What a number of excellent people, and what a multiplicity of good
deeds, there would be in this naughty world, if only that little
conjunction could be left out!
Aubrey quitted the White Bear with the full intention of carrying out
his grandmother's behest. But not just now. He must do it, of course,
before he saw her again. Lady Oxford might take it into her head to pay
a visit to Lady Louvaine, in which case it would surely be discovered if
the question had not been passed on. Of course it must be done: only,
not just now. He might surely spend a few more pleasant evenings at
Winter's lodgings, before he set on foot those disagreeable inquiries
which might end in his being deprived of the pleasure. Lady Oxford,
therefore, was not troubled that evening,--nor the next, nor indeed for
a goodly number to follow. But within a week of his visit to the White
Bear, when the sharp edge of his grandmother's words had been a little
blunted by time, and the cares of other things had entered in, Aubrey
again made his way to the lodgings occupied by Winter at the sign of the
Duck, in the Strand, "hard by Temple Bar."
There were various reasons for this action. In the first place, Aubrey
was entirely convinced that the judgment of a man of twenty-one was to
be preferred before that of a woman of seventy-seven. Secondly, he
enjoyed Winter's society. Thirdly, he liked Winter's tobacco.
Fourthly, he admired Betty, who usually let him in, and who, being even
more foolish than himself, was not at all averse to a few empty
compliments and a little frothy banter, which he was very ready to
bestow. For Aubrey was not of that sterling metal of which his
grandfather had been made, "who loved one only and who clave to her,"
and to whom it would have been a moral impossibility to flirt with one
woman while he was making serious love to another. Lastly, the society
of his friends had acquired an added zest by the probability of its
being a dangerous luxury. He loved dearly to poise himself on the edge
of peril, though of course, like all who do so, he had not the slightest
intention of falling in.
On the evening in question, Betty made no appearance, and Aubrey was let
in by her mistress, a plain-featured middle-aged woman, on whom he had
no temptation to waste his perfumes. He made his way up the stairs to
Winter's door, and his hand was on the latch when he heard Percy's
voice.
"Through by the seventh of February! You'll be nothing of the sort."
"I cry you mercy. I think we shall," answered Catesby.
Aubrey lifted the latch, and entered.
Four gentlemen sat round the fire--Winter and Catesby; Percy, whom
Aubrey knew, and in whose hand was the pipe; and a fourth, a tall, dark,
and rather fine-looking man, with brown hair, auburn beard, and a
moustache the ends of which curled upwards.
"Ha! Mr Louvaine? You are right welcome," said Winter, rising to
greet his young friend, while Percy took his pipe from his lips, and
offered it to the latter. Nobody introduced the stranger, and Aubrey
took but little notice of him, especially as thenceforth he sat in
silence. He might have paid more if he could have known that after
three hundred years had rolled by, and the names of all then known as
eminent men should have faded from common knowledge, the name of that
man should be fresh in the memory of every Englishman, and deeply
interesting to every English boy. He was in the company of Guy Fawkes.
To appear as a nameless stranger, and indeed to appear at all as little
as possible, was Fawkes's policy at this moment. He was just about to
present himself on the stage as John Johnson, "Mr Percy's man," and for
any persons in London to know him by his own name would be a serious
drawback, for it was to a great extent because he was unknown in Town
that he had been selected to play this part. Yet matters were not quite
ready for the assumption of his new character. He therefore sat silent,
and was not introduced.
They smoked, sipped Rhenish wine, and chatted on indifferent subjects,
for an hour or more; discussed the "sleeping preacher," Richard Haydock,
then just rising into notoriety--who professed to deliver his sermons in
his sleep, and was afterwards discovered to be an imposter; the last
benefaction in the parish church, for two poor Irish gentlewomen on
their journey home, recommended by letters from the Council; the last
new ballad.
"But have you beheld," asked Winter, when these topics were exhausted,
"the King's new caroche of the German fashion, with a roof to fall
asunder at his Majesty's pleasure?"
"I have," said Catesby; "and methinks it shall take with many,
gentlewomen more in especial."
"Wherefore, now?" inquired Percy, laughing. "Think you gentlewomen lack
air rather than gentlemen, or that they shall think better to show their
dainty array and their fair faces?"
