The Fifth of November Part 21

"'Twas given me," replied the footman, "by a reasonably tall person who stood upon a corner of the street, and directed with much semblance of authority that I give it into thy lordship's hand and to no other."

"'Tis a most unwonted thing," said Monteagle, breaking the seal, "probably some pet.i.tion for alms which----"

Then, on glancing over the sheet, he started, and turned to a gentleman beside him.

"Good Thomas Ward," said he, "'tis written in a most illegible and wretched hand which I can scarce decipher; neither bears it any date or superscription. I pray thee take and read aloud, that all may hear and pa.s.s opinion upon so strange a matter."

Ward accepted the paper, and smoothed it out upon his hand. "It seems the writing of a laborer," said he, "one who doth wield a pick and spade with more ease than a quill. A most unmannerly jumble of ill-conditioned words, as thou shalt judge, my lord, upon hearing." So saying he read aloud as follows, while the others sat and listened:

"My lord out of the love I beare to some of youer friends I have a cayer of youer preservation therefor I would advyse yowe as yowe tender youer lyfe to devyse some excuse to shift of youer attendance at this parleament for G.o.d and man bathe concurred to punishe the wickedness of this tyme and thinke not slyghtly of this advertisment but retyre youer selfe into youer country where yowe may expect the event in safty for though there be no appearence of any stir yet I say they shall receyve a terrible blowe this parleament, and yet they shall not see who hurts them. Thys cowncel is not to be condemed because it may do yowe good and can do yowe no harm, for the danger is pa.s.sed as soon as yowe have burnt the letter, and I hope G.o.d will gyve yowe the grace to make good use of it to whose holy protection I commend yowe."

"A most amazing doc.u.ment," said Ward, as he returned it to Monteagle; "and what think you of it, my lord? canst detect the meaning of so strange a warning?"

His lordship contracted his brow and studied the writing with much attention. "'Tis as you perceive," said he, "a warning unto me that some unexplained danger lies in the way."

"A boorish jest," cried one at the table; "think not upon it, my lord."

"Which is proved beyond doubt by the action of the one who brought it," said another; "he dared not deliver it at the door."

Monteagle folded the letter carefully and thrust it inside his doublet. There arose in his mind suspicion that in the tenor of the message lay the verification of the warning to Lord Salisbury, and that, mayhap, beneath the apparent serenity of the kingdom, smoldered a volcano which needed but the touch of a directing master hand to send belching forth its contents of treason and blood. Into his mind came also the words of the Prime Minister spoken one afternoon several months before, that should aught be unfolded of plots or treasonable designs, they should be disclosed to him, and thus the danger to the State be averted.

He had therefore a feeling of relief when the meal was ended, and his companions left him to carry out his intention. The raw October night was filled with storm and blackness, but the spirit of Lord Monteagle burned within him to lay before Salisbury and, perchance, the King, the warning which had come to him.

Scarce a quarter of an hour elapsed after rising from the table ere, covered by a great cloak, booted, and with a stout rapier girt at his side, he left Hoxton House unnoticed, and turned his steps toward the dwelling of the Prime Minister. Although the hour was late Cecil had not retired when he received the announcement that Monteagle sought an interview. Surprised at so unusual an occurrence the Minister hastened to greet his visitor, ordering, as was his custom, that a light repast be set before him.

"And what now, good Monteagle?" asked he, looking at his companion with a smile, "hast thy digestion played thee false again?"

"Of that thou shalt judge, my lord," replied Monteagle, taking the letter from his doublet and handing it to the Minister.

Salisbury mastered its contents with an aptness peculiar to himself.

"Faith!" said he, letting his eyes rest searchingly upon the face of his companion, "and how camest thou by this thing, my good lord?"

Monteagle related briefly the scene at the supper table.

"And didst thou have the letter read aloud, in the presence of thy gentlemen?" asked the Minister.

"Its contents were unknown to me," replied the other; "the writing was obscure and I did request Thomas Ward to decipher it."

Salisbury pondered for a moment. The warning of danger threatening those who would sit at the opening of the coming Parliament perplexed him, and drawing nearer to a light he studied the letter carefully.

"Thou hast done well," said he, suddenly turning to Monteagle, "in placing this paper in my hands without delay, yet----" he laid a finger on the letter, "perchance 'tis nothing, or--there may be much behind these ill-written lines. Thou perceivest that herein is written: 'for the danger is pa.s.sed as soon as you have burned the letter!' What then can be the use of such a warning? as, hadst thou put the sheet to fire, there had been no danger."

"'Tis beyond my comprehension," replied Monteagle, "'tis a riddle."

Salisbury looked up quickly. Despite his a.s.sumed indifference at the time, the former conversation with the ex-Catholic n.o.bleman had aroused in his mind suspicions that some danger might lurk beneath the calm which had lulled the King into a feeling of security. He understood well that, although there had been no open manifestations of treason on the part of zealous adherents to the Catholic faith in England, there were among them men who but awaited opportunity to show in no gentle way, their displeasure at the policy of James. He remembered also, that Monteagle had been a Catholic, though now a firm partisan of the government and in high favor at Whitehall. Might it not be possible that some knowledge coming to him of a plot against the State, and, not wishing to openly accuse his former compatriots, he had taken a more subtle way, seeking by veiled warnings and hints, to arouse suspicion in the other's mind, and so lead to some action on the part of the government? Yet, it was not in accordance with his policy to reveal his real thoughts; therefore, again thanking the other for his zeal with reference to the letter, he dismissed him with a promise that the matter should not be forgotten.

After Monteagle had left he again studied the missive, endeavoring to read between the lines, and bringing all his wit to bear upon the meaning. Then, as it was his custom to work quietly and without haste, for six days he held the doc.u.ment before making it known to the King.

James was at first alarmed, but upon perceiving that the Minister retained his calmness, he put aside his fears and questioned Salisbury closely concerning the meaning of the strange warning. In the latter's mind was no thought of arousing James to hasty action, for, if in truth a plot was brewing, too sudden a movement on the part of the government would warn those engaged in it, and only postpone the culmination to a more favorable opportunity. Following this line of thought the Prime Minister calmed the sovereign's fears, and the King, trusting to the prudence and shrewdness of his chief counselor, dismissed the matter with a jest.

Report, indeed, reached the ears of Winter, Catesby and others of the conspirators, that Lord Monteagle had been warned to absent himself from Parliament on the opening day. They were alarmed for a time, and sought solution of the problem, wishing to know who had played the traitor. Suspicion pointed to one Francis Tresham, whose sister had married Monteagle, and who, naturally, would seek to save his brother-in-law. But as Tresham denied all knowledge of the matter, the government made no move, and even Salisbury, usually alert, remained inactive. After a week of uncertainty, the conspirators again gathered their forces and the plot against the King and Parliament continued to ripen. Fawkes, beyond all others, became more reckless.

"Should all else fail," said he, "I remain firm; and at the end will kill this King even, if needful, in the royal bedchamber."

CHAPTER XX.

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, pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed the threshold of the house. How to account for this absence she knew not, but in a vague way a.s.sociated 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 antic.i.p.ated 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, pa.s.sed 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 repet.i.tion? 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.