THE HOME-COMING OF GUIDO FAWKES.
"By my hilt!" exclaimed Fawkes, as he closed the door of the council
chamber and wrapped his long cloak well about him, "'tis a merry night
I've had; first, in none too clean a pot-house; then a stout thrust
for good Sir Thomas,--'twas passing strange that I did once more stand
twixt him and glory; and, last of all, a stoup of good old wine in the
company of a most noble throng. Indeed, good Guido," he continued, as
musing to himself he walked along, "thou wert made, I marry, for
better things than cracking the knavish pates of yellow Dons; but
guard thy touchy temper well, for even to-night thou couldst but sadly
brook a small delay, and wouldst have answered my Lord Catesby's
haughty look with scant courtesy. I fear thy warlike nature would
poorly thrive upon a diet of quiet living. But these be times when the
dogs of war are ill leashed, and need small urging to slip their
fetters and bark and bite anew. I question much what the morrow holds,
and would that Sir Thomas had made some mention of my employ.
"By St. George," he added after a moment, slackening his pace as if a
sudden thought occurred to him, "they did seem but poorly pleased to
see a strange face standing in their door, until Sir Walter stood
sponsor for the same. Aye, and what names had these noble
gentlemen--Catesby, Wright, Digsby, Percy! All good Catholics," he
continued, a cunning smile twitching the corners of his mouth. "And,
who is King? Why, James Stuart, to be sure, a most bigoted Protestant!
What was it that Master Martin said about Mary's dripping head? Well,
well, friend Guido, thy good sword may not be red with rust alone;
wait but a little while, and thy employment may be most pleasing to
thy taste, and thy conscience, also." Then he drew his cloak more
closely about him and quickly proceeded on his way.
At last, following the direction given him by Winter, Fawkes arrived
before a small, neat house, situated in the outskirts of the city;
stopping in front to make sure it was the one for which he was in
quest, he proceeded up the steps and knocked thrice. No answer
followed his summons, and after several moments of waiting, which were
consumed in the stamping of feet and walking up and down, for it was
bitterly cold in the frosty air, he again repeated the announcement of
his presence to those within, this time with better result. The sound
of a casement opening, caused him to look up, and he beheld the
wrinkled visage of an old woman, who, with blinking red-rimmed eyes,
and night-cap on her head, stood regarding him with an air of evident
disfavor, for presently she cried in a shrill, toothless voice, "Get
thee gone, thou beggar, I have naught for thee." "By my soul, good
mother," answered the man, laughing heartily, "thy welcome doth match
the morning air in warmth. Dost not know thy son Guy?"
"By the blessed Virgin!" exclaimed she, in half-frightened tones,
evidently engendered by a most wholesome respect for her son, "wait
but a trice until the door be unbarred." Saying which, she hastily
withdrew her head and closed the window. Immediately after, the shrill
tones of her voice were heard within the house, crying: "Mistress
Elinor! Mistress Elinor! hurry down and let thy sire in, for he stands
without!" A moment of silence, followed by the drawing of bolts, and
suddenly the door was thrown open, disclosing the figure of a girl,
who, with outstretched arms, exclaimed: "My father!"
Standing bathed in the rosy light of coming day, she was in high
contrast to the rough, weather-beaten man, who quickly clasped her to
his breast. The pale and lightly tinted olive complexion, which showed
descent from some far-off Castilian ancestor, harmonized well with the
dainty but clear cut features. A shapely head, surrounded by a wealth
of dark and glossy hair, carried downward from the temples and
gathered into a knot behind, so as to completely cover the fragile
ears, formed a fitting frame for eyes of the darkest violet, which, as
they gazed up into his, showed the fondest love. A soft gray gown,
half closed at the throat and fastened about the waist by a silver
girdle, completed the attire of a slender but perfect figure, thrown
into bold outline by her attitude.
"Forsooth," exclaimed Fawkes, as soon as he could speak for her
caresses, "methinks thou at least art glad to see thy old father once
again." Then, as he held her at arm's length, that he might better
gaze upon the face, "indeed, thou art changed; 'tis the promise of the
bud fulfilled in the blossoming flower. But let us in, for the cold
air ill becomes me after the warming sun of Spain, and frost but
roughly handles such tender plants as thou art."
"Nay, nay!" exclaimed she, closing the door and throwing her arms
about him, "thy tender plant is naught but a sprig of hardy ivy, which
hath needed these many months the sturdy oak on which to cling." Then,
with a little shiver, and a laugh, as her warm body rested against the
cold steel of his breastplate, "thou dost give thy ivy but a chilly
hold, Sir Oak."
