The fifth of November
by Charles S. Bentley · English · Gutenberg #30490 · 384,765 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The fifth of November
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The fifth of November
a romance of the Stuarts
Author: Charles S. Bentley
Frank Kimball Scribner
Release date: November 17, 2009 [eBook #30490]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/30490
Credits: Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Ritu Aggarwal and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER ***
THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER
CHARLES S BENTLEY
AND
F KIMBALL SCRIBNER
The Fifth of November
_A Romance of the Stuarts_
By
Charles S. Bentley and
F. Kimball Scribner
"No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close
As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turn'd when he rose"
--Thomas Moore.
Chicago and New York:
Rand, McNally & Company,
Publishers.
Copyright, 1898, by Rand, McNally & Co.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I. WHAT BEFELL AT THE SIGN OF THE LEOPARD. 1
II. IN THE SHADOW OF ST. PAUL. 11
III. THE HOME-COMING OF GUIDO FAWKES. 21
IV. THE SUPERIOR OF THE JESUITS. 33
V. WHY MASTER FAWKES WAS SUMMONED TO ENGLAND. 42
VI. "THE WISEST FOOL IN CHRISTENDOM." 52
VII. THE VISCOUNT EFFINGSTON. 61
VIII. IN THE GARDEN OF THE GENTLEMAN-PENSIONER. 73
IX. GARNET AND THE KING. 81
X. THE FORGING OF THE THUNDERBOLT. 89
XI. THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 97
XII. WHAT THE MOON SAW. 108
XIII. AT THE SIGN OF THE LEOPARD. 119
XIV. IN THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 130
XV. "THOU SHALT NOT KILL." 140
XVI. MONTEAGLE AND SALISBURY. 152
XVII. SOWING THE WIND. 158
XVIII. THE CELLAR. 167
XIX. THE NOTE OF WARNING. 178
XX. ON THE STROKE OF ELEVEN. 184
XXI. THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER. 192
XXII. FAWKES BEFORE THE KING. 200
XXIII. THE BANQUET. 207
XXIV. "IN THE KING'S NAME." 213
XXV. REAPING THE WHIRLWIND. 222
AUTHOR'S NOTE.
It has not been the intention of the authors of "The Fifth of
November" to write an historical novel, though, throughout the story,
they have endeavored to follow as closely as was consistent with the
plot in hand, the historical facts collected by the various writers
who have made the nature and workings of the "Gunpowder Plot" a
special study. With one or two exceptions, the characters in the
present romance have been borrowed from history, and, save in Chapters
XXI and XXII, the lines of the story have followed those traced by the
hand of the historian.
In presenting to the public this "Romance of the Stuarts,"
indebtedness is acknowledged by the writers to Professor S. R.
Gardiner's "What the Gunpowder Plot Was," and also to the history
of England as set forth by Knight, Hume, Froude and Ridpath.
THE AUTHORS.
New York, February, 1898.
THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER.
CHAPTER I.
WHAT BEFELL AT "THE SIGN OF THE LEOPARD."
Snow had fallen through the day, and as night approached all objects
were covered with a mantle of white. The noises incident to the life
of a great city had long since become muffled and indistinct. The
footfalls of those who traversed the streets could no longer be heard;
and the only sounds which now and again broke the silence, were the
voices of my lord's link-men, who, in goodly number, fully armed,
carrying flaming torches whose lurid dancing light shone through the
blinding snow, appeared at a distance to be a party of ancient saints
come forth from their tombs to indulge in a ghostly frolic under cover
of the night. The voices of the men, falling upon the snow-laden air,
sounded dull and echo-less as they heralded the approach of a chair to
some sharp turn or gateway. An armed escort in those days was no mark
of royalty or distinction, for it was not well or safe for men to
travel the streets alone after nightfall, as many a sinister face and
cloaked form lurked hid in the shadow of secluded corners and dark
by-ways, awaiting opportunity to cut the purse, or the throat, as need
be, of the solitary wayfarer.
Numbers were no guarantee of escaping unmolested; for of late the
rogues had become so bold that it was a common thing for a party of
gentlemen to be attacked successfully, as the ruffians mustered in
their ranks many soldiers of fortune who had served in Flanders,
France and Spain, and were well versed in the play of both sword and
dagger. These acts of robbery and murder were confined to no one
locality, but the vagabonds who perpetrated the deeds had haunts and
places of common rendezvous, and as night fell, these dens poured
forth upon the town their murder-bent crews.
In one of the most narrow and crooked of streets, often lost amid the
winding of greater thoroughfares, and safely hidden from the watchful
eyes of the King's soldiers, was situated a tavern, patronized for the
most part by those who replenished their purses when low, by running
some belated traveler through the back, and taking what money he had.
This tavern was famous among its patrons for its mulled ale, the like
of which, they swore could not be found in all London. To those who
had not partaken of this famous beverage, and knew not the inn by
reputation, its business was made known by a swinging sign, upon
which, very indifferently executed, was the figure of a leopard, and,
further, as if the artist had not sufficient confidence in his powers
of portrayal, he had printed in large and uncertain letters, "At the
sign of the Leopard may be found all manner of goodly cheer and
comfort." Below this evidence of what might be found within, a small
and narrow doorway gave entrance to the hostelry. Inside, a larger
room than the outer aspect of the place indicated, awaited the guest.
A low ceiling, blackened by age, and hung with numberless spider webs,
whose weavers had long since fled--driven thence by the clouds of
tobacco smoke puffed from the lips of many a sturdy knave who nightly
helped to fill the place. The walls of the room being paneled in some
dark wood to an unusual height, the three windows, which furnished
more air than light, were well up toward the ceiling. The sides of
this chamber were decorated with rows of pewter pots and flagons of
various shapes and sizes. The furniture consisted of half a dozen
rough tables and high-backed benches ranged about the sides. The floor
was freshly sanded, but rough in many places from the prominence of
knots, the softer wood being worn from around them by the shuffling of
numberless pairs of boots. An uncertain light proceeded from several
large candles standing in brass candlesticks, but most of the
illumination was due to a fire which burned briskly in a large stone
fireplace at the extreme end of the room, and gave to all an aspect of
warmth and good cheer.
Standing in front of the blaze was the host of the establishment,
attired in the costume of his time,--a loose jacket, linen breeches
and green apron. He was eyeing with a look of no small displeasure
three men seated at one of the tables, two of whom, by their actions,
seemed to have partaken a little too freely of the Leopard's special
beverage. They wore the dress of a class, which, by their manner, was
one of no great elevation. Long, soft, wide-brimmed hats adorned their
heads, while tight-fitting jerkins of very much soiled leather covered
their bodies. Trunks and tights of some faded material, and boots with
deep falling tops, completed their costume, unless there should be
added the two long bellguard rapiers lying upon the table, and to
which, from appearances, the gentlemen in question owed their
livelihood. The man seated opposite was thick-set and slightly under
medium height; instead of the leather jerkin worn by them, his body
was incased in a steel cuirass or breastplate, which, judging from
the numerous dents thereon, had turned the force of many a savage
thrust and blow. The face of the man was one which had long been
exposed to both sun and storm, and even pestilence had not spared it,
for in many places the disfiguring finger of smallpox had left its
mark. His beard was worn in the style favored by the soldiers of the
Spanish, rather than the English army, for it was pointed and
surmounted by a long, black and up-curling moustache, which added
fierceness to an already not too kindly countenance. His sword, a long
point and blade rapier of Italian pattern, still hung by his side, as
if even when surrounded by this good cheer, he, from habit born of
many a hard campaign, still clung to it.
"What, ho, John Tapster;" exclaimed he of the steel cuirass, banging
lustily on the table with the pummel of his sword, "another six-hooped
pot of thy best mulled ale, for the sour and remorseful wine of Spain
which I have drunk, ill befits my stomach."
The landlord advanced reluctantly to comply, with an air which plainly
showed he was divided in his mind between the doubt of a settlement to
an already long unpaid score, and the fear of personal violence did he
refuse the man his request. The love of a whole skin, however,
triumphed, for after filling the pot with ale and plunging the mulling
iron into it, which he had drawn from the fire, he set the desired
drink before his guest.
"By Sir Bacchus!" said the stranger, after taking a deep draught,
"'tis the only fitting liquid to put into one's body, if he wishes to
strike a stout blow for the King." Then, as he finished the pot, "It
seemeth well to drown the clinging dust of Spain within one's throat,
in merry English ale."
The landlord did not venture to reply to these offers of conversation;
he seemed loath to enter into friendly talk, when in all probability
he soon would be embroiled with the man in a dispute, if not in an
issue of more serious nature. However, the other, nothing daunted, and
gazing on his two companions, whom he discovered wrapped in drunken
slumber, snoring roundly, prodded them both with the scabbard of his
sword, which action eliciting from them nothing but a grunt, and being
desirous of further conversation, he again turned to him of the green
apron who had resumed his watchful scrutiny from before the fire, and
continued:
"Thou seemest but sparing of thy speech, Sir Host. Judge a man not
always by the company he keeps; these drunken knaves whose silly pates
would have been turned with milk of the morning's drawing, are no
comrades of mine; 'tis only a mere chance friendship. I was not over
particular in my pick of friends, being lately landed, and but too
glad to take up with the first varlets speaking my own sweet English;
after many months of naught but jabbering Spanish sounding in my ears
'twas well and pleasing to hear once more the brave tongue in which my
first aves were taught unto me."
"Aves have not, I trow, over-troubled thee," answered the landlord in
not too jovial a tone.
"Nay, nay, friend; be not quick to judge by weight of purse or hilt of
sword, for a man with not over much money in his gipsire may still
have that about him which would recommend him more."
"And what, pray, might that be?" inquired the other;--"a handsome face
and ready tongue? They are goodly coin to win the heart of some fair
maid, but naught of cakes and ale they'll buy thee when thy belly's
empty."
"Nay, I will offer neither, for I have none of them. The first was but
rudely handled some thirty years ago by plague, at Havre; the second's
had but small practice, and its tone was spoiled by breathing the damp
winds of the Flemish marshes. I leave such graces to the stay-at-homes
who twist a tap--but, a truce to this witty talk, for it makes but ill
friends, and I would ask of thee a favor, which will cost naught but
civility, that is cheap and in the end may gain thee much." So saying,
he put his hand into a small bag which hung at his side, drawing
therefrom a very much soiled and crumpled paper, and advancing with it
toward the host, continued: "I am but illy versed in such priestly
craft; the meaning I can understand, but its full intent may have
missed my stupid eyes. Canst thou decipher it for me, Sir Host?"
This direct appeal to his learning softened to some extent him of the
spigot, whose curiosity as well as pride was aroused, for the man
addressing him, judging from his speech, was a little above the usual
class who frequented the tavern. Reaching for a candle which stood
upon the mantel, that he might better see, and taking the letter with
grudging fingers, said in a slightly more gracious tone after a
moment's scrutiny, "It ill pleases me, that monkish writing, but print
such as honest John Caxton did manufacture, I can decipher right
readily." Then with knitted brow, during which the other man remained
standing, looking over his shoulder in an expectant attitude, he
continued: "For truth, I could at first but illy make it out; I have
it now." Then read from the paper:
"'To Guido Fawkes: In the Army of His Majesty, Philip of
Spain: I doubt not that thou rememberest my promise, made
some time since, which I have now the pleasurable opportunity
to fulfill. Much it pleaseth me to offer thee a place, the
duties of which will keep thee near thy daughter, and,
moreover, the reward of such being not below the merit of him
who, by my knowledge, most honestly gained it, and is well
worthy. If it suit thee to accept the charge I have to offer,
the naming of which I shall defer until we meet, detach
thyself from thy present occupation, repair to London with
all likely haste, and seek me at my house when soon arrived.
"'(Signed) SIR THOMAS WINTER.'"
"Beshrew my heart, but thou art a ripe scholar, landlord, and much I
marvel to see one with such goodly learning wasting time on knaves
like these," cried the man, pointing to his companions at the table;
"and pray," he continued, "since myself hath been introduced in name,
I would know thine also, so I might thank thee the heartier."
"Giles Martin, for want of better," replied the host, "and dost thou
know this Sir Thomas Winter?" he inquired after a moment, still
looking at the note in his hand.
"Aye, and for a right brave gentleman, who hath done me noble
service."
"For one done unto himself, I take it, from the purport of the
letter?"
"A small service, not worth the mentioning," replied Fawkes. "Once in
Spain, a gentleman--the self-same Sir Thomas, was sorely set upon by a
surly ruffian, who, in exchange for his purse, would have given him
Paradise." Then with a deprecating wave of the hand, which he dropped
on the hilt of his rapier, "'twas but a weakly blow I turned, and
spitted the varlet with my good sword here. Zounds," he continued with
a voice full of enthusiasm, "for this petty act he did conduct my poor
motherless lass out of a country where, to the men, a pretty face is
as flint to powder, and brought her safe to London and her grandam."
"You saved his life; 'twas a worthy object and a worthy deed,"
exclaimed Martin heartily, who had been watching the speaker narrowly
during his narration.
"Tut, tut; 'twas nothing; but I take it thou hast acquaintance with
him," said Fawkes, turning toward the other, with a manner which
denoted surprise at the landlord's outburst of appreciation, "and may
direct me unto his residence, for after many years' absence I am
lately come, and illy versed in London's streets which are as crooked
as a blade that hath lain long in the fire."
"In truth, I do know where he lives," said Martin (then continued in a
lower tone as if speaking to himself) "and further, that he's in none
too good favor with the King. But as to his address: if thou wilt take
the dome on St. Paul's as thy guide, which thou canst most readily
see, proceed thither, and when reached, continue down the street
running toward the left, a few more steps will bring thee to a house
surrounded by an iron railing; it is the one thou seekest." He
hesitated a moment, then continued as if good judgment had been
overcome by enthusiasm--"and when thou dost behold Sir Thomas, make
mention that Giles Martin (say naught of my present calling, for he
knows me not by that) sends his duty, and would again at his elbow cry
in the self-same voice, 'An Essex, An Essex!' Perchance," Martin
added, suddenly breaking off, fearing he had been incautious before a
stranger in connecting his name with an incident which had brought but
little honor with it, "that is why I am now doing this," taking a
soiled tankard from the table and wiping it on his apron.
"Gladly will I be the bearer of thy message, but as thou hast said,
why does Sir Winter stand in ill repute?"
"It may be," answered Martin, turning his gaze upon the two men at the
table, then setting down the tankard, "that he hath a quick temper and
a ready tongue, swift steeds in our time to pull a man's head upon the
block," and advancing toward the other concluded in a low voice full
of emotion, "mayhap memory doth hold up a mirror to his eye, in which
is reflected Mary's dripping head, chopped for her faith."
"Verily," cried Fawkes, in a loud tone characteristic of one not
afraid of voicing opinions that lay near his heart, "would that good
King James might look into the glass thou dost mention and see the
promises of his youth, for naught of promise or his mother's head
methinks----"
"Hist," whispered Martin, breaking in and laying his hand upon the
speaker, "a truce to such treason talk; naught has it done but brought
me to an ill-famed pot-house," he concluded in a thoughtful voice.
"Well, well, none of thy story will I ask; but in Spain they do illy
treat a heretic," Fawkes continued, looking significantly at the fire,
and pointing toward it with his outstretched arm; "a truce, as thou
sayest, for I must no longer tarry. Saint Paul's bell is on the stroke
of ten, and I would see Sir Winter, and (in a softer voice) my lass,
to-night; for honestly, I am more than anxious to see her pretty face;
first I must bid yon knaves good-bye." So saying he endeavored to
rouse the companions of his cups. Not being able however to bring them
to any degree of consciousness, he discontinued his exertions, and
turning toward the landlord, who had been watching his efforts, said,
laughingly: "'tis but little harm they'll do in sleep, and I trow
they are none too good when in their seven senses, so I will leave
them thus; but take thou from this the reckoning of us all, for naught
of gold they have, I swear"--handing the other a purse, which, after
extracting a sovereign, Martin returned to its owner.
"'Tis but a sorry night in which to travel," remarked the host,
pocketing the money and proceeding to rake the fire, while his guest
wrapped about himself a long, thick cloak which had hung over the back
of a bench.
"Aye, 'tis cold, and steel draws unto itself the frost," responded
Fawkes, as he finished his preparations for departure. "And now, Sir
Host," he continued, extending his hand, "farewell, but soon, when I
am once more to rights, it will do me pleasure to quaff a flagon in
thy honest company, for such is a man who knoweth Sir Thomas Winter,
and," he continued, drawing closer to the other, "is no prating
Protestant in these times when he who would seek a favor or gain a
title must blow out the candles on his altar, and break its images.
Start not at my words, for by thy very speech thou art no heretic, and
I do love thee the better for it. But see," he continued as he opened
the door, "the night is already mended, the snow hath ceased, the moon
shows bright, and by my troth, there is my guide," and he pointed to
the distant dome of St. Paul, on which a huge cross glistened in the
moonlight.
CHAPTER II.
IN THE SHADOW OF ST. PAUL.
In the heart of London, a musket shot distance from the great dome of
St. Paul, stood a dwelling of no mean pretension occupied by one
Thomas Percy, Gentleman-Pensioner, a man of goodly parts, blood
relative of the Earl of Northumberland and well known as a Catholic,
though, by reason of his office, there attached to him scant suspicion
in the minds of the King's ministers that his faith overlapped his
loyalty.
On the same night which witnessed the appearance of Guido Fawkes and
his drunken companions at the "Sign of the Leopard," there were
gathered together, in an upper chamber of Percy's dwelling, four
gentlemen. The house was an official structure given over as a meeting
place for certain of the King's commissioners, the room wherein they
sat being well adapted for the discussion of such matters as it seemed
inexpedient to let reach the ears of those whose business called them
not within the council chamber.
A snow storm made the night exceeding chilly, so three of those who
came to partake of the hospitality of the Pensioner had provided
themselves with ample cloaks, which, closely wrapped about their
persons, and covering the lower portions of their faces, precluded
recognition, were any, by chance, to accost the wearer on the King's
highway. Although few were abroad on account of the extreme cold, and
those few would not have marveled that a gentleman should be closely
muffled even as a secret assassin, or highwayman, or noticed that the
three went not together to the outer door of the house, still each
came separately, knocking thrice upon the panel, whereupon Sir Percy
himself opened to him, that he might enter quickly.
Being safe within, and the room warmed by great logs which sputtered
in the open fireplace, the three laid aside their cloaks, and sat
uncovered in the presence of their host, who, the better to discourse
with each, occupied a place at the head of the long table about which
were wont to sit the commissioners of the King.
That the little gathering was not composed of churchmen, or learned
doctors of the day, might have been easily guessed by their
youthfulness and dress. Scarce past five and thirty, with clear cut
features, well knit frames, dignity of carriage, apparel of the higher
class, and the court rapier then in vogue, hanging at the side of
each, designated them as gentlemen.
Having drained with nervous haste a goblet of wine which stood before
him, he who was the Pensioner turned with a frowning brow to his
companions:
"Gentlemen!" said he, half rising from his seat, "shall we always talk
and never do anything?"
This appeal uttered in an impatient voice moved each of his guests in
a manner strikingly dissimilar. One on the right sitting with back to
the door, turned uneasily as though fearing that the portal stood
open, and that, on the threshold, might appear a stranger, or
perchance the King's officer. Another, clad in a suit of gray velvet,
drummed nervously upon the table, while the third, who seemed to be
the eldest of the four, frowned darkly. To him the host turned
impatiently.
"Ah!" cried he, "my words have struck you illy, my Lord Catesby, that
you frown so ominously!"
"Nay, Percy!" replied the other, the shadow of a smile playing about
the corners of his mouth. "Thy words but recalled me to my duty. As
thou sayest, we have spoken much, and I did but consider that talking
would scarce pull from the throne----"
He who was attired in the gray velvet started. "Not so plainly; not so
openly, my good Catesby!" he interrupted, "or as my name be Jack
Wright, I----"
The language of his companion aroused the dormant energies and spirit
of Catesby.
"Faith!" cried he, bringing his clenched hand down upon the table,
"methinks the adventure with my Lord of Essex hath left thy stomach
but poorly fitted for so tough a morsel as the undoing of the 'Wisest
Fool in Christendom.' Even Sir Digsby, who but now turned trembling
toward the doorway, hath more spirit for the undertaking. Hath not
Percy touched the keynote of our ill condition? What matters it that
we writhe under the despotism of James Stuart? Wherefore are the penal
laws renewed? Why hath England driven from her shores those who would
serve us in our churches? Where is our Mass, our altars and the images
of Holy Mother Church? Would we call on France, Spain and the Holy
Father to sweep from the land this band of heretics who fear not God,
nor respect the faith of five centuries of English kings? I tell thee,
Sir John Wright, friend and fellow churchman though thou art, that
'tis to us--to all the Catholics in England--that the world looks for
action. Will France act while we are idle? Thinkest thou Spain hath so
soon forgotten the Armada, that she will consent to aid while we
remain under cover? 'Tis for us to open a way whereby may enter those
who stand without, seeking our deliverance. Words beyond count, like
the drops of the ocean, have been uttered since James came to the
throne, yet are we free? 'Tis not words, I tell thee, but action,
swift, sharp and merciless, that will put down our enemies. Fearest
thou the block? Did Essex, did Moore, a hundred others whose faith was
their life, fear the headsman? Good Percy hath brought us to our
senses and surely thou must see the truth of it."
