I
"Marjorie! Marjorie! Wake up! the order hath come. It is for to-night."
Very slowly Marjorie rose out of the glimmering depths of sleep into
which she had fallen on the hot August afternoon, sunk down upon the arm
of the great chair that stood by the parlour window, and saw Mrs. Thomas
radiant before her, waving a scrap of paper in her hand.
Nearly two months were passed; and as yet no opportunity had been given
to the prisoner's wife to visit him, and during that time it had been
impossible to go back into the hills and leave the girl alone. The heat
of the summer had been stifling, down here in the valley; a huge plague
of grasshoppers had ravaged all England; and there were times when even
in the grass-country outside Derby, their chirping had become
intolerable. The heat, and the necessary seclusion, and the anxiety had
told cruelly upon the country girl; Marjorie's face had perceptibly
thinned; her eyes had shadows above and beneath; yet she knew she must
not go; since the young wife had attached herself to her altogether,
finding Alice (she said) too dull for her spirits. Mr. Bassett was gone
again. There was no word of a trial; although there had been a hearing
or two before the magistrates; and it was known that Topcliffe
continually visited the prison.
One piece of news only had there been to comfort her during this time,
and that, that Mr. John's prediction had been fulfilled with regard to
the captured priest, Mr. Garlick, who, back from Rheims only a few
months, had been deported from England, since it was his first offence,
But he would soon be over again, no doubt, and next time with death as
the stake in the game.
* * * * *
Marjorie drew a long breath, and passed her hands over her forehead.
"The order?" she said. "What order?"
The girl explained, torrentially. A man had come just now from the
Guildhall; he had asked for Mrs. FitzHerbert; she had gone down into the
hall to see him; and all the rest of the useless details. But the effect
was that leave had been given at last to visit the prisoner--for two
persons, of which Mrs. FitzHerbert must be one; and that they must
present the order to the gaoler before seven o'clock, when they would be
admitted. She looked--such was the constitution of her mind--as happy as
if it were an order for his release. Marjorie drove away the last shreds
of sleep; and kissed her.
"That is very good news," she said. "Now we will begin to do something."
* * * * *
The sun had sunk so far, when they set out at last, as to throw the
whole of the square into golden shade; and, in the narrow, overhung
Friar's Gate, where the windows of the upper stories were so near that a
man might shake hands with his friend on the other side, the twilight
had already begun. They had determined to walk, in order less to attract
attention, in spite of the filth through which they knew they must pass,
along the couple of hundred yards that separated them from the prison.
For every housewife emptied her slops out of doors, and swept her house
(when she did so at all) into the same place: now and again the heaps
would be pushed together and removed, but for the most part they lay
there, bones and rags and rotten fruit,--dusty in one spot, so that all
blew about--dampened in others where a pail or two had been poured
forth. The heat, too, was stifling, cast out again towards evening from
the roofs and walls that had drunk it in all day from the burning skies.
As they stood before the door at last and waited, after beating the
great iron knocker on the iron plate, a kind of despair came down on
Marjorie. They had advanced just so far in two months as to be allowed
to speak with the prisoner; and, from her talkings with Mr. Biddell, had
understood how little that was. Indeed, he had hinted to her plainly
enough that even in this it might be that they were no more than pawns
in the enemy's hand; and that, under a show of mercy, it was often
allowed for a prisoner's friends to have free access to him in order to
shake his resolution. If there was any cause for congratulation then, it
lay solely in the thought that other means had so far failed. One thing
at least they knew, for their comfort, that there had been no talk of
torture....
It was a full couple of minutes before the door opened to show them a
thin, brown-faced man, with his sleeves rolled up, dressed over his
shirt and hose in a kind of leathern apron. He nodded as he saw the
ladies, with an air of respect, however, and stood aside to let them
come in. Then, with the same civility, he asked for the order, and read
it, holding it up to the light that came through the little barred
window over the door.
It was an unspeakably dreary little entrance passage in which they
stood, wainscoted solidly from floor to ceiling with wood that looked
damp and black from age; the ceiling itself was indistinguishable in the
twilight; the floor seemed composed of packed earth, three or four doors
showed in the woodwork; that opposite to the one by which they had
entered stood slightly ajar, and a smoky light shone from beyond it.
The air was heavy and hot and damp, and smelled of mildew.
The man gave the order back when he had read it, made a little gesture
that resembled a bow, and led the way straight forward.
They found themselves, when they had passed through the half-open door,
in another passage running at right-angles to the entrance, with
windows, heavily barred, so as to exclude all but the faintest twilight,
even though the sun was not yet set; there appeared to be foliage of
some kind, too, pressing against them from outside, as if a little
central yard lay there; and the light, by which alone they could see
their way along the uneven earth floor, came from a flambeau which hung
by the door, evidently put there just now by the man who had opened to
them; he led them down this passage to the left, down a couple of steps;
unlocked another door of enormous weight and thickness and closed this
behind them. They found themselves in complete darkness.
