As Anthony came to Papists’ Corner he saw a very tall solitary figure passing slowly from east to west; it was too dark to distinguish faces; so he went towards it, so that at the next turn they would meet face to face. When he was within two or three steps the man before him turned abruptly; and Anthony immediately put out his hand smiling.
“Mr. Arthur Oldham,” he said.
The man started and peered curiously through the gloom at him.
“Why Anthony!” he exclaimed, and took his hand, “what is your business here?” And they began slowly to walk westwards together.
“I am come to meet Mr. Oldham,” he said, “and to give him a message; and this is it, ‘Come, for all things are now ready!’”
“My dear boy,” said James, stopping short, “you must forgive me; but what in the world do you mean by that?”
“I come from Mr. Roger,” said Anthony, “you need not be afraid. He has had an accident and sent for me.”
“Mr. Roger?” said James interrogatively.
“Yes,” said Anthony, “he hath a patch over one eye; and stutters somewhat.”
James gave a sigh of relief.
“My dear boy,” he said, “I cannot thank you enough. You know what it means then?”
“Why, yes,” said Anthony.
“And you a Protestant, and in the Archbishop’s household?”
“Why, yes,” said Anthony, “and a Christian and your friend.”
“God bless you, Anthony,” said the priest; and took his hand and pressed it.
They were passing out now under the west door, and stood together for a moment looking at the lights down Ludgate Hill. The houses about Amen Court stood up against the sky to their right.
“I must not stay,” said Anthony, “I must fetch my horse and be back at Lambeth for evening prayers at six. He is stabled at the Palace here.”
“Well, well,” said the priest, “I thank God that there are true hearts like yours. God bless you again my dear boy—and—and make you one of us some day!”
Anthony smiled at him a little tremulously, for the gratitude and the blessing of this man was dear to him; and after another hand grasp, he turned away to the right, leaving the priest still half under the shadow of the door looking after him.
He had done his errand promptly and discreetly.
CHAPTER VIII
THE MASSING-HOUSE
Newman’s Court lay dark and silent under the stars on Sunday morning a little after four o’clock. The gloomy weather of the last three or four days had passed off in heavy battalions of sullen sunset clouds on the preceding evening, and the air was full of frost. By midnight thin ice was lying everywhere; pendants of it were beginning to form on the overhanging eaves; and streaks of it between the cobble-stones that paved the court. The great city lay in a frosty stillness as of death.
The patrol passed along Cheapside forty yards away from the entrance of the court, a little after three o’clock; and a watchman had cried out half an hour later, that it was a clear night; and then he too had gone his way. The court itself was a little rectangular enclosure with two entrances, one to the north beneath the arch of a stable that gave on to Newman’s Passage, which in its turn opened on to St. Giles’ Lane that led to Cheapside; the other, at the further end of the long right-hand side, led by a labyrinth of passages down in the direction of the wharfs to the west of London Bridge. There were three houses to the left of the entrance from Newman’s Passage; the back of a ware-house faced them on the other long side with the door beyond; and the other two sides were respectively formed by the archway of the stable with a loft over it, and a blank high wall at the opposite end.
A few minutes after four o’clock the figure of a woman suddenly appeared soundlessly in the arch under the stables; and after standing there a moment advanced along the front of the houses till she reached the third door. She stood here a moment in silence, listening and looking towards the doorway opposite, and then rapped gently with her finger-nail eleven or twelve times. Almost immediately the door opened, showing only darkness within; she stepped in, and it closed silently behind her. Then the minutes slipped away again in undisturbed silence. At about twenty minutes to five the figure of a very tall man dressed as a layman slipped in through the door that led towards the river, and advanced to the door where he tapped in the same manner as the woman before him, and was admitted at once. After that people began to come more frequently, some hesitating and looking about them as they entered the court, some slipping straight through without a pause, and going to the door, which opened and shut noiselessly as each tapped and was admitted. Sometimes two or three would come together, sometimes singly; but by five o’clock about twenty or thirty persons had come and been engulfed by the blackness that showed each time the door opened; while no glimmer of light from any of the windows betrayed the presence of any living soul within. At five o’clock the stream stopped. The little court lay as silent under the stars again as an hour before. It was a night of breathless stillness; there was no dripping from the eaves; no sound of wheels or hoofs from the city; only once or twice came the long howl of a dog across the roofs.
Ten minutes passed away.
Then without a sound a face appeared like a pale floating patch in the dark door that opened on to the court. It remained hung like a mask in the darkness for at least a minute; and then a man stepped through on to the cobblestones. Something on his head glimmered sharply in the starlight; and there was the same sparkle at the end of a pole that he carried in his hand; he turned and nodded; and three or four men appeared behind him.
Then out of the darkness of the archway at the other end of the court appeared a similar group. Once a man slipped on the frozen stones and cursed under his breath, and the leader turned on him with a fierce indrawing of his breath; but no word was spoken.
Then through both entrances streamed dark figures, each with a steely glitter on head and breast, and with something that shone in their hands; till the little court seemed half full of armed men; but the silence was still formidable in its depth.
The two leaders came together to the door of the third house, and their heads were together; and a few sibilant consonants escaped them. The breath of the men that stood out under the starlight went up like smoke in the air. It was now a quarter-past five.
Three notes of a hand-bell sounded behind the house; and then, without any further attempt at silence, the man who had entered the court first advanced to the door and struck three or four thundering blows on it with a mace, and shouted in a resonant voice:
“Open in the Queen’s Name.”
The men relaxed their cautious attitudes, and some grounded their weapons; others began to talk in low voices; a small party advanced nearer their leaders with weapons, axes and halberds, uplifted.
By now the blows were thundering on the door; and the same shattering voice cried again and again:
“Open in the Queen’s name; open in the Queen’s name!”
The middle house of the three was unoccupied; but the windows of the house next the stable, and the windows in the loft over the archway, where the stable-boys slept, suddenly were illuminated; latches were lifted, the windows thrust open and heads out of them.
Then one or two more pursuivants came up the dark passage bearing flaming torches with them. A figure appeared on the top of the blank wall at the end, and pointed and shouted. The stable-boys in a moment more appeared in their archway, and one or two persons came out of the house next the stable, queerly habited in cloaks and hats over their night-attire.
The din was now tremendous; the questions and answers shouted to and fro were scarcely audible under the thunder that pealed from the battered door; a party had advanced to it and were raining blows upon the lock and hinges. The court was full of a ruddy glare that blazed on the half-armour and pikes of the men, and the bellowing and the crashes and the smoke together went up into the night air as from the infernal pit. It was a hellish transformation from the deathly stillness of a few minutes—a massacre of the sweet night silence. And yet the house where the little silent stream of dark figures had been swallowed up rose up high above the smoky cauldron, black, dark, and irresponsive.
