“A prisoner!” ejaculated Fawkes, in a hollow voice. “Then my forebodings were not without cause.”
“How has this happened?” cried Catesby, who had listened to what was said in silent wonder.
Chetham then hastily related all that had taken place.
“I know not what has become of her,” he said, in conclusion; “but I have heard that she was taken to the Star-Chamber by the Earl of Salisbury,—for he, it appears, was the companion of Topcliffe,—and, refusing to answer the interrogations of the Council, was conveyed to the Tower, and, I fear, subjected to the torture.”
“Tortured!” exclaimed Fawkes, horror-stricken; “Viviana tortured! And I have brought her to this! Oh, God! Oh, God!”
“It is indeed an agonizing reflection,” replied Humphrey Chetham, in a sombre tone, “and enough to drive you to despair. Her last wishes, expressed only in looks, for she did not dare to give utterance to them, were that I should warn you not to approach the house at Lambeth, your enemies being concealed within it. I have now fulfilled them. Farewell!”
And he turned to depart.
“Stay!” cried Catesby, arresting him. “Where is Father Oldcorne?”
“I know not,” replied Humphrey Chetham. “As I have told you, Viviana by some means contrived his escape. I have seen nothing of him.”
And, hurrying away, he was lost beneath the shadow of the wall.
“Is this a troubled dream, or dread reality?” cried Fawkes to Catesby.
“I fear it is too true,” returned the other, in a voice of much emotion. “Poor Viviana!”
“Something must be done to set her free,” cried Fawkes. “I will purchase her liberty by delivering up myself.”
“Your oath—remember your oath!” rejoined Catesby. “You may destroy yourself, but not your associates.”
“True—true,” replied Fawkes, distractedly,—"I do remember it. I am sold to perdition.”
“Anger not Heaven by these idle lamentations,—and at a time, too, when all is so prosperous,” rejoined Catesby.
“What!” cried Fawkes, fiercely, “would you have me calm, when she who called me father, and was dear to me as a child, is taken from me by these remorseless butchers,—subjected to their terrible examinations,—plunged in a dismal dungeon,—and stretched upon the rack,—and all for me—for me! I shall go mad if I think upon it!”
“You must not think upon it,” returned Catesby,—"at least, not here. We shall be observed. Let us return to the house; and perhaps—though I scarcely dare indulge the hope—some plan may be devised for her liberation.”
With this, he dragged Fawkes, who was almost frenzied with anguish, forcibly along, and they returned to the house.
Nothing more was said that night. Catesby judged it prudent to let the first violence of his friend's emotion expend itself before he attempted to soothe him; and when he communicated the sad event to Garnet, the latter strongly approved the plan. Garnet was greatly distressed at the intelligence, and his affliction was shared by the other conspirators. No fears were entertained by any of them that Viviana would reveal aught of the plot, but this circumstance only added to their regrets.
“I will stake my life for her constancy,” said Catesby.
“And so will I,” returned Garnet. “She will die a martyr for us.”
He then proposed that they should pray for her deliverance. And all instantly assenting, they knelt down, while Garnet poured forth the most earnest supplications to the Virgin in her behalf.
The next morning, Guy Fawkes set forth, and ascertained that Humphrey Chetham's statement was correct, and that Viviana was indeed a prisoner in the Tower. He repaired thither, and tried to ascertain in what part of the fortress she was confined, in the hope of gaining admittance to her. But as he could obtain no information and his inquiries excited suspicion, he was compelled to return without accomplishing his object.
Crossing Tower Hill on his way back, he turned to glance at the stern pile he had just quitted, and which was fraught with the most fearful interest to him, when he perceived Chetham issue from the Bulwark Gate. He would have made up to him; but the young merchant, who had evidently seen him, though he looked sedulously another way, set off in the direction of the river, and was quickly lost to view. Filled with the gloomiest thoughts, Guy Fawkes proceeded to Westminster, where he arrived without further adventure of any kind.
In the latter part of the same day, as the conspirators were conferring together, they were alarmed by a knocking at the outer gate; and sending Bates to reconnoitre, he instantly returned with the intelligence that it was Lord Mounteagle. At the mention of this name, Tresham, who was one of the party, turned pale as death, and trembled so violently that he could scarcely support himself. Having been allowed to go forth on that day, the visit of Lord Mounteagle at this juncture, coupled with the agitation it occasioned him, seemed to proclaim him guilty of treachery for the second time.
“You have betrayed us, villain!” cried Catesby, drawing his dagger; “but you shall not escape. I will poniard you on the spot.”
“As you hope for mercy, do not strike!” cried Tresham. “On my soul, I have not seen Lord Mounteagle, and know not, any more than yourselves, what brings him hither. Put it to the proof. Let him come in. Conceal yourselves, and you will hear what passes between us.”
“Let it be so,” interposed Fawkes. “I will step within this closet, the door of which shall remain ajar. From it I can watch him without being observed, and if aught occurs to confirm our suspicions, he dies.”
“Bates shall station himself in the passage, and stab him if he attempts to fly,” added Catesby. “Your sword, sir.”
“It is here,” replied Tresham, delivering it to Catesby, who handed it to Bates. “Are you satisfied?”
“Is Lord Mounteagle alone?” inquired Catesby, without noticing the question.
“He appears to be so,” replied Bates.
“Admit him, then,” rejoined Catesby.
Entering the closet with Keyes, he was followed by Fawkes, who drew his dagger, and kept the door slightly ajar, while Garnet and the rest retired to other hiding-places. A few moments afterwards, Bates returned with Lord Mounteagle, and, having ushered him into the room, took his station in the passage, as directed by Catesby. The room was very dark, the shutters being closed, and light only finding its way through the chinks in them; and it appeared totally so to Lord Mounteagle, who, groping his way, stumbled forward, and exclaimed in accents of some alarm,
“Where am I? Where is Mr. Tresham?”
“I am here,” replied Tresham, advancing towards him. “How did your lordship find me out?” he added, after the customary salutations were exchanged.
“My servant saw you enter this house,” replied Mounteagle, “and, knowing I was anxious to see you, waited for some hours without, in the expectation of your coming forth. But as this did not occur, he mentioned the circumstance to me on his return, and I immediately came in quest of you. When I knocked at the gate, I scarcely knew what to think of the place, and began to fear you must have fallen into the hands of cut-throats; and, now that I have gained admittance, my wonder—and I may add my uneasiness—is not diminished. Why do you hide yourself in this wretched place?”
“Be seated,” replied Tresham, placing a chair for Lord Mounteagle, with his back to the closet, while he took one opposite him, and near a table, on which some papers were laid. “Your lordship may remember,” he continued, scarcely knowing what answer to make to the question, “that I wrote to you some time ago, to say that a conspiracy was hatching among certain of our party against the State.”
