I
Anthony lifted his whip and pointed.
"London," he said.
Marjorie nodded; she was too tired to speak.
* * * * *
The journey had taken them some ten days, by easy stages; each night
they had slept at an inn, except once, when they stayed with friends of
the Babingtons and had heard mass. They had had the small and usual
adventures: a horse had fallen lame; a baggage-horse had bolted; they
had passed two or three hunting-parties; they had been stared at in
villages and saluted, and stared at and not saluted. Rain had fallen;
the clouds had cleared again; and the clouds had gathered once more and
rain had again fallen. The sun, morning by morning, had stood on the
left, and evening by evening gone down again on the right.
They were a small party for so long a journey--the three with four
servants--two men and two maids: the men had ridden armed, as the custom
was; one rode in front, then came the two ladies with Anthony; then the
two maids, and behind them the second man. In towns and villages they
closed up together lest they should be separated, and then spread out
once more as the long, straight track lengthened before them. Anthony
and the two men-servants carried each a case of dags or pistols at the
saddle-bow, for fear of highwaymen. But none had troubled them.
A strange dreamlike mood had come down on Marjorie. At times it seemed
to her in her fatigue as if she had done nothing all her life but ride;
at times, as she sat rocking, she was living still at home, sitting in
the parlour, watching her mother; the illusion was so clear and
continuous that its departure, when her horse stumbled or a companion
spoke, was as an awaking from a dream. At other times she looked about
her; talked; asked questions.
She found Mistress Alice Babington a pleasant friend, some ten years
older than herself, who knew London well, and had plenty to tell her.
She was a fair woman, well built and active; very fond of her brother,
whom she treated almost as a mother treats a son; but she seemed not to
be in his confidence, and even not to wish to be; she thought more of
his comfort than of his ideals. She was a Catholic, of course, but of
the quiet, assured kind, and seemed unable to believe that anyone could
seriously be anything else; she seemed completely confident that the
present distress was a passing one, and that when politics had run their
course, it would presently disappear. Marjorie found her as comfortable
as a pillow, when she was low enough to rest on her....
* * * * *
Though Marjorie had nodded only when the spires of London shone up
suddenly in the evening light, a sharp internal interest awakened in
her. It was as astonishing as a miracle that the end should be in sight;
the past ten days had made it seem to her as if all things which she
desired must eternally recede.... She touched her horse unconsciously,
and stared out between his ears, sitting upright and alert again.
It was not a great deal that met the eye, but it was so disposed as to
suggest a great deal more. Far away to the right lay a faint haze, and
in it appeared towers and spires, with gleams of sharp white here and
there, where some tall building rose above the dark roofs. To the left
again appeared similar signs of another town--the same haze, towers and
spires--linked to the first. She knew what they were; she had heard half
a dozen times already of the two towns that made London--running
continuously in one long line, however, which grew thin by St. Mary's
Hospital and St. Martin's, she was told--the two troops of houses and
churches that had grown up about the two centres of Court and City,
Westminster and the City itself. But it was none the less startling to
see these with her proper eyes.
Presently, in spite of herself, as she saw the spire of St. Clement's
Dane, where she was told they must turn City-wards, she began to talk,
and Anthony to answer.
II
Dark was beginning to fall and the lamps to be lighted as they rode in
at last half an hour later, across the Fleet Ditch, through Ludgate and
turned up towards Cheapside. They were to stay at an inn where Anthony
was accustomed to lodge when he was not with friends--an inn, too, of
which the landlord was in sympathy with the old ways, and where friends
could come and go without suspicion. It was here, perhaps, that letters
would be waiting for them from Rheims.
Marjorie had known Derby only among the greater towns, and neither this
nor the towns where she had stayed, night by night, during the journey,
had prepared her in the least for the amazing rush and splendour of the
City itself. A fine, cold rain was falling, and this, she was told, had
driven half the inhabitants within doors; but even so, it appeared to
her that London was far beyond her imaginings. Beneath here, in the deep
and narrow channel of houses up which they rode, narrowed yet further
by the rows of stalls that were ranged along the pathways on either
side, the lamps were kindling swiftly, in windows as well as in the
street; here and there hung great flaring torches, and the vast eaves
and walls overhead shone in the light of the fires where the rich
gilding threw it back. Beyond them again, solemn and towering, leaned
over the enormous roofs; and everywhere, it seemed to her fresh from the
silence and solitude of the country, countless hundreds of moving faces
were turned up to her, from doorways and windows, as well as from the
groups that hurried along under the shelter of the walls; and the air
was full of talking and laughter and footsteps. It meant nothing to her
at present, except inextricable confusion: the gleam of arms as a patrol
passed by; the important little group making its way with torches; the
dogs that scuffled in the roadway; the party of apprentices singing
together loudly, with linked arms, plunging up a side street; the hooded
women chattering together with gestures beneath a low-hung roof; the
calling, from side to side of the twisting street; the bargaining of the
sellers at the stalls--all this, with the rattle of their own horses'
feet and the jingling of the bits, combined only to make a noisy and
brilliant spectacle without sense or signification.
