THE VISCOUNT EFFINGSTON.
Rare and luxurious were the furnishings of a room in which we find
Lord Monteagle and his son. Wealth and artistic hands had combined to
bring all its sumptuousness into a rich and harmonious completeness.
The elder, who had just entered, walked with troubled brow toward the
window. The other, tall and strong, with features of fine proportion
and graceful contour, clad in a style denoting the aristocrat and man
of fashion, sat at a desk engaged in writing. For a time the only
sound breaking the silence was the sharp scratching of a goosequill
as it traveled over the paper. At last, having finished, and observing
the other for the first time, he remarked, as he folded the sheet:
"My lord, hast thou so soon returned from the audience? Did aught
transpire to ruffle thy temper? Or, mayhap," he continued with a
laugh, "His Majesty did read thee an essay on How to Take Snuff
Without a Nose, or some other learned subject dear to his heart."
"Not so, my son," Monteagle replied with gravity; "but I have heard
again rumors which set but ill upon my mind. 'Tis the talk of the
ante-chamber, and the first words which did greet my ear on entering
came from that silly, chattering coxcomb, Robert Carr, who, advancing,
enquired in a low voice, but which at the same time filled the room,
whether my daughter-in-law would be the new lady in waiting upon the
Queen. These many days the talk that hath been afoot connects thy name
with one whose ancestral lineage will not bear scrutiny, and, for
truth, much this gossip hath troubled me."
Effingston reddened, and turned in his chair toward the speaker,
suppressing an angry retort which sprang to his lips: "My lord, dost
thou believe all that Dame Rumor whispereth?"
"No, verily, being too long connected with affairs of State, but, in
my anxiety, I made inquiry, and much it paineth me to find these same
reports seem to have foundation. I do not demand but beg an
explanation from thy lips, to hear if that be true which reached my
ear."
"Your lordship knows," returned the other with an inclination of the
head, "that thy request is to me a command; therefore, I tell thee
frankly that what thou heard this morning is to an extent well
founded. Thou canst be sparing of thy fears," he continued as the
other was about to interrupt, "and ever be assured, respect for Lord
Monteagle, my father, and pride, the inheritance of the noble born,
will deter Viscount Effingston from actions which his conscience might
perchance approve. I will not disgrace thee or thy name," he
concluded, with a touch of haughtiness in his tone.
"I have not yet accused thee of bringing discredit upon our house, and
devoutly hope my fears are but absurd, born of that doubt which
seemeth to be resident in the minds of men one for the other. By my
troth, we can seldom point with certainty in these days to one of our
fellow creatures, and say truly, I know him to be good and free from
treason. It would, I swear," he continued, with a sigh, "little
surprise me, to hear the Archbishop of Canterbury had been seen to
hold his crosier for a pretty wench to leap across, that he might the
better gaze upon her ankles. Thou art a man grown; therefore, I can
but counsel. But this I know: love for one below thy station, though
she have all purity and moral excellence, seldom ends in marriage; if
by chance it doth bring thee to the altar, repentance with its dismal
train follows far too often, even ere the echo of the chimes hath died
away."
"Thy counsel did, and ever shall stand high in my regard," replied
Effingston. "But thy fears are groundless. I do admit that she to whom
thou dost refer is not of highest birth; still, her ancestors helped
to keep the crown upon a king's head, and methinks, deserve more
credit for acting thus without reward than though they bore the title
of a Duke or Prince. As thou hast asked, and with perfect justice, I
will tell the story from its beginning. Thou might misjudge if thy
mind held its present suspicion, and it would lead to setting aside of
confidences which, it hath been my happiness to feel, did ever exist
between us."
"Thou sayest well," replied the other, with affection. "I have always
looked upon thee as my sword arm, to carry out by thy young strength
the deeds which time hath left me ill conditioned to perform."
"Thou remembrest," began Effingston, "the night three months since, I
rode to Chartsey Manor, with intent to sound Lord Cecil regarding his
attitude on issues then before Parliament. It was midnight ere I left,
and well on toward the stroke of two when I arrived in the outskirts
of London. Proceeding slowly on my way, drinking in deeply the
beauties of the night, suddenly there sounded upon my startled ear a
woman's scream, which quickly ceased, as if she who uttered it had
been rudely seized about the throat. I reined up my horse and
listened. Distinctly could I hear, not two hundred paces from me, the
sound of scuffling feet and an outburst of drunken laughter, ending in
a round of fiendish cursing. 'Hold,' cried I, 'wait until I can loose
my sword and lend thee aid.' Saying which, I hastily dismounted,
throwing the bridle of my horse over a bush hard by, and hurried in
the direction of the tumult. On turning a corner, there came upon my
sight a scene which made my blood boil and lent new speed to my legs.
