“There was no need to search the stables, Mr. Buxton; our men were round the house before we entered. They have been watching the entrances since eight o’clock last night.”
Mr. Buxton felt bewildered. His instinct had been right, then, the night before.
“The party was followed from near Wrotham,” went on the magistrate. “The priest was with them then; and, we suppose, entered the house.”
“You suppose!” snapped the other. “What the devil do you mean by supposing? You have looked everywhere and cannot find him?”
The magistrate shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly, as he stood and stared at the angry man.
“And the roofs?” added Mr. Buxton sneeringly.
“They have been thoroughly searched.”
Then there is but one possible theory, he reflected. The lad is in the garden-house. And what if they search that?
“Then may I ask what you propose to destroy next, Mr. Graves?”
He saw that this tone was having its effect on the magistrate, who was but a half-hearted persecutor, with but feeble convictions and will, as he knew of old.
“I—I entreat you not to speak to me like that, sir,” he said. “I have but done my duty.”
Then the other rose from his chair, and his eyes were stern and bright again and his lips tight.
“Your duty, sir, seems a strange matter, when it leads you to break into a friend’s house, assault him and his servants and his guests, and destroy his furniture, in search of a supposed priest whom you have never even seen. Now, sir, if this matter comes to her Grace’s ears, I will not answer for the consequences; for you know Mistress Corbet, her lady-in-waiting, is one of my guests.—And, speaking of that, where are my guests?”
“The two ladies, Mr. Buxton, are safe and sound upstairs, I assure you.”
The magistrate’s voice was trembling.
“Well, sir, I have one condition to offer you. Either you and your men withdraw within half an hour from my house and grounds, and leave me and my two guests to ourselves, or else I lay the whole matter, through Mistress Corbet, before her Grace.” Mr. Buxton beat his hand once on the table as he ended, and looked with a contemptuous inquiry at the magistrate.
But the worm writhed up at the heel.
“How can you talk like this, sir,” he burst out, “as if you had but two guests?”
“Two guests? I do not understand you. How should there be more?”
“Then for whom are the four places laid at table?” he answered indignantly.
Mr. Buxton felt a sudden desperate sinking, and he could not answer for a moment. The magistrate passed his shaking hand over his mouth and beard once or twice; but the thrust had gone home, and there was no parry or riposte. He followed it up.
“Now, sir, be reasonable. I came in here to make terms. Weknowthe priest has been here. It is certain beyond all question. All that is uncertain is whether he is here now or escaped. We have searched thoroughly; we must search again to-morrow; but in the meanwhile, while you yourself must be under restraint, your guests shall have what liberty they wish; and you yourself shall have all reasonable comfort and ease. So—so, if we do not find the priest, I trust that you and—and—Mistress Corbet will agree to overlook any rashness on my part—and—and let her Grace remain in ignorance.”
Mr. Buxton had been thinking furiously during this little speech. He saw the mistake he had made in taking the high line, and his wretched forgetfulness of the fourth place at table. He must make terms, though it tasted bitter.
“Well, Mr. Graves,” he said, “I have no wish to be hard upon you. All I ask is to be out of the house when the search is made, and that the ladies shall come and go as they please.”
The magistrate leapt at the lure like a trout.
“Yes, yes, Mr. Buxton, it shall be as you say. And to what house will you retire?”
Mr. Buxton appeared to reflect; he tapped on the table with a meditative finger and looked at the ceiling.
“It must not be too far away,” he said slowly, “and—and the Rector would scarce like to receive me. Perhaps in—or——Why not my summer-house?” he added suddenly.
Mr. Graves’ face was irradiated with smiles.
“Thank you, Mr. Buxton, certainly, it shall be as you say. And where is the summer-house?”
“It is across the garden,” said the other carelessly. “I wonder you have not searched it in your zeal.”
“Shall I send a man to prepare it?” asked the magistrate eagerly. “Will you go there to-night?”
“Well, shall we go across there together now? I give you my parole,” he added, smiling, and standing up.
“Indeed,—as you wish. I cannot tell you, sir, how grateful I am. You have made my duty almost a pleasure, sir.”
They went out together into the hall, Mr. Buxton carrying the key of the garden-house that he had taken from the drawer of his table; he glanced ruefully at the wrecked furniture and floor, and his eyes twinkled for a moment as they rested on the four places at table still undisturbed, and then met the magistrate’s sidelong look. The men were still at the doors, resting now on chairs or leaning against the wall, with their weapons beside them; it was weary work this mounting sentry and losing the hunt, and their faces showed it. The two passed out together into the garden, and began to walk up the path that led straight across the avenue to where the high vanes of the garden-house stood up grotesque and towering against the evening sky, above the black yew-hedges.
All the while they went Mr. Buxton was thinking out his plan. It was still incoherent; but, at any rate, it was a step gained to be able to communicate with Anthony again; and at least the poor lad should have some supper. And then he smiled to himself with relief as he saw what an improvement there had been in the situation as it had appeared to him an hour ago. Why, they would search the house again next day; find no one, and retire apologising. His occupancy of the garden-house with the magistrate’s full consent would surely secure it from search; and he was not so well satisfied with the disguised entrance to the passage at this end as with that in the cellar.
They reached the door at last. There were three steps going up to it, and Mr. Buxton went up them, making a good deal of noise as he did so, to ensure Anthony’s hearing him should he be above ground. Then, as if with great difficulty, he unlocked the door, rattling it, and clicking sharply with his tongue at its stiffness.
“You see, Mr. Graves,” he said, rather loud, as he opened the door a little, “my prison will not be a narrow one.” He threw the door open, gave a glance round, and was satisfied. The targets leaned against one wall, and two rows of flower-pots stood in the corner near where the window opened into the lane, but there was no sign of occupation. Mr. Buxton went across, threw the window open and looked out. There was a steel cap three or four feet below, and a pike-head; and at the sound of the latch a bearded face looked up.
“I see you have a sentry there,” said Mr. Buxton carelessly.
“Ah! that is one of Mr. Maxwell’s men.”
“Mr. Maxwell’s!” said the other, startled. “Is he in this affair too?”
“Yes; have you not heard? He came from Great Keynes this morning. Mr. Lackington sent for him.”
Mr. Buxton’s face grew dark.
“Ah yes, I see—a pretty revenge.”
The magistrate was on the point of asking an explanation, for he felt on the best of terms again now with his prisoner, when there were footsteps outside and voices; and there stood four constables, with Nichol, Hubert Maxwell and Lackington in furious debate coming up the path behind.
They looked up suddenly, and saw the door open and the magistrate and his prisoner standing in the opening. The four constables stood waiting for further orders while their three chiefs came up.
“Now, now, now!” said Mr. Graves peevishly, “what is all this?”
“We have come to search this house, sir,” said Nichol cheerfully.
“See here, sir,” said Hubert, “have you given orders for this?”
“Enough, enough,” said Lackington coolly. “Search, men.”
