And, worst of all, this priest had lodged in the
tavern where the conspirators had lodged; he had talked with them the
night before their flight, and now, here he was, striving to get access
to her for whom all had been designed. Was there a soul in England that
could doubt his complicity?... And it was to her own house here in
Derbyshire that he had come for shelter; it was here that he had said
mass yesterday; and it must be from this house that he must ride, on one
of her horses; and it must be her hand that gave him the summons. Last
of all, it was she, Marjorie Manners, that had sent him to this life,
six years ago.
Then, as she took the letter, the shrewd woman in her spoke. It was
irresistible, and she seemed to listen to voice that was not hers.
"Does any here know that you are come?"
"No, mistress."
"If I bade you, and said that I had reasons for it, you would ride away
again alone, without a word to any?"
"Why, yes, mistress!"
(Oh! the plan was irresistible and complete. She would send this
messenger away again on one of her own horses as far as Derby; he could
leave the horse there, and she would send a man for it to-morrow. He
would go back to Fotheringay and would wait, he and those that had sent
him. And the priest they expected would not come. He, too, himself, had
ceased to expect any word from Mr. Bourgoign; he had said a month ago
that surely none would come now. He had been away from Booth's Edge, in
fact, for nearly a month, and had scarcely even asked on his return last
Saturday to Padley, whether any message had come.
Pages:
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363