Mistress Alice glanced at her, smiling.
"You are tired," she said; "we are nearly there. That is St. Paul's on
the right."
Ah! that gave her peace....
They were turning off from the main street just as her friend spoke; but
she had time to catch a glimpse of what appeared at first sight a mere
gulf of darkness, and then, as they turned, resolved itself into a vast
and solemn pile, grey-lined against black. Lights burned far across the
wide churchyard, as well as in the windows of the high houses that
crowned the wall, and figures moved against the glow, tiny as dolls....
Then she remembered again: how God had once been worshipped there
indeed, in the great house built to His honour, but was no longer so
worshipped. Or, if it were the same God, as some claimed, at least the
character of Him was very differently conceived....
* * * * *
The "Red Bull" again increased her sense of rest; since all inns are
alike. A curved archway opened on the narrow street; and beneath this
they rode, to find themselves in a paved court, already lighted,
surrounded by window-pierced walls, and high galleries to right and
left. The stamping of horses from the further end; and, almost
immediately, the appearance of a couple of hostlers, showed where the
stables lay. Beside it she could see through the door of the
brightly-lit bake-house.
She was terribly stiff, as she found when she limped up the three or
four stairs that led up to the door of the living-part of the inn; and
she was glad enough to sit down in a wide, low parlour with her friend
as Mr. Babington went in search of the host. The room was lighted only
by a fire leaping in the chimney; and she could make out little, except
that pieces of stuff hung upon the walls, and a long row of metal
vessels and plates were ranged in a rack between the windows.
"It is a quiet inn," said Alice. Marjorie nodded again. She was too
tired to speak; and almost immediately Anthony came back, with a tall,
clean-shaven, middle-aged man, in an apron, following behind.
"It is all well," he said. "We can have our rooms and the parlour
complete. These are the ladies," he added.
The landlord bowed a little, with a dignity beyond that of his dress.
"Supper shall be served immediately, madam," he said, with a tactful
impartiality towards them both.
* * * * *
They were indeed very pleasant rooms; and, as Anthony had described
them to her, were situated towards the back of the long, low house, on
the first floor, with a private staircase leading straight up from the
yard to the parlour itself. The sleeping-rooms, too, opened upon the
parlour; that which the two ladies were to occupy was furthest from the
yard, for quietness' sake; that in which Anthony and his man would
sleep, upon the other side. The windows of all three looked straight out
upon a little walled garden that appeared to be the property of some
other house. The rooms were plainly furnished, but had a sort of dignity
about them, especially in the carved woodwork about the doors and
windows. There was a fireplace in the parlour, plainly a recent
addition; and a maid rose from kindling the logs and turf, as the two
ladies came back after washing and changing.
A table was already laid, lit by a couple of candles: it was laid with
fine napery, and the cutlery was clean and solid. Marjorie looked round
the room once more; and, as she sat down, Anthony came in, still in his
mud-splashed dress, carrying three or four letters in his hands.
"News," he said.... "I will be with you immediately," and vanished into
his room.
* * * * *
The sense of home was deepening on Marjorie every moment. This room in
which she sat, might, with a little fancy, be thought to resemble the
hall at Booth's Edge. It was not so high, indeed; but the plain solidity
of the walls and woodwork, the aspect of the supper-table, and the
quiet, so refreshing after the noises of the day, and, above all, after
the din of their mile-long ride through the City--these little things,
together with the knowledge that the journey was done at last, and that
her old friend Robin was, if not already come, at least soon to
arrive--these little things helped to soothe and reassure her. She
wondered how her mother found herself....
When Anthony came back, the supper was all laid out. He had given orders
that no waiting was to be done; his own servants would do what was
necessary. He had a bright and interested face, Marjorie thought; and
the instant they were sat down, she knew the reason of it.
"We are just in time," he said. "These letters have been lying here for
me the last week. They will be here, they tell me, by to-morrow night.
But that is not all--"
He glanced round the dusky room; then he laid down the knife with which
he was carving; and spoke in a yet lower voice.
"Father Campion is in the house," he said.
His sister started.
"In the house?... Do you mean--"
He nodded mysteriously, as he took up the knife again.
"He has been here three or four days. The rooms are full in the ... in
the usual place. And I have spoken with him; he is coming here after
supper. He had already supped."
