"THOU SHALT NOT KILL."
The deduction made by Winter concerning the silence of Elinor had been
correct; but the power he had deemed potent to restrain her from
uttering what she had overheard, and from giving voice to the
indignities he in his drunkenness had heaped upon her, was not alone
the reason of her silence; the mind was held in a species of lethargy.
Now her father had left England; the motive which prompted his
departure she could surmise,--his mission was an enigma. And who was
his companion? The man whose face was ever before her, whose touch
haunted her in dreams causing her to awake and cry in terror to the
Virgin for protection. The girl was wrought up to a state of
hysterical expectancy. Even when sitting within doors, an exclamation
upon the street would cause her to start, fearing it might be a voice
proclaiming the fulfillment of the awful threat which ever sounded in
her ears. Never did she go abroad and behold a group of men but she
approached with trembling limbs and nervous eagerness, feeling that
the first words falling from their lips would be that England was
without a king. What the effect of this anxiety might have been had
she brooded over it long in solitude, is not difficult to tell. But
solace arose from an unexpected quarter. On his departure for France,
Fawkes had mentioned that there was in the city a certain friend, his
companion several years before, whom he had again lately met and asked
to call from time to time to inquire if he might render any service.
The girl awaited the arrival of this visitor with trepidation and some
anxiety, being well aware that the companions of her father were, as a
rule, men of little refinement, accustomed to the rough life of a
camp, and more at their ease in a pot-house than in the society of a
young woman. Her expectations were pleasantly disappointed, for on his
first visit the stranger, by his ease and grace of manner, banished
from her mind all doubts concerning him. Although habited in the garb
of a soldier of the period, there was about him something--a peculiar
refinement of speech, a dignity of carriage, a certain reverent homage
which he rendered unto her--that won from the girl a feeling of
respect and confidence. His visits, far from being cause for
apprehension, had become the one bright spot in her daily life; in his
company Elinor for a brief time forgot the terrible anxiety to which
she was a prey.
The only circumstance which impressed her as strange was that "Captain
Avenel"--for by this name he had introduced himself--seldom visited
the house by day, and there was always a certain amount of implied
rather than actual caution in his movements, which seemed to the girl
odd, as nothing else in his manner could be deemed in the least
mysterious.
On one of those evenings, which Elinor now looked forward to with some
pleasure, she and "Captain Avenel" sat together in a little room of
Fawkes' dwelling.
"And didst say thou hadst intelligence of my father?" inquired she,
eagerly.
"This very morning," answered the man, "did I receive a letter brought
by packet from Calais, and in the note he wished me to make known his
safe arrival; further, that he would by the next mail write thee,
telling all about his travels. Now thou canst set thy mind at rest
concerning him, for France in our time offers but few dangers, though
in truth I think thy sire hath the look of one to whom peril would be
a diversion."
"England doth offer more dangers than France," answered the girl, who
was now abstractedly gazing into the fire.
Garnet turned a swift glance in her direction. The words awakened in
the priest that feeling of apprehension which had ever been present in
his mind since his arrival in London, but until now it had not been
called forth by word or deed of hers. On the contrary, in her society
the Jesuit felt for some reason, probably the innocence and loveliness
of the girl, a sensation of rest and security that enabled him to
throw off the dread of detection which so constantly possessed him.
But he turned and inquired in a quiet tone:
"And dost deem England such a dangerous country?"
"Nay," replied Elinor, hesitatingly, "England doth seem all peace and
quietude, but----" here she stopped, fearing the man might read what
lay hidden in her heart, for he was regarding her with a look of
surprise as he noted her embarrassment.
"Come, my daughter," said he kindly, his gentle heart touched by the
fear written on her face, "I have suspected long that some matter did
trouble thee. If I have power to lend aid, consider my whitening hair,
and hesitate not to confide in me, who am old enough to enjoy the
blessing of being called father by thee."
Elinor looked into the benevolent countenance.
"Fear not," he continued in a persuasive voice, "if I can counsel
thee, thy wish for help is granted ere 'tis asked."
She raised her head and met a look of gentle sympathy long unknown to
her, and for which her poor heart so fondly yearned. The tears sprang
to her eyes and her self control, that which the brutality of Winter
could not break down, gave way. She turned toward him like a poor
tired bird after battling with a storm; her weakness could not endure
longer to see protection neath the leaf and branches of his goodness
and not avail herself of it.