"I'll be with you in a moment, mistress," said his voice; and they heard
his steps go on into the dark and cease.
Marjorie stood passive; she could feel the girl's hands clasp her arm,
and could hear her breath come like sobs. But before she could speak, a
light shone somewhere on the roof; and almost immediately the man came
back carrying another flambeau. He called to them civilly; they
followed. Marjorie once trod on some soft, damp thing that crackled
beneath her foot. They groped round one more corner; waited, while they
heard a key turning in a lock. Then the man stood aside, and they went
past into the room. A figure was standing there; but for the first
moment they could see no more. Great shadows fled this way and that as
the gaoler hung up the flambeau. Then the door closed again behind
them; and Elizabeth flung herself into her husband's arms.
II
When Marjorie could see him, as at last he put his wife into the single
chair that stood in the cell and gave her the stool, himself sitting
upon the table, she was shocked by the change in his face. It was true
that she had only the wavering light of the flambeau to see him by (for
the single barred window was no more than a pale glimmer on the wall),
yet even that shadowy illumination could not account for his paleness
and his fallen face. He was dressed miserably, too; his clothes were
disordered and rusty-looking; and his features looked out, at once
pinched and elongated. He blinked a little from time to time; his lips
twitched beneath his ill-cut moustache and beard; and little spasms
passed, as he talked, across his whole face. It was pitiful to see him;
and yet more pitiful to hear him talk; for he assumed a kind of
courtesy, mixed with bitterness. Now and again he fell silent, glancing
with a swift and furtive movement of his eyes from one to the other of
his visitors and back again. He attempted to apologise for the
miserableness of the surroundings in which he received them--saying that
her Grace his hostess could not be everywhere at once; and that her
guests must do the best that they could. And all this was mixed with
sudden wails from his wife, sudden graspings of his hands by hers. It
all seemed to the quiet girl, who sat ill-at-ease on the little
three-legged stool, that this was not the way to meet adversity. Then
she drove down her criticism; and told herself that she ought rather to
admire one of Christ's confessors.
"And you bring me no hope, then, Mistress Manners?" he said presently
(for she had told him that there was no talk yet of any formal
trial)--"no hope that I may meet my accusers face to face? I had thought
perhaps--"
He lifted his eyes swiftly to hers, and dropped them again.
She shook her head.
"And yet that is all that I ask now--only to meet my accusers. They can
prove nothing against me--except, indeed, my recusancy; and that they
have known this long time back. They can prove nothing as to the
harbouring of any priests--not within the last year, at any rate, for I
have not done so. It seemed to me--"
He stopped again, and passed his shaking hand over his mouth, eyeing the
two women with momentary glances, and then looking down once more.
"Yes?" said Marjorie.
He slipped off from the table, and began to move about restlessly.
"I have done nothing--nothing at all," he said. "Indeed, I thought--"
And once more he was silent.
* * * * *
He began to talk presently of the Derbyshire hills of Padley and of
Norbury. He asked his wife of news from home, and she gave it him,
interrupting herself with laments. Yet all the while his eyes strayed to
Marjorie as if there was something he would ask of her, but could not.
He seemed completely unnerved, and for the first time in her life the
girl began to understand something of what gaol-life must signify. She
had heard of death and the painful Question; and she had perceived
something of the heroism that was needed to meet them; yet she had never
before imagined what that life of confinement might be, until she had
watched this man, whom she had known in the world as a curt and almost
masterful gentleman, careful of his dress, particular of the deference
that was due to him, now become this worn prisoner, careless of his
appearance, who stroked his mouth continually, once or twice gnawing his
nails, who paced about in this abominable hole, where a tumbled heap of
straw and blankets represented a bed, and a rickety table with a chair
and a stool his sole furniture. It seemed as if a husk had been stripped
from him, and a shrinking creature had come out of it which at present
she could not recognise.
Then he suddenly wheeled on her, and for the first time some kind of
forcefulness appeared in his manner.
"And my Uncle Bassett?" he cried abruptly. "What is he doing all this
while?"
Marjorie said that Mr. Bassett had been most active on his behalf with
the lawyers, but, for the present, was gone back again to his estates.
Mr. Thomas snorted impatiently.
"Yes, he is gone back again," he cried, "and he leaves me to rot here!
He thinks that I can bear it for ever, it seems!"
"Mr. Bassett has done his utmost, sir," said Marjorie. "He exposed
himself here daily."
"Yes, with twenty fellows to guard him, I suppose. I know my Uncle
Bassett's ways.... Tell me, if you please, how matters stand."
