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Come Rack! Come Rope! by Robert Hugh Benson

R >> Robert Hugh Benson >> Come Rack! Come Rope!




So then they sat and considered and talked. They did not speak much of
her Grace, nor of her Grace's religion, nor of her counsellors and
affairs of state: these things were but toys and vanities compared with
matters of love and faith; neither did they speak much of the
Commissioners that had been to Derbyshire once and would come again, or
of the alarms and the dangers and the priest hunters, since those things
did not at present touch them very closely. It was rather of Robin's
father, and whether and when the maid should tell her parents, and how
this new trouble would conflict with their love. They spoke, that is to
say, of their own business and of God's; and of nothing else. The frosty
sunshine crept down the painted wainscot and lay at last at their feet,
reddening to rosiness....


III

Robin rode away at last with a very clear idea of what he was to do in
the immediate present, and with no idea at all of what was to be done
later. Marjorie had given him three things--advice; a pair of beads that
had been the property of Mr. Cuthbert Maine, seminary priest, recently
executed in Cornwall for his religion; and a kiss--the first deliberate,
free-will kiss she had ever given him. The first he was to keep, the
second he was to return, the third he was to remember; and these three
things, or, rather, his consideration of them, worked upon him as he
went. Her advice, besides that which has been described, was,
principally, to say his Jesus Psalter more punctually, to hear mass
whenever that were possible, to trust in God, and to be patient and
submissive with his father in all things that did not touch divine love
and faith. The pair of beads that were once Mr. Maine's, he was to keep
upon him always, day and night, and to use them for his devotions. The
kiss--well, he was to remember this, and to return it to her upon their
next meeting.

A great star came out as he drew near home. His path took him not
through the village, but behind it, near enough for him to hear the
barkings of the dogs and to smell upon the frosty air the scent of the
wood fires. The house was a great one for these parts. There was a small
gate-house before it, built by his father for dignity, with a lodge on
either side and an arch in the middle, and beyond this lay the short
road, straight and broad, that went up to the court of the house. This
court was, on three sides of it, buildings; the hall and the buttery and
the living-rooms in the midst, with the stables and falconry on the
left, and the servants' lodgings on the right; the fourth side, that
which lay opposite to the little gate-house, was a wall, with a great
double gate in it, hung on stone posts that had, each of them, a great
stone dog that held a blank shield. All this later part, the wall with
the gate, the stables and the servants' lodgings, as well as the
gatehouse without, had been built by the lad's father twenty years ago,
to bring home his wife to; for, until that time, the house had been but
a little place, though built of stone, and solid and good enough. The
house stood half-way up the rise of the hill, above the village, with
woods about it and behind it; and it was above these woods behind that
the great star came out like a diamond in enamel-work; and Robin looked
at it, and fell to thinking of Marjorie again, putting all other
thoughts away. Then, as he rode through into the court on to the cobbled
stones, a man ran out from the stable to take his mare from him.

"Master Babington is here," he said. "He came half an hour ago."

"He is in the hall?"

"Yes, sir; they are at supper."

* * * * *

The hall at Matstead was such as that of most esquires of means. Its
dais was to the south end, and the buttery entrance and the screens to
the north, through which came the servers with the meat. In the midst of
the floor stood the reredos with the fire against it, and a round vent
overhead in the roof through which went the smoke and came the rain. The
tables stood down the hall, one on either side, with the master's table
at the dais end set cross-ways. It was not a great hall, though that was
its name; it ran perhaps forty feet by twenty. It was lighted, not only
by the fire that burned there through the winter day and night, but by
eight torches in cressets that hung against the walls and sadly smoked
them; and the master's table was lighted by six candles, of latten on
common days and of silver upon festivals.

There were but two at the master's table this evening, Mr. Audrey
himself, a smallish, high-shouldered man, ruddy-faced, with bright blue
eyes like his son's, and no hair upon his face (for this was the way of
old men then, in the country, at least); and Mr. Anthony Babington, a
young man scarcely a year older than Robin himself, of a brown
complexion and a high look in his face, but a little pale, too, with
study, for he was learned beyond his years and read all the books that
he could lay hand to. It was said even that his own verses, and a
prose-lament he had written upon the Death of a Hound, were read with
pleasure in London by the lords and gentlemen. It was as long ago as
'71, that his verses had first become known, when he was still serving
in the school of good manners as page in my Lord Shrewsbury's household.
They were considered remarkable for so young a boy. So it was to this
company that Robin came, walking up between the tables after he had
washed his hands at the lavatory that stood by the screens.