The pursuivants advanced to the steps. Then Mr. Buxton turned fiercely on them all.
“See here!” he cried, and his voice rang out across the garden. “You bring me here, Mr. Graves, promising me a little peace and quietness, after your violent and unwarranted attack upon my house to-day. I have been patient and submissive to all suggestions; I leave my entire house at your disposal; I promise to lay no complaints before her Grace, so long as you will let me retire here till it is over—and now your men persecute me even here. Have you no mind of your own, sir?” he shouted.
“Really, sir——” began Hubert.
“And as for you, Mr. Maxwell,” went on the other fiercely, “are you not content with your triumph so far? Cannot you leave me one corner to myself, or would your revenge be not full enough for you, then?”
“You mistake me, sir,” said Hubert, making a violent effort to control himself; “I am on your side in this matter.”
“That is what I am beginning to think,” said Lackington insolently.
“You think!” roared Mr. Buxton; “and who the devil are you?”
“See here, gentlemen,” said Mr. Nichol, “what is the dispute? Here is an empty house, Mr. Buxton tells us; and Mr. Maxwell tells us the same. Well, then, let these honest fellows run through the empty house; it will not take ten minutes, and Mr. Buxton and his friend can take the air meanwhile. A-God’s name, let us not dispute over a trifle.”
“Then, a-God’s name, let me go to my own house,” bellowed Mr. Buxton, “and these gentlemen can have the empty house to disport themselves in till doomsday—or till her Grace looks into the matter”; and he made a motion to run down the steps, but his heart sank. Mr. Graves put out a deprecating hand and touched his arm; and Mr. Buxton very readily turned at once with a choleric face!
“No, no, no!” cried the magistrate. “These gentlemen are here on my warrant, and they shall not search the place. Mr. Buxton, I entreat you not to be hasty. Come back, sir.”
Mr. Buxton briskly reascended.
“Well, then, Mr. Graves, I entreat you to give your orders, and let your will be known. I am getting hungry for my supper, too, sir. It is already an hour past my time.”
“Sup in the house, sir,” said Mr. Nichol smoothly, “and we shall have done by then.”
Then Hubert blazed up; he took a step forward.
“Now, you fellow,” he said to Nichol, “hold your damned tongue. Mr. Graves and I are the magistrates here, and we say that this gentleman shall sup and sleep here in peace, so you may take your pursuivants elsewhere.”
Lackington looked up with a smile.
“No, Mr. Maxwell, I cannot do that. These men are under my orders, and I shall leave two of them here and send another to keep your fellow company at the back. We will not disturb Mr. Buxton further to-night; but to-morrow we shall see.”
Mr. Buxton paid no sort of further attention to him, but turned to the magistrates.
“Well, gentlemen, what is your decision?”
“You shall sleep here in peace, sir,” said Mr. Graves resolutely. “I can promise nothing for to-morrow.”
“Then will you kindly allow one of my men to bring me supper and a couch of some kind, and I shall be obliged if the ladies may sup with me.”
“That they shall,” assented Mr. Graves. “Mr. Maxwell, will you escort them here?”
Hubert, who was turning away, nodded and disappeared round the yew-hedge. Lackington, who had been talking in an undertone to the pursuivants, now went up another alley with one of them and Mr. Nichol, and disappeared too in the gathering gloom of the garden. The other two pursuivants separated and each moved a few steps off and remained just out of sight. Plainly they were to remain on guard. Mr. Buxton and the magistrate sat down on a couple of garden-chairs.
“That is an obstinate fellow, sir,” said Mr. Graves.
“They are certainly both of them very offensive fellows, sir. I was astonished at your indulgence towards them.”
The magistrate was charmed by this view of the case, and remained talking with Mr. Buxton until footsteps again were heard, and the two ladies appeared, with Hubert with them, and a couple of men carrying each a tray and the other necessaries he had asked for.
Mr. Buxton and the magistrate rose to meet the ladies and bowed.
“I cannot tell you,” began their host elaborately, “what distress all this affair has given me. I trust you will forgive any inconvenience you may have suffered.”
Both Isabel and Mary looked white and strained, but they responded gallantly; and as the table was being prepared the four talked almost as if there were no bitter suspense at three of their hearts at least. Mr. Graves was nervous and uneasy, but did his utmost to propitiate Mary. At last he was on the point of withdrawing, when Mr. Buxton entreated him to sup with them.
“I must not,” he said; “I am responsible for your property, Mr. Buxton.”
“Then I understand that these ladies may come and go as they please?” he asked carelessly.
“Certainly, sir.”
“Then may I ask too the favour that you will place one of your own men at the door who can conduct them to the house when they wish to go, and who can remain and protect me too from any disturbance from either of the two officious persons who were here just now?”
Mr. Graves, delighted at this restored confidence, promised to do so, and took an elaborate leave; and the three sat down to supper; the door was left open, and they could see through it the garden, over which veil after veil of darkness was beginning to fall. The servants had lighted two tapers, and the inside of the great room with its queer furniture of targets and flower-pots was plainly visible to any walking outside. Once or twice the figure of a man crossed the strip of light that lay across the gravel.
It was a strange supper. They said innocent things to one another in a tone loud enough for any to hear who cared to be listening, about the annoyance of it all, the useless damage that had been done, the warmth of the summer night, and the like, and spoke in low soundless sentences of what was in all their hearts.
“That red-faced fellow,” said Mary, “would be the better of some manners. (He is in the passage below, I suppose.)”
“It is scarce an ennobling life—that of a manhunter,” said Mr. Buxton. (“Yes. I am sure of it.”)
“They have broken your little cupboard, I fear,” said Mary again. (“Tell me your plan, if you have one.”)
And so step by step a plan was built up. It had been maturing in Mr. Buxton’s mind gradually after he had learnt the ladies might sup with him; and little by little he conveyed it to them. He managed to write down the outline of it as he sat at table, and then passed it to each to read, and commented on it and answered their questions about it, all in the same noiseless undertone, with his lips indeed scarcely moving. There were many additions and alterations made in it as the two ladies worked upon it too, but by the time supper was over it was tolerably complete. It seemed, indeed, almost desperate, but the case was desperate. It was certain that the garden-house would be searched next day; Lackington’s suspicions were plainly roused, and it was too much to hope that searchers who had found three hiding-places in one afternoon would fail to find a fourth. It appeared then that it was this plan or none.
They supped slowly, in order to give time to think out and work out the scheme, and to foresee any difficulties beyond those they had already counted on; and it was fully half-past nine before the two ladies rose. Their host went with them to the door, called up Mr. Graves’ man, and watched them pass down the path out of sight. He stood a minute or two longer looking across towards the house at the dusky shapes in the garden and the strip of gravel, grass, and yew that was illuminated from his open door. Then he spoke to the men that he knew were just out of sight.
“I am going to bed presently. Kindly do not disturb me.” There was no answer; and he closed the two high doors and bolted them securely.