Having thus delivered himself Catesby sank into his seat, his face
white from the intensity of the fire which burned within him. His
companions remained silent, so great was their astonishment at the
openly expressed earnestness of Catesby. Percy was the first to regain
speech.
"It ill becomes us," said he, "that a quarrel should arise in a
company gathered for the discussion of so weighty a matter. Yet the
words of Sir Robert Catesby are well balanced, and the time draws nigh
when this same James Stuart shall know that there yet remain good
Catholics in England. Sir Thomas Winter----"
"Ah! Sir Thomas Winter!" broke in Digsby, "the hour is long past and
he is yet absent."
"There be some good reason," said Wright quickly. "Sir Thomas is too
good a Catholic, too earnest in the undertaking which will yet free us
from the heretic, to absent himself willingly. And," turning to
Catesby with hand extended, "I thank thee that thou hast thus spoken
so boldly; would there were more like thee to arouse the Catholics of
our country."
The frown passed as a cloud from the brow of the elder conspirator.
"Forgive me!" cried he, "if my words bore too much of the flame of
impatience and too little of that unity which should ever be between
us. As to Sir Winter, fear nothing; even now, I warrant he is on his
way hither, having perhaps been delayed by some slight adventure, for
the times are troublous and after nightfall a gentleman may not walk
with perfect safety through the streets of London."
As though in answer to this confidence, the speaker had scarcely
finished, when there sounded through the house three muffled raps, and
Percy, uttering an exclamation, hastily left the room.
"It may, indeed, be Winter," said Digsby, "or, perchance, Rookwood,
although he made known to me but yesterday, that certain business
demanded his presence in the country."
The sound of the opening and closing of the street door precluded a
reply. There was a clatter of feet upon the stairs, and into the room
came Percy, followed by two men whose forms and features were
concealed by their huge cloaks.
The three at the table arose hurriedly, each with hand upon the hilt
of his sword, but the words of one of the new comers changed their
look of alarm into one of welcome.
"Faith!" cried he who pressed close behind Percy, "wherefore would you
be so ready to draw blades at the coming of a comrade? Come! Sir
Robert Catesby, and thou Wright, and Digsby, seest not that the cold
hath well nigh overcome me? Wine, therefore, wine, that we may pledge
each other in our venture."
So saying, Sir Thomas Winter cast aside his cloak, revealing a figure
clad in doublet and hosen of somber brown, offset by slashes of
cardinal, and the gilt of the sword belt which girded his hips.
"Welcome!" cried the others, crowding about him, "thou art, in truth,
doubly welcome, as thy coming is so long after the appointed hour."
Endeavoring to get a better view of him who closely followed Winter,
Catesby made a gesture of interrogation.
Sir Thomas laughed softly. "Ah! Good Catesby!" said he, "thou wert
ever of a most careful nature. Know, then, that yonder cavalier is, in
truth, one of whom I have so often spoken, Guido Fawkes; an old
comrade of the wars, and whom I have brought hither that I might
introduce him to so good a company, a cheerful fire and a goblet of
Sir Percy's stoutest wine."
At the name of Fawkes, pronounced by Winter with an intonation which
would have puzzled any one not familiar with certain matters known
only to a few in England, Catesby, Wright and Digsby cast searching
glances at the new comer, as though seeking to read in the impassive
features of the soldier of fortune some riddle which heretofore had
puzzled them. As to Fawkes, not deigning to notice the evident
curiosity with which the three gentlemen greeted him, he allowed his
cloak to fall upon the floor, walked to the fireplace, and stood with
back to the blaze, his eyes fixed upon the face of Winter.
"Come!" said that personage, accepting the goblet which Percy tendered
and passing it to Fawkes, "you are surprised that I appear among you
with Master Guy at my heels. It was, indeed, a happy venture that
threw us together."
"Happy, forsooth," replied Wright, "but yesterday thou didst tell us
that this same bold captain was even now in Spain, though thou hadst
summoned him hither."
"And so I thought him," said Winter, "fighting among the Dons that the
gold pieces might jingle more merrily in his wallet. Yet he is here,
and to-morrow at my own house we will confer together. What sayest
thou, friend Guido?"
"Faith!" replied Fawkes, setting down the goblet which he had drained
to the bottom, "'twas for that same purpose I came to London, also to
see once more my daughter."
"That thou shalt," broke in Winter heartily, "and a better favored
wench can scarce be found in all the kingdom."
Percy and Catesby exchanged glances. Winter continued:
"But first, perchance, 'twould be to the liking of the company that
I make known the manner of so unexpected a meeting, when, thinking
Friend Guido basked beneath the skies of Spain, I fell across him 'mid
the snows of London."
"'Twas of little import," spake Fawkes gruffly; "a cast of fortune,
the simple drawing of a blade, such as once befell when thou didst
serve in Spain."
"As to that," replied Sir Winter, "these gentlemen can judge when they
hear concerning it. 'Tis true, that had this same bold cavalier
remained in Castile, Thomas Winter were now ready for burial."
"Then," cried Percy, "thou art doubly welcome, Master Fawkes, as
perchance thou shalt learn presently."
Having refilled the goblets Winter seated himself before the fire.
"I was delayed some two hours by certain matters within my own
dwelling," began he, "and it was with exceeding impatience that I
hastened hither, not following the most public highways, but seeking a
shorter passage through unfrequented alleys, in order to join you the
sooner.
"Methinks I had gone some two thousand paces, my face muffled and
sword ready to hand, when suddenly there sprang upon me from the
shadow of a doorway, two ruffians, who, making short shift of
courtesy, demanded my purse and such valuables as were upon my person.
Having slight desire for so rude a giving, I did straightway put my
back against a wall, and with drawn blade contended against the two.
They, being persons of fixed purpose, and withal, excellent swordsmen,
had near ended the matter by thrusting me through, when most
opportunely came a third man who, perceiving two against one, thrust
the larger of the ruffians through the back, and would have done
likewise with the other, but the fellow took to his heels and ran as
though the devil pursued him.
"The adventure was quickly over, and my rescuer coolly wiping his
blade upon the cloak of the dead robber did swear roundly in Spanish,
for that his amusement had been of so short duration.
"'Faith!' growled he looking up at me, ''tis not thus they fight in
Spain; yet, having perchance rendered thee some slight service, canst
thou, good sir, direct me to a certain dwelling, hard by St. Paul's,
wherein may be found one Sir Thomas Winter, to seek whom I have come
to London?'
"Much amazed at his words I scanned him closely, for his voice had a
familiar ring in my memory.
"'Zounds!' cried he, noting that I sought to read his features,
'wherefore dost thou look so hard upon me? Hath the air of Spain----'
"'Fawkes!' cried I, seizing him by the shoulders, ''tis truly my
friend Guido!'
"'Ah!' said he gruffly, 'then thou knowest me?'
"'And why not?' I replied, 'having sent for thee.'
"At this his astonishment was great, yet was he pleased that he had
come upon me so handily. He had, he told me, but just arrived in
London, having come hither to obtain service under me, and to see once
more his daughter."
"And," said Fawkes, Winter having finished, "having so quickly found
one, I would seek the other. Blood is thicker than water, and I
warrant me the lass is much improved both in stature and knowledge.
'Tis now close upon the morning, good gentlemen, therefore I pray
thee, Sir Winter, direct me whither I shall go, being in sore haste to
find her."
Winter drew Catesby aside, whereupon a whispered consultation
followed, the drift of which was evidently known to Percy, Wright and
Digsby, though Fawkes wondered somewhat at it. His impatience soon
showed itself.
"Zounds!" cried he, striking with his clenched hand the hilt of his
rapier, "I am much beholden to thee, Sir Winter, and later--but now, I
pray thee, make haste, that I find my daughter."
Catesby flushed angrily, for the words of the soldier of fortune
struck illy upon his haughty temper, and he would have replied, but
Winter pressed his arm.
"Good Guido," said he, soothingly, "thy haste is most commendable. Go
then to thy daughter, and that thou mayest not miss the way, follow
closely the directions I shall give thee. Upon leaving Sir Percy's
door, turn thou to the left, going down the street which leads past
the gate of St. Paul's. Proceed five hundred paces, then turn about to
thy left, when thou wilt see before thee a narrow street, upon the
corner of which is situate a gabled dwelling, bearing upon its peak a
golden arrow. Count then two score doors from the corner, and upon the
three and fortieth, knock loudly; 'tis there thy daughter dwelleth."
At Winter's words all signs of impatience vanished from the soldier's
manner.
"By the keys of Peter!" cried he, "I am much beholden to thy lordship.
Having spoken with the lass, where may I find thee?"
"Fear not," replied Winter, "for in the evening, about the hour of
nine, I will come for thee. Go thou, then, speedily."
Fawkes made haste to snatch his cloak, and having wrapped it about
him, bowed to the company and, preceded by Percy, clattered down the
stairs.
"Methinks he will serve us," muttered Winter; "yet, good Catesby, must
we deal gently with him, for, being of an exceeding rough nature,
'twill need but an ill-timed word to turn him into gunpowder."
CHAPTER III.
THE HOME-COMING OF GUIDO FAWKES.
"By my hilt!" exclaimed Fawkes, as he closed the door of the council
chamber and wrapped his long cloak well about him, "'tis a merry night
I've had; first, in none too clean a pot-house; then a stout thrust
for good Sir Thomas,--'twas passing strange that I did once more stand
twixt him and glory; and, last of all, a stoup of good old wine in the
company of a most noble throng. Indeed, good Guido," he continued, as
musing to himself he walked along, "thou wert made, I marry, for
better things than cracking the knavish pates of yellow Dons; but
guard thy touchy temper well, for even to-night thou couldst but sadly
brook a small delay, and wouldst have answered my Lord Catesby's
haughty look with scant courtesy. I fear thy warlike nature would
poorly thrive upon a diet of quiet living. But these be times when the
dogs of war are ill leashed, and need small urging to slip their
fetters and bark and bite anew. I question much what the morrow holds,
and would that Sir Thomas had made some mention of my employ.
"By St. George," he added after a moment, slackening his pace as if a
sudden thought occurred to him, "they did seem but poorly pleased to
see a strange face standing in their door, until Sir Walter stood
sponsor for the same. Aye, and what names had these noble
gentlemen--Catesby, Wright, Digsby, Percy! All good Catholics," he
continued, a cunning smile twitching the corners of his mouth. "And,
who is King? Why, James Stuart, to be sure, a most bigoted Protestant!
What was it that Master Martin said about Mary's dripping head? Well,
well, friend Guido, thy good sword may not be red with rust alone;
wait but a little while, and thy employment may be most pleasing to
thy taste, and thy conscience, also." Then he drew his cloak more
closely about him and quickly proceeded on his way.
At last, following the direction given him by Winter, Fawkes arrived
before a small, neat house, situated in the outskirts of the city;
stopping in front to make sure it was the one for which he was in
quest, he proceeded up the steps and knocked thrice. No answer
followed his summons, and after several moments of waiting, which were
consumed in the stamping of feet and walking up and down, for it was
bitterly cold in the frosty air, he again repeated the announcement of
his presence to those within, this time with better result. The sound
of a casement opening, caused him to look up, and he beheld the
wrinkled visage of an old woman, who, with blinking red-rimmed eyes,
and night-cap on her head, stood regarding him with an air of evident
disfavor, for presently she cried in a shrill, toothless voice, "Get
thee gone, thou beggar, I have naught for thee." "By my soul, good
mother," answered the man, laughing heartily, "thy welcome doth match
the morning air in warmth. Dost not know thy son Guy?"
"By the blessed Virgin!" exclaimed she, in half-frightened tones,
evidently engendered by a most wholesome respect for her son, "wait
but a trice until the door be unbarred." Saying which, she hastily
withdrew her head and closed the window. Immediately after, the shrill
tones of her voice were heard within the house, crying: "Mistress
Elinor! Mistress Elinor! hurry down and let thy sire in, for he stands
without!" A moment of silence, followed by the drawing of bolts, and
suddenly the door was thrown open, disclosing the figure of a girl,
who, with outstretched arms, exclaimed: "My father!"
Standing bathed in the rosy light of coming day, she was in high
contrast to the rough, weather-beaten man, who quickly clasped her to
his breast. The pale and lightly tinted olive complexion, which showed
descent from some far-off Castilian ancestor, harmonized well with the
dainty but clear cut features. A shapely head, surrounded by a wealth
of dark and glossy hair, carried downward from the temples and
gathered into a knot behind, so as to completely cover the fragile
ears, formed a fitting frame for eyes of the darkest violet, which, as
they gazed up into his, showed the fondest love. A soft gray gown,
half closed at the throat and fastened about the waist by a silver
girdle, completed the attire of a slender but perfect figure, thrown
into bold outline by her attitude.
"Forsooth," exclaimed Fawkes, as soon as he could speak for her
caresses, "methinks thou at least art glad to see thy old father once
again." Then, as he held her at arm's length, that he might better
gaze upon the face, "indeed, thou art changed; 'tis the promise of the
bud fulfilled in the blossoming flower. But let us in, for the cold
air ill becomes me after the warming sun of Spain, and frost but
roughly handles such tender plants as thou art."
"Nay, nay!" exclaimed she, closing the door and throwing her arms
about him, "thy tender plant is naught but a sprig of hardy ivy, which
hath needed these many months the sturdy oak on which to cling." Then,
with a little shiver, and a laugh, as her warm body rested against the
cold steel of his breastplate, "thou dost give thy ivy but a chilly
hold, Sir Oak."
"Ah," said Fawkes, looking at her; "thou wert always the same dainty
puss, but I trow this cold cuirass hath been warm enough even for thy
nestling, as down it hath gushed the warm blood of many a valiant foe
killed in close conflict. But enough of battles now, my pretty, for
home once more am I, and not sorry to let such bloody deeds rest."
Unfastening his cloak, sword and breastplate, he threw himself into a
chair before the fire which burned brightly on the hearth.
"But where's thy good grandam?" queried he, "must she tarry to put on
silks and satins in which to bid her son a welcome?"
"Nay," replied the girl with a laugh, kneeling at his side; "she, poor
soul, was but half awake; for these cold days illy suit her bones, and
she doth lie long in bed."
"And thou," said the man, taking her head between his hands, "art up
like a lark, to bid thy father welcome. Didst expect my return?"
"Sir Winter made mention of thy coming, but set no special day for thy
arrival," answered the girl, a shadow passing over her face as she
looked into the blaze.
"And did he say for what I was to come?" inquired Fawkes, evidently
anxious to set his mind at rest upon that subject.
"That he did not," she replied, still gazing abstractedly at the fire,
"but simply said that if thou camest to England he would give thee
service which would keep thee and me near to each other. And,"
continued she, suddenly turning toward him and taking both his hands
in hers, "thou wilt not leave me again for so long a time; I have been
sore lonely and oft have felt the need of thy sturdy arm on which to
lean."
"That I will not, my pretty dear," said Fawkes, drawing her closely
to him; "and thou didst really miss me, whom some do illy term a
pock-marked ruffian?"
"Indeed, thou art no ruffian!" Elinor cried, her eyes ablaze in a
moment; "and if any one so dared to call thee, I'd----"
"Well, well!" the father exclaimed, evidently surprised and looking
into the flushed face, "my sweet rose hath thorns as well as blushing
leaves, and would, I dare swear, strike a good blow for her sire's
name. By good Sir Cupid, but I do pity the one who doth try to balk
thy temper, little woman."
"And soon will come a time when thou wilt have a brave gentleman to
pity," broke in a mumbling voice which made the two start and turn.
The figure of an old woman, bent by age, with face resembling an
ill-fitting parchment mask placed upon a skull, advanced toward them.
"By the blessed dead, mother!" said Fawkes, arising, "thou didst turn
my blood with thy prophetic voice; but hast thou not a blessing for
thy son?"
"That I have, good Guido, and most glad am I to see thee back! I gave
thee a rude greeting from the window, for my eyes and ears have failed
of late, but I am not so blind that I cannot see two brave gentlemen
tied to my lady's girdle there," she cried, with a wheezy laugh,
pointing her trembling hand at the girl who stood with an arm drawn
through her father's.
"What is this tale?" said Fawkes, with feigned sternness, turning
toward his daughter; "hath thy pretty ways been breaking hearts
already?" Then, as he observed the blushing face and downcast
eyes:--"There, there, my darling; all in good time. When thy heart
doth open of its own accord, thy father's ear will ever be a willing
listener. By Venus," he continued in a voice full of admiration, as he
gazed upon her fair figure, "I could not marvel or condemn if thou
hadst fifty gallants at thy little heels, and would but admire the
rogues the more for their excellent taste in beauty. But," he added,
evidently wishing to turn the conversation on noting her
embarrassment, "I have not broken bread for nigh onto fifteen hours;
after I have taken food I will listen to thy pretty tale, and tell
thee many a one such as thou once wert fond of. Dost remember how thou
didst, long ago, climb upon my knee, and tugging with thy baby hands
at my shaggy beard, beg for a story ere thy bedtime came?"
"That I do," exclaimed the girl, all her embarrassment gone; "but
first I will set before thee what our larder affords."
So saying, and aided by the old woman, she began preparations for the
morning meal. Having done ample justice to the repast quickly set
before him, and having lighted a long pipe from a coal without the
blaze, Fawkes again settled himself before the fire, and, after two or
three long puffs, turned toward Elinor, who was employed about the
room, and said:
"Now, my pretty little housekeeper, thou hast done enough; sit thee
beside thy father. It is long since he hath known the pleasure of thy
sweet face and a blazing hearth, and the good grandam seems ill
company, for there she nods but a drowsy greeting," added he, pointing
with his pipe to the old woman, who had fallen asleep in a remote
corner of the chamber.
"Dost thou remember the last time we sat so?" asked the girl, as she
came and knelt beside him, placing an arm upon his shoulder; "'twas
the night before I left for England; and, oh! it was a most sorry
time." Then fingering the ends of her silver girdle and glancing at
the old woman, who was still asleep, she began in a hesitating voice:
"Mayhap the speech of my good grandam might mislead thee into thinking
me but a sorry flirt. Therefore, I would make explanation, which is
most easy, and set thee right."
"I thought naught of it, daughter, for I am much too well acquainted
with her mischief-working words, that are ever ready to brew a
trouble. If thou hast aught to say, however, and would feel better for
the telling, pray go on, and know an ever-loving heart awaits thy
speech," replied Fawkes, stroking her hair.
"Then thou must know," she began abruptly, "that Sir Thomas Winter is
a frequent caller at this house, and, my father, how can I tell thee
for the very shame of it? He hath never spoken to that effect, but
there are many thoughts ne'er proclaimed by tongue which are most
loudly uttered by eye and hand, often, too, more truly eloquent are
they than those framed in simple words; and by this very language yet
outspoken, I know soon will come the day when there will be asked a
heart----" she broke off suddenly and buried her face in her
hands--"that is not now mine to give."
"There, there, my pretty one, stop thy crying, for thine eyes were
made for smiles and not for grief. It is naught so bad; Sir Winter is
a fine gentleman and much we owe him. But thou art my daughter, and I,
a poor, rough soldier; it would be an ill-assorted match; in truth, I
believe that the lark should not pair with the golden finch, who would
soon tire of her sweet song, because she lacked the yellow feathers of
her mate. What, dost thou but cry the harder for my words? I have not,
I know, the tender touch of a mother to dry thy tears, but a more
willing hand to comfort cannot be found." Then he added tenderly: "If
thou hast aught more to tell, open thy heart to me and I will play the
woman for a while."
"Think not, then, from my tears," she suddenly exclaimed, lifting her
head and confronting her father with that spirit which is often hid in
a seemingly gentle nature, "that I am ashamed of him on whom my love
doth fall; or, rather, of him to whom my love doth mount, for he is as
far above me in worth, as I beneath him in station. But what hath
equality to do with it? Is it so--that love is only right between
those whose purses tip the scale alike? Nay, that would be a
sacrilege, for this mortal love of ours is the one thing which lifts
us from the earth. Doth God not love the most unworthy of his
creatures? Would it be just to say that salvation should be meted only
to those who are the Creator's equal? Who of us, then, would escape
the flame? Not so," she continued, her eyes ablaze with the intensity
of her emotion. "It is that very affection bestowed upon us by our God
that lifts us poor mortals into fellowship with him. Love knows no
laws of title, tithes or wealth, and by the very act of loving, the
peasant rightly seats himself beside the king. Ah, think not, dear
father," she cried, falling on her knees, "that I would lightly cast
aside a wish of thine. Dwell but upon the love that thou once felt,
and remember it is she, the reflection of that self-same love, who
seeks thy aid."
There was silence, broken only by the sobs of the kneeling girl.
Fawkes regarded his daughter with an air of evident surprise, not
unmixed with anxiety in anticipation of what might follow; for every
action showed she was wrought up to the highest state of excitement
and earnestness. After a moment he said in a quiet voice: "I trust
these hot words of thine are but the outcome of some foolish fancy,
which, like the silly scorpion, will kill itself with its own
violence. But thou hast not told me all; until I am fully advised, my
counsel can be but scant. What name hath he? What title doth he hold?