Two ruffians had set upon a woman, and while one held back her chin
and shoulders, the other was endeavoring to imprint a kiss upon the
upturned face, the rogue being hindered in his purpose by the girl,
who, holding in her hand a small dagger, lunged right boldly with it.
'Avaunt ye, knaves,' I cried, running, sword in hand. Before, however,
I could reach the struggling group she had struck the man in front of
her, causing him for a moment to desist, when, with a sudden accession
of strength, breaking away from the one who held her, she set her back
against the wall, confronting the two assailants with the look and
spirit of a tigress. The men, now for the first time perceiving me,
having been too deep in liquor and their employment to hear my shout,
took to their heels, but not until I had spoiled the sword arm of one
and left my mark upon the other. Turning toward the girl who stood by
the wall, I discovered the momentary spirit had left her, for again
she was the weak woman and would have fallen fainting to the ground,
had I not given her support. She soon revived, and having received her
thanks, prettily given, I inquired how it fell out she had been so
rudely set upon; in reply to which she told me of her grandam being
taken ill, and in need of a leech, and how she had gone forth to fetch
him, and was attacked, when returning from her errand. On begging that
she would permit me to see her safely home, my offer was accepted
with thanks. When arrived at our destination she asked if I would not
on the next day return, that she might more fully express her
gratitude. Thou knowest, my father, how love grows in the heart. At
first my feeling was one of curiosity; but it soon changed to
admiration for the fair girl, and, at last it ripened into love, as I
learned to know the soul which rested in her beautiful form. This is
my simple story, and I have naught more to tell."
"My son," replied the other, who had listened with eager attention to
the narrative, "there's naught, so far, that I condemn, and I applaud
thee for thy chivalry, but I had higher hopes for thee than a marriage
with a commoner. Thou hast, however, omitted to tell me her name," he
added, in a voice betokening anxiety.
"Her name is Elinor Fawkes, the daughter of an officer, English by
birth, now serving in the army of Spain."
"Elinor Fawkes," repeated the father, with a start and looking toward
Effingston. "'Tis as I feared. Is this, then, the creature on whom
thou wouldst bestow thy name? Have thine ears been out of sorts, never
to have heard the rumor which connects her in none too savory a manner
with the adventurer Sir Thomas Winter? It is common talk, for I will
speak plainly to thee, that she is his mistress."
"In thy throat thou liest," the other cried, leaping to his feet,
white to the lips with sudden passion; "recall those words, or by St.
Paul, I'll strike thee to my feet, forgetting the loins which begat
me! She hath fully told me of, and set aside, the lie which coupleth
her with Sir Thomas Winter."
"Aye, she hath explained to thee readily enough, I trow," exclaimed
the other, roused to anger. "Lives there the woman who could not make
excuses if but a moment were granted her? I shall not chide thee for
thy hasty words; time will bring them to thy memory with remorse. But
listen unto reason, and----"
"I'll hear no more," Effingston cried, in a voice full of passion.
"Stop," said Monteagle, in a commanding voice, holding up his hand,
"thou shalt hear! Doth the leech withhold the lance when a patient
groans? No, my son; I'll introduce thee to plain facts, and try to
cure, even though my duty be a hard one."
Effingston sank into his chair, his temper cooled to a degree by his
father's manner, and listened with compressed lips and knitted brow to
what followed.