In a moment more the words had passed her lips,--all that she had
overheard, the words uttered by Fawkes, and the fear and anguish which
since had haunted her.
"Is there naught I can do?" she cried. "O God! when did I ever commit
a sin worthy of the punishment?" She raised her eyes to Garnet. "Even
thou art pale to the lips from the hideousness of the thing."
Through the girl's confession, Garnet's attitude remained unchanged.
At her first words he started, but with an effort controlled himself.
The sudden revelation that their plans were known by one outside those
who composed the little band consecrated to the holy cause, filled him
with a terror which, at first, reason was unable to check. But as she
proceeded, the quick mind of the priest perceived that the girl's one
thought was, not to save the King, nor to defeat their hopes, but only
to deliver her father from the danger to which he was exposed. The
fear gradually passed away, and as Elinor ceased speaking, the
strongest feeling in the prelate's mind was one of sympathy for her
who wept before him.
"Is there naught," Garnet inquired, mildly, when the girl had
finished, "that thou can'st see to justify thy father's act, and by
that justification bring to thee consolation? Think, even though he
were marked to die, more honor belongs to him in this, than to live to
old age in idleness and inactivity. Dwell upon thy love for him, then
meditate on his love for the Church."
"Nay," she answered, "my knee doth bend before the altar with as great
a reverence as any who do honor to the Host, and were my father to
fall in open conflict I would not grudge his life given to a noble
cause. But this act is not loyalty to God, for, did He not decree,
'Thou shalt not kill?' 'Tis naught but murder; and if my father fall,
he will not meet death as a martyr, but as a common assassin."
Garnet was silent; the girl's words sounded strangely to him. Not
wishing to reveal his identity he determined to avoid further
argument, fearing suspicions might be raised in Elinor's mind which
would only make matters worse. What course to pursue he did not know.
As far as circumstances permitted, he would help her, but how to
effect this was beyond his present comprehension.
"I have not told thee in vain? Thou wilt aid me?" she inquired.
"My child, I must have time to meditate," answered the Jesuit. "I
cannot give thee advice upon such a weighty matter without due
deliberation; but," he added hastily, "all is safe for a time at
least; thy father is in France."
"I pray God," exclaimed the girl, "that I shall not have reason to
regret opening my heart unto thee. Nay, thou couldst not be so cruel
as to make known what I have told. Swear," she cried in sudden fear,
noting a strange expression on the other's face, "swear thou wilt keep
secret all I have revealed."
"Alarm not thyself," replied the prelate; "what thou hast uttered is
as safe as if 'twere said under the seal of the confessional. Know
further, thou hast told thy trouble to one who will ever cherish the
confidence, even if his help avail thee little. But," added he,
tenderly--in the sincerity of his heart forgetting the sword which
hung at his side--"may the peace of Him whose hand was ready to turn
the water into wine, or raise the widow's son, descend and give thee
relief."
"Thou speakest like a priest," she said.
Garnet started, but quickly replied, "Never could a priest grant thee
absolution with a gladder heart, than I would release thee from this
trouble, were it in my power, and were it the will of God that I
should do so."
"And dost think it is God's will that I suffer thus?"
"Perchance, yes," said he, in a thoughtful voice, as if communing with
himself, "and it may be His decree that many more do groan with thee.
Be not regretful thou has told thy sorrow, for even to confide a grief
is to make it lighter."
"Nay, I do not regret, I think there is little else left me but to
endure; would that I were dead and beyond the touch of sorrow," she
added, with a hopeless sigh.
"Thou shouldst not wish thyself dead, for to do so is to be
unreconciled to the will of God. If this poor hand doth fail to bring
comfort, my prayers shall ever be for strength that thou mayst bear
with fortitude all which the wisdom of heaven deems just to send. Try
to look upon thy grief as a tribute God demands to work out some
mighty project of His own."
"I will try," the girl said, a sad smile coming into her face. "Think
not I am ungrateful for thy words of comfort."
"And now, my daughter, will I wish thee the blessing of sweet sleep,
for 'tis late; I will see thee again soon."
"Thou art very good," she replied simply, "thou, the only one
remaining--" her lips trembled and tears filled her eyes; suddenly she
threw her arms about him, and between the sobs which shook her frame,
exclaimed, hiding her face upon his shoulder, "all that is left me
now."