Marjorie explained again. There was nothing in the world to be done
until the order came for his trial--or, rather, everything had been done
already. His lawyers were to rely exactly on the defence that had been
spoken of just now; it was to be shown that the prisoner had harboured
no priests; and the witnesses had already been spoken with--men from
Norbury and Padley, who would swear that to their certain knowledge no
priest had been received by Mr. FitzHerbert at least during the previous
year or eighteen months. There was, therefore, no kind of reason why
Mr. Bassett or Mr. John FitzHerbert should remain any longer in Derby.
Mr. John had been there, but had gone again, under advice from the
lawyers; but he was in constant communication with Mr. Biddell, who had
all the papers ready and the names of the witnesses, and had made more
than one application already for the trial to come on.
"And why has neither my father nor my Uncle Bassett come to see me?"
snapped the man.
"They have tried again and again, sir," said Marjorie. "But permission
was refused. They will no doubt try again, now that Mrs. FitzHerbert has
been admitted."
He paced up and down again for a few steps without speaking. Then again
he turned on her, and she could see his face working uncontrolledly.
"And they will enjoy the estates, they think, while I rot here!"
"Oh, my Thomas!" moaned his wife, reaching out to him. But he paid no
attention to her.
"While I rot here!" he cried again. "But I will not! I tell you I will
not!"
"Yes, sir?" said Marjorie gently, suddenly aware that her heart had
begun to beat swiftly.
He glanced at her, and his face changed a little.
"I will not," he murmured. "I must break out of my prison. Only their
accursed--"
Again he interrupted himself, biting sharply on his lip.
* * * * *
For an instant the girl had thought that all her old distrust of him was
justified, and that he contemplated in some way the making of terms that
would be disgraceful to a Catholic. But what terms could these be? He
was a FitzHerbert; there was no evading his own blood; and he was the
victim chosen by the Council to answer for the rest. Nothing, then,
except the denial of his faith--a formal and deliberate apostasy--could
serve him; and to think that of the nephew of old Sir Thomas, and the
son of John, was inconceivable. There seemed no way out; the torment of
this prison must be borne. She only wished he could have borne it more
manfully.
It seemed, as she watched him, that some other train of thought had
fastened upon him. His wife had begun again her lamentations, bewailing
his cell and his clothes, and his loss of liberty, asking him whether he
were not ill, whether he had food enough to eat; and he hardly answered
her or glanced at her, except once when he remembered to tell her that a
good gift to the gaoler would mean a little better food, and perhaps
more light for himself. And then he resumed his pacing; and, three or
four times as he turned, the girl caught his eyes fixed on hers for one
instant. She wondered what was in his mind to say.
Even as she wondered there came a single loud rap upon the door, and
then she heard the key turning. He wheeled round, and seemed to come to
a determination.
"My dearest," he said to his wife, "here is the gaoler come to turn you
out again. I will ask him--" He broke off as the man stepped in.
"Mr. Gaoler," he said, "my wife would speak alone with you a moment."
(He nodded and winked at his wife, as if to tell her that this was the
time to give him the money.)
"Will you leave Mistress Manners here for a minute or two while my wife
speaks with you in the passage?"
Then Marjorie understood that she had been right.
The man who held the keys nodded without speaking.
"Then, my dearest wife," said Thomas, embracing her all of a sudden,
and simultaneously drawing her towards the door, "we will leave you to
speak with the man. He will come back for Mistress Manners directly."
"Oh! my Thomas!" wailed the girl, clinging to him.
"There, there, my dearest. And you will come and see me again as soon as
you can get the order."
* * * * *
The instant the door was closed he came up to Marjorie and his face
looked ghastly.
"Mistress Manners," he said, "I dare not speak to my wife. But ... but,
for Jesu's sake, get me out of here. I ... I cannot bear it....
Topcliffe comes to see me every day.... He ... he speaks to me
continually of--O Christ! Christ! I cannot bear it!"
He dropped suddenly on to his knees by the table and hid his face.
III
At Babington House Marjorie slept, as was often the custom, in the same
room with her maid--a large, low room, hung all round with painted
cloths above the low wainscoting.
On the night after the visit to the prison, Janet noticed that her
mistress was restless; and that while she would say nothing of what was
troubling her, and only bade her go to bed and to sleep, she herself
would not go to bed. At last, in sheer weariness, the maid slept.
She awakened later, at what time she did not know, and, in her
uneasiness, sat up and looked about her; and there, still before the
crucifix, where she had seen her before she slept, kneeled her mistress.
She cried out in a loud whisper:
"Come to bed, mistress; come to bed."
And, at the word, Marjorie started; then she rose, turned, and in the
twilight of the summer night began to prepare herself for bed, without
speaking. Far away across the roofs of Derby came the crowing of a cock
to greet the dawn.