"`Thy beauty was perfect through My comeliness which I had put upon
thee.' Dear Aubrey, let us seek that."
Aubrey made no answer beyond a smile, and quickly turned the
conversation, on his mother asking if he brought any news.
"But little," said he. "There be new laws against witchcraft, which is
grown greater and more used than of old, and the King is mightily set
against it--folks say he is afraid of it. None should think, I ensure
you, how easily frightened is his Majesty, and of matters that should
never fright any save a child."
"But that is not news, Aubrey," said his mother plaintively. "I want to
hear something new."
"There isn't an artichoke in the market this morrow," suddenly remarked
her sister.
"Temperance, what do you mean?"
"Why, that's news, isn't it? I am sure you did not know it, till I told
you."
Mrs Louvaine closed her eyes with an air of deeply-tried forbearance.
"Come, lad, out with thy news," added Temperance. "Wherewith hath my
Lady guarded her new spring gowns? That shall serve, I reckon."
Aubrey laughed. "I have not seen them yet, Aunt. But I heard say of
one of the young gentlewomen that silk is now for the first to be woven
in England, so 'tis like to be cheaper than of old."
"There's a comfort!" said Mrs Louvaine, rather less languidly than
usual.
"I heard tell likewise of a fresh colewort, from Cyprus in the East--
they call it broccoli or kale-flower. Methinks there is nought else,
without you would hear of a new fashion of building of churches, late
come up--but his Lordship saith 'tis a right ancient fashion, wherein
the old Greeks were wont to build their houses and temples."
"Methinks it scarce meet to go to the heathen for the pattern of a
church," said Lady Louvaine; "are not our old churches fair enough, and
suitable for their purpose?"
"In this new fashion he no chancels," said Aubrey.
"Well, and I should hold with that," cried Temperance: "they give rise
to vain superstitions. If there be no mass, what lack we of a chancel?"
"If men list, my dear, to bring in the superstitions," quietly remarked
Lady Louvaine, "they shall scarce stick at the want of a chancel."
"True, Madam: yet would I fain make it as hard to bring them as ever I
could."
Aubrey left his friends about six o'clock, and Hans followed him to the
door. On the steps there was a short, low-toned conversation.
"Hans, after all, thou art a good lad. Did I hurt thee?"
"'Tis all o'er now, Aubrey: no matter."
"Then I did. Well, I am sorry. Shall I give thee a silver chain to
make up, old comrade?"
"All is made up. Prithee, give me nothing--save--my brother Aubrey."
Aubrey's tone was glib and light, though with a slight sub-accent of
regret. Hans's voice was more hesitating and husky. It cost Hans much
to allow any one a glimpse into his heart; it cost Aubrey nothing. But,
as is often the case, the guarded chamber contained rare treasure, while
in the open one there was nothing to guard.
"Thou art a good lad!" said Aubrey again, in a slightly ashamed tone, as
he took the offered hand. "Truly, Hans, I was after none ill, only--
well, I hate to be watched and dogged, or aught like thereto."
"Who does not?" replied Hans. "And in truth likewise, I was but coming
home, and spake my astonishment at seeing you."
"We are friends, then?"
"God forbid we should ever be any thing else! Good-night, and God keep
you in His way!"
Not many days afterwards, an event happened, of some consequence to our
friends at the White Bear. Their one powerful friend, Edward de Vere,
Earl of Oxford, died in June, 1604.
A strange study for a student of human nature is this Earl of Oxford--a
curious compound, like his late royal lady, of greatness and littleness.
He began life as a youthful exquisite. His costumes were more
extravagant, his perfumes more choice, his Italian more pure and fluent,
than those of the other dilettante nobles of his time. He was a minor
poet of some note in his day, and was esteemed to be the first writer of
comedy then living--though Shakespeare was living too. In middle life
he blossomed out into a military patriot. He ended his days as a hard,
cold, morose old man. His life-lamp was used up: it had been made so to
flare in early youth, that there was no oil left to light him at the
end, when light and warmth were most needed. Having quarrelled with his
father-in-law, the great Earl of Burleigh, he registered a savage and
senseless vow to "ruin his daughter," which he could do only by ruining
himself. In pursuance of this insane resolution, he spent right and
left, until his estate was wrecked, and the innocent Countess Anne was
hunted into her grave.
The son who succeeded to his father's title, and to the few acres which
this mad folly had not flung away, was a mere boy of twelve years old.
It became a serious question in Lady Louvaine's mind whether Aubrey
should remain in the household after the decease of the old Earl. She
found, however, that the widowed Countess Elizabeth kept a very orderly
house, and a strict hand over her son and his youthful companions, so
that Lady Louvaine, who saw no other door open, thought it best to leave
Aubrey where he was. The Countess, who had been Maid of Honour to Queen
Elizabeth, had been well drilled by that redoubtable lady into proper
and submissive behaviour; and she now required similar good conduct from
her dependants, with excellent reasons for absence or dereliction from
duty. That she was never deceived would be too much to say.
Meanwhile, matters progressed busily in the house by the river-side.
