Come Rack, Come Rope Page 4

  They were well mounted, these three, on horses known as Scottish nags, square-built, sturdy beasts, that could cover forty miles in the day. They were splashed, too, not the horses only, but the riders, also, as if they had ridden far, through streams or boggy ground. The men were dressed soberly and well, like poor gentlemen or prosperous yeomen; all three were bearded, and all carried arms as could be seen from the flash of the sun on their hilts. It was plain, too, that they were not rogues or cutters, since each carried his valise on his saddle, as well as from their appearance. Our gentlemen, then, after passing them with a salute and a good-day, were once more about to say good-bye one to the other, and appoint a time and place to meet again for the hunting of which Robin had spoken to Marjorie, and, indeed, had drawn rein—when one of the three strangers was seen to turn his horse and come riding back after them, while his friends waited.

  The two lads wheeled about to meet him, as was but prudent; but while he was yet twenty yards away he lifted his hat. He seemed about thirty years old; he had a pleasant, ruddy face.

  “Mr. Babington, I think, sir,” he said.

  “That is my name,” said Anthony.

  “I have heard Mass in your house, sir,” said the stranger. “My name is Garlick.”

  “Why, yes, sir, I remember—from Tideswell. How do you do, Mr. Garlick? This is Mr. Audrey, of Matstead.”

  They saluted one another gravely.

  “Mr. Audrey is a Catholic, too, I think?”

  Robin answered that he was.

  “Then I have news for you, gentlemen. A priest, Mr. Simpson, is with us; and will say Mass at Tansley next Sunday. You would like to speak with his reverence?”

  “It will give us great pleasure, sir,” said Anthony, touching his horse with his heel.

  “I am bringing Mr. Simpson on his way. He is just fresh from Rheims. And Mr. Ludlam is to carry him further on Monday,” continued Mr. Garlick as they went forward.

  “Mr. Ludlam?”

  “He is a native of Radbourne, and has but just finished at Oxford.… Forgive me, sir; I will but just ride forward and tell them.”

  The two lads drew rein, seeing that he wished first to tell the others who they were, before bringing them up; and a strange little thing fell as Mr. Garlick joined the two. For it happened that by now the sun was at his setting; going down in a glory of crimson over the edge of the high moor; and that the three riders were directly in his path from where the two lads waited. Robin, therefore, looking at them, saw the three all together on their horses with the circle of the sun about them, and a great flood of blood-coloured light on every side; the priest was in the midst of the three, and the two men leaning towards him seemed to be speaking and as if encouraging him strongly. For an instant, so strange was the light, so immense the shadows on this side spread over the tumbled ground up to the lads themselves, so vast the great vault of illuminated sky, that it seemed to Robin as if he saw a vision.… Then the strangeness passed, as Mr. Garlick turned away again to beckon to them; and the boy thought no more of it at that time.

  They uncovered as they rode towards the priest, and bowed low to him as he lifted his hand with a few words of Latin; and the next instant they were in talk.

  Mr. Simpson, like his friends, was a youngish man, with a kind face and great, innocent eyes that seemed to wonder and question. Mr. Ludlam, too, was under thirty years old, plainly not of gentleman’s birth, though he was courteous and well-mannered. It seemed a great matter to these three to have fallen in with young Mr. Babington, whose family was so well-known, and whose own fame as a scholar, as well as an ardent Catholic, was all over the county.

  Robin said little; he was overshadowed by his friend; but he listened and watched as the four spoke together, and learned that Mr. Simpson had been made priest scarcely a month before, and was come from Yorkshire, which was his own county, to minister in the district of the Peak at least for awhile. He heard, too, news from Douay, and that the college, it was thought, might move from there to another place under the protection of the family of De Guise, since her Grace was very hot against Douay, whence so many of her troubles proceeded, and was doing her best to persuade the Governor of the Netherlands to suppress it. However, said Mr. Simpson, it was not yet done.

