I
It was on a bright evening in the summer that Marjorie, with her maid
Janet, came riding down to Padley, and about the same time a young man
came walking up the track that led from Derby. In fact, the young man
saw the two against the skyline and wondered who they were. Further,
there was a group of four or five walking on the terrace below the
house, that saw both the approaching parties, and commented upon their
coming.
To be precise, there were four persons in the group on the terrace, and
a man-servant who hung near. The four were Mr. John FitzHerbert, his son
Thomas, his son's wife, and, in the midst, leaning on Mrs. FitzHerbert's
arm, was old Sir Thomas himself, and it was for his sake that the
servant was within call, for he was still very sickly after his long
imprisonment, in spite of his occasional releases.
Mr. John saw the visitors first.
"Why, here is the company all arrived together," he said. "Now, if
anything hung on that--" his son broke in, uneasily.
"You are sure of young Owen?" he said. "Our lives will all hang on him
after this."
His father clapped him gently on the shoulder.
"Now, now!" he said. "I know him well enough, from my lord. He hath made
a dozen such places in this county alone."
Mr. Thomas glanced swiftly at his uncle.
"And you have spoken with him, too, uncle?"
The old man turned his melancholy eyes on him.
"Yes; I have spoken with him," he said.
* * * * *
Five minutes later Marjorie was dismounted, and was with him. She
greeted old Sir Thomas with particular respect; she had talked with him
a year ago when he was first released that he might raise his fines; and
she knew well enough that his liberty was coming to an end. In fact, he
was technically a prisoner even now; and had only been allowed to come
for a week or two from Sir Walter Aston's house before going back again
to the Fleet.
"You are come in good time," said Sir John, smiling.
"That is young Owen himself coming up the path."
There was nothing particularly noticeable about the young man who a
minute later was standing before them with his cap in his hand. He was
plainly of the working class; and he had over his shoulder a bag of
tools. He was dusty up to the knees with his long tramp. Mr. John gave
him a word of welcome; and then the whole group went slowly together
back to the house, with the two men following. Sir Thomas stumbled a
little going up the two or three steps into the hall. Then they all sat
down together; the servant put a big flagon and a horn tumbler beside
the traveller, and went out, closing the doors.
"Now, my man," said Mr. John. "Do you eat and drink while I do the
talking. I understand you are a man of your hands, and that you have
business elsewhere."
"I must be in Lancashire by the end of the week, sir."
"Very well, then. We have business enough for you, God knows! This is
Mistress Manners, whom you may have heard of. And after you have looked
at the places we have here--you understand me?--Mistress Manners wants
you at her house at Booth's Edge.... You have any papers?"
Owen leaned back and drew out a paper from his bag of tools.
"This is from Mr. Fenton, sir."
Mr. John glanced at the address; then he turned it over and broke the
seal. He stared for a moment at the open sheet.
"Why, it is blank!" he said.
Owen smiled. He was a grave-looking lad of eighteen or nineteen years
old; and his face lighted up very pleasantly.
"I have had that trick played on me before, sir, in my travels. I
understand that Catholic gentlemen do so sometimes to try the fidelity
of the messenger."
The other laughed out loud, throwing back his head.
"Why, that is a poor compliment!" he said. "You shall have a better one
from us, I have no doubt."
Mr. Thomas leaned over the table and took the paper. He examined it very
carefully; then he handed it back. His father laughed again as he took
it.
"You are very cautious, my son," he said. "But it is wise enough....
Well, then," he went on to the carpenter, "you are willing to do this
work for us? And as for payment--"
"I ask only my food and lodging," said the lad quietly; "and enough to
carry me on to the next place."
"Why--" began the other in a protest.
"No, sir; no more than that...." He paused an instant. "I hope to be
admitted to the Society of Jesus this year or next."
There was a pause of astonishment. And then old Sir Thomas' deep voice
broke in.
"You do very well, sir. I heartily congratulate you. And I would I were
twenty years younger myself...."
II
After supper that night the entire party went upstairs to the chapel.
Young Hugh Owen even already was beginning to be known among Catholics,
for his extraordinary skill in constructing hiding-holes. Up to the
present not much more had been attempted than little secret recesses
where the vessels of the altar and the vestments might be concealed. But
the young carpenter had been ingenious enough in two or three houses to
which he had been called, to enlarge these so considerably that even two
or three men might be sheltered in them; and, now that it seemed as if
the persecution of recusants was to break out again, the idea began to
spread. Mr. John FitzHerbert while in London had heard of his skill, and
had taken means to get at the young man, for his own house at Padley.
* * * * *
Owen was already at work when the party came upstairs. He had supped
alone, and, with a servant to guide him, had made the round of the
house, taking measurements in every possible place. He was seated on the
floor as they came in; three or four panels lay on the ground beside
him, and a heap of plaster and stones.