Marjorie leaned back in her chair; but she said nothing. From beneath in
the house came the sound of singing, from the tavern parlour where boys
were performing madrigals.
It seemed to her incredible that she should presently be speaking with
the man, whose name was already affecting England as perhaps no priest's
name had ever affected it. He had been in England, she knew,
comparatively a short time; yet in that time, his name had run like fire
from mouth to mouth. To the minds of Protestants there was something
almost diabolical about the man; he was here, he was there, he was
everywhere, and yet, when the search was up, he was nowhere. Tales were
told of his eloquence that increased the impression that he made a
thousand-fold; it was said that he could wile birds off their branches
and the beasts from their lairs; and this eloquence, it was known, could
be heard only by initiates, in far-off country houses, or in quiet,
unsuspected places in the cities. He preached in some shrouded and
locked room in London one day; and the next, thirty miles off, in a
cow-shed to rustics. And his learning and his subtlety were equal to his
eloquence: her Grace had heard him at Oxford years ago, before his
conversion; and, it was said, would refuse him nothing, even now, if he
would but be reasonable in his religion; even Canterbury, it was
reported, might be his. And if he would not be reasonable--then, as was
fully in accordance with what was known of her Grace, nothing was too
bad for him.
Such feeling then, on the part of Protestants, found its fellow in that
of the Catholics. He was their champion, as no other man could be. Had
he not issued his famous "challenge" to any and all of the Protestant
divines, to meet them in any argument on religion that they cared to
select, in any place and at any time, if only his own safe-conduct were
secure? And was it not notorious that none would meet him? He was,
indeed, a fire, a smoke in the nostrils of his adversaries, a flame in
the hearts of his friends. Everywhere he ranged, he and his comrade,
Father Persons, sometimes in company, sometimes apart; and wherever they
went the Faith blazed up anew from its dying embers, in the lives of
rustic knave and squire.
And she was to see him!
* * * * *
"He is here for four or five days only," went on Anthony presently,
still in a low, cautious voice. "The hunt is very hot, they say. Not
even the host knows who he is; or, at least, makes that he does not. He
is under another name, of course; it is Mr. Edmonds, this time. He was
in Essex, he tells me; but comes to the wolves' den for safety. It is
safer, he says, to sit secure in the midst of the trap, than to wander
about its doors; for when the doors are opened he can run out again, if
no one knows he is there...."
III
When supper was finished at last, and the maids had borne away the
dishes, there came almost immediately a tap upon the door; and before
any could answer, there walked in a man, smiling.
He was of middle-size, dressed in a dark, gentleman's suit, carrying his
feathered hat in his hand, with his sword. He appeared far younger than
Marjorie had expected--scarcely more than thirty years old, of a dark
and yet clear complexion, large-eyed, with a look of humour; his hair
was long and brushed back; and a soft, pointed beard and moustache
covered the lower part of his face. He moved briskly and assuredly, as
one wholly at his ease.
"I am come to the right room?" he said. "That is as well."
His voice, too, had a ring of gaiety in it; it was low, quite clear and
very sympathetic; and his manners, as Marjorie observed, were those of a
cultivated gentleman, without even a trace of the priest. She would not
have been astonished if she had been told that the man was of the court,
or some great personage of the country. There was no trace of furtive
hurry or of alarm about him; he moved deftly and confidently; and when
he sat down, after the proper greetings, crossed one leg over the other,
so that he could nurse his foot. It seemed more incredible even than she
had thought, that this was Father Campion!
"You have pleasant rooms here, and music to cheer you, too," he said.
"I understand that you are often here, Mr. Babington."
Anthony explained that he found them convenient and very secure.
"Roberts is a prudent landlord," he said.
Father Campion nodded.
"He knows his own business, which is what few landlords do, in these
degenerate days; and he knows nothing at all of his guests'. In that he
is even more of an exception."
His eyes twinkled delightfully at the ladies.
"And so," he said, "God blesses him in those who use his house."
They talked for a few minutes in this manner. Father Campion spoke of
the high duty that lay on all country ladies to make themselves
acquainted with the sights of the town; and spoke of three or four of
these. Her Grace, of course, must be seen; that was the greatest sight
of all. They must make an opportunity for that; and there would surely
be no difficulty, since her Grace liked nothing better than to be looked
at. And they must go up the river by water, if the weather allowed, from
the Tower to Westminster; not from Westminster to the Tower, since that
was the way that traitors came, and no good Catholic could, even in
appearance, be a traitor. And, if they pleased, he would himself be
their guide for a part of their adventures. He was to lie hid, he told
them; and he knew no better way to do that than to flaunt as boldly as
possible in the open ways.
