MY FATHER.
Tell him all? I stood thinking, my hand on the key. The voices of the
rearmost of the conspirators sounded more and more faintly as they
passed up the shaft, until their last accents died in the room above,
and silence followed; a silence in strange contrast with the bright
glare of the torches which burned round me and lit up the empty cellar
as for a feast. I was wondering what he would say when I told him
all--when I said "I am your son! I, whom Providence has used to thwart
your plans, whose life you sought, whom, without a thought of pity,
you left to perish! I am your son!"
Infinitely I dreaded the moment when I should tell him this, and hear
his answer; and I lingered with my hand on the key until an abrupt
knocking on the other side of the door brought the blood to my face.
Before I could turn the key the hasty summons was repeated, and grew
to a frantic, hurried drumming on the boards--a sound which plainly
told of terror suddenly conceived and in an instant full-grown. A
hoarse cry followed, coming dully to my ears through the thickness of
the door, and the next moment the stout planks shook as a heavy weight
fell against them.
I turned the key, and the door was flung open from within. My father
stumbled out.
The strong light for an instant blinded him, and he blinked as an owl
does brought to the sunshine. Even in him the long hours passed in
solitude and the blackness of despair had worked changes. His hair was
grayer; in patches it was almost white, and then again dark. He had
gnawed his lower lip, and there were bloodstains on it. His mustache,
too, was ragged and torn, as if he had gnawed that also. His eyes were
bloodshot, his lean face was white and haggard and fierce.
"Ha!" he cried, trembling, as he peered round, "I thought they had
left me to starve! There were rats in there! I thought----"
He stopped. He saw me standing holding the edge of the door. He saw
that otherwise the room was empty, the farther door leading to the
shaft open. An open door! To him doubtless it seemed of all sights the
most wonderful, the most heavenly! His knees began to shake under him.
"What is it?" he muttered. "What were they shouting about? I heard
them shouting."
"The queen is dying," I answered simply, "or dead, and you can do us
no more harm. You are free."
"Free?" He repeated the word, leaning against the wall, his eyes wild
and glaring, his lips parted.
"Yes, free," I answered, in a lower voice--"free to go out into the
air of heaven a living man!" I paused. For a moment I could not
continue. Then I added solemnly, "Sir, Providence has saved you from
death, and me from a crime."
He leaned still against the wall, dazed, thunderstruck, almost
incredulous, and looked from me to the open door and back again as if
without this constant testimony of his eyes he could not believe in
his escape.
"It was not Anne?" he murmured. "She did not----"
"She tried to save your life," I answered; "but they would not listen
to her."
"Did she come here?"
As he spoke, he straightened himself with an effort and stood up. He
was growing more like himself.
"No," I answered. "She sent for me and told me her terms. But Kingston
and the others would not listen to them. You would have been dead now,
though I did all I could to save you, if Penruddocke had not brought
this news of the queen."
"She is dead?"
"She is dying. The Spanish Ambassador," I added, to clinch the matter,
for I saw he doubted, "rode through here this afternoon to pay his
court to the Princess Elizabeth at Hatfield."
He looked down at the ground, thinking deeply. Most men would have
been unable to think at all, unable to concentrate their thoughts on
anything save their escape from death. But a life of daily risk and
hazard had so hardened this man that I was certain, as I watched him,
that he was not praying nor giving thanks. He was already pondering
how he might make the most out of the change; how he might to the best
advantage sell his knowledge of the government whose hours were
numbered to the government which soon would be. The life of intrigue
had become second nature to him.
He looked up and our eyes met. We gazed at one another.
"Why are you here?" he said curiously. "Why did they leave you? Why
were you the one to stop to set me free, Master Carey?"
"My name is not Carey," I answered.
"What is it, then?" he asked carelessly.
"Cludde," I answered softly.
"Cludde!" He called it out. Even his self-mastery could not cope with
this surprise. "Cludde," he said again--said it twice in a lower
voice.
"Yes, Cludde," I answered, meeting and yet shrinking from his
questioning eyes, "my name is Cludde. So is yours. I tried to save
your life, because I learned from Mistress Anne----"
I paused. I shrank from telling him that which, as it seemed to me,
would strike him to the ground in shame and horror. But he had no
fear.
"What?" he cried. "What did you learn?"
