The Story of Francis Cludde

  CHAPTER XIX.

  FERDINAND CLUDDE.

  The bitterness of that hour long past, when he had left me for death,when he had played with the human longing for life, and strivenwithout a thought of pity to corrupt me by hopes and fears the mostawful that mortals know, was in my voice as I spoke. I rejoiced thatvengeance had come upon him at last, and that I was its instrument. Isaw the pallor of a great fear creep into his dark cheek, and read inhis eyes the vicious passion of a wild beast trapped, and felt nopity. "Master Clarence!" I said, and laughed--laughed mockingly. "Youdo not look pleased to see your friends. Or perhaps you do notremember me. Stand forward, Master Bertie! Maybe he will recognizeyou."

  But though Master Bertie came forward and stood by my side gazing athim, the villain's eyes did not for an instant shift from mine. "It isthe man!" my companion said after a solemn pause--for the other,breathing fast, made no answer. "He was a spy in the pay of BishopGardiner, when I knew him. At the Bishop's death I heard that hepassed into the service of the Spanish Ambassador, the Count de Feria.He called himself at that time Clarence. I recognize him."

  The quiet words had their effect. From full one-half of the savagecrew round us a fierce murmur rose more terrible than any loud outcry.Yet this seemed a relief to the doomed man; he forced himself to lookaway from me and to confront the dark ring of menacing faces whichhemmed him in. The moment he did so he appeared to find courage andwords. "They take me for another man!" he cried in hoarse accents. "Iknow nothing of them!" and he added a fearful oath. "He knows me. Askhim!"

  He pointed to Walter Kingston, who was sitting moodily on a tramoutside the ring, and who alone had not risen under the excitement ofmy challenge. On being thus appealed to he looked up suddenly. "If Iam to choose between you," he said bitterly, "and say which is thetrue man, I know which I shall pick."

  "Which?" Clarence murmured. "Which?" This time his tone was different.In his voice was the ring of hope.

  "I should give my vote for you," Kingston replied, lookingcontemptuously at him. "I know something about you, but of the othergentleman I know nothing!"

  "And not much of the person you call Crewdson," I retorted fiercely,"since you do not know his real name."

  "I know this much," the young man answered, tapping his boot with hisscabbard with studied carelessness, "that he lent me some money, andseemed a good fellow and one that hated a mass priest. That is enoughfor me. As for his name, it is his fancy perhaps. You call yourselfCarey. Well, I know a good many Careys, but I do not know you, norever heard of you!"

  I swung round on him with a hot cheek. But the challenge which wasupon my tongue was anticipated by Master Bertie, who drew me forciblyback. "Leave this to me, Francis," he said, "and do you watch thatman. Master Kingston and gentlemen," he continued, turning again tothem, and drawing himself to his full height as he addressed them,"listen, if you please! You know me, if you do not know my friend. Thehonor of Richard Bertie has never been challenged until to-night, norever will be with impunity. Leave my friend out of the question andput me in it. I, Richard Bertie, say that that man is a paid spy andinformer, come here in quest of blood-money! And he, Crewdson, anameless man, says that I lie. Choose between us. Or look at him andjudge! Look!"

  He was right to bid them look. As the savage murmur rose again andtook from the wretched man his last hope, as the ugliness of despairand wicked, impotent passion distorted his face, he was indeed themost deadly witness against himself.

  The lights which shone on treacherous weapons half hidden, or on theglittering eyes of cruel men whose blood was roused, fell on nothingso dangerous as the livid, despairing face which, unmasked and eyed byall with aversion, still defied us. Traitor and spy as he was, he hadthe merit of courage at least; he would die game. And even as I, witha first feeling of pity for him, discerned this, his sword was out,and with a curse he lunged at me.

  Penruddocke saved me by a buffet which sent me reeling against thewall, so that the villain's thrust was spent on air. Before he couldrepeat it, four or five men flung themselves upon him from behind. Fora moment there was a great uproar, while the group surrounding himswayed to and fro as he dragged his captors up and down with astrength I should not have expected. But the end was certain, and westood looking on quietly. In a minute or two they had him down, anddisarming him, bound his hands.