"Ah," said Fawkes, looking at her; "thou wert always the same dainty
puss, but I trow this cold cuirass hath been warm enough even for thy
nestling, as down it hath gushed the warm blood of many a valiant foe
killed in close conflict. But enough of battles now, my pretty, for
home once more am I, and not sorry to let such bloody deeds rest."
Unfastening his cloak, sword and breastplate, he threw himself into a
chair before the fire which burned brightly on the hearth.
"But where's thy good grandam?" queried he, "must she tarry to put on
silks and satins in which to bid her son a welcome?"
"Nay," replied the girl with a laugh, kneeling at his side; "she, poor
soul, was but half awake; for these cold days illy suit her bones, and
she doth lie long in bed."
"And thou," said the man, taking her head between his hands, "art up
like a lark, to bid thy father welcome. Didst expect my return?"
"Sir Winter made mention of thy coming, but set no special day for thy
arrival," answered the girl, a shadow passing over her face as she
looked into the blaze.
"And did he say for what I was to come?" inquired Fawkes, evidently
anxious to set his mind at rest upon that subject.
"That he did not," she replied, still gazing abstractedly at the fire,
"but simply said that if thou camest to England he would give thee
service which would keep thee and me near to each other. And,"
continued she, suddenly turning toward him and taking both his hands
in hers, "thou wilt not leave me again for so long a time; I have been
sore lonely and oft have felt the need of thy sturdy arm on which to
lean."
"That I will not, my pretty dear," said Fawkes, drawing her closely
to him; "and thou didst really miss me, whom some do illy term a
pock-marked ruffian?"
"Indeed, thou art no ruffian!" Elinor cried, her eyes ablaze in a
moment; "and if any one so dared to call thee, I'd----"
"Well, well!" the father exclaimed, evidently surprised and looking
into the flushed face, "my sweet rose hath thorns as well as blushing
leaves, and would, I dare swear, strike a good blow for her sire's
name. By good Sir Cupid, but I do pity the one who doth try to balk
thy temper, little woman."
"And soon will come a time when thou wilt have a brave gentleman to
pity," broke in a mumbling voice which made the two start and turn.
The figure of an old woman, bent by age, with face resembling an
ill-fitting parchment mask placed upon a skull, advanced toward them.
"By the blessed dead, mother!" said Fawkes, arising, "thou didst turn
my blood with thy prophetic voice; but hast thou not a blessing for
thy son?"
"That I have, good Guido, and most glad am I to see thee back! I gave
thee a rude greeting from the window, for my eyes and ears have failed
of late, but I am not so blind that I cannot see two brave gentlemen
tied to my lady's girdle there," she cried, with a wheezy laugh,
pointing her trembling hand at the girl who stood with an arm drawn
through her father's.
"What is this tale?" said Fawkes, with feigned sternness, turning
toward his daughter; "hath thy pretty ways been breaking hearts
already?" Then, as he observed the blushing face and downcast
eyes:--"There, there, my darling; all in good time. When thy heart
doth open of its own accord, thy father's ear will ever be a willing
listener. By Venus," he continued in a voice full of admiration, as he
gazed upon her fair figure, "I could not marvel or condemn if thou
hadst fifty gallants at thy little heels, and would but admire the
rogues the more for their excellent taste in beauty. But," he added,
evidently wishing to turn the conversation on noting her
embarrassment, "I have not broken bread for nigh onto fifteen hours;
after I have taken food I will listen to thy pretty tale, and tell
thee many a one such as thou once wert fond of. Dost remember how thou
didst, long ago, climb upon my knee, and tugging with thy baby hands
at my shaggy beard, beg for a story ere thy bedtime came?"
"That I do," exclaimed the girl, all her embarrassment gone; "but
first I will set before thee what our larder affords."
So saying, and aided by the old woman, she began preparations for the
morning meal. Having done ample justice to the repast quickly set
before him, and having lighted a long pipe from a coal without the
blaze, Fawkes again settled himself before the fire, and, after two or
three long puffs, turned toward Elinor, who was employed about the
room, and said:
"Now, my pretty little housekeeper, thou hast done enough; sit thee
beside thy father. It is long since he hath known the pleasure of thy
sweet face and a blazing hearth, and the good grandam seems ill
company, for there she nods but a drowsy greeting," added he, pointing
with his pipe to the old woman, who had fallen asleep in a remote
corner of the chamber.