“I have reason to remember it,” replied Mounteagle. “The letter was laid before the Earl of Salisbury, and inquiries instituted in consequence. But, owing to your disappearance, nothing could be elicited. What plot had you discovered?”
At this moment, Tresham, who kept his eye fixed on the closet, perceived the door noiselessly open, and behind it the figure of Guy Fawkes, with the dagger in his hand.
“I was misinformed as to the nature of the plot,” he stammered.
“Was it against the King's life?” demanded Mounteagle.
“No,” rejoined Tresham; “as far as I could learn, it was an insurrection.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Mounteagle, sceptically. “My information, then, differed from yours. Who were the parties you suspected?”
“As I wrongfully suspected them,” replied Tresham, evasively, “your lordship must excuse my naming them.”
“Was Catesby—or Winter—or Wright—or Rookwood—or Sir Everard Digby concerned in it?” demanded Mounteagle.
“Not one of them,” asseverated Tresham.
“They are the persons I suspect,” replied Mounteagle; “and they are suspected by the Earl of Salisbury. But you have not told me what you are doing in this strange habitation. Are you ferreting out a plot, or contriving one?”
“Both,” replied Tresham.
“How?” cried Mounteagle.
“I am plotting for myself, and counterplotting the designs of others," replied Tresham, mysteriously.
“Is this place, then, the rendezvous of a band of conspirators?” asked Mounteagle, uneasily.
Tresham nodded in the affirmative.
“Who are they?” continued Mounteagle. “There is no need of concealment with me.”
As this was said, Tresham raised his eyes, and saw that Guy Fawkes had stepped silently forward, and placed himself behind Mounteagle's chair. His hand grasped his dagger, and his gaze never moved from the object of his suspicion.
“Who are they?” repeated Mounteagle. “Is Guy Fawkes one of them?”
“Assuredly not,” replied Tresham. “Why should you name him? I never mentioned him to your lordship.”
“I think you did,” replied Mounteagle. “But I am certain you spoke of Catesby.”
And Tresham's regards involuntarily wandered to the closet, when he beheld the stern glance of the person alluded to fixed upon him.
“You have heard of Viviana Radcliffe's imprisonment, I suppose?” pursued Mounteagle, unconscious of what was passing.
“I have,” replied Tresham.
“The Earl of Salisbury expected he would be able to wring all from her, but he has failed,” observed Mounteagle.
“I am glad of it,” observed Tresham.
“I thought you were disposed to serve him?” remarked Mounteagle.
“So I am,” replied Tresham. “But, if secrets are to be revealed, I had rather be the bearer of them than any one else. I am sorry for Viviana.”
“I could procure her liberation, if I chose,” observed Mounteagle.
“Say you so?” cried Fawkes, clapping him on the shoulder; “then you stir not hence till you have procured it!”
CHAPTER VII.
THE STAR-CHAMBER.
Viviana, as has already been intimated, after her capture at the house at Lambeth, was conveyed to the Star-Chamber. Here she was detained until a late hour on the following day, when she underwent a long and rigorous examination by certain members of the Privy Council, who were summoned for that purpose by the Earl of Salisbury. Throughout this arduous trial she maintained the utmost composure, and never for a single moment lost her firmness. On all occasions, her matchless beauty and dignity produced the strongest impression on the beholders; but on no occasion had they ever produced so strong an effect as the present. Her features were totally destitute of bloom, but their very paleness, contrasted as it was with her large dark eyes, which blazed with unwonted brilliancy, as well as with her jet-black hair, so far from detracting from her loveliness, appeared to add to it.
As she was brought before the Council, who were seated round a table, and remained standing at a short distance from them, guarded by Topcliffe and two halberdiers, a murmur of admiration pervaded the group,—nor was this feeling lessened as the examination proceeded. Once, when the Earl of Salisbury adverted to the unworthy position in which she, the daughter of the proud and loyal Sir William Radcliffe, had placed herself, a shade passed over her brow, and a slight convulsion agitated her frame. But the next moment she recovered herself, and said,
“However circumstances may appear against me, and whatever opinion your lordships may entertain of my conduct, the King has not a more loyal subject than myself, nor have any of you made greater efforts to avert the danger by which he is threatened.”
“Then you admit that his Majesty is in danger?” cried the Earl of Salisbury, eagerly.
“I admit nothing,” replied Viviana. “But I affirm that I am his true and loyal subject.”
“You cannot expect us to believe your assertion,” replied the Earl; “unless you approve it by declaring all you know touching this conspiracy.”
“I have already told you, my lord,” she returned, “that my lips are sealed on that subject.”
“You disclaim, then, all knowledge of a plot against the King's life, and against his government?” pursued Salisbury.
Viviana shook her head.
“You refuse to give up the names of your companions, or to reveal their intentions?” continued the Earl.
“I do,” she answered, firmly.
“Your obstinacy will not save them,” rejoined the Earl, in a severe tone, and after a brief pause. “Their names and their atrocious designs are known to us.”
“If such be the case,” replied Viviana, “why interrogate me on the subject?”
“Because—but it is needless to give a reason for the course which justice requires me to pursue,” returned the Earl. “You are implicated in this plot, and nothing can save you from condign punishment but a frank and full confession.
“Nothing can save me then, my lord,” replied Viviana; “but Heaven knows I shall perish unjustly.”
A consultation was then held by the lords of the council, who whispered together for a few minutes. Viviana regarded them anxiously, but suffered no expression of uneasiness to escape her. As they again turned towards her, she saw from their looks, some of which exhibited great commiseration for her, that they had come to a decision (she could not doubt what) respecting her fate. Her heart stopped beating, and she could scarcely support herself. Such, however, was the control she exercised over herself that, though filled with terror, her demeanour remained unaltered. She was not long kept in suspense. Fixing his searching gaze upon her, the Earl of Salisbury observed in a severe tone,
“Viviana Radcliffe, I ask you for the last time whether you will avow the truth?”
No answer was returned.
“I will not disguise from you,” continued the Earl, “that your youth, your beauty, your constancy, and, above all, your apparent innocence, have deeply interested me, as well as the other noble persons here assembled to interrogate you, and who would willingly save you from the sufferings you will necessarily undergo, from a mistaken fidelity to the heinous traitors with whom you are so unhappily leagued. I would give you time to reflect did I think the delay would answer any good purpose. I would remind you that no oath of secresy, however solemn, can be binding in an unrighteous cause. I would tell you that your first duty is to your prince and governor, and that it is as great a crime, as unpardonable in the eyes of God as of man, to withhold the revelation of a conspiracy against the State, should it come to your knowledge, as to conspire against it yourself. I would lay all this before you. I would show you the magnitude of your offence, the danger in which you stand, and the utter impossibility of screening your companions, who, ere long, will be confronted with you,—did I think it would avail. But, as you continue obstinate, justice must take its course.”