"A little of both," was the answer.
"There is truly great increase in coaches of late years," remarked
Winter.
"Why, the saddlers are crying out they are like to be ruined," said
Percy; "the roads are cloyed and pestered, and the horses lamed."
"Ay, and that is not the worst of it," added Catesby. "Evil-disposed
persons, who dare not show themselves openly for fear of correction,
shadow and securely convey themselves in coaches, and so are not to be
distinguished from persons of honour."
The whole company agreed that this was extremely shocking, and piously
denounced all evil-disposed persons in a style which Aubrey thought most
edifying. As he walked back later, he meditated whether he should make
those inquiries of Lady Oxford that night, and decided not to do so. No
real Papist or traitor, thought the innocent youth, would be likely to
denounce evil-disposed persons! The airs they had been singing, before
parting, recurred to his mind, and he hummed fragments of them as he
went along. "Row well, ye mariners", "All in a garden green", "Phillida
flouts me," and the catch of "Whoop, Barnaby!" finishing up with
"Greensleeves" and one or two madrigals--these had been their evening
entertainment: but madrigals were becoming unfashionable, and were not
heard now so often as formerly. The music of Elizabeth's day, which was
mainly harmony with little melody, containing "scarcely any tune that
the uncultivated ear could carry away," was giving way to a less learned
but more melodious style. Along with this, there was a rapid increase
in the cultivation of instrumental music, while vocal music continued to
be exceedingly popular. It was usual enough for tradesmen and artisans
to take part in autiphons, glees, and part-songs of all kinds, while
ballads were in such general favour that ballad-mongers could earn
twenty shillings a day. A bass viol generally hung in a drawing-room
for the visitors to play; but the few ladies who used this instrument
were thought masculine. The education of girls at this time admitted of
scarcely any accomplishment but music: they were taught to read, write,
sew, and cook, to play the virginals, lute, and cithern, and to read
prick-song at sight,--namely, to sing from the score, without
accompaniment. Those who were acquainted with any language beside their
own were the few and highly-cultured; and a girl who knew French or
Italian was still more certain to have learned Latin, if not Greek.
German and Spanish were scarcely ever taught; indeed, the former was
regarded as quite outside the list of learnable tongues.
It was a sore trouble to Aubrey that the White Bear and the Golden Fish
were next door to each other. Had he had the ordering of their
topography, they would have been so situated that he could have dropped
into the latter, to sun himself in the eyes of the fair Dorothy, without
the least fear of being seen from the former. He stood in wholesome
fear of his Aunt Temperance's sharp speeches, and had a less wholesome,
because more selfish, dislike of his mother's ceaseless complaints.
Moreover, Aunt Edith was wont to disturb his equanimity by a few quiet
occasional words which would ring in his ears for days afterwards, and
make him very uncomfortable. Her speeches were never long, but they
were often weighty, and were adapted to make their hearers consider
their ways, and think what they would do in the end thereof--a style of
consideration always unwelcome to Aubrey, and especially so since his
view of the world had been enlarged by coming to London.
He was just now in an awkward position, and the centre and knot of the
awkwardness was Dorothy Rookwood. He was making no way with Dorothy.
Her brother he met frequently at Winter's rooms, but if he wished to see
her, he must go to her home. If he went there, he must call at the
White Bear. If he did that, he must first deliver his grandmother's
message to Lady Oxford. And only suppose that Lady Oxford's inquiries
should lead to discoveries which would end in a rupture between the
Golden Fish and the White Bear--in Aubrey's receiving an order to drop
all acquaintance with the Rookwoods! For Aubrey's training, while very
kindly conducted, had been one of decided piety; and unchanged as was
his heart, the habits and tone of eighteen years were not readily shaken
off. He could not feel easy in doing many things that he saw others do;
he could not take upon his lips with impunity words which he heard
freely used around him. His conscience was unseared as yet, and it
tormented him sorely. The result of these reflections was that Aubrey
turned into Oxford House, without visiting King Street at all, and
sought his bed without making any attempt to convey the message.
Before the conspirators resumed their work after the Christmas holidays,
they took two more into their number. These were Robert Winter of
Huddington, the elder brother of Thomas, and John Grant of Norbrook, who
had married Dorothy, sister of the Wrights. Catesby and Thomas Winter
went down to the Catherine Wheel at Oxford, whence they sent for their
friends to come to them, and having first pledged them to secrecy, they
were then initiated into the plot.