  For me he seemed to have a special hatred. "Curse you!" he panted,glaring at me as he lay helpless. "You have been my evil angel! Fromthe first day I saw you, you have thwarted me in every plan, and nowyou have brought me to this!"

  "Not I, but yourself," I answered.

  "My curse upon you!" he cried again, the rage and hate in his face soterrible that I turned away shuddering and sick at heart. "If I couldhave killed you," he cried, "I would have died contented."

  "Enough!" interposed Penruddocke briskly. "It is well for us thatMaster Bertie and his friend came here to-night. Heaven grant it benot too late! We do not need," he added, looking round, "any moreevidence, I think?"

  The dissent was loud, and, save for Kingston, who still sat sulkingapart, unanimous.

  "Death?" said the Cornishman quietly.

  No one spoke, but each man gave a brief stern nod.

  "Very well," the leader continued; "then I propose----"

  "One moment," said Master Bertie, interrupting him. "A word with youapart, with our friends' permission. You can repeat it to themafterward."

  He drew Sir Thomas aside, and they retired into the corner by thedoor, where they stood talking in whispers. I had small reason to feelsympathy for the man who lay there tied and doomed to die like a calf.Yet even I shuddered--yes, and some of the hardened men round meshuddered also at the awful expression in his eyes as, without movinghis head, he followed the motions of the two by the door. Some fainthope springing into being wrung his soul, and brought the perspirationin great drops to his forehead. I turned away, thinking gravely of theearly morning three years ago when he had tortured me by the very samehopes and fears which now racked his own spirit.

  Penruddocke came back, Master Bertie following him.

  "It must not be done to-night," he announced quietly, with a nod whichmeant that he would explain the reason afterward. "We will meet againto-morrow at four in the afternoon instead of at eight in the evening.Until then two must remain on guard with him. It is right he shouldhave some time to repent, and he shall have it."

  This did not at once find favor.

  "Why not run him through now?" said one bluntly. "And meet to-morrowat some place unknown to him? If we come here again we shall, likelyenough, walk straight into the trap."

  "Well, have it that way, if you please," answered Sir Thomas,shrugging his shoulders. "But do not blame me afterward if you find wehave let slip a golden opportunity. Be fools if you like. I dare sayit will not make much difference in the end!"

  He spoke at random, but he knew how to deal with his crew, it seemed,for on this those who had objected assented reluctantly to the coursehe proposed. "Barnes and Walters are here in hiding, so they hadbetter be the two to guard him," he continued. "There is no fear thatthey will be inclined to let him go!" I looked at the men whom theglances of their fellows singled out, and found them to belong to thelittle knot of fanatics I had before remarked: dark, stern men, worth,if the matter ever came to fighting, all the rest of the band puttogether.

  "At four, to-morrow, then, we meet," Sir Thomas concluded lightly."Then we will deal with him, never fear! Now it is near midnight, andwe must be going. But not all together, or we shall attractattention."

  Half an hour later Master Bertie and I rode softly out of thecourtyard and turned our faces toward the city. The night wind camesweeping across the valley of the Thames, and met us full in the faceas we reached the brow of the hill. It seemed laden with melancholywhispers. The wretched enterprise, ill-conceived, ill-ordered, and inits very nature desperate, to which we were in honor committed, wouldhave accounted of
itself for any degree of foreboding. But the scenethrough which we had just passed, and on my part the knowledge that Ihad given up a fellow-being to death, had their depressing influences.For some distance we rode in silence, which I was the first to break.

  "Why did you put off his punishment?" I asked.

  "Because I think he will give us information in the interval," Bertieanswered briefly. "Information which may help us. A spy is generallyready to betray his own side upon occasion."

  "And you will spare him if he does?" I asked. It seemed to me neitherjustice nor mercy.

  "No," he said, "there is no fear of that. Those who go with ropesround their necks know no mercy. But drowning men will catch atstraws; and ten to one he will babble!"

  I shivered. "It is a bad business," I said.