“I am prepared for the worst, my lord,” replied Viviana, humbly. “I thank your lordship for your consideration: but I take you all to witness that I profess the utmost loyalty and devotion for my sovereign, and that, whatever may be my fate, those feelings will remain unchanged to the last.”
“Your manner and your words are so sincere, that, were not your conduct at variance with them, they might convince us,” returned the Earl. “As it is, even if we could credit your innocence, we are bound to act as if you were guilty. You will be committed to the Tower till his Majesty's pleasure is known. And I grieve to add, if you still continue obstinate, the severest measures will be resorted to, to extract the truth from you.”
As he concluded, he attached his signature to a warrant which was lying on the table before him, and traced a few lines to Sir William Waad, lieutenant of the Tower.
This done, he handed the papers to Topcliffe, and waving his hand, Viviana was removed to the chamber in which she had been previously confined, and where she was detained under a strict guard, until Topcliffe, who had left her, returned to say that all was in readiness, and bidding her follow him, led the way to the river-side, where a wherry, manned by six rowers, was waiting for them.
The night was profoundly dark, and, as none of the guard carried torches, their course was steered in perfect obscurity. But the rowers were too familiar with the river to require the guidance of light. Shooting the bridge in safety, and pausing only for a moment to give the signal of their approach to the sentinels on the ramparts, they passed swiftly under the low-browed arch of Traitor's Gate.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE JAILER'S DAUGHTER.
As Viviana set foot on those fatal stairs, which so many have trod, and none without feeling that they took their first step towards the scaffold, she involuntarily shrank backward. But it was now too late to retreat; and she surrendered her hand to Topcliffe, who assisted her up the steps. Half-a-dozen men-at-arms, with a like number of warders bearing torches, were present; and as it was necessary that Topcliffe should deliver his warrant into Sir William Waad's own hands, he committed his prisoner to the warders, with instructions to them to take her to the guard-room near the By-ward Tower, while he proceeded to the lieutenant's lodgings.
It was the first time Viviana had beheld the terrible pile in which she was immured, though she was well acquainted with its history, and with the persecutions which many of the professors of her faith had endured within it during the recent reign of Elizabeth; and as the light of the torches flashed upon the grey walls of the Bloody Tower, and upon the adjoining ramparts, all the dreadful tales she had heard rushed to her recollection. But having recovered the first shock, the succeeding impressions were powerless in comparison, and she accompanied the warders to the guard-room without expressing any outward emotion. Here a seat was offered her, and as the men considerately withdrew, she was able to pursue her reflections unmolested. They were sad enough, and it required all her firmness to support her.
When considering what was likely to befal her in consequence of her adherence to the fortunes of Fawkes and his companions, she had often pictured some dreadful situation like the present, but the reality far exceeded her worst anticipations. She had deemed herself equal to any emergency, but as she thought upon the dark menaces of the Earl of Salisbury, she felt it would require greater fortitude than she had hitherto displayed to bear her through her trial. Nor were her meditations entirely confined to herself. While trembling for the perilous situation of Guy Fawkes, she reproached herself that she could not requite even in thought the passionate devotion of Humphrey Chetham.
“What matters it now,” she thought, “that I cannot love him? I shall soon be nothing to him, or to any one. And yet I feel I have done him wrong, and that I should be happier if I could requite his attachment. But the die is cast. It is too late to repent, or to retreat. My heart acquits me of having been influenced by any unworthy motive, and I will strive to endure the keenest pang without a murmur.”
Shortly after this, Topcliffe returned with Sir William Waad. On their entrance, Viviana arose, and the lieutenant eyed her with some curiosity. He was a middle-aged man, tall, stoutly-built, and having harsh features, stamped with an expression of mingled cunning and ferocity. His eyes had a fierce and bloodthirsty look, and were overshadowed by thick and scowling brows. Saluting the captive with affected courtesy, he observed,
“So you refuse to answer the interrogations of the Privy Council, madam, I understand. I am not sorry for it, because I would have the merit of wringing the truth from you. Those who have been most stubborn outside these walls, have been the most yielding within them.”
“That will not be my case,” replied Viviana, coldly.
“We shall see,” returned the lieutenant, with a significant glance at Topcliffe.
Ordering her to follow him, he then proceeded along the ward in the direction of the Bloody Tower, and passing beneath its arched gateway, ascended the steps on the left, and led her to his lodgings. Entering the habitation, he mounted to the upper story, and tracking a long gallery, brought her to a small circular chamber in the Bell Tower. Its sole furniture were a chair, a table, and a couch.
“Here you will remain for the present,” observed the lieutenant, smiling grimly, and placing a lamp on the table. “It will depend upon yourself whether your accommodations are better hereafter.”
With this, he quitted the cell with his attendants, and barred the door outside.
Left alone, Viviana, who had hitherto restrained her anguish, suffered it to find vent in tears. Never had she felt so utterly forlorn and desolate. All before her was threatening and terrible, full of dangers, real and imaginary; nor could she look back upon her past career without something like remorse.
“Oh, that Heaven would take me to itself!” she murmured, clasping her hands in an agony of distress, “for I feel unequal to my trials. Oh, that I had perished with my dear father! For what dreadful fate am I reserved?—Torture,—I will bear it, if I can. But death by the hands of the public executioner,—it is too horrible to think of! Is there no way to escape that?”
As this hideous thought occurred to her, she uttered a loud and prolonged scream, and fell senseless on the floor. When she recovered it was daylight; and, weak and exhausted, she crept to the couch, and throwing herself upon it, endeavoured to forget her misery in sleep. But, as is usually the case with the afflicted, it fled her eyelids, and she passed several hours in the severest mental torture, unrelieved by a single cheering thought.
About the middle of the day, the door of the cell was opened by an old woman with a morose and forbidding countenance, attended by a younger female, who resembled her in all but the expression of her features (her look was gentle and compassionate), and who appeared to be her daughter.
Without paying any attention to Viviana, the old woman took a small loaf of bread and other provisions from a basket she had brought with her, and placed them on the table. This done, she was about to depart, when her daughter, who had glanced uneasily at the couch, observed in a kindly tone,
“Shall we not inquire whether we can be of service to the poor young lady, mother?”
“Why should we concern ourselves about her, Ruth?” returned the old woman, sharply. “If she wants anything, she has a tongue, and can speak. If she desires further comforts,” she added, in a significant tone, “they must be paid for.”
“I desire nothing but death,” groaned Viviana.
“The poor soul is dying, I believe,” cried Ruth, rushing to the couch. “Have you no cordial-water about you, mother?”
“Truly have I,” returned the old woman; “and I have other things besides. But I must be paid for them.”