"You are late, lad," said his father.

"I was over to Padley, sir.... Good-day, Anthony."

Then silence fell again, for it was the custom in good houses to keep
silence, or very nearly, at dinner and supper. At times music would
play, if there was music to be had; or a scholar would read from a book
for awhile at the beginning, from the holy gospels in devout households,
or from some other grave book. But if there were neither music nor
reading, all would hold their tongues.

Robin was hungry from his riding and the keen air; and he ate well.
First he stayed his appetite a little with a hunch of cheat-bread, and a
glass of pomage, while the servant was bringing him his entry of eggs
cooked with parsley. Then he ate this; and next came half a wild-duck
cooked with sage and sweet potatoes; and last of all a florentine which
he ate with a cup of Canarian. He ate heartily and quickly, while the
two waited for him and nibbled at marchpane. Then, when the doors were
flung open and the troop of servants came in to their supper, Mr. Audrey
blessed himself, and for them, too; and they went out by a door behind
into the wainscoted parlour, where the new stove from London stood, and
where the conserves and muscadel awaited them. For this, or like it, had
been the procedure in Matstead hall ever since Robin could remember,
when first he had come from the women to eat his food with the men.

"And how were all at Booth's Edge?" asked Mr. Audrey, when all had
pulled off their boots in country fashion, and were sitting each with
his glass beside him. (Through the door behind came the clamour of the
farm-men and the keepers of the chase and the servants, over their
food.)

"I saw Marjorie only, sir," said the boy. "Mr. Manners was in Derby, and
Mrs. Manners had a megrim."

"Mrs. Manners is ageing swifter than her husband," observed Anthony.

There seemed a constraint upon the company this evening. Robin spoke of
his ride, of things which he had seen upon it, of a wood that should be
thinned next year; and Anthony made a quip or two such as he was
accustomed to make; but the master sat silent for the most part,
speaking to the lads once or twice for civility's sake, but no more. And
presently silences began to fall, that were very unusual things in Mr.
Anthony's company, for he had a quick and a gay wit, and talked enough
for five. Robin knew very well what was the matter; it was what lay upon
his own heart as heavy as lead; but he was sorry that the signs of it
should be so evident, and wondered what he should say to his friend
Anthony when the time came for telling; since Anthony was as ardent for
the old Faith as any in the land. It was a bitter time, this, for the
old families that served God as their fathers had, and desired to serve
their prince too; for, now and again, the rumour would go abroad that
another house had fallen, and another name gone from the old roll. And
what would Anthony Babington say, thought the lad, when he heard that
Mr. Audrey, who had been so hot and persevered so long, must be added to
these?

And then, on a sudden, Anthony himself opened on a matter that was at
least cognate.

"I was hearing to-day from Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert that his uncle would
be let out again of the Fleet soon to collect his fines."

He spoke bitterly; and, indeed, there was reason; for not only were the
recusants (as the Catholics were named) put in prison for their faith,
but fined for it as well, and let out of prison to raise money for this,
by selling their farms or estates.

"He will go to Norbury?" asked Robin.

"He will come to Padley, too, it is thought. Her Grace must have her
money for her ships and her men, and for her pursuivants to catch us all
with; and it is we that must pay. Shall you sell again this year, sir?"

Mr. Audrey shook his head, pursing up his lips and staring upon the
fire.

"I can sell no more," he said.

Then an agony seized upon Robin lest his father should say all that was
in his mind. He knew it must be said; yet he feared its saying, and with
a quick wit he spoke of that which he knew would divert his friend.

"And the Queen of the Scots," he said. "Have you heard more of her?"

