II
He and Jack Drage were out for a long walk when the parson came to tea that afternoon—a walk of which Bill had been the instigator. He had dragged Jack forth, vigorously protesting, after lunch, and we had cheered them on their way. Bill had to get out of the house—I could see that. Then Dick and the girl had disappeared, in the way that people in their condition do disappear, just before Mr. Williams arrived. And so only Phyllis Drage was there, presiding at the tea-table, when I broached the subject of the history of the dining-room.
“He spoils paper, Mr. Williams,” laughed my hostess, “and he scents copy. Jack tried to tell the story last night, and got it hopelessly wrong.”
The clergyman smiled gravely.
“You’ll have to alter the setting, Mr. Staunton,” he remarked, “because the story is quite well known round here. In my library at the vicarage I have an old manuscript copy of the legend. And indeed, I have no reason to believe that it is a legend: certainly the main points have been historically authenticated. Sir James Wrothley, whose portrait hangs in the dining-room, lived in this house. He was a staunch Protestant—bigoted to a degree; and he fell very foul of Cardinal Wolsey, who you may remember was plotting for the Papacy at the time. So bitter did the animosity become, and so high did religious intoleration run in those days, that Sir James started counter-plotting against the Cardinal; which was a dangerous thing to do. Moreover, he and his friends used the dining-room here as their meeting-place.”
The reverend gentleman sipped his tea; if there was one thing he loved it was the telling of this story, which reflected so magnificently on the staunch no-Popery record of his parish.
“So much is historical certainty; the rest is not so indisputably authentic. The times of the meetings were, of course, kept secret—until the fatal night occurred. Then, apparently, someone turned traitor. And, why I cannot tell you, Sir James himself was accused by the others—especially Sir Henry Brayton. Did you say anything, Mr. Staunton?”
“Nothing,” I remarked quietly. “The name surprised me for a moment. Please go on.”
“Sir Henry Brayton was Sir James’s next-door neighbour, almost equally intolerant of anything savouring of Rome. And even while, so the story goes, Wolsey’s men were hammering on the doors, he and Sir Henry had this dreadful quarrel. Why Sir James should have been suspected, whether the suspicions were justified or not I cannot say. Certainly, in view of what we know of Sir James’s character, it seems hard to believe that he could have been guilty of such infamous treachery. But that the case must have appeared exceedingly black against him is certain from the last and most tragic part of the story.”
Once again Mr. Williams paused to sip his tea; he had now reached that point of the narrative where royalty itself would have failed to hurry him.
“In those days, Mrs. Drage, there was a door leading into the musicians’ gallery from one of the rooms of the house. It provided no avenue of escape if the house was surrounded—but its existence was unknown to the men before whose blows the other doors were already beginning to splinter. And suddenly through this door appeared Lady Wrothley. She had only recently married Sir James: in fact, her first baby was then on its way. Sir James saw her, and at once ceased his quarrel with Sir Henry. With dignity he mounted the stairs and approached his girl-wife—and in her horror-struck eyes he saw that she, too, suspected him of being the traitor. He raised her hand to his lips; and then as the doors burst open simultaneously and Wolsey’s men rushed in—he dived headforemost on to the floor below, breaking his neck and dying instantly.
“The story goes on to say,” continued Mr. Williams, with a diffident cough, “that even while the butchery began in the room below—for most of the Protestants were unarmed—the poor girl collapsed in the gallery, and shortly afterwards the child was born. A girl baby, who survived, though the mother died. One likes to think that if she had indeed misjudged her husband, it was a merciful act on the part of the Almighty to let her join him so soon. Thank you, I will have another cup of tea. One lump, please.”
“A most fascinating story, Mr. Williams,” said Phyllis. “Thank you so much for having told us. Can you make anything out of it, Tom?”
I laughed.
“The criminal reserves his defence. But it’s most interesting, Padre, most interesting, as Mrs. Drage says. If I may, I’d like to come and see that manuscript.”
“I shall be only too delighted,” he murmured with old-fashioned courtesy. “Whenever you like.”
And then the conversation turned on things parochial until he rose to go. The others had still not returned, and for a while we two sat on talking as the spirit moved us in the darkening room. At last the servants appeared to draw the curtains, and it was then that we heard Jack and Bill in the hall.
I don’t know what made me make the remark; it seemed to come without my volition.
“If I were you, Phyllis,” I said, “I don’t think I’d tell the story of the dining-room to Bill.”
She looked at me curiously.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know—but I wouldn’t.” In the brightly lit room his fears of the morning seemed ridiculous; yet, as I say, I don’t know what made me make the remark.
“All right; I won’t,” she said gravely. “Do you think——”
But further conversation was cut short by the entrance of Bill and her husband.
“Twelve miles if an inch,” growled Drage, throwing himself into a chair. “You awful fellow.”
Sibton laughed.
“Do you good, you lazy devil. He’s getting too fat, Phyllis, isn’t he?”
I glanced at him as he, too, sat down: in his eyes there remained no trace of the terror of the morning.