He looked up as they came in.
"This will take me all night, sir," he said. "And the fire must be put
out below."
He explained his plan. The old hiding-place was but a poor affair; it
consisted of a space large enough for only one man, and was contrived by
a section of the wall having been removed, all but the outer row of
stones made thin for the purpose; the entrance to it was through a tall
sliding panel on the inside of the chapel. Its extreme weakness as a
hiding-hole lay in the fact that anyone striking on the panel could not
fail to hear how hollow it rang. This he proposed to do away with,
unless, indeed, he left a small space for the altar vessels; and to
construct instead a little chamber in the chimney of the hall that was
built against this wall; he would contrive it so that an entrance was
still from the chapel, as well as one that he would make over the hearth
below; and that the smoke should be conducted round the little enclosed
space, passing afterwards up the usual vent. The chamber would be large
enough, he thought, for at least two men. He explained, too, his method
of deadening the hollowness of the sound if the panel were knocked upon,
by placing pads of felt on struts of wood that would be set against the
panel-door.
"Why, that is very shrewd!" cried Mr. John. He looked round the faces
for approval.
For an hour or so, the party sat and watched him at his work; and
Marjorie listened to their talk. It was of that which filled the hearts
of all Catholics at this time; of the gathering storm in England, of the
priests that had been executed this very year--Mr. Paine at Chelmsford,
in March; Mr. Forde, Mr. Shert and Mr. Johnson, at Tyburn in May, the
first of the three having been taken with Father Campion at
Lyford--deaths that were followed two days later by the execution of
four more--one of whom, Mr. Filbie, had also been arrested at Lyford.
And there were besides a great number more in prison--Mr. Cottam, it was
known, had been taken at York, scarcely a week ago, and, it was said,
would certainly suffer before long.
They talked in low voices; for the shadow was on all their hearts. It
had been possible almost to this very year to hope that the misery would
be a passing one; but the time for hope was gone. It remained only to
bear what came, to multiply priests, and, if necessary, martyrs, and
meantime to take such pains for protection as they could.
"He will be a clever pursuivant who finds this one out," said Mr. John.
The carpenter looked up from his work.
"But a clever one will find it," he said.
Mr. Thomas was heard to sigh.
III
It was on the afternoon of the following day that Marjorie rode up to
her house with Janet beside her, and Hugh Owen walking by her horse.
He had finished his work at Padley an hour or two after dawn--for he
worked at night when he could, and had then gone to rest. But he had
been waiting for her when her horses were brought, and asked if he might
walk with her; he had asked it simply and easily, saying that it might
save his losing his way, and time was precious to him.
* * * * *
Marjorie felt very much interested by this lad, for he was no more than
that. In appearance he was like any of his kind, with a countryman's
face, in a working-dress: she might have seen him by chance a hundred
times and not known him again. But his manner was remarkable, so wholly
simple and well-bred: he was courteous always, as suited his degree; but
he had something of the same assurance that she had noticed so plainly
in Father Campion. (He talked with a plain, Northern dialect.)
Presently she opened on that very point; for she could talk freely
before Janet.
"Did you ever know Father Campion?" she asked.
"I have never spoken with him, mistress. I have heard him preach. It was
that which put it in my heart to join the company."
"You heard him preach?"
"Yes, mistress; three or four times in Essex and Hertfordshire. I heard
him preach upon the young man who came to our Saviour."
"Tell me," she said, looking down at what she could see of his face.
"It was liker an angel than a man," he said quietly. "I could not take
my eyes off him from his first word to the last. And all were the same
that were there."
"Was he eloquent?"
"Aye; you might call it that. But I thought it to be the Spirit of God."
"And it was then you made up your mind to join the Society?"
"There was no rest for me till I did. 'And Christ also went away
sorrowful,' were his last words. And I could not bear to think that."
Marjorie was silent through pure sympathy. This young man spoke a
language she understood better than that which some of her friends
used--Mr. Babington, for instance. It was the Person of Jesus Christ
that was all her religion to her; it was for this that she was devout,
that she went to mass and the sacraments when she could; it was this
that made Mary dear to her. Was He not her son? And, above all, it was
for this that she had sacrificed Robin: she could not bear that he
should not serve Him as a priest, if he might. But the other talk that
she had heard sometimes--of the place of religion in politics, and the
justification of this or that course of public action--well, she knew
that these things must be so; yet it was not the manner of her own most
intimate thought, and the language of it was not hers.
The two went together so a few paces, without speaking. Then she had a
sudden impulse.
"And do you ever think of what may come upon you?" she asked. "Do you
ever think of the end?
"Aye," he said.
"And what do you think the end will be?"