There rose a shrill howling from behind the house, and the figure on the top of the wall capered and gesticulated again. Then footsteps came running up the passage, and a pursuivant thrust his way through to the leaders; and, in a moment or two, above the din a sharp word was given, and three or four men hurried out through the doorway by which the man had come. Almost at the same moment the hinges of the door gave way, the whole crashed inwards, and the attacking party poured into the dark entrance hall beyond. By this time the noise had wakened many in the houses round, and lights were beginning to shine from the high windows invisible before, and a concourse of people to press in from all sides. The approaches had all been guarded, but at the crash of the door some of the sentries round the nearer corners hurried into the court, and the crowd poured after them; and by the time that the officers and men had disappeared into the house, their places had been filled by the spectators, and the little court was again full of a swaying, seething, shouting mass of men, with a few women with hoods and cloaks among them—inquiries and information were yelled to and fro.
“It was a nest of papists—a wasp’s nest was being smoked out—what harm had they done?—It was a murder; two women had had their throats cut.—No, no; it was a papists’ den—a massing-house.—Well, God save her Grace and rid her of her enemies. With these damned Spaniards everywhere, England was going to ruin.—They had escaped at the back. No; they tried that way, but it was guarded.—There were over fifty papists, some said, in that house.—It was a plot. Mary was mixed up in it. The Queen was to be blown up with powder, like poor Darnley. The barrels were all stored there.—No, no, no! it was nothing but a massing-house.—Who was the priest?—Well, they would see him at Tyburn on a hurdle; and serve him right with his treasonable mummery.—No, no! they had had enough of blood.—Campion had died like a man; and an Englishman too—praying for his Queen.”—The incessant battle and roar went up.
Meanwhile lights were beginning to shine everywhere in the dark house. A man with a torch was standing in a smoky glare half way up the stairs seen through the door, and the interior of the plain hall was illuminated. Then the leaded panes overhead were beginning to shine out. Steel caps moved to and fro; gigantic shadows wavered; the shadow of a halberd head went across a curtain at one of the lower windows.
A crimson-faced man threw open a window and shouted instructions to the sentry left at the door, who in answer shook his head and pointed to the bellowing crowd; the man at the window made a furious gesture and disappeared. The illumination began to climb higher and higher as the searchers mounted from floor to floor; thin smoke began to go up from one or two of the chimneys in the frosty air;—they were lighting straw to bring down any fugitives concealed in the chimneys. Then the sound of heavy blows began to ring out; they were testing the walls everywhere for hiding-holes; there was a sound of rending wood as the flooring was torn up. Then over the parapet against the stairs looked a steel-crowned face of a pursuivant. The crowd below yelled and pointed at first, thinking he was a fugitive; but he grinned down at them and disappeared.
Then at last came an exultant shout; then a breathless silence; then the crowd began to question and answer again.
“They had caught the priest!—No, the priest had escaped,—damn him!—It was half a dozen women. No, no! they had had the women ten minutes ago in a room at the back.—What fools these pursuivants were!—They had found the chapel and the altar.—What a show it would all make at the trial!—Ah! ah! it was the priest after all.”
Those nearest the door saw the man with the torch on the stairs stand back a little; and then a dismal little procession began to appear round the turn.
First came a couple of armed men, looking behind them every now and then; then a group of half a dozen women, whom they had found almost immediately, but had been keeping for the last few minutes in a room upstairs; then a couple more men. Then there was a little space; and then more constables and more prisoners. Each male prisoner was guarded by two men; the women were in groups. All these came out to the court. The crowd began to sway back against the walls, pointing and crying out; and a lane with living walls was formed towards the archway that opened into Newman’s Passage.
When the last pursuivants who brought up the rear had reached the door, an officer, who had been leaning from a first-floor window with the pale face of Lackington peering over his shoulder, gave a sharp order; and the procession halted. The women, numbering fourteen or fifteen, were placed in a group with some eight men in hollow square round them; then came a dozen men, each with a pursuivant on either side. But plainly they were not all come; they were still waiting for something; the officer and Lackington disappeared from the window; and for a moment too, the crowd was quiet.
A murmur of excitement began to rise again, as another group was seen descending the stairs within. The officer came first, looking back and talking as he came; then followed two pursuivants with halberds, and immediately behind them, followed by yet two men, walked James Maxwell in crimson vestments all disordered, with his hands behind him, and his comely head towering above the heads of the guard. The crowd surged forward, yelling; and the men at the door grounded their halberds sharply on the feet of the front row of spectators. As the priest reached the door, a shrill cry either from a boy or a woman pierced the roaring of the mob. “God bless you, father,” and as he heard it he turned and smiled serenely. His face was white, and there was a little trickle of blood run down across it from some wound in his head. The rest of the prisoners turned towards him as he came out; and again he smiled and nodded at them. And so the Catholics with their priest stood a moment in that deafening tumult of revilings, before the officer gave the word to advance.
Then the procession set forward through the archway; the crowd pressing back before them, like the recoil of a wave, and surging after them again in the wake. High over the heads of all moved the steel halberds, shining like grim emblems of power; the torches tossed up and down and threw monstrous stalking shadows on the walls as they passed; the steel caps edged the procession like an impenetrable hedge; and last moved the crimson-clad priest, as if in some church function, but with a bristling barrier about him; then came the mob, pouring along the narrow passages, jostling, cursing, reviling, swelled every moment by new arrivals dashing down the alleys and courts that gave on the thoroughfare; and so with tramp and ring of steel the pageant went forward on its way of sorrows.
Before six o’clock Newman’s Court was empty again, except for one armed figure that stood before the shattered door of No. 3 to guard it. Inside the house was dark again except in one room high up where the altar had stood. Here the thick curtains against the glass had been torn down, and the window was illuminated; every now and again the shadows on the ceiling stirred a little as if the candle was being moved; and once the window opened and a pale smooth face looked out for a moment, and then withdrew again. Then the light disappeared altogether; and presently shone out in another room on the same floor; then again after an half an hour or so it was darkened; and again reappeared on the floor below. And so it went on from room to room; until the noises of the waking city began, and the stars paled and expired. Over the smokeless town the sky began to glow clear and brilliant. The crowing of cocks awoke here and there; a church bell or two began to sound far away over the roofs. The pale blue overhead grew more and more luminous; the candle went out on the first floor; the steel-clad man stretched himself and looked at the growing dawn.
A step was heard on the stairs, and Lackington came down, carrying a small valise apparently full to bursting. He looked paler than usual; and a little hollow-eyed for want of sleep. He came out and stood by the soldier, and looked about him. Everywhere the court showed signs of the night’s tumult. Crumbled ice from broken icicles and trampled frozen pools lay powdered on the stones. Here and there on the walls were great smears of black from the torches, and even one or two torn bits of stuff and a crushed hat marked where the pressure had been fiercest. Most eloquent of all was the splintered door behind him, still held fast by one stout bolt, but leaning crookedly against the dinted wall of the interior.
“A good night’s work, friend,” said Lackington to the man. “Another hive taken, and here”—and he tapped his valise—“here I bear the best of the honey.”
The soldier looked heavily at the bag. He was tired too; and he did not care for this kind of work.
“Well,” said Lackington again, “I must be getting home safe. Keep the door; you shall be relieved in one hour.”
The soldier nodded at him; but still said nothing; and Lackington lifted the valise and went off too under the archway.
That same morning Lady Maxwell in her room in the Hall at Great Keynes awoke early before dawn with a start. She had had a dream but could not remember what it was, except that her son James was in it, and seemed to be in trouble. He was calling on her to save him, she thought, and awoke at the sound of his voice. She often dreamt of him at this time; for the life of a seminary priest was laid with snares and dangers. But this dream seemed worse than all.
