_ CHAPTER XV. "THOU SHALT NOT KILL"
The deduction made by Winter concerning the silence of Elinor had been correct; but the power he had deemed potent to restrain her from uttering what she had overheard, and from giving voice to the indignities he in his drunkenness had heaped upon her, was not alone the reason of her silence; the mind was held in a species of lethargy. Now her father had left England; the motive which prompted his departure she could surmise,--his mission was an enigma. And who was his companion? The man whose face was ever before her, whose touch haunted her in dreams causing her to awake and cry in terror to the Virgin for protection. The girl was wrought up to a state of hysterical expectancy. Even when sitting within doors, an exclamation upon the street would cause her to start, fearing it might be a voice proclaiming the fulfillment of the awful threat which ever sounded in her ears. Never did she go abroad and behold a group of men but she approached with trembling limbs and nervous eagerness, feeling that the first words falling from their lips would be that England was without a king. What the effect of this anxiety might have been had she brooded over it long in solitude, is not difficult to tell. But solace arose from an unexpected quarter. On his departure for France, Fawkes had mentioned that there was in the city a certain friend, his companion several years before, whom he had again lately met and asked to call from time to time to inquire if he might render any service. The girl awaited the arrival of this visitor with trepidation and some anxiety, being well aware that the companions of her father were, as a rule, men of little refinement, accustomed to the rough life of a camp, and more at their ease in a pot-house than in the society of a young woman. Her expectations were pleasantly disappointed, for on his first visit the stranger, by his ease and grace of manner, banished from her mind all doubts concerning him. Although habited in the garb of a soldier of the period, there was about him something--a peculiar refinement of speech, a dignity of carriage, a certain reverent homage which he rendered unto her--that won from the girl a feeling of respect and confidence. His visits, far from being cause for apprehension, had become the one bright spot in her daily life; in his company Elinor for a brief time forgot the terrible anxiety to which she was a prey.
The only circumstance which impressed her as strange was that "Captain Avenel"--for by this name he had introduced himself--seldom visited the house by day, and there was always a certain amount of implied rather than actual caution in his movements, which seemed to the girl odd, as nothing else in his manner could be deemed in the least mysterious.
On one of those evenings, which Elinor now looked forward to with some pleasure, she and "Captain Avenel" sat together in a little room of Fawkes' dwelling.
"And didst say thou hadst intelligence of my father?" inquired she, eagerly.
"This very morning," answered the man, "did I receive a letter brought by packet from Calais, and in the note he wished me to make known his safe arrival; further, that he would by the next mail write thee, telling all about his travels. Now thou canst set thy mind at rest concerning him, for France in our time offers but few dangers, though in truth I think thy sire hath the look of one to whom peril would be a diversion."
"England doth offer more dangers than France," answered the girl, who was now abstractedly gazing into the fire.
Garnet turned a swift glance in her direction. The words awakened in the priest that feeling of apprehension which had ever been present in his mind since his arrival in London, but until now it had not been called forth by word or deed of hers. On the contrary, in her society the Jesuit felt for some reason, probably the innocence and loveliness of the girl, a sensation of rest and security that enabled him to throw off the dread of detection which so constantly possessed him. But he turned and inquired in a quiet tone:
"And dost deem England such a dangerous country?"
"Nay," replied Elinor, hesitatingly, "England doth seem all peace and quietude, but----" here she stopped, fearing the man might read what lay hidden in her heart, for he was regarding her with a look of surprise as he noted her embarrassment.
"Come, my daughter," said he kindly, his gentle heart touched by the fear written on her face, "I have suspected long that some matter did trouble thee. If I have power to lend aid, consider my whitening hair, and hesitate not to confide in me, who am old enough to enjoy the blessing of being called father by thee."
Elinor looked into the benevolent countenance.
"Fear not," he continued in a persuasive voice, "if I can counsel thee, thy wish for help is granted ere 'tis asked."
She raised her head and met a look of gentle sympathy long unknown to her, and for which her poor heart so fondly yearned. The tears sprang to her eyes and her self control, that which the brutality of Winter could not break down, gave way. She turned toward him like a poor tired bird after battling with a storm; her weakness could not endure longer to see protection neath the leaf and branches of his goodness and not avail herself of it.