  Anthony, too, in his turn gave the news of the county; he spoke of Mr. Fenton, of the FitzHerberts and others that were safe and discreet persons; but he said nothing at that time of Mr. Audrey of Matstead, at which Robin was glad, since his shame deepened on him every hour, and all the more now that he had met with those three men who rode so gallantly through the country in peril of liberty or life itself. Nor did he say anything of the FitzHerberts except that they might be relied upon.

  “We must be riding,” said Garlick at last; “these moors are strange to me; and it will be dark in half an hour.”

  “Will you allow me to be your guide, sir?” asked Anthony of the priest. “It is all in my road, and you will not be troubled with questions or answers if you are in my company.”

  “But what of your friend, sir?”

  “Oh! Robin knows the country as he knows the flat of his hand. We were about to separate as we met you.”

  “Then we will thankfully accept your guidance, sir,” said the priest gravely.

  An impulse seized upon Robin as he was about to say good-day, though he was ashamed of it five minutes later as a modest lad would be. Yet he followed it now; he leapt off his horse and, holding Cecily’s rein in his arm, kneeled on the stones with both knees.

  “Your blessing, sir,” he said to the priest. And Anthony eyed him with astonishment.

  III

  Robin was moved, as he rode home over the high moors, and down at last upon the woods of Matstead, in a manner that was new to him, and that he could not altogether understand. It was perhaps something in the priest’s face that had so affected him; for there was a look in it of a kind of surprised timidity and gentleness, as if he wondered at himself for being so foolhardy, and as if he appealed with that same wonder and surprise to all who looked on him. His voice, too, was gentle, as if tamed for the seminary and the altar; and his whole air and manner wholly unlike that of some of the priests whom Robin knew—loud-voiced, confident, burly men whom you would have sworn to be country gentlemen or yeomen living on their estates or farms and fearing to look no man in the face. It was this latter kind, thought Robin, that was best suited to such a life—to riding all day through north-country storms, to lodging hardily where they best could, to living such a desperate enterprise as a priest’s life then was, with prices upon their heads and spies everywhere. It was not a life for quiet persons like Mr. Simpson, who, surely, would be better at his books in some college abroad, offering the Holy Sacrifice in peace and security, and praying for adventurers more hardy than himself.

  There was yet more than an hour before supper-time when he rode into the court at last; and Dick Sampson, his own groom, came to take his horse from him.

  “The master’s not been from home to-day, sir,” said Dick when Robin asked of his father.

  “Not been from home?”

  “No, sir—not out of the house, except that he was walking in the pleasaunce half an hour ago.”

  Robin ran up the steps and through the screens to see if his father was still there; but the little walled garden, so far as he could see it in the light from the hall windows, was empty; and, indeed, it would be strange for any man to walk in such a place at such an hour. He wondered, too, to hear that his father had not been from home; for on all days, except he were ill, he would be about the estate, here and there. As he came back to the screens he heard a step going up and down in the hall, and on looking in met his father face to face. The old man had his hat on his head, but no cloak on his shoulders, though even with the fire the place was cold. It was plain that he had been walking up and down to warm himself. Robin could not make out his face very well, as he stood with his back to a torch.

  “Where have you been, my lad?
”

  “I went to meet Anthony at one of the Dethick farms, sir—John Merton’s.”

  “You met no one else?”

  “Yes, sir; Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert was there and dined with us. He rode with us, too, a little way.” And then as he was on the point of speaking of the priest, he stopped himself; and in an instant knew that never again must he speak of a priest to his father; his father had already lost his right to that. His father looked at him a moment, standing with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Have you heard anything of a priest that is newly come to these parts—or coming?”

  “Yes, sir. I hear Mass is to be said … in the district, on Sunday.”

  “Where is Mass to be said?”

  Robin drew a long breath, lifted his eyes to his father’s and then dropped them again.

  “Did you hear me, sir? Where is Mass to be said?”

  Again Robin lifted and again dropped his eyes.

