopping and mowing like dark travellers themselves, seeking in walls and cupboards evidence of guilt. I could have sworn that some of them had plumed hats and swords in their hands, as they dived away before my upheld candle.
The beautiful bed was ready, its four carved posts polished and reflecting the firelight, the little angels, or cherubs, whichever they were, and the babe seated on a tun, “poor Babington”, all with shining faces after my morning’s work with the beeswax. The bed curtains had been freshly washed and they moved gently in the draught from the window, swaying outwards as if somebody were already in the bed, listening to our voices. The best patchwork quilt with its satin and silk hexagons looked dark in the shadow, but Mother ran with uplifted candle, raised the curtain and looked at it with admiration.
“Look, Charles, darling, look.” She pointed with her forefinger to one of the “patches” of claret-coloured embossed velvet.
“Look! That was a bit of my own mother’s wedding-dress. Mother showed me the dress once. Aunt Tissie’s sister, you know.”
Father bent his head, and touched it gently, smiling at her excitement.
“What a conglomeration of scraps!” said he. Then, “Here’s a lovely bit of ancient stuff.”
He picked out a piece of embroidery, a scrap of tapestry work, inserted oddly in the border, for it didn’t fit in with the patterns of silks and velvets.
“Do you know what that is? By Jove, it’s very old. I wonder what it is. I can’t make it out, but it is antique, I swear.”
Mother didn’t know, but I recognized it with a queer excitement that set me trembling, so that I backed away lest they should notice my shaking hand. I couldn’t tell them that it was a sheaf of corn, with the sun behind it, one of Joseph’s brethren, cut from the embroidered strip
which Mistress Anthony Babington’s long white fingers had worked over three hundred years ago. Why it had been cut and where the rest of it was I never discovered, for Aunt Tissie could only say it was very old, and it had lain in her grandmother’s oak workbox for many years till she had begged it for the quilt.
Ian was already in his room, unpacking his suitcase. “Uncle Barny, will there be any pheasant shooting?” I heard him call as he galloped noisily downstairs. “Can I be a beater? Will the Squire let me go with the beaters?”
Alison was eager and excited to be back again. She leapt upon the feather-bed and thumped it joyfully, and then ran round the room, looking at the old things, pulling out the tiny drawers in the looking-glass, peering at herself in the dim speckled mirror, and I leaned over her shoulder.
I saw my own pale face as I had seen it when first I came to Thackers, but older, more mature. I saw Penelope Taberner in the glass, and I felt very near those who loved her, so that I longed to slip through the hidden door to that unseen world where hearts were aching for a captive queen and a broken cause. But there was my sister Alison, laughing and talking of London, teasing as she turned over the contents of my mahogany workbox and saw the jewel and the precious signature, then opening her suitcase and displaying her clothes.
She showed me the morocco bag she had bought for Aunt Tissie and the briar pipe for Uncle Barnabas.
“Uncle Barny doesn’t smoke,” I objected. “‘’Ware candle and pipe in barn and in house’ he once told me.”
“Oh dear, I’d quite forgotten,” cried Alison.
“He will treasure it all the same,” I told her; “and Aunt Tissie will say the bag is too grand for the likes of her, but she will wrap it in a linen handkerchief and love it.”
A Traveller in Time Page 23