He dared not yet do what he wished, for fear of arousing suspicion, so he went to the other window and looked out into the lane. He could just make out the glimmer of steel on the opposite bank.
“Good-night, my man,” he called out cheerfully.
Again there was no answer. There was something sinister in these watching presences that would not speak, and his heart sank a little as he put-to the window without closing it. He went next to the pile of rugs and pillows that his men had brought across, and arranged them in the corner, just clear of the trap-door. Then he knelt and said his evening prayers, and here at least was no acting. Then he rose again and took off his doublet and ruff and shoes so that he was dressed only in a shirt, trunks and hose. Then he went across to the supper-table, where the tapers still burned, and blew them out, leaving the room in complete darkness. Then he went back to his bed, and sat and listened.
Up to this point he had been aware that probably at least one pair of eyes had been watching him; for, although the windows were of bottle-end glass, yet it was exceedingly likely that there would be some clear glass in them; and, with the tapers burning inside, his movements would all have been visible to either of Lackington’s men who cared to put his eye to the window. But now he was invisible. Yet, as he thought of it, he slipped on his doublet again to hide the possible glimmer of his white shirt. There was the silence of the summer night about him—the silence only emphasised by its faint sounds. The house was quiet across the garden, though once or twice he thought he heard a horse stamp. Once there came a little stifled cough from outside his window; there was the silky rustle of the faint breeze in the trees outside; and now and again came the snoring of a young owl in the ivy somewhere overhead.
He counted five hundred deliberately, to compel himself to wait; and meanwhile his sub-conscious self laboured at the scheme. Then he glanced this way and that with wide eyes; his ears sang with intentness of listening. Then, very softly he shifted his position, and found with his fingers the ring that lifted the trap-door above the stairs.
There was no concealment about this, and without any difficulty he lifted the door with his right hand and leaned it against the wall; then he looked round again and listened. From below came up the damp earthy breath of the basement, and he heard a rat scamper suddenly to shelter. Then he lifted his feet from the rugs and dropped them noiselessly on the stairs, and supporting himself by his hands on the floor went down a step or two. Then a stair creaked under his weight; and he stopped in an agony, hearing only the mad throbbing in his own ears. But all was silent outside. And so step by step he descended into the cool darkness. He hesitated as to whether he should close the trap-door or not, there was a risk either way; but he decided to do so, as he would be obliged to make some noise in opening the secret doors and communicating with Anthony. At last his feet touched the earth floor, and he turned as he sat and counted the steps—the fourth, the fifth, and tapped upon it. There was no answer; he put his lips to it and whispered sharply:
“Anthony, Anthony, dear lad.”
Still there was no answer. Then he lifted the lid, and managed to hold the woodwork below, as he knelt on the third step, so that it descended noiselessly. He put out his other hand and felt the boards. Anthony had retired into the passage then, he told himself, as he found the space empty. He climbed into the hole, pushed himself along and counted the bricks—the fourth of the fourth—pressed it, and pushed at the door; and it was fast.
For the first time a horrible spasm of terror seized him. Had he forgotten? or was it all a mistake, and Anthony not there? He turned in his place, put his shoulders against the door and his feet against the woodwork of the stairs, and pushed steadily; there were one or two loud creaks, and the door began to yield. Then he knew Anthony was there; a rush of relief came into his heart—and he turned and whispered again.
“Anthony, dear lad, Anthony, open quickly; it is I.”
The brickwork slid back and a hand touched his face out of the pitch darkness of the tunnel.
“Who is it? Is it you?” came a whisper.
“It is I, yes. Thank God you are here. I feared——”
“How could I tell?” came the whisper again. “But what is the news? Are you escaped?”
“No, I am a prisoner, and on parole. But there is no time for that. You must escape—we have a plan—but there is not much time.”
“Why should I not remain here?”
“They will search to-morrow—and—and this end of the tunnel is not so well concealed as the other. They would find you. They suspect you are here, and there are guards round this place.”
There was a movement in the dark.
“Then why think——” began the whisper.
“No, no, we have a plan. Mary and Isabel approve. Listen carefully. There is but one guard at the back here, in the lane. Mary has leave to come and go now as she pleases—they are afraid of her; she will leave the house in a few minutes now to ride to East Maskells, with two grooms and a maid behind one of them. She will ride her own horse. When she has passed the inn she will bid the groom who has the maid to wait for her, while she rides down the lane with the other, Robert, to speak to me through the window. The pursuivant, we suppose, will not forbid that, as he knows they have supped with me just now. As we talk, Robert will watch his chance and spring on the pursuivant. As soon as the struggle begins you will drop from the window; it is but eight feet; and help him to secure the man and gag him. However much din they make the others cannot reach the man in time to help, for they will have to come round from the house, and you will have mounted Robert’s horse; and you and Mary together will gallop down the lane into the road, and then where you will. We advise East Maskells. I do not suppose there will be any pursuit. They will have no horses ready. Do you understand it?”
There was silence a moment; Mr. Buxton could hear Anthony breathing in the darkness.
“I do not like it,” came the whisper at last; “it seems desperate. A hundred things may happen. And what of Isabel and you?”
“Dear friend; I know it is desperate, but not so desperate as your remaining here would be for us all.”
Again there was silence.
“What of Robert? How will he escape?”
“If you escape they will have nothing against Robert; for they can prove nothing as to your priesthood. But if they catch you here—and they certainly will, if you remain here—they will probably hang him, for he fought for you gallantly in the house. And he too will have time to run. He can run through the door into the meadows. But they will not care for him if they know you are off.”
Again silence.
“Well?” whispered Mr. Buxton.
“Do you wish it?”
“I think it is the only hope.”
“Then I will do it.”
“Thank God! And now you must come up with me. Put off your shoes.”
“I have none.”
“Then follow, and do not make a sound.”
Very cautiously Mr. Buxton extricated himself; for he had been lying on his side while he whispered to Anthony; and presently was crouched on the stairs above, as he heard the stirrings of his friend in the dark below him. There came the click of the brickwork door; then slow shufflings; once a thump on the hollow boards that made his heart leap; then after what seemed an interminable while, came the sound of latching the fifth stair into its place; and he felt his foot grasped. Then he turned and ascended slowly on hands and knees, feeling now and again for the trap-door over him—touched it—raised it, and crawled out on to the rugs. The room seemed to him comparatively light after the heavy darkness of the basement, and passage below, and he could make out the supper-table and the outline of the targets on the opposite wall. Then he saw a head follow him; then shoulders and body; and Anthony crept out and sat on the rugs beside him. Their hands met in a trembling grip.
“Supper, dear lad?” whispered Mr. Buxton, with his mouth to the other’s ear.
“Yes, I am hungry,” came the faintest whisper back.
Mr. Buxton rose and went on tip-toe to the table, took off some food and a glass of wine that he had left purposely filled and came back with them.
