“Master Francis! Master Francis!” Clopton exclaimed in remonstrance. He had known me in old days. My uncle, meanwhile, gazed at me in the utmost astonishment, and into the servants’ faces there flashed a strange light, while many of them hailed me in a tone which told me that I had but to give the word, and they would fall on the very sheriff himself. “Master Francis,” Sir Philip Clopton repeated gravely, “if you would do your uncle a service, this is not the way to go about it. He has surrendered and is our prisoner. Brawling will not mend matters.”
I laughed out loudly and merrily. “Do you know, Sir Philip,” I said, with something of the old boyish ring in my voice, “I have been, since I saw you last, to Belgium and Germany, ay, and Poland and Hamburg! Do you think I have come back a fool?”
“I do not know what to think of you,” he replied dryly, “but you had best — —”
“Keep a civil tongue in your head, my friend!” said Greville with harshness, “and yourself out of this business.”
“It is just this business I have come to get into, Sir Thomas,” I answered, with increasing good humor. “Sir Anthony, show them that!” I continued, and I drew out a little packet of parchment with a great red seal hanging from it by a green ribbon; just such a packet as that which I had stolen from the Bishop’s apparitor nearly four years back. “A lantern here!” I cried. “Hold it steady, Martin, that Sir Anthony may read. Master Sheriff wants his rere-supper.”
I gave the packet into the knight’s hand, my own shaking. Ay, shaking, for was not this the fulfillment of that boyish vow I had made in my little room in the gable yonder, so many years ago? A fulfillment strange and timely, such as none but a boy in his teens could have hoped for, nor any but a man who had tried the chances and mishaps of the world could fully enjoy as I was enjoying it. I tingled with the rush through my veins of triumph and gratitude. Up to the last moment I had feared lest anything should go wrong, lest this crowning happiness should be withheld from me. Now I stood there smiling, watching Sir Anthony, as with trembling fingers he fumbled with the paper. And there was only one thing, only one person, wanting to my joy. I looked, and looked again, but I could not anywhere see Petronilla.
“What is it?” Sir Anthony said feebly, turning the packet over and over. “It is for the sheriff; for the sheriff, is it not?”
“He had better open it then, sir,” I answered gayly.
Sir Philip took the packet and after a glance at the address tore it open. “It is an order from Sir William Cecil,” he muttered. Then he ran his eye down the brief contents, while all save myself pricked their ears and pressed closer, and I looked swiftly from face to face, as the wavering light lit up now one and now another. Old familiar faces for the most part.
“Well, Sir Philip, will you stop to supper?” I cried with a laugh, when he had had time, as I judged, to reach the signature.
“Go to!” he grunted, looking at me. “Nice fools you have made of us, young man!” He passed the letter to Greville. “Sir Anthony,” he continued, a mixture of pleasure and chagrin in his voice, “you are free! I congratulate you on your luck. Your nephew has brought an amnesty for all things done up to the present time save for any life taken, in which case the matter is to be referred to the Secretary. Fortunately my dead horse is the worst of the mischief, so free you are, and amnestied, though nicely Master Cecil has befooled us!”
“We will give you another horse, Sir Philip,” I answered.
But the words were wasted on the air. They were drowned in a great shout of joy and triumph which rang from a score of Cludde throats the moment the purport of the paper was understood; a shout which made the old house shake again, and scared the dogs so that they fled away into corners and gazed askance at us, their tails between their legs; a shout that was plainly heard a mile away in half a dozen homesteads where Cludde men lay gloomy in their beds.
By this time my uncle’s hand was in mine. With his other he took off his hat. “Lads!” he cried huskily, rearing his tall form in our midst; “a cheer for the Queen! God keep her safe, and long may she reign!”
This was universally regarded as the end of what they still proudly call in those parts “the Coton Insurrection!” When silence came again, every dog, even the oldest and wisest, had bayed himself hoarse and fled to kennel, thinking the end of the world was come. My heart, as I joined roundly in, swelled high with pride, and there were tears in my eyes as well as in my uncle’s. But there is no triumph after all without its drawback, no fruition equal to the anticipation. Where was Petronilla? I could see her nowhere. I looked from window to window, but she was at none. I scanned the knot of maids, but could not find her. Even the cheering had not brought her out.
