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 hisOrder. 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 ortrial, 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."
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, thenstepped 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 overhis 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," headded 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 surroundinga 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 twosilver 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, brusquemanner 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; butby 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, bemy 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."
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 ofEngland. 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 hathdealt 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 againstthe 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 hishiding 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.
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 withone 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 canbut 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 pacesfrom 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 shewould 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, Itrow," 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.