Now Anthony Babington was one of those spirits that live largely within
themselves, and therefore see that which is without through a haze or
mist of their own moods. He read much in the poets; you would say that
Vergil and Ovid, as well as the poets of his own day, were his friends;
he lived within, surrounded by his own images, and therefore he loved
and hated with ten times the ardour of a common man. He was furious for
the Old Faith, furious against the new; he dreamed of wars and gallantry
and splendour; you could see it even in his dress, in his furred
doublet, the embroideries at his throat, his silver-hilted rapier, as
well as in his port and countenance: and the burning heart of all his
images, the mirror on earth of Mary in heaven, the emblem of his piety,
the mistress of his dreams--she who embodied for him what the courtiers
in London protested that Elizabeth embodied for them--the pearl of great
price, the one among ten thousand--this, for him, was Mary Stuart, Queen
of Scotland, now prisoner in her cousin's hands, going to and fro from
house to house, with a guard about her, yet with all the seeming of
liberty and none of its reality....

The rough bitterness died out of the boy's face, and a look came upon it
as of one who sees a vision.

"Queen Mary?" he said, as if he pronounced the name of the Mother of
God. "Yes; I have heard of her.... She is in Norfolk, I think."

Then he let flow out of him the stream that always ran in his heart like
sorrowful music ever since the day when first, as a page, in my Lord
Shrewsbury's house in Sheffield, he had set eyes on that queen of
sorrows. Then, again, upon the occasion of his journey to Paris, he had
met with Mr. Morgan, her servant, and the Bishop of Glasgow, her
friend, whose talk had excited and inspired him. He had learned from
them something more of her glories and beauties, and remembering what he
had seen of her, adored her the more. He leaned back now, shading his
eyes from the candles upon the table, and began to sing his love and his
queen. He told of new insults that had been put upon her, new
deprivations of what was left to her of liberty; he did not speak now of
Elizabeth by name, since a fountain, even of talk, should not give out
at once sweet water and bitter; but he spoke of the day when Mary should
come herself to the throne of England, and take that which was already
hers; when the night should roll away, and the morning-star arise; and
the Faith should come again like the flowing tide, and all things be
again as they had been from the beginning. It was rank treason that he
talked, such as would have brought him to Tyburn if it had been spoken
in London in indiscreet company; it was that treason which her Grace
herself had made possible by her faithlessness to God and man; such
treason as God Himself must have mercy upon, since He reads all hearts
and their intentions. The others kept silence.

At the end he stood up. Then he stooped for his boots.

"I must be riding, sir," he said.

Mr. Audrey raised his hand to the latten bell that stood beside him on
the table.

"I will take Anthony to his horse," said Robin suddenly, for a thought
had come to him.

"Then good-night, sir," said Anthony, as he drew on his second boot and
stood up.

* * * * *

The sky was all ablaze with stars now as they came out into the court.
On their right shone the high windows of the little hall where peace now
reigned, except for the clatter of the boys who took away the dishes;
and the night was very still about them in the grip of the frost, for
the village went early to bed, and even the dogs were asleep.

Robin said nothing as they went over the paving, for his determination
was not yet ripe, and Anthony was still aglow with his own talk. Then,
as the servant who waited for his master, with the horses, showed
himself in the stable-arch with a lantern, Robin's mind was made up.

"I have something to tell you," he said softly. "Tell your man to wait."

"Eh?"

"Tell your man to wait with the horses."

His heart beat hot and thick in his throat as he led the way through the
screens and out beyond the hall and down the steps again into the
pleasaunce. Anthony took him by the sleeve once or twice, but he said
nothing, and went on across the grass, and out through the open iron
gate that gave upon the woods. He dared not say what he had to say
within the precincts of the house, for fear he should be overheard and
the shame known before its time. Then, when they had gone a little way
into the wood, into the dark out of the starlight, Robin turned; and, as
he turned, saw the windows of the hall go black as the boys extinguished
the torches.

"Well?" whispered Anthony sharply (for a fool could see that the news
was to be weighty, and Anthony was no fool).

It was wonderful how Robin's thoughts had fixed themselves since his
talk with Mistress Marjorie. He had gone to Padley, doubting of what he
should say, doubting what she would tell him, asking himself even
whether compliance might not be the just as well as the prudent way. Yet
now black shame had come on him--the black shame that any who was a
Catholic should turn from his faith; blacker, that he should so turn
without even a touch of the rack or the threat of it; blackest of all,
that it should be his own father who should do this. It was partly food
and wine that had strengthened him, partly Anthony's talk just now; but
the frame and substance of it all was Marjorie and her manner of
speaking, and her faith in him and in God.

He stood still, silent, breathing so heavily that Anthony heard him.

