The Fifth of November Part 16

The priest arose and turned toward the altar, bowed, then slowly ascended the steps. After unlocking the door of the tabernacle with a golden key, he drew forth from the recess the Monstrance containing the eucharist. Again he bowed, then elevated the Host, while the stillness was only broken by the deep tone of the sacring-bell, the men bending in adoration. Once more the priest made reverence; then arising, took from out the Monstrance the pyx, and facing the group, repeated the words: "Ecce Agnus Dei." All arose and knelt before him on the steps, receiving from his hands the sacrament, and when they had partaken, each silently returned to his place. A sense of the solemnity of their undertaking, accentuated by the awfulness of the act in which they were engaged, filled the men's hearts so that they scarcely beheld the Jesuit ascend to the altar and replace the Host within the tabernacle, or heard the benediction he p.r.o.nounced....

Once more the men stood in the room they occupied previous to their entrance into the chapel. All seemed loath to speak, being deeply impressed by the ceremony in which they had taken part.

At last Fawkes made ready for departure, being desirous of reaching London ere daybreak. As he approached the door of the room the Superior arose and pa.s.sed toward him. "Friend Guido," said Garnet, as the other stood ready for the journey, "I will not see thee ere thou and Sir Winter return from France. Let thy mind be at ease regarding thy daughter, for in thy absence I will have her under my special care. Hadst better mention to her that she will have a visitor?"

"I will be guided by thee in the matter, good father," returned Fawkes; "but," he continued, in a husky tone, "guard her well, for she is very dear to me."

"Have no fear," Garnet answered, kindly, laying a hand upon the other's shoulder; "in that will I be as zealous as though she were a daughter of mine own."

CHAPTER XV.

"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 circ.u.mstance 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 embarra.s.sment.

"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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d! 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 att.i.tude 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 pa.s.sed 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 n.o.ble cause. But this act is not loyalty to G.o.d, 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 a.s.sa.s.sin."

Garnet was silent; the girl's words sounded strangely to him. Not wis.h.i.+ng to reveal his ident.i.ty 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 circ.u.mstances 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 G.o.d," 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 G.o.d that I should do so."

"And dost think it is G.o.d'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 G.o.d. If this poor hand doth fail to bring comfort, my prayers shall ever be for strength that thou mayst bear with fort.i.tude all which the wisdom of heaven deems just to send. Try to look upon thy grief as a tribute G.o.d 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 G.o.d!" 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, pa.s.sing 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 pa.s.sing before him, "it is a pity; but for every tear that falls from thy gentle eyes a soul will be redeemed."