“Your dreadful wish, I fear, will be accomplished,” replied Viviana, sadly. “I have been constantly haunted by frightful apprehensions respecting you, and my dead father has appeared to me in my dreams. His spirit, if such it were, seemed to gaze upon me with a mournful look, and, as I thought, pronounced your name in piteous accents.”
“These forebodings chime with my own,” muttered Fawkes, repressing a shudder; “but nothing shall shake me. It will inflict a bitter pang upon me to part with you, Viviana, — the bitterest I can ever feel, — and I shall be glad when it is over.”
“I echo your own wish,” she returned, “and deeply lament that we ever met. But the fate that brought us together must for ever unite us.”
“What mean you?” he inquired, gazing fixedly at her.
“There is one sad consolation which you can afford me, and which you owe me for the deep and lasting misery I shall endure on your account,” replied Viviana;— “a consolation that will enable me to bear your loss with fortitude, and to devote myself wholly to Heaven.”
“Whatever I can do that will not interfere with my purpose, you may command,” he rejoined.
“What I have to propose will not interfere with it,” she answered. “Now, hear me, and put the sole construction I deserve on my conduct. Father Garnet is at a short distance from us, behind those trees, waiting my summons. I have informed him of my design, and he approves of it. It is to unite us in marriage — solemnly unite us — that though I may never live with you as a wife, I may mourn you as a widow. Do you consent?”
Guy Fawkes returned an affirmative, in a voice broken by emotion.
“The moment the ceremony is over,” pursued Viviana, “I shall start with Father Oldcorne for Gothurst. We shall never meet again in this world.”
“Unless I succeed,” said Fawkes.
“You will not succeed,” replied Viviana. “If I thought so, I should not take this step. I look upon it as an espousal with the dead.”
So saying, she hurried away, and disappearing beneath the covert, returned in a few seconds with Garnet.
“I have a strange duty to perform for you, my son,” said Garnet to Fawkes, who remained motionless and stupified; “but I am right willing to perform it, because I think it will lead to your future happiness with the fair creature who has bestowed her affections on you.”
“Do not speculate on the future, father,” cried Viviana. “You know why I asked you to perform this ceremony. You know, also, that I have made preparations for instant departure; and that I indulge no hope of seeing Guy Fawkes again.”
“All this I know, dear daughter,” returned Garnet; “but, in spite of your anticipations of ill, I still hope that your union may prove auspicious.”
“I take you to witness, father,” said Viviana, “that in bestowing my hand upon Guy Fawkes, I bestow at the same time all my possessions upon him. He is free to use them as he thinks proper, — even in the furtherance of his design against the state, which, though I cannot approve it, seems good to him.”
“This must not be,” cried Fawkes.
“It shall be,” rejoined Viviana. “Proceed with the ceremony, father.”
“Let her have her own way, my son,” observed Garnet, in a low tone. “Under any circumstances, her estates must now be necessarily yours.”
He then took a breviary from his vest, and placing them near each other, began to read aloud the marriage-service appointed by the Romish Church. And there, in that secluded spot, and under such extraordinary circumstances, with no other witnesses than the ancient trees around them, and the brook rippling at their feet, were Guy Fawkes and Viviana united. The ceremony over, Guy Fawkes pressed his bride to his breast, and imprinted a kiss upon her lips.
“I have broken my faith to Heaven, to which I was first espoused,” he cried.
“No,” she returned; “you will now return to your first and holiest choice. Think of me only as I shall think of you, — as of the dead.”
With this, the party slowly and silently returned to the house, where they found a couple of steeds, with luggage strapped to the saddles, at the door.
Father Oldcorne was already mounted, and in a few minutes Viviana was by his side. Before her departure, she bade Guy Fawkes a tender farewell; and at this trying juncture her firmness nearly deserted her. But rousing herself, she sprang upon her horse, and urging the animal into a quick pace, and followed by Oldcorne, she speedily disappeared from view. Guy Fawkes watched her out of sight, and shunning the regards of Catesby, who formed one of the group, struck into the forest, and was not seen again till the following day.
The tenth of October having arrived, Guy Fawkes and Catesby repaired to the place of rendezvous. But the night passed, and Tresham did not appear. Catesby was angry and disappointed, and could not conceal his apprehensions of treachery. Fawkes took a different view of the matter, and thought it not improbable that their confederate’s absence might be occasioned by the difficulty he found in complying with their demands; and this opinion was confirmed the next morning by the arrival of a letter from Tresham, stating that he had been utterly unable to effect the sales he contemplated, and could not, therefore, procure the money till the end of the month.
“I will immediately go down to Rushton,” said Catesby, “and if I find him disposed to palter with us, I will call him to instant account. But Garnet informs me that Viviana has bestowed all her wealth upon you. Are you willing to devote it to the good cause?”
“No!” replied Fawkes, in a tone so decisive that his companion felt it would be useless to urge the matter further. “I give my life to the cause, — that must suffice.”
The subject was never renewed. At night, Catesby, having procured a powerful steed, set out upon his journey to Northamptonshire, while Fawkes returned to White Webbs.