Garnet regarded the slight figure clinging to him: "Oh God!" he
thought, "Is it Thy will that such as these must suffer?" He raised
his arm as if to encircle her, but let it drop by his side.
"Come, my child," he said after a moment, putting her gently from him,
"thy tears well nigh unman me; I would it were in my power to give
thee consolation, but help must come from higher hands than mine."
As he reached the threshold he turned and beheld a picture which
haunted him many a day, and for an instant raised within his holy mind
a doubt of the justice of such grief. As she stood, the imprint of
deep sorrow was on the fair young face--a sorrow the young should
never know. One arm was raised as though in mute appeal to him not to
forsake her in this misery. A look, and he closed the door, passing
out into the night.
The effect produced upon Garnet by the trouble he had just witnessed
was complex. Never doubting the justice of the cause he espoused,
still, his quiet nature could not hide from itself a feeling of pity
that one so good and innocent should be called upon to suffer equally
with those whose unholy hands were raised to snatch the cross from off
the altar of his fathers.
"Truly," he muttered, as he proceeded on his way--pressing a hand to
his breast that he might feel the crucifix resting there--"it hath
been resolved by higher authority than my weak will that this thing
must be done. And, Henry Garnet, who art thou to question? Still," he
added, sadly shaking his head, the memory of a tear-stained face
passing before him, "it is a pity; but for every tear that falls from
thy gentle eyes a soul will be redeemed."
He continued on his way in silence. As he approached the more densely
populated districts of the city, an almost unconscious movement of the
hand brought the fold of his mantle over his shoulder, so that it hid
the lower portion of his face. The tall figure of Garnet was one which
could not fail to attract attention, and many a passerby turned to see
who the cavalier might be. This did not escape the eye of the prelate,
and evidently for the sake of being unnoticed, he turned into a less
frequented thoroughfare, and proceeded by a circuitous route to gain
the hostelry wherein he resided. The way brought him through a portion
of the city composed of narrow intersecting streets and alleys, faced
by poor and worn out hovels. A few old warehouses here and there
marked the spots where in times gone by fine goods had been stored. As
they stood with broken windows and open doors sighing and creaking in
the wind, they appeared like living creatures who had fallen from
conditions of plenty, and were now, in their hunger, bemoaning the
loss of the abundance which once had filled them.
In front of one of these buildings Garnet paused for a moment to more
closely examine the pile, and being deeply absorbed in his task of
inspection, was not aware of the glimmer of a lantern which came
bobbing toward him along the main road. The first intimations that any
one but himself stood upon the street were a sudden flash of light in
his face, a heavy hand falling upon his shoulder, and a gruff voice
exclaiming:
"Henry Garnet, in the name of the King I arrest thee!"
The priest started, and with rapid motion drew his cloak about him,
at the same time springing upon the step of the building. The man
lowered the light and by its reflection the Jesuit could see that he
wore the uniform of the King's guard.
"Come," continued the soldier, drawing his sword, "submission better
suits thee as a priest, than does resistance."
The blow had fallen so quickly, so unexpectedly, that for an instant
Garnet stood as one struck dumb, unable either to reply or form a plan
of action. However, in a moment his alert mind grasped the situation.
He had been recognized, that was evident, but his arrest was simply
for disobeying the edict by which he, as well as all his order, were
banished from the kingdom. The penalty following the violation of this
decree, at its worst, would simply mean imprisonment in the Tower. But
what, he asked himself, would be the consequence of it? While far from
being an egotist, the Jesuit knew that he alone was the thinking power
of that cause which to him was dearer than life. And now, when plans
were fast maturing, the corn ripening in the field, awaiting but the
hand of the reapers, he was placed in sudden danger which threatened
to frustrate all their hopes. These thoughts flashed through his mind
with the rapidity of lightning as he confronted the man standing at
the foot of the steps. Escape he must,--but how?
"Come, Henry Garnet," the man repeated, ascending the steps, lantern
in one hand, a sword in the other. "Thou art my prisoner, and in the
name of his most gracious Majesty, James I., I arrest thee!"