For by thy speech he must be noble?"
"Herbert Effingston," replied the girl.
"I know not that name," answered the other, after a moment's musing.
"And his title?"
"Viscount Herbert Effingston, son of Lord Monteagle."
"Thou hast indeed flown high," Fawkes cried, with a sudden outburst of
passion. "Because I love thee I would wish thee dead, aye, dead," he
continued, fiercely, raising himself from the chair, "rather than have
thee bear the hated name of Monteagle."
"But thou knowest no evil of him," cried the girl, springing to her
feet. "He is good; he is true and noble; aye, and hear me, it was he
who saved my life--a life thou lovest. I know what thou wouldst say,
but the son is not holden for his father's sins; he is not----"
"But he is of the brood," thundered Fawkes, now thoroughly aroused;
"the litter of the jackal will eat the holy dead left by its
sire--'tis in their nature. Monteagle!" he repeated with fine scorn.
"And marry, that would be a pretty name for thee to choose--a name
that hath done more to set aside our Holy Catholic Church than all the
fiends in hell. What I know is true," he exclaimed, seizing her by the
arm. "Hark to what I say to thee; even I have heard, for ill fame
flies with swallow's wings swiftly across the sea, and when I am done,
if thou still dost love, pray to the Madonna to stop the beating of a
heart that holds so unworthy a regard. Thou sayest the son saved thy
life--by what means I know not. Think you that doth make amends for
all the evil done by him and his? Enough of this, and listen," he
continued, mastering his anger and pacing up and down the room.
"Monteagle and his son, both Catholics, and until James Stuart reached
the throne, most valiant champions of their faith, have, since the
scepter reached the hands of that wise fool, endeavored by all the
foul means within their power, to defeat the efforts of their fellow
churchmen, which, as thou knowest--and all England as well--were
directed against those laws which meant the downfall of our church.
Did these hell hounds come boldly out and show a lusty fight--which
would, in a small degree, have recommended them? Nay, that is not the
nature of the serpent. They falsely affirm themselves most strong
adherents to the Pope, receive the confidences of the Papal Delegates,
and by treasonable use of this knowledge of their secret mission,
defeat them ere they strike a blow. Is it for truth that they are
against the faith? Not so; for the hypocrites do cross themselves and
bow before the Host. Is it for a principle that they act thus? Nay,
for they have none. What, then, is their object? It is to gain favor
with the King, and place themselves by underhanded, sneaking ways
where true merit ne'er could raise them. Ah, my daughter," he cried,
with a voice full of supplication, "I love thee much too well to cause
thy heart a single pang. Canst thou not see it all aright? And even if
for love of me thou wilt not pluck this passion from thy heart, then
do it for the love thou owest God."
While her father had been speaking, the girl stood motionless, every
line on her face showing plainly the conflict raging within her
breast. Her eyes were dry, for there are griefs so deep and searing
that they, with their fiery tongues, do lick up the springing tears
before they can fall. It was not in her nature to love lightly; to her
passion meant more than a mere auxiliary to her existence; simply
making life brighter and happier; every action, deed or thought,
however trivial and far removed from him, by some subtle influence
like that which turns the magnetic needle toward the north, had been
turned to bear upon this love of hers. The accusations just uttered
concerning his traitorous actions with regard to her faith, influenced
her but little; for her attitude toward religion resembled that of
most of her kind; the pure feminine mind turns instinctively toward
that which they deem great and good, believing, as a rule,--shall we
say ignorantly?--in all which is said to issue from a source they
cannot comprehend, and which they fear for the mystery attached to it.
Man, by instinct, loves power and dominion over others. Woman
substitutes for that characteristic the longing to be ruled, and in
that subordination of herself seeks protection. In this girl's breast,
the desire for a mystical and intangible power which promised to
protect, had been, to a degree, supplanted by the knowledge that there
awaited one who would clasp her in strong arms, and guard her against
all the world. Therefore the words spoken a moment ago had but little
weight, and played a small part in forming the resolution to which she
soon gave voice. Duty was clear. This poor, lonely man, her father,
who had known but little happiness, whose whole existence was summed
up in two great all-absorbing passions--a fearful, passionate belief
in God, and after that, his love for her,--for his sake she must make
the sacrifice.
"Ah!" thought she, "sacrifice means death, and my love can never die,
but I shall hide it, bury it deep within my bosom, until in time its
strength shall tear my heart asunder; then I, in place of love, will
be the sacrifice."
This, and more, quickly passed through her mind, but now she turned
toward the man with that wonderful self-control which only can be
found in woman, and said, in a quiet voice, devoid of passion and
malice, for she felt none:
"If it be thy wish, I will do it for love of thee."
"My daughter!" cried he, taking the motionless figure in his arms,
"thou hast saved me from a living hell. Thou wilt soon find I have
brought but good counsel. Pluck this poisoned shaft from out thy
heart, and if the wound hurt, soothe the smart with sweet knowledge of
my love, and above all, with a sense of justice done to God. Forget,
my pretty one, thy father's hasty temper; or, if remembered, let it be
only as called forth by love of thee. But we shall talk no more of
passions; let them go. Come now beside me, while I rest, for I am sore
weary after my long journey. Sit so," he continued, reclining on a
bench before the blaze, taking the white hand she offered and drawing
her down to him, "that I may not lose thee again, even in my dreams."
She silently complied with his request. It would have been impossible
to express what was in her mind, so paralyzed and benumbed was it by
the heavy blow which had suddenly fallen. As the fingers which held
hers gradually relaxed in slumber, she slowly sank upon her knees, and
with outstretched arms, in a tearless voice, exclaimed: "Oh, my love,
thou who art my life; since on earth I must forever be without thee,
let some kindly hand give me unto death!"
CHAPTER IV.
THE SUPERIOR OF THE JESUITS.
While Guy Fawkes held converse with his daughter, the five gentlemen
he had left at Percy's house were soberly discussing the weighty
matters which had drawn them together. The sun had already gilded the
dome of St. Paul, when Winter, Catesby, Wright and Digsby made ready
to take their departure. On the threshold of the chamber Catesby
paused, and turning to Percy, said: "'Twill mayhap be two days ere I
again come to thee, for it is my purpose to make a journey into the
country, that I may gain better understanding concerning certain
matters which rest heavily on my mind; therefore marvel not if for one
night I be absent."
"Thou goest then to Worcester?" asked Winter.
"Aye, to Hendlip that, in its wisdom, the counsel of the Church may
direct me. Having gone so far 'twere ill to draw back, yet methinks
there is another whose words we must not treat lightly."
"Garnet!" burst forth Digsby.
Winter started. "Not here," he whispered quickly, "name not one whose
zeal hath banished him from England. Let James once know that he is
yet among us, and not a hiding place in Britain could shelter him."
And a wise precaution it was that the name of Henry Garnet should not
be brought to the King's notice. Balancing the advantage of being
neither Catholic nor Protestant, the accusation that he was about to
favor the Papists, had so angered James, that he cast aside all
pretentions of toleration to the adherents of Rome. Coming to the
throne with promises of favor to the Catholic nobility, he had renewed
with great severity the laws of repression, and the banishment of the
Jesuits. Many of the latter had sought refuge in the houses of the
more zealous Papists, and among them Henry Garnet, Superior of the
Order of Jesus in England, an accomplished scholar, and a man of mild
demeanor, though an uncompromising adherent to his faith. 'Twas to
Garnet, that Catesby, troubled in spirit and, perhaps, uncertain of
the undertaking which lay before him, had resolved to turn, that the
advice of the wily Jesuit might strengthen his purpose, or check for a
time, his zeal in the desperate venture which at present filled his
mind.
Some two hours after leaving his companions, Catesby, mounted upon a
powerful chestnut mare and wrapped closely about with a fur lined
cloak, cantered slowly through the streets of London which led to the
outskirts of the city facing the northwest. The storm of the previous
night had ceased, and the country side lay wrapped in a mantle of
white, broken here and there by the gray wall of some silent
habitation from whose chimneys the first blue smoke was rising in
circling clouds through the crisp morning air.
Having reached the open country, the rider set his horse into a
gallop, for his destination lay many leagues away, and it was his
purpose to reach it ere nightfall. Hendlip House stood near the middle
of a spacious park thickly studded with trees; the structure itself
was surrounded by shrubbery, and contained within its walls many
secret hiding places, trap doors and double wainscotings. It had been
constructed by one Thomas Abington, a devoted recusant of the reign of
Queen Elizabeth, and the dwelling was a famous resort for those whose
desire it was to conceal themselves from the authorities. 'Twas there,
the Superior of the Jesuits, together with a clerk of that Order,
Oldcorne by name, and Owen, a servant, had been taken by certain of
the Catholic gentry, among whom were Lord Rookwood and Sir Everard
Digsby.
That precaution had been observed to guard against surprise was shown
by the presence of a watchman, who, on the arrival of Catesby outside
the manor grounds, stepped from his lodge that he might hold converse
with the new comer, and if an officer, or one attached to the
Parliament, might give warning to those within the house.
Upon perceiving, however, that it was Sir Robert Catesby who came thus
unexpectedly to Hendlip, the man doffed his cap, returning a civil
greeting to the rider's remark upon the coldness of the weather.
"Has my Lord Rookwood passed this way?" inquired he, reining in his
horse.
"He has, in truth," replied the servant, catching dexterously the
silver piece tossed him. "Even now, together with Mistress Vaux, he is
within the house."
"Vaux! Anne Vaux!" muttered Catesby, "there must be then some weighty
matter afoot that she comes to Hendlip." And touching his horse with
the spur, he galloped up the avenue which led to the main entrance of
the mansion. Being well known by its inmates he was at once conducted
to an upper chamber, the door of which was unbarred by Owen, who
motioned him to enter.
There were three occupants of the room. Before the great fireplace,
ablaze with logs, sat Henry Garnet. Scarce past middle age, the
learned prelate was a striking figure, clad though he was in the
simple, dark-hued garb of his Order. Beneath a brow white and smooth
as a child's, shone a noble countenance, gentle almost to effeminacy,
but redeemed by firm lines about the mouth, and the intensity of the
steel-gray eyes. As Catesby entered, these eyes, which had been gazing
abstractedly into the fire, lighted with a smile of welcome.
One of the Jesuit's companions was a personage whose dress and manner
proclaimed him a noble of the period. He leaned indolently against the
frame of the wide window facing the avenue, through which the horseman
had come, and he it was, Lord Rookwood, who first announced to the
Prelate that a visitor approached.
The third occupant of the apartment was a woman. Born and bred in
luxury, the daughter of a peer of England, Anne Vaux was numbered
among the most devoted followers of the Superior. Scarce six and
twenty, she had passed her minority at the court of Elizabeth, and the
accession of James the First had marked no change in the life of the
lady-in-waiting. Anne of Denmark, pleased with the loveliness of the
daughter of Lord Vaux, had retained her near her person.
Pausing on the threshold, Catesby took in the three personages at a
glance, but it was to the Jesuit that he offered his first salutation,
dropping on one knee as Garnet extended his hand, upon a finger of
which glistened the signet ring denoting his holy office.
"Welcome, Sir Robert Catesby!" murmured the Prelate, motioning the
cavalier to draw near the fire. "'Tis, indeed, a most happy
circumstance which brings to Hendlip so devoted a servant to the cause
of God."
"The more happy," replied Catesby, "that I find your Reverence of good
cheer, and in converse with my Lord of Rookwood and Mistress Vaux."
"They are truly of much comfort to me in my solitude," said the
Superior, "and with the help of God I have patience to remain in
idleness, that at the time of harvest I may be ready."
Catesby cast a quick glance at Rookwood, but the imperturbable face of
the latter told him nothing. It was Anne Vaux who spoke.
"'Tis but little, indeed, the followers of this most holy man can do
to comfort him," she said softly, "yet it seemeth fit that such of us
as may, shall make known to him that even the court of James----"
Garnet smiled. "Anne!" said he, turning his gray eyes affectionately
upon her, "'tis a comfort beyond human utterance." Then to Catesby:
"But thou hast ridden hard, good son?"
"That I may benefit by thy wisdom," replied Sir Robert, "for my soul
is troubled."
"A confession!" cried Anne, rising quickly. "Therefore I will retire
with my Lord of Rookwood."
The latter shrugged his shoulders; evidently it but poorly fitted his
desire that the conversation with the Superior should be unheard by
him. Catesby noted his displeasure, and signaled him to remain. Garnet
comprehended the matter.
"Not so!" said he, "I warrant me, good Catesby seeketh not the
confessional, but to render certain reports concerning that which hath
transpired in London, and of which Lord Rookwood hath some
understanding. Yet, lest our discourse weary thee, good Anne, thou
mayst retire, and if it please thee, return when our conference is
ended." So saying, he arose and conducted her to the door.
When alone with the two gentlemen, the Prelate looked fixedly at
Catesby.
"It were fitting," said he "that Mistress Vaux, zealous though she be,
know not too much concerning the temper of our following. Now tell me
quickly what hath arisen to disturb thee."
Catesby walked thrice about the room, then stopped before the Jesuit
and said soberly:
"That which agitates my mind is, perforce, the same matter which
troubles thee--a holy father of the Church, my Lord of Rookwood, and
some tens of thousands of loyal Catholics in England. 'Tis the broken
promises of James--the overthrow of our religion, the----"
Garnet checked him.
"Thou speakest as a true Catholic," said he, "yet has thy grievance
been long endured. There are many men whose childhood witnessed these
selfsame wrongs."
"Aye!" cried Catesby, seizing the hand of the Superior, "our
sufferings have, indeed, been of long duration, but we looked to the
ascension of the new King to lessen evils which have pressed so hard
upon us. 'Twas to James of Scotland----"
The eyes of the Jesuit blazed fiercely.
"Wretched country!" cried he, stretching out his arms, "thou hast in
truth suffered long, and the blessing of Most Holy God hath gone from
thee. Thy soul is troubled, Sir Robert Catesby, thou, who art free to
live as suiteth thee! Thinkest thou then that I, whom the Holy Church
hath appointed to teach her children, suffer nothing being thus a
prisoner behind the walls of Hendlip House? If thou art vexed at
thought of penalties, and cruel enactments against thy brethren, what
thinkest thou of the happiness of one to whom banishment without voice
or trial, such as are granted to the lowest criminal, follows from so
unjust a law? What have I done, wherein lieth the crime of all the
priests in England, that the hand of James is turned against us? If
thou seek out the King, or question the Parliament, and ask wherefore
we are driven from our churches--they will answer thee, 'Ye are
Catholics.'"
During his words, spoken with the fire of an ardent spirit, the
slender form of the Jesuit seemed to tower, as an enraged deity, above
the persons of his two companions. But having poured out the
bitterness of his soul, the meekness of the man asserted itself, and
sinking into a chair he buried his face in his hands. The sight
aroused Catesby to madness.
"Aye!" cried he, advancing to the Prelate's side, "I will go to James,
but 'twill not be to test his arguments. One thrust and thou, with all
Catholics, will be free."
Drawing out his sword he threw it at the feet of the silent Jesuit.
"Bless thou therefore this trusty blade, good Father, that it may do
its work quickly. Bless it, and me, for ere night comes again 'twill
have drunk the blood of the heretic!"
The recklessness of the other's purpose roused Garnet from his
lethargy.
"Thou art mad, good Catesby," said he sadly; "that thou thinkest to
kill the King of England. Put up thy sword! 'Tis not through the
violence of one man that England will be freed. We have waited long
already; pray for patience that thou mayst bear with meekness the
burden which rests heavily upon thee. Thinkest thou I groan not under
it?"
Catesby might have replied in anger, but the voice of Rookwood
forestalled him.
"There are many gentlemen in England this day who from waiting have
grown weary, and who hope no more for indulgence from the King and his
Parliament. Some there may be, who, even as good Catesby, have in
their minds resolved upon most desperate measures. If it be then a sin
to----"
Garnet turned upon him saying:
"A sin! A sin to slay the King of England?"
"Yet one who hath broken his promises, forsaken the religion of his
mother, and who, blind to the mercy of God, doth seek to uproot this
holy cause!" cried Catesby.
Whatever might have been the ultimate purpose of the Jesuit, whether
as an Englishman he recoiled at the thought of the assassination of
his King, or, as a Catholic, his zeal overbalanced his loyalty, he saw
that it was quite time to curb the fanatical tendencies of his
companions. The very life of the Catholic religion in England, his own
safety, and that of his fellow priests, might be sacrificed by a
premature attempt on the part of Catesby, or some of his followers, to
end their wrongs by the murder of the King. With the keen perception
which Garnet eminently possessed, he saw that the desired change in
the religious policy of the government could only be brought about by
a farther reaching blow than the removal of the person of James. Nor
would a decided objection on his part to their purpose serve his ends,
for it was his policy to draw about him the leading Catholic gentry of
the kingdom. He therefore cast about for a middle course whereby those
whose zeal had overcome their discretion might be pacified. The
remembrance of Anne Vaux suggested an expedient.
"Good Catesby, and thou, Lord Rookwood," said he blandly, "your zeal
in the cause hath much endeared you to me, yet, it were well to
proceed with due caution in so grave a matter. Perchance King James
hath it in his mind to extend to us that kind indulgence which we
crave for. Ye know that the Parliament of England is composed of many
who prate much about their liberties, and if James seek to aid us by
dissimulation, 'twere an ill thing to cut the unripe corn."
"What then, good Father?" asked Catesby.
"Thou knowest," replied the Jesuit, "that Mistress Vaux is closely
united to the Court. Maybe thou knowest, also, that there is a certain
gentleman, close to the King, who would make Anne his mistress. 'Tis a
truth that the wit of woman worketh much, and it comes to me that this
courtier, to please Anne Vaux, might seek to discover what is in the
mind of his master regarding the Catholics of England."
"'Tis a happy thought," said Rookwood, "if we be benefited."
"All is in the hands of God," replied Garnet solemnly, and rising he
touched a bell which summoned Owen from the ante-chamber.
"Good Owen," said he, "bear to Lady Vaux my desire for her presence;
our conference is ended."
CHAPTER V.
WHY MASTER FAWKES WAS SUMMONED TO ENGLAND.
Elinor sat by the fire with a piece of embroidery in her hand. Her
thoughts were evidently not upon it, for ever and anon she would lay
down the work and sink into deep meditation, which ended in sighs;
then, recollecting herself, the busy fingers would once more resume
their task. The sound of footsteps echoing in the corridor without,
caused her to turn toward the door, through which a man presently
entered, who exclaimed in a petulant voice, as he ineffectually
endeavored to fasten a sword belt: "Come, my daughter, lay down thy
pretty work for a moment, and aid thy father to gird this cursed
baldric about him, for the ends be as coy as an old maid and her
lover." She arose to comply with his request, and quickly fastened the
desired buckle, then inquired, on noting his attire:
"Dost thou go abroad to-night?"
"Verily, I do, if Sir Thomas doth keep his appointment. 'Tis past the
hour of nine, and much I marvel that he hath not yet arrived."
"Then I will now bid thee good night," she answered, approaching and
about to kiss him, when hearing one coming up the steps caused her to
delay.
"There, by St. Paul, he is at last," as a knock sounded on the door.
"Run, my daughter, and open to Sir Thomas."
The girl hesitated a moment as if loth to comply, then stepped into
the hall and withdrew the bolt. Soon the tones of a man's voice could
be heard exclaiming: "A good evening to thee, Mistress Elinor. It is
but fitting that an angel should unbar the door of Paradise, for I
deem the house naught else wherein thou dwellest." Kissing the
reluctant hand which he held, then observing Fawkes, who had advanced
to greet him, "Well, well, friend Guido; thou lookest fit for a battle
royal, with thy long war rapier girded by thy side. But," he
continued with a laugh, "it would ill become thee to go abroad poorly
armed in my company, for we do in truth seem to invite attack when
together. Did thy father tell thee, Mistress Elinor, of his adventure
yester-night, which had for its intent the rescuing me again from dire
straits?"
"Nay, he did not; for my father's brave deeds need not his tongue to
set them forth, and he is much too modest to narrate his exploits,
even though they had so worthy an object as the saving of thy life,"
she replied with a little courtesy.
"Marry," broke in Fawkes, "I was marveling why thou didst not come,
and was thinking perchance 'twould be better to go outside and listen
for the sound of a distant brawl." Then observing the small court
sword which hung by the other's side, he continued, pointing toward
it: "Thou art but lightly equipped. I wonder much that thou dost go so
poorly prepared; but," he added, loosening his long rapier from its
scabbard, "thy purse is safe to-night at least. Wilt come for a moment
to the fire, and warm thyself?"
"I cannot, though much I regret that precious time forbids; if thou
art ready, methinks we had best depart."
"I am ever at thy service," cried Fawkes, and turning towards his
daughter, who had thrown a long cloak over his shoulders, "I'll wish
thee a good repose, sweet one, for 'twill be late ere I return."
Embracing her, then going toward Winter, he continued: "'Tis most
pleasing to have a pretty face on which to kiss a sad good-bye, and
know that loving arms await to greet a happy return."