"If I lay in my room," said he, "with a bolt drawn, I would soon have
some busy fellow knocking on the door to know what I did there. But if I
could but dine with her Grace, or take an hour with Mr. Topcliffe, I
should be secure for ever."
Marjorie glanced shyly towards Alice, as if to ask a question. (She was
listening, it seemed to her, with every nerve in her tired body.) The
priest saw the glance.
"Mr. Topcliffe, madam? Well; let us say he is a dear friend of the
Lieutenant of the Tower, and has, I think, lodgings there just now. And
he is even a friend of Catholics, too--to such, at least, as desire a
heavenly crown."
"He is an informer and a tormentor!" broke in Anthony harshly.
"Well, sir; let us say that he is very loyal to the letter of the law;
and that he presides over our Protestant bed of Procrustes."
"The--" began Marjorie, emboldened by the kindness of the priest's
voice.
"The bed of Procrustes, madam, was a bed to which all who lay upon it
had to be conformed. Those that were too long were made short; and those
that were too short were made long. It is a pleasant classical name for
the rack."
Marjorie caught her breath. But Father Campion went on smoothly.
"We shall have a clear day to-morrow, I think," he said. "If you are at
liberty, sir, and these ladies are not too wearied--I have a little
business in Westminster; and--"
"Why, yes," said Anthony, "for to-morrow night we expect friends. From
Rheims, sir."
The priest dropped his foot and leaned forward.
"From Rheims?" he said sharply.
The other nodded.
"Eight or ten at least will arrive. Not all are priests. One is a friend
of our own from Derbyshire, who will not be made priest for five years
yet."
"I had not heard they were to come so soon," said Father Campion. "And
what a company of them!"
"There are a few of them who have been here before. Mr. Ballard is one
of them."
The priest was silent an instant.
"Mr. Ballard," he said. "Ballard! Yes; he has been here before. He
travels as Captain Fortescue, does he not? You are a friend of his?"
"Yes, sir."
Father Campion made as if he would speak; but interrupted himself and
was silent; and it seemed to Marjorie as if another mood was fallen on
him. And presently they were talking again of London and its sights.
IV
In spite of her weariness, Marjorie could not sleep for an hour or two
after she had gone to bed. It was an extraordinary experience to her to
have fallen in, on the very night of her coming to London, with the one
man whose name stood to her for all that was gallant in her faith. As
she lay there, listening to the steady breathing of Alice, who knew no
such tremors of romance, to the occasional stamp of a horse across the
yard, and, once or twice, to voices and footsteps passing on some paved
way between the houses, she rehearsed again and again to herself the
tales she had heard of him.
Now and again she thought of Robin. She wondered whether he, too, one
day (and not of necessity a far-distant day, since promotion came
quickly in this war of faith), would occupy some post like that which
this man held so gaily and so courageously; and for the first time,
perhaps, she understood not in vision merely, but in sober thought, what
the life of a priest in those days signified. Certainly she had met man
after man before--she had entertained them often enough in her mother's
place, and had provided by her own wits for their security--men who
went in peril of liberty and even of life; but here, within the walls of
London, in this "wolves' den" as Father Campion had called it, where men
brushed against one another continually, and looked into a thousand
faces a day, where patrols went noisily with lights and weapons, where
the great Tower stood, where her Grace, the mistress of the wolves, had
her dwelling--here, peril assumed another aspect, and pain and death
another reality, from that which they presented on the wind-swept hills
and the secret valleys of the country from which they came.... And it
was with Father Campion himself, in his very flesh, that she had talked
this evening--it was Father Campion who had given her that swift, kindly
look of commendation, as Mr. Babington had spoken of her reason for
coming to London, and of her hospitality to wandering priests--Father
Campion, the Angel of the Church, was in England. And to-morrow Robin,
too, would be here.
* * * * *
Then, as sleep began to come down on her tired and excited brain, and to
form, as so often under such conditions, little visible images, even
before the reason itself is lulled, there began to pass before her,
first tiny and delicate pictures of what she had seen to-day--the low
hills to the north of London, dull and dark below the heavy sky, but
light immediately above the horizon as the sun sank down; the appearance
of her horse's ears--those ears and that tuft of wayward mane between
them of which she had grown so weary; the lighted walls of the London
streets; the monstrous shadows of the eaves; the flare of lights; the
moving figures--these came first; and then faces--Father Campion's,
smiling, with white teeth and narrowed eyes, bright against the dark
chimney-breast; Alice's serene features, framed in flaxen hair; and
then, as sleep had all but conquered her, the imagination sent up one
last idea, and a face came into being before her, so formless yet so
full, so sinister, so fierce and so distorted, that she drew a sudden
breath and sat up, trembling....
... Why had they spoken to her of Topcliffe?...