A bold rush now would be of no avail, for the man stood with the point
of his rapier close to the prelate's breast, almost touching his
doublet; furthermore Garnet's sword was in its scabbard, and at the
first attempt to draw it, he, in all probability, would be run through
the body. Was there no alternative but to yield? A gust of wind caused
the door at his back to creak. In an instant the Jesuit had sprung for
the portal, but the soldier, perceiving his purpose, lunged with his
weapon, and so true was the aim, that the prelate's cloak was pinned
fast to the wooden frame. An instant he was held there, but the clasp
of the mantle giving way released its wearer, and Garnet stood in the
dark entry, the door shut, and his foot set firmly against it. The
move had been none too quick, for the soldier hurled himself upon the
closed portal, which caused the old boards to groan, but they did not
yield; the only result of the man's efforts were, that the lantern
flew from his grasp, rolling down the steps into the street. The
priest heard him descend to recover the light, and relinquishing his
hold upon the door, groped his way through the darkness, hoping to
elude his pursuer in the building. His hand came in contact with the
baluster, and he quickly ascended the rickety stairs. By this time,
the guard had relighted his lantern and was peering cautiously into
the hall, evidently fearing a sword thrust from out the darkness. In
this instant's hesitation, Garnet gained the loft above. Here the
obscurity was less intense, for the waning moon shining through a
broken window into a room at his left, enabled him to see his way more
distinctly. There was little time for choice of direction, for even
now the soldier had commenced to ascend, and Garnet, not venturing to
grope further in the gloom, turned toward the ray of light, and passed
quickly into the room, pressed himself against the wall and waited.
The priest could see his pursuer holding the lantern above his head,
as he ascended the stairs, looking carefully about the while. The
soldier approached the chamber in which the Jesuit lay hid, peered in
at the door, and as if not satisfied with this cursory examination
entered. At last the man seemed satisfied, and with a muttered curse
was about to leave the apartment, when a fatal turn of the lantern
swept one of its rays full upon the Jesuit.
"Ah! there thou art, my sly fox!" cried the soldier, springing, sword
in hand, at Garnet; another instant would have seen the priest pinned
fast to the wall, had not the man's foot in some way become entangled
in the mantle hanging upon his arm, throwing him headlong with great
clatter of steel to the floor.
In a moment Garnet was upon him, both hands at the soldier's throat,
the long fingers pressing firmly the windpipe; one more strong clasp
and the priest released his hold, seized the other's sword, which had
fallen to the floor, and stood with its point upon the man's breast.
"Swear by the God thou fearest, and upon thine honor, that thou wilt
remain in this room until I leave the house! Swear it!" the priest
repeated, "ere I run thee through!"
No answer followed his command.
"Come. Swear it!" he repeated, pressing the rapier firmly against the
other's chest. The ominous silence fell upon the priest as strange. He
stooped to look into the face. The light was dim, and still lower he
bent. Suddenly the sword dropped from his hand, for the Jesuit saw by
the bulging eyes which stared into his that he had demanded an oath
from a corpse. Those long white fingers had pressed more firmly than
they knew; the man's windpipe was crushed like paper.
"My God!" the Jesuit whispered, kneeling beside the prostrate form,
horror of the deed falling upon him. "Of what have I been guilty?
This man's blood upon my head?" Terror-stricken, he looked about the
room. Again his eyes returned to the thing lying beside him. Was that
a movement of the distorted face? He gazed upon it in horrible
fascination. Slowly the lips of the dead man parted, the jaw dropped,
and it seemed as though a hideous smile lay upon the distorted visage.
"Ah!" cried Garnet, springing to his feet, "Even in death thou art the
victor, for I am shackled to thee. Never in this world can I escape
the recollection of thy countenance!"
The priest fell upon his knees, and raised his hands:
"God help me and forgive me for this deed!" he cried. "If I have
sinned, 'twas not to save this worthless life of mine; not that I
deemed it sweet to live, but that I might survive to consecrate or
yield that life in the furtherance of Thy holy work!"
He paused a moment in silent prayer, then arose, and taking a crucifix
from his doublet, knelt by the figure on the floor and pressed the
symbol to the dead lips.
"Nay," said he, as he stood regarding the man, "I did not wish thy
death, and would gladly yield my life to see thee breathe again, but
'twas ordained thou shouldst go first. And who next?" he added,
raising the cross and gazing upon it--"Mayhap he doth wear a crown."