As she spoke she drew from her pocket a small, square, Dutch-shaped bottle.
“Give it me,” cried Ruth, snatching it from her. “I am sure the young lady will pay for it.”
“You are very kind,” said Viviana, faintly. “But I have no means of doing so.”
“I knew it,” cried the old woman, fiercely. “I knew it. Give me back the flask, Ruth. She shall not taste a drop. Do you not hear, she has no money, wench? Give it me, I say.”
“Nay, mother, for pity's sake,” implored Ruth.
“Pity, forsooth!” exclaimed the old woman, derisively. “If I, and thy father, Jasper Ipgreve, had any such feeling, it would be high time for him to give up his post of jailer in the Tower of London. Pity for a poor prisoner! Thou a jailer's daughter, and talk so. I am ashamed of thee, wench. But I thought this was a rich Catholic heiress, and had powerful and wealthy friends.”
“So she is,” replied Ruth; “and though she may have no money with her now, she can command any amount she pleases. I heard Master Topcliffe tell young Nicholas Hardesty, the warder, so. She is the daughter of the late Sir William Radcliffe, of Ordsall Hall, in Lancashire, and sole heiress of his vast estates.”
“Is this so, sweet lady?” inquired the old woman, stepping towards the couch. “Are you truly Sir William Radcliffe's daughter?”
“I am,” replied Viviana. “But I have said I require nothing from you. Leave me.”
“No—no, dear young lady,” rejoined Dame Ipgreve, in a whining tone, which was infinitely more disagreeable to Viviana than her previous harshness, “I cannot leave you in this state. Raise her head, Ruth, while I pour a few drops of the cordial down her throat.”
“I will not taste it,” replied Viviana, putting the flask aside.
“You would find it a sovereign restorative,” replied Dame Ipgreve, with a mortified look; “but as you please. I will not urge you against your inclination. The provisions I have been obliged to bring you are too coarse for a daintily-nurtured maiden like you,—but you shall have others presently.”
“It is needless,” rejoined Viviana. “Pray leave me.”
“Well, well, I am going,” rejoined Dame Ipgreve, hesitating. “Do you want to write to any one? I can find means of conveying a letter secretly out of the Tower.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Viviana, raising herself. “And yet no—no—I dare not trust you.”
“You may,” replied the avaricious old woman,—"provided you pay me well.”
“I will think of it,” returned Viviana. “But I have not strength to write now.”
“You must not give way thus,—indeed, you must not, dear lady,” said Ruth, in a voice of great kindness. “It will not be safe to leave you. Suffer me to remain with you.”
“Willingly,” replied Viviana; “most willingly.”
“Stay with her, then, child,” said Dame Ipgreve. “I will go and prepare a nourishing broth for her. Take heed and make a shrewd bargain with her for thy attendance,” she added in a hasty whisper, as she retired.
Greatly relieved by the old woman's departure, Viviana turned to Ruth, and thanked her in the warmest terms for her kindness. A few minutes sufficed to convert the sympathy which these two young persons evidently felt towards each other into affectionate regard, and the jailer's daughter assured Viviana, that so long as she should be detained, she would devote herself to her.
By this time the old woman had returned with a mess of hot broth, which she carried with an air of great mystery beneath her cloak. Viviana was prevailed upon by the solicitations of Ruth to taste it, and found herself much revived in consequence. Her slight meal ended, Dame Ipgreve departed, with a promise to return in the evening with such viands as she could manage to introduce unobserved, and with a flask of wine.
“You will need it, sweet lady, I fear,” she said; “for my husband tells me you are in peril of the torture. Oh! it is a sad thing, that such as you should be so cruelly dealt with! But we will take all the care of you we can. You will not forget to requite us. You must give me an order on your steward, or on some rich Catholic friend. I am half a Papist myself,—that is, I like one religion as well as the other,—and I like those best, whatever their creed may be, who pay best. That is my maxim: and it is the same with my husband. We do all we can to scrape together a penny for our child.”
“No more of this, good mother,” interrupted Ruth. “It distresses the lady! I will take care she wants nothing.”
“Right, child, right,” returned Dame Ipgreve;—"do not forget what I told you,” she added in a whisper.
And she quitted the cell.
Ruth remained with Viviana during the rest of the day, and it was a great consolation to the latter to find that her companion was of the same faith as herself,—having been converted by Father Poole, a Romish priest who was confined in the Tower during the latter part of Elizabeth's reign, and whose sufferings and constancy for his religion had made a powerful impression on the jailer's daughter. As soon as Viviana ascertained this, she made Ruth, so far as she thought prudent, a confidante in her misfortunes, and after beguiling some hours in conversation, they both knelt down and offered up fervent prayers to the Virgin. Ruth then departed, promising to return in the evening with her mother.
Soon after it became dark, Dame Ipgreve and her daughter reappeared, the former carrying a lamp, and the latter a basket of provisions. Ruth's countenance was so troubled, that Viviana was certain that some fresh calamity was at hand.
“What is the matter?” she hastily demanded.
“Make your meal first, dear young lady,” replied Dame Ipgreve. “Our news might take away your appetite, and you will have to pay for your supper, whether you eat it or not.”
“You alarm me greatly,” cried Viviana, anxiously. “What ill news do you bring?”
“I will not keep you longer in suspense, madam,” said Ruth. “You are to be examined to-night by the lieutenant and certain members of the Privy Council, and if you refuse to answer their questions, I lament to say you will be put to the torture.”
“Heaven give me strength to endure it!” ejaculated Viviana, in a despairing tone.
“Eat, madam, eat,” cried Dame Ipgreve, pressing the viands upon her. “You will never be able to go through with the examination, if you starve yourself in this way.”
“Are you sure,” inquired Viviana, appealing to Ruth, “that it will take place so soon?”
“Quite sure,” replied Ruth. “My father has orders to attend the lieutenant at midnight.”
“Let me advise you to conceal nothing,” insinuated the old woman. “They are determined to wring the truth from you,—and they will do so.”
“You are mistaken, good woman,” replied Viviana, firmly. “I will die before I utter a word.”
“You think so now,” returned Dame Ipgreve, maliciously. “But the sight of the rack and the thumbscrews will alter your tone. At all events, support nature.”
“No,” replied Viviana; “as I do not desire to live, I will use no effort to sustain myself. They may kill me if they please.”
“Misfortune has turned her brain,” muttered the old woman. “I must take care and secure my dues. Well, madam, if you will not eat the supper I have provided, it cannot be helped. I must find some one who will. You must pay for it all the same. My husband, Jasper Ipgreve, will be present at your interrogation, and I am sure, for my sake, he will use you as lightly as he can. Come, Ruth, you must not remain here longer.”