She struck a light, and looked timidly round the room; it seemed still ringing with his voice. A great tapestry in a frame hung over the mantelpiece, Actæon followed by his hounds; the hunter panted as he ran, and was looking back over his shoulder; and the long-jawed dogs streamed behind him down a little hill.
So strong was the dream upon the old lady that she felt restless, and presently got up and went to the window and opened a shutter to look out. A white statue or two beyond the terrace glimmered in the dusk, and the stars were bright in the clear frosty night overhead. She closed the shutter and went back again to bed; but could not sleep. Again and again as she was dozing off, something would startle her wide awake again: sometimes it was a glimpse of James’ face; sometimes he seemed to be hurrying away from her down an endless passage with closed doors; he was dressed in something crimson. She tried to cry out, her voice would not rise above a whisper. Sometimes it was the dream of his voice; and once she started up crying out, “I am coming, my son.” Then at last she awoke again at the sound of footsteps coming along the corridor outside; and stared fearfully at the door to see what would enter. But it was only the maid come to call her mistress. Lady Maxwell watched her as she opened the shutters that now glimmered through their cracks, and let a great flood of light into the room from the clear shining morning outside.
“It is a frosty morning, my lady,” said the maid.
“Send one of the men down to Mistress Torridon,” said Lady Maxwell, “and ask her to come here as soon as it is convenient. Say I am well; but would like to see her when she can come.”
There was no priest in the house that Sunday, so there could be no mass; and on these occasions Mistress Margaret usually stayed at the Dower House until after dinner; but this morning she came up within half an hour of receiving the message.
She did not pretend to despise her sister’s terror, or call it superstitious.
“Mary,” she said, taking her sister’s jewelled old fingers into her own two hands, “we must leave all this to the good God. It may mean much, or little, or nothing. He only knows; but at least we may pray. Let me tell Isabel; a child’s prayers are mighty with Him; and she has the soul of a little child still.”
So Isabel was told; and after church she came up to dine at the Hall and spend the day there; for Lady Maxwell was thoroughly nervous and upset: she trembled at the sound of footsteps, and cried out when one of the men came into the room suddenly.
Isabel went again to evening prayer at three o’clock; but could not keep her thoughts off the strange nervous horror at the Hall, though it seemed to rest on no better foundation than the waking dreams of an old lady—and her mind strayed away continually from the darkening chapel in which she sat, so near where Sir Nicholas himself lay, to the upstairs parlour where the widow sat shaken and trembling at her own curious fancies about her dear son.
Mr. Bodder’s sermon came to an end at last; and Isabel was able to get away, and hurry back to the Hall. She found the old ladies as she had left them in the little drawing-room, Lady Maxwell sitting on the window-seat near the harp, preoccupied and apparently listening for something she knew not what. Mistress Margaret was sitting in a tall padded porter’s chair reading aloud from an old English mystic, but her sister was paying no attention, and looked strangely at the girl as she came in. Isabel sat down near the fire and listened; and as she listened the memory of that other day, years ago, came to her when she sat once before with these two ladies in the same room, and Mistress Margaret read to them, and the letter came from Sir Nicholas; and then the sudden clamour from the village. So now she sat with terror darkening over her, glancing now and again at that white expectant face, and herself listening for the first far-away rumour of the dreadful interruption that she now knew must come.
“The Goodness of God,” read the old nun, “is the highest prayer, and it cometh down to the lowest part of our need. It quickeneth our soul and bringeth it on life, and maketh it for to waxen in grace and virtue. It is nearest in nature; and readiest in grace: for it is the same grace that the soul seeketh, and ever shall seek till we know verily that He hath us all in Himself enclosed. For he hath no despite of that He hath made, nor hath He any disdain to serve us at the simplest office that to our body belongeth in nature, for love of the soul that He hath made to His own likeness. For as the body is clad in the clothes, and the flesh in the skin, and the bones in the flesh, and the heart in the whole, so are we, soul and body, clad in the Goodness of God, and enclosed. Yea, and more homely; for all these may waste and wear away, but the Goodness of God is ever whole; and more near to us without any likeness; for truly our Lover desireth that our soul cleave to Him with all its might, and that we be evermore cleaving to His goodness. For of all things that heart may think, this most pleaseth God, and soonest speedeth us. For our soul is so specially loved of Him that is highest, that it overpasseth the knowing of all creatures——”
“Hush,” said Lady Maxwell suddenly, on her feet, with a lifted hand.
There was a breathless silence in the room; Isabel’s heart beat thick and heavy and her eyes grew large with expectancy; it was a windless frosty night again, and the ivy outside on the wall, and the laurels in the garden seemed to be silently listening too.
“Mary, Mary,” began her sister, “you——;” but the old lady lifted her hand a little higher; and silence fell again.
Then far away in the direction of the London road came the clear beat of the hoofs of a galloping horse.
Lady Maxwell bowed her head, and her hand slowly sank to her side. The other two stood up and remained still while the beat of the hoofs grew and grew in intensity on the frozen road.
“The front door,” said Lady Maxwell.
Mistress Margaret slipped from the room and went downstairs; Isabel took a step or two forward, but was checked by the old lady’s uplifted hand again. And again there was a breathless silence, save for the beat of the hoofs now close and imminent.
A moment later the front door was opened, and a great flood of cold air swept up the passages; the portrait of Sir Nicholas in the hall downstairs, lifted and rattled against the wall. Then came the clatter on the paved court; and the sound of a horse suddenly checked with the slipping up of hoofs and the jingle and rattle of chains and stirrups. There were voices in the hall below, and a man’s deep tones; then came steps ascending.
Lady Maxwell still stood perfectly rigid by the window, waiting, and Isabel stared with white face and great open eyes at the door; outside, the flame of a lamp on the wall was blowing about furiously in the draught.
Then a stranger stepped into the room; evidently a gentleman; he bowed to the two ladies, and stood, with the rime on his boots and a whip in his hand, a little exhausted and disordered by hard riding.
“Lady Maxwell?” he said.
Lady Maxwell bowed a little.
“I come with news of your son, madam, the priest; he is alive and well; but he is in trouble. He was taken this morning in his mass-vestments; and is in the Marshalsea.”
Lady Maxwell’s lips moved a little; but no sound came.
“He was betrayed, madam, by a friend. He and thirty other Catholics were taken all together at mass.”
Then Lady Maxwell spoke; and her voice was dead and hard.
“The friend, sir! What was his name?”
“The traitor’s name, madam, is Anthony Norris.”
The room turned suddenly dark to Isabel’s eyes; and she put up her hand and tore at the collar round her throat.
“Oh no, no, no, no!” she cried, and tottered a step or two forward and stood swaying.
Lady Maxwell looked from one to another with eyes that seemed to see nothing; and her lips stirred again.
Mistress Margaret who had followed the stranger up, and who stood now behind him at the door, came forward to Isabel with a little cry, with her hands trembling before her. But before she could reach her, Lady Maxwell herself came swiftly forward, her head thrown back, and her arms stretched out towards the girl, who still stood dazed and swaying more and more.