"Aye, that it is," he responded, biting his lip and watching the two;
"but we poor single men have no such bliss, and must be content to
watch the happiness of others. Still, there is left me the sweet
sorrow of saying good night." He extended his hand to the girl, who
let hers rest for an instant within his. "Now, if thou art ready,
Master Fawkes, I will follow."
The two passed out into the night, both turning, however, when half
way down the path to wave a parting adieu to the fair figure standing
within the door. For some little distance the men continued on in
silence, each engrossed in thought. At length, Winter observing that
Fawkes seemed well aware as to the direction they were taking,
exclaimed with some little surprise: "Master Guido, one would think
the way to my residence an old traveled road to thee, but if I
recollect aright, this to my knowledge is the first time thou hast
gone over it."
"Marry, but I have a guide, Sir Thomas," pointing to the dome of St.
Paul's church, which reared itself dark against the star-studded sky.
"Beshrew my heart, doth some angel of heaven fly before thee?" as just
at the moment Fawkes turned sharply down another street leading to
their destination.
"Nay, I have not that to point the way, but a friend of thine gave me
the direction. I did not think to tell thee the first night of our
meeting, for we had other matters of more pointed nature to engross
our thoughts," he added with a laugh, striking his sword; "and it did
slip my tardy mind that I was the bearer of a message from him to
thee."
"I can but illy guess who he may be; but, pray, say on, by what name
went he?"
"Giles Martin; and he did wish I would convey his best respects and
wishes for thy good welfare."
"By St. Peter! Where didst thou run across the man? I had deemed him
long dead, for naught have I seen of him these many years."
"The truth is, Sir Winter, he wished no mention made of his present
whereabouts; but I deemed thou hadst a sturdy friend in him, and,"
continued Fawkes, looking at the other significantly, "he did seem
well informed on divers topics concerning these troubled times."
"What dost thou mean, friend Guido?" asked Winter, turning a quick
glance toward Fawkes.
"I am but a plain man, and thy outspoken question invites little but a
plain reply. Therefore, I'll repeat his words, which were that thou
didst stand poorly with those in high places, and, further, the times
were such that hot outspoken opinions on certain subjects were apt to
be quickly followed by the whistle of an axe flying through the air,
and that the King----"
"A truce," Winter broke in, laying his hand upon the other's arm and
looking behind with some alarm as the two entered a thoroughfare,
which, by the number of people passing up and down, indicated their
approach to a central portion of the city; "by holy St. Dunstan, frame
not thy speech in such loud words, for it might be illy construed. But
here we are at our destination, and when within, thou mayst recite all
that Master Martin told."
The two paused in front of an iron railing surrounding a court-yard,
on which fronted a residence of no mean pretensions. After unlocking
the wicket, Winter, followed by his companion, proceeded up the walk,
and passing through the main doorway, entered the house.
"This is the first time, Fawkes, that I've had the honored pleasure of
thy company at mine own fireside," exclaimed Winter, when inside,
throwing his fur-lined coat upon a chair. Then observing that his
companion was already busily engaged in examining a trophy of swords
which decorated the wall, he continued: "What, do thy warlike eyes
ever seek the implements of thy trade? See, Guido, there is a suit of
mail that a valiant ancestor of mine did wear at Crecy," pointing
toward a stand of armor.
"Indeed," answered the other, examining it, "he must of necessity have
been brave, for, I can but illy see how running could be done, even if
the spirit prompted the legs, attired in this heavy harness."
"And now, if thou be ready," exclaimed Winter, evidently anxious to
arrive quickly at the task of the evening, "I will conduct thee to a
chamber wherein we may hold converse without fear of interruption."
The two proceeded, Winter leading the way to the end of the hall, and
passing through a heavy open door, which closed behind them, entered a
room well adapted to the discussion of such things as must not fall on
untrusted ears. The chamber was one of spacious proportion, but on
account of its massive black furniture, seemed to be of medium size.
The walls were hung in some dark, unfigured tapestry, which added to
the somberness of the apartment, and tended to spread over all an air
of gloom. The dimness of the place was in some degree relieved by a
crackling fire burning upon the hearth, and two silver candelabrums
holding lighted tapers, stood upon an oaken table occupying the middle
of the room.
The only window in the place opened down to the floor, leading out
upon a balcony overlooking the court-yard, and the interior of the
chamber was hidden from those passing by heavy curtains, which now
were closely drawn. A divan, several massive black oak cabinets, and
three or four high-back chairs completed the furniture of the room,
with the exception of a small table, on which stood a large and
curiously wrought silver flagon and several tankards.
"Come Master Guy," cried Winter, filling two of the cups, "let us
preface dry work with a drink of honest vintage, and then we will to
our task."
"With all my heart," replied Fawkes, taking the cup and draining it at
a draught.
"And now to business," exclaimed the other, seating himself by the
table and motioning his companion to a place opposite. Having settled
himself easily in the chair, shading his face from the light of the
tapers that he might better watch the countenance of the other, he
began in a quiet voice:
"I doubt not but thou didst deem it passing strange I made no
reference to the nature of the employment I had to offer thee, and,
mayhap," he continued, holding up his hand to silence an interruption
from his listener, "there hath arisen in thy mind suspicious thoughts
caused by a combination of incidents since thy arrival, which would
place me as one with whom to be identified were not as safe as serving
in the King's Guard. In point of fact, I refer particularly to the
outspoken words of our friend Giles Martin."
"In truth," responded the other, in that quick, brusque manner
belonging to his nature, "Master Martin did lay naught at thy door,
but what I, or any other righteous man, might deem an honor to a
house. Nay," he continued, with some vehemence, "if what he said be
true, then I am overjoyed to find employment with one whose faith is
his greatest crime."
"What may be the purport of thy words?" inquired Winter, slowly
turning a keen glance upon the speaker.
"I mean," exclaimed Fawkes, leaning over the table toward his
questioner, "that I would think it no disgrace to serve, or, if need
be, fall by the side of one who had the courage to openly or secretly
espouse the Catholic cause in these cross-breaking days. Aye, Sir
Thomas, I will speak without concealment, for I have guessed at many
things, and know full well that the time must soon be ripe when all
who have not craven hearts will arise in wrath, and by word of mouth,
of mayhap, if need be, by a more violent measure put down those who
advise the enactment of laws which have for their intent the uprooting
of the Church in this our Kingdom."
"By St. Michael!" exclaimed Winter, surprised that the other should
bring to the front so clearly his opinion on a subject upon which, he
had feared, it would require no small amount of questioning to elicit
anything, "thou dost astonish me with thine ardor; I always knew thee
as a brave churchman, but never----"
"Time hath altered my views on many subjects," interrupted Fawkes.
"The manners of the Spaniard are not always good, and their breath is
oft odorous of garlic; but by my troth, they know full well how to
treat a heretic," he added with a decisive nod of his head. "Say on,
for by thy manner I judge it is thine object to sound my depth in
certain matters. I know not what's afoot; but by St. Peter,"
continued he, striking the table a blow which made the tapers dance,
"if it hath aught to do with those--even though they be kings--whose
unholy hands would snuff our altar lights, thou canst count on Master
Guy to twist the rack or carry faggots."
During this recital Winter watched the other with keen attention.
Knowing Fawkes to be a man of indomitable will, combined with
undaunted courage, and one to stop at nothing in gaining ends
justified by his conscience, he had not hesitated to recommend him as
a valuable adjunct to the cause dear to himself and his companions.
Heavily the weight of responsibility rested upon him; it had fallen to
his lot that he should be the one to sound this man, and decide as to
how great or small a degree of their confidence might be given to him.
One error in judgment now might be followed by the death of all their
hopes, and by the thud of heads dropping into the axman's basket.
Therefore he weighed the matter well before saying:
"I did not over-estimate thy zeal. There are many things I would fain
tell thee, the purport of which methinks thou hast already guessed,
but which at present must not, for reasons, be spoken of. If thou art
willing for a time to remain in darkness, and take service as a
gentleman about my household, I can almost promise that the gloom of
thy ignorance on many matters may soon be dispelled by a lurid glare
which shall be red enough, even to thy liking. I have told thee
naught, but the very concealment of some things, to the observing,
doth show plainly what is hid. Ask no more, and, for the present,
content thyself with suppositions. If the conditions which I have
named suit thee, then thou wilt have access to these premises at all
times. Further, be my companion when I go abroad; for what is more
natural in these purse-cutting days than that a gentleman should
desire a lusty swordsman with him? Dost accept, and agree to all?" The
last word he pronounced with great emphasis.
"Aye, to all," responded the other grimly, arising and extending his
gauntlet.
"And I would further recommend," continued Winter, drumming on the
table with his fingers, "that thou say but little about this meeting,
even," looking narrowly at Fawkes, "to thy pretty daughter; for I have
remarked there is sometimes a certain visitor at thy house who, if the
report did reach his ears that two or three gentlemen of the Catholic
persuasion were closeted together, might denounce the assembling as a
conspiracy,--which would be most unjust--and bring the King's Guard
with small courtesy. Dost follow me, friend Guido?"
"That I do; but there's naught to fear; I know your meaning. Heretics
will no more darken my door."
"That is well, and I hope, truly spoken," replied Winter, nodding his
head in approval, and rising from his chair with an air of relief that
the business of the evening was settled. "Let us," he continued,
filling up the cups, "drink success to our compact."
"Ah!" cried Fawkes, pointing to the wine as it flowed from the
flagon's mouth, "A most fitting color be the draught;" then, as he
raised the tankard to his lips, "A toast, Sir Thomas, I will offer
thee. May we be as willing to give our blood when asked, as this good
flagon to yield its red cheer to us! And now I must set out for home,
and 'tis with a lighter heart than when I came. Dost thou wish my
presence here to-morrow?" he inquired as they reached the door.
"Thou mayst call on the stroke of ten, or thereabouts. Until then,
farewell."
The host watched the form of his guest disappear in the darkness, and
shutting the door, returned with a thoughtful step to the chamber
wherein they had been sitting. Filling a cup with wine and raising it
on high, he exclaimed with a laugh: "Troth, Master Fawkes, I did drink
to thy health awhile ago; now I will quaff a flagon to thy daughter.
Here is to one, Mistress Elinor, the fairest, the sweetest wench in
all England, and for one warm kiss from whose lips Sir Thomas Winter
would right gladly face grim death. Marry," he mused, setting down the
cup, "thou hast done, mayhap, a good stroke for the cause, in bringing
this bloodhound Fawkes from out of Spain, but young Monteagle, beware;
for if I be judge, the Spanish treatment of a heretic leaves but
little for the burial."
CHAPTER VI.
THE WISEST FOOL IN CHRISTENDOM.
The Royal Court of King James, at Whitehall, was furnished and
embellished with all the luxury which love of show and the power of
the owner could command. Choicest tapestries draped the walls, carpets
of marvelous softness covered the floors. In the King's bedchamber
stood an elaborately carved bedstead canopied with perfumed velvet
cunningly wrought in silk and gold. Upon its front glittered the royal
arms of England.
Reared as he had been in the plainness of Scottish simplicity, the
wealth and lavish display in the English manor houses where he had
rested during his journey from Edinburgh delighted and enchanted him
in the highest degree. Vain, fond of indolent diversions, and prodigal
in expenditures, he at once surrounded himself with the choicest
products of the weavers, decorators and artisans of the Continent.
In a chamber of this palace, on the second afternoon following the
meeting of Catesby with Rookwood and Anne Vaux at the hiding place of
the Jesuit Superior, an interesting conversation took place between
the Queen's lady-in-waiting, and one Robert Carr, a Scotchman, and
favorite of the King. After James ascended the throne of England he
meted out ample measure to his countrymen, likening himself to Joseph,
who, being raised to power, forgot not his brethren. That this Robert
was of goodly parts, being fair of feature and elegant of limb,
rendered him the more acceptable to his royal master; forsooth, there
were few of the nobles in the two kingdoms but knew certain tales
concerning the favorites of the King, young gallants of the period
whose presence at Court added nothing to the honor of their sovereign.
Robert Carr, a person of deep perception and gifted with certain
Scottish wit, pandered much to the follies and pride of his
benefactor. He was also a man easily excited by beauty of face and
grace of manner, and had fallen desperately in love with Mistress
Vaux, to his own undoing and the jealousy of the Queen's women. It was
this state of affairs which the Jesuit had reckoned upon, when, in
casting about for an expedient to check the fiery zeal of Sir Robert
Catesby, he had suggested that one dwelt at Court who might learn what
was in the mind of the King concerning certain policies. Being
instructed by Garnet what course to pursue, Anne Vaux, on her return
to Whitehall, made haste to summon into her presence the King's
favorite. Nor did Carr need a second bidding to betake himself to the
lady's chamber.
"Sweet Anne!" cried he, dropping upon his knee before the
maid-in-waiting, "thou hast saved me from despair. Knowest thou 'tis
eight and forty hours since thy gentle presence hath made earth to me
a paradise?"
"Nay, good Robert!" replied she, demurely casting down her eyes, yet
permitting the gallant to retain her hand, "Speak not of despair; thou
who hast so high a place with our royal master. Amid thy pleasures the
absence of Anne Vaux can be but of small moment unto thee."
Carr covered her hand with kisses.
"Whitehall without thee is a barren wilderness," cried he, "for thee
would I barter faith, honor----"
Anne raised her head until her eyes met his.
"Nay, sweet gentleman!" said she, softly, "'tis not faith, nor honor I
would ask of thee; 'tis----"
"Speak!" murmured Carr, overcome by his emotions. "Speak, that I may
serve thee."
"'Tis but little," replied the lady, "yet would it please me much, and
thou art able to converse freely with his Majesty."
"The King!" cried Carr, alarmed that the name of James should enter
into his love making. "What wouldst thou with the King?"
Anne withdrew her hand. "Ah!" cried she, pushing him gently from her,
"'tis so little, yet thou wouldst withhold thy courtesy. There be
certain other gentlemen, my lord of----"
"Say not so," stammered the courtier, "be it the crown itself." His
companion laughed merrily. "The crown!" cried she, "what would Anne
Vaux with the crown of England? 'Tis but a simple question, a word
with his Majesty, that I may gain a wager."
"Speak then," said Carr, "that I may hasten to obey thee."
"Thou knowest," replied Anne, "there be much serious speculation, many
theories formed throughout the kingdom concerning the mind of the King
regarding the penalties against the Catholics. Some there be who hold
'tis the King's wish that the ordinances, or edicts of Elizabeth, be
removed utterly, while others affirm that James doth join with
Parliament for their maintenance. Having been drawn into an argument
with certain of my mistress' ladies, a wager was made, that ere the
morrow the truth of the matter should to me be disclosed."
The look on her companion's face changed to consternation.
"Ask the King concerning so grave a matter?" cried he.
"A truce, Master Carr!" replied Anne, sharply, "it needeth small
perception to discern thy temper. Thou dost ask much, yet givest
little."
The King's favorite was nonplussed. To question James concerning
affairs of State was no light matter, yet, in opposition to so doing
stood the anger and the loss of Mistress Vaux. This thought, which he
could not endure, caused him to hesitate.
"Be it so!" said the lady, coldly, "Thou hast refused so small a
favor, therefore will I summon one who, methinks, hath more
consideration." And she moved as though to touch the bell upon the
table.
The action, indicating his dismissal, removed all scruples which had
arisen in the mind of the courtier, and kneeling before her he pledged
himself to at once seek an audience with the King, who, having passed
the afternoon in hunting, was resting in his own apartments.
Pleased that her object had been so easily gained, Anne permitted the
enraptured Scotchman to clasp her in his arms, then he rushed from the
chamber hoping after a short interview with the King to return to her.
As Carr had intimated, James, wearied by several hours in the saddle,
for it was his pleasure to hunt or horseback in Waltham forest and in
other royal chases, had retired early to his bed chamber. He had eaten
heartily, for despite his ungainly person the First of the Stuarts was
a famous trenchman. Freed from his quilted clothes and mellow with
strong wine, he admitted to his presence two gentlemen who sought an
audience.
The noblemen who were thus occupants of the royal chamber stood in
strong contrast to the Sovereign of England. Their large and
gracefully proportioned figures were made most conspicuous by the big
head, rickety legs and dwarfed body of their royal master, while the
calm dignity which enveloped them set forth vividly the driveling
speech, and coarseness of him whom the death of the last of the Tudors
had placed upon the throne.
"Ah!" cried James, perceiving the gentlemen upon the threshold,
"welcome most worthy Monteagle and Viscount Effingston! Hast thou then
an answer to my argument?"
The lips of the younger nobleman trembled nervously as he sought to
repress a smile, but his companion advanced quickly to the royal couch
upon which the King had stretched himself.
"The wisdom of your Majesty is indeed unanswerable," said he bending
to kiss the hand held out to him.
James chuckled loudly.
"'Tis my pleasure to discourse on certain matters," replied he, "and my
good lord of Monteagle, being well versed in the learning of the
period, doth turn with relish to a well written document. It was,
methinks, concerning the 'True Law of Free Monarchy.'"
"Nay, your Majesty," replied Monteagle, drawing a paper from his
doublet, "'twas thy most learned discourse on tobacco."
The Viscount Effingston, who stood well behind his father, turned
aside his face, that the King might not note the smile upon it. James,
however, having plunged into one of his pedantic hobbies, had small
perception of aught aside from the discourse in hand.
"'Twas, in truth!" cried he, "a most learned writing, bearing upon
the use of an ill-savored weed. What thinkest thou, my lord?"
"'Tis indeed most ably written," replied Monteagle, "and being much
impressed with the wisdom so plainly set forth, I did read it aloud to
several of my gentlemen."
"And what said they, good Monteagle?"
"That your Majesty had, in truth, touched the heart of the matter,"
replied the peer. "Even Sir Raleigh, upon the reading of it, would,
methinks, turn from the habit."
"That would he," said the King, gruffly, for the name of Raleigh was
in no wise pleasing to him.
"A most excellent document!" broke in the Viscount, "my worthy father
was about to beg your Majesty for further discourse on so grave a
matter."
Monteagle cast a look of keen reproach at his son; 'twas not for the
pleasure of discussing the "Counterblast To Tobacco," the famous
literary production of the King, that he had sought this audience.
James, however, was highly pleased at the young man's words.
"Good Monteagle!" cried he, "thy son is a worthy gentleman, and
methinks our reign will see him a most favored peer. Instruct him,
that he fall not into certain habits as to bells and candlesticks, nor
give ear too seriously to the teachings of them who would embroil our
kingdom."
At this moment Robert Carr, hastening to the royal bed chamber, in
order to obey the wishes of Mistress Vaux, entered the ante-room and
hearing his master in converse with others, paused noiselessly behind
the curtains.
"Faith!" continued James, receiving no reply from Monteagle or his
son, "it is rumored that thou also hath dealt somewhat closely with
these disturbers of the kingdom."
Alarmed at the character of the conversation assumed by the King, the
nobleman would have checked it by well timed flattery, but James was
not to be turned from his purpose.
"It doth much annoy me," prated he, "that certain reports are spread
abroad making it seem my desire, against the wishes of our good
Parliament, to remit certain fines----"
Carr, whose ear was pressed close against the curtain, rubbed his
hands together in exultation that there was like to be, without
discomfort to himself, something ready for the ear of the Queen's
waiting woman.
"And divers statutes against those who would bring back the Jesuits,"
continued James, plucking impatiently the fringe of his couch cover.
"Your Majesty is, in truth, the spring of justice," said Monteagle,
soberly, "and it ill befits thy subjects, be they Puritans or
Catholics, to----"
A wave of passion swept across the royal face.
"Puritans and Catholics!" cried he, sitting upright. "Zounds! What
then? Am I not king? Wherefore should I tolerate in this good kingdom
those who teach treason in their churches?"
Monteagle's position was truly equivocal. The son of a Protestant
peer, through his marriage, early in life, with the daughter of a
Catholic, he became involved in certain Papistic plots, and listened
to the teachings of the missionary priests. James had made him the
recipient of many court favors, for the maintenance of which,
Monteagle, balancing the advantages of his position against the loss
which might accrue to him were he to boldly adhere to his religion,
had become lukewarm in the faith of the Catholics, and this had
brought him into disrepute with his old associates.
"'Tis a grave matter that there be any in England whose faith takes
precedence of their loyalty," said he, the King ceasing his harangue
through lack of breath.
"Thou sayest rightly!" cried he, "nor will I abate one jot or tittle
from that I have set before me. As it is atheism and blasphemy to
dispute what is in God's power, so it is presumption and high contempt
for a subject to question a king's will; nor should a king abate even
the breadth of a hair from that right which his prerogative gives unto
him."
The Viscount Effingston pulled his father's sleeve.
"We had best retire," he whispered, "the wine hath mounted to the head
of yonder fool, and, perchance, he may see in thee a Raleigh or a
Cobham."
The King was, indeed, weary of the interview. The exertion of the
afternoon, the heated room, the wine and the ill temper into which he
had fallen, deprived him of his usual wit, leaving him only boorish
and irritable.
"My lord Monteagle," said he, peevishly, "it pleases me that you
retire, for a certain languor of the body rendereth our discourse
unprofitable."
The words of his son had startled the nobleman from his usual
composure, and receiving the King's permission to retire, he made
haste to kiss the royal hand, well pleased that the audience was
ended, although certain favors which he desired to ask of his Majesty
remained unspoken.