It was wonderful, though, how the cheers cleared the air. Even Sir Thomas Greville regained good humor, and deigned to shake me by the hand and express himself pleased that the matter had ended so happily. Then the sheriff drew him and Bridgewater away, to look to their men’s arrangements, seeing, I think, that my uncle and I would fain be alone awhile; and at last I asked with a trembling voice after Petronilla.
“To be sure,” Sir Anthony answered, furtively wiping his eyes. “I had forgotten her, dear lad. I wish now that she had stayed. But tell me, Francis, how came you back to-night, and how did you manage this?”
Something of what he asked I told him hurriedly. But then — be sure I took advantage of the first opening — I asked again after Petronilla. “Where has she gone, sir?” I said, trying to conceal my impatience. “I thought that Martin told me she was here; indeed, that he had seen her after I arrived.”
“I am not sure, do you know,” Sir Anthony answered, eying me absently, “that I was wise, but I considered she was safer away, Francis. And she can be fetched back in the morning. I feared there might be some disturbance in the house — as indeed there well might have been — and though she begged very hard to stay with me, I sent her off.”
“This evening, sir?” I stammered, suddenly chilled.
“Yes, an hour ago.”
“But an hour ago every approach was guarded, Sir Anthony,” I cried in surprise. “I had the greatest difficulty in slipping through from the outside myself, well as I know every field and tree. To escape from within, even for a man, much less a woman, would have been impossible. She will have been stopped.”
“I think not,” he said, with a smile at once sage and indulgent — which seemed to add, “You think yourself a clever lad, but you do not know everything yet.”
“I sent her out by the secret passage to the mill-house, you see,” he explained, “as soon as I heard the sheriff’s party outside. I could have given them the slip myself, had I pleased.”
“The mill house?” I answered. The mill stood nearly a quarter of a mile from Coton End, beyond the gardens, and in the direction of the village. I remembered vaguely that I had heard from the servants in old days some talk of a secret outlet leading from the house to it. But they knew no particulars, and its existence was only darkly rumored among them.
“You did not know of the passage,” Sir Anthony said, chuckling at my astonishment. “No, I remember. But the girl did. Your father and his wife went with her. He quite agreed in the wisdom of sending her away, and indeed advised it. On reaching the mill, if they found all quiet they were to walk across to Watney’s farm. There they could get horses and might ride at their leisure to Stratford and wait the event. I thought it best for her; and Ferdinand agreed.”
“And my father — went with her?” I muttered hoarsely, feeling myself growing chill to the heart. Hardly could I restrain my indignation at Sir Anthony’s folly, or my own anger and disappointment — and fear. For though my head seemed on fire and there was a tumult in my brain, I was cool enough to trace clearly my father’s motives, and discern with what a deliberate purpose he had acted. “He went with her?”
“Yes, he and his wife,” the knight answered, noticing nothing in his obtuseness.
“You have been fooled, sir,” I said
bitterly. “My father you should have known, and for his wife, she is a bad, unscrupulous woman! Oh, the madness of it, to put my cousin into their hands!”
“What do you mean?” the knight cried, beginning to tremble. “Your father is a changed man, lad. He has come back to the old faith and in a dark hour too. He — —”
“He is a hypocrite and a villain!” I retorted, stung almost to madness by this wound in my tenderest place; stung indeed beyond endurance. Why should I spare him, when to spare him was to sacrifice the innocent? Why should I pick my words, when my love was in danger? He had had no mercy and no pity. Why should I shrink from exposing him? Heaven had dealt with him patiently and given him life; and he did but abuse it. I could keep silence no longer, and told Sir Anthony all with a stinging tongue and in gibing words; even, at last, how my father had given me a hint of the very plan he had now carried out, of coming down to Coton, and goading his brother into some offense which might leave his estate at the mercy of the authorities.