"As I have already told thee," began Lord Monteagle, "I suspected that
it was she who had ensnared thee. I set inquiries afoot, and in
justice to the girl, with a twofold object--first, to establish her
innocence, if she were true; secondly, to save thy name and happiness,
if she proved guilty. But," he went on, advancing toward his son and
laying a hand upon his shoulder, "the second object of my quest was
the one fulfilled. The proof came by the hand of God. Yesternight,
leaving the house of Lord Brighton, where I had dined, and wishing to
return with all speed, I requested the bearers of my chair to take the
shortest way home. Gazing out of the window, I noted that we were in
the locality of the house wherein she (who had for the past few days
most unhappily filled my mind) was reported to reside, and desiring to
look upon the spot, commanded my men to rest there. Suddenly I
descried a man muffled in a cloak, proceeding up the street, who, as
he approached, proved to my astonishment to be none other than Sir
Thomas Winter. Quickly he ascended the steps and knocked at the house
opposite the place where I chanced to be. After a moment the door
opened and the figure of a girl stood on the threshold. Beholding her,
Winter exclaimed: 'A good evening to thee, Mistress Fawkes,' the rest
of the greeting being lost to me as the door closed. I was astonished
at having so quickly set before me the two whose names had been in my
mind. After a few moments the door again opened suddenly, this time I
think by accident, revealing the figure of him who had just entered,
still clad in his cloak, clasping in his arms and kissing the woman
who admitted him. I could not hear what passed, for at the time the
wind blew high, drowning their voices. But I had seen enough, and
cried to the bearers to take up the chair and proceed. That, my son,
is what I have seen, not learned by mere hearsay. Would that I could
have spared thee the telling, but 'tis for thy welfare I have narrated
it."
Effingston, during the narrative, had remained motionless, his
features drawn and colorless. Fully realizing that his father would
not have maliciously manufactured this evidence against the girl, his
mind could conceive no extenuating circumstance to clear it away. That
she had deceived him was not beyond the consent of reason. He was a
man of the world and of the time, well aware of possible duplicity,
and further, that the age offered numerous examples of women with one
hand on the cradle while the other guided an axe toward some head
which for a cause must fall, or fanatically sacrificing all, even
honor, to gain the coveted support of a courtier in some undertaking.
The scandal which had been breathed about her, to do him justice, he
did not give ear to, believing implicitly the story told by Elinor,
explaining her associations with Winter. But was not this man a
champion of the cause which he had helped to defeat? Was it impossible
that she had played her lover as a dupe to further a scheme? This was
entirely plausible, but he could not bring his mind to believe it. And
why? For the same old, old reason which has cost men their lives and
honor, kings their crowns--because he loved her. When his father had
finished, he said, in a quiet voice, extending his hand:
"I thank thee; thy motive is of the best; and I most humbly beg thy
pardon for my hasty words, prompted by anger only."
"What course dost thou now intend to pursue?" inquired Monteagle
uneasily, for the quiet, passionless manner of his son made him
apprehensive.
"What thou or any other man would do--give the woman a chance to
defend herself."
"Aye, I thought as much," the other replied with an air of angered
impatience. "She will, with her arms about thy neck, explain fast
enough, and to thy satisfaction."
"Dost thou forget," the son inquired, "that I am a Monteagle, and have
implanted in me that pride and temper which can illy condone, even in
those they love, deceit and falsity? Have no fears for me," he added,
advancing with a determined step toward the door.
"Where art thou going, my son?" asked the other in an alarmed tone.
"To face this woman with the accusations thou hast just uttered
against her."
"Stay; go not in thine anger, for some mischief may be wrought. Wait
until thy temper cools; see her not again, but write."
"I am not a killer of unarmed adversaries," retorted Effingston;
"again, I repeat, have no fear for me."
"Well, well; God's will be done; it may be for the best," the other
said with a sigh, turning away his head.
The son hesitated for a moment; then quickly kneeling before his
father and taking his hand, exclaimed: "I humbly ask thee to forget my
hot words, and again I crave thy pardon for the same. They were spoken
in wrath, on hearing the image of my love fall crashing to the earth."
Then springing to his feet, before Monteagle had opportunity to reply,
he hurriedly left the room.
Once on the street, Effingston strode without pause in the direction
of Elinor's house. What a difference in his feelings now, contrasted
with what they had been when he had traversed that way before. He had
outlined his course of action,--to simply tell her what his father had
seen, and demand an explanation. If she were guilty, even his love and
her woman's wit could not, he thought, hide the fact from his eyes;
and if it all were true and he had been duped, what then?