  “What is the priest’s name?”

  Again there was dead silence. For a son, so to behave towards his father, was an act of very defiance. Yet the father said nothing. There the two remained; Robin with his eyes on the ground, expecting a storm of words or a blow in the face. Yet he knew he could do no otherwise; the moment had come at last and he must act as he would be obliged always to act hereafter.

  Then his father turned suddenly on his heel; and the son went out trembling.

  CHAPTER III

  I

  “I WILL speak to you to-night, sir, after supper,” said his father sharply a second day later, when Robin, meeting his father setting out before dinner, had asked him to give him an hour’s talk.

  Robin’s mind had worked fiercely and intently since the encounter in the hall. His father had sat silent both at supper and afterwards, and the next day was the same; the old man spoke no more than was necessary, shortly and abruptly, scarcely looking his son once in the face, and the rest of the day they had not met. It was plain to the boy that something must follow his defiance, and he had prepared all his fortitude to meet it. Yet the second night had passed and no word had been spoken, and by the second morning Robin could bear it no longer; he must know what was in his father’s mind. And now the appointment was made, and he would soon know all. His father was absent from dinner and the boy dined alone. He learned from Dick Sampson that his father had ridden southwards.

  It was not until Robin had sat down nearly half an hour later than supper-time that the old man came in. The frost was gone; deep mud had succeeded, and the rider was splashed above his thighs. He stayed at the fire for his boots to be drawn off and to put on his soft-leather shoes, while Robin stood up dutifully to await him. Then he came forward, took his seat without a word, and called for supper. In ominous silence the meal proceeded, and with the same thunderous air, when it was over, his father said grace and made his way, followed by his son, into the parlour behind. He made no motion at first to pour out his wine; then he helped himself twice and left the jug for Robin.

  Then suddenly he began without moving his head.

  “I wish to know your intentions,” he said, with irony so serious that it seemed gravity. “I cannot flog you or put you to school again, and I must know how we stand to one another.”

  Robin was silent. He had looked at his father once or twice, but now sat downcast and humble in his place. With his left hand he fumbled, out of sight, Mr. Maine’s pair of beads. His father sat with his head propped on his hand, not doing enough courtesy to his son even to look at him.

  “Do you hear me, sir?”

  “Yes, sir. But I do not know what to say.”

  “I wish to know your intentions. Do you mean to thwart and disobey me in all matters, or in only those that have to do with religion?”

  “I do not wish to thwart or disobey you, sir, in any matters except where my conscience is touched.” (The substance of this answer had been previously rehearsed, and the latter part of it even verbally.)

  “Be good enough to tell me what you mean by that.”

  Robin licked his lips carefully and sat up a little in his chair.

  “You told me, sir, that it was your intention to leave the Church. Then how can I tell you of what priests are here, or where Mass is to be said? You would not have done so to one who was not a Catholic, six months ago.”

  The man sneered visibly.

  “There is no need,” he said. “It is Mr. Simpson who is to say Mass to-morrow, and it is at Tansley that it will be said, at six o’clock in the morning. If I choose to tell the justices, you cannot prevent it.” (He turned round in a flare of anger.) “Do you think I shall tell the justices?”

  Robin said nothing.

  “Do you think I shall tell the justices?” roared the old man insistently.

  “No, sir. Now I do not.”

  The other growled gently and sank back.

  “But if you think that I will permit my son to flout me to my face in my own hall, and not to trust his own father—why, you are immeasurably mistaken, sir. So I ask you again how far you intend to thwart and disobey me.”

  A kind of despair surged up in the boy’s heart—despair at the fruitlessness of this ironical and furious sort of talk; and with the despair came boldness.

  “Father, will you let me speak outright, without thinking that I mean to insult you? I do not; I swear I do not. Will you let me speak, sir?”