“My poor, poor child!” said Lady Maxwell; and caught her as she fell.
CHAPTER IX
FROM FULHAM TO GREENWICH
Anthony in London, strangely enough, heard nothing of the arrest on the Sunday, except a rumour at supper that some Papists had been taken. It had sufficient effect on his mind to make him congratulate himself that he had been able to warn his friend last week.
At dinner on Monday there were a few guests; and among them, one Sir Richard Barkley, afterwards Lieutenant of the Tower. He sat at the Archbishop’s table, but Anthony’s place, on the steward’s left hand, brought him very close to the end of the first table where Sir Richard sat. Dinner was half way through, when Mr. Scot who was talking to Anthony, was suddenly silent and lifted his hand as if to check the conversation a moment.
“I saw them myself,” said Sir Richard’s voice just behind.
“What is it?” whispered Anthony.
“The Catholics,” answered the steward.
“They were taken in Newman’s Court, off Cheapside,” went on the voice, “nearly thirty, with one of their priests, at mass, in his trinkets too—Oldham his name is.”
There was a sudden crash of a chair fallen backwards, and Anthony was standing by the officer.
“I beg your pardon, Sir Richard Barkley,” he said;—and a dead silence fell in the hall.—“But is that the name of the priest that was taken yesterday?”
Sir Richard looked astonished at the apparent insolence of this young official.
“Yes, sir,” he said shortly.
“Then, then,——” began Anthony; but stopped; bowed low to the Archbishop and went straight out of the hall.
Mr. Scot was waiting for him in the hall when he returned late that night. Anthony’s face was white and distracted; he came in and stood by the fire, and stared at him with a dazed air.
“You are to come to his Grace,” said the steward, looking at him in silence.
Anthony nodded without speaking, and turned away.
“Then you cannot tell me anything?” said Mr. Scot. The other shook his head impatiently, and walked towards the inner door.
The Archbishop was sincerely shocked at the sight of his young officer, as he came in and stood before the table, staring with bewildered eyes, with his dress splashed and disordered, and his hands still holding the whip and gloves. He made him sit down at once, and after Anthony had drunk a glass of wine, he made him tell his story and what he had done that day.
He had been to the Marshalsea; it was true Mr. Oldham was there, and had been examined. Mr. Young had conducted it.—The house at Newman’s Court was guarded: the house behind Bow Church was barred and shut up, and the people seemed gone away.—He could not get a word through to Mr. Oldham, though he had tried heavy bribery.—And that was all.
Anthony spoke with the same dazed air, in short broken sentences; but became more himself as the wine and the fire warmed him; and by the time he had finished he had recovered himself enough to entreat the Archbishop to help him.
“It is useless,” said the old man. “What can I do? I have no power. And—and he is a popish priest! How can I interfere?”
“My lord,” cried Anthony desperately, flushed and entreating, “all has been done through treachery. Do you not see it? I have been a brainless fool. That man behind Bow Church was a spy. For Christ’s sake help us, my lord!”
Grindal looked into the lad’s great bright eyes; sighed; and threw out his hands despairingly.
“It is useless; indeed it is useless, Mr. Norris. But I will tell you all that I can do. I will give you to-morrow a letter to Sir Francis Walsingham. I was with him abroad as you know, in the popish times of Mary: and he is still in some sort a friend of mine—but you must remember that he is a strong Protestant; and I do not suppose that he will help you. Now go to bed, dear lad; you are worn out.”
Anthony knelt for the old man’s blessing, and left the room.
The interview next day was more formidable than he had expected. He was at the Secretary’s house by ten o’clock, and waited below while the Archbishop’s letter was taken up. The servant came back in a few minutes, and asked him to follow; and in an agony of anxiety, but with a clear head again this morning, and every faculty tense, he went upstairs after him, and was ushered into the room where Walsingham sat at a table.
There was silence as the two bowed, but Sir Francis did not offer to rise, but sat with the Archbishop’s letter in his hand, glancing through it again, as the other stood and waited.
“I understand,” said the Secretary at last, and his voice was dry and unsympathetic,—“I understand, from his Grace’s letter, that you desire to aid a popish priest called Oldham or Maxwell, arrested at mass on Sunday morning in Newman’s Court. If you will be so good as to tell me in what way you desire to aid him, I can be more plain in my answer. You do not desire, I hope, Mr. Norris, anything but justice and a fair trial for your friend?”
Anthony cleared his throat before answering.
“I—he is my friend, as you say, Sir Francis; and—and he hath been caught by foul means. I myself was used, as I have little doubt, in his capture. Surely there is no justice, sir, in betraying a man by means of his friend.” And Anthony described the ruse that had brought it all about.
Sir Francis listened to him coldly; but there came the faintest spark of amusement into his large sad eyes.
“Surely, Mr. Norris,” he said, “it was somewhat simple; and I have no doubt at all that it all is as you say; and that the poor stuttering cripple with a patch was as sound and had as good sight and power of speech as you and I; but the plan was, it seems, if you will forgive me, not so simple as yourself. It would be passing strange, surely that the man, if a friend of the priest’s, could find no Catholic to take his message; but not at all strange if he were his enemy. I do not think sincerely, sir, that it would have deceived me. But that is not now the point. He is taken now, fairly or foully, and—what was it you wished me to do?”
“I hoped,” said Anthony, in rising indignation at this insolence, “that you would help me in some way to undo this foul unjustice. Surely, sir, it cannot be right to take advantage of such knavish tricks.”
“Good Mr. Norris,” said the Secretary, “we are not playing a game, with rules that must not be broken, but we are trying to serve justice”—his voice rose a little in sincere enthusiasm—“and to put down all false practices, whether in religion or state, against God or the prince. Surely the point for you and me is not, ought this gentleman to have been taken in the manner he was; but being taken, is he innocent or guilty?”
“Then you will not help me?”
“I will certainly not help you to defeat justice,” said the other. “Mr. Norris, you are a young man; and while your friendship does your heart credit, your manner of forwarding its claims does not equally commend your head. I counsel you to be wary in your speech and actions; or they may bring you into trouble some day yourself. After all, as no doubt your friends have told you, you played what, as a minister of the Crown, I must call a knave’s part in attempting to save this popish traitor, although by God’s Providence, you were frustrated. But it is indeed going too far to beg me to assist you. I have never heard of such audacity!”
Anthony left the house in a fury. It was true, as the Archbishop had said, that Sir Francis Walsingham was a convinced Protestant; but he had expected to find in him some indignation at the methods by which the priest had been captured; and some desire to make compensation for it.
He went again to the Marshalsea; and now heard that James had been removed to the Tower, with one or two of the Catholics who had been in trouble before. This was serious news; for to be transferred to the Tower was often but the prelude to torture or death. He went on there, however, and tried again to gain admittance, but it was refused, and the doorkeeper would not even consent to take a message in. Mr. Oldham, he said, was being straitly kept, and it would be as much as his place was worth to admit any communication to him without an order from the Council.
When Anthony got back to Lambeth after this fruitless day, he found an imploring note from Isabel awaiting him; and one of the grooms from the Hall to take his answer back.
