In Doublet and Hose Part 29

"Hush, oh hush!" wailed the mother, a look of fear crossing her face as the lieutenant and the physician started forward at the girl's words.

"Good masters, heed her not. She is distraught with grief.

I--Francis----"

She threw out her arms and strove to clasp her daughter, but they fell to her side. A swift pallor spread over her face, a gasping, choking sound rattled noisily, and she was dead. For a moment the girl seemed dazed by what had happened, and then she threw herself upon her mother with a wild shriek.

"Mother, mother, speak to me!"

"Thy mother is dead," said the physician trying to draw her away.

"Touch me not," she cried in frenzied accents turning upon him so fiercely that involuntarily he recoiled. "Minion! leave me. Leave me with my mother."

"That may not be, my child," said the physician gently noting the wild light of her eyes. "That may not be. The queen----"

"The queen?" cried the girl shrilly. "Yes; the queen! England's great queen! Oh, she is truly great! 'Tis a crime to be fairer than the queen!

Ha, ha! a great queen! Truly a great queen!"

"Girl or boy, whiche'er you be, cease such words," commanded the lieutenant sternly. "Thou utterest treason."

"Treason? Ay, sir, treason! Treason for thee, but not for me. I claim no queen but Mary of Scotland. I----"

"Mary of Scotland hath been condemned to death. She will be executed as soon as Elizabeth signs the death warrant."

"To die?" shrieked the girl. "Mary to die! If Mary must die, then shall Elizabeth also. Nay; stay me not! I go to kill the queen!"

She drew her poniard and made a dash for the door; but the lieutenant caught her ere she reached it.

"Unhand me, varlet," she panted. "Ye shall not stay me from my purpose."

"Girl, do you utter such words in the presence of the dead? Look on thy mother and say if still thou dost hold to thy design?"

He turned her forcibly toward her mother's form on the couch. Francis pressed a hand to her brow as though bewildered, and then as if drawn by that still calm face drew closer, and gazed steadfastly upon it. The sweet sereneness of the dead calmed her. Presently a sob convulsed her frame, and flinging herself upon the body she burst into a pa.s.sion of weeping.

"Let her weep," observed the physician. "'Tis all that hath kept her from becoming completely distraught."

"I will send a woman to her," said the lieutenant. "The girl, if so she be, and no boy would rave so, hath been too long alone. We are but rude nurses for such sorrow. Truly it grieves me that one so young should meet with so much of misery."

And he left the apartment.

CHAPTER XXVI

A FELLOW PRISONER

A merciful illness prostrated Francis for many weeks, and when at length she crept slowly toward health, the winter had pa.s.sed and spring was abroad in the land. Her convalescence was tedious, owing to a settled melancholy utterly unlike her usual buoyant disposition, which had taken possession of her. Upon one point only did a gleam of her native spirit flash forth. This was when Mrs. Shelton, the wife of one of the keepers, brought her the apparel suitable to her s.e.x.

"Nay; vex me not with them, good mistress," exclaimed Francis. "'Twas by my father's command that I donned this attire, and, by my faith, I will exchange it for no other until he bids me."

"That may be never, Mistress Stafford," retorted the woman impatiently.

"Thou mayst never see him again."

"Then will I wear it to my grave," was Francis' answer. "I am fixed in this resolve, Mistress Shelton, and naught can turn me from it."

"As ye please then," quoth the dame. "Full surely thou art as stubborn a lady as it hath ever been my hap to see. But if ye will not, ye will not;" and she took the garments away.

Francis now occupied her mother's apartment in the Bell Tower, and because of this fact found a curious contentment in it.

"It may be that her spirit lingers here loth to leave me alone," she thought, and she took to watching for a sign that such was the case.

She was roused from this dangerous train of thought by Mrs. Shelton appearing before her one day with a basket of figs. The girl uttered an exclamation of delight at sight of them, so small a thing does it take to arouse interest sometimes.

"For me?" she cried. "Whence came they? Who could have sent them?"

"Ask me not, mistress. I know naught of them save that they came from without the gates of the Tower. Sir Michael searched the basket, and as there was nothing but the fruit, he let it pa.s.s."

"Who could have sent them?" murmured Francis, again in ecstasy. It was so sweet not to be forgotten. To know that some one still remembered her.

"Could it be my father? Nay; he would not dare. Lord Shrope? Yea; it must have been he. Good, kind friend that he is!"

From this time forward her recovery was rapid. And when the following month brought a bouquet of sweet smelling flowers, the third, a basket of cherries, her joy knew no bounds. Thereafter no month went by without some token reaching her from that unknown person who seemed so full of sweet remembrance of her.

"Now blessings be upon his head who hath so much of thought for me," she exclaimed rapturously as a guitar took the place of fruit or flowers. "No more shall I be lonely with such companion."

And so with books, guitar, and an occasional walk in the gardens of the lieutenant where she went to take the air, Francis pa.s.sed her time not unhappily. She was upheld by the thought that she was not forgotten. Thus summer pa.s.sed into fall; fall into winter, and winter in turn gave way to spring, to that memorable spring of 1588 when all England was stirred by the rumor of the threatened invasion of Spain. At this time the gifts to Francis ceased, and such an important part of her existence had they become that their stoppage grieved her more than the threats of the invasion.

Books and music lost interest, and she took to watching the comings and goings of prisoners through the grated loop-hole overlooking the south ward through which all personages must pa.s.s to reach the Garden Tower which was over the princ.i.p.al entrance to the inner ward. One day while thus engaged she uttered an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n and bent forward to take a nearer view of a prisoner who was just brought within by way of the Byward Tower through which lay the main gate to the Tower. This was used from Tower Hill and by royalty when the Tower was used as a castle.

"What is it, deary?" asked Mrs. Shelton, who was in the chamber.

"Edward Devereaux," answered the girl excitedly. "Now why hath he been sent here? Gramercy! methought none of the pages stood higher in the queen's favor than he."

"'Tis past knowing," remarked the woman in a matter-of-fact tone. "He who stands high with the queen to-day, to-morrow may be beheaded on Tower Hill. Marry! 'tis better to be one of the people, for they are held dear by the queen. Beseems that Her Grace cares naught for the courtiers. They are always being sent here, either to be held in durance for life, else to be beheaded. I am glad that I am not of the court."

Francis did not heed her words, but was so excited at beholding a face that she knew that she leaned forward as far as she could, calling loudly:

"Edward! Edward Devereaux!"

The youth looked up, but the girl was uncertain as to whether he saw her or not. Mrs. Shelton hurried forward at the sound of her voice.

"Child!" she cried pulling her forcibly from the window, "dost want to be taken elsewhere and lodged? There are other towers far gloomier than this, and if thou carest not to taste their shadows thou wilt be more circ.u.mspect."

"Thy pardon, mistress," said Francis recovering her self-possession. "I meant not to transgress, 'tis the first time since I saw my mother that I have looked upon a face that was known to me. I could not but greet him, e'en though he be mine enemy."

"Thine enemy?" said the woman curiously. "How now, mistress? Tell me the tale. 'Twill speed the hour and, forsooth, there is need of entertainment here."

Thus adjured Francis related the story of the shooting of the deer; the incident of the duel; spoke of the enmity that had always existed between the families of Staffords and Devereaux; narrated how Edward had favored her when the Lady Priscilla Rutland had stolen her hair; concluding with:

"Therefore, thou seest, good Mistress Shelton, that there can be naught but enmity betwixt us twain. He hath done me service, 'tis true, and otherwise is a proper youth, I dare say. Yet still he is mine enemy."