In a moment more the words had passed her lips,--all that she had overheard, the words uttered by Fawkes, and the fear and anguish which since had haunted her.
"Is there naught I can do?" she cried. "O God! when did I ever commit a sin worthy of the punishment?" She raised her eyes to Garnet. "Even thou art pale to the lips from the hideousness of the thing."
Through the girl's confession, Garnet's attitude remained unchanged. At her first words he started, but with an effort controlled himself. The sudden revelation that their plans were known by one outside those who composed the little band consecrated to the holy cause, filled him with a terror which, at first, reason was unable to check. But as she proceeded, the quick mind of the priest perceived that the girl's one thought was, not to save the King, nor to defeat their hopes, but only to deliver her father from the danger to which he was exposed. The fear gradually passed away, and as Elinor ceased speaking, the strongest feeling in the prelate's mind was one of sympathy for her who wept before him.
"Is there naught," Garnet inquired, mildly, when the girl had finished, "that thou can'st see to justify thy father's act, and by that justification bring to thee consolation? Think, even though he were marked to die, more honor belongs to him in this, than to live to old age in idleness and inactivity. Dwell upon thy love for him, then meditate on his love for the Church."
"Nay," she answered, "my knee doth bend before the altar with as great a reverence as any who do honor to the Host, and were my father to fall in open conflict I would not grudge his life given to a noble cause. But this act is not loyalty to God, for, did He not decree, 'Thou shalt not kill?' 'Tis naught but murder; and if my father fall, he will not meet death as a martyr, but as a common assassin."
Garnet was silent; the girl's words sounded strangely to him. Not wishing to reveal his identity he determined to avoid further argument, fearing suspicions might be raised in Elinor's mind which would only make matters worse. What course to pursue he did not know. As far as circumstances permitted, he would help her, but how to effect this was beyond his present comprehension.
"I have not told thee in vain? Thou wilt aid me?" she inquired.
"My child, I must have time to meditate," answered the Jesuit. "I cannot give thee advice upon such a weighty matter without due deliberation; but," he added hastily, "all is safe for a time at least; thy father is in France."
"I pray God," exclaimed the girl, "that I shall not have reason to regret opening my heart unto thee. Nay, thou couldst not be so cruel as to make known what I have told. Swear," she cried in sudden fear, noting a strange expression on the other's face, "swear thou wilt keep secret all I have revealed."
"Alarm not thyself," replied the prelate; "what thou hast uttered is as safe as if 'twere said under the seal of the confessional. Know further, thou hast told thy trouble to one who will ever cherish the confidence, even if his help avail thee little. But," added he, tenderly--in the sincerity of his heart forgetting the sword which hung at his side--"may the peace of Him whose hand was ready to turn the water into wine, or raise the widow's son, descend and give thee relief."
"Thou speakest like a priest," she said.
Garnet started, but quickly replied, "Never could a priest grant thee absolution with a gladder heart, than I would release thee from this trouble, were it in my power, and were it the will of God that I should do so."
"And dost think it is God's will that I suffer thus?"
"Perchance, yes," said he, in a thoughtful voice, as if communing with himself, "and it may be His decree that many more do groan with thee. Be not regretful thou has told thy sorrow, for even to confide a grief is to make it lighter."
"Nay, I do not regret, I think there is little else left me but to endure; would that I were dead and beyond the touch of sorrow," she added, with a hopeless sigh.
"Thou shouldst not wish thyself dead, for to do so is to be unreconciled to the will of God. If this poor hand doth fail to bring comfort, my prayers shall ever be for strength that thou mayst bear with fortitude all which the wisdom of heaven deems just to send. Try to look upon thy grief as a tribute God demands to work out some mighty project of His own."
"I will try," the girl said, a sad smile coming into her face. "Think not I am ungrateful for thy words of comfort."
"And now, my daughter, will I wish thee the blessing of sweet sleep, for 'tis late; I will see thee again soon."
"Thou art very good," she replied simply, "thou, the only one remaining--" her lips trembled and tears filled her eyes; suddenly she threw her arms about him, and between the sobs which shook her frame, exclaimed, hiding her face upon his shoulder, "all that is left me now."
