AN UNLOOKED FOR RECEPTION
The night was dark as Dame Margery had said. The broken clouds that
flitted across the sky obscured the faint light of the stars that
struggled to peep through the nebulous masses. At another time the
superstitious spirit of the girl would have shrunk from the noises of the
wood, and found omens in the hoot of the owl, or the moaning of the wind
as it sobbed fitfully through the trees. But now the screech of the night
bird and the soughing of the wind fell upon deaf ears for she was so
absorbed in the one idea of getting home that all else was unheeded.
In the darkness she was obliged to proceed slowly, trusting rather to the
instinct of the horse than to the dim light of the lantern. The dripping
trees saturated her garments almost as thoroughly as if it were indeed
raining, but the fire of filial love was in her heart, and its flame
rendered her impervious to creature discomforts. At length the dawn
came, and the sun's bright beams soon dispersed the mists of the night,
his revivifying rays inspiring the girl with new courage. The horse, of
his own volition, struck into a brisker gait, and Francis was obliged to
control her emotion as each succeeding moment brought her nearer the
Hall.
Just before noon the turrets of Stafford Hall came into view. With a cry
of exultation she spurred her horse forward.
"On, on!" she cried. "Thy journey is almost done!"
At full gallop she sped through the gates and into the base court. Her
father's horse, bridled and saddled, stood at the foot of the steps
leading to the terrace.
"Mistress Francis," cried Brooks, the old servitor who held the horse,
"how came you here?"
"My father?" gasped Francis as she sprang to the ground.
"In the presence chamber, mistress. He----"
She waited to hear no more, but ran up the steps, through the ante-rooms,
and bounded into the presence chamber.
Lord Stafford and his wife stood with their arms twined about each other,
as if in the act of saying farewell. They started at her entrance, the
utmost surprise upon their faces when they saw who the intruder was.
"Father!" exclaimed Francis running to him with outstretched arms.
"Father!"
Her father did not stir to meet her, but, folding his arms, regarded her
sternly.
"False girl," he cried, "why come you hither?"
"To save thee, my father." Francis paused bewildered by his manner.
"Father, they accuse thee of treason. The queen's men are coming to take
thee to the Tower. You must fly."
"And do you bid me fly? You who have betrayed me? You whom I trusted? You
who vowed that not even the rack could extort one syllable from your
lips? Base girl, is it thus that thou dost requite my love? Away! Go back
to that court whose enticements have caused thee to betray thy father."
"I betray thee?" cried Francis in horror. "I, Francis Stafford, betray my
father? Never! Never!"
"Seek not to deny it, girl. One hath been here from the court. I know
that every incident of the journey to Chartley, even to the meeting with
Babington at Salisbury, is known to the queen. Who knew all this but
thee? Fool that I was to confide in thee! But thou wert so cock-sure of
thy ability! So apt and froward with thy promises, that I believed in
thee."
"My father, if there are those who say that I betrayed thee, they speak
not the truth. I have come to warn thee of peril. Even now the
pursuivants are on their way to take thee. Oh, sir! tarry no longer but
fly. 'Tis death to be taken, father. Death!"
She wrung her hands as her father stood there so unheedingly when time
was so precious.
"And if it be death, by whose hand hath it been wrought? Why hast thou
dallied at court so long? Why dost thou still wear that garb which shames
thy modesty?"
"Father, hear me," cried Francis, flinging herself at his feet. "If ever
thou didst bear aught of affection to her that kneels to thee, believe me
when I say that I betrayed thee not. May my tongue be palsied if I speak
not the truth. Father, by all the saints, I----"
"False girl, perjure not thy soul," and he strove to release himself from
her grasp. "Unclasp thine arms, Francis Stafford, and hearken to a
father's curse. May----"
"Hold, my lord!" shrieked Lady Stafford. "Curse not thy child! Curse not
thine own flesh and blood!"
"No child is she of mine, madam. Rather do I believe her some changeling
forced upon us by witches' craft. Never did Stafford betray trust before!
Stay me not! Whether child or changeling yet still shall she be cursed."
"Father, father, I am innocent of having done this monstrous, wicked
thing! 'Twas Anthony Babington that hath so maliciously spoken about me!
I know----"
"How know you that 'twas Babington?" demanded her father quickly. "Girl,
thine own words condemn thee. Say no more! I will listen to thy false
words no longer. I curse the day that thou wast born. I curse thee----"
"Forbear," shrieked the girl in agonized tones. "O, father, withhold thy
curse! Hear me for the love of mercy."
But Lord Stafford tore himself from her clinging hands, and hastily left
the room.
"Father," cried Francis, darting after him. "Father!"
He heeded her not, but strode out of the castle to the place where old
Brooks held his horse.
"Father, father!" The frantic girl reached him as he mounted his steed
and held out her arms entreatingly. But the father answered never a word,
and without another look at her gave spur to his horse, and dashed
through the open gates of the court.
Then a great cry of anguish broke from the girl's lips. A black mist rose
before her eyes, engulfing her in its choking, smothering embrace. She
swayed unsteadily and fell in an unconscious heap upon the ground.