“I did not think he meant it,” I said bitterly. “But I might have known that the leopard does not change its spots. How you, who knew him years ago, and knew that he had plotted against you since, came to trust him again — to trust your daughter to him — passes my fancy!”
“He was my brother,” the knight murmured, leaning white and stricken on my shoulder.
“And my father — heaven help us!” I rejoined.
CHAPTER XXV.
IN HARBOR AT LAST.
“We must first help ourselves,” Sir Anthony answered sharply; rousing himself with wonderful energy from the prostration into which my story had thrown him. “I will send after her. She shall be brought back. Ho! Baldwin! Martin!” he cried loudly. “Send Baldwin hither! Be quick there!”
Out of the ruck of servants in and about the hall, Baldwin came rushing presently, wiping his lips as he approached. A single glance at our faces sobered him. “Send Martin down to the mill!” Sir Anthony ordered curtly. “Bid him tell my daughter if she be there to come back. And do you saddle a couple of horses, and be ready to ride with Master Francis to Watney’s farm, and on to Stratford, if it be necessary. Lose not a minute; my daughter is with Master Ferdinand. My order is that she return.”
The fool had come up only a pace or two behind the steward. “Do you hear, Martin?” I added eagerly, turning to him. My thoughts, busy with the misery which might befall her in their hands, maddened me. “You will bring her back if you find her, mind you.”
He did not answer, but his eyes glittered as they met mine, and I knew that he understood. As he flitted silently across the court and disappeared under the gateway, I knew that no hound could be more sure, I knew that he would not leave the trail until he had found Petronilla, though he had to follow her for many a mile. We might have to pursue the fugitives to Stratford, but I felt sure that Martin’s lean figure and keen dark face would be there to meet us.
Us? No. Sir Anthony indeed said to me, “You will go of course?” speaking as if only one answer were possible.
But it was not to be so. “No,” I said, “you had better go, sir. Or Baldwin can be trusted. He can take two or three of the grooms. They should be armed,” I added, in a lower tone.
My uncle looked hard at me, and then gave his assent, no longer wondering why I did not go. Instead he bade Baldwin do as I had suggested. In truth my heart was so hot with wrath and indignation that I dared not follow, lest my father, in his stern, mocking way, should refuse to let her go, and harm should happen between us. If I were right in my suspicions, and he had capped his intrigue by deliberately getting the girl I loved into his hands as a hostage, either as a surety that I would share with him if I succeeded to the estates, or as a means of extorting money from his brother, then I dared not trust myself face to face with him. If I could have mounted and ridden after my love, I could have borne it better. But the curse seemed to cling to me still. My worst foe was one against whom I could not lift my hand.
“But what,” my uncle asked, his voice quavering, though his words seemed intended to combat my fears, “what can he do, lad? She is his niece.”
“What?” I answered, with a shudder. “I do not know, but I fear everything. If he should elude us and take her abroad with him — heaven help her, sir! He will use her somehow to gain his ends — or kill her.”
Sir Anthony wiped his brow with a trembling hand. “Baldwin will overtake them,” he said.
“Let us hope so,” I answered. Alas, how far fell fruition short of anticipation. This was my time of triumph! “You had better go in, sir,” I said presently, gaining a little mastery over myself. “I see Sir Philip has returned; from settling his men for the night. He and Greville will be wondering what has happened.”
“And you?” he said.
“I cannot,” I answered, shaking my head.
After he had gone I stood a while in the shadow on the far side of the court, listening to the clatter of knives and dishes, the cheerful hum of the servants as they called to one another, the hurrying footsteps of the maids. A dog crept out, and licked my hand as it hung nerveless by my side. Surely Martin or Baldwin would overtake them. Or if not, it still was not so easy to take a girl abroad against her will.
But would that be his plan? He must have hiding-places in England to which he might take her, telling her any wild story of her father’s death or flight, or even perhaps of her own danger if her whereabouts were known. I had had experience of his daring, his cunning, his plausibility. Had he not taken in all with whom he had come into contact, except, by some strange fate, myself. To be sure Anne was not altogether without feeling or conscience. But she was his — his entirely, body and soul. Yes, if I could have followed, I could have borne it better. It was this dreadful inaction which was killing me.