It was about this Christmas that Catesby also took into his confidence
the only one of the conspirators who was not a gentleman--his own
servant, Thomas Bates, partly because he had "great opinion of him for
his long-tried fidelity," and partly also because, having been employed
in carrying messages, he suspected that he had some inkling of the
secret, and wished that, like the rest, he should be bound to keep it by
oath. Bates is described as a yeoman, and "a man of mean station, who
had been much persecuted on account of religion." Having been desired
to confirm his oath by receiving the Sacrament "with intention," and as
a pre-requisite of this was confession, Bates went to Greenway, whom he
acquainted with the particulars, "which he was not desirous to hear,"
and asked if he might lawfully join in such work. Greenway directed him
to keep the secret, "because it was for a good cause," and forbade him
to name the subject to any other priest. This is Bates's account;
Greenway asserts that Bates never named the subject to him, either in or
out of confession; but the Jesuit code of morality required his denial,
if he had heard it in confession only. Poor Bates was the most innocent
of the conspirators, and the most truly penitent: he was rather a tool
and a victim than a miscreant. He lost his life through neglect of a
much-forgotten precept--"If sinners entice thee, consent thou not."
The conspirators now set to work again on their mine, and wrought till
Candlemas Day, by which time they were half through the wall of the
House. Fawkes was on all occasions the sentinel. They had provided
themselves with "baktmeats," pasties, and hard-boiled eggs, sufficient
for twenty days, in order to avoid exciting the suspicions of their
neighbours by constantly bringing fresh provisions to a house supposed
to be occupied by one person alone. The labour was very severe,
especially to Catesby and Percy, on account of their unusual height.
The oozing in of the water was a perpetual annoyance. But one day,
something terrible occurred.
As the amateur miners plied their picks with diligence, the toll of a
bell was suddenly heard. John Wright, who was furthest in the mine,
stopped with uplifted tool.
"Blessed saints! what can that be?"
Work was unanimously suspended.
"It comes from the very midst of the wall!" said Catesby, growing a
shade paler.
"_Refugium peccatorum, ora pro nobis_!" piously entreated Percy,
crossing himself.
"Call Mr Fawkes," suggested Christopher.
Mr Fawkes was summoned, by his official name of Johnson; and coming
down into the cellar, declared that he also distinctly heard the uncanny
sound.
"'Tis the Devil that seeketh to make stay of our work," pronounced
Percy--a most improbable suggestion, for Satan surely had no cause to
interfere with his servants when engaged in his own business.
"Have we here any holy water?" asked Catesby.
"Ay, there is in the bedchamber," said Fawkes.
"Pray you, fetch it quickly."
The holy water was at once brought, and the wall was sprinkled with it.
At that moment the tolling ceased.
"Blessed be our Lady! the holy water hath stayed it," said Percy.
After a few minutes' pause, the work was recommenced: but it had gone on
for barely an hour when again the unearthly bell began its work. Once
more the benitier was brought, and the wall sprinkled; whereupon the
diabolical noise stopped at once. For several days these processes were
repeated, the bell invariably being silenced by the sprinkling of the
blessed element. At least, so said the conspirators.
About the second of February, there was another scare. A strange
rushing noise was heard on the other side of the wall, from what cause
was unknown; and Catesby, as usual the chief director, whispered to
Fawkes to go out and ascertain what it was.
Fawkes accordingly went upstairs, and out into the street. A waggon
stood before the door of the House of Lords, and men were busy carrying
sacks and tubs from the cellar to the waggon. Charcoal only was then
sold by the sack; sea-coal being disposed of in tubs.
"Good-morrow, Master," said Roger Neck, the servant who was
superintending the transaction, as Fawkes paused a moment, apparently to
look on, after the fashion of an idle man. Roger had seen him more than
once, passing in and out of Percy's house; but he was the only one of
the plotters ever visible in the daytime.
"Good-morrow, friend. Selling your coals off?"
"Ay, we're doing a middling stroke of business this morrow."
"How much a load? We shall want some ere long."