“Oh, let her stay with me,” implored Viviana. “I will make it well worth your while to grant me the indulgence.”
“What will you give?” cried the old woman, eagerly. “But no—no—I dare not leave her. The lieutenant may visit you, and find her, and then I should lose my place. Come along, Ruth. She shall attend you after the interrogation, madam. I shall be there myself.”
“Farewell, madam,” sobbed Ruth, who was almost drowned in tears. “Heaven grant you constancy to endure your trial!”
“Be ruled by me,” said the old woman. “Speak out, and secure your own safety.”
She would have continued in the same strain, but Ruth dragged her away. And casting a commiserating glance at Viviana, she closed the door.
The dreadful interval between their departure and midnight was passed by Viviana in fervent prayer. As she heard through the barred embrasure of her dungeon the deep strokes of the clock toll out the hour of twelve, the door opened, and a tall, gaunt personage, habited in a suit of rusty black, and with a large bunch of keys at his girdle, entered the cell.
“You are Jasper Ipgreve?” said Viviana, rising.
“Right,” replied the jailer. “I am come to take you before the lieutenant and the council. Are you ready?”
Viviana replied in the affirmative, and Ipgreve quitting the cell, outside which two other officials in sable habiliments were stationed, led the way down a short spiral staircase, which brought them to a narrow vaulted passage. Pursuing it for some time, the jailer halted before a strong door, cased with iron, and opening it, admitted the captive into a square chamber, the roof of which was supported by a heavy stone pillar, while its walls were garnished with implements of torture. At a table on the left sat the lieutenant and three other grave-looking personages. Across the lower end of the chamber a thick black curtain was stretched, hiding a deep recess; and behind it, as was evident from the glimmer that escaped from its folds, there was a light. Certain indistinct, but ominous sounds, issuing from the recess, proved that there were persons within it, and Viviana's quaking heart told her what was the nature of their proceedings.
She had ample time to survey this dismal apartment and its occupants, for several minutes elapsed before a word was addressed to her by her interrogators, who continued to confer together in an under tone, as if unconscious of her presence. During this pause, broken only by the ominous sounds before mentioned, Viviana scanned the countenances of the group at the table, in the hope of discerning in them some glimpses of compassion; but they were inscrutable and inexorable, and scarcely less dreadful to look upon than the hideous implements on the walls.
Viviana wished the earth would open and swallow her, that she might escape from them. Anything was better than to be left at the mercy of such men. At certain times, and not unfrequently at the most awful moments, a double current of thought will flow through the brain, and at this frightful juncture it was so with Viviana. While shuddering at all she saw around her, nay, dwelling upon it, another and distinct train of thought led her back to former scenes of happiness, when she was undisturbed by any but remote apprehensions of danger. She thought of her tranquil residence at Ordsall,—of the flowers she had tended in the garden,—of her father, and of his affection for her,—of Humphrey Chetham, and of her early and scarce-acknowledged attachment to him,—and of his generosity and devotion, and how she had requited it. And then, like a sullen cloud darkening the fair prospect, arose the figure of Guy Fawkes—the sombre enthusiast—who had unwittingly exercised such a baneful influence upon her fortunes.
“Had he not crossed my path,” she mentally ejaculated, “I might have been happy—might have loved Humphrey Chetham—might, perhaps, have wedded him!”
These reflections were suddenly dispersed by the lieutenant, who, in a stern tone, commenced his interrogations.
As upon her previous examination, Viviana observed the utmost caution, and either refused to speak, or answered such questions only as affected herself. At first, in spite of all her efforts, she trembled violently, and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. But after a while, she recovered her courage, and regarded the lieutenant with a look as determined as his own.
“It is useless to urge me farther,” she concluded. “I have said all I will say.”
“Is it your pleasure, my lords,” observed Sir William Waad to the others, “to prolong the examination?”
His companions replied in the negative, and the one nearest him remarked, “Is she aware what will follow?”
“I am,” replied Viviana, resolutely, “and I am not to be intimidated.”
Sir William Waad then made a sign to Ipgreve, who immediately stepped forward and seized her arm. “You will be taken to that recess,” said the lieutenant, “where the question will be put to you. But, as we shall remain here, you have only to utter a cry if you are willing to avow the truth, and the torture shall be stayed. And it is our merciful hope that this may be the case.”
Summoning up all her resolution, and walking with a firm footstep, Viviana passed with Ipgreve behind the curtain. She there beheld two men and a woman—the latter was the jailer's wife, who instantly advanced to her, and besought her to confess.
“There is no help for it, if you refuse,” she urged; “not all your wealth can save you.”
“Mind your own business, dame,” interposed Ipgreve, angrily, “and assist her to unrobe.”
Saying this, he stepped aside with the two men, one of whom was the chirurgeon, and the other the tormentor, while Dame Ipgreve helped to take off Viviana's gown. She then tied a scarf over her shoulders, and informed her husband she was ready.
The recess was about twelve feet high, and ten wide. It was crossed near the roof, which was arched and vaulted, by a heavy beam, with pulleys and ropes at either extremity. But what chiefly attracted the unfortunate captive's attention was a couple of iron gauntlets attached to it, about a yard apart. Upon the ground under the beam, and immediately beneath that part of it where the gauntlets were fixed, were laid three pieces of wood, of a few inches in thickness, and piled one upon another.
“What must I do?” inquired Viviana, in a hollow voice, but with unaltered resolution, of the old woman.
“Step upon those pieces of wood,” replied Dame Ipgreve, leading her towards them.
Viviana obeyed, and as soon as she had set foot upon the pile, the tormentor placed a joint-stool beside her, and mounting it, desired her to place her right hand in one of the gauntlets. She did so, and the tormentor then turned a screw, which compressed the iron glove so tightly as to give her excruciating pain. He then got down, and Ipgreve demanded if he should proceed.
A short pause ensued; but, notwithstanding her agony, Viviana made no answer. The tormentor then placed the stool on the left side, and fastened the hand which was still at liberty within the other gauntlet. The torture was dreadful—and the fingers appeared crushed by the pressure. Still Viviana uttered no cry. After another short pause, Ipgreve said,
“You had better let us stop here. This is mere child's play compared with what is to come.”
No answer being returned, the tormentor took a mallet and struck one of the pieces of wood from under Viviana's feet. The shock was dreadful, and seemed to dislocate her wrists, while the pressure on the hands was increased in a tenfold degree. The poor sufferer, who was resting on the points of her feet, felt that the removal of the next piece of wood would occasion almost intolerable torture. Her constancy, however, did not desert her, and, after the question had been repeated by Ipgreve, the second block was struck away. She was now suspended by her hands, and the pain was so exquisite, that nature gave way, and uttering a piercing scream, she fainted.