The bustle and voices of the servants, who were in high spirits, so irritated me at last that I wandered away, going first to the dark, silent gardens, where I walked up and down in a fever of doubt and fear, much as I had done on the last evening I had spent at Coton. Then a fancy seized me, and turning from the fish-pond I walked toward the house. Crossing the moat I made for the church door and tried it. It was unlocked. I went in. Here at least in the sacred place I should find quietness; and unable to help myself in this terrible crisis, might get help from One to whom my extremity was but an opportunity.
I walked up the aisle and, finding all in darkness, the moon at the moment being obscured, felt my way as far as Sir Piers’ flat monument, and sat down upon it. I had been there scarcely a minute when a faint sound, which seemed rather a sigh or an audible shudder than any articulate word, came out of the darkness in front of me. My great trouble had seemed to make superstitious fears for the time impossible, but at this sound I started and trembled; and holding my breath felt a cold shiver run down my back. Motionless I peered before me, and yet could see nothing. All was gloom, the only distinguishable feature being the east window.
What was that? A soft rustle as of ghostly garments moving in the aisle was succeeded by another sigh which made me rise from my seat, my hair stiffening. Then I saw the outline of the east window growing brighter and brighter, and I knew that the moon was about to shine clear of the clouds, and longed to turn and fly, yet did not dare to move.
Suddenly the light fell on the altar steps and disclosed a kneeling form which seemed to be partly turned toward me as though watching me. The face I could not see — it was in shadow — and I stood transfixed, gazing at the figure, half in superstitious terror and half in wonder; until a voice I had not heard for years, and yet should have known among a thousand, said softly, “Francis!”
“Who calls me?” I muttered hoarsely, knowing and yet disbelieving, hoping and yet with a terrible fear at heart.
“It is I, Petronilla!” said the same voice gently. And then the form rose and glided toward me through the moonlight. “It is I, Petronilla. Do you not know me?” said my love again; and fell upon my breast.
* * * * *
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br /> She had been firmly resolved all the time not to quit her father, and on the first opportunity had given the slip to her company, while the horses were being saddled at Watney’s farm. Stealing back through the darkness she had found the house full of uproar, and apparently occupied by strange troopers. Aghast and not knowing what to do, she had bethought herself of the church and there taken refuge. On my first entrance she was horribly alarmed. But as I walked up the aisle, she recognized — so she has since told me a thousand times with pride — my footstep, though it had long been a stranger to her ear, and she had no thought at the moment of seeing me, or hearing the joyful news I brought.
And so my story is told. For what passed then between Petronilla and me lies between my wife and myself. And it is an old, old story, and one which our children have no need to learn, for they have told it, many of them for themselves, and their children are growing up to tell it. I think in some odd corner of the house there may still be found a very ancient swallow’s nest, which young girls bring out and look at tenderly; but for my sword-knot I fear it has been worn out these thirty years. What matter, even though it was velvet of Genoa? He that has the substance, lacks not the shadow.
I never saw my father again, nor learned accurately what passed at Watney’s farm after Petronilla was missed by her two companions. But one man, whom I could ill spare, was also missing on that night, whose fate is still something of a mystery. That was Martin Luther. I have always believed that he fell in a desperate encounter with my father, but no traces of the struggle, or his body were ever found. The track between Watney’s farm and Stratford, however, runs for a certain distance by the river; and at some point on this road I think Martin must have come up with the refugees, and failing either to find Petronilla with them, or to get any satisfactory account of her, must have flung himself on my father and been foiled and killed. The exact truth I have said was never known, though Baldwin and I talked over it again and again; and there were even some who said that a servant much resembling Martin Luther was seen with my father in the Low Countries not a month before his death. I put no credence in this, however, having good reason to think that the poor fool — who was wiser in his sane moments than most men — would never have left my service while the breath remained in his body.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 73