"Dost thou remember the last time we sat so?" asked the girl, as she
came and knelt beside him, placing an arm upon his shoulder; "'twas
the night before I left for England; and, oh! it was a most sorry
time." Then fingering the ends of her silver girdle and glancing at
the old woman, who was still asleep, she began in a hesitating voice:
"Mayhap the speech of my good grandam might mislead thee into thinking
me but a sorry flirt. Therefore, I would make explanation, which is
most easy, and set thee right."
"I thought naught of it, daughter, for I am much too well acquainted
with her mischief-working words, that are ever ready to brew a
trouble. If thou hast aught to say, however, and would feel better for
the telling, pray go on, and know an ever-loving heart awaits thy
speech," replied Fawkes, stroking her hair.
"Then thou must know," she began abruptly, "that Sir Thomas Winter is
a frequent caller at this house, and, my father, how can I tell thee
for the very shame of it? He hath never spoken to that effect, but
there are many thoughts ne'er proclaimed by tongue which are most
loudly uttered by eye and hand, often, too, more truly eloquent are
they than those framed in simple words; and by this very language yet
outspoken, I know soon will come the day when there will be asked a
heart----" she broke off suddenly and buried her face in her
hands--"that is not now mine to give."
"There, there, my pretty one, stop thy crying, for thine eyes were
made for smiles and not for grief. It is naught so bad; Sir Winter is
a fine gentleman and much we owe him. But thou art my daughter, and I,
a poor, rough soldier; it would be an ill-assorted match; in truth, I
believe that the lark should not pair with the golden finch, who would
soon tire of her sweet song, because she lacked the yellow feathers of
her mate. What, dost thou but cry the harder for my words? I have not,
I know, the tender touch of a mother to dry thy tears, but a more
willing hand to comfort cannot be found." Then he added tenderly: "If
thou hast aught more to tell, open thy heart to me and I will play the
woman for a while."
"Think not, then, from my tears," she suddenly exclaimed, lifting her
head and confronting her father with that spirit which is often hid in
a seemingly gentle nature, "that I am ashamed of him on whom my love
doth fall; or, rather, of him to whom my love doth mount, for he is as
far above me in worth, as I beneath him in station. But what hath
equality to do with it? Is it so--that love is only right between
those whose purses tip the scale alike? Nay, that would be a
sacrilege, for this mortal love of ours is the one thing which lifts
us from the earth. Doth God not love the most unworthy of his
creatures? Would it be just to say that salvation should be meted only
to those who are the Creator's equal? Who of us, then, would escape
the flame? Not so," she continued, her eyes ablaze with the intensity
of her emotion. "It is that very affection bestowed upon us by our God
that lifts us poor mortals into fellowship with him. Love knows no
laws of title, tithes or wealth, and by the very act of loving, the
peasant rightly seats himself beside the king. Ah, think not, dear
father," she cried, falling on her knees, "that I would lightly cast
aside a wish of thine. Dwell but upon the love that thou once felt,
and remember it is she, the reflection of that self-same love, who
seeks thy aid."
There was silence, broken only by the sobs of the kneeling girl.
Fawkes regarded his daughter with an air of evident surprise, not
unmixed with anxiety in anticipation of what might follow; for every
action showed she was wrought up to the highest state of excitement
and earnestness. After a moment he said in a quiet voice: "I trust
these hot words of thine are but the outcome of some foolish fancy,
which, like the silly scorpion, will kill itself with its own
violence. But thou hast not told me all; until I am fully advised, my
counsel can be but scant. What name hath he? What title doth he hold?
For by thy speech he must be noble?"
"Herbert Effingston," replied the girl.
"I know not that name," answered the other, after a moment's musing.
"And his title?"
"Viscount Herbert Effingston, son of Lord Monteagle."
"Thou hast indeed flown high," Fawkes cried, with a sudden outburst of
passion. "Because I love thee I would wish thee dead, aye, dead," he
continued, fiercely, raising himself from the chair, "rather than have
thee bear the hated name of Monteagle."
"But thou knowest no evil of him," cried the girl, springing to her
feet. "He is good; he is true and noble; aye, and hear me, it was he
who saved my life--a life thou lovest. I know what thou wouldst say,
but the son is not holden for his father's sins; he is not----"
"But he is of the brood," thundered Fawkes, now thoroughly aroused;
"the litter of the jackal will eat the holy dead left by its
sire--'tis in their nature. Monteagle!" he repeated with fine scorn.