About a fortnight passed unmarked by any event of importance. Despatches were received from Catesby, stating that he had received the money from Tresham, and had expended it in procuring horses and arms. He also added that he had raised numerous recruits on various pretences. This letter was dated from Ashby St. Leger’s, the seat of his mother, Lady Catesby, but he expressed his intention of proceeding to Coughton Hall, near Alcester, in Warwickshire, the residence of Mr. Thomas Throckmorton (a wealthy Catholic gentleman), whither Sir Everard Digby had removed with his family, to be in readiness for the grand hunting-party to be held on the fifth of November on Dunsmore Heath. Here he expected to be joined by the two Wrights, the Winters, Rookwood, Keyes, and the rest of the conspirators, and undertook to bring them all up to White Webbs on Saturday the twenty-sixth of October.
By this time, Guy Fawkes had in a great degree recovered his equanimity, and left alone with Garnet, held long and frequent religious conferences with him; it being evidently his desire to prepare himself for his expected fate. He spent the greater part of the nights in solitary vigils — fasted even more rigorously than he was enjoined to do — and prayed with such fervour and frequency, that, fearing an ill effect upon his health, and almost upon his mind, which had become exalted to the highest pitch of enthusiasm, Garnet thought it necessary to check him. The priest did not fail to note that Viviana’s name never passed his lips, and that in all their walks in the forest he carefully shunned the scene of his espousals.
And thus time flew by. On the evening of the twenty-sixth of October, in accordance with Catesby’s intimation, the conspirators arrived. They were all assembled at supper, and were relating the different arrangements which had been made in anticipation of the important event, when Garnet observed with a look of sudden uneasiness to Catesby, “You said in one of your letters that you would bring Tresham with you, my son. Why do I not see him?”
“He sent a message to Coughton to state, that having been attacked by a sudden illness, he was unable to join us,” replied Catesby, “but as soon as he could leave his bed, he would hasten to London. This may be a subterfuge, but I shall speedily ascertain the truth, for I have sent my se
rvant Bates to Rushton, to investigate the matter. I ought to tell you,” he added, “that he has given substantial proof of his devotion to the cause by sending another thousand pounds, to be expended in the purchase of arms and horses.”
“I hope it is not dust thrown into our eyes,” returned Garnet. “I have always feared Tresham would deceive us at the last.”
“This sudden illness looks suspicious, I must own,” said Catesby. “Has aught been heard of Lord Mounteagle?”
“Guy Fawkes heard that he was at his residence at Southwark yesterday,” returned Garnet.
“So far, good,” replied Catesby. “Did you visit the cellar where the powder is deposited?” he added, turning to Fawkes.
“I did,” replied the other, “and found all secure. The powder is in excellent preservation. Before quitting the spot, I placed certain private marks against the door, by which I can tell whether it is opened during our absence.”
“A wise precaution,” returned Catesby. “And now, gentlemen,” he added, filling a goblet with wine, “success to our enterprise! Everything is prepared,” he continued, as the pledge was enthusiastically drunk; “I have got together a company of above two hundred men, all well armed and appointed, who will follow me wherever I choose to lead them. They will be stationed near Dunsmore Heath on the fifth of next month, and as soon as the event of the explosion is known, I shall ride thither as fast as I can, and, hurrying with my troops to Coventry, seize the Princess Elizabeth. Percy and Keyes will secure the person of the Duke of York, and proclaim him King; while upon the rest will devolve the arduous duty of rousing our Catholic brethren in London to rise to arms.”
“Trust to us to rouse them,” shouted several voices.
“Let each man swear not to swerve from the fulfilment of his task,” cried Catesby; “swear it upon this cup of wine, in which we will all mix our blood.”
And as he spoke, he pricked his arm with the point of his sword, and suffered a few drops of blood to fall into the goblet, while the others, roused to a state of frenzied enthusiasm, imitated his example, and afterwards raised the horrible mixture to their lips, pronouncing at the same time the oath.
Guy Fawkes was the last to take the pledge, and crying in a loud voice, “I swear not to quit my post till the explosion is over,” he drained the cup.
After this, they adjourned to a room in another wing of the house, fitted up as a chapel, where mass was performed by Garnet, and the sacrament administered to the whole assemblage. They were about to retire for the night, when a sudden knocking was heard at the door. Reconnoitring the intruder through an upper window, overlooking the court, Catesby perceived it was Bates, who was holding a smoking and mud-bespattered steed by the bridle.
“Well, what news do you bring?” cried Catesby, as he admitted him. “Have you seen Tresham?”
“No,” replied Bates. “His illness was a mere pretence. He has left Rushton secretly for London.”
“I knew it,” cried Garnet. “He has again betrayed us.”
“He shall die,” said Catesby.
And the determination was echoed by all the other conspirators.
Instead of retiring to rest, they passed the night in anxious deliberation, and it was at last proposed that Guy Fawkes should proceed without loss of time to Southwark, to keep watch near the house of Lord Mounteagle, and if possible ascertain whether Tresham had visited it.
To this he readily agreed. But before setting out, he took Catesby aside for a moment, and asked, “Did you see Viviana at Coughton?”
