ON THE STROKE OF ELEVEN.
"What, my daughter, up at this late hour!" exclaimed Fawkes, as he
entered the room where Elinor sat. "I had deemed thee long abed."
The man threw himself into a chair by the fire with an air of fatigue,
and sat in moody silence. The girl glanced up; then arising, passed
over to him and lightly kissed his brow. The caress did not meet with
any response; in fact, he seemed scarcely conscious of it, and after a
moment's hesitation, Elinor resumed her seat.
She had led a strange existence for the past eight months;--ever
waiting, ever dreading, and as yet nothing had occurred. To her this
period had been one of breathless suspense, like the moment before the
storm, when trees hang lifeless in a stifling atmosphere, and animals
raise their heads in frightened expectancy, awaiting with nameless
terror the first gust which shall herald the tornado. Since her
father's return from France, she noted that the air of preoccupation
apparent before his departure, was now intensified. While in his
kindness toward her the girl could detect no change, still, there had
come between them a species of estrangement. Seldom was there an
opportunity for them to converse, for Fawkes was up before daylight,
and rarely returned until after the midnight hour had sounded. Often
it was in her heart to ask his confidence--often to hint that she had
overheard his words on that fearful night,--but when she approached
with such intent, a nameless something in his manner held her mute.
The source from which she had hoped would flow sweet waters of comfort
and relief proved dry and arid as summer dust; he to whom in an
outburst of anguish she had confided her grief vanished completely
from her life, as though the earth had engulfed him. True, Garnet
visited her many times after the night she unburdened her heart to
him, but his counsel was ever the same--to wait; at times she even
imagined there was in his tones a hint at justification of her
father's utterance. However, since the day on which Fawkes had
returned, the Jesuit had never passed the threshold of the house. How
to account for this absence she knew not, but in a vague way
associated it with the mystery surrounding her father.
Winter, Elinor had not seen; her wonder at his studious avoidance of
her was matched by the terror with which she anticipated meeting him.
And her first grief?--the forced sacrifice of life's happiness with
the man she loved--had time been kind, and stilled the aching of her
heart? No; for in it the flame burned as brightly as when upon that
day, long ago, his first kiss had breathed upon the glowing spark,
changing it into a tongue of flame which leaped to her very lips.
Where Effingston had gone, she did not know, but her prayers were ever
the same, that in the abyss wherein lay her own fair fame he should
cast his love;--so grief for him would cease to exist.
At last the silence of the room was broken by the man before the fire,
who turned toward her, and, as if but just noting her presence, said,
drowsily: "Daughter, methinks such late hours ill befit thee. It hath
long since struck twelve; thou hast already lost thy beauty sleep."
Elinor arose, laid aside the work with which she had been employed,
passed over to Fawkes, then stooped and kissed him. As her lips
touched his, he reached up, took her face between his hands and gazing
at her said, after a moment: "My pretty one, if at any time death
should take thy father from thee, wouldst ever cease to love him?"
The girl started; for the words had broken strangely in upon her
thoughts. Evidently the man beheld the shocked look, for he continued,
putting his arm about her slight form and pressing it close to him,
"Nay, my daughter, thou needst not be alarmed at what I say, for--for
'twas nothing. Thou knowest in years I do grow apace, and 'twould be
small wonder if death did perchance tap me on the shoulder and say,
'Thou art the man!' There, there, little one," he added kissing her,
"thou needst not reply; I can read an answer in thy eyes."
"And, prithee, didst ever doubt my love for thee?" whispered the girl,
as she gently placed her arms about his neck.
"Nay, never!" answered Fawkes, quickly, in a husky voice, "but--but
'tis sweet to hear thee tell thy love, and," he added, taking one of
her white hands within his own, "thou art all I have. If at any time
death should steal thee from thy father's arms, methinks he would soon
follow in thy light footsteps."
"Much happiness it doth give me to hear from thee such words," the
girl replied, "even though they have but solemn import."
"And dost thy father's affection need repetition? Surely, thou knowest
'tis all thine own." For an instant there was silence, broken only by
the crackling logs. Then the girl said, as though dwelling upon his
words: "Nay, I never doubted thee--but--but----"
"But what, my daughter?" Fawkes asked, tenderly, pressing her fingers
to his lips.
"Well, perchance," she answered with a smile, "I did but wish, like
thee, to hear again the confession of it."
His only response was the pressing of her figure closer to his heart.
"Tell me," she began after a moment, in a hesitating voice, casting a
half-timid glance at her father's face; "dost think one ever speaks
words from anger that--well, that in calmer moments he would give a
world to unsay?"
"What brought such question to thy mind, daughter?" enquired the other
with a smile of surprise.
"Perchance 'tis but a causeless query," she replied, smoothing his
tumbled locks.
"Many foolish things are spoke in passion," said Fawkes; "things which
leave a lifetime of regret behind. I do remember that once, in this
very room, my temper did o'erleap its bounds and lent my tongue words
which I would give a year of sweet life to unsay. Dost know my
meaning, darling?" he inquired, looking at her with moisture in his
eyes. "'Twas when I had not long arrived from Spain; in truth, 'twas
on the very night when thou----"
"Nay, I will not hear thee repeat," she interrupted, laying her hand
upon his mouth. "I know all, but thou canst not think how happy this
doth make me."
"Didst thou imagine I could mean those wicked words?" asked the man
tenderly, "'Twas a sudden outburst of temper on hearing--well, well,
since thy dainty fingers forbid my speech I will be mute."