  His father growled again a sort of acquiescence, and Robin gathered his forces. He had prepared a kind of defence that seemed to him reasonable, and he knew that his father was at least just. He was curt, obstinate, and even boisterous in his anger; but there was a kindliness beneath that the boy always perceived—a kindliness which permitted the son an exceptional freedom of speech, which he used always in the last resort. This, then, was plainly a legitimate occasion for it, and he had prepared himself to make the most of it. He began formally:

  “Sir,” he said, “you have brought me up in the Old Faith, sent me to Mass, and to the priest to learn my duty, and I have obeyed you always. You have taught me that a man’s duty to God must come before all else—as our Saviour Himself said, too. And now you turn on me, and bid me forget all that, and come to church with you.… It is not for me to say anything to my father about his own conscience; I must leave that alone. But I am bound to speak of mine when occasion rises, and this is one of them.… I should be dishonouring and insulting you, sir, if I did not believe you when you said you would turn Protestant; and a man who says he will turn Protestant has done so already. It was for this reason, then, and no other, that I did not answer you the other day; not because I wish to be disobedient to you, but because I must be obedient to God. I did not lie to you, as I might have done, and say that I did not know who the priest was nor where Mass was to be said. But I would not answer, because it is not right or discreet for a Catholic to speak of these things to those who are not Catholics——”

  “How dare you say I am not a Catholic, sir!”

  “A Catholic, sir, to my mind,” said Robin steadily, “is one who holds to the Catholic Church and to no other. I mean nothing offensive, sir; I mean what I said I meant, and no more. It is not for me to condemn——”

  “I should think not!” snorted the old man.

  “Well, sir, that is my reason. And further——”

  He stopped, doubtful.

  “Well, sir—what further?”

  “Well, I cannot come to the church with you at Easter.” His father wheeled round savagely in his chair.

  “Father, hear me out, and then say what you will.… I say I cannot come with you to church at Easter, because I am a Catholic. But I do not wish to trouble or disobey you openly. I will go away from home for that time. Good Mr. Barton will cause no trouble; he wants nothing but peace. Father, you are not just to me. You have taught me too much, or you have not given me time enough——”

  Again he broke off, knowing that he had said what he did not mean, but the old man was on him like a ha
wk.

  “Not time enough, you say? Well, then——”

  “No, sir; I did not mean that,” wailed Robin suddenly. “I do not mean that I should change if I had a hundred years; I am sure I shall not. But——”

  “You said, ‘Not time enough,’ ” said the other meditatively. “Perhaps if I give you time——”

  “Father, I beg of you to forget what I said; I did not mean to say it. It is not true. But Marjorie said——”

  “Marjorie! What has Marjorie to do with it?”

  Robin found himself suddenly in deep waters. This was the second mistake he had made in saying what he did not mean.… Again the courage of despair came to him, and he struck out further.

  “I must tell you of that too, sir,” he said. “Mistress Marjorie and I——”

  He stopped, overwhelmed with shame. His father turned full round and stared at him.

  “Go on, sir.”

  Robin seized his glass and emptied it.

  “Well, sir. Mistress Marjorie and I love one another. We are but boy and girl, sir; we know that——”

  Then his father laughed. It was laughter that was bitter. It might all have been otherwise if he had been kind, or if he had been sad or disappointed, or even if he had been merely angry; but the soreness and misery in the old man’s heart—misery at his own acts and words, and at the outrage he was doing to his own conscience—turned his judgment bitter, and with that bitterness his son’s heart shut tight against him.

  “But boy and girl!” sneered the man. “A couple of blind puppies, I would say rather—you with your falcons and mare and your other toys, and the down on your chin, and your conscience; and she with her white face and her mother and her linen-parlour and her beads”—(his charity prevailed so far as to hinder him from more outspoken contempt)—“And you two babes have been prattling of conscience and prayers together—I make no doubt, and thinking yourselves Cecilies and Laurences and all the holy martyrs—and all this without a by-your-leave, I dare wager, from parent or father, and thinking yourselves man and wife; and you fondling her, and she too modest to be fondled, and——”