"Tell me, Rob; tell me quickly."

Robin drew a long breath.

"You saw that my father was silent?" he said.

"Yes."

"Stay.... Will you swear to me by the mass that you will tell no one
what you will hear from me till you hear it from others?"

"I will swear it," whispered Anthony in the darkness.

Again Robin sighed in a long, shuddering breath. Anthony could hear him
tremble with cold and pain.

"Well," he said, "my father will leave the Church next Easter. He is
tired of paying fines, he says. And he has bidden me to come with him to
Matstead Church."

There was dead silence.

"I went to tell Marjorie to-day," whispered Robin. "She has promised to
be my wife some day; so I told her, but no one else. She has bidden me
to leave Matstead for Easter, and pray to God to show me what to do
afterwards. Can you help me, Anthony?"

He was seized suddenly by the arms.

"Robin.... No ... no! It is not possible!"

"It is certain. I have never known my father to turn from his word."

* * * * *

From far away in the wild woods came a cry as the two stood there. It
might be a wolf or fox, if any were there, or some strange night-bird,
or a woman in pain. It rose, it seemed, to a scream, melancholy and
dreadful, and then died again. The two heard it, but said nothing, one
to the other. No doubt it was some beast in a snare or a-hunting, but it
chimed in with the desolation of their hearts so as to seem but a part
of it. So the two stood in silence. The house was quiet now, and most of
those within it upon their beds. Only, as the two knew, there still sat
in silence within the little wainscoted parlour, with his head on his
hand and a glass of muscadel beside him--he of whom they thought--the
father of one and the friend and host of the other.... It was not until
this instant in the dark and to the quiet, with the other lad's hands
still gripped on to his arms, that this boy understood the utter shame
and the black misery of that which he had said, and the other heard.




CHAPTER II


I

There were excuses in plenty for Robin to ride abroad, to the north
towards Hathersage or to the south towards Dethick, as the whim took
him; for he was learning to manage the estate that should be his one
day. At one time it was to quiet a yeoman whose domain had been ridden
over and his sown fields destroyed; at another, to dispute with a miller
who claimed for injury through floods for which he held his lord
responsible; at a third, to see to the woodland or the fences broken by
the deer. He came and went then as he willed; and on the second day,
after Anthony's visit, set out before dinner to meet him, that they
might speak at length of what lay now upon both their hearts.

To his father he had said no more, nor he to him. His father sat quiet
in the parlour, or was in his own chamber when Robin was at home; but
the lad understood very well that there was no thought of yielding. And
there were a dozen things on which he himself must come to a decision.
There was the first, the question as to where he was to go for Easter,
and how he was to tell his father; what to do if his father forbade him
outright; whether or no the priests of the district should be told; what
to do with the chapel furniture that was kept in a secret place in a
loft at Matstead. Above all, there hung over him the thought of what
would come after, if his father held to his decision and would allow him
neither to keep his religion at home nor go elsewhere.

On the second day, therefore, he rode out (the frost still holding,
though the sun was clear and warm), and turned southwards through the
village for the Dethick road, towards the place in which he had
appointed to meet Anthony. At the entrance to the village he passed the
minister, Mr. Barton, coming out of his house, that had been the
priest's lodging, a middle-aged man, made a minister under the new
Prayer-Book, and therefore, no priest as were some of the ministers
about, who had been made priests under Mary. He was a solid man, of no
great wit or learning, but there was not an ounce of harm in him. (They
were fortunate, indeed, to have such a minister; since many parishes had
but laymen to read the services; and in one, not twenty miles away, the
squire's falconer held the living.) Mr. Barton was in his sad-coloured
cloak and round cap, and saluted Robin heartily in his loud, bellowing
voice.

"Riding abroad again," he cried, "on some secret errand!"

"I will give your respects to Mr. Babington," said Robin, smiling
heavily. "I am to meet him about a matter of a tithe too!"

"Ah! you Papists would starve us altogether if you could," roared the
minister, who wished no better than to be at peace with his neighbours,
and was all for liberty.

"You will get your tithe safe enough--one of you, at least," said Robin.
"It is but a matter as to who shall pay it."

He waved good-day to the minister and set his horse to the Dethick
track.