The conspirators took in a sixth accomplice--Christopher Wright, the
younger brother of John--and the six began their mine, about the
eleventh of December, 1604.
The wall of the House of Lords was three yards in thickness; the cellar
of Percy's house was extremely damp, being close to the river, and the
water continually oozed through into the mine. Finding their task more
difficult than they had anticipated, a seventh was now taken into the
number--a pervert, Robert Keyes, the son of a Protestant clergyman in
Derbyshire. A second house was hired at Lambeth, of which Keyes was
placed in charge, while to Fawkes was committed the chief business of
laying in the combustibles, first in the Lambeth house, and afterwards
of removing them to that at Westminster. Fawkes went cautiously about
his business, purchasing his materials in various parts of the City, so
as not to excite suspicion. He provided in all, three thousand billets
of wood, five hundred faggots, thirty-six barrels of gunpowder, with
stones and bars of iron, in order that the explosion might be more
destructive. From the Bankside, or south bank of the Thames, where it
lay in hampers, twenty barrels of the powder was first brought in boats,
by night, to the house at Westminster, where it was stored in the cellar
to await the finishing of the mine. By Christmas they had penetrated
the wall of Percy's house, and had reached that of the House of Lords.
They thought it desirable now to rest for the Christmas holidays; Keyes
was left in charge of the house at Lambeth, and the others departed in
various directions.
"Well, upon my word! Prithee, good my master, who's your tailor?"
The speaker was Temperance Murthwaite, who was clad in the plainest of
brownish drab serges, without an unnecessary tag or scrap of fringe, and
carried on her arm an unmistakable market-basket, from which protruded
the legs of a couple of chickens and sundry fish-tails, notwithstanding
the clean cloth which should have hidden such ignoble articles from
public view. The person addressed was Mr Aubrey Louvaine, and his
costume was a marvel of art and a feast of colour.
"My tailor is Adrian Sewell, Aunt, in Thieving Lane--"
"Like enough!" was the response. "Well, Gentleman?"
"Shall I--" The words died on Aubrey's lips. His aunt, who read his
thoughts exactly, stood wickedly enjoying the situation.
"Shall you carry the basket? By all means, if it please your Highness.
Have a care, though, lest the tails of those whitings sully yon brave
crimson velvet, and see the fowls thrust not their talons into that
Spanish lace. Methinks, Master Aubrey, considering your bravery of
array, you were best pocket your civility this morrow. It'll be lesser
like to harm the lace and velvet than the chicks' legs and the
fish-tails. You may keep me company an' you will, if I be good enough
to trudge alongside so fine a Whitsuntide show as you are. That's two
of 'em."
"Of what, Aunt?" said Aubrey, feeling about as unhappy as a mixture of
humiliation and apprehension could make him. If they were to meet one
of Lord Oxford's gentlemen, or one of his wealthy acquaintances, he felt
as though he should want the earth to open and swallow him.
"Suits, Gentleman," was the reply. "Blue and white the first; crimson
and silver the second. Haven't seen the green and gold yet, nor the
yellow, nor purple. Suppose they're in the wardrobe. Rather early
times, to be thus bedizened, or seems so to working folks--the Abbey
clock went eight but a few minutes since. But quality is donned early,
I know."
As Mistress Temperance emitted this tingling small-shot of words, she
was marching with some rapidity up Old Palace Yard and the Abbey Close,
her magnificent nephew keeping pace with her, right sore against his
will. At last Aubrey could bear no longer. The windows of the Golden
Fish were in sight, and his soul was perturbed by a vision of the fair
Dorothy, who might be looking out, and whose eyes might light on the
jewel of himself in this extremely incongruous setting of Aunt
Temperance and the fish-tails.
"Aunt Temperance, couldn't--" Aubrey's words did not come so readily as
usual, that morning.
"Couldn't I walk slower?" suggested the aggravating person who was the
cause of his misery. "Well, belike I could.--There's Mrs Gertrude up
at the window yonder--without 'tis Mrs Dorothy.--There's no hurry in
especial, only I hate to waste time."
And suiting the action to the word, Aunt Temperance checked her steps,
so as to give the young lady, whether it were Gertrude or Dorothy, a
more leisurely view of the fish-tails.
"Couldn't Rachel go marketing instead of you?" sputtered out Aubrey.
"Rachel has her own work; and so has Charity. And so have I, Mr
Louvaine. I suppose you haven't, as you seem to be gallivanting about
Westminster in crimson and silver at eight o'clock of a morning. Now
then--"
"Aunt, 'tis not my turn this morrow to wait on my Lord's _lever_. I
shall be at his _coucher_ this even."
"You may open the door, my master, if it demean not so fine a
gentleman.--Good maid! Take my basket, Rachel. The fish for dinner,
and the chicken for to-morrow."
"There's nobut four whitings here, Mistress: shouldn't there be five?"
"Hush thee, good maid. They're twopence apiece."
"Eh, yo' never sen [say] so!"
"Ay, but I do. Let be; I'll have a bit of green stuff, or something."