There the two friends sat; Mr. Buxton could just hear the movement of Anthony’s mouth as he ate. The four windows glimmered palely before them, and once or twice the tall doors rattled faintly as the breeze stirred them.
Then suddenly came a sound that made Anthony’s hand pause on the way to his mouth; Mr. Buxton drew a sharp breath; it was the noise of three or four horses on the road beyond the church. Then they both stood up without a word, and Mr. Buxton went noiselessly across to the window that looked on to the lane and remained there, listening. The horses were now passing down the street, and the noise of their hoofs grew fainter behind the houses.
Anthony saw his friend in the twilight beckon, and he went across and stood by him. Suddenly the hoofs sounded loud and near; and they heard the pursuivant below stand up from the bank opposite. Then Mary’s voice came distinct and cheerful.
“How dark it is!”
The horses were coming down the lane.
CHAPTER XII
THE NIGHT-RIDE
The sound of hoofs came nearer; Anthony’s heart, as he crouched below the window, ready to spring up and over when the signal was given, beat in sick thumpings at the base of his throat, but with a fierce excitement and no fear. His hands clenched and unclenched. Mr. Buxton stood back a little, waiting; he must feign to be asleep at first.
Then came suddenly a sharp challenge from the sentry.
“It is Mistress Corbet,” came Mary’s cool high tones, “and I desire to speak with Mr. Buxton.”
The man hesitated.
“You cannot,” he said.
“Cannot!” she cried; “why, fellow, do you know who I am? And I have just supped with him.”
There came a sudden sound from the other side of the summer-house, and both men in the room knew that the guards in the garden were listening.
“I am sorry, madam, but I have no orders.”
“Then do not presume, you hound,” came Mary’s voice again, with a ring of anger. “Ho, there, Mr. Buxton, come to the window.”
“Be ready,” he whispered to Anthony.
“Stand back, madam,” said the pursuivant, “or I shall call for help.”
Then Mr. Buxton threw back the window.
“Who is there?” he asked coolly. (“Stand up Anthony.”)
“It is I, Mr. Buxton, but this insolent dog——”
“Standback, madam, I say,” cried the voice of the guard. Then from the garden behind came running footsteps and voices; and a red light shone through the windows behind.
“Now,” whispered the voice over Anthony’s head sharply.
There came a loud shout from the guard, “Help there, help!”
Anthony put his hands on to the sill and lifted himself easily. The groom had slipped from his horse while Mary held the bridle, and was advancing at the guard, and there was something in his hand. The sentry, who was standing immediately under the window, now dropped his pike point forward; and as a furious rattling began at the doors on the garden side, Anthony dropped, and came down astride of the man’s neck, who crashed to the ground. Then the groom was on him too.
“Leave him to me, sir. Mount.”
The groom’s hands were busy with something about the struggling man’s neck: the shouts choked and ceased.
“You will strangle the man,” said Anthony sharply.
“Nonsense,” said Mary; “mount, mount. They are coming.”
Anthony ran to the horse, that was beginning to scurry and plunge; threw himself across the saddle and caught the reins.
“Up?” said Mary.
“Up”; and he slung his right leg over the flank and sat up, as Mary released the bridle, and dashed off, scattering gravel.
From the direction of the church came cries and the quick rattle of a galloping horse. Anthony dashed his shoeless heels into the horse’s sides and leaned forward, and in a moment more was flying down the lane after Mary. From in front came a shout of warning, with one or two screams, and then Anthony turned the corner, checking his horse slightly at the angle, saw a torch somewhere to his right, a group of scared faces, a groom and woman clinging to him on a plunging horse, and the white road; and then found himself with loose reins, and flying stirrups, thundering down the village street, with Mary on her horse not two lengths in front. The roar of the hoofs behind, and of the little shouting crowd, with the screaming woman on the horse, died behind him as the wind began to boom in his ears. Mary was looking round now, and slightly checking her horse as they neared the bottom of the long village street. In half a dozen strides Anthony came up on her right. Then the pool gleamed before them just beyond the fork of the road.
“Left!” screamed Mary through the roar of the racing air, and turned her horse off up the road that led round in a wide sweep of two miles to East Maskells and the woods beyond, and Anthony followed. He had settled down in the saddle now, and had brought his maddened horse under control; his feet were in the stirrups, but there was no lessening of the speed. They had left the last house now, and on either side the black bushes and heatherland streamed past, with the sudden gleam of water here and there under the starlight that showed the ditches and holes with which the ground on either side of the road was honeycombed.
Then Mary turned her head again, and the words came detached and sharp.
“They are after us—could not help—horses saddled.”
Anthony turned his head to release one ear from the roar of the air, and heard the thundering rattle of hoofs in the distance, but even as he listened it grew fainter.
“We are gaining!” he shouted.
Mary nodded, and her teeth gleamed white in a smile.
“Ours are fresh,” she screamed.
Then there was silence between them again; they had reached a little hill and eased their horses up it; a heavy fringe of trees crowned it on their right, black against the stars, and a gleam of light showed the presence of a house among them. Farther and farther behind them sounded the hoofs; then they were swaying and rocking again down the slope that led to the long flat piece of road that ended in the slope up to East Maskells. It was softer going now and darker too, as there were trees overhead; pollared willows streamed past them as they went; and twice there was a snort and a hollow thunder of hoofs as a young sleeping horse awoke and raced them a few yards in the meadows at the side. Once Anthony’s horse shied at a white post, and drew in front a yard or two; and he heard for a moment under the rattle the cool gush of the stream that flowed beneath the road and the scream of a water-fowl as she burst from the reeds.
A great exultation began to fill Anthony’s heart. What a ride this was, in the glorious summer night—reckless and intoxicating! What a contrast, this sweet night air streaming past him, this dear world of living things, his throbbing horse beneath him, the birds and beasts round him, and this gallant girl swaying and rejoicing too beside him! What a contrast was all this to that terrible afternoon, only a few hours away—of suspense and skulking like a rat in a sewer; in a dark, close passage underground breathing death and silence round him! An escape with the fresh air in the face and the glorious galloping music of hoofs is another matter to an escape contrived by holding the breath and fearing to move in a mean hiding-hole. And as all this flooded in upon him, incoherently but overpoweringly, he turned and laughed loud with joy.
They had nearly come to an end of the flat by now. In front of them rose the high black mass of trees where safety lay; somewhere to the right, not a quarter of a mile in front, just off the road, lay East Maskells. They would draw rein, he reflected, when they reached the outer gates, and listen; and if all was quiet behind them, Mary at least should ask for shelter. For himself, perhaps it would be safer to ride on into the woods for the present. He began to move his head as he rode to see if there were any light in the house before him; it seemed dark; but perhaps he could not see the house from here. Gradually his horse slackened a little, as the rise in the ground began, and he tossed the reins once or twice.