Garnet regarded the slight figure clinging to him: "Oh God!" he thought, "Is it Thy will that such as these must suffer?" He raised his arm as if to encircle her, but let it drop by his side.
"Come, my child," he said after a moment, putting her gently from him, "thy tears well nigh unman me; I would it were in my power to give thee consolation, but help must come from higher hands than mine."
As he reached the threshold he turned and beheld a picture which haunted him many a day, and for an instant raised within his holy mind a doubt of the justice of such grief. As she stood, the imprint of deep sorrow was on the fair young face--a sorrow the young should never know. One arm was raised as though in mute appeal to him not to forsake her in this misery. A look, and he closed the door, passing out into the night.
The effect produced upon Garnet by the trouble he had just witnessed was complex. Never doubting the justice of the cause he espoused, still, his quiet nature could not hide from itself a feeling of pity that one so good and innocent should be called upon to suffer equally with those whose unholy hands were raised to snatch the cross from off the altar of his fathers.
"Truly," he muttered, as he proceeded on his way--pressing a hand to his breast that he might feel the crucifix resting there--"it hath been resolved by higher authority than my weak will that this thing must be done. And, Henry Garnet, who art thou to question? Still," he added, sadly shaking his head, the memory of a tear-stained face passing before him, "it is a pity; but for every tear that falls from thy gentle eyes a soul will be redeemed."
He continued on his way in silence. As he approached the more densely populated districts of the city, an almost unconscious movement of the hand brought the fold of his mantle over his shoulder, so that it hid the lower portion of his face. The tall figure of Garnet was one which could not fail to attract attention, and many a passerby turned to see who the cavalier might be. This did not escape the eye of the prelate, and evidently for the sake of being unnoticed, he turned into a less frequented thoroughfare, and proceeded by a circuitous route to gain the hostelry wherein he resided. The way brought him through a portion of the city composed of narrow intersecting streets and alleys, faced by poor and worn out hovels. A few old warehouses here and there marked the spots where in times gone by fine goods had been stored. As they stood with broken windows and open doors sighing and creaking in the wind, they appeared like living creatures who had fallen from conditions of plenty, and were now, in their hunger, bemoaning the loss of the abundance which once had filled them.
In front of one of these buildings Garnet paused for a moment to more closely examine the pile, and being deeply absorbed in his task of inspection, was not aware of the glimmer of a lantern which came bobbing toward him along the main road. The first intimations that any one but himself stood upon the street were a sudden flash of light in his face, a heavy hand falling upon his shoulder, and a gruff voice exclaiming:
"Henry Garnet, in the name of the King I arrest thee!"
The priest started, and with rapid motion drew his cloak about him, at the same time springing upon the step of the building. The man lowered the light and by its reflection the Jesuit could see that he wore the uniform of the King's guard.
"Come," continued the soldier, drawing his sword, "submission better suits thee as a priest, than does resistance."
The blow had fallen so quickly, so unexpectedly, that for an instant Garnet stood as one struck dumb, unable either to reply or form a plan of action. However, in a moment his alert mind grasped the situation. He had been recognized, that was evident, but his arrest was simply for disobeying the edict by which he, as well as all his order, were banished from the kingdom. The penalty following the violation of this decree, at its worst, would simply mean imprisonment in the Tower. But what, he asked himself, would be the consequence of it? While far from being an egotist, the Jesuit knew that he alone was the thinking power of that cause which to him was dearer than life. And now, when plans were fast maturing, the corn ripening in the field, awaiting but the hand of the reapers, he was placed in sudden danger which threatened to frustrate all their hopes. These thoughts flashed through his mind with the rapidity of lightning as he confronted the man standing at the foot of the steps. Escape he must,--but how?
"Come, Henry Garnet," the man repeated, ascending the steps, lantern in one hand, a sword in the other. "Thou art my prisoner, and in the name of his most gracious Majesty, James I., I arrest thee!"