On recovering, she found herself stretched upon a miserable pallet, with Ruth watching beside her. A glance round the chamber, which was of solid stone masonry, with a deep embrasure on one side, convinced her that she had been removed to some other prison.
“Where am I?” she asked, in a faint voice.
“In the Well Tower, madam,” replied Ruth: “one of the fortifications near the moat, and now used as a prison-lodging. My father dwells within it, and you are under his custody.”
“Your father,” cried Viviana, shuddering as she recalled the sufferings she had recently undergone. “Will he torture me again?”
“Not if I can prevent it, dear lady,” replied Ruth. “But hush! here comes my mother. Not a word before her.”
As Ruth spoke, Dame Ipgreve, who had been lingering at the door, entered the room. She affected the greatest solicitude for Viviana—felt her pulse—looked at the bandages fastened round her swollen and crippled fingers, and concluded by counselling her not to persist in refusing to speak.
“I dare not tell you what tortures are in store for you,” she said, “if you continue thus obstinate. But they will be a thousand times worse than what you endured last night.”
“When will my next interrogation take place?” inquired Viviana.
“A week hence, it may be,—or it may be sooner,” returned the old woman. “It depends upon the state you are in—and somewhat upon the fees you give my husband, for he has a voice with the lieutenant.”
“I would give him all I possess, if he could save me from further torture,” cried Viviana.
“Alas! alas!” replied Dame Ipgreve, “you ask more than can be done. He would save you if he could. But you will not let him. However, we will do all we can to mitigate your sufferings—all we can—provided you pay us. Stay with her, child,” she added, with a significant gesture to her daughter, as she quitted the room, “stay with her.”
“My heart bleeds for you, madam,” said Ruth, in accents of the deepest commiseration, as soon as they were alone. “You may depend upon my fidelity. If I can contrive your escape, I will,—at any risk to myself.”
“On no account,” replied Viviana. “Do not concern yourself about me more. My earthly sufferings, I feel, will have terminated before further cruelty can be practised upon me.”
“Oh! say not so, madam,” returned Ruth. “I hope—nay, I am sure you will live long and happily.”
Viviana shook her head, and Ruth, finding her very feeble, thought it better not to continue the conversation. She accordingly applied such restoratives as were at hand, and observing that the eyes of the sufferer closed as if in slumber, glided noiselessly out of the chamber, and left her.
In this way a week passed. At the expiration of that time, the chirurgeon pronounced her in so precarious a state, that if the torture were repeated he would not answer for her life. The interrogation, therefore, was postponed for a few days, during which the chirurgeon constantly visited her, and by his care, and the restoratives she was compelled to take, she rapidly regained her strength.
One day, after the chirurgeon had departed, Ruth cautiously closed the door, and observed to her,
“You are now so far recovered, madam, as to be able to make an attempt to escape. I have devised a plan, which I will communicate to you to-morrow. It must not be delayed, or you will have to encounter a second and more dreadful examination.”
“I will not attempt it if you are exposed to risk,” replied Viviana.
“Heed me not,” returned Ruth. “One of your friends has found out your place of confinement, and has spoken to me about you.”
“What friend?” exclaimed Viviana, starting. “Guy Fawkes?—I mean——" And she hesitated, while her pale cheeks were suffused with blushes.
“He is named Humphrey Chetham,” returned Ruth. “Like myself, he would risk his life to preserve you.”
“Tell him he must not do so,” cried Viviana, eagerly. “He has done enough—too much for me already. I will not expose him to further hazard. Tell him so, and entreat him to abandon the attempt.”
“But I shall not see him, dear lady,” replied Ruth. “Besides, if I read him rightly, he is not likely to be turned aside by any selfish consideration.”
“You are right, he is not,” groaned Viviana. “But this only adds to my affliction. Oh! if you should see him, dear Ruth, try to dissuade him from his purpose.”
“I will obey you, madam,” replied the jailer's daughter. “But I am well assured it will be of no avail.”
After some further conversation, Ruth retired, and Viviana was left alone for the night. Except the slumber procured by soporific potions, she had known no repose since she had been confined within the Tower; and this night she felt more than usually restless. After ineffectually endeavouring to compose herself, she arose, and hastily robing herself—a task she performed with no little difficulty, her fingers being almost useless—continued to pace her narrow chamber.
It has been mentioned that on one side of the cell there was a deep embrasure. It was terminated by a narrow and strongly-grated loophole, looking upon the moat. Pausing before it, Viviana gazed forth. The night was pitchy dark, and not even a solitary star could be discerned; but as she had no light in her chamber, the gloom outside was less profound than that within.
While standing thus, buried in thought, and longing for daybreak, Viviana fancied she heard a slight sound as of some one swimming across the moat. Thinking she might be deceived, she listened more intently, and as the sound continued, she felt sure she was right in her conjecture. All at once the thought of Humphrey Chetham flashed upon her, and she had no doubt it must be him. Nor was she wrong. The next moment, a noise was heard as of some one clambering up the wall; a hand grasped the bars of the loophole, which was only two or three feet above the level of the water; and a low voice, which she instantly recognised, pronounced her name.
“Is it Humphrey Chetham?” she asked, advancing as near as she could to the loophole.
“It is,” was the reply. “Do not despair. I will accomplish your liberation. I have passed three days within the Tower, and only ascertained your place of confinement a few hours ago. I have contrived a plan for your escape, with the jailer's daughter, which she will make known to you to-morrow.”
“I cannot thank you sufficiently for your devotion,” replied Viviana, in accents of the deepest gratitude. “But I implore you to leave me to my fate. I am wretched enough now, Heaven knows, but if aught should happen to you, I shall be infinitely more so. If I possess any power over you,—and that I do so, I well know,—I entreat, nay, I command, you to desist from this attempt.”
“I have never yet disobeyed you, Viviana,” replied the young merchant, passionately—"nor will I do so now. But if you bid me abandon you, I will plunge into this moat, never to rise again.”
His manner, notwithstanding the low tone in which he spoke, was so determined, that Viviana felt certain he would carry his threat into execution; she therefore rejoined in a mournful tone,
“Well, be it as you will. It is in vain to resist our fate, I am destined to bring misfortune to you.”
“Not so,” replied Chetham. “If I can save you, I would rather die than live. The jailer's daughter will explain her plan to you to-morrow. Promise me to accede to it.”
Viviana reluctantly assented.
“I shall quit the Tower at daybreak,” pursued Chetham; “and when you are once out of it, hasten to the stairs beyond the wharf at Petty Wales. I will be there with a boat. Farewell!”
As he spoke, he let himself drop into the water, but his foot slipping, the plunge was louder than he intended, and attracted the attention of a sentinel on the ramparts, who immediately called out to know what was the matter, and not receiving any answer, discharged his caliver in the direction of the sound.