“Write back at once, dear Anthony,” she wrote, “and explain this terrible thing, for I know well that you could not do what has been told us of you. But tell us what has happened, that we may know what to think. Poor Lady Maxwell is in the distress you may imagine; not knowing what will come to Mr. James. She will come to London, I think, this week. Write at once now, my Anthony, and tell us all.”
Anthony scribbled a few lines, saying how he had been deceived; and asking her to explain the circumstances to Lady Maxwell, who no doubt would communicate them to her son as soon as was possible; he added that he had so far failed to get a message through the gaoler. He gave the note himself to the groom; telling him to deliver it straight into Isabel’s hands, and then went to bed.
In the morning he reported to the Archbishop what had taken place.
“I feared it would be so,” Grindal said. “There is nothing to be done but to commit your friend into God’s hands, and leave him there.”
“My Lord,” said Anthony, “I cannot leave it like that. I will go and see my lord bishop to-day; and then, if he can do nothing to help, I will even see the Queen’s Grace herself.”
Grindal threw up his hands with a gesture of dismay.
“That will ruin all,” he said. “An officer of mine could do nothing but anger her Grace.”
“I must do my best,” said Anthony; “it was through my folly he is in prison, and I could never rest if I left one single thing undone.”
Just as Anthony was leaving the house, a servant in the royal livery dashed up to the gate; and the porter ran out after Anthony to call him back. The man delivered to him a letter which he opened then and there. It was from Mistress Corbet.
“What can be done,” the letter ran, “for poor Mr. James? I have heard a tale of you from a Catholic, which I know is a black lie. I am sure that even now you will be doing all you can to save your friend. I told the man that told me, that he lied and that I knew you for an honest gentleman. But come, dear Mr. Anthony; and we will do what we can between us. Her Grace noticed this morning that I had been weeping; I put her off with excuses that she knows to be excuses; and she is so curious that she will not rest till she knows the cause. Come after dinner to-day; we are at Greenwich now; and we will see what may be done. It may even be needful for you to see her Grace yourself, and tell her the story. Your loving friend, Mary Corbet.”
Anthony gave a message to the royal groom, to tell Mistress Corbet that he would do as she said, and then rode off immediately to the city. There was another disappointing delay as the Bishop was at Fulham; and thither he rode directly through the frosty streets under the keen morning sunshine, fretting at the further delay.
He had often had occasion to see the Bishop before, and Aylmer had taken something of a liking to this staunch young churchman; and now as the young man came hurrying across the grass under the elms, the Bishop, who was walking in his garden in his furs and flapped cap, noticed his anxious eyes and troubled face, and smiled at him kindly, wondering what he had come about. The two began to walk up and down together. The sunshine was beginning to melt the surface of the ground, and the birds were busy with breakfast-hunting.
“Look at that little fellow!” cried the Bishop, pointing to a thrush on the lawn, “he knows his craft.”
The thrush had just rapped several times with his beak at a worm’s earth, and was waiting with his head sideways watching.
“Aha!” cried the Bishop again, “he has him.” The thrush had seized the worm who had come up to investigate the noise, and was now staggering backwards, bracing himself, and tugging at the poor worm, who, in a moment more was dragged out and swallowed.
“My lord,” said Anthony, “I came to ask your pity for one who was betrayed by like treachery.”
The Bishop looked astonished, and asked for the story; but when he heard who it was that had been taken, and under what circumstances, the kindliness died out of his eyes. He shook his head severely when Anthony had done.
“It is useless coming to me, sir,” he said. “You know what I think. To be ordained beyond the seas and to exercise priestly functions in England is now a crime. It is useless to pretend anything else. It is revolt against the Queen’s Grace and the peace of the realm. And I must confess I am astonished at you, Mr. Norris, thinking that anything ought to be done to shield a criminal, and still more astonished that you should think I would aid you in that. I tell you plainly that I am glad that the fellow is caught, for that I think there will be presently one less fire-brand in England. I know it is easy to cry out against persecution and injustice; that is ever the shallow cry of the mob; but this is not a religious persecution, as you yourself very well know. It is because the Roman Church interferes with the peace of the realm and the Queen’s authority that its ordinances are forbidden; we do not seek to touch a man’s private opinions. However, you know all that as well as I.”
Anthony was raging now with anger.
“I am not so sure, my lord, as I was,” he said. “I had hoped from your lordship at any rate to find sympathy for the base trick whereby my friend was snared; and I find it now hard to trust the judgment of any who do not feel as I do about it.”
“That is insolence, Mr. Norris,” said Aylmer, stopping in his walk and turning upon him his cold half-shut eyes, “and I will not suffer it.”
“Then, my lord, I had better begone to her Grace at once.”
“To her Grace!” exclaimed the Bishop.
“Appello Cæsarem,” said Anthony, and was gone again.
As Anthony came into the courtyard of Greenwich Palace an hour or two later he found it humming with movement and noise. Cooks were going to and fro with dishes, as dinner was only just ending; servants in the royal livery were dashing across with messages; a few great hounds for the afternoon’s baiting were in a group near one of the gateways, snuffing the smell of cookery, and howling hungrily now and again.
Anthony stopped one of the men, and sent him with a message to Mistress Corbet; and the servant presently returned, saying that the Court was just rising from dinner, and Mistress Corbet would see him in a parlour directly, if the gentleman would kindly follow him. A groom took his horse off to the stable, and Anthony himself followed the servant to a little oak-parlour looking on to a lawn with a yew hedge and a dial. He felt as one moving in a dream, bewildered by the rush of interviews, and oppressed by the awful burden that he bore at his heart. Nothing any longer seemed strange; and he scarcely gave a thought to what it meant when he heard the sound of trumpets in the court, as the Queen left the Hall. In five minutes more Mistress Corbet burst into the room; and her anxious look broke into tenderness at the sight of the misery in the lad’s face.
“Oh, Master Anthony,” she cried, seizing his hand, “thank God you are here. And now what is to be done for him?”
They sat down together in the window-seat. Mary was dressed in an elaborate rose-coloured costume; but her pretty lips were pale, and her eyes looked distressed and heavy.
“I have hardly slept,” she said, “since Saturday night. Tell me all that you know.”
Anthony told her the whole story, mechanically and miserably.
“Ah,” she said, “that was how it was. I understand it now. And what can we do? You know, of course, that he has been questioned in the Tower.”
Anthony turned suddenly white and sick.
“Not the—not the——” he began, falteringly.
She nodded at him mutely with large eyes and compressed lips.
“Oh, my God,” said Anthony; and then again, “O God.”
She took up one of his brown young hands and pressed it gently between her white slender ones.
“I know,” she said, “I know; he is a gallant gentleman.”
Anthony stood up shaking; and sat down again. The horror had goaded him into clearer consciousness.
“Ah! what can we do?” he said brokenly. “Let me see the Queen. She will be merciful.”
“You must trust to me in this,” said Mary, “I know her; and I know that to go to her now would be madness. She is in a fury with Pinart to-day at something that has passed about the Duke. You know Monsieur is here; she kissed him the other day, and the Lord only knows whether she will marry him or not. You must wait a day or two; and be ready when I tell you.”
“But,” stammered Anthony, “every hour we wait, he suffers.”