"And marry, that would be a pretty name for thee to choose--a name
that hath done more to set aside our Holy Catholic Church than all the
fiends in hell. What I know is true," he exclaimed, seizing her by the
arm. "Hark to what I say to thee; even I have heard, for ill fame
flies with swallow's wings swiftly across the sea, and when I am done,
if thou still dost love, pray to the Madonna to stop the beating of a
heart that holds so unworthy a regard. Thou sayest the son saved thy
life--by what means I know not. Think you that doth make amends for
all the evil done by him and his? Enough of this, and listen," he
continued, mastering his anger and pacing up and down the room.
"Monteagle and his son, both Catholics, and until James Stuart reached
the throne, most valiant champions of their faith, have, since the
scepter reached the hands of that wise fool, endeavored by all the
foul means within their power, to defeat the efforts of their fellow
churchmen, which, as thou knowest--and all England as well--were
directed against those laws which meant the downfall of our church.
Did these hell hounds come boldly out and show a lusty fight--which
would, in a small degree, have recommended them? Nay, that is not the
nature of the serpent. They falsely affirm themselves most strong
adherents to the Pope, receive the confidences of the Papal Delegates,
and by treasonable use of this knowledge of their secret mission,
defeat them ere they strike a blow. Is it for truth that they are
against the faith? Not so; for the hypocrites do cross themselves and
bow before the Host. Is it for a principle that they act thus? Nay,
for they have none. What, then, is their object? It is to gain favor
with the King, and place themselves by underhanded, sneaking ways
where true merit ne'er could raise them. Ah, my daughter," he cried,
with a voice full of supplication, "I love thee much too well to cause
thy heart a single pang. Canst thou not see it all aright? And even if
for love of me thou wilt not pluck this passion from thy heart, then
do it for the love thou owest God."
While her father had been speaking, the girl stood motionless, every
line on her face showing plainly the conflict raging within her
breast. Her eyes were dry, for there are griefs so deep and searing
that they, with their fiery tongues, do lick up the springing tears
before they can fall. It was not in her nature to love lightly; to her
passion meant more than a mere auxiliary to her existence; simply
making life brighter and happier; every action, deed or thought,
however trivial and far removed from him, by some subtle influence
like that which turns the magnetic needle toward the north, had been
turned to bear upon this love of hers. The accusations just uttered
concerning his traitorous actions with regard to her faith, influenced
her but little; for her attitude toward religion resembled that of
most of her kind; the pure feminine mind turns instinctively toward
that which they deem great and good, believing, as a rule,--shall we
say ignorantly?--in all which is said to issue from a source they
cannot comprehend, and which they fear for the mystery attached to it.
Man, by instinct, loves power and dominion over others. Woman
substitutes for that characteristic the longing to be ruled, and in
that subordination of herself seeks protection. In this girl's breast,
the desire for a mystical and intangible power which promised to
protect, had been, to a degree, supplanted by the knowledge that there
awaited one who would clasp her in strong arms, and guard her against
all the world. Therefore the words spoken a moment ago had but little
weight, and played a small part in forming the resolution to which she
soon gave voice. Duty was clear. This poor, lonely man, her father,
who had known but little happiness, whose whole existence was summed
up in two great all-absorbing passions--a fearful, passionate belief
in God, and after that, his love for her,--for his sake she must make
the sacrifice.
"Ah!" thought she, "sacrifice means death, and my love can never die,
but I shall hide it, bury it deep within my bosom, until in time its
strength shall tear my heart asunder; then I, in place of love, will
be the sacrifice."
This, and more, quickly passed through her mind, but now she turned
toward the man with that wonderful self-control which only can be
found in woman, and said, in a quiet voice, devoid of passion and
malice, for she felt none:
"If it be thy wish, I will do it for love of thee."
"My daughter!" cried he, taking the motionless figure in his arms,
"thou hast saved me from a living hell. Thou wilt soon find I have
brought but good counsel. Pluck this poisoned shaft from out thy
heart, and if the wound hurt, soothe the smart with sweet knowledge of
my love, and above all, with a sense of justice done to God. Forget,
my pretty one, thy father's hasty temper; or, if remembered, let it be
only as called forth by love of thee. But we shall talk no more of
passions; let them go. Come now beside me, while I rest, for I am sore
weary after my long journey. Sit so," he continued, reclining on a
bench before the blaze, taking the white hand she offered and drawing
her down to him, "that I may not lose thee again, even in my dreams."
She silently complied with his request. It would have been impossible
to express what was in her mind, so paralyzed and benumbed was it by
the heavy blow which had suddenly fallen. As the fingers which held
hers gradually relaxed in slumber, she slowly sank upon her knees, and
with outstretched arms, in a tearless voice, exclaimed: "Oh, my love,
thou who art my life; since on earth I must forever be without thee,
let some kindly hand give me unto death!"