"Faith!" said the favorite, as the two peers passed his hiding place,
"I have, indeed, had a most fortunate escape, for James is in poor
condition to discuss even with Robert Carr, that which sent him
hither."
Then, as the King's valets crowded into the chamber, summoned by the
furious ringing of their master's bell, he looked for an instant upon
the half-drunken monarch, dropped the curtain and hastened down the
corridor that he might relate to Mistress Vaux that which he had
overheard.
CHAPTER VII.
THE VISCOUNT EFFINGSTON.
Rare and luxurious were the furnishings of a room in which we find
Lord Monteagle and his son. Wealth and artistic hands had combined to
bring all its sumptuousness into a rich and harmonious completeness.
The elder, who had just entered, walked with troubled brow toward the
window. The other, tall and strong, with features of fine proportion
and graceful contour, clad in a style denoting the aristocrat and man
of fashion, sat at a desk engaged in writing. For a time the only
sound breaking the silence was the sharp scratching of a goosequill
as it traveled over the paper. At last, having finished, and observing
the other for the first time, he remarked, as he folded the sheet:
"My lord, hast thou so soon returned from the audience? Did aught
transpire to ruffle thy temper? Or, mayhap," he continued with a
laugh, "His Majesty did read thee an essay on How to Take Snuff
Without a Nose, or some other learned subject dear to his heart."
"Not so, my son," Monteagle replied with gravity; "but I have heard
again rumors which set but ill upon my mind. 'Tis the talk of the
ante-chamber, and the first words which did greet my ear on entering
came from that silly, chattering coxcomb, Robert Carr, who, advancing,
enquired in a low voice, but which at the same time filled the room,
whether my daughter-in-law would be the new lady in waiting upon the
Queen. These many days the talk that hath been afoot connects thy name
with one whose ancestral lineage will not bear scrutiny, and, for
truth, much this gossip hath troubled me."
Effingston reddened, and turned in his chair toward the speaker,
suppressing an angry retort which sprang to his lips: "My lord, dost
thou believe all that Dame Rumor whispereth?"
"No, verily, being too long connected with affairs of State, but, in
my anxiety, I made inquiry, and much it paineth me to find these same
reports seem to have foundation. I do not demand but beg an
explanation from thy lips, to hear if that be true which reached my
ear."
"Your lordship knows," returned the other with an inclination of the
head, "that thy request is to me a command; therefore, I tell thee
frankly that what thou heard this morning is to an extent well
founded. Thou canst be sparing of thy fears," he continued as the
other was about to interrupt, "and ever be assured, respect for Lord
Monteagle, my father, and pride, the inheritance of the noble born,
will deter Viscount Effingston from actions which his conscience might
perchance approve. I will not disgrace thee or thy name," he
concluded, with a touch of haughtiness in his tone.
"I have not yet accused thee of bringing discredit upon our house, and
devoutly hope my fears are but absurd, born of that doubt which
seemeth to be resident in the minds of men one for the other. By my
troth, we can seldom point with certainty in these days to one of our
fellow creatures, and say truly, I know him to be good and free from
treason. It would, I swear," he continued, with a sigh, "little
surprise me, to hear the Archbishop of Canterbury had been seen to
hold his crosier for a pretty wench to leap across, that he might the
better gaze upon her ankles. Thou art a man grown; therefore, I can
but counsel. But this I know: love for one below thy station, though
she have all purity and moral excellence, seldom ends in marriage; if
by chance it doth bring thee to the altar, repentance with its dismal
train follows far too often, even ere the echo of the chimes hath died
away."
"Thy counsel did, and ever shall stand high in my regard," replied
Effingston. "But thy fears are groundless. I do admit that she to whom
thou dost refer is not of highest birth; still, her ancestors helped
to keep the crown upon a king's head, and methinks, deserve more
credit for acting thus without reward than though they bore the title
of a Duke or Prince. As thou hast asked, and with perfect justice, I
will tell the story from its beginning. Thou might misjudge if thy
mind held its present suspicion, and it would lead to setting aside of
confidences which, it hath been my happiness to feel, did ever exist
between us."
"Thou sayest well," replied the other, with affection. "I have always
looked upon thee as my sword arm, to carry out by thy young strength
the deeds which time hath left me ill conditioned to perform."
"Thou remembrest," began Effingston, "the night three months since, I
rode to Chartsey Manor, with intent to sound Lord Cecil regarding his
attitude on issues then before Parliament. It was midnight ere I left,
and well on toward the stroke of two when I arrived in the outskirts
of London. Proceeding slowly on my way, drinking in deeply the
beauties of the night, suddenly there sounded upon my startled ear a
woman's scream, which quickly ceased, as if she who uttered it had
been rudely seized about the throat. I reined up my horse and
listened. Distinctly could I hear, not two hundred paces from me, the
sound of scuffling feet and an outburst of drunken laughter, ending in
a round of fiendish cursing. 'Hold,' cried I, 'wait until I can loose
my sword and lend thee aid.' Saying which, I hastily dismounted,
throwing the bridle of my horse over a bush hard by, and hurried in
the direction of the tumult. On turning a corner, there came upon my
sight a scene which made my blood boil and lent new speed to my legs.
Two ruffians had set upon a woman, and while one held back her chin
and shoulders, the other was endeavoring to imprint a kiss upon the
upturned face, the rogue being hindered in his purpose by the girl,
who, holding in her hand a small dagger, lunged right boldly with it.
'Avaunt ye, knaves,' I cried, running, sword in hand. Before, however,
I could reach the struggling group she had struck the man in front of
her, causing him for a moment to desist, when, with a sudden accession
of strength, breaking away from the one who held her, she set her back
against the wall, confronting the two assailants with the look and
spirit of a tigress. The men, now for the first time perceiving me,
having been too deep in liquor and their employment to hear my shout,
took to their heels, but not until I had spoiled the sword arm of one
and left my mark upon the other. Turning toward the girl who stood by
the wall, I discovered the momentary spirit had left her, for again
she was the weak woman and would have fallen fainting to the ground,
had I not given her support. She soon revived, and having received her
thanks, prettily given, I inquired how it fell out she had been so
rudely set upon; in reply to which she told me of her grandam being
taken ill, and in need of a leech, and how she had gone forth to fetch
him, and was attacked, when returning from her errand. On begging that
she would permit me to see her safely home, my offer was accepted
with thanks. When arrived at our destination she asked if I would not
on the next day return, that she might more fully express her
gratitude. Thou knowest, my father, how love grows in the heart. At
first my feeling was one of curiosity; but it soon changed to
admiration for the fair girl, and, at last it ripened into love, as I
learned to know the soul which rested in her beautiful form. This is
my simple story, and I have naught more to tell."
"My son," replied the other, who had listened with eager attention to
the narrative, "there's naught, so far, that I condemn, and I applaud
thee for thy chivalry, but I had higher hopes for thee than a marriage
with a commoner. Thou hast, however, omitted to tell me her name," he
added, in a voice betokening anxiety.
"Her name is Elinor Fawkes, the daughter of an officer, English by
birth, now serving in the army of Spain."
"Elinor Fawkes," repeated the father, with a start and looking toward
Effingston. "'Tis as I feared. Is this, then, the creature on whom
thou wouldst bestow thy name? Have thine ears been out of sorts, never
to have heard the rumor which connects her in none too savory a manner
with the adventurer Sir Thomas Winter? It is common talk, for I will
speak plainly to thee, that she is his mistress."
"In thy throat thou liest," the other cried, leaping to his feet,
white to the lips with sudden passion; "recall those words, or by St.
Paul, I'll strike thee to my feet, forgetting the loins which begat
me! She hath fully told me of, and set aside, the lie which coupleth
her with Sir Thomas Winter."
"Aye, she hath explained to thee readily enough, I trow," exclaimed
the other, roused to anger. "Lives there the woman who could not make
excuses if but a moment were granted her? I shall not chide thee for
thy hasty words; time will bring them to thy memory with remorse. But
listen unto reason, and----"
"I'll hear no more," Effingston cried, in a voice full of passion.
"Stop," said Monteagle, in a commanding voice, holding up his hand,
"thou shalt hear! Doth the leech withhold the lance when a patient
groans? No, my son; I'll introduce thee to plain facts, and try to
cure, even though my duty be a hard one."
Effingston sank into his chair, his temper cooled to a degree by his
father's manner, and listened with compressed lips and knitted brow to
what followed.
"As I have already told thee," began Lord Monteagle, "I suspected that
it was she who had ensnared thee. I set inquiries afoot, and in
justice to the girl, with a twofold object--first, to establish her
innocence, if she were true; secondly, to save thy name and happiness,
if she proved guilty. But," he went on, advancing toward his son and
laying a hand upon his shoulder, "the second object of my quest was
the one fulfilled. The proof came by the hand of God. Yesternight,
leaving the house of Lord Brighton, where I had dined, and wishing to
return with all speed, I requested the bearers of my chair to take the
shortest way home. Gazing out of the window, I noted that we were in
the locality of the house wherein she (who had for the past few days
most unhappily filled my mind) was reported to reside, and desiring to
look upon the spot, commanded my men to rest there. Suddenly I
descried a man muffled in a cloak, proceeding up the street, who, as
he approached, proved to my astonishment to be none other than Sir
Thomas Winter. Quickly he ascended the steps and knocked at the house
opposite the place where I chanced to be. After a moment the door
opened and the figure of a girl stood on the threshold. Beholding her,
Winter exclaimed: 'A good evening to thee, Mistress Fawkes,' the rest
of the greeting being lost to me as the door closed. I was astonished
at having so quickly set before me the two whose names had been in my
mind. After a few moments the door again opened suddenly, this time I
think by accident, revealing the figure of him who had just entered,
still clad in his cloak, clasping in his arms and kissing the woman
who admitted him. I could not hear what passed, for at the time the
wind blew high, drowning their voices. But I had seen enough, and
cried to the bearers to take up the chair and proceed. That, my son,
is what I have seen, not learned by mere hearsay. Would that I could
have spared thee the telling, but 'tis for thy welfare I have narrated
it."
Effingston, during the narrative, had remained motionless, his
features drawn and colorless. Fully realizing that his father would
not have maliciously manufactured this evidence against the girl, his
mind could conceive no extenuating circumstance to clear it away. That
she had deceived him was not beyond the consent of reason. He was a
man of the world and of the time, well aware of possible duplicity,
and further, that the age offered numerous examples of women with one
hand on the cradle while the other guided an axe toward some head
which for a cause must fall, or fanatically sacrificing all, even
honor, to gain the coveted support of a courtier in some undertaking.
The scandal which had been breathed about her, to do him justice, he
did not give ear to, believing implicitly the story told by Elinor,
explaining her associations with Winter. But was not this man a
champion of the cause which he had helped to defeat? Was it impossible
that she had played her lover as a dupe to further a scheme? This was
entirely plausible, but he could not bring his mind to believe it. And
why? For the same old, old reason which has cost men their lives and
honor, kings their crowns--because he loved her. When his father had
finished, he said, in a quiet voice, extending his hand:
"I thank thee; thy motive is of the best; and I most humbly beg thy
pardon for my hasty words, prompted by anger only."
"What course dost thou now intend to pursue?" inquired Monteagle
uneasily, for the quiet, passionless manner of his son made him
apprehensive.
"What thou or any other man would do--give the woman a chance to
defend herself."
"Aye, I thought as much," the other replied with an air of angered
impatience. "She will, with her arms about thy neck, explain fast
enough, and to thy satisfaction."
"Dost thou forget," the son inquired, "that I am a Monteagle, and have
implanted in me that pride and temper which can illy condone, even in
those they love, deceit and falsity? Have no fears for me," he added,
advancing with a determined step toward the door.
"Where art thou going, my son?" asked the other in an alarmed tone.
"To face this woman with the accusations thou hast just uttered
against her."
"Stay; go not in thine anger, for some mischief may be wrought. Wait
until thy temper cools; see her not again, but write."
"I am not a killer of unarmed adversaries," retorted Effingston;
"again, I repeat, have no fear for me."
"Well, well; God's will be done; it may be for the best," the other
said with a sigh, turning away his head.
The son hesitated for a moment; then quickly kneeling before his
father and taking his hand, exclaimed: "I humbly ask thee to forget my
hot words, and again I crave thy pardon for the same. They were spoken
in wrath, on hearing the image of my love fall crashing to the earth."
Then springing to his feet, before Monteagle had opportunity to reply,
he hurriedly left the room.
Once on the street, Effingston strode without pause in the direction
of Elinor's house. What a difference in his feelings now, contrasted
with what they had been when he had traversed that way before. He had
outlined his course of action,--to simply tell her what his father had
seen, and demand an explanation. If she were guilty, even his love and
her woman's wit could not, he thought, hide the fact from his eyes;
and if it all were true and he had been duped, what then?
He prayed that pride would come to his aid and steel his nerves, and
prompt his tongue to speak. With these thoughts in his mind, and
looking neither to the right nor left, he hurried on his way to her
dwelling. How changed each familiar object seemed to him. As he
knocked at the door and listened, a footstep sounded in the hall. Ah,
how many times had his heart leaped at the same sound. The door
opened, and she who was all the world to him stood on the
threshold;--she whom he must soon accuse of hideous duplicity. How
very beautiful she looked. On seeing Effingston, Elinor uttered a low,
startled cry. He noted the action, for love, when coupled with
suspicion (and the two can live together) is not blind, but terribly
vigilant.
"Elinor, I must speak with thee, and alone," he exclaimed.
The girl regarded him with a half frightened look. She had been all
day engaged in a bitter fight with self, and knew not how to tell him
they must part forever. Now he stood before her. She realized to some
extent what the agony of the separation which must soon come would be
to her, and knowing full well the depth of his love, measured his
sufferings by her own. Wild thoughts had passed through her mind of
doing something which would turn that love to hate, and she felt she
could better bear that than know he lived and suffered. But now as she
looked upon him both will and fortitude fast weakened. Again she was
the simple loving woman.
"Wilt thou enter?" she asked in a constrained voice, scarce knowing
what she said.
He crossed the threshold and passed into the little room which held
for him the most tender recollections.
"Elinor, I have come----" he began; then, gazing at the beautiful face
before him, he advanced toward her with outstretched arms--all
resolution gone; "O my darling, I have wronged thee--thou canst tell,
I know, and explain all."
She shrank from his touch, fearing lest her little firmness should
take flight.
"Why dost thou shrink from me?" cried he, swept by a sudden fear which
made his lips dry and his cheeks burn. "O my God, can it then be thou
dost know the purport of my question?"
"I know not what thou meanest," she stammered, astonished at his
words, even amidst her sufferings; "if thou hast aught to ask, pray
say on."
He watched the trembling figure for a moment, interpreting her emotion
as detected guilt, and the demon of jealousy, which, strange to say,
is often led forth by love, burst out, prompting him to speak words
which after uttering, he would have given worlds to unsay.
"Then, know," he cried, "that I have discovered thy methods, and that
I have been duped and dragged on to further some hellish scheme of
thine and his. I've swallowed thy pretty words and thought them sweet.
Now I know all; 'twas but last night thou wert in his arms, and
rightly thou belongest there; the report is true, thou art none other
than the mistress of Sir Thomas Winter. Aye, tremble in thy guilt,
thou Magdalene; thou canst not deny it."
As he uttered the accusation, she raised her arm as if to ward off
some sudden blow, then let it fall at her side, standing speechless,
benumbed and horrified at the terrible words he had hurled at her. The
disgrace and the infamy of them she did not at once grasp, but
gradually her mind began to comprehend all that he had said. The room
swam about her, and she caught at a chair for support, vainly trying
to make some reply. Again he repeated: "Thou canst not deny it; guilt
is written in thine every action."
As she aroused herself there flashed upon her mind the act of two
short days ago, when she had fallen upon her knees and prayed God that
this man before her might be spared the cruel pangs of that separation
which must inevitably come. And had not that prayer been answered? Had
not he just uttered accusations, which, if not denied, would end his
love for her--now and forever? Believing her to be vile and infamous,
pride and manhood would soon come to his aid. But what did the
acknowledgment mean to her? His utter contempt; he would always
believe that he had been her dupe--hers, who would gladly give her
very life for him. But what mattered it? Thinking this to be true, he
will soon, manlike, dismiss her from his thoughts, and give his love
to another, who, pray God, may make his life all happiness and
gladness. She turned her eyes toward the wall on which hung the image
of Christ nailed to a cross. Could she not crucify herself, for this
love of hers? Slowly the resolution formed. Again he repeated: "Canst
thou deny it?" And she answered: "Thou sayest it!"
"It is true?" he cried.
Again she answered: "Thou sayest it."
"O great God," he exclaimed, putting his hands to his head, "can this
be real? Can this be the end of all our hopes? Is the world so bad and
woman so low?"
She uttered not a word, but stood motionless.
"Vile deceiver!" he cried, turning to her as he staggered toward the
door, "if it be happiness to know that thine infamy hath ruined my
life, know it, then, and be glad."
She heard the portal close. He had gone from her forever. Then the
full and terrible import of that which she had acknowledged herself to
be overwhelmed her, and with a cry she fell unconscious to the floor.
CHAPTER VIII.
IN THE GARDEN OF THE GENTLEMAN-PENSIONER.
Upon reaching the open air, Effingston paused for a moment that the
shock occasioned by the admission of Elinor might in some degree pass
from him. He had gone to her prepared for tears, protests and womanly
anger, and despite the suspicion which had seized his heart, it had
not been in his nature to believe the words of his father would so
soon find confirmation. He felt, indeed, as one about to lay his head
upon the block,--that he must cry out, yet his heart was clutched as
by a giant hand, benumbing all his faculties so that pain and lethargy
paralyzed his will.
As he groped half blindly for the railing which flanked the narrow
steps, the figure of a man confronted him, who, as he perceived the
Viscount Effingston standing upon the threshold of Mistress Fawkes'
dwelling, drew back quickly, his face dark with anger. 'Twas Sir
Thomas Winter.
In that instant all the calmness of the young nobleman returned to
him. The sight of Winter, in whom he saw the bitter enemy of his
house, and whom he now hated for a double reason, turned his pain into
contempt for her who had so illy used him. Pride came to his aid, and
he would have passed the other haughtily; but it was in no wise the
purpose of Sir Thomas that the meeting should have so peaceful an
ending.
Rumor had reached him that the Viscount Effingston was too frequent a
visitor at the house of one for whom he fostered, if not love, at
least a fierce passion, and the presence of his rival, at the very
door of the humble dwelling, aroused him to fury. With an angry frown
distorting his features he advanced toward the spot where stood the
Viscount, who, perceiving he had to deal with one in whom temper had
overcome prudence, laid his hand upon the hilt of his rapier. It was
not the purpose of Winter, however, to come to blows thus openly with
one who was known to be in favor with the King. He therefore contented
himself with obstructing the way in so insolent a manner, and with
such malice in his eyes, that it sent the blood to the cheeks of
Effingston, and he returned the gaze unflinchingly, saying quietly:
"Come, if Sir Thomas Winter hath in mind aught to say to me, let it be
done quickly, that I may go upon my way." At the same time he moved as
though to pass.
"Nay! My Lord of Effingston!" replied Winter turning his eyes upon the
hand which rested on the jeweled sword hilt. "Fear not that in a
street of London I would draw sword against thee, traitor though thou
art. Thy royal master----"
"Traitor!" cried Effingston, the red of his cheeks changing to the
paleness of anger. "Traitor, sayest thou, Sir Winter?"
"Aye!" replied Winter. "All London knoweth."
The Viscount controlled himself by an effort.
"Thy purpose is clear to me," said he coldly, "thou wouldst force a
quarrel; so be it. Traitor, sayest thou? Perchance, thy mirror hath
shown one to thee so frequently that the word is ever on thy tongue."
"As to mirrors," replied Winter, "those in the King's chamber have
revealed to thee their ways, then. Thinkest thou nothing is known
concerning the purpose of my Lord Monteagle in instructing thee as to
Puritanism."
Effingston bit his lip. "'Tis befitting thy manhood, Sir Winter, having
bribed a dastardly servant to give false testimony of what was
listened to from behind a curtain, that thou shouldst insult one whose
cloak buckle thou art unworthy to loosen. 'Twas a fair representation
of thy character, a good showing of thy principles. If it be in thy
mind to prate further, get thee into the market place, where, mounted
upon an ass, thou mayst draw around thee certain of the populace whose
wont it is to gather for such discourse."
This was spoken with a mock gallantry which the Viscount could well
assume, and deprived the other for a moment of utterance. Overcome by
anger, and surprised that the insults heaped upon the Viscount were
met with contempt, he forgot himself so far as to bring the name of
Mistress Fawkes into the quarrel.
"Thou dost but jest with me," he cried, taking a step nearer his
rival; "perchance, having come from the arms of thy mistress, thy wits
are so dulled that----"
The reply of Effingston was sudden and unexpected. Resolved to avoid
an open quarrel with one whom he considered beneath him, he had sought
to return words, only, to the other's insults, but the reference to
one whom he had held most dear, fired his brain. Scarce had Winter
uttered the base accusation when the young nobleman snatched off his
heavy gauntlet and with it struck him across the face; so great was
the force of the blow that the other staggered, lost his footing on
the slippery street, and fell at the feet of his enemy.