“Oh, you cannot tell that,” said Mary, “they give them a long rest sometimes; and it was only yesterday that he was questioned.”
Anthony sat silently staring out on the fresh lawn; there was still a patch of frost under the shadow of the hedge he noticed.
“Wait here a moment,” said Mary, looking at him; and she got up and went out.
Anthony still sat staring and thinking of the horror. Presently Mary was at his side again with a tall venetian wine-glass brimming with white wine.
“Here,” she said, “drink this,”—and then—“have you dined to-day?”
“There was not time,” said Anthony.
She frowned at him almost fiercely.
“And you come here fasting,” she said, “to face the Queen! You foolish boy; you know nothing. Wait here,” she added imperiously, and again she left the room.
Anthony still stared out of doors, twisting the empty glass in his hand; until again came her step and the rustle of her dress. She took the glass from him and put it down. A servant had followed her back into the room in a minute or two with a dish of meat and some bread; he set it on the table, and went out.
“Now,” said Mary, “sit down and eat before you speak another word.” And Anthony obeyed. The servant presently returned with some fruit, and again left them. All the while Anthony was eating, Mary sat by him and told him how she had heard the whole story from another Catholic at court; and how the Queen had questioned her closely the night before, as to what the marks of tears meant on her cheeks.
“It was when I heard of the racking,” explained Mary, “I could not help it. I went up to my room and cried and cried. But I would not tell her Grace that: it would have been of no use; so I said I had a headache; but I said it in such a way as to prepare her for more. She has not questioned me again to-day; she is too full of anger and of the bear-baiting; but she will—she will. She never forgets; and then Mr. Anthony, it must be you to tell her. You are a pleasant-faced young man, sir, and she likes such as that. And you must be both forward and modest with her. She loves boldness, but hates rudeness. That is why Chris is so beloved by her. He is a fool, but he is a handsome fool, and a forward fool, and withal a tender fool; and sighs and cries, and calls her his Goddess; and says how he takes to his bed when she is not there, which of course is true. The other day he came to her, white-faced, sobbing like a frightened child, about the ring she had given Monsieurle petit grenouille. And oh, she was so tender with him. And so, Mr. Anthony, you must not be just forward with her, and frown at her and call her Jezebel and tyrant, as you would like to do; but you must call her Cleopatra, and Diana as well. Forward and backward all in one; that is the way she loves to be wooed. She is a woman, remember that.”
“I must just let my heart speak,” said Anthony, “I cannot twist and turn.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mary, “that is what I mean; but mind that it is your heart.”
They went on talking a little longer; when suddenly the trumpets pealed out again. Mary rose with a look of consternation.
“I must fly,” she said, “her Grace will be starting for the pit directly; and I must be there. Do you follow, Mr. Anthony; I will speak to a servant in the court about you.” And in a moment she was gone.
When Anthony had finished the fruit and wine, he felt considerably refreshed; and after waiting a few minutes, went out into the court again, which he found almost deserted, except for a servant or two. One of these came up to him, and said respectfully that Mistress Corbet had left instructions that Mr. Norris was to be taken to the bear-pit; so Anthony followed him through the palace to the back.
It was a startlingly beautiful sight that his eyes fell upon when he came up the wooden stairs on to the stage that ran round the arena where the sport was just beginning. It was an amphitheatre, perhaps forty yards across; and the seats round it were filled with the most brilliant costumes, many of which blazed with jewels. Hanging over the top of the palisade were rich stuffs and tapestries. The Queen herself no doubt with Alençon was seated somewhere to the right, as Anthony could see by the canopy, with the arms of England and France embroidered upon its front; but he was too near to her to be able to catch even a glimpse of her face or figure. The awning overhead was furled, as the day was so fine, and the winter sunshine poured down on the dresses and jewels. All the Court was there; and Anthony recognised many great nobles here and there in the specially reserved seats. A ceaseless clangour of trumpets and cymbals filled the air, and drowned not only the conversation but the terrific noise from the arena where half a dozen great dogs, furious with hunger and excited as much by the crowds and the brazen music overhead as by the presence of their fierce adversary, were baiting a huge bear chained to a ring in the centre of the sand.
Anthony’s heart sank a little as he noticed the ladies of the Court applauding and laughing at the abominable scene below, no doubt in imitation of their mistress who loved this fierce sport; and as he thought of the kind of heart to which he would have to appeal presently.
So through the winter afternoon the bouts went on; the band answered with harsh chords the death of the dogs one by one, and welcomed the collapse of the bear with a strident bellowing passage on the great horns and drums; and by the time it was over and the spectators rose to their feet, Anthony’s hopes were lower than ever. Can there be any compassion left, he wondered, in a woman to whom such an afternoon was nothing more than a charming entertainment?
By the time he was able to get out of his seat and return to the courtyard, the procession had again disappeared, but he was escorted by the same servant to the parlour again, where Mistress Corbet presently rustled in.
“You must stay to-night,” she said, “as late as possible. I wish you could sleep here; but we are so crowded with these Frenchmen and Hollanders that there is not a bed empty. The Queen is in better humour, and if the play goes well, it may be that a word said even to-night might reach her heart. I will tell you when it is over. You must be present. I will send you supper here directly.”
Anthony inquired as to his dress.
“Nay, nay,” said Mistress Corbet, “that will do very well; it is sober and quiet, and a little splashed: it will appear that you came in such haste that you could not change it. Her Grace likes to see a man hot and in a hurry sometimes; and not always like a peacock in the shade.—And, Master Anthony, it suits you very well.”
He asked what time the play would be over, and that his horse might be saddled ready for him when he should want it; and Mary promised to see to it.
He felt much more himself as he supped alone in the parlour. The bewilderment had passed; the courage and spirit of Mary had infected his own, and the stirring strange life of the palace had distracted him from that dreadful brooding into which he had at first sunk.
When he had finished supper he sat in the window seat, pondering and praying too that the fierce heart of the Queen might be melted, and that God would give him words to say.
There was much else too that he thought over, as he sat and watched the illuminated windows round the little lawn on which his own looked, and heard the distant clash of music from the Hall where the Queen was supping in state. He thought of Mary and of her gay and tender nature; and of his own boyish love for her. That indeed had gone, or rather had been transfigured into a brotherly honour and respect. Both she and he, he was beginning to feel, had a more majestic task before them than marrying and giving in marriage. The religion which made this woman what she was, pure and upright in a luxurious and treacherous Court, tender among hard hearts, sympathetic in the midst of selfish lives—this Religion was beginning to draw this young man with almost irresistible power. Mary herself was doing her part bravely, witnessing in a Protestant Court to the power of the Catholic Faith in her own life; and he, what was he doing? These last three days were working miracles in him. The way he had been received by Walsingham and Aylmer, their apparent inability to see his point of view on this foul bit of treachery, the whole method of the Government of the day;—and above all the picture that was floating now before his eyes over the dark lawn, of the little cell in the Tower and the silent wrenched figure lying upon the straw—the “gallant gentleman” as Mary had called him, who had reckoned all this price up before he embarked on the life of a priest, and was even now paying it gladly and thankfully, no doubt—all this deepened the previous impressions that Anthony’s mind had received; and as he sat here amid the stir of the royal palace, again and again a vision moved before him, of himself as a Catholic, and perhaps—— But Isabel! What of Isabel? And at the thought of her he rose and walked to and fro.