* * * * *

There was no going fast to-day along this country road. The frosts and
the thaws had made of it a very way of sorrows. Here in the harder parts
was a tumble of ridges and holes, with edges as hard as steel; here in
the softer, the faggots laid to build it up were broken or rotted
through, making it no better than a trap for horses' feet; and it was a
full hour before Robin finished his four miles and turned up through the
winter woodland to the yeoman's farm where he was to meet Anthony. It
was true, as he had said to Mr. Barton, that they were to speak of a
matter of tithe--this was to be their excuse if his father questioned
him--for there was a doubt as to in which parish stood this farm, for
the yeoman tilled three meadows that were in the Babington estate and
two in Matstead.

As he came up the broken ground on to the crest of the hill, he saw
Anthony come out of the yard-gate and the yeoman with him. Then Anthony
mounted his horse and rode down towards him, bidding the man stay, over
his shoulder.

"It is all plain enough," shouted Anthony loud enough for the man to
hear. "It is Dethick that must pay. You need not come up, Robin; we must
do the paying."

Robin checked his mare and waited till the other came near enough to
speak.

"Young Thomas FitzHerbert is within. He is riding round his new
estates," said the other beneath his breath. "I thought I would come out
and tell you; and I do not know where we can talk or dine. I met him on
the road, and he would come with me. He is eating his dinner there."

"But I must eat my dinner too," said Robin, in dismay.

"Will you tell him of what you have told me? He is safe and discreet, I
think."

"Why, yes, if you think so," said Robin. "I do not know him very well."

"Oh! he is safe enough, and he has learned not to talk. Besides, all the
country will know it by Easter."

So they turned their horses back again and rode up to the farm.

* * * * *

It was a great day for a yeoman when three gentlemen should take their
dinners in his house; and the place was in a respectful uproar. From the
kitchen vent went up a pillar of smoke, and through its door, in and out
continually, fled maids with dishes. The yeoman himself, John Merton, a
dried-looking, lean man, stood cap in hand to meet the gentlemen; and
his wife, crimson-faced from the fire, peeped and smiled from the open
door of the living-room that gave immediately upon the yard. For these
gentlemen were from three of the principal estates here about. The
Babingtons had their country house at Dethick and their town house in
Derby; the Audreys owned a matter of fifteen hundred acres at least all
about Matstead; and the FitzHerberts, it was said, scarcely knew
themselves all that they owned, or rather all that had been theirs until
the Queen's Grace had begun to strip them of it little by little on
account of their faith. The two Padleys, at least, were theirs, besides
their principal house at Norbury; and now that Sir Thomas was in the
Fleet Prison for his religion, young Mr. Thomas, his heir, was of more
account than ever.

He was at his dinner when the two came in, and he rose and saluted them.
He was a smallish kind of man, with a little brown beard, and his short
hair, when he lifted his flapped cap to them, showed upright on his
head; he smiled pleasantly enough, and made space for them to sit down,
one at each side.

"We shall do very well now, Mrs. Merton," he said, "if you will bring in
that goose once more for these gentlemen."

Then he made excuses for beginning his dinner before them: he was on
his way home and must be off again presently.

It was a well-furnished table for a yeoman's house. There was a linen
napkin for each guest, one corner of which he tucked into his throat,
while the other corner lay beneath his wooden plate. The twelve silver
spoons were laid out on the smooth elm-table, and a silver salt stood
before Mr. Thomas. There was, of course, an abundance to eat and drink,
even though no more than two had been expected; and John Merton himself
stood hatless on the further side of the table and took the dishes from
the bare-armed maids to place them before the gentlemen. There was a
jack of metheglin for each to drink, and a huge loaf of miscelin (or
bread made of mingled corn) stood in the midst and beyond the salt.

They talked of this and of that and of the other, freely and easily--of
Mr. Thomas' marriage with Mistress Westley that was to take place
presently; of the new entailment of the estates made upon him by his
uncle. John Merton inquired, as was right, after Sir Thomas, and openly
shook his head when he heard of his sufferings (for he and his wife were
as good Catholics as any in the country); and when the room was empty
for a moment of the maids, spoke of a priest who, he had been told,
would say mass in Tansley next day (for it was in this way, for the most
part, that such news was carried from mouth to mouth). Then, when the
maids came in again, the battle of the tithe was fought once more, and
Mr. Thomas pronounced sentence for the second time.

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