Having thus given expression to his anger, Effingston calmly replaced
the glove, and with hand upon hilt, awaited the arising of his
companion.
Stunned for the moment by so sturdy a buffet, Winter remained
motionless for a little space, but soon regained his feet, and, with
garments soiled and earth stained, with blood upon his face, drew his
sword and made as though he would thrust the Viscount through.
Effingston drew also, and more serious results would have followed had
not one in the crowd which had gathered to watch the ending of the
quarrel, cried that the King's soldiers were approaching.
Sobered by the danger which threatened him, for the arrest of a
Catholic with sword in hand was like to bring evil consequence, Winter
made haste to sheathe his blade, which example the Viscount quickly
followed. However, it was a false alarm, and raised only for the
pleasure of seeing two fine gentlemen thrown into confusion. The
crowd, catching the spirit of the varlet, straightway raised a tumult,
showering the nobles with sundry jibes and insulting remarks,
considering it rare sport to have at their mercy those of high degree.
The commotion turned for a moment the mind of Winter from his first
grievance, and he bethought himself of the sorry figure he must show
with dress awry, face soiled and blood-stained, and, worse than all,
insulted dignity. Therefore he made haste to leave a company so
unappreciative, and destitute of sympathy. To Effingston, the thought
that against his better judgment he had been drawn into a public
brawl, caused his face to glow with passion, and his desire to leave
the locality was not less than that of the other. The lookers on,
finding their sport ended, did not follow, but took themselves to
other ways, and the two gentlemen, who had hurried blindly, without
attention or knowledge as to direction, soon found themselves in a
quiet street somewhat remote from the neighborhood which had witnessed
Sir Thomas Winter's discomfiture.
"My Lord of Effingston!" cried he, as he gathered together his
disturbed senses, noting the presence of his companion. "Thou hast
grievously insulted me, therefore----"
"When thou wilt!" the Viscount interrupted. "My sword is ever at thy
service."
"'Tis well!" said Winter, drawing his cloak about him; "one hour from
now in the garden of Thomas Percy, whom, methinks, is known to thee.
Yet if thou dost fear----"
Effingston shrugged his shoulders. "In Sir Percy's garden," repeated
he haughtily, and turning upon his heel left Sir Thomas in the
roadway.
The garden of the official dwelling occupied by the
Gentleman-Pensioner consisted of perhaps a quarter of an acre of
sward, fringed by a sorry row of leafless trees, and surrounded by a
high wall, beyond the top of which shone the metal gables of half a
score of straight-backed dwellings. 'Twas no uncommon thing for the
parties to a dispute to settle the same by force of arms, but they
carried on the affair with all secrecy, lest the report thereof reach
the ears of those in authority, as it was contrary to the King's wish
that a private quarrel should end in the killing of an English
gentleman. Such being the fact, those gardens which adjoined the
houses of certain nobles, and by reason of their privacy precluded the
presence of prying eyes, were oft turned into duelling grounds, and
the square of sward flanking the dwelling of Thomas Percy was well
adapted for a contest in which the evenness of the ground, as well as
others matters, was of much consequence to the combatants.
To this garden the Viscount Effingston, accompanied by Sir Francis
Tillinghurst and another, who bore beneath his cloak a case of
instruments, presented himself at the hour appointed for his meeting
with Sir Thomas Winter. Having gained admittance by a gate set in the
wall, the three found awaiting them, Sir Thomas, my Lord of Rookwood,
the Gentleman-Pensioner and a surgeon summoned by the latter to look
to the welfare of the challenger.
As the gate clicked behind the Viscount and his companions, Lord
Rookwood, who was in close converse with the others at the further
side of the garden, advanced haughtily, bowing to Sir Francis, whom he
perceived represented the interests of the young nobleman. The two,
withdrawing from the others, made haste to arrange the preliminaries
of the meeting.
"Thy promptness is most commendable," said Rookwood, casting a look
upward at the cold gray of the sky, "and 'twere well that our
principals do quickly that which has brought them hither. Methinks a
storm is brewing, and a fall of snow might end the matter illy."
A few white flakes upon his doublet bore witness to the correctness of
his prophecy. Sir Francis bowed assent.
"Thou canst perceive," continued Rookwood, pointing to the strip of
sward, "that good Thomas Percy has had a care to have no element of
fairness lacking. Hast any objection to the spot chosen?"
"I can see no catch or fault in it," replied Tillinghurst, casting his
eyes over the ground, "the light is good, and there seemeth to be no
advantage in position."
"'Tis well!" said Rookwood, "wilt measure swords that the contest be
in all fairness?"
Tillinghurst complied, and the principals, casting aside their
cloaks, stepped forward to the strip of sward prepared for them.
The demeanor of the Viscount was serious; he well knew that in Sir
Thomas Winter he had no unskilled swordsman, but a man of much
experience, with wrist of steel, and a trick of fence acquired by long
practice in foreign service. The face of Winter was darkened by a
frown in which was blended a shadow of anxiety. The Lord of Monteagle
was a famous swordsman, and it might well be that the son had learned
from a good master.
"Gentlemen, are you ready?" cried Rookwood drawing his rapier, as also
did Sir Francis, that they might interfere should need arise.
The principals saluted, stood at guard, and awaited the signal; when
it was given, their blades crossed with a clash which rang out sharp
and clear on the cold winter air.
The hate and jealousy with which Winter regarded his young rival were
intensified by the tingling blow dealt him an hour before, and from
which he still suffered,--and as he was confident beyond doubt of his
skill as a swordsman, he attacked with a fury which pressed his
younger adversary back toward the wall, and those witnessing the
contest thought to see Effingston speedily thrust through.
The Viscount was, however, too adroit a fencer to yield readily to
such a fate. Careful, at first, only to defend himself, he met each
thrust and pass with a parry which deepened the frown on Winter's
brow, and having retreated to the edge of the duelling ground, he
there held his position despite the fierceness of the onslaught.
Suddenly Winter's blade darted serpent-like beneath the guard of his
adversary. A red stain appeared on Effingston's shoulder, and the
seconds interposed their swords.
The Viscount waved them back, as also he did the surgeon, who hastened
to perform his office.
"'Tis a touch only," said he hoarsely, breathing heavily, "on guard,
sir, that we may finish quickly."
And now their positions were reversed. Instead of acting on the
defensive, Effingston in turn became the assailant, regaining his lost
ground, and forcing Sir Thomas back, step by step.
Maddened at thus losing vantage ground Winter's calmness failed him;
he made a sudden thrust forward, and it being parried, lost his
footing, the blade of his rapier ringing against the hilt of the other
ere he could regain guard.
A cry arose to the lips of Rookwood, for he thought the other would
show no mercy; but before he could utter a sound, Effingston, with a
quick turn of the wrist, sent the opposing sword ringing to the
ground, leaving his enemy weaponless before him.
For an instant Winter recoiled as if in fear of the thrust which he
was now powerless to avert. A scornful smile passed over the pale
features of the victor.
"'Tis thus I would deal with such as thou," said he haughtily, and,
pushing his sword into its scabbard, he took up Sir Thomas' rapier,
and breaking it across his knee, tossed the pieces contemptuously
aside.
"Come!" said he as his second threw a cloak about him. "Our matters
are ended." Then saluting with grave courtesy the four Catholic
gentlemen, he left the garden, followed by his companions.
CHAPTER IX.
GARNET AND THE KING.
Toward the decline of the tenth day following the meeting of
Viscount Effingston and Sir Thomas Winter in the garden of the
Gentleman-Pensioner, four men might have been seen riding through one
of the stretches of woodland used by the King as a hunting ground and
known as the forest of Waltham. Although light still lingered, a gloom
was gathering over the countryside, and within the precincts of the
forest the first shades of evening warned the horsemen that ere many
hours the cheerless twilight which prevailed in England at that period
of the year, would find them outside the gates of London.
Of the four, three were gentlemen; the other seemed to be more a
soldier than a cavalier. The trappings of his horse were less rich
than those of his companions, the texture of his cloak was of poorer
quality, and he bestrode the saddle after the manner of one inured to
rough riding, when business took precedence of pleasure, a custom not
commonly followed among the gentry of the kingdom. His companions were
so muffled in their cloaks as to hide both dress and features. Each
wore at his side a long rapier, and from their holsters appeared the
metal-marked butts of pistols, ready to hand should sudden danger
assail them.
After passing through the outskirts of the forest bordering on the
north, the horses were urged into a gallop, the sharp ring of their
hoofs on the frost-hardened road echoing dully among the trees on
either side. As they entered the thickest part of the wood, one,
riding in the rear, turned to his companion.
"Thou seest," said he, pointing with his whip toward the forest on the
left, "that our lord, the King, hath reserved for his own pleasure a
goodly bit of woodland within which none may venture with hounds or
hunting horns."
"Such a rumor hath come to me," replied the other, "also that any
venturing within the royal chase will be dealt with most vigorously."
His companion laughed harshly. "Of that," said he, "I was myself a
witness, for 'twas but ten days back when one Charles Burrows, a most
worthy commoner, and a staunch Catholic, was brought before the
magistrates for having shot a hare which crossed his path."
"I'faith!" muttered the other, "'Tis then the purpose of the King to
carry his oppression even beyond our altars. It seemeth to me a most
fitting thing, Sir Thomas, that the kingdom be rid of such a tyrant."
"Bravely spoken, Master Fawkes," replied Winter, "and thou wilt be
ready should occasion arise, to protest against our wrongs! But what
now is the trouble with worthy Catesby, and his Reverence?"
The exclamation was called forth by the action of the two horsemen who
were leading the little cavalcade. They had pulled up their steeds and
appeared to be listening intently, though to the ears of their
companions, who had dropped some ten score paces behind, no sound save
the moaning of the wind could be heard. But as they also drew rein,
and the click of their horses' hoofs ceased, the faint echo of a horn
was borne through the wintry air.
Drawing together, the four strained their ears to note the direction
whence it came; across the face of one rider stole a shadow of
anxiety. Sir Thomas Winter noted it.
"I warrant," said he, "that none is abroad who will in any manner
trouble us. 'Tis some hunting party returning from the chase, and
riding toward the highway. What thinkest thou, good Catesby?"
"Thou mayst have conjectured aright," replied Catesby; "yet, 'twould
be a wise precaution to remain silent, if any seeking to know our
business did beset us. Mayhap even a purple cloak and doublet would
scarce hide from them that the Superior of the----"
Garnet, for the fourth horseman was the leader of the English Jesuits,
raised his head proudly.
"A truce, gentlemen!" said he, "'Tis not meet that, having ventured
forth disguised, I play the coward at the simple sounding of a horn.
Let us ride forward as befitteth four peaceable English gentlemen. The
King's highway is free to all who choose to pass thereon, even though
the forest bordering it be reserved for those who have gained the
smile of James."
"And," said Fawkes, "'tis not the wont of a hunting party to play
highwaymen, the less so that the King, perchance, rideth with it."
"The King!" cried Winter and Catesby, in a breath.
"Aye!" replied Fawkes bluntly. "Have ye not told me that the royal
wood of Waltham is reserved for the hunting of his Majesty?"
His companions exchanged quick glances. "Then, we had best hide
ourselves," cried Winter, "James hath a prying disposition."
"Methinks," said Garnet, raising his hand to enforce silence, "that
but one horn sounded. If, as thou sayest, it be a hunting party, the
wood would echo with a score of blasts. Shall we run from one man?"
Fawkes loosened his sword in its scabbard. "I have this," said he, "to
back our presence in the forest, and are ye weaponless?"
The bluff words of the soldier of fortune put to shame the fears of
the two noblemen, yet they hesitated. Should they be suspected, it
would not be a light matter to evade certain questions which might be
asked, and if taken to London captives, the disguise of the Jesuit
would be penetrated.
Meanwhile the sound of the horn grew louder, and while wavering in
their decision, a voice, faint and indistinct, was heard shouting afar
off. Fawkes listened attentively.
"'Tis a cry for succor," said he suddenly, "someone hath lost his way
and seeks the highroad."
"Then," said Garnet calmly, "we will remain, for he is approaching."
Perhaps five minutes had elapsed when the blast of the horn sounded as
if in their very ears; and from the forest, only a dozen rods beyond
them, dashed a man mounted on a bay horse. Having reached the open
road he pulled up his beast and looked helplessly in an opposite
direction from the four riders. Suddenly Winter started and changed
color, his face turning from red to white, and back to red again.
"'Tis the King!" he whispered hoarsely, clutching the arm of Catesby,
who sat beside him.
It was, in truth, James of England, unattended, his dress awry and
torn by thorns and brambles, with bloodless lips and terror-stricken
countenance, who sat helplessly in the saddle in the presence of his
bitterest enemies.
As this realization dawned on Catesby's mind, he uttered an
exclamation, and reached for the pistol which protruded from his
holster.
"'Tis the judgment of God," he muttered; "to-night England will be
without a king."
The firm grasp of the Jesuit upon his arm checked his murderous
purpose.
"Stop!" whispered Garnet sternly, "wouldst ruin the cause which thou
hast sworn to befriend? Draw your cloaks about your faces and leave
the King to me."
Ere they could recover from their astonishment he had ridden forward
to the spot where James sat bewildered, noting not the presence of
those behind him.
At the sound of hoofs he turned quickly, laying a trembling hand upon
the hilt of a hunting knife which hung at his belt. The demeanor of
the approaching stranger gave him courage. Garnet did not remove from
his head the plumed hat, as was befitting the presence of royalty, but
there was in his face a kindliness which proclaimed his errand a
peaceful one.
"Good sir," said he, speaking in French, "thy manner shows some
bewilderment, and, may be, the blasts of the horn which reached me
were tokens of it."
James trembled violently, for at heart he was an arrant coward, and
the being met by a stranger, alone, close to nightfall and in the
forest, filled him with the greatest terror. The words of the other
somewhat reassured him.
"Brave gentleman!" cried he, still grasping the handle of the knife,
"thou art a man of honor, and by thy speech a Frenchman, therefore
thou wilt aid me."
"Thou hast spoken truly," replied the Jesuit. "Hast lost thy way?"
Relieved of apprehension for his personal safety, the King gave vent
to his ill temper.
"That I have," cried he, striking his knee angrily, "and in the King's
own forest. There are those who shall pay dearly, who shall rue this
hour," he continued passionately. "'Twas a plot to humiliate me."
"Good sir," replied Garnet, noting that James proposed to conceal his
identity. "Of whom speakest thou?"
"Of the rogues who accompanied me hither," stormed the son of Mary,
Queen of Scots; "I followed a stag, and having outridden them they
have thus deserted me; 'tis a thing beyond human comprehension."
"And this," thought Garnet, "this is the King of England, who has
pulled down our altars, driven out our religion and banished us."
Despite all efforts his brow darkened.
But the ill temper of James subsided as quickly as it had arisen,
leaving him for the time only a man who sought succor, and so made
known his condition.
It chanced that riding in the forest, taking the lead of those who
accompanied him, he followed the tracks of a stag and became separated
from his companions; whereupon, being confused and terrified, he soon
lost his way.
Garnet listened patiently, and made no sign that could lead the King
to suspect that his personality was known, then pointed to his
companions, who were sitting motionless upon their horses, with
muffled faces, awaiting the result of the Jesuit's unexpected action.
"Good sir," said he, "it will give me pleasure to conduct thee to the
outskirts of the forest, after which, the road being plain, thou canst
easily find thy way to the gates of London. Yonder servants of mine
will ride behind us."
James gladly accepted the other's offer, nor did it please him that
the supposed Frenchman should learn he was assisting the sovereign of
England. Pride and distrust governed him. Pride, lest a foreigner
should bear away the tale of a king's discomfiture; distrust, lest,
holding in his power so important a personage, the stranger might take
advantage thereof for his own benefit. But it was not in the mind of
Garnet to reveal his knowledge; so, side by side they rode in
silence--the Jesuit and the King--for the space of an hour, until,
upon reaching the vicinity of London, whose lights twinkled in the
distance, they separated, James galloping madly on, his companion
awaiting the approach of Winter, Fawkes and Catesby.
There was much amazement and some anger in the minds of the two
noblemen, that the priest had acted in so unaccountable a manner.
Desirous of learning his motive for befriending one whom he professed
to hate, they questioned him upon the subject. To all, Garnet replied
briefly, bidding them wait a more befitting time, as it was his
purpose, on reaching London to attend a meeting at the house of Sir
Thomas Percy. Therefore they rode on in silence, the great clock in
the tower of St. Paul's chiming the hour of eight as they passed into
the city.
At the corner of the street leading to the Gentleman-Pensioner's door
a horseman confronted them whom they recognized as Percy himself. He
had been waiting for them in an angle of the wall to say that certain
officials having gathered at his house for the discussion of public
business it would be unsafe to proceed thither.
"Then is the night lost," said Catesby impatiently, "for, although
the Holy Father be provided with a hiding place within the city, and
will, perchance, remain among us for the space of two days, much
weighty business besides long disputations, require his attention.
Thou shouldst have seen to it, Master Percy, that thy house was free
from the hirelings of the King." Percy would have replied in anger,
but Sir Thomas Winter interrupted:
"Friend Guido, thou hast a dwelling in a quiet portion of the town,
where perchance we might sit together for the discussion of such
things as now concern us."
Fawkes, who had scarcely spoken since meeting with the King in the
forest, acquiesced in this proposition, although the thought of his
daughter, the smallness of his house, and the nature of the conference
caused some conflict in his mind. Yet, having resolved to serve the
cause which he held so dear, his scruples speedily vanished, the more
so that 'twas Sir Thomas Winter who requested the favor.
This matter being so quickly decided, Fawkes became the guide of the
party, and turning into a narrow street which ended in a lane running
behind his house, straightway brought his companions to their
destination.
CHAPTER X.
THE FORGING OF THE THUNDERBOLT.
Upon reaching the gate which opened from the garden of his dwelling
into the lane, Fawkes signaled his four companions to secure their
horses and follow him. Having complied, he led them through the
garden, unlocked the door and bade them enter.
"Faith!" whispered Catesby, pressing Garnet's elbow, "friend Guido
doth seem over cautious in leading us about so secretly."
"Not so!" replied the Jesuit, "'tis a gift born of much experience in
a country where the careless rattle of a scabbard may lead to most
serious results. But it is in my mind as in thine, that being peaceful
gentlemen who have rendered some slight service to his Majesty the
King, we might act with more boldness; yet caution is a jewel which,
once attained, should not be lightly cast aside, and Master Fawkes
doth cling to it."
The voice of the soldier of fortune bidding them come on precluded the
reply which arose to Catesby's lips, and crossing a narrow hall the
horsemen entered a room whose cheerful brightness contrasted
pleasantly with the darkness of the passage into which they had been
ushered.
After assisting his guests to remove their mantles, Fawkes placed
before them cups and wine, added a fresh fagot to the fire, and turned
to Sir Thomas Winter.
"My lord!" said he, "I pray thee attend to the comfort of these
gentlemen till I return. 'Tis my custom to inspect the house before
retiring, lest any be astir, and to-night I deem it doubly prudent."
"And who hast thou in the house, good Guido?" asked Garnet blandly;
"no one, I trust, who will interrupt our conversation?"
Fawkes laughed softly. "None are within," replied he, "except my old
mother, who, were she to stand beside yon fireplace, would scarce note
the meaning of our discourse; and my daughter, a loyal Catholic, yet,
being a maid, and gifted with a woman's curiosity, it might be her
pleasure to seek the meaning of so rare a gathering beneath my roof."
Garnet nodded approvingly. That he had come to London in disguise had
filled him with some apprehension, and the cautiousness of his host
quieted his fears.
"Thy cavalier is indeed a man of much promise," said he to Winter,
after the soldier left the room, "and I warrant that none will venture
to disturb us. Hast sounded him thoroughly upon religious matters?"
"Thou shalt see," replied Sir Thomas. "If the zeal of each Catholic in
England reached but to the half of his loyalty to the holy cause,
there would scarce be need that a father of the Church don plumed hat
and rapier."
Fawkes, in the meantime, had betaken himself to the upper floor of the
house, where was situate his daughter's chamber. There was no fear in
his mind that his aged mother would note the arrival of his guests,
for 'twas her custom to retire at sundown by reason of infirmities;
but about his daughter there arose some apprehension. He felt sure
that no words which, by chance, might reach her ear would be carried
further, yet, 'twas against his wish that anything should add to her
disquietude.
Coming to the door of her room, which was directly above that
occupied by the four friends, he listened intently, and hearing no
sound within, softly turned the knob and peered into the apartment.
The light of the full moon shining through the window, revealed to him
the interior bathed in a mellow radiance. No sound greeted his ear
save the crackling of the fagots in the huge fireplace below, and the
faint murmur of the voices of his guests. He paused,--a hundred
conflicting emotions filling his breast. The sight of the curtained
bed standing in an angle of the wall drew his attention. He pushed the
door yet further open, and holding his scabbard that its rattle might
not disturb the sleeper, slipped across the threshold and approaching
noiselessly, parted the hangings and looked down.