Presently the servant came again to take Anthony to the Presence Chamber, where the play was to take place.
“I understand, sir, from Mistress Corbet,” said the man, closing the door of the parlour a moment, “that you are come about Mr. Maxwell. I am a Catholic, too, sir, and may I say, sir, God bless and prosper you in this.—I—I beg your pardon, sir, will you follow me?”
The room was full at the lower end where Anthony had to stand, as he was not in Court dress; and he could see really nothing of the play, and hear very little either. The children of Paul’s were acting some classical play which he did not know: all he could do was to catch a glimpse now and again of the protruding stage, with the curtains at the back, and the glitter of the armour that the boys wore; and hear the songs that were accompanied by a little string band, and the clash of the brass at the more martial moments. The Queen and the Duke, he could see, sat together immediately opposite the stage, on raised seats under a canopy; a group of halberdiers guarded them, and another small company of them was ranged at the sides of the stage. Anthony could see little more than this, and could hear only isolated sentences here and there, so broken was the piece by the talking and laughing around him. But he did not like to move as Mistress Corbet had told him to be present, so he stood there listening to the undertone talk about him, and watching the faces. What he did see of the play did not rouse him to any great enthusiasm. His heart was too heavy with his errand, and it seemed to him that the occasional glimpses he caught of the stage showed him a very tiresome hero, dressed in velvet doublet and hose and steel cap, strangely unconvincing, who spoke his lines pompously, and was as unsatisfactory as the slender shrill-voiced boy who, representing a woman of marvellous beauty and allurement, was supposed to fire the conqueror’s blood with passion.
At last it ended; and an “orator” in apparel of cloth of gold, spoke a kind of special epilogue in rhyming metre in praise of the Virgin Queen, and then retired bowing.
Immediately there was a general movement; the brass instruments began to blare out, and an usher at the door desired those who were blocking the way to step aside to make way for the Queen’s procession, which would shortly pass out. Anthony himself went outside with one or two more, and then stood aside waiting.
There was a pause and then a hush; and the sound of a high rating woman’s voice, followed by a murmur of laughter.
In a moment more the door was flung open again, and to Anthony’s surprise Mistress Corbet came rustling out, as the people stepped back to make room. Her eyes fell on Anthony near the door, and she beckoned him to follow, and he went down the corridor after her, followed her silently along a passage or two, wondering why she did not speak, and then came after her into the same little oak parlour where he had supped. A servant followed them immediately with lighted candles which he set down and retired.
Anthony looked at Mistress Corbet, and saw all across her pale cheek the fiery mark of the five fingers of a hand, and saw too that her eyes were full of tears, and that her breath came unevenly.
“It is no use to-night,” she said, with a sob in her voice; “her Grace is angry with me.”
“And, and——” began Anthony in amazement.
“And she struck me,” said Mary, struggling bravely to smile. “It was all my fault,”—and a bright tear or two ran down on to her delicate lace. “I was sitting near her Grace, and I could not keep my mind off poor James Maxwell; and I suppose I looked grave, because when the play was over, she beckoned me up, and—and asked how I liked it, and why I looked so solemn—for she would know—was it forScipio Africanus, or some other man? And—and I was silent; and Alençon, that little frog-man burst out laughing and said to her Grace something—something shameful—in French—but I understood, and gave him a look; and her Grace saw it, and, and struck me here, before all the Court, and bade me begone.”
“Oh! it is shameful,” said Anthony, furiously, his own eyes bright too, at the sight of this gallant girl and her humiliation.
“You cannot stay here, Mistress Corbet. This is the second time at least, is it not?”
“Ah! but I must stay,” she said, “or who will speak for the Catholics? But now it is useless to think of seeing her Grace to-night. Yet to-morrow, maybe, she will be sorry,—she often is—and will want to make amends; and then will be our time, so you must be here to-morrow by dinner-time at least.”
“Oh, Mistress Corbet,” said the boy, “I wish I could do something.”
“You dear lad!” said Mary, and then indeed the tears ran down.
Anthony rode back to Lambeth under the stars, anxious and dispirited, and all night long dreamed of pageants and progresses that blocked the street down which he must ride to rescue James. The brazen trumpets rang out whenever he called for help or tried to explain his errand; and Elizabeth rode by, bowing and smiling to all save him.
The next day he was at Greenwich again by dinner-time, and again dined by himself in the oak parlour, waited upon by the Catholic servant. He was just finishing his meal when in sailed Mary, beaming.
“I told you so,” she said delightedly, “the Queen is sorry. She pinched my ear just now, and smiled at me, and bade me come to her in her private parlour in half an hour; and I shall put my petition then; so be ready, Master Anthony, be ready and of a good courage; for, please God, we shall save him yet.”
Anthony looked at her, white and scared.
“What shall I say?” he said.
“Speak from your heart, sir, as you did to me yesterday. Be bold, yet not overbold. Tell her plainly that he is your friend; and that it was through your action he was betrayed. Say that you love the man. She likes loyalty.—Say he is a fine upstanding fellow, over six feet in height, with a good leg. She likes a good leg.—Say that he has not a wife, and will never have one. Wives and husbands like her not—in spite ofle petit grenouille.—And look straight in her face, Master Anthony, as you looked in mine yesterday when I was a cry-baby. She likes men to do that.—And then look away as if dazzled by her radiancy. She likes that even more.”
Anthony looked so bewildered by these instructions that Mary laughed in his face.
“Here then, poor lad,” she said, “I will tell you in a word. Tell the truth and be a man;—a man! She likes that best of all; though she likes sheep too, such as Chris Hatton, and frogs like the Duke, and apes like the little Spaniard, and chattering dancing monkeys like the Frenchman—and—and devils, like Walshingham. But do you be a man and risk it. I know you can manage that.” And Mary smiled at him so cheerfully, that Anthony felt heartened.
“There,” she said, “now you look like one. But you must have some more wine first, I will send it in as I go. And now I must go. Wait here for the message.” She gave him her hand, and he kissed it, and she went out, nodding and smiling over her shoulder.
Anthony sat miserably on the window-seat.
Ah! so much depended on him now. The Queen was in a good humour, and such a chance might never occur again;—and meantime James Maxwell waited in the Tower.
The minutes passed; steps came and went in the passage outside; and Anthony’s heart leaped into his mouth at each sound. Once the door opened, and Anthony sprang to his feet trembling. But it was only the servant with the wine. Anthony took it—a fiery Italian wine, and drew a long draught that sent his blood coursing through his veins, and set his heart a-beating strongly again. And even as he set the cup down, the door was open again, and a bowing page was there.
“May it please you, sir, the Queen’s Grace has sent me for you.”
Anthony got up, swallowed in his throat once or twice, and motioned to go; the boy went out and Anthony followed.
They went down a corridor or two, passing a sentry who let the well-known page and the gentleman pass without challenging; ascended a twisted oak staircase, went along a gallery, with stained glass of heraldic emblems in the windows, and paused before a door. The page, before knocking, turned and looked meaningly at Anthony, who stood with every pulse in his body racing; then the boy knocked, opened the door; Anthony entered, and the door closed behind him.
