“Do not despair, father,” said Catesby, in as cheerful a tone as he could assume, “the worst is over. Viviana is in safety. Father Oldcorne has escaped, and is within a short distance of us, and Guy Fawkes is fully able to undertake a journey of any distance. You are our sole concern. But I am assured, if you will allow me to exercise the slight surgical skill I possess in your behalf, that you will be able to accompany us.”
“Do with me what you please, my son,” groaned Garnet. “But, if my case is as desperate as I believe it, I entreat you not to bestow any further care upon me, and, above all, not to expose yourself to risk on my account. Our enemies are sure to pursue us, — and what matter if I am captured? They will wreak their vengeance on a worthless carcass, — for such I shall soon be. But it would double the anguish I now endure, if you and Fawkes were to fall into their hands. Go, then, and leave me here to perish. My dying moments will be cheered by the conviction that the great enterprise — for which alone I desire to live — will not be unaccomplished.”
“There is no need to leave you, father,” replied Catesby, “nor shall any consideration induce me to do so, till I have rendered you every aid that circumstances will permit.”
“My son,” replied Garnet, faintly, “the most efficacious balm you can apply will be the certainty that you are in safety. You say Viviana is here. Fly with Fawkes, and leave me to her care.”
“She must go with us,” observed Catesby, uneasily.
“Not so, my son,” returned Garnet; “her presence will only endanger you. She must not go. And you must abandon all hopes of an union with her.”
“I would as soon abandon the great design itself,” returned Catesby, moodily.
“If you persist in this, you will ruin it,” rejoined Garnet. “Think of her no more. Bend your thoughts exclusively on the one grand object, and be what you are chosen to be, the defender and deliverer of our holy Church.”
“I would gladly act as you advise me, father,” replied Catesby; “but I am spell-bound by this maiden.”
“This is idle from you, my son,” replied Garnet, reproachfully. “Separate yourself from her, and you will soon regain your former mastery over yourself.”
“Well, well, father,” rejoined Catesby, “the effort, at least, shall be made. But her large possessions, which would be so useful to our cause, and which, if I wedded her, would be wholly devoted to it, — think of what we lose, father.”
“I have thought of it, my son,” replied Garnet; “but the consideration does not alter my opinion: and if I possess any authority over you, I strictly enjoin you not to proceed farther in the matter. Viviana never can be yours.”
“She shall be, nevertheless,” muttered Catesby, “and before many hours have elapsed, — if not by her own free will, by force. I have ever shown myself obedient to your commands, father,” he added aloud, “and I shall not transgress them now.”
“Heaven keep you in this disposition, my dear son!” exclaimed Garnet, with a look of distrust: “and let me recommend you to remove yourself as soon as possible out of the way of temptation.”
Catesby muttered an affirmative, and taking Garnet in his arms, conveyed him carefully to his own chamber, and placing him on a couch, examined his wounds, which were not so serious as either he or the sufferer imagined, and with no despicable skill — for the experiences of a soldier’s life had given him some practice — bandaged his broken arm, and fomented his bruises.
This done, Garnet felt so much easier, that he entreated Catesby to send Viviana to him, and to make preparations for his own immediate departure. Feigning acquiescence, Catesby quitted the room, but with no intention of complying with the request. Not a moment he felt must be lost if he would execute his dark design, and, after revolving many wild expedients, an idea occurred to him. It was to lure Viviana to the cave where Father Oldcorne was concealed; and he knew enough of the pliant disposition of the latter to be certain he would assent to his scheme. No sooner did this plan occur to him than he hurried to the cell, and found the priest, as Chetham had stated. As he had foreseen, it required little persuasion to induce Oldcorne to lend his assistance to the forced marriage, and he only feared the decided opposition they should encounter from Viviana.
“Fear nothing, then, father,” said Catesby; “in this solitary spot no one will hear her cries. Whatever resistance she may make, perform the ceremony, and leave the consequences to me.”
