He and Jack Drage were out for a long walk when the parson came to tea
that afternoon—a walk of which Bill had been the instigator. He had
dragged Jack forth, vigorously protesting, after lunch, and we had
cheered them on their way. Bill had to get out of the house—I could see
that. Then Dick and the girl had disappeared, in the way that people in
their condition _do_ disappear, just before Mr. Williams arrived. And so
only Phyllis Drage was there, presiding at the tea-table, when I
broached the subject of the history of the dining-room.
“He spoils paper, Mr. Williams,” laughed my hostess, “and he scents
copy. Jack tried to tell the story last night, and got it hopelessly
wrong.”
The clergyman smiled gravely.
“You’ll have to alter the setting, Mr. Staunton,” he remarked, “because
the story is quite well known round here. In my library at the vicarage
I have an old manuscript copy of the legend. And indeed, I have no
reason to believe that it is a legend: certainly the main points have
been historically authenticated. Sir James Wrothley, whose portrait
hangs in the dining-room, lived in this house. He was a staunch
Protestant—bigoted to a degree; and he fell very foul of Cardinal
Wolsey, who you may remember was plotting for the Papacy at the time. So
bitter did the animosity become, and so high did religious intoleration
run in those days, that Sir James started counter-plotting against the
Cardinal; which was a dangerous thing to do. Moreover, he and his
friends used the dining-room here as their meeting-place.”
The reverend gentleman sipped his tea; if there was one thing he loved
it was the telling of this story, which reflected so magnificently on
the staunch no-Popery record of his parish.
“So much is historical certainty; the rest is not so indisputably
authentic. The times of the meetings were, of course, kept secret—until
the fatal night occurred. Then, apparently, someone turned traitor. And,
why I cannot tell you, Sir James himself was accused by the
others—especially Sir Henry Brayton. Did you say anything, Mr.
Staunton?”
“Nothing,” I remarked quietly. “The name surprised me for a moment.
Please go on.”
“Sir Henry Brayton was Sir James’s next-door neighbour, almost equally
intolerant of anything savouring of Rome. And even while, so the story
goes, Wolsey’s men were hammering on the doors, he and Sir Henry had
this dreadful quarrel. Why Sir James should have been suspected, whether
the suspicions were justified or not I cannot say. Certainly, in view of
what we know of Sir James’s character, it seems hard to believe that he
could have been guilty of such infamous treachery. But that the case
must have appeared exceedingly black against him is certain from the
last and most tragic part of the story.”
Once again Mr. Williams paused to sip his tea; he had now reached that
point of the narrative where royalty itself would have failed to hurry
him.
“In those days, Mrs. Drage, there was a door leading into the musicians’
gallery from one of the rooms of the house. It provided no avenue of
escape if the house was surrounded—but its existence was unknown to the
men before whose blows the other doors were already beginning to
splinter. And suddenly through this door appeared Lady Wrothley. She had
only recently married Sir James: in fact, her first baby was then on its
way. Sir James saw her, and at once ceased his quarrel with Sir Henry.
With dignity he mounted the stairs and approached his girl-wife—and in
her horror-struck eyes he saw that she, too, suspected him of being the
traitor. He raised her hand to his lips; and then as the doors burst
open simultaneously and Wolsey’s men rushed in—he dived headforemost on
to the floor below, breaking his neck and dying instantly.
“The story goes on to say,” continued Mr. Williams, with a diffident
cough, “that even while the butchery began in the room below—for most
of the Protestants were unarmed—the poor girl collapsed in the gallery,
and shortly afterwards the child was born. A girl baby, who survived,
though the mother died. One likes to think that if she had indeed
misjudged her husband, it was a merciful act on the part of the Almighty
to let her join him so soon. Thank you, I will have another cup of tea.
One lump, please.”
“A most fascinating story, Mr. Williams,” said Phyllis. “Thank you so
much for having told us. Can you make anything out of it, Tom?”