"That you are my father," I answered slowly. "I am Francis Cludde, the
son whom you deserted many years ago, and to whom Sir Anthony gave a
home at Coton."
I expected him to do anything except what he did. He stared at me with
astonished eyes for a minute, and then a low whistle issued from his
lips.
"My son, are you! My son!" he said coolly. "And how long have you
known this, young sir?"
"Since yesterday," I murmured. The words he had used on that morning
at Santon, when he had bidden me die and rot, were fresh in my
memory--in my memory, not in his. I recalled his treachery to the
Duchess, his pursuit of us, his departure with Anne, the words in
which he had cursed me. He remembered apparently none of these things,
but simply gazed at me with a thoughtful smile.
"I wish I had known it before," he said at last. "Things might have
been different. A pretty dutiful son you have been!"
The sneer did me good. It recalled to my mind what Master Bertie had
said.
"There can be no question of duty between us," I answered firmly.
"What duty I owe to any one of my family, I owe to my uncle."
"Then why have you told me this?"
"Because I thought it right you should know it," I answered, "were it
only that, knowing it, we may go different ways. We have nearly done
one another a mischief more than once," I added gravely.
He laughed. He was not one whit abashed by the discovery, nor awed,
nor cast down. There was even in his cynical face a gleam of
kindliness and pride as he scanned me. We were almost of a height--I
the taller by an inch or two; and in our features I believe there was
a likeness, though not such as to invite remark.
"You have grown to be a chip of the old block," he said coolly. "I
would as soon have you for a son as another. I think on the whole I am
pleased. You talked of Providence just now"--this with a laugh of
serene amusement--"and perhaps you were right. Perhaps there is such a
thing. For I am growing old, and lo! it gives me a son to take care of
me."
I shook my head. I could never be that kind of son to him.
"Wait a bit," he said, frowning slightly. "You think your side is up
and mine is down, and I can do you no good now, but only harm. You are
ashamed of me. Well, wait," he continued, nodding confidently. "Do not
be too sure that I cannot help you. I have been wrecked a dozen times,
but I never yet failed to find a boat that would take me to shore."
Yes, he was so arrogant in the pride of his many deceits that an hour
after Heaven had stretched out its hand to save him, he denied its
power and took the glory to himself. I did not know what to say to
him, how to undeceive him, how to tell him that it was not the failure
of his treachery which shamed me, but the treachery itself. I could
only remain silent.
And so he mistook me; and, after pondering a moment with his chin in
his hand, he continued:
"I have a plan, my lad. The Queen dies. Well--I am no bigot--long live
the Queen and the Protestant religion! The down will be up and the up
down, and the Protestants will be everything. It will go hard then
with those who cling to the old faith."
He looked at me with a crafty smile, his head on one side.
"I do not understand," I said coldly.
"Then listen. Sir Anthony, will hold by his religion. He used to be a
choleric gentleman, and as obstinate as a mule. He will need but to be
pricked up a little, and he will get into trouble with the authorities
as sure as eggs are eggs. I will answer for it. And then----"
"Well?" I said grimly. How was I to observe even a show of respect for
him when I was quivering with fierce wrath and abhorrence? "Do you
think that will benefit _you?_" I cried. "Do you think that you are so
high in favor with Cecil and the Protestants that they will set you in
Sir Anthony's place? You!"
He looked at me still more craftily, not put out by my indignation,
but rather amused by it.
"No, lad, not me," he replied, with tolerant good-nature. "I am
somewhat blown upon of late. But Providence has not given me back my
son for nothing. I am not alone in the world now. I must remember my
family. I must think a little of others as well as of myself."
"What do you mean?" I said, recoiling.
He scanned me for a moment, with his eyes half-shut, his head on one
side. Then he laughed, a cynical, jarring laugh.
"Good boy!" he said. "Excellent boy! He knows no more than he is told.
His hands are clean, and he has friends upon the winning side who will
not see him lose a chance, should a chance turn up. Be satisfied. Keep
your hands clean if you like, boy. We understand one another."
He laughed again and turned away; and, much as I dreaded and disliked
him, there was something in the indomitable nature of the man which
wrung from me a meed of admiration. Could the best of men have
recovered more quickly from despair? Could the best of men, their
plans failing, have begun to spin fresh webs with equal patience?