  He thought I referred to the conspiracy, and he inveighed bitterlyagainst it, reproaching himself for bringing me into it, and for hisfolly in believing the rosy accounts of men who had all to win, andnothing save their worthless lives to lose. "There is only one thinggained," he said. "We are likely to pay dearly for that, so we maythink the more of it. We have been the means of punishing a villain."

  "Yes," I said, "that is true. It was a strange meeting and a strangerecognition. Strangest of all that I should be called up to swear withhim."

  "Not strange," Master Bertie answered gravely. "I would rather call itprovidential. Let us think of that, and be of better courage, friend.We have been used; we shall not be cast away before our time."

  I looked back. For some minutes I had thought I heard behind us alight footstep, more like the pattering of a dog than anything else. Icould see nothing, but that was not wonderful, for the moon was youngand the sky overcast. "Do you hear some one following us?" I said.

  Master Bertie drew rein suddenly, and turning in the saddle welistened. For a second I thought I still heard the sound. The next itceased, and only the wind toying with the November leaves and sighingaway in the distance, came to our ears. "No," he said, "I think itmust have been your fancy. I hear nothing."

  But when we rode on the sound began again, though at first morefaintly, as if our follower had learned prudence and fallen fartherbehind. "Do not stop, but listen!" I said softly. "Cannot you hear thepattering of a naked foot now?"

  "I hear something," he answered. "I am afraid you are right, and thatwe are followed."

  "What is to be done?" I said, my thoughts busy.

  "There is Caen wood in front," he answered, "with a little open groundon this side of it. We will ride under the trees and then stopsuddenly. Perhaps we shall be able to distinguish him as he crossesthe open behind us." We made the experiment; but as if our followerhad divined the plan, his footstep ceased to sound before we hadstopped our horses. He had fallen farther behind. "We might ridequickly back," I suggested, "and surprise him."

  "It would be useless," Bertie answered. "There is too much cover closeto the road. Let us rather trot on and outstrip him."

  We did trot on; and what with the tramp of our horses as they swungalong the road, and the sharp passage of the wind by our ears, weheard no more of the footstep behind. But when we presently pulled upto breathe our horses--or rather within a few minutes of our doingso--there it was behind us, nearer and louder than before. I shiveredas I listened; and presently, acting on a sudden impulse, I wheeled myhorse round and spurred him back a dozen paces along the road.

  I pulled up.

  There was a movement in the shadow of the trees on my right, and Ileaned forward, peering in that direction. Gradually, I made out thelines of a figure standing still as though gazing at me; a strange,distorted figure, crooked, short, and in some way, though no lineamentof the face was visible, expressive of a strange and weirdmalevolence. It was the witch! The witch whom I had seen in thekitchen at the Gatehouse. How, then, had she come hither? How had she,old, lame, decrepit, kept up with us?

  I trembled as she raised her hand, and, standing otherwise motionless,pointed at me out of the gloom. The horse under me was trembling too,trembling violently, with its ears laid back, and, as she moved, itsterror increased, it plunged wildly. I had to give for a moment all myattention to it, and though I tried, in mere revolt against the fearwhich I felt was overcoming me, to urge it nearer, my efforts werevain. After nearly unseating me, the beast whirled round and, gettingthe better of me, galloped down the road toward London.

  "What is it?" cried Master Bertie, as I came speedily up with him; hehad ridden slowly on. "What is the matter?"

  "Something in the hedge startled it," I explained, trying to soothethe horse. "I could not clearly see what it was."

  "A rabbit, I dare say," he remarked, deceived by my manner.

  "Perhaps it was," I answered. Some impulse, not unnatural, led me tosay nothing about what I had seen. I was not quite sure that my eyeshad not deceived me. I feared his ridicule, too, though he was notvery prone to ridicule. And above all I shrank from explaining themedley of superstitious fear, distrust, and abhorrence in which I heldthe creature who had shown so strange a knowledge of my life.

  We were already near Holborn, and reaching without further adventure amodest inn near the Bars, we retired to a room we had engaged, and laydown with none of the gallant hopes which had last night formed thesubject of our talk. Yet we slept well, for depression goes betterwith sleep than