Viviana, who heard the challenge and the shot, uttered a loud scream, and the next moment Ipgreve and his wife appeared. The jailer glanced suspiciously round the room; but after satisfying himself that all was right, and putting some questions to the captive, which she refused to answer, he departed with his wife, and carefully barred the door.
It is impossible to imagine greater misery than Viviana endured the whole of the night. The uncertainty in which she was kept as to Chetham's fate was almost insupportable, and the bodily pain she had recently endured appeared light when compared with her present mental torture. Day at length dawned; but it brought with it no Ruth. Instead of this faithful friend, Dame Ipgreve entered the chamber with the morning meal, and her looks were so morose and distrustful, that Viviana feared she must have discovered her daughter's design. She did not, however, venture to make a remark, but suffered the old woman to depart in silence.
Giving up all for lost, and concluding that Humphrey Chetham had either perished, or was, like herself, a prisoner, Viviana bitterly bewailed his fate, and reproached herself with being unintentionally the cause of it. Later in the day, Ruth entered the cell. To Viviana's eager inquiries she replied, that Humphrey Chetham had escaped. Owing to the darkness, the sentinel had missed his aim, and although the most rigorous search was instituted throughout the fortress, he had contrived to elude observation.
“Our attempt,” pursued Ruth, “must be made this evening. The lieutenant has informed my father that you are to be interrogated at midnight, the chirurgeon having declared that you are sufficiently recovered to undergo the torture (if needful) a second time. Now listen to me. The occurrence of last night has made my mother suspicious, and she watches my proceedings with a jealous eye. She is at this moment with a female prisoner in the Beauchamp Tower, or I should not be able to visit you. She has consented, however, to let me bring in your supper. You must then change dresses with me. Being about my height, you may easily pass for me, and I will take care there is no light below, so that your features will not be distinguished.”
Viviana would have checked her, but the other would not be interrupted.
“As soon as you are ready,” she continued, “you must lock the door upon me. You must then descend the short flight of steps before you, and pass as quickly as you can through the room where you will see my father and mother. As soon as you are out of the door, turn to the left, and go straight forward to the By-ward Tower. Show this pass to the warders. It is made out in my name, and they will suffer you to go forth. Do the same with the warders at the next gate,—the Middle Tower,—and again at the Bulwark Gate. That passed, you are free.”
“And what will become of you?” asked Viviana, with a bewildered look.
“Never mind me,” rejoined Ruth: “I shall be sufficiently rewarded if I save you. And now, farewell. Be ready at the time appointed.”
“I cannot consent,” returned Viviana.
“You have no choice,” replied Ruth, breaking from her, and hurrying out of the room.
Time, as it ever does, when expectation is on the rack, appeared to pass with unusual slowness. But as the hour at length drew near, Viviana wished it farther off. It was with the utmost trepidation that she heard the key turn in the lock, and beheld Ruth enter the cell with the evening meal.
Closing the door, and setting down the provisions, the jailer's daughter hastily divested herself of her dress, which was of brown serge, as well as of her coif and kerchief, while Viviana imitated her example. Without pausing to attire herself in the other's garments, Ruth then assisted Viviana to put on the dress she had just laid aside, and arranged her hair and the head-gear so skilfully, that the disguise was complete.
Hastily whispering some further instructions to her, and explaining certain peculiarities in her gait and deportment, she then pressed her to her bosom, and led her to the door. Viviana would have remonstrated, but Ruth pushed her through it, and closed it.
There was now no help, so Viviana, though with great pain to herself, contrived to turn the key in the lock. Descending the steps, she found herself in a small circular chamber, in which Ipgreve and his wife were seated at a table, discussing their evening meal. The sole light was afforded by a few dying embers on the hearth.
“What! has she done, already?” demanded the old woman, as Viviana appeared. “Why hast thou not brought the jelly with thee, if she has not eaten it all, and those cates, which Master Pilchard, the chirurgeon, ordered her? Go and fetch them directly. They will finish our repast daintily; and there are other matters too, which I dare say she has not touched. She will pay for them, and that will make them the sweeter. Go back, I say. What dost thou stand there for, as if thou wert thunderstruck? Dost hear me, or not?”
“Let the wench alone, dame,” growled Ipgreve. “You frighten her.”
“So I mean to do,” replied the old woman; “she deserves to be frightened. Hark thee, girl, we must get an order from her on some wealthy Catholic family without delay—for I don't think she will stand the trial to-night.”
“Nor I,” added Ipgreve, “especially as she is to be placed on the rack.”
“She has a chain of gold round her throat, I have observed,” said the old woman; “we must get that.”
“I have it,” said Viviana, in a low tone, and imitating as well as she could the accents of Ruth. “Here it is.”
“Did she give it thee?” cried the old woman, getting up, and grasping Viviana's lacerated fingers with such force, that she had difficulty in repressing a scream. “Did she give it thee, I say?”
“She gave it me for you,” gasped Viviana. “Take it.”
While the old woman held the chain to the fire, and called to her husband to light a lamp, that she might feast her greedy eyes upon it, Viviana flew to the door.
Just as she reached it, the shrill voice of Dame Ipgreve arrested her.
“Come back!” cried the dame. “Whither art thou going at this time of night? I will not have thee stir forth. Come back, I say.”
“Pshaw! let her go,” interposed Ipgreve. “I dare say she hath an appointment on the Green with young Nicholas Hardesty, the warder. Go, wench. Be careful of thyself, and return within the hour.”
“If she does not, she will rue it,” added the dame. “Go, then, and I will see the prisoner.”
Viviana required no further permission. Starting off as she had been directed on the left, she ran as fast as her feet could carry her; and, passing between two arched gateways, soon reached the By-ward Tower. Showing the pass to the warder, he chucked her under the chin, and, drawing an immense bolt, opened the wicket, and gallantly helped her to pass through it. The like good success attended her at the Middle Tower, and at the Bulwark Gate. Scarcely able to credit her senses, and doubting whether she was indeed free, she hurried on till she came to the opening leading to the stairs at Petty Wales. As she hesitated, uncertain what to do, a man advanced towards and addressed her by name. It was Humphrey Chetham. Overcome by emotion, Viviana sank into his arms, and in another moment she was placed in a wherry, which was ordered to be rowed towards Westminster.
CHAPTER IX.
THE COUNTERPLOT.
Startled, but not dismayed—for he was a man of great courage—by the sudden address and appearance of Guy Fawkes, Lord Mounteagle instantly sprang to his feet, and drawing his sword, put himself into a posture of defence.
“You have betrayed me,” he cried, seizing Tresham with his left hand; “but if I fall, you shall fall with me.”