Then there was a sharp hiss and blow behind him; his horse snorted and leapt forward, almost unseating him, and then, still snorting with head raised and jerking, dashed at the slope. There was a cry and a loud report; he tugged at the reins, but the horse was beside himself, and he rode fifty yards before he could stop him. Even as he wrenched him into submission another horse with head up and flying stirrup and reins thundered past him and disappeared into the woods beyond the house.
Then, trembling so that he could hardly hold the reins, he urged his horse back again at a stumbling trot towards what he knew lay at the foot of the slope, and to meet the tumult that grew in nearness and intensity up the road along which he had just galloped.
There was a dark group on the pale road in front of him, twenty yards this side of the field-path that led from Stanfield Place; he took his feet from the stirrups as he got near, and in a moment more threw his right leg forward over the saddle and slipped to the ground.
He said no word but pushed away the two men, and knelt by Mary, taking her head on his knee. The men rose and stood looking down at them.
“Mary,” he said, “can you hear me?”
He bent close over the white face; her hand rose to her breast, and came away dark. She was shot through the body. Then she pushed him sharply.
“Go,” she whispered, “go.”
“Mary,” he said again, “make your confession—quickly. Stand back, you men.”
They obeyed him; and he bent his ear towards the mouth he could so dimly see. There was a sob or two—a long moaning breath—and then the murmur of words, very faint and broken by gulps for breath. He noticed nothing of the hoofs that dashed up the road and stopped abruptly, and of the murmur of voices that grew round him; he only heard the gasping whisper, the words that rose one by one, with pauses and sighs, into his ear....
“Is that all?” he said, and a silence fell on all who stood round, now a complete circle about the priest and the penitent. The pale face moved slightly in assent; he could see the lips were open, and the breath was coming short and agonised.
“...In nomine Patris—his hand rose above her and moved cross-ways in the air—et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.Amen.”
Then he bent low again and looked; the bosom was still rising and falling, the shut eyes lifted once and looked at him. Then the lids fell again.
“Benedictio Dei omnipotentis, Patris et Filii et Spiritus sancti, descendat super te et maneat semper. Amen.”
Then there fell a silence. A horse blew out its nostrils somewhere behind and stamped; then a man’s voice cried brutally:
“Now then, is that popish mummery done yet?”
There was a murmur and stir in the group. But Anthony had risen.
“That is all,” he said.
CHAPTER XIII
IN PRISON
Anthony found several friends in the Clink prison in Southwark, whither he was brought up from Stanfield Place after his arrest.
Life there was very strange, a combination of suffering and extraordinary relaxation. He had a tiny cell, nine feet by five, with one little window high up, and for the first month of his imprisonment wore irons; at the same time his gaoler was so much open to bribery that he always found his door open on Sunday morning, and was able to shuffle upstairs and say mass in the cell of Ralph Emerson, once the companion of Campion, and a lay-brother of the Society of Jesus. There he met a large number of Catholics—some of whom he had come across in his travels—and he even ministered the sacraments to others who managed to come in from the outside. His chief sorrow was that his friend and host had been taken to the Counter in Wood Street.
It was a month before he heard all that had happened on the night of his arrest, and on the previous days: he had been separated at once from his friends; and although he had heard his guards talking both in the hall where he had been kept the rest of the night, and during the long hot ride to London the next day, yet at first he was so bewildered by Mary’s death that what they said made little impression on him. But after he had been examined both by magistrates and the Commissioners, and very little evidence was forthcoming, his irons were struck off and he was allowed much more liberty than before; and at last, to his great joy, Isabel was admitted to see him. She herself had come straight up to the Marretts’ house, both of whom still lived on in Wharf Street, though old and infirm; and day by day she attempted to get access to her brother; until at last, by dint of bribery, she was successful.
Then she told him the whole story.
“When we left the garden-house,” she said, “we went straight back, and Mary found Mr. Graves in the parlour off the hall. Oh, Anthony, how she ordered him about! And how frightened he was of her! The end was that he sent a message to the stables for her horses to be got ready, as she said. I went up with her to help her to make ready, and we kissed one another up there, for, you know, we dared not make as if we said good-bye downstairs. Then we came down for her to mount; and then we saw what we had not known before, that all the stable-yard was filled with the men’s horses saddled and bridled. However, we said nothing, except that Mary asked a man what—what the devil he was looking at, when he stared up at her as she stood on the block drawing on her gloves before she mounted. There were one or two torches burning in cressets, and I saw her so plainly turn the corner down towards the church.
“Then I went upstairs again, but I could not go to my room, but stood at the gallery window outside looking down at the court, for I knew that if there was any danger it would come from there.
“Then presently I heard a noise, and a shouting, and a man ran in through the gates to the stable-yard; and, almost directly it seemed, three or four rode out, at full gallop across the court and down by the church. The window was open and I could hear the noise down towards the village. Then more and more came pouring out, and all turned the corner and galloped; all but one, whose horse slipped and came down with a crash. Oh, Anthony! how I prayed!
“Then I saw Mr. Lackington”—Isabel stopped a moment at the name, and then went on again—“and he was on horseback too in the court; but he was shouting to two or three more who were just mounting. ‘Across the field—across the field—cut them off!’ I could hear it so plainly; and I saw the stable-gate was open, and they went through, and I could hear them galloping on the grass. And then I knew what was happening; and I went back to my room and shut the door.”
Isabel stopped again; and Anthony took her hand softly in his own and stroked it. Then she went on.
“Well, I saw them bring you back, from the gallery window—and ran to the top of the stairs and saw you go through into the hall where the magistrates were waiting, and the door was shut; and then I went back to my place at the window—and then presently they brought in Mary. I reached the bottom of the stairs just as they set her down. And I told them to bring her upstairs; and they did, and laid her on the bed where we had sat together all the afternoon.... And I would let no one in: I did it all myself; and then I set the tapers round her, and put the crucifix that was round my neck into her fingers, which I had laid on her breast ... and there she lay on the great bed ... and her face was like a child’s, fast asleep—smiling: and then I kissed her again, and whispered, ‘Thank you, Mary’; for, though I did not know all, I knew enough, and that it was for you.”
Anthony had thrown his arms on the table and his face was buried in them. Isabel put out her hand and stroked his curly head gently as she went on, and told him in the same quiet voice of how Mary had tried to save him by lashing his horse, as she caught sight of the man waiting at the entrance of the field-path, and riding in between him and Anthony. The man had declared in his panic of fear before the magistrates that he had never dreamt of doing Mistress Corbet an injury, but that she had ridden across just as he drew the trigger to shoot the priest’s horse and stop him that way.
When Isabel had finished Anthony still lay with his head on his arms.
“Why, Anthony, my darling,” she said, “what could be more perfect? How proud I am of you both!”
She told him, too, how they had been tracked to Stanfield—Lackington had let it out in his exultation.