"See!" cried Elinor, springing to her feet, in the first happiness of
her relieved mind. "Now thou shalt hear me laugh and sing all through
the day, till thou wilt cry mercy. And mayhap some time thou and I,"
continued the girl, seating herself beside him, "shall leave this
chilly land with all its cares and fly to a fairer country, where cold
winds are not known, where sweet flowers do ever bloom, and we will
love each other; in that, forget all else, and in forgetting; be
forever happy and at rest."
"Perchance, some day," murmured the man. "But now, one more caress and
thou must to thy bed, or 'twill be light ere thou art in dreamland."
She arose, a bright smile upon her face--brighter than he had seen
resting there for many a day.
"Ah!" she cried, once more throwing her arms about him, "would that I
could give to thee the happiness thy words have brought to me."
"And so thou canst," replied the man, suddenly.
"How may that be done?--tell me quickly!" she exclaimed, playfully,
"that I may the sooner begin."
"It is, sweet Elinor," said Fawkes, gazing down into her eyes, "that
thou wilt always love this man before thee--nay, even," he continued
with a depth of feeling in his tone which she had never heard before,
"even shouldst thou hear him branded as--as--no matter what manner of
things might be uttered against him, thou art always to remember that
he at least loved thee with all his heart, and that thou wert his
life." He stopped abruptly; the tears which coursed down his stern
face seemed strangely out of place.
"Ah!" exclaimed the girl, "I cannot bear to have thee doubt me; thou
knowest I shall be ever thy loving daughter, even unto the end of this
life and in the next."
The man was silent for a space; then mastering his emotion, and
passing a hand quickly across his face, he said: "Think naught of my
words, little one; they were but idle, born of fatigue. Now, once more
good night to thee, and a long, sweet sleep."
So she left him; but at the door she turned, and Fawkes remembered
afterward the bright and happy smile which lay upon her face.
With a light heart she went to rest, for her father's words had
banished from her mind the hideous doubt with which it had so long
been oppressed. The dreadful gulf between them had, at last, been
bridged, and once more they stood together hand in hand as in days
gone by. She was almost unwilling to yield herself to sleep, fearing
lest, on awaking, she might find her happiness but a vision of the
night. Slumber claimed her at last, and she fell into dreams of her
new-found joy. Many hours elapsed and the morning sun shone brightly
into her room, when there fell upon the girl's ear the sound of voices
in the apartment below. Remaining a moment in a dreamy state,
wondering who the early visitors might be, she suddenly caught a
sentence which stiffened the blood within her veins and brought back
to her heart in deadly force the awful fears she had thought forever
gone. Those in the chamber beneath had evidently been in conversation
for some time, for she heard them advancing toward the door as though
to depart. Then a voice, which the girl recognized as Sir Thomas
Winter's, said in a low tone: "Now, the last arrangements are made;
all doth await thy hand. Ah," he continued, "would that I might see
the outcome of this. 'Tis a ghastly thing, even though it be----"
"What?" interrupted another voice, which Elinor knew to be her
father's. "Doth thy heart begin to turn at this late hour? Marry, my
one wish is that even now the clock stood on the stroke of eleven, for
in five minutes thereafter England will be without its King and
Parliament."
"Hast all that thou wilt need?" inquired Winter.
"Yea, verily," the other answered. "Here are flint and steel, quite
new. The touchwood and the lantern are hidden beneath the faggots in
the cellar. But stay, thou hadst better lend me thy time-piece; mine
is not over trustworthy, and I would keep accurate track of the
moments."
"Here is the watch," said the other voice; "it was true to the second
yesterday. And now, for the last time, dost fully understand the
signal? It is to be the first stroke of eleven. The King is expected
at half after the hour of ten; that will leave thirty minutes' margin,
and the lords will have assembled before James doth take his place."
"Knowest thou," inquired Fawkes, when Winter had ceased, "what may be
the first measure before the House?"
"Methinks," replied the man, "one Lord Effingston will speak upon a
bill relating to the duty upon wool." And he added, with a laugh which
the girl could distinctly hear, "perchance his fine words will be
interrupted, if thy tinder be not damp."
"Thou needst have no fear of that," answered Fawkes, gruffly. "But let
us hence, for 'tis even now past the stroke of ten."
She heard them pass quickly out, and soon their footsteps died away in
the distance. Elinor lay for a moment dazed,--the blow had fallen! The
words he had uttered but a few short hours ago were a lie, uttered to
blind her. She recoiled in horror from even the thoughts of that man
with the black and treacherous heart. He was now a father but in name;
all her love turned to that other man, who, in that very moment, was
standing over a hell which awaited but the hand of Fawkes to send it
belching forth. Was there yet time to save him? All her energies bent
themselves to this one purpose. She arose and dressed hurriedly,
forming her plan of action the meanwhile. A sudden terror came upon
her. If by some accident the mine should be prematurely exploded, what
then? But she recollected the cautious man who was to fire it, and the
thought quieted her. The bell in a neighboring steeple chimed the
quarter after ten. Forty-five minutes only remained,--barely time, if
she hastened her utmost, to reach the Parliament buildings before
eleven would ring out upon the air. She was soon ready and hastened
toward the door, her trembling fingers scarce able, in their
eagerness, to lift the latch. At last they found the cord, but the
portal held firmly to its place. Again she tried, putting forth all
her strength. Still it did not yield. The horrible truth flashed upon
the girl; the heavy door was securely fastened from the outside!