“Only for a moment, and that just before I left the place,” was the answer. “She desired to be remembered to you, and said you were never absent from her thoughts or prayers.”
Guy Fawkes turned away to hide his emotion, and mounting one of the horses brought by the conspirators, rode off towards London.
* * *
CHAPTER XII.
THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER.
On the same day as the occurrences last related, Lord Mounteagle, who was then staying at Southwark, suddenly intimated his intention of passing the night at his country mansion at Hoxton; a change of place which, trivial as it seemed at the moment, afterwards assumed an importance, from the circumstances that arose out of it. At the latter part of the day, he accordingly proceeded to Hoxton, accompanied by his customary attendants, and all appeared to pass on as usual, until, just as supper was over, one of his pages arrived from town, and desired to see his lordship immediately.
Affecting to treat the matter with indifference, Lord Mounteagle carelessly ordered the youth to be ushered into his presence; and when he appeared, he demanded his business. The page replied, that he brought a letter for his lordship, which had been delivered under circumstances of great mystery.
“I had left the house just as it grew dusk,” he said, “on an errand of little importance, when a man, muffled in a cloak, suddenly issued from behind a corner, and demanded whether I was one of your lordship’s servants? On my replying in the affirmative, he produced this letter, and enjoined me, as I valued my life and your lordship’s safety, to deliver it into your own hands without delay.”
So saying, he delivered the letter to his lord, who, gazing at its address, which was, “To the Right Honourable the Lord Mounteagle,” observed, “There is nothing very formidable in its appearance. What can it mean?”
Without even breaking the seal, which was secured with a silken thread, he gave it to one of his gentlemen, named Ward, who was standing near him.
“Read it aloud, sir,” said the Earl, with a slight smile. “I have no doubt it is some vapouring effusion, which will afford us occasion for laughter. Before I hear what the writer has to say, I can promise him he shall not intimidate me.”
Thus exhorted, Ward broken open the letter, and read as follows: —
“My lord, out of the love I bear to some of your friends, I have a care of your preservation. Therefore I would advise you, as you tender your life, to devise some excuse to shift from your attendance at this Parliament, for God and man have concurred to punish the wickedness of this time. Think not slightingly of this advice, but retire into the country, where you may expect the event in safety; for, though there be no appearance of any stir, yet I say they shall receive a terrible blow this Parliament, and yet they shall not know who hurts them. This counsel is not to be contemned. It may do you good, and can do you no harm, for the danger is passed as soon as you have burned the letter. God, I hope, will give you grace to make good use of it, to whose holy protection I commend you.”
“A singular letter!” exclaimed Mounteagle, as soon as Ward had finished. “What is your opinion of it?”
“I think it hints at some dangerous plot, my lord,” replied Ward, who had received his instructions, “some treason against the state. With submission, I would advise your lordship instantly to take it to the Earl of Salisbury.”
“I see nothing in it,” replied the Earl. “What is your opinion, Mervyn?” he added, turning to another of his gentlemen, to whom he had likewise given his lesson.
“I am of the same mind as Ward,” replied the attendant.
“Your lordship will hardly hold yourself excused, if you neglect to give due warning, should aught occur hereafter.”
“Say you so, sirs?” cried Lord Mounteagle. “Let me hear it once more.”
The letter was accordingly read again by Ward, and the Earl feigned to weigh over each passage.
“I am advised not to attend the Parliament,” he said, “‘for God and man have concurred to punish the wickedness of this time.’ That is too vague to be regarded. Then I am urged to retire into the country. The recommendation must proceed from some discontented Catholic, who does not wish me to be present at the opening of the house. This is not the first time I have been so adjured. ‘They shall receive a terrible blow this Parliament, and yet shall not know who hurts them.’ That is mysterious enough, but it may mean nothing, — any more than what follows, namely, ‘the danger is passed as
soon as you have burnt the letter.’”
“I do not think so, my lord,” replied Ward; “and though I cannot explain the riddle, I am sure it means mischief.”
“Well,” said Lord Mounteagle, “since you are of this mind, I must lose no time in communicating the letter to the Secretary of State. It is better to err on the safe side.”
Accordingly, after some further consultation, he set out at that late hour for Whitehall, where he roused the Earl of Salisbury, and showed him the letter. It is almost needless to state that the whole was a preconcerted scheme between these two crafty statesmen; but as the interview took place in the presence of their attendants, the utmost caution was observed.
Salisbury pretended to be greatly alarmed at the communication, and coupling it, he said, with previous intelligence which he had received, he could not help fearing, to adopt the words of the writer of the mysterious letter, that the Parliament was indeed threatened with some “terrible blow.” Acting, apparently, upon this supposition, he caused such of the lords of the Privy Council as lodged at Whitehall to be summoned, and submitting the letter to them, they all concurred in the opinion that it referred to some dangerous plot, though none could give a guess at its precise nature.
“It is clearly some Popish project,” said Salisbury, “or Lord Mounteagle would not have been the party warned. We must keep a look-out upon the disaffected of his faith.”
“As I have been the means of revealing the plot to your lordship — if plot it be — I must pray you to deal gently with them,” rejoined Mounteagle.
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