The sailor at Greenhithe was one of his agents—an apostate, like his master. He had recognised that the party consisted of Catholics by Anthony’s breaking of the bread. He had been placed there to watch the ferry; and had sent messages at once to Nichol and Lackington. Then the party had been followed, but had been lost sight of, thanks to Anthony’s ruse. Nichol had then flung out a cordon along the principal roads that bounded Stanstead Woods on the south; and Lackington, when he arrived a few hours later, had kept them there all night. The cordon consisted of idlers and children picked up at Wrotham; and the tramp who feigned to be asleep had been one of them. When they had passed, he had given the signal to his nearest neighbour, and had followed them up. Nichol was soon at the place, and after them; and had followed to Stanfield with Lackington behind. Then watchers had been set round the house; the magistrates communicated with; and as soon as Hubert and Mr. Graves had arrived the assault had been made. Hubert had not been told who the priest was; but he had leapt at an opportunity to harass Mr. Buxton: he had been given to understand that Anthony and Isabel were still in the north.
“He did not know; indeed he did not,” cried Isabel piteously.
At another time, when she had gained admittance to him, she gave him messages from the Marretts, who had kept a great affection for the lad, who had told them tales of College that Christmas time; and she told him too of the coming of an old friend to see her there.
“It was poor Mr. Dent,” she said; “he looks so old now. His wife died three years ago; you know he has a city-living and does chaplain’s work at the Tower sometimes; and he is coming to see you, Anthony, and talk to you.”
Three or four days later he came.
Anthony was greatly touched at his kindness in coming. He looked considerably older than his age; his hair had grown thin and grey about his temples, and the sharp birdlike outline of his face and features seemed blurred and indeterminate. His creed too, and his whole manner of looking at things of faith, seemed to have undergone a similar process. The two had a long talk.
“I am not going to argue with you, Mr. Norris,” he said, “though I still think your religion wrong. But I have learnt this at least, that the greatest of all is charity, and if we love the same God, and His Blessed Son, and one another, I think that is best of all. I have learnt that from my wife—my dear wife,” he added softly. “I used to hold much with doctrine at one time, and loved to chop arguments; but our Saviour did not, and so I will not.”
Anthony was delighted that he took this line, for he knew there are some minds that apparently cannot be loyal to both charity and truth at the same time, and Mr. Dent’s seemed to be one of them; so the two talked of old times at Great Keynes, and of the folks there, and at last of Hubert.
“I saw him in the City last week,” said Mr. Dent, “and he is a changed man. He looks ten years older than this time last year; I scarcely know what has come to him. I know he has thrown up his magistracy, and the Lindfield parson tells me that the talk is that Mr. Maxwell is going on another voyage, and leaving his wife and children behind him again.”
Anthony told him gently of Hubert’s share in the events at Stanfield, adding what real and earnest attempts he had made to repair the injury he had done as soon as he had learnt that it was his friend that was in hiding.
“There was no treachery against me, Mr. Dent, you see,” he added.
Mr. Dent pecked a little in the air with pursed lips and eyes fixed on the ground; and a vision of the pulpit at Great Keynes moved before Anthony’s eyes.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he said; “I understand—I quite understand.”
Before Mr. Dent took his leave he unburdened himself of what he had really come to say.
“Master Anthony,” he said, standing up and fingering his hat round and round, “I said I talked no doctrine now; but I must unsay that; and—you will not think me impertinent if I ask you something?”
“My dear Mr. Dent——” began the other, standing and smiling too.
“Thank you, thank you—I felt sure—then it is this: I do not know much about the Popish religion, though I used to once, and I may be very mistaken; but I would like you to satisfy me before I go on one point”; and he fixed his anxious peering eyes on Anthony’s face. “Can you say, Master Anthony, from a full heart, that you fix all your hope and confidence for salvation in Christ’s merits alone?”
Anthony smiled frankly in his face.
“Indeed, in none other,” he said, “and from a full heart.”
“Ah well,” and the birdlike face began to beam and twitch, “and—and there is nothing of confidence in yourself and your works—and—and there is no talk of Holy Mary in the matter?”
Anthony smiled again. He wished to avoid useless controversy.
“Briefly,” he said, “my belief is that I am a very great sinner, that I deserve eternal hell; but I humbly place all my trust in the Precious Blood of my Saviour, and in that alone. Does that satisfy you?”
Mr. Dent’s face was breaking into smiles, and at the end he took the priest’s face in his hands and kissed him gently twice on the cheeks.
“Then, my dear boy, I fear nothing for you. May that salvation you hope for be yours.” And then without a word he was gone.
Anthony’s conscience reproached him a little that he had said nothing of the Church to the minister; but Mr. Dent had been so peremptory about doctrine that it was hard for the younger man to say what he would have wished. He told him, however, plainly on his next visit that he held whole-heartedly too that the Catholic Church was the treasury of Grace that Christ had instituted, and added a little speech about his longing to see his old friend a Catholic too; but Mr. Dent shook his head. The corners of his eyes wrinkled a little, and a shade of his old fretfulness passed over his face.
“Nay, if you talk like that,” he said, “I must be gone. I am no theologian. You must let me alone.”
He gave him news this time of Mr. Buxton.
“He is in the Counter, as you know,” he said, “and is a very bright and cheerful person, it seems to me. Mistress Isabel asked me to see him and give her news of him, for she cannot get admittance. He is in a cell, little and nasty; but he said to me that a Protestant prison was a Papist’s pleasaunce—in fact he said it twice. And he asked very eagerly after you and Mistress Isabel. He tried, too, to inveigle me into talk of Peter his prerogative, but I would not have it. It was Lammas Day when I saw him, and he spoke much of it.”
Anthony asked whether there was anything said of what punishment Mr. Buxton would suffer.
“Well,” said Mr. Dent, “the Lieutenant of the Tower told me that her Grace was so sad at the death of Mistress Corbet that she was determined that no more blood should be shed than was obliged over this matter; and that Mr. Buxton, he thought, would be but deprived of his estates and banished; but I know not how that may be. But we shall soon know.”
These weeks of waiting were full of consolation and refreshment to Anthony: the nervous stress of the life of the seminary priest in England, full of apprehension and suspense, crowned, as it had been in his case, by the fierce excitement of the last days of his liberty—all this had strained and distracted his soul, and the peace of the prison life, with the certainty that no efforts of his own could help him now, quieted and strengthened him for the ordeal he foresaw. At this time, too, he used to spend two or three hours a day in meditation, and found the greatest benefit in following the tranquil method of prayer prescribed by Louis de Blois, with whose writings he had made acquaintance at Douai. Each morning, too, he said a “dry mass,” and during the whole of his imprisonment at the Clink managed to make his confession at least once a week, and besides his communion at mass on Sundays, communicated occasionally from the Reserved Sacrament, which he was able to keep in a neighbouring cell, unknown to his gaoler.