A bold rush now would be of no avail, for the man stood with the point of his rapier close to the prelate's breast, almost touching his doublet; furthermore Garnet's sword was in its scabbard, and at the first attempt to draw it, he, in all probability, would be run through the body. Was there no alternative but to yield? A gust of wind caused the door at his back to creak. In an instant the Jesuit had sprung for the portal, but the soldier, perceiving his purpose, lunged with his weapon, and so true was the aim, that the prelate's cloak was pinned fast to the wooden frame. An instant he was held there, but the clasp of the mantle giving way released its wearer, and Garnet stood in the dark entry, the door shut, and his foot set firmly against it. The move had been none too quick, for the soldier hurled himself upon the closed portal, which caused the old boards to groan, but they did not yield; the only result of the man's efforts were, that the lantern flew from his grasp, rolling down the steps into the street. The priest heard him descend to recover the light, and relinquishing his hold upon the door, groped his way through the darkness, hoping to elude his pursuer in the building. His hand came in contact with the baluster, and he quickly ascended the rickety stairs. By this time, the guard had relighted his lantern and was peering cautiously into the hall, evidently fearing a sword thrust from out the darkness. In this instant's hesitation, Garnet gained the loft above. Here the obscurity was less intense, for the waning moon shining through a broken window into a room at his left, enabled him to see his way more distinctly. There was little time for choice of direction, for even now the soldier had commenced to ascend, and Garnet, not venturing to grope further in the gloom, turned toward the ray of light, and passed quickly into the room, pressed himself against the wall and waited. The priest could see his pursuer holding the lantern above his head, as he ascended the stairs, looking carefully about the while. The soldier approached the chamber in which the Jesuit lay hid, peered in at the door, and as if not satisfied with this cursory examination entered. At last the man seemed satisfied, and with a muttered curse was about to leave the apartment, when a fatal turn of the lantern swept one of its rays full upon the Jesuit.
"Ah! there thou art, my sly fox!" cried the soldier, springing, sword in hand, at Garnet; another instant would have seen the priest pinned fast to the wall, had not the man's foot in some way become entangled in the mantle hanging upon his arm, throwing him headlong with great clatter of steel to the floor.
In a moment Garnet was upon him, both hands at the soldier's throat, the long fingers pressing firmly the windpipe; one more strong clasp and the priest released his hold, seized the other's sword, which had fallen to the floor, and stood with its point upon the man's breast.
"Swear by the God thou fearest, and upon thine honor, that thou wilt remain in this room until I leave the house! Swear it!" the priest repeated, "ere I run thee through!"
No answer followed his command.
"Come. Swear it!" he repeated, pressing the rapier firmly against the other's chest. The ominous silence fell upon the priest as strange. He stooped to look into the face. The light was dim, and still lower he bent. Suddenly the sword dropped from his hand, for the Jesuit saw by the bulging eyes which stared into his that he had demanded an oath from a corpse. Those long white fingers had pressed more firmly than they knew; the man's windpipe was crushed like paper.
"My God!" the Jesuit whispered, kneeling beside the prostrate form, horror of the deed falling upon him. "Of what have I been guilty? This man's blood upon my head?" Terror-stricken, he looked about the room. Again his eyes returned to the thing lying beside him. Was that a movement of the distorted face? He gazed upon it in horrible fascination. Slowly the lips of the dead man parted, the jaw dropped, and it seemed as though a hideous smile lay upon the distorted visage.
"Ah!" cried Garnet, springing to his feet, "Even in death thou art the victor, for I am shackled to thee. Never in this world can I escape the recollection of thy countenance!"
The priest fell upon his knees, and raised his hands:
"God help me and forgive me for this deed!" he cried. "If I have sinned, 'twas not to save this worthless life of mine; not that I deemed it sweet to live, but that I might survive to consecrate or yield that life in the furtherance of Thy holy work!"
He paused a moment in silent prayer, then arose, and taking a crucifix from his doublet, knelt by the figure on the floor and pressed the symbol to the dead lips.
"Nay," said he, as he stood regarding the man, "I did not wish thy death, and would gladly yield my life to see thee breathe again, but 'twas ordained thou shouldst go first. And who next?" he added, raising the cross and gazing upon it--"Mayhap he doth wear a crown." _