Could the most courageous and faithful of those who have tried to work
the world's bettering, have faced the downfall of their hopes with
stouter hearts, with more genuine resignation? Bad as he was, he had
courage and endurance beyond the common.
He came back to me when he had gone a few paces.
"Do you know where my sword is?" he asked in a matter-of-fact tone, as
one might ask a question of an old comrade.
I found it cast aside behind the door. He took it from me, grumbling
over a nick in the edge, which he had caused by some desperate blow
when he was seized. He fastened it on with an oath. I could not look
at the sword without remembering how nearly he had taken my life with
it. The recollection did not trouble him in the slightest.
"Now farewell!" he said carelessly, "I am going to turn over a new
leaf, and begin returning good for evil. Do you go to your friends and
do your work, and I will go to my friends and do mine."
Then with a nod he walked briskly away, and I heard him climb the
ladder and depart.
What was he going to do? I was so deeply amazed by the interview that
I did not understand. I had thought him a wicked man, but I had not
conceived the hardness of his nature. As I stood alone looking round
the vault, I could hardly believe that I had met and spoken to my
father, and told him I was his son--and this was all! I could hardly
believe that he had gone away with this knowledge, unmoved and
unrepentant; alike unwarned by the Providence which had used me to
thwart his schemes, and untouched by the beneficence which had thrice
held him back from the crime of killing me--ay, proof even against the
long-suffering which had plucked him from the abyss and given him one
more chance of repentance.
I found Master Bertie in the stables waiting for me with some
impatience. Of which, upon the whole, I was glad. For I had no wish to
be closely questioned, and the account I gave him of the interview
might at another time have seemed disjointed and incoherent. He
listened to it, however, without remark; and his next words made it
clear that he had other matters in his mind.
"I do not know what to do about fetching the Duchess over," he said.
"This news seems to be true, and she ought to be here."
"Certainly," I agreed.
"The country in general is well affected to the Princess Elizabeth,"
he continued. "Yet the interests of the Bishops, of the Spanish
faction, and of some of the council, will lie in giving trouble. To
avoid this, we should show our strength. Therefore I want the Duchess
to come over with all speed. Will you fetch her?" he added sharply,
turning to me.
"Will I?" I cried in surprise.
"Yes, you. I cannot well go myself at this crisis. Will you go
instead?"
"Of course I will," I answered.
And the prospect cheered me wonderfully. It gave me something to do,
and opened my eyes to the great change of which Penruddocke had been
the herald, a change which was even then beginning. As we rode down
Highgate Hill that day, messengers were speeding north and south and
east and west, to Norwich and Bristol and Canterbury and Coventry and
York, with the tidings that the somber rule under which England had
groaned for five years and more was coming to an end. If in a dozen
towns of England they roped their bells afresh; if in every county, as
Penruddocke had prophesied, they got their tar-barrels ready; if all,
save a few old-fashioned folk and a few gloomy bigots and hysterical
women, awoke as from an evil dream; if even sensible men saw in the
coming of the young queen a panacea for all their ills--a quenching of
Smithfield fires, a Calais recovered, a cure for the worthless coinage
which hampered trade, and a riddance of worthless foreigners who
plundered it--with better roads, purer justice, a fuller Exchequer,
more favorable seasons--if England read all this in that news of
Penruddocke's, was it not something to us also?
It was indeed. We were saved at the last moment from the dangerous
enterprise on which we had rashly embarked. We had now such prospects
before us as only the success of that scheme could have ordinarily
opened. Ease and honor instead of the gallows, and to lie warm instead
of creaking in the wind! Thinking of this, I fell into a better frame
of mind as I jogged along toward London. For what, after all, was my
father to me, that his existence should make me unhappy, or rob mine
of all pleasure? I had made a place for myself in the world. I had
earned friends for myself. He might take away my pride in the one, but
he could never rob me of the love of the others--of those who had
eaten and drunk and fought and suffered beside me, and for whom I too
had fought and suffered!
* * * * *
"A strange time for the swallows to come back," said my lady, turning
to smile at me, as I rode on her off-side.
