AS IT FELL OUT
When consciousness returned to Francis Stafford she was lying on a couch
in the presence chamber with her mother bending over her.
"Mother," she cried as a full realization of all that had taken place
rushed over her. "He is gone! My father is gone, and he hath cursed me!"
And she burst into a flood of tears.
"Think not on it, child," said the mother, her own eyes streaming. "Thou
didst try him greatly. It was ill in thee not to return to us, but thou
art young and full well do I ken the allurements that court life holds
for youth. But this thy father could have pardoned had this been all."
"My mother, art thou too against me?" The girl struggled to a sitting
position, her indignation giving her strength. "Dost thou believe that I
betrayed my father, or that I lingered at court from choice? Then what
avails it if I tell thee all? Am I not thy child, and wherefore should I
do so evil? Would that I had died ere this had come upon me!"
She flung herself back upon the couch and wept bitterly. Her mother,
alarmed at the intensity of her grief, strove to soothe her.
"Let me make my moan, mother. If my father would have but listened, he
would have known that I did not betray him; but he would not. He would
not!"
"Judge him not too harshly, Francis. Now tell me the cause of thy delay.
Why thou didst not send us word? Why thou didst not return?"
"Who was there to do my bidding? I would not have been here even yet had
I not heard the queen and her ministers planning to arrest the
conspirators. So soon as I heard my father's name I left the court
without leave, and came hither with all dispatch to warn him."
"Tell me all, Francis," urged her mother. "All that hath happened thee
from the beginning. I fear me much that thy father hath done thee
wrong."
"He hath," said Francis bitterly. "Grievous wrong! And as I live by
bread, there hath never been aught but love toward him in my heart. But
now----Oh, my mother," she cried with another outburst of woe, "my heart
is broken!"
"There, child! weep not so much. Thy father will repent him of his
injustice when he learns the truth. Dry thine eyes and tell all that hath
befallen thee."
Presently, when she had become calmer, Francis complied with the request,
and told her mother all that had occurred since she left her.
"And thy hair! Thy pretty hair!" cried Lady Stafford weeping when Francis
related that incident. "Ah, child, I repent me that ever I consented to
let thee leave me. But continue, I pray thee! I would know all."
And the girl continued her narrative to its close. Her mother clasped her
close when she finished it.
"We have done thee great wrong, my daughter. Forgive me and thy father
also. We should have known that thou wouldst not have done this thing,
but when we did not hear, and thou didst not come, we marveled at it
greatly. This morning Anthony Babington came, and told us that all was
known to the queen through thy treachery. And thou must be lenient toward
us that we believed him."
"But why didst thou, mother! Have I been so ill a daughter that ye must
believe the first word against me? I can not forgive it."
"Not now, my child, while thy hurt is recent, but later thy mother must
not sue to thee in vain. But, Francis, come to my tiring room. I mislike
that garb. Methinks it hath caused all our woe. Come, and let me see thee
in thy proper attire once more."
"Nay;" said Francis resolutely, "from this time forth I wear none other.
'Twas at my father's bidding that I donned it. I will discard it only
when he calls me 'daughter' again. Otherwise I shall go to my grave
Francis Stafford, the page."
"Francis, Francis," wailed the lady, "thou art distraught. Entertain not
such purpose, I entreat. Soften thy proud heart, and be not stubborn
when thy mother pleads with thee. For my sake, child, remove that
dress."
"Nay, mother;" replied she obdurately, "seek not to change my purpose,
for it is fixed. This page's dress I wear until my father takes me once
more to his heart."
"Thou art as unyielding and inflexible as thy sire," cried her mother.
"What can I do between ye? Have thy way, thou wilful girl! Naught remains
for thy mother but to pray that the day may be hastened when all will be
well with us again."
Just then there came a clattering of hoofs in the courtyard, and the
sound of voices. Lady Stafford sprang to her feet in alarm.
"What is it?" she cried. "Oh, child, what if they have taken thy
father?"