"Charcoal, fourteen shillings; cannel, sixpence to ninepence, according
to quality."
Fawkes walked down the street, to avoid suspicion, into King Street,
where he turned into the first shop to which he came. It happened to be
a cutler's, and he bought the first thing he saw--a dozen knives of
Sheffield make. Had they been London-made, they would have cost four
times as much as the modest shilling demanded for them. He then
returned to Percy's house, carrying the knives in his hand. Fawkes had
now fully blossomed out in his new role of "Mr Percy's man," and was
clad in blue camlet accordingly, blue being then the usual wear of
servants out of livery.
"What is it, Johnson?" asked Percy, addressing Fawkes by his assumed
name, when he came down into the cellar.
"It is a dozen of Sheffield knives, Master," replied Fawkes a little
drily: "and by the same token, our next neighbour is selling his coals,
and looks not unlike to clear out his cellar."
"Is that all?"
"That is all."
Two of the conspirators looked at each other.
"If you could hire the cellar--" suggested Catesby.
"Done!" said Percy. "It should save us a peck of trouble."
"Who owns it?--or who hath it?" asked Catesby.
"Why, for who owns it, I guess the Parliament House," answered Fawkes;
"but for who hath it, that must we discover."
"Pray you, make haste and discover it, then."
Fawkes went out again to make inquiries. He found without difficulty
that the cellar, like the houses adjoining, was held by the Wyniards,
and it was agreed that Percy should call on them and endeavour to obtain
it.
He accordingly went to see his landlady, to whom he represented that he
wished to bring his wife up to live with him in London--she was in the
country at present, and he missed her sorely--but if that were done, he
must have more stowage for wood and coals.
Mrs Wyniard's interest was aroused at once in a man who cared for his
wife, and felt a want of her society.
"Well, now, I am sorry!" said she. "You see, we've let that vault to
Mrs Skinner--leastwise, Mrs Bright, she is now--o' King Street, to
store her coals. Her new husband's a coal-seller, see you. You should
have had it, as sure as can be, if I hadn't."
"It were very much to my commodity," said Percy, truthfully this time,
"if I could hire that cellar, and,"--the second half of the sentence was
a falsehood--"I have already been to Mrs Skinner, and hold her
consent."
"Well, now, but that's a bit mean o' Skinner's wife," said Mrs Wyniard
in a vexed tone; "she shouldn't ha' done that and ne'er ha' let me know.
I wouldn't ha' thought that of Ellen Skinner--no, I wouldn't."
"But," suggested Percy, insinuatingly, "if I gave you twenty shillings
over for your good-will, and prayed you to say nought to Mrs Skinner,
and I will likewise content her?"
"Well, you know how to drive a bargain, forsooth," answered Mrs
Wyniard, laughing. "Come, I'll let Widow Skinner be--Mistress Bright, I
mean. You shall have the vault for four pounds a quarter, if so be
she's content."
Percy's next visit was to the coal-seller and his bride. Mr Bright was
not at home, but Mrs Bright was; and though she could not write her
name [Note 1], she could use her tongue to some purpose.
"To be sure we hold the cellar. Sixteen pound by the year, and that's
plenty. Takes a many loads of coals to make that, I warrant you."
"I wondered," said Percy in a careless manner, as though he did not much
care whether he got it or not, "whether you might let me the cellar for
the same purpose? I think to lay in wood and coals for the winter, and
my own cellar is scarce large enough, for I am a Northern man, and love
a good fire. This cellar of yours, being so close by, should be greatly
to my convenience, if you were willing."
"Well, to be sure, and it would so!" assented innocent Mrs Bright.
"You see, I can't speak certain till my master comes in, but I'm sure
you may take it as good: he mostly does as I bid him. So we'll say, if
Mrs Wyniard be content to accept the rent from you, you shall have it
at four pound by the quarter, and give me forty shillings in my hand."
[Note 2.]
"Done," said Percy, "if your husband consent."
"I'll see to it he doth," she answered with a capable nod.
The bargain was struck: Andrew Bright did as he was told, and Percy was
to become the occupant of the cellar without delay.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. She signed her deposition by a mark, while her servant Roger
Neck, wrote his name.
Note 2. Examination of Ellen Bright, Gunpowder Plot Book, article 24.