And as Rachel, looking but half satisfied, went off with the basket,
Temperance threw open the parlour door.
"Madam, suffer me to announce the Duke of Damask, the Prince of Plush,
the Viscount of Velvet, and the Baron of Bombast. Pray you, look not
for four nobles; there is but one."
"Aubrey!" was the response, in diverse tones, from the three ladies.
The object of this attention did not look happy; but he walked in and
offered due greeting to his relatives. Temperance sat down, untied her
plain black hood, and laid it aside.
"And whither might your Lordship be going when I captivated you?" asked
she. "Not to this house, for you had passed it by."
"In good sooth, Aunt, I did not--I meant, indeed--I should maybe have
looked in," stammered the young man.
"Tell no lies, my lad, for thou dost it very ill," was Aunt Temperance's
most inconsiderate reply.
"You might come to see us oftener, I'm sure, Aubrey, if you would," said
his mother in a plaintive voice. "It is hard, when I have only one
child, that he should never care to come. I wish you had been a girl
like Lettice, and then we could have had some comfort out of you."
"My dear," said Aunt Temperance, "he is devoutly thankful he's not. He
doesn't want to be tied at the aprons of a parcel of women, trust me.
Have you had your pipe of open-work, or what you are pleased to call it,
Gentleman, this morrow? Only think of hanging that filthy stench about
those velvet fal-lals! With whom spent you last even, lad?"
The question came so suddenly that Aubrey was startled into truth.
"With some friends of mine in the Strand, Aunt." The next instant he
was sorry.
"Let's have their names," said Aunt Temperance.
"Well, Tom Rookwood was one."
"Folks generally put the best atop. Hope _he_ wasn't the best. Who
else?"
"Some gentlemen to whom Rookwood introduced me."
"I want their names," said the female examiner.
"Well--one of them is a Mr Winter." Aubrey spoke with great
reluctance, as his aunt saw well. He selected Winter's name as being
least uncommon of the group. But he soon found that Destiny, in the
person of Aunt Temperance, did not mean to let him off so lightly as
this.
"What sort of an icicle is he?"
"He isn't an icicle at all, Aunt, but a very good fellow and right
pleasant company."
"Prithee bring him to see us. Where lodgeth he?--is he a London man?"
"He is a Worcestershire gentleman, on a visit hither."
"Pass him. Who else?"
"Well--a man named Darcy."
"A man, and _not_ a gentleman? Whence comes he?"
"I don't know. Scarcely a gentleman, seeing he deals in horses."
"Horses are good fellows enough, mostly: but folks who deal in horses
are apt to be worser,--why, can I never tell. Is the horse-dealer
pleasant company belike?"
"Not so much to my liking as Mr Winter."
"I'm fain to hear it. Who else?"
"There is a Mr Percy, kin to my Lord Northumberland."
Aunt Temperance drew in her breath with an inverted whistle. "Lo, you
now, we are in select society!"
But Edith turned suddenly round. "Aubrey, is he a true Protestant?"
She knew that Lord Northumberland was reckoned "the head of the
recusants."
"I really don't know, Aunt," replied Aubrey, to whom the idea had never
before occurred. "I never heard him say aught whence I could guess it.
He is a very agreeable man."
"The more agreeable, maybe, the more dangerous. My boy, do have a care!
`He that is not with Me is against Me.'"
"Oh, he's all right, I am sure," said Aubrey, carelessly.
"You seem sure on small grounds," said Aunt Temperance. "Well, have we
made an end?--is he the last?"
"No, there is one other--Mr Catesby."
Aubrey had deliberately left Catesby to the last, yet he could not have
explained for what reason. Lady Louvaine spoke for the first time.
"Catesby?--a Catesby of Ashby Ledgers?"
"I have not heard, further than that his home is in Northamptonshire,
and his mother the Lady Anne Catesby."
"I think it is. They are a Popish family, or were, not many years ago.
Aubrey, come here."
The young man obeyed, in some surprise. His gentle grandmother was not
wont to speak in tones of such stern determination as these.
"My boy!" she said, "I charge thee on my benison, and by the dear memory
of him from whom thou hast thy name, that thou endeavour thyself to
thine utmost to discover whether these men be Papists or no. Ask not of
themselves--they may deceive thee; and a Papist oft counts deceit no
wrong when it is done in the interests of his Church. Make my
compliments to my cousin, my Lady Oxford, and give her the names of
these gentlemen, and where they lodge; saying also that I do most
earnestly beseech that she will make inquiry by her chaplain, and give
me to know, how they stand concerned in this matter. Aubrey, you know
not the danger of such friendship: I do. Obey me, at your peril."
Never in his life had Aubrey heard such words from the usually soft,
sweet lips of the Lady Lettice. He was thoroughly frightened, all the
more because the dangers to be feared were so vague and unknown. A few
minutes before, he had been feeling vexed with his Aunt Temperance for
catechising him so strictly about his friends. Now, this sensation had
quite given way before astonishment and vague apprehension.
"Yes, Madam, I will," he answered gravely.