“The plan is desperate, my son,” returned Oldcorne, “but so are our fortunes. And, as Viviana will not hear reason, we have no alternative. You swear that if you are once wedded to her, all her possessions shall be devoted to the furtherance of the great cause.”
“All, father — I swear it,” rejoined Catesby, fervently.
“Enough,” replied Oldcorne. “The sooner it is done, the better.”
It was then agreed between them that the plan least likely to excite suspicion would be for Oldcorne to proceed to the Hall, and under some plea prevail upon Viviana to return with him to the cave. Acting upon this arrangement, they left the cell together, shaping their course under the trees to avoid observation; and while Oldcorne repaired to the Hall, Catesby proceeded to the stable, and saddling the only steed left, rode back to the cave, and concealing the animal behind the brushwood, entered the excavation. Some time elapsed before the others arrived, and as in his present feverish state of mind moments appeared ages, the suspense was almost intolerable. At length, he heard footsteps approaching, and, with a beating heart, distinguished the voice of Viviana. The place was buried in profound darkness; but Oldcorne struck a light, and set fire to a candle in a lantern. The feeble glimmer diffused by it was not sufficient to penetrate the recesses of the cavern; and Catesby, who stood at the farther extremity, was completely sheltered from observation.
“And now, father,” observed Viviana, seating herself with her back towards Catesby, upon the stone bench once used by the unfortunate prophetess, “I would learn the communication you desire to make to me. It must be something of importance since you would not disclose it at the Hall.”
“It is, daughter,” replied Oldcorne, who could scarcely conceal his embarrassment. “I have brought you hither, where I am sure we shall be uninterrupted, to confer with you on a subject nearest my heart. Your lamented father being taken from us, I, as his spiritual adviser, aware of his secret wishes and intentions, conceive myself entitled to assume his place.”
“I consider you in the light of a father, dear sir,” replied Viviana, “and will follow your advice as implicitly as I would that of him I have lost.”
“Since I find you so tractable, child,” returned Oldcorne, reassured by her manner, “I will no longer hesitate to declare the motive I had in bringing you hither. You will recollect that I have of late strongly opposed your intention of retiring to a convent.”
“I know it, father,” interrupted Viviana; “but — —”
“Hear me out,” continued Oldcorne; “recent events have strengthened my disapproval of the step. You are now called upon to active duties, and must take your share in the business of life, — must struggle and suffer like others, — and not shrink from the burthen imposed upon you by Heaven.”
“I do not shrink from it, father,” replied Viviana: “and if I were equal to the active life you propose, I would not hesitate to embrace it, but I feel I should sink under it.”
“Not if you had one near you who could afford you that support which feeble woman ever requires,” returned Oldcorne.
“What mean you, father?” inquired Viviana, fixing her dark eyes full upon him.
“That you must marry, daughter,” returned Oldcorne, “unite yourself to some worthy man, who will be to you what I have described.”
“And was it to tell me this that you brought me here?” asked Viviana, in a slightly offended tone.
“It was, daughter,” replied Oldcorne; “but I have not yet done. It is not only needful you should marry, but your choice must be such as
I, who represent your father, and have your welfare thoroughly at heart, can approve.”
“You can find me a husband, I doubt not?” remarked Viviana, coldly.
“I have already found one,” returned Oldcorne: “a gentleman suitable to you in rank, religion, years, — for your husband should be older than yourself, Viviana.”
“I will not affect to misunderstand you, father,” she replied; “you mean Mr. Catesby.”
“You have guessed aright, dear daughter,” rejoined Oldcorne.
“I thought I had made myself sufficiently intelligible on this point before, father,” she returned.
“True,” replied Oldcorne; “but you are no longer, as I have just laboured to convince you, in the same position you were when the subject was formerly discussed.”
“To prevent further misunderstanding, father,” rejoined Viviana, “I now tell you, that in whatever position I may be placed, I will never, under any circumstances, wed Mr. Catesby.”
