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