It would have been strange, indeed, if there had been swallows in the
air. For it was the end of December. The roads were frost-bound and
the trees leafless. The east wind, gathering force in its rush across
the Essex marshes, whirled before it the last trophies of Hainault
Forest, and seemed, as it whistled by our ears and shaved our faces,
to grudge us the shelter to which we were hastening. The long train
behind us--for the good times of which we had talked so often had
come--were full of the huge fire we expected to find at the inn at
Barking--our last stage on the road to London. And if the Duchess and
I bore the cold more patiently, it was probably because we had more
food for thought--and perhaps thicker raiment.
"Do not shake your head," she continued, glancing at me with mischief
in her eyes, "and flatter yourself you will not go back, but will go
on making yourself and some one else unhappy. You will do nothing of
the kind, Francis. Before the spring comes you and I will ride over
the drawbridge at Coton End, or I am a Dutchwoman!"
"I cannot see that things are changed," I said.
"Not changed?" she replied. "When you left, you were nobody. Now
you are somebody, if it be only in having a sister with a dozen
serving-men in her train. Leave it to me. And now, thank Heaven, we
are here! I am so stiff and cold, you must lift me down. We have not
to ride far after dinner, I hope."
"Only seven miles," I answered, as the host, who had been warned by an
outrider to expect us, came running out with a tail at his heels.
"What news from London, Master Landlord?" I said to him as he led us
through the kitchen, where there was indeed a great fire, but no
chimney, and so to a smaller room possessing both these luxuries. "Is
all quiet?"
"Certainly, your worship," he replied, bowing and rubbing his hands.
"There never was such an accession, nor more ale drunk, nor powder
burned--and I have seen three--and there was pretty shouting at old
King Harry's, but not like this. Such a fair young queen, men report,
with a look of the stout king about her, and as prudent and discreet
as if she had changed heads with Sir William Cecil. God bless her, say
I, and send her a wise husband!"
"And a loving one," quoth my lady prettily. "Amen."
"I am glad all has gone off well," I continued, speaking to the
Duchess, as I turned to the blazing hearth. "If there had been blows,
I would fain have been here to strike one."
"Nay, sir, not a finger has wagged against her," the landlord
answered, kicking the logs together--"to speak of, that is, your
worship. I do hear to-day of a little trouble down in Warwickshire.
But it is no more than a storm in a wash-tub, I am told."
"In Warwickshire?" I said, arrested, in the act of taking off my
cloak, by the familiar name. "In what part, my man?"
"I am not clear about that, sir, not knowing the country," he replied.
"But I heard that a gentleman there had fallen foul of her Grace's
orders about church matters, and beaten the officers sent to see them
carried out; and that, when the sheriff remonstrated with him, he beat
him too. But I warrant they will soon bring him to his senses."
"Did you hear his name?" I asked. There was a natural misgiving in my
mind. Warwickshire was large; and yet something in the tale smacked of
Sir Anthony.
"I did hear it," the host answered, scratching his head, "but I cannot
call it to mind. I think I should know it if I heard it."
"Was it Sir Anthony Cludde?"
"It was that very same name!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands in
wonder. "To be sure! Your worship has it pat!"
I slipped back into my cloak again, and snatched up my hat and whip.
But the Duchess was as quick. She stepped between me and the door.
"Sit down, Francis!" she said imperiously. "What would you be at?"
"What would I be at?" I cried with emotion. "I would be with my uncle.
I shall take horse at once and ride Warwickshire way with all speed.
It is possible that I may be in time to avert the consequences. At
least I can see that my cousin comes to no harm."
"Good lad," she said placidly. "You shall start tomorrow."
"To-morrow!" I cried impatiently. "But time is everything, madam."
"You shall start to-morrow," she repeated. "Time is not everything,
firebrand! If you start to-day what can you do? Nothing! No more than
if the thing had happened three years ago, before you met me. But
to-morrow--when you have seen the Secretary of State, as I promise you
you shall, this evening if he be in London--to-morrow you shall go in
a different character, and with credentials."
"You will do this for me?" I exclaimed, leaping up and taking her
hand, for I saw in a moment the wisdom of the course she proposed.
"You will get me----"
"I will get you something to the purpose," my lady answered roundly.
"Something that shall save your uncle if there be any power in England
can save him. You shall have it, Frank," she added, her color rising,
and her eyes filling, as I kissed her hand, "though I have to take
Master Secretary by the beard!"