The maid was lying with her face turned full upon him, her cheek
resting upon one white, rounded arm. In the weird moonlight her pale
beauty startled him, and almost unconsciously, he stretched forth his
hand to touch her. His fingers, resting lightly upon the counterpane,
came in contact with something cold; it caused a shudder to pass
through him, a nameless terror, and for an instant he forgot the four
men waiting in the room below. Bending lower, his eyes rested upon the
object which had so startled him. 'Twas a silver crucifix which had
fallen from the sleeper's fingers, and lay upon her breast. At the
sight great emotion and agitation swept through his heart, rough
soldier though he was; for the moment he was well nigh overpowered.
The silence of the chamber, the white face so near his own, and the
emblem of his faith placed unconsciously upon the breast of the
beloved one who lay there, filled him with superstitious awe. 'Twas
thus the dead slept, ere they were carried to the grave.
A movement of the white arm broke the influence of the spell. The girl
turned uneasily, a few incoherent words escaping her lips. Fawkes drew
back noiselessly. "She sleeps!" he muttered, and passing from the
room, closed the door softly, and descended to those who awaited him
below.
Scarce had his footsteps ceased to echo on the stairs, when Elinor
awoke. Though wrapped in deep slumber, that inexplicable mystery, a
consciousness that she was not alone, startled her. Sitting upright,
her eyes fell upon an object lying at the side of the bed; a doe-skin
gauntlet which she recognized as belonging to her father.
Surprised that he should thus have entered her chamber, a feeling of
alarm possessed her. The crackling of the fire in the room below, the
tell-tale glove upon the floor, and the faint murmur which she felt
assured must be the voices of men engaged in earnest conversation,
aroused her apprehension as well as her curiosity, and it seemed no
ill thing that she should discover the meaning of so unusual an
occurrence, for their dwelling was situated in a quiet part of London
and 'twas not the wont of any to visit it at such an hour. Then, the
thought came to her that perhaps certain companions of her father,
rough soldiers like himself, had come together to partake of his
hospitality. Calmed for the moment, she would have sought sleep again,
had not a sentence, uttered with clear distinctness, reached her ear.
"Ah, good Master Fawkes! Thou hast found all quiet, and thy household
sleeping soundly?"
The intonation of the question startled her. Why should her father
seek to learn whether she slept or not? Surely in the meeting of a few
boon companions over a flask of wine, such precaution was not
necessary. Not delaying for further meditation, she slipped out of
bed, and crept noiselessly to that side of the room against which
arose the huge brick chimney above the fireplace below. Through the
space between the flooring and the masonry, a glare of light came up
to her as well as the voices of those beneath. Crouching against the
warm bricks she listened, unmindful of the cold and her equivocal
position.
The assurance which Fawkes gave to his companions that the house was
quiet, and none would interrupt them, removed the reserve which each
had hitherto felt. Time was indeed precious, for Garnet desired to
return ere daybreak to his hiding place, lest any should perceive
that, lying beneath the doublet of a cavalier, was the insignia of a
churchman, a discovery upon which great misfortune might follow. 'Twas
with scant preliminaries, therefore, that Catesby, ever foremost in
zeal, boldness and assurance, addressed his companions.
"Methinks," said he, turning to the Jesuit, "that in thy wisdom thou
must have perceived something to our benefit in saving James of
Scotland from my bullet. Yet, to me it did appear that the Lord gave
him into our power."
A shadow of impatience darkened the priest's brow, but in an instant
his features resumed their accustomed mildness.
"My son!" he replied, "it would have been an ill thing to slay our
master after the manner of paid assassins. 'Twas in thy heart to kill
the King; what then?"
Catesby bit his lip. That there lay some weighty reason in the mind of
the Superior for his unexpected friendliness to James, he
comprehended, but his spirit, unused to restraint, and darkened by
adversity, illy brooked opposition.
"What then?" replied he, in answer to Garnet's question. "'Twould have
rid the kingdom of a tyrant, and our faith of its bitterest enemy."
The Jesuit smiled sadly. "As thou hast spoken," said he, "the King
would be dead, and trouble us no more, but what of the Parliament? Is
it then James alone who distresses us?"
"Methinks," broke in Percy, "that our worthy father hath put it to us
wisely. Did the Scot lose his life, another would arise in his place,
and the suspicions of the authorities awakened, there would be no
peace in England for a Catholic."
"'Tis even so," said Garnet; "the killing of one man, though he be the
King, can scarce better our situation. What then, thou wouldst ask,
shall be done to lighten our condition? We must lull into a feeling of
security those who press hard upon us, that, when the sky seems
clearest the bolt may fall and the stroke be the more scathing. Brave
Guido here will tell thee that in that country where plots are
thickest, 'tis false security which most often leads the victim to
destruction. It may be, and doubtless is in the King's mind, and also
in that of his Parliament, that the quietness of the Catholics for so
long a time indicates continued subserviency, and not a gathering of
forces to strike against their tyranny. In certain lands there are
desert places where travelers have perished because the storm king hid
his face until the hour for overwhelming destruction sounded. Thinkest
thou that had the murmur of his coming reached their ears they would
not have taken warning and sought a place of safety? 'Tis so in
England. Had the King been shot, the news would have stirred the
kingdom from Berwick unto Dover. What then of our plans and secret
plottings, when each man who worshiped at our altars appeared a
traitor? It hath always been my firm conviction and unvarying counsel
that any blow must be far reaching; not James alone, but others
besides must fall, to give us any vantage ground."
A moment of silence followed Garnet's words. Percy first replied:
"'Tis a storm of extreme fury and sudden change of wind which
overcomes a vessel. Who then will bring about the hurricane which
shall wreck the ship of State?"
During the Jesuit's address Sir Thomas Winter sat immovable, his eyes
fixed upon the fire and his brow contracted in deep thought. As Percy
finished he turned suddenly to Fawkes.
"Friend Guido," said he smoothly, "thou art a man of many resources;
perchance in Spain thou hast learned something a suggestion of which
will now aid us. Thou perceiveth our condition."
Fawkes turned his gaze moodily upon the embers. Half unconsciously his
fingers had been toying with a powder flask lying on the table before
him, and a small portion of its contents had fallen into his palm. He
tossed the black grains into the fire, where they flashed for an
instant, sending a pungent ball of white smoke into the room. 'Twas as
though the craftiness of Satan had shown to him the embryo of the
hurricane.
"In Spain," replied he grimly, "there are many ways to overthrow a
tyrant; in England, as the Holy Father saith, 'twill need more
caution. Once upon a time the captain of a fighting vessel, fearing to
fall into the hands of those who would destroy his ship and put the
crew to torture, himself applied the fire to the magazine, it being
filled with powder, and ten score men perished in a twinkling."
His companions were startled, for the meaning of his words was clear
to them. As by a flash of light a way seemed to open which, if
followed, would lead to the fulfillment of their purpose. Catesby
leaned forward.
"But if it fail, friend Guido?" he whispered hoarsely. "What then?"
"Then!" cried Fawkes, turning to the Jesuit, "I will kill the
King,--if need be even without help! For what then would remain to
us?"
Garnet replied nothing. The words of the soldier of fortune startled
him. Instantly he saw the meaning of the plan which Fawkes had
formed;--a plan which, if once entered upon, would be carried out by
him with all the zeal of a fanatic. The fiendishness of it, while it
roused his admiration of the man's ingenuity, made him shudder; for
'twas not thus men struck in England.
"Come!" said he rising, "'tis close upon midnight, and the ride was
wearisome. Thy words have taken strong hold upon me, good Guido, and I
need a season of prayer and meditation to gain better understanding in
this matter. My cloak, therefore, that I may leave thee."
Obedient to his wishes the others hastened their preparations for
departure, and in silence Fawkes led them through the passage to the
door by which they had entered his dwelling.
CHAPTER XI.
THE WAY OF THE WORLD.
On hearing the sounds which indicated the departure of those in the
room beneath, Elinor arose from her cramped position and noiselessly
crept to the window. In the moonlit garden she could distinguish the
figures of four men going in the direction of the lane at the back of
the house. One she recognized as Sir Thomas Winter; the others were
unknown to her. But in a moment she heard her father's voice as he
uttered a warning to the horsemen: "Mind the ditch, Lord Percy! Sir
Catesby, keep well to the left!"
Then Fawkes closed the door, and she could hear his movements as he
went about extinguishing the lights. His footsteps sounded on the
stairs. If by chance he came into the chamber and found her awake and
up, what then? He would readily surmise how much it had been possible
for her to hear. Once in his anger, she remembered, he had valued her
life but cheaply;--within two short hours Elinor had learned to look
upon her father with terror, almost with dread; those words of his
rang in her ears: "I will kill the King if need be, even without
help!"
The footsteps approached her room. What was she to do? It was too late
to gain the bed and feign slumber, for the creaking of a loose board
would certainly attract his attention. She hoped the door was secured,
but had no recollection of locking it. At last he had gained the
passage; now he was before her room and placed his hand upon the
latch; it was not locked, for the door opened. The man peered in
through the crevice and gazed in her direction. How her heart
throbbed, shaking her whole body, and sending the blood through her
veins with a sound which she feared he would hear. She thanked God
that the moon shone directly through the window and her position was
well out of its rays. He evidently did not see the girl, for after a
scrutiny of the bed, which stood well in the shadow, and a muttered,
"Safe, safe enough; all safe," he closed the door and passed down the
corridor.
Elinor for a moment stood listening to the retreating footsteps; then
sank into a chair, exhausted by the strain of the last few moments,
and tried to gather her scattered thoughts. With woman's intuition she
quickly grasped the enormity of all she had overheard, comprehending
that high treason and wholesale murder had been planned; but the
hardest truth for her to realize was that her father, whom she had
always trusted and looked upon as the embodiment of honor and
uprightness, was the foremost to suggest and even offer to carry out
the fearful deed. "I will kill the King, if need be, even without
help:" the awful sentence seemed to be repeated over and over again by
the rustling night wind. Her first impulse was to save him from the
consequences of such an act. Were not the names of Moore and Essex
familiar to her? And what was their fate for even a suspected treason?
Her hysterical imagination placed vividly before her the head of the
father she loved, lying bleeding in that patch of moonlight on the
floor.
But what could she do in her weakness? Go to her father and beseech
him that, for love of her, he would take no part in this terrible
crime? That would accomplish nothing, for she knew him to be one whom
naught could turn from a deed he once undertook and looked upon as
justified. And now the most passionate fanaticism had seized
him--fanaticism of the most dangerous kind, born of wrongs done to his
faith. To whom could she turn for aid? She knew but one who, perhaps,
had some influence over Fawkes' stubborn mind. However, was not this
very one as deep in the treason as her father? Winter! The name caused
a shudder, bringing to mind that terrible morning ten days past.
Winter! She must then seek help from him; her hopes clung only to a
straw; nevertheless she would go and beg, if need be, even upon bended
knee, that he would persuade her father to relinquish this terrible
purpose. Yes, now was the time to act, for she feared in her
indefinite terror that the morrow might be too late.
Quickly seizing a cloak and throwing it about her, Elinor crept toward
the door and listened. The place was dark, and quiet as the grave.
Swiftly she descended the stairs, then groped her way to the door and
tried to withdraw the bolts. Would they never yield to her efforts? At
last they slipped with a sound which echoed through the house. The
girl paused, expecting to hear her father's voice, but the silence was
unbroken. In a moment she was out in the moonlit street. How quiet and
serene everything appeared. How in contrast to the tumult of her
feelings. As she stood, the great bell of St. Paul's boomingly tolled
out the hour--twelve o'clock.
"He must," she whispered to herself, "he must be home ere now, but
what will he think of my coming to him at this time?" She tried to
thrust this thought aside, and to gain repose of mind by walking more
swiftly.
Arrived before Winter's residence, and trying the wicket at the
entrance she found it yielded to her touch. The girl beheld a stream
of light coming from between the curtains of a window on the second
floor. The master of the house was then within. Quickly Elinor passed
up the walk and stood before the door. As she raised the knocker her
resolution almost gave way. What was she about to tell Winter. That
she, a girl, was possessed of this terrible secret!
Suddenly came to her memory the dreadful words connecting this man's
name with hers. She thought of the few times when they had been
together; how eager he had seemed to be near her; with what a
trembling clasp he had carried her fingers to his lips and imprinted
upon them kisses which burned themselves into the very flesh. And now
she was about to face him in the dead of night--and alone! Her fingers
relaxed their hold. "Courage, courage," she murmured; and quickly
laying hold of the knocker again, she smote thrice upon the panel and
listened. There soon fell upon her ear the sound of some one coming in
answer to her summons. The door opened and a sleepy servant stood
regarding her with an air of no small astonishment.
"Is thy master at home?" she inquired, in a voice which, in spite of
her efforts, trembled.
"That he is, young miss, but what wouldst thou with him at this late
hour? He hath but just returned from a journey, and is sore weary.
Canst thou not wait until the morning?"
"I must see him at once; 'tis on the most urgent business."
The hour, coupled with the fairness of the visitor, seemed to fill the
servant with surprise, for he stood a moment looking at her, then
replied:
"If thou wilt step inside, mistress, I'll inform Sir Winter that there
be someone who wishes to hold converse with him, and perchance," he
added with a meaning smile, "he'll not be so badly put out after all.
What name shall I bear to him? It may be one," he continued
significantly, "which would soon draw any bolt Sir Thomas might have
shot."
"No name is necessary," she answered, looking at the man and pointing
with her finger. "I seek thy master and come not to parley with his
menial. Go! Say a lady would speak with him."
The servant read in the girl's eye a look which seemed to brook
neither delay nor familiarity, for he turned and went along the
passage and up the stairway.
As Elinor waited, the utter hopelessness of her mission broke full
upon her, but it was now too late to draw back from her hasty act; the
voice of Winter could be heard exclaiming with a laugh:
"What, a lady to see me at this hour? Troth, I am fatigued, but never
so weary that I cannot look upon a fair face. Admit her."
A door opened and closed; the servant reappeared and beckoned her.
"Sir Thomas will see thee; 'tis the third portal from the landing," he
said, pointing up the stairs leading to the floor above.
As Elinor followed the directions given, she endeavored to frame some
fitting sentence with which to begin her interview, but her agitation
was too great; she could think of none. Arriving before the door she
tapped with her fingers upon the panel.
"Enter, my pretty one," cried a voice. "Thou hast already been
announced."
She stepped within the chamber. Winter sat with his back toward the
entrance facing a table upon which stood a flagon of wine. As the door
closed he turned, and to her horror Elinor saw that he was flushed
with strong drink.
"What? Elinor?" exclaimed Winter, in astonishment, rising from the
chair with such haste that it was overturned and fell with a clatter
to the floor. "I crave thy pardon, Mistress Fawkes," he continued with
a bow, mastering his surprise. "Thy sudden entrance caused my tongue
to utter the name that ever dwells within my heart. Pray tell me to
what happy circumstance am I indebted for the honor of this visit? I
would know the same that I may render homage to it."
Elinor stood speechless, filled with abhorrence and dread. All her
bravery could scarce keep her from flying out of the room. She
endeavored to fix her mind on the purpose which had brought her here,
and so find courage. At last desperation gave her voice and she began
hurriedly:
"I know that thou and others were at my father's house this night. I
was not asleep as ye all supposed, and have come to beg, to beseech,
pray, that my father be released from this terrible treason which hath
been talked of. Thou wert the only one to whom I could turn for aid--I
trust to thy goodness, to thy noble nature;--for the love of God tell
me not that I come in vain. See--see," she cried hysterically, her
self control gone and falling upon her knees. "I kneel before thee to
crave this boon."
At her first words Winter started as if a pike had been thrust into
his side. On his face was written blank astonishment, which
expression, as she proceeded, gave way to one of abject fear. It would
have been difficult to say which of the two was the more agitated. He
dashed a hand to his brow as if to drive away the fumes of liquor
which had mounted to his brain; looked at the kneeling figure; gazed
on the tapers burning upon the table; and tried to form some words of
reply. At last, with an effort at composure, and endeavoring to force
a laugh past his dry lips, he said:
"What silly tale is this thou utterest. I have not been----"
"Nay," the girl broke in wildly, "'tis useless for thee to say so. My
eyes and ears did not deceive me. Would to heaven they had and it were
only some mad dream which fills my brain."
"Then--then--thou hast played the spy," hissed Winter, in sudden anger
born of drink and fear. "Dost know to what thou hast listened? Has
aught of it passed thy lips? Speak!" he cried furiously, seizing the
girl's arm and glaring at her in drunken rage. "Nay; then thou didst
not, and 'tis well; for if thy lips had breathed one word these hands
of mine would choke from out thy body its sweet breath." He
relinquished his hold, and turning toward the table hurriedly drained
a cup of wine.
Elinor, spellbound with terror at his outburst of fury, stood rooted
to the spot. She realized the madness of her words, seeing plainly
that the man's condition was one which made both prayers and
entreaties useless. Again he filled a cup and dashed it off. What his
state would be in a few moments she dared not think. His back was
toward her; now was her chance to escape! Slowly the girl edged her
way toward the entrance. At last she reached it; her hand groped
behind the curtain for the knob; it turned, but to her horror, she
discovered the door was securely fastened.
A laugh greeted her from the table. "What, surely, Mistress
Fawkes--nay, by my troth, Mistress Fawkes it shall be no more, for
'tis too cold a title; therefore, Pretty Elinor--wouldst leave me, and
thy errand but half done? I swear thy words did at first affright; but
see, this good wine," he continued, advancing toward her unsteadily,
"hath taught me wisdom, and this I know, our secret once hid in thy
fair breast, could ne'er be driven forth, even if thou wished, as 'tis
too warm a resting place for it to relinquish. Why dost thou shrink
from me? Dost know," he added, a fierce gleam coming into his eyes, "I
would try to pluck great Saturn from the heavens if thou wished to
gird about thy waist his rings? Aye, and would give my soul for a kiss
from thy warm lips, thinking my soul well sold. Elinor!" he exclaimed,
in a husky voice, "hast thou never read my passion for thee? 'Tis
written----"
"Then!" cried the girl, "think upon that love and for God's sake let
me hence."
"What? Is my love so beggarly a thing that the only answer deigned to
its utterance is a scurvy request to get beyond its hearing? Nay, I
have looked upon thy frozen greetings long enough, and they, I tell
thee, have poorly matched my ardor. Listen! Thou dost wish to go?" he
questioned, placing himself before the door and holding to the
curtains for support. "Well, I will ask but cheap recompense for the
loss of thy fair company. 'Tis a kiss from thy red lips; what sayest
thou?"
"And thou dost call thyself a gentleman!" exclaimed Elinor looking at
him with scorn, her fear in a measure giving place to indignation at
the insolent and shameless words. "Let me depart, I say--nay, I
command thee."
"Ha! ha! Thou, I think, art carrying thyself loftily. 'Command!'" he
repeated with a laugh. "Nay, marry! Here thou wilt stay until them
thinkest thy going worth the price. And while thou dost meditate upon
it I will drink to thy health." He staggered toward the table and
refilled the cup.
Elinor glanced about the room seeking some possible avenue of escape.
Her eyes rested upon the portieres in front of the window; she moved
toward them, but as her dress rustled Winter turned at the sound.
"Aye, walk the room, my pretty one; thou wilt find thy cage well
barred. But enough of this," he continued, approaching her, "we do but
delay. Thou didst ask thy father's release from his compact. Well, he
shall be set free, but thou must recompense--not in coin, not in some
heavy muttered penance, but by thy beauty." He caught the girl in his
arms and whispered in her ear. Then the indignities which had been
heaped upon her gave strength to her arm. No sooner had his drunken
tongue uttered the sentence than she smote with all her might the face
gazing into hers. The blow for a moment staggered the man and he
released his hold; in that instant of freedom Elinor sprang toward the
window, dashing the curtains aside.
"Stand back!" she cried, as he made a step toward her, his face purple
with rage, "and for thy wicked words ask forgiveness from heaven ere
it blast thee. Where is thy religion, where thy manhood, thou beast?
Aye, beast is too good a term for such as thee, for they respect the
sex--even the stag will not goad the doe. I fear thee not; move from
where thou art and by the God who heard thy wicked words I'll cry thy
infamy and treason in a voice which shall 'rouse all London, and wake
the sleepy headsman to grind the axe. Now, I fear thee not!"
For a moment Winter paused, looking at the girl. Then his quick wit,
no longer dulled by the wine which had blinded him to the consequences
of the words he had uttered, came to his aid, and he replied:
"What? And lay thy father's head, as well as mine, upon the block?"
The curtain dropped from the girl's hand; she staggered, catching it
for support; then quickly recovered herself and with determination
flashing from her eyes exclaimed: "Nay, then, I will not cry thy
treason; my tongue is mute. But stir one foot and I leap from off the
balcony, gladly embracing the cold stones beneath, rather than suffer
a touch from thy guilty hands."
"Come! Come!" said Winter, baffled by her words and spirit; "I'll not
harm thee. I was but heated by the wine. Thou mayst depart in peace."
"I put no faith in thy words," said Elinor, still standing by the
casement, "for thou hast taught me how far one who calls himself a man
may be trusted. Go thou and unbar the door," pointing imperiously with
her hand; "then take thyself to the further end of the chamber and
there stand."
Winter hesitated, but even his dulled faculties recognized the
superiority of the girl's position, and he sullenly complied with her
request. Not until he had retired to the extreme end of the room did
Elinor leave her place. Then, she quickly fled into the corridor.
