_ 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!" _