She saw him raise his eyes to her an instant.
"I think," he said, "that I shall die for my faith some day."
That same strange shiver that passed over her at her mother's bedside,
passed over her again, as if material things grew thin about her. There
was a tone in his voice that made it absolutely clear to her that he was
not speaking of a fancy, but of some certain knowledge that he had. Yet
she dared not ask him, and she was a middle-aged woman before the news
came to her of his death upon the rack.
IV
It was a sleepy-eyed young man that came into the kitchen early next
morning, where the ladies and the maids were hard at work all together
upon the business of baking. The baking was a considerable task each
week, for there were not less than twenty mouths, all told, to feed in
the hall day by day, including a widow or two that called each day for
rations; and a great part, therefore, of a mistress's time in such
houses was taken up with such things.
Marjorie turned to him, with her arms floured to the elbow.
"Well?" she said, smiling.
"I have done, mistress. Will it please you to see it before I go and
sleep?"
They had examined the house carefully last night, measuring and sounding
in the deep and thin walls alike, for there was at present no
convenience at all for a hunted man. Owen had obtained her consent to
two or three alternative proposals, and she had then left him to
himself. From her bed, that she had had prepared, with Alice
Babington's, in a loft--turning out for the night the farm-men who had
usually slept there, she had heard more than once the sound of distant
hammering from the main front of the house where her own room lay, that
had been once her mother's as well.
The possibilities in this little manor were small. To construct a
passage, giving an exterior escape, as had been made in some houses,
would have meant here a labour of weeks, and she had told the young man
she would be content with a simple hiding-hole. Yet, although she did
not expect great things, and knew, moreover, the kind of place that he
would make, she was as excited as a child, in a grave sort of way, at
what she would see.
He took her first into the parlour, where years ago Robin had talked
with her in the wintry sunshine. The open chimney was on the right as
they entered, and though she knew that somewhere on that same side would
be one of the two entrances that had been arranged, all the difference
she could see was that a piece of the wall-hanging that had been between
the window and the fire was gone, and that there hung in its place an
old picture painted on a panel. She looked at this without speaking: the
wall was wainscoted in oak, as it had always been, six feet up from the
floor. Then an idea came to her: she tilted the picture on one side. But
there was no more to be seen than a cracked panel, which, it seemed to
her, had once been nearer the door. She rapped upon this, but it gave
back the dull sound as of wood against stone.
She turned to the young man, smiling. He smiled back.
"Come into the bedroom, mistress."
He led her in there, through the passage outside into which the two
doors opened at the head of the outside stairs; but here, too, all that
she could see was that a tall press that had once stood between the
windows now stood against the wall immediately opposite to the painted
panel on the other side of the wall. She opened the doors of the press,
but it was as it had always been: there even hung there the three or
four dresses that she had taken from it last night and laid on the bed.
She laughed outright, and, turning, saw Mistress Alice Babington beaming
tranquilly from the door of the room.
"Come in, Alice," she said, "and see this miracle."
Then he began to explain it.
* * * * *
On this side was the entrance proper, and, as he said so, he stepped up
into the press and closed the doors. They could hear him fumbling
within, then the sound of wood sliding, and finally a muffled voice
calling to them. Marjorie flung the doors open, and, save for the
dresses, it was empty. She stared in for a moment, still hearing the
movements of someone beyond, and at last the sound of a snap; and as she
withdrew her head to exclaim to Alice, the young man walked into the
room through the open door behind her.
Then he explained it in full.
The back of the press had been removed, and then replaced, in such a
manner that it would slide out about eighteen inches towards the window,
but only when the doors of the press were closed; when they were opened,
they drew out simultaneously a slip of wood on either side that pulled
the sliding door tight and immovable. Behind the back of the press, thus
removed, a corresponding part of the wainscot slid in the same way,
giving a narrow doorway into the cell which he had excavated between the
double beams of the thick wall. Next, when the person that had taken
refuge was inside, with the two sliding doors closed behind him, it was
possible for him, by an extremely simple device, to turn a wooden button
and thus release a little wooden machinery which controlled a further
opening into the parlour, and which, at the same time, was braced
against the hollow panelling and one of the higher beams in such a
manner as to give it, when knocked upon, the dullness of sound the girl
had noticed just now. But this door could only be opened from within.
Neither a fugitive nor a pursuer could make any entrance from the
parlour side, unless the wainscoting itself were torn off. Lastly, the
crack in the woodwork, corresponding with two minute holes bored in the
painted panel, afforded, when the picture was hung exactly straight, a
view of the parlour that commanded nearly all the room.
"I do not pretend that it is a fortress," said the young man, smiling
gravely. "But it may serve to keep out a country constable. And, indeed,
it is the best I can contrive in this house."