And so the days went by, as orderly as in a Religious House; he rose at a fixed hour, observed the greatest exactness in his devotions, and did his utmost to prevent any visitors being admitted to see him, or any from another cell coming into his own, until he had finished his first meditation and said his office. And there began to fall upon him a kind of mellow peace that rose at times of communion and prayer to a point so ravishing, that he began to understand that it would not be a light cross for which such preparatory graces were necessary.
Towards the middle of September he received intelligence that evidence had been gathering against him, and that one or two were come from Lancashire under guard; and that he would be brought before the Commissioners again immediately.
Within two days this came about. He was sent for across the water to the Tower, and after waiting an hour or two with his gaoler downstairs in the basement of the White Tower, was taken up into the great Hall where the Council sat. There was a table at the farther end where they were sitting, and as Anthony looked round he saw through openings all round in the inner wall the little passage where the sentries walked, and heard their footfalls.
The preliminaries of identification and the like had been disposed of at previous examinations before Mr. Young—a name full of sinister suggestiveness to the Catholics; and so, after he had been given a seat at a little distance from the table behind which the Commissioners sat, he was questioned minutely as to his journey in the North of England.
“What were you there for, Mr. Norris?” inquired the Secretary of the Council.
“I went to see friends, and to do my business.”
“Then that resolves itself into two heads: One, Who are your friends. Two, What was your business?”
Now it had been established beyond a doubt at previous examinations that he was a priest; a student of Douai who had apostatised had positively identified him; so Anthony answered boldly:
“My friends were Catholics; and my business was the reconciling of souls to their Creator.”
“And to the Pope of Rome,” put in Wade.
“Who is Christ’s Vicar,” continued Anthony.
“And a pestilent knave,” concluded a fiery-faced man whom Anthony did not know.
But the Commissioners wanted more than that; it was true that Anthony was already convicted of high treason in having been ordained beyond the seas and in exercising his priestly functions in England; but the exacting of the penalty for religion alone was apt to raise popular resentment; and it was far preferable in the eyes of the authorities to entangle a priest in the political net before killing him. So they passed over for the present his priestly functions and first demanded a list of all the places where he had stayed in the north.
“You ask what is impossible,” said Anthony, with his eyes on the ground and his heart beating sharply, for he knew that now peril was near.
“Well,” said Wade, “let us put it another way. We know that you were at Speke Hall, Blainscow, and other places. I have a list here,” and he tapped the table, “but we want your name to it.”
“Let me see the paper,” said Anthony.
“Nay, nay, tell us first.”
“I cannot sign the paper except I see it,” said Anthony, smiling.
“Give it him,” said a voice from the end of the table.
“Here then,” said Wade unwillingly.
Anthony got up and took the paper from him, and saw one or two places named where he had not been, and saw that it had been drawn up at any rate partly on guesswork.
He put the paper down and went back to his chair and sat down.
“It is not true,” he said, looking steadily at the Secretary; “I cannot sign it.”
“Do you deny that you have been to any of these places?” inquired Wade indignantly.
“The paper is not true,” said Anthony again.
“Well, then, show us what is not true upon it.”
“I cannot.”
“We will find means to persuade you,” said the Secretary.
“If God permits,” said Anthony.
Wade glanced round inquiringly and shrugged his shoulders; one or two shook their heads.
“Well, then, we will turn to another point. There are known to have been certain Jesuit priests in Lancashire in November of last year—do you deny that, sir?”
“You ask too much,” said Anthony, smiling again; “they may have been there for aught I know, for I certainly did not see them elsewhere at the time you mention.”
Wade frowned, but the one at the end laughed loud.
“He has you there, Wade,” he said.
“This is foolery,” said the Secretary. “Well, these two, Father Edward Oldcorne and Father Holtby were in Lancashire in November; and you, Mr. Norris, spoke with them then. We wish to know where they are now, and you must tell us.”
“You have yet to prove that I spoke with them,” said Anthony, for the trap was too transparent.
“But we know that.”
“That may or may not be; but it is for you to prove it.”
“Nay, for you to tell us.”
“For you to prove it.”
Wade lost his temper.
“Well, then,” he cried, “take this paper and see which of us is in the right.”
Anthony rose again, wondering what the paper could be, and came towards the table. He saw it bore a name at the end, and as he advanced saw that it had an official appearance. Wade still held it; but Anthony took it in his hand too to steady it, and began to read; but as he read a mist rose before his eyes, and the paper shook violently. It was a warrant to put him to the torture.
Wade laughed a little.
“Why, see, Mr. Norris, how you tremble at the warrant; what will it be when you——”
But a voice murmured “Shame!” and he stopped and stared.
Anthony passed his hand over his eyes and went back to his chair and sat down; he saw his knees trembling as he sat, and hated himself for it; but he cried bravely:
“The flesh is weak, but, please God, the spirit is willing.”
“Well, then,” said Wade again, “must we execute this warrant, or will you tell us what we would know?”
“You must do what God permits,” said Anthony.
Wade sat down, throwing the warrant on the table, and began to talk in a low voice to those who sat next him. Anthony fixed his eyes on the ground, and did his utmost to keep his thoughts steady.
Now he realised where he was, and what it all meant. The little door to the left, behind him, that he had noticed as he came in, was the door of which he had heard other Catholics speak, that led down to the great crypt, where so many before him had screamed and fainted and called on God, from the rack that stood at the foot of the stairs, or from the pillar with the fixed ring at its summit.
He had faced all this in his mind again and again, but it was a different thing to have the horror within arm’s length; old phrases he had heard of the torture rang in his mind—a boast of Norton’s, the rackmaster, who had racked Brian, and which had been repeated from mouth to mouth—that he had “made Brian a foot longer than God made him”; words of James Maxwell’s that he had let drop at Douai; the remembrance of his limp; and of Campion’s powerlessness to raise his hand when called upon to swear—all these things crowded on him now; and there seemed to rest on him a crushing swarm of fearful images and words. He made a great effort, and closed his eyes, and repeated the holy name of Jesus over and over again; but the struggle was still fierce when Wade’s voice, harsh and dry, broke in and scattered the confusion of mind that bewildered him.
“Take the prisoner to a cell; he is not to go back to the Clink.”
Anthony felt a hand on his arm, and the gaoler was looking at him with compassion.
“Come, sir,” he said.
Anthony rose feeling heavy and exhausted; but remembered to bow to the Commissioners, one or two of whom returned it. Then he followed the gaoler out into the ante-room, who handed him over to one of the Tower officials.
“I must leave you here, sir,” he said; “but keep a good heart; it will not be for to-day.”
When Anthony got to his new cell, which was in the Salt Tower, he was bitterly angry and disappointed with himself. Why, he had turned white and sick like a child, not at the pain of the rack, not even at the sight of it, but at the mere warrant! He threw himself on his knees, and bowed down till his head beat against the boards.
“O Lord Jesus,” he prayed, “give me of Thy Manhood.”