He prayed that pride would come to his aid and steel his nerves, and
prompt his tongue to speak. With these thoughts in his mind, and
looking neither to the right nor left, he hurried on his way to her
dwelling. How changed each familiar object seemed to him. As he
knocked at the door and listened, a footstep sounded in the hall. Ah,
how many times had his heart leaped at the same sound. The door
opened, and she who was all the world to him stood on the
threshold;--she whom he must soon accuse of hideous duplicity. How
very beautiful she looked. On seeing Effingston, Elinor uttered a low,
startled cry. He noted the action, for love, when coupled with
suspicion (and the two can live together) is not blind, but terribly
vigilant.
"Elinor, I must speak with thee, and alone," he exclaimed.
The girl regarded him with a half frightened look. She had been all
day engaged in a bitter fight with self, and knew not how to tell him
they must part forever. Now he stood before her. She realized to some
extent what the agony of the separation which must soon come would be
to her, and knowing full well the depth of his love, measured his
sufferings by her own. Wild thoughts had passed through her mind of
doing something which would turn that love to hate, and she felt she
could better bear that than know he lived and suffered. But now as she
looked upon him both will and fortitude fast weakened. Again she was
the simple loving woman.
"Wilt thou enter?" she asked in a constrained voice, scarce knowing
what she said.
He crossed the threshold and passed into the little room which held
for him the most tender recollections.
"Elinor, I have come----" he began; then, gazing at the beautiful face
before him, he advanced toward her with outstretched arms--all
resolution gone; "O my darling, I have wronged thee--thou canst tell,
I know, and explain all."
She shrank from his touch, fearing lest her little firmness should
take flight.
"Why dost thou shrink from me?" cried he, swept by a sudden fear which
made his lips dry and his cheeks burn. "O my God, can it then be thou
dost know the purport of my question?"
"I know not what thou meanest," she stammered, astonished at his
words, even amidst her sufferings; "if thou hast aught to ask, pray
say on."
He watched the trembling figure for a moment, interpreting her emotion
as detected guilt, and the demon of jealousy, which, strange to say,
is often led forth by love, burst out, prompting him to speak words
which after uttering, he would have given worlds to unsay.
"Then, know," he cried, "that I have discovered thy methods, and that
I have been duped and dragged on to further some hellish scheme of
thine and his. I've swallowed thy pretty words and thought them sweet.
Now I know all; 'twas but last night thou wert in his arms, and
rightly thou belongest there; the report is true, thou art none other
than the mistress of Sir Thomas Winter. Aye, tremble in thy guilt,
thou Magdalene; thou canst not deny it."
As he uttered the accusation, she raised her arm as if to ward off
some sudden blow, then let it fall at her side, standing speechless,
benumbed and horrified at the terrible words he had hurled at her. The
disgrace and the infamy of them she did not at once grasp, but
gradually her mind began to comprehend all that he had said. The room
swam about her, and she caught at a chair for support, vainly trying
to make some reply. Again he repeated: "Thou canst not deny it; guilt
is written in thine every action."
As she aroused herself there flashed upon her mind the act of two
short days ago, when she had fallen upon her knees and prayed God that
this man before her might be spared the cruel pangs of that separation
which must inevitably come. And had not that prayer been answered? Had
not he just uttered accusations, which, if not denied, would end his
love for her--now and forever? Believing her to be vile and infamous,
pride and manhood would soon come to his aid. But what did the
acknowledgment mean to her? His utter contempt; he would always
believe that he had been her dupe--hers, who would gladly give her
very life for him. But what mattered it? Thinking this to be true, he
will soon, manlike, dismiss her from his thoughts, and give his love
to another, who, pray God, may make his life all happiness and
gladness. She turned her eyes toward the wall on which hung the image
of Christ nailed to a cross. Could she not crucify herself, for this
love of hers? Slowly the resolution formed. Again he repeated: "Canst
thou deny it?" And she answered: "Thou sayest it!"
"It is true?" he cried.
Again she answered: "Thou sayest it."
"O great God," he exclaimed, putting his hands to his head, "can this
be real? Can this be the end of all our hopes? Is the world so bad and
woman so low?"
She uttered not a word, but stood motionless.
"Vile deceiver!" he cried, turning to her as he staggered toward the
door, "if it be happiness to know that thine infamy hath ruined my
life, know it, then, and be glad."
She heard the portal close. He had gone from her forever. Then the
full and terrible import of that which she had acknowledged herself to
be overwhelmed her, and with a cry she fell unconscious to the floor.