Winter remained for a moment where he was and, mad with drunken rage
when the closing of the outer door announced the escape of his victim,
exclaimed: "Aye, thou hast outwitted me for a moment; but thy victory
is not for long. I shall hold the laurel and also thee before
daybreak." Then, staggering into the hall, he shouted: "Richard!
Richard!"
A man appeared at the bottom of the stairs. "Come! Stir thy scurvy
legs; didst see the woman who this moment left me? Follow, and when at
a place thou deemest fit, throw this heavy mantle about her, and bring
her to me. She will struggle, I trow; but thou knowest the remedy.
Tarry not; go swiftly, or she will escape."
At last Elinor was in the street, and, dazed for a moment by her
sudden release from the peril in which she had just stood, with a
terrified look over her shoulder--half fearing to see a staggering
figure in pursuit, she fled in the direction of her home. But what
form is this which glides from out the gate, and catching sight of the
girl hurries in the direction she has taken? Like some evil phantom it
moves, noiselessly and swiftly, ever keeping well in the shadows.
CHAPTER XII.
WHAT THE MOON SAW.
But what of Fawkes? Did any gloomy thoughts disturb his rest? Did the
shadow of the axe or gibbet fall athwart his dreams? If not, why turns
he so uneasily in his slumber and at last awakes?
"Sleep sets ill upon me," he mutters, drawing a hand across his brow.
In a moment he arose, hastily dressed himself, walked toward the
window, opened it and gazed upon the night. Does some subtle bond of
sympathy exist between him and the girl who is now in peril of
death--or worse? It would seem so, for standing beside the casement,
he exclaims:
"Am I a sickly child, or puny infant, that I awake, frightened by
silly visions which war with sleep, and murder it ere 'tis fairly
born? Troth!" he continued, with knitted brows, "'twas strange my
fancy painted such a picture."
He stood for a moment wrapped in thought, then added, shaking his head
as though unable to thrust aside the memories which troubled him:
"By the blessed Virgin! a most vivid dream. How she held her arms out
to me, yet her lips were mute. Aye, and the eyes--the dumb horror
written in them, as if beholding a specter which blanched the face and
fettered the limbs. I believe," he added with a sudden resolution,
"'tis a woman's trick, but I would fain see her face ere I rest
again."
He stepped out into the corridor, proceeded in the direction of his
daughter's room, and softly entering, advanced toward the bed.
"Not here!" exclaimed he, beholding the empty couch. "Nay, thou canst
not frighten me," he continued with a forced laugh, gazing about.
"Come, show thyself; 'twas a merry jest, but let's have it done."
He paused; still no answer to his summons. "Elinor," he again called,
a shadow of anxiety in his tone. "What means it that she is nowhere
within hearing?"
He quickly retraced his steps, passed down the stairs and tried the
hall door. It was unbarred, and opened to his touch.
"By heaven!" he exclaimed, "I could swear I shot those bolts before
going to rest, and now they are drawn."
He stood anxiously looking out upon the star-lit night. His eyes
wandered to the doorstep, and discerned upon its covering of frost the
imprint of a small foot.
He stooped to examine the impression and hurriedly arose. "She has
indeed left the house," he cried. "What can have taken the maiden out
of doors at this hour of the night?--some secret tryst? Nay, I do but
jest; she's not the kind to go a-courting after the moon is up.
Mayhap," he continued, meditating a moment, "a neighbor was stricken
ill and they have summoned Elinor to lend her gentle aid. Marry,"
added he in a relieved tone, on finding a plausible excuse for his
daughter's absence, "I do recollect Master Carew's woman was soon
expected to add one more trouble to her husband's household. It is
most likely that she went there. 'Tis a dark way to travel, and I will
give her a surprise. While thinking a lonely walk lies before her,
Elinor will find an old but devoted cavalier to keep her company.
First," added he with a laugh, "I'll fetch my blade; for 'twould ill
befit a gallant in quest of beauty to go unarmed."
So saying, he disappeared, and presently returned attired in a heavy
mantle, and a long rapier girded to his side.
The moon was high, and its light, which whitened the gables of the
houses, diffused a bright glimmer below, sufficient to enable Fawkes
to proceed quickly upon his way. Frost had set in, and a keen wind
blew; so he was glad to hurry on at a goodly pace. As the streets were
quite deserted at this early hour of the morning, or haunted only by
those whose business--whether for good or evil--forced them out of
doors, he met no one and saw no lights. The man's mind was evidently
filled with pleasant thoughts, for ever and anon a smile would flit
across his face, as though he dwelt upon the surprised look of his
daughter when she would behold him. These agreeable anticipations,
which had taken the place for the moment of the sterner purposes which
had of late engrossed him, were only thrust out by something which
happened just then and brought him abruptly to himself.
It was the appearance of a woman, who suddenly issued from an alley a
score of yards in front of him, and with a quick glance over her
shoulder, disappeared down another turn in the road. The movements of
this apparition caused Fawkes to pause, when suddenly a second figure,
this time a man, came into view and hurried in the direction taken by
the girl. "By my hilt," whispered Fawkes, peering cautiously out of
the shadow in which he stood, "that rogue had a most suspicious air
about him; an honest man walks with more noise; but, by my soul! if
there is not a third!"
The object which had called forth the last remark was still another
figure, which came from the same quarter, and proceeded in the
direction taken by the first two. "What queer business is now afoot?"
Fawkes exclaimed, gazing after the retreating forms. "Mayhap ere long
a trusty blade will not be amiss. I can well afford a few moments to
see that all be fair."
So saying, and loosening his sword in its scabbard to make sure it was
free if suddenly needed, he swiftly passed in the direction taken by
the retreating figures. A few steps brought him to the head of the
street down which the three had disappeared. By the light of the moon
Fawkes distinctly saw the shadowy forms, and halting where he stood,
watched their movements.
The girl was well in advance; the second person, hurrying after. The
last of the two crossed to the opposite side of the way and walked
well in the shadow cast by the gables of the houses. The girl cast a
glance over her shoulder as if feeling the presence of one in pursuit,
but evidently finding herself quite alone, slackened her pace to take
breath. Now, the one nearest her made a strange move, if so be he were
bent upon an honest mission; for as soon as the woman reduced her gait
to a walk, the man loosened the long cloak hanging about his
shoulders, and seizing it in both hands, moved swiftly and noiselessly
in her direction. Aye, loose thy sword in its sheath, thou, standing
in the shadow; for if there be in thee muscle for a fight, soon will
the clash of steel ring out upon the frosty air.
The man was now up with the girl, who, on hearing footsteps, turned
and uttered a scream. Once only does she raise the cry, for before she
can a second time call out, the cloak is thrown over her head, a rough
hand is at her throat, and she feels the pressure of a rope as it is
deftly whipped about her. There was a momentary struggle; but it soon
ceased, for the woman fainted, and was at the mercy of him who had
trapped her. Is thy sword caught and useless? thy arm paralyzed? or
what causes thee to stand unnerved and trembling? Was it the scream
that rang out upon the midnight air? Had it the sound of a voice dear
to thee even now?
The man lifted the light figure of the girl within his arms and
hurried away. Aye, Effingston, heaven-sent was the sorrow which drove
thee forth to seek solace from the night and stars; but, come, now is
thy time!
Fear not for him--he has recovered himself--and, snatching his rapier
from its sheath, with one or two quick bounds is up with the man,
crying: "By the God above thee, release the woman ere I crush thy
head, thou adder!"
The one thus addressed turned, and seeing the determined face at his
elbow, paused, but retained his grasp upon the girl.
"Release her!" exclaimed Effingston, raising his sword, "ere I spit
thee." The man allowed his burden to slip to the ground, the cloak
fell from about her figure, and Elinor lay at the feet of him she
loved.
"Thou art quick with thy command, Master," replied the other, coolly
drawing his rapier. "Methinks thou hadst better attend to love affairs
of thine own, rather than meddle in that with which thou hast no
concern. Put up thy blade, I say, and go about thy business, ere I
teach thee a trick or two which will let more ardor out of thy body
than a three days' diet of beef can replace."
"Thou knave!" Effingston exclaimed, casting a quick glance at the
motionless figure upon the ground, and pointing toward it with his
rapier. "Dost call thyself a man, to steal behind and deal foul
blows? Verily, thou craven dog, 'tis written in thy countenance, and
he who runs may read, that thou hast not the courage even to look a
woman in the eye, much less to face a man in honest fight."
"I'll hear no more of thy speech," cried the now angry man, leaping
meanwhile to the middle of the road; "soon will I put holes in thy
genteel carcass which will leave thy vitals cold for some time to
come. Up with thy sword, if thy bravery be not all talk." He
unfastened his leather jerkin and stood awaiting Effingston, who
loosened the clasp of his mantle.
"By my troth," exclaimed Fawkes, who still retained his post of
vantage; "I swear 'tis not my place to interfere; likely it will be a
lusty fight, for both seem to have the proper spirit, and hold the
weapon as those accustomed to the steel. Marry! it must be difficult
to see the eyes in this light, but the point will be more readily kept
track of."
The combatants crossed swords and stood at guard.
"If thou hast any friend to claim thy body, better write his name,"
said the man in the leather jerkin, as Effingston's blade touched his
lightly, emitting a grating sound.
The only answer was a swift lunge, dexterously parried.
Not three blows were exchanged before Effingston realized that the man
before him not only possessed the skill of one long used to sword
play, but, further, combined with it the coolness and the keen eye of
an old duelist. Moreover, the neutral tint of his adversary's dress
offered but a poor mark by which to gauge his thrust, while his own
costume, being ornamented with silver, gave his antagonist most
effective guidance whereby to aim his strokes.
The other, also, came to the conclusion that no mere novice stood
before him, for Effingston had turned every thrust with an ease which
surprised him; and several times his sword had crept so closely to the
leather jerkin that three or four brown furrows had appeared upon it.
"Enough of this child's play," Effingston's antagonist hissed between
his teeth, making another furious lunge. The impetus given to the
thrust would have sent the blade to the hilt into the other's body had
it come in contact with it, but Effingston met the blow in a way least
expected, making use of a trick but little known in England at that
time, for as quickly as the sword flew forward he stepped lightly
aside, at the same time advancing his own weapon. The hilts came
together with a crash; the guard of one was entangled in the bell of
the other, and the two rapiers remained firmly interlocked. The men
now stood so closely that their breasts touched, the breath issuing
from their parted lips mingling in clouds. Suddenly, almost
simultaneously, as if one read the intent in the other's eye, each
slowly moved his left arm to his side, seeking the dagger he knew hung
there. Again, on the same instant, the knives flashed forth; the men
sprang quickly apart; the two rapiers went spinning on the roadway,
and with a clatter, became disentangled as they fell. No time for
breath; each knows it is to the death, and plenty of rest awaits one
or both, perchance, in a few moments. The men leaped toward each
other; a confused struggle ensued. Fawkes from his post could illy
make out who had the advantage. Suddenly, Effingston's foot slipped,
he was almost upon his knees--the man was upon him, one hand gripped
his shoulder, forcing him to the ground, the other held the knife
lifted high to add force to the blow; but that coveted strength cost
him his life, for before the hand could descend, Effingston quickly
raised his dagger, and drove it with all his might up to the guard in
the neck left unprotected by his adversary's movement. The man
clutched at the figure before him, the blade flew from his grasp and
he dropped with a bubbling cry to the earth, the blood spurting from
him as he fell.
"Marry!" exclaimed Fawkes, who through all the contest had been
craning his neck and breathing hard with excitement, "that was a brave
device but not one which I should care to try myself. By the Apostle
Paul!" added he in surprise on hearing the bell of a distant church
strike the hour, "it is three o'clock, and here am I watching two
gentlemen, whose faces I cannot even see, settle a little difficulty
about a woman. But 'twas a lusty fight, and for the moment made me
forget the errand which called me forth." Saying which and with
another glance down the road, he started upon his way.
The victor stood regarding his foe, who made one or two convulsive
movements as if to arise, but fell back with the blood spouting from
the wound and out his mouth. One more struggling effort he makes, but
'tis the last; with a violent convulsion of his whole body the man in
the leather jerkin sinks to the earth to rise no more.
Effingston turned to the second figure lying upon the roadway, and as
he gazed upon her, there was expressed on his countenance a certain
degree of contempt, but, withal, a love which pride and resolution
could not quite kill. As she lies there, the white face touched by the
light of the moon, it is like looking upon the dead.
"O God," he whispered, as he suddenly knelt beside her, taking one of
the white hands within his own, "would that she had died
before--before----" He slowly raised the girl in his arms; then
convulsively pressed the light figure to him, and letting his head
sink upon her breast, sobbed as only a strong man can.
Again there was silence, broken only by the rattle of ice-covered
twigs swept from the trees by the restless night wind. After a moment
he regained composure and fell to chafing her hands.
A slight motion showed him the girl was slowly recovering from her
long swoon. Gradually consciousness returned, and lifting her head
from the cloak he had placed beneath it, she looked about in a
confused way as though unable to make out her surroundings. Soon her
gaze rested upon Effingston, who had drawn a little apart. Raising
herself, she tottered toward him, and would have fallen had he not put
an arm out to prevent her.
"What could have made thee treat me so?" she whispered, passing a hand
across her face, as if endeavoring to brush away that which hindered
her thoughts. "Have I not suffered enough?" she continued, piteously.
"I was not thy assailant," answered Effingston, motioning to the
figure on the road; "there he lieth; thou canst go thy way in peace."
The girl glanced in the direction and shuddered. "And how came this
about?" she questioned, in a dreamy tone, casting a frightened look at
the thing in the path. "Oh, now I do recollect me," added she, softly,
as though to herself, seemingly oblivious of her surroundings. "I had
left Sir Winter, and deeming myself quite safe, was hurrying home,
when--for truth, I can remember no more until I found thee near me."
She ceased and looked up into his face with an innocent smile.
Evidently the terrible strain to which her mind had been subjected
effaced from it all previous impressions, or left only an indistinct
recollection of what had transpired. "It was brave of thee," she
murmured, in the same dreamy tone, placing her hand upon his arm.
At the name of Winter, Effingston drew back. Had she not by those
unguarded words confirmed her guilt? All his pride and anger returned.
The resolutions which had but a moment since departed, banished by
that helpless figure in the moonlight, now came again with greater
strength. Of what weakness, he asked himself, had he been guilty? Of
kissing the lips not yet cold from the caresses of him who had defiled
them.
"Very--brave--in--thee," the girl repeated, in a dull monotone.
Effingston glanced at her, but that piteously bewildered face cannot
move him, and he coldly answered:
"'Tis the duty of every gentleman to protect the life of a woman, even
though her shame be public talk."
Evidently the girl had not heard, or at least the words made no
impression upon her brain, for she nestled closely to him like a
frightened child seeking protection.
"Come," he whispered. She obeyed without a word. They passed upon
their way in silence and at last reached her dwelling. Effingston
opened the door which stood unbarred, and assisted her to enter. He
turned to go, not trusting himself to speak.
"Thou wert not always accustomed to leave me thus," exclaimed the
girl, in a voice destitute of expression. "See," she continued, "I
will kiss thee even without thy asking," and before the man realized
her intent, she threw her arms about him and pressed her lips to his.
"They are cold," she murmured, with a shiver. "But the night is
chilly--look! now the east is streaked with red." Turning, she
pointed to the sky, dyed with the crimson light of coming day. The
ruddy glow crept up, touching the girl and turning the snow at her
feet to the color of the rose.
"Come to me, dear heart," she whispered, holding out her arms; "take
me to thee, that on thy breast I may find a sweet and dreamless
sleep."
The sun arose; but upon no sadder sight than this man, who plodded
wearily homeward--warring forces within, and a desert all about. On
his way through the silent streets, made more desolate by the
cheerless light of coming day, he saw for a moment a mirage of an
honorable love and happiness. In the fair city of his dream he beheld
a bright and happy home, made so and adorned by the girl whose kiss
was still upon his lips. There, always awaited him a heart which,
through its love, added to each blessing, and dulled every sorrow.
Ever on the portal stood a being he worshiped, who, with her fair arms
wreathed a welcome of love about him. They pass within; a bright face
offers itself for a kiss; fondly he stoops, but the dream
vanishes;--in the breaking of the morn he stands alone;--hope dead
within his breast.
CHAPTER XIII.
AT "THE SIGN OF THE LEOPARD."
Winter waited long for his servant's return. He walked restlessly up
and down the chamber, ever and anon pausing, either for recourse to
the flagon on the table, or to draw aside the curtains and gaze out
upon the street. At last, sinking into a chair with a muttered curse
at the long delay, he fell into deep sleep, overcome by the wine in
which he had so freely indulged. Dawn broke gray and cheerless. The
first rays of the sun penetrated into the chamber and fell upon the
sleeper,--his position was unchanged since the small hours of the
night. Gradually, as the light increased, he stirred uneasily, awoke,
and rubbing his eyes, looked about as though not sure of the
surroundings. His eye rested upon the flagon, then slowly traveled
toward the window. The recollection of the last night, however,
flashed before him, and springing from the chair, he dashed out into
the corridor.
"Richard!" he called. No answer followed his summons.
"Richard," he repeated, in a still louder tone. The only response was
the echo of his own voice.
"What mad business be this?" exclaimed he, retracing his steps and
looking wildly about the apartment. "By this cursed drink have I
brought ruin to our hopes and cause. Out upon thee," he cried in a
transport of passion, suddenly seizing the flagon, and flinging it
with all his might across the room. The heavy piece of metal struck
the wall, sending out a deluge of wine, and falling with a crash,
shattered into fragments an ivory crucifix resting upon a small table.
Winter stood aghast at the havoc wrought.
"An omen," he whispered, white to the lips, glancing about with
frightened looks, then kneeling to take up the broken cross.
"See," he cried, holding with trembling fingers the image of the
crucified Savior which had escaped the wreck, and now dripped with
wine;--"Christ's wounds do open their red mouths and bleed afresh at
my awful deeds." The man arose, crossed himself, and thrust the image
into his doublet, then wiping the sweat from his brow sank into a
chair.
"'Tis not by these tremblings, or vain regrets, that I may fortify
myself, or mend what's done," he exclaimed. "I must bethink me, and
let reason check the consequences of my folly. The girl asseverated
that she heard all which transpired at her house last night. Oh, most
unfortunate chance which gave the words into her ear! What foul fiend
did raise the cup to my lips and leave my wit too weak to turn the
deadly stroke? Nay," he continued, after several moments, shaking his
head, "she'll not make known the purport of our speech, for the love
she bears her father is a potent hostage for her silence, and if I be
judge, Mistress Elinor will make scant mention of her visit
yesternight. Even if there be small love in her heart for me, a most
wholesome fear doth take its place, and for my present purpose one
will serve as fittingly as the other. Marry," he continued, with a
smile, seemingly relieved by his reflections, "thy ready wit hath at
last returned; but by St. Paul! what hath become of that varlet
Richard? 'Tis more than likely the open door of some pot house spoke
more strongly to him than my command, and 'tis most providential if my
surmise be true; I must have been mad indeed to trust the rogue on
such a mission. Small doubt but that he heard all which transpired
here last night, for he hath a most willing ear to listen, and a
tongue given to wag. 'Twould be a heaven-sent deed if something would
occur to silence his speech, for his knowledge, if he hath the wit to
know its value, may be a deadly menace to our cause. When he returns
I'll give the knave silver to quit the country; or, perchance," he
added, a hard, cunning look coming into his eyes as he put his hand
upon a small dagger at his side, "if that will not suffice, 'twill be
necessary for our safety to introduce him to more sturdy metal."
The man arose and proceeded to efface the marks of dissipation, and
set his disordered dress to rights, saying as he finished, "I must to
my appointment with Garnet. Marry," he added, donning hat and mantle,
"I hope he is safely housed, and that my letter to Giles Martin, which
the worthy prelate was to present, did insure him some extra
attention, as a pot house, at its best, must be a poor refuge for a
priest."
It was early in the morning and few people were astir.
"Gramercy," quoth Winter, when he had proceeded some distance on his
way, "would that some person were abroad that I might enquire the
direction to 'The Sign of the Leopard;' I swear," he added, glancing
about, "it must be in this neighborhood, but I can illy guess where."
Looking, he perceived a group of men a little distance down the
street. "There be some worthies," exclaimed he, "who can perhaps
direct me to the hostelry." As he approached he saw they were
regarding a figure lying upon the ground.
"Nay, Master Alyn," said one, "thou hadst best do naught but let it
await removal by the King's guard; if thou disturb the body surely
questions might be asked which 'twould bother thy head to answer."
"Beshrew my heart," exclaimed the man addressed, who, judging from his
appearance, was a small tradesman, "I can ill afford to have this evil
thing lying upon my step, preventing what little trade might drift
this way."
Winter now came up with the group, and as they turned at the sound of
his footsteps, he could see that the object of their remarks was a man
lying face downward on the flagging, and his attitude of relaxation
showed that death had overtaken him.
"What hast thou here, my men?" Sir Thomas exclaimed, "some victim of a
drunken brawl?"
"That we cannot make out," answered the first speaker, touching his
hat, on perceiving--by his dress and manner--that the questioner was a
gentleman, possibly one
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/30490