CHAPTER X
THE APPEAL TO CÆSAR
The room was full of sunshine that poured in through two tall windows opposite, upon a motionless figure that sat in a high carved chair by the table, and watched the door. This figure dominated the whole room: the lad as he dropped on his knees, was conscious of eyes watching him from behind the chair, of tapestried walls, and a lute that lay on the table, but all those things were but trifling accessories to that scarlet central figure with a burnished halo of auburn hair round a shadowed face.
There was complete silence for a moment or two; a hound bayed in the court outside, and there came a far-away bang of a door somewhere in the palace. There was a rustle of silk that set every nerve of his body thrilling, and then a clear hard penetrating voice spoke two words.
“Well, sir?”
Anthony drew a breath, and swallowed in his throat.
“Your Grace,” he said, and lifted his eyes for a moment, and dropped them again. But in the glimpse every detail stamped itself clear on his imagination. There she sat in vivid scarlet and cloth of gold, radiating light; with high puffed sleeves; an immense ruff fringed with lace. The narrow eyes were fixed on him, and as he now waited again, he knew that they were running up and down his figure, his dark splashed hose and his tumbled doublet and ruff.
“You come strangely dressed.”
Anthony drew a quick breath again.
“My heart is sick,” he said.
There was another slight movement.
“Well, sir,” the voice said again, “you have not told us why you are here.”
“For justice from my queen,” he said, and stopped. “And for mercy from a woman,” he added, scarcely knowing what he said.
Again Elizabeth stirred in her chair.
“You taught him that, you wicked girl,” she said.
“No, madam,” came Mary’s voice from behind, subdued and entreating, “it is his heart that speaks.”
“Enough, sir,” said Elizabeth; “now tell us plainly what you want of us.”
Then Anthony thought it time to be bold. He made a great effort, and the sense of constraint relaxed a little.
“I have been, your Grace, to Sir Francis Walsingham, and my lord Bishop of London, and I can get neither justice nor mercy from either; and so I come to your Grace, who are their mistress, to teach them manners.”
“Stay,” said Elizabeth, “that is insolence to my ministers.”
“So my lord said,” answered Anthony frankly, looking into that hard clear face that was beginning to be lined with age. And he saw that Elizabeth smiled, and that the face behind the chair nodded at him encouragingly.
“Well, insolence, go on.”
“It is on behalf of one who has been pronounced a felon and a traitor by your Grace’s laws, that I am pleading; but one who is a very gallant Christian gentleman as well.”
“Your friend lacks not courage,” interrupted Elizabeth to Mary.
“No, your Grace,” said the other, “that has never been considered his failing.”
Anthony waited, and then the voice spoke again harshly.
“Go on with the tale, sir. I cannot be here all day.”
“He is a popish priest, your Majesty; and he was taken at mass in his vestments, and is now in the Tower; and he hath been questioned on the rack. And, madam, it is piteous to think of it. He is but a young man still, but passing strong and tall.”
“What has this to do with me, sir?” interrupted the Queen harshly. “I cannot pardon every proper young priest in the kingdom. What else is there to be said for him?”
“He was taken through the foul treachery of a spy, who imposed upon me, his friend, and caused me all unknowing to say the very words that brought him into the net.”
And then, more and more, Anthony began to lose his self-consciousness, and poured out the story from the beginning; telling how he had been brought up in the same village with James Maxwell; and what a loyal gentleman he was; and then the story of the trick by which he had been deceived. As he spoke his whole appearance seemed to change; instead of the shy and rather clumsy manner with which he had begun, he was now natural and free; he moved his hands in slight gestures; his blue eyes looked the Queen fairly in the face; he moved a little forward on his knees as he pleaded, and he spoke with a passion that astonished both Mary and himself afterwards when he thought of it, in spite of his short and broken sentences. He was conscious all the while of an intense external strain and pressure, as if he were pleading for his life, and the time was short. Elizabeth relaxed her rigid attitude, and leaned her chin on her hand and her elbow on the table and watched him, her thin lips parted, the pearl rope and crown on her head, and the pearl pendants in her ears moving slightly as she nodded at points in his story.
“Ah! your Grace,” he cried, lifting his open hands towards her a little, “you have a woman’s heart; all your people say so. You cannot allow this man to be so trapped to his death! Treachery never helped a cause yet. If your men cannot catch these priests fairly, then a-God’s name, let them not catch them at all! But to use a friend, and make a Judas of him; to make the very lips that have spoken friendly, speak traitorously; to bait the trap like that—it is devilish. Let him go, let him go, madam! One priest more or less cannot overthrow the realm; but one more foul crime done in the name of justice can bring God’s wrath down on the nation. I hold that a trick like that is far worse than all the disobedience in the world; nay—how can we cry out against the Jesuits and the plotters, if we do worse ourselves? Madam, madam, let him go! Oh! I know I cannot speak as well in this good cause, as some can in a bad cause, but let the cause speak for itself. I cannot speak, I know.”
“Nay, nay,” said Elizabeth softly, “you wrong yourself. You have an honest face, sir; and that is the best recommendation to me.
“And so, Minnie,” she went on, turning to Mary, “this was your petition, was it; and this your advocate? Well, you have not chosen badly. Now, you speak yourself.”
Mary stood a moment silent, and then with a swift movement came round the arm of the Queen’s chair, and threw herself on her knees, with her hands upon the Queen’s left hand as it lay upon the carved boss, and her voice was as Anthony had never yet heard it, vibrant and full of tears.
“Oh! madam, madam; this poor lad cannot speak, as he says; and yet his sad honest face, as your Grace said, is more eloquent than all words. And think of the silence of the little cell upstairs in the Tower; where a gallant gentleman lies, all rent and torn with the rack; and,—and how he listens for the footsteps outside of the tormentors who come to drag him down again, all aching and heavy with pain, down to that fierce engine in the dark. And think of his gallant heart, your Grace, how brave it is; and how he will not yield nor let one name escape him. Ah! not because he loves not your Grace nor desires to serve you; but because he serves your Grace best by serving and loving his God first of all.—And think how he cannot help a sob now and again; and whispers the name of his Saviour, as the pulleys begin to wrench and twist.—And,—and,—do not forget his mother, your Grace, down in the country; how she sits and listens and prays for her dear son; and cannot sleep, and dreams of him when at last she sleeps, and wakes screaming and crying at the thought of the boy she bore and nursed in the hands of those harsh devils. And—and, you can stop it all, your Grace, with one little word; and make that mother’s heart bless your name and pray for you night and morning till she dies;—and let that gallant son go free, and save his racked body before it be torn asunder;—and you can make this honest lad’s heart happy again with the thought that he has saved his friend instead of slaying him. Look you, madam, he has come confessing his fault; saying bravely to your Grace that he did try to do his friend a service in spite of the laws, for that he held love to be the highest law. Ah! how many happy souls you can make with a word; because you are a Queen.—What is it to be a Queen!—to be able to do all that!—Oh! madam, be pitiful then, and show mercy as one day you hope to find it.”