_ 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. _