He found that this prison was more rigorous than the Clink; no liberty to leave the cell could possibly be obtained, and no furniture was provided. The gaoler, when he had brought up his dinner, asked whether he could send any message for him for a bed. Anthony gave Isabel’s address, knowing that the authorities were already aware that she was a Catholic, and indeed she had given bail to come up for trial if called upon, and that his information could injure neither her nor the Marretts, who were sound Church of England people; and in the afternoon a mattress and some clothes arrived for him.
Anthony noticed at dinner that the knife provided was of a very inconvenient shape, having a round blunt point, and being sharp only at a lower part of the blade; and when the keeper came up with his supper he asked him to bring him another kind. The man looked at him with a queer expression.
“What is the matter?” asked Anthony; “cannot you oblige me?”
The man shook his head.
“They are the knives that are always given to prisoners under warrant for torture.”
Anthony did not understand him, and looked at him, puzzled.
“For fear they should do themselves an injury,” added the gaoler.
Then the same shudder ran over his body again.
“You mean—you mean....” he began. The gaoler nodded, still looking at him oddly, and went out; and Anthony sat, with his supper untasted, staring before him.
By a kind of violent reaction he had a long happy dream that night. The fierce emotions of that day had swept over his imagination and scoured it as with fire, and now the underlying peace rose up and flooded it with sweetness.
He thought he was in the north again, high up on a moor, walking with one who was quite familiar to him, but whose person he could not remember when he woke; he did not even know whether it was man or woman. It was a perfect autumn day, he thought, like one of those he had spent there last year; the heather and the gorse were in flower, and the air was redolent from their blossoms; he commented on this to the person at his side, who told him it was always so there. Mile after mile the moor rose and dipped, and, although Skiddaw was on his right, purple and grey, yet to his left there was a long curved horizon of sparkling blue sea. It was a cloudless day overhead, and the air seemed kindling and fresh round him as it blew across the stretches of heather from the western sea. He himself felt full of an extraordinary vitality, and the mere movement of his limbs gave him joy as he went swiftly and easily forward over the heather. There was the sound of the wind in his ears, and again and again there came the gush of water from somewhere out of sight—as he had heard it in the church by Skiddaw. There was no house or building of any kind within sight, and he felt a great relief in these miles of heath and the sense of holiday that they gave him. But all the joy round him and in his heart found their point for him in the person that went with him; this presence was their centre, as a diamond in a gold ring, or as a throned figure in a Court circle. All else existed for the sake of this person;—the heather blossomed and the gorse incensed the air, and the sea sparkled, and the sky was blue, and the air kindled, and his own heart warmed and throbbed, for that only. When he tried to see who it was, there was nothing to see; the presence existed there as a centre in a sphere, immeasurable and indiscernible; sometimes he thought it was Mary, sometimes he thought it Henry Buxton, sometimes Isabel—once even he assured himself it was Mistress Margaret, and once James Maxwell—and with the very act of identification came indecision again. This uncertainty waxed into a torment, and yet a sweet torment, as of a lover who watches his mistress’ shuttered house; and this torment swelled yet higher and deeper until it was so great that it had absorbed the whole radiant fragrant circle of the hills where he walked; and then came the blinding knowledge that the Presence was all these persons so dear to him, and far more; that every tenderness and grace that he had loved in them—Mary’s gallantry and Isabel’s serene silence and his friend’s fellowship, and the rest—floated in the translucent depths of it, stained and irradiated by it, as motes in a sunbeam.
And then he woke, and it was through tears of pure joy that he saw the rafters overhead, and the great barred door, and the discoloured wall above his bed.
When his gaoler brought him dinner that day it was half an hour earlier than usual; and when Anthony asked him the reason he said that he did not know, but that the orders had run so; but that Mr. Norris might take heart; it was not for the torture, for Mr. Topcliffe, who superintended it, had told the keeper of the rack-house that nothing would be wanted that day.
He had hardly finished dinner when the gaoler came up again and said that the Lieutenant was waiting for him below, and that he must bring his hat and cloak.
Since his arrest he had worn his priest’s habit every day, so he now threw the cloak over his arm and took his hat, and followed the gaoler down.
In passing through the court he went by a group of men that were talking together, and he noticed very especially a tall old man with a grey head, in a Court suit with a sword, and very lean about the throat, who looked at him hard as he passed. As he reached the archway where the Lieutenant was waiting, he turned again and saw the sunken eyes of the old man still looking after him; when he turned to the gaoler he saw the same odd look in his face that he had noticed before.
“Why do you look like that?” he asked. “Who is that old man?”
“That is Mr. Topcliffe,” said the keeper.
The Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir Richard Barkley, saluted him kindly at the gate, and begged him to follow him; the keeper still came after and another stepped out and joined them, and the group of four together passed out through the Lion’s Tower and across the moat to a little doorway where a closed carriage was waiting. The Lieutenant and Anthony stepped inside; the two keepers mounted outside; and the carriage set off.
Then the Lieutenant turned to the priest.
“Do you know where you are going, Mr. Norris?”
“No, sir.”
“You are going to Whitehall to see the Queen’s Grace.”
CHAPTER XIV
AN OPEN DOOR
When the carriage reached the palace they were told that the Queen was not yet come from Greenwich; and they were shown into a little ante-room next the gallery where the interview was to take place. The Queen, the Lieutenant told Anthony, was to come up that afternoon passing through London, and that she had desired to see him on her way through to Nonsuch; he could not tell him why he was sent for, though he conjectured it was because of Mistress Corbet’s death, and that her Grace wished to know the details.
“However,” said the Lieutenant, “you now have your opportunity to speak for yourself, and I think you a very fortunate man, Mr. Norris. Few have had such a privilege, though I remember that Mr. Campion had it too, though he made poor use of it.”
Anthony said nothing. His mind was throbbing with memories and associations. The air of state and luxury in the corridors through which he had just come, the discreet guarded doors, the servants in the royal liveries standing here and there, the sense of expectancy that mingled with the solemn hush of the palace—all served to bring up the figure of Mary Corbet, whom he had seen so often in these circumstances; and the thought of her made the peril in which he stood and the hope of escape from it seem very secondary matters. He walked to the window presently and looked out upon the little court below, one of the innumerable yards of that vast palace, and stood staring down on the hound that was chained there near one of the entrances, and that yawned and blinked in the autumn sunshine.
Even as he looked the dog paused in the middle of his stretch and stood expectant with his ears cocked, a servant dashed bareheaded down a couple of steps and out through the low archway; and simultaneously Anthony heard once more the sweet shrill trumpets that told of the Queen’s approach; then there came the roll of drums and the thunder of horses’ feet and the noise of wheels; the trumpets sang out again nearer, and the rumbling waxed louder as the Queen’s cavalcade, out of sight, passed the entrance of the archway down upon which Anthony looked; and then stilled, and the palace itself began to hum and stir; a door or two banged in the distance, feet ran past the door of the ante-room, and the strain of the trumpets sounded once in the house itself. Then all grew quiet once more, and Anthony turned from the window and sat down again by the Lieutenant.