“What are your objections to him, daughter?” asked Oldcorne.
“They are numberless,” replied Viviana; “but it is useless to particularize them. I must pray you to change the conversation, or you will compel me to quit you.”
“Nay, daughter, if you thus obstinately shut your ears to reason, I must use very different language towards you. Armed with parental authority, I shall exact obedience to my commands.”
“I cannot obey you, father,” replied Viviana, bursting into tears,— “indeed, indeed I cannot. My heart, I have already told you, is another’s.”
“He who has robbed you of it is a heretic,” rejoined Oldcorne, sternly, “and therefore your union with him is out of the question. Promise me you will wed Mr. Catesby, or, in the name of your dead father, I will invoke a curse upon your head. Promise me, I say.”
“Never,” replied Viviana, rising. “My father would never have enforced my compliance, and I dread no curse thus impiously pronounced. You are overstepping the bounds of your priestly office, sir. Farewell.”
As she moved to depart, a strong grasp was laid on her arm, and turning, she beheld Catesby.
“You here, sir?” she cried, in great alarm.
“Ay,” replied Catesby. “At last you are in my power, Viviana.”
“I would fain misunderstand you, sir,” she rejoined, trembling; “but your looks terrify me. You mean no violence?”
“I mean that Father Oldcorne shall wed us, — and that too without a moment’s delay,” replied Catesby, sternly.
“Monster!” shrieked Viviana, “you will not, — dare not commit this foul offence. And if you dare, Father Oldcorne will not assist you. Ah! what means that sign? I cannot be mistaken in you, father? You cannot be acting in concert with this wicked man? Save me from him! — save me.”
But the priest kept aloof, and taking a missal from his vest, hastily turned over the leaves. Viviana saw that her appeal to him was vain.
“Let me go!” she shrieked, struggling with Catesby. “You cannot force me to wed you whether I will or not; and I will die rather than consent. Let me go, I say? Help! — help!” And she made the cavern ring with her screams.
“Heed her not, father,” shouted Catesby, who still held her fast, “but proceed with the ceremony.”
Oldcorne, however, appeared irresolute, and Viviana perceiving it, redoubled her cries.
“This will be no marriage, father,” she said, “even if you proceed with it. I will protest against it to all the world, and you will be deprived of your priestly office for your share in so infamous a transaction.”
“You will think otherwise anon, daughter,” replied Oldcorne, advancing towards them with the missal in his hand.
“If it be no marriage,” observed Catesby, significantly, “the time will come when you may desire to have the ceremony repeated.”
“Mr. Catesby,” cried Viviana, altering her manner, as if she had taken a sudden resolution, “one word before you proceed with your atrocious purpose, which must end in misery to us all. There are reasons why you can never wed me.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Catesby, starting.
“Is it so, my son?” asked Oldcorne, uneasily.
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Catesby. “She knows not what she says. Proceed, father.”
“I have proofs that will confound you,” cried Viviana, breaking from him. And darting towards the light, she took from her bosom the packet given her by Guy Fawkes, and tore it open. A letter was within it, and a miniature.
Opening the letter, she cast her eye rapidly over its contents, and then looking up, exclaimed in accents of delirious joy, “Saved! saved! Father Oldcorne, this man is married already.”
Catesby, who had watched her proceedings in silent astonishment, and was now advancing towards her, recoiled as if a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet.
“Can this be true?” cried the priest, in astonishment.
“Let your own eyes convince you,” rejoined Viviana, handing him the letter.
“I am satisfied,” returned Oldcorne, after he had glanced at it. “We have both been spared the commission of a great crime. Mr. Catesby, it appears from this letter that you have a wife living in Spain.”
“It is useless to deny it,” replied Catesby. “But, as you were ignorant of the matter, the offence (if any) would have lain wholly at my door; nor should I have repented of it, if it had enabled me to achieve the object I have in view.”