“You have betrayed yourself, my lord,” rejoined Guy Fawkes; “or rather, Heaven has placed you in our hands as an instrument for the liberation of Viviana Radcliffe. You must take an oath of secrecy—a binding oath,—such as, being a good Catholic, you cannot break,—not to divulge what has come to your knowledge. Nay, you must join me and my confederates, or you quit not this spot with life.”
“I refuse your terms,” replied Mounteagle, resolutely; “I will never conspire against the monarch to whom I have sworn allegiance. I will not join you. I will not aid you in procuring Viviana Radcliffe's release. Nor will I take the oath you propose. On the contrary, I arrest you as a traitor, and I command you, Tresham, in the King's name, to assist me in his capture.”
But suddenly extricating himself from the grasp imposed upon him, and placing Guy Fawkes between him and the Earl, Tresham rejoined,—
“It is time to throw off the mask, my good lord and brother. I can render you no assistance. I am sworn to this league, and must support it. Unless you assent to the conditions proposed,—and which for your own sake I would counsel you to do,—I must, despite our near relationship, take part against you,—even,” he added, significantly, “if your destruction should be resolved upon.”
“I will sell my life dearly, as you shall find,” replied Mounteagle. “And, but for the sake of my dear lady, your sister, I would stab you where you stand.”
“Your lordship will find resistance in vain,” replied Guy Fawkes, keeping his eye steadily fixed upon him. “We seek not your life, but your co-operation. You are a prisoner.”
“A prisoner!” echoed Mounteagle, derisively. “You have not secured me yet.”
And as he spoke, he rushed towards the door, but his departure was checked by Bates, who presented himself at the entrance of the passage with a drawn sword in his hand. At the same moment, Catesby and Keyes issued from the closet, while Garnet and the other conspirators likewise emerged from their hiding-places. Hearing the noise behind him, Lord Mounteagle turned, and beholding the group, uttered an exclamation of surprise and rage.
“I am fairly entrapped,” he said, sheathing his sword, and advancing towards them. “Fool that I was, to venture hither!”
“These regrets are too late, my lord,” replied Catesby. “You came hither of your own accord. But being here, nothing, except compliance with our demands, can ensure your departure.”
“Yes, one thing else,” thought Mounteagle,—"cunning. It shall go hard if I cannot outwit you. Tresham will act with me. I know his treacherous nature too well to doubt which way he will incline. Interest, as well as relationship, binds him to me. He will acquaint me with their plans. I need not, therefore, compromise myself by joining them. If I take the oath of secrecy, it will suffice—and I will find means of eluding the obligation. I may thus make my own bargain with Salisbury. But I must proceed cautiously. Too sudden a compliance might awaken their suspicions.”
“My lord,” said Catesby, who had watched his countenance narrowly, and distrusted its expression, “we must have no double-dealing. Any attempt to play us false will prove fatal to you.”
“I have not yet consented to your terms, Mr. Catesby,” replied Mounteagle, “and I demand a few moments' reflection before I do so.”
“What say you, gentlemen?” said Catesby. “Do you agree to his lordship's request?”
There was a general answer in the affirmative.
“I would also confer for a moment alone with my brother Tresham,” said Mounteagle.
“That cannot be, my lord,” rejoined Garnet, peremptorily. “And take heed you meditate no treachery towards us, or you will destroy yourself here and hereafter.”
“I have no desire to speak with him, father,” observed Tresham. “Let him declare what he has to say before you all.”
Mounteagle looked hard at him, but he made no remark.
“In my opinion, we ought not to trust him,” observed Keyes. “It is plain he is decidedly opposed to us. And if the oath is proposed to him, he may take it with some mental reservation.”
“I will guard against that,” replied Garnet.
“If I take the oath, I will keep it, father,” rejoined Mounteagle. “But I have not yet decided.”
“You must do so, then, quickly, my lord,” returned Catesby. “You shall have five minutes for reflection. But first, you must deliver up your sword.”
The Earl started.
“We mean you no treachery, my lord,” observed Keyes, “and expect to be dealt with with equal fairness.”
Surrendering his sword to Catesby, Mounteagle then walked to the farther end of the room, and leaning against the wall, with his back to the conspirators, appeared buried in thought.
“Take Tresham aside,” whispered Catesby to Wright. “I do not wish him to overhear our conference. Watch him narrowly, and see that no signal passes between him and Lord Mounteagle.”
Wright obeyed; and the others gathering closely together, began to converse in a low tone.
“It will not do to put him to death,” observed Garnet. “From what he stated to Tresham, it appears that his servant was aware of his coming hither. If he disappears, therefore, search will be immediately made, and all will be discovered. We must either instantly secure ourselves by flight, and give up the enterprise, or trust him.”
“You are right, father,” replied Rookwood. “The danger is imminent.”
“We are safe at present,” observed Percy, “and may escape to France or Flanders before information can be given against us. Nay, we may carry off Mounteagle with us, for that matter. But I am loth to trust him.”
“So am I,” rejoined Catesby. “I do not like his looks.”
“There is no help,” said Fawkes. “We must trust him, or give up the enterprise. He may materially aid us, and has himself asserted that he can procure Viviana's liberation from the Tower.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Catesby, impatiently. “What has that to do with the all-important question we are now considering?”
“Much,” returned Fawkes. “And I will not move further in the matter unless that point is insisted on.”
“You have become strangely interested in Viviana of late,” observed Catesby, sarcastically. “Could I suspect you of so light a passion, I should say you loved her.”
A deep flush dyed Fawkes's swarthy cheeks, but he answered in a voice of constrained calmness,
“I do love her,—as a daughter.”
“Humph!” exclaimed the other, drily.
“Catesby,” rejoined Fawkes, sternly, “you know me well—too well, to suppose I would resort to any paltry subterfuge. I am willing to let what you have said pass. But I counsel you not to jest thus in future.”
“Jest!” exclaimed Catesby. “I was never more serious in my life.”
“Then you do me wrong,” retorted Fawkes, fiercely; “and you will repeat the insinuation at your peril.”
“My sons—my sons,” interposed Garnet, “what means this sudden—this needless quarrel, at a moment when we require the utmost calmness to meet the danger that assails us? Guy Fawkes is right. Viviana must be saved. If we desert her, our cause will never prosper. But let us proceed step by step, and first decide upon what is to be done with Lord Mounteagle.”
“I am filled with perplexity,” replied Catesby.
“Then I will decide for you,” replied Percy. “Our project must be abandoned.”
“Never,” replied Fawkes, energetically. “Fly, and secure your own safety. I will stay and accomplish it alone.”
“A brave resolution!” exclaimed Catesby, tendering him his hand, which the other cordially grasped. “I will stand by you to the last. No—we have advanced too far to retreat.”
“Additional caution will be needful,” observed Keyes. “Can we not make it a condition with Lord Mounteagle to retire, till the blow is struck, to his mansion at Hoxton?”