"'Tis the queen's men," said Francis starting up. "They seek my father,
but they seek in vain. I have foiled them."
A sense of exultation swept over her, causing her to forget for the time
her father's distrust. She faced the men who entered the apartment
triumphantly.
"What seek ye?" she demanded with scorn.
"Thy father, boy, and thee," was the reply. "We know that thou hast
warned him so that he hath given us the slip. But marry! the game is but
afoot, and we the greyhounds who will bring him to bay. Of him anon. Here
is a warrant for one Francis Stafford. Art thou he?"
"I am," answered the girl haughtily.
"Then, Francis Stafford, son of William, Lord Stafford, in the name of
the queen, I arrest thee on a charge of high treason."
"Arrest thee, Francis?" cried her mother flinging her arms about the
girl. "Oh, child, why thee?"
"I was with my father at Chartley, mother," said Francis calmly. "If he
be guilty of treason, why, then so am I."
"But I knew not that thou wert in danger," sobbed the mother. "Oh,
Francis, why didst thou not go with thy father? Why didst thou not tell
him of it? Why, why?"
"I did not think of it," answered Francis simply. "I thought only of
him."
"How thou hast been misjudged," exclaimed the lady weeping bitterly. "Oh,
cruel, cruel fate that hath befallen thee!"
"Cease thy lamentation, woman," commanded the officer sternly. "Make
ready to accompany thy son to London."
"I?"
"My mother!" exclaimed Francis and her mother in one breath.
"Thou. Thou canst no longer remain here, because this Hall and its estate
are forfeited to the crown by the treason of its owner. 'Tis the queen's
command that thou dost go with thy son to London there to be immured in
the Tower. Make ready, madam. Ye two must this hour to the queen."
"But what crime have I committed?" asked the poor lady in dismay.
"I know not, madam. 'Tis the queen's command," was the reply.
"'Tis the worst of all crimes, my mother," said Francis with irony. "Thou
art too fair. 'Tis a fault unforgivable by Elizabeth."
"Hush, child," whispered the lady quickly. "Make our sad plight no worse
by thy railing."
"Stay, boy!" cried Wainwright as Francis started to leave the apartment
with her mother. "Remain where thou art. I would have speech with thee."
Wonderingly, the girl paused, and Master Wainwright, making a peremptory
motion to Lady Stafford to leave them, continued:
"Thou art too elusive to be out of my sight, young sir. Now answer these
queries. Wert thou in the dwelling of old Margery when we entered it?"
"Marry! what is it to thee where I was," answered Francis, desiring not
to get the dame into trouble.
"Be not too pert, sir page. I wrung from the old woman that thou wert,
after I found that we o'erslept. Now, boy, was it due to thee or to the
witch that we slept so long?"
"To me, master," replied the girl boldly. "Upon my shoulders cast all
blame. Impute nothing to the old woman. I did all, for I knew that I must
distance thee to warn my father. And thou wert outstripped! Thou wert
close after the game but he took to soil, and the track is lost, good
master."
"Crow on, my bantam," cried Wainwright angrily. "Thou wilt sing another
tune when Sir Francis Walsingham hath thee. And mark me, sirrah! The
track will be regained, and the game brought to cover ere thou dost
reach the Tower. Then upon Tower Hill thou canst behold its breaking
up."
Francis turned pale as death at this reference to what would be her
father's fate if taken.
"Ah, that hipped thee, young cock! Dost ken what happens to traitors?
'Twill be thy fate as well as thy father's. Dream on't, master! Now must
you and your mother take horse for London."
"To-day?" said Francis faintly, a sense of weakness coming over her. "Oh,
sir, not to-day, beseech you. I have ridden so much. I am so tired!"
"This day shalt thou start," said Wainwright rejoicing with all the might
of a small man in the power over another. "No pleading will avail thee.
Thou must go!"
"As you will then," answered Francis wearily, though every muscle in her
tired body rebelled at this further tax upon her strength.
And so the long, weary journey to London was again begun.