“Thank Heaven it has gone no further!” exclaimed Oldcorne. “Daughter, I humbly entreat your forgiveness.”
“How came that packet in your possession?” demanded Catesby fiercely of Viviana.
“It was given me by Guy Fawkes,” she replied.
“Guy Fawkes!” exclaimed Catesby. “Has he betrayed his friend?”
“He has proved himself your best friend, by preventing you from committing a crime, which would have entailed wretchedness on yourself and me,” returned Viviana.
“I have done with him, and with all of you,” cried Catesby, with a fierce glance at Oldcorne. “Henceforth, pursue your projects alone. You shall have no further assistance from me. I will serve the Spaniard. Englishmen are not to be trusted.”
So saying, he rushed out of the cavern, and seeking his horse, mounted him, and rode off at full speed.
“How shall I obtain your forgiveness for my conduct in this culpable affair, dear daughter?” said Oldcorne, with an imploring look at Viviana.
“By joining me in thanksgivings to the Virgin for my deliverance,” replied Viviana, prostrating herself before the stone cross.
Oldcorne knelt beside her, and they continued for some time in earnest prayer. They then arose, and quitting the cave, proceeded to the Hall.
* * *
CHAPTER XX.
THE DEPARTURE FROM THE HALL.
Guy Fawkes was as much surprised to hear of the sudden departure of Catesby as he was concerned at the cause; but he still thought it probable he would return. In this expectation, however, he was disappointed. The day wore on, and no one came. The uncertainty in which Fawkes was kept, added to his unwillingness to leave Garnet, still detained him, in spite of the risk he ran, at the Hall; and it was only when urged by Viviana that he began seriously to reflect whither he should bend his steps. Towards evening, Garnet was so much better, that he was able to sit up, and he passed some hours in conference with Oldcorne.
“If I do not suffer a relapse,” he observed to the latter, “I will set out with Guy Fawkes to-morrow, and we will proceed by easy stages to London.”
“I cannot but approve your resolution,” returned Oldcorne; “for though so long a journey may be inconvenient, and retard your recovery, yet every hour you remain here is fraught with additional peril. I will accompany you. We shall both be safer in the capital; and perhaps Viviana, now she will be no longer exposed to the persecutions of Catesby, will form one of the party.”
“I should not wonder,” replied Garnet. “I shall be deeply concerned if Catesby has really aba
ndoned the enterprise. But I cannot think it. I did all I could to dissuade him from prosecuting this union, knowing how hopeless it was, and little thinking he would be rash enough to seek to accomplish it by force, or that he would find an assistant in you.”
“Say no more about it, father, I entreat you,” rejoined Oldcorne. “The scheme failed, as it deserved to do; and I sincerely repent the share I was induced by Catesby’s artful representations to take in it. If we have lost our leader we have still Guy Fawkes, who is a host in himself, and as true as the steel that hangs by his side.”
“We cannot spare Catesby,” replied Garnet. “With many faults, he has one redeeming quality, courage. I am not sorry he has been thwarted in his present scheme, as if he returns to us, as I doubt not he will, it will fix his mind steadily on the one object, which should be ever before it. Give me your arm, father. I am glad to find I can walk, though feebly. That is well,” he added, as they emerged upon the gallery; “I shall be able to reach Viviana’s chamber without further assistance. Do you descend, and see that Martin Heydocke is on the watch.”
In obedience to the injunctions of his superior, Oldcorne went in search of Martin Heydocke, who had been stationed in the court-yard to give timely notice of any hostile approach; but not finding him there, he proceeded towards the drawbridge. Garnet, meanwhile, had reached the door of Viviana’s chamber, which was slightly ajar, and he was about to pass through it, when he perceived that she was on her knees before Guy Fawkes, whom she was addressing in the most passionate terms. The latter was seated at a table, with his head upon his hand, in a thoughtful posture. Surprised at the sight, and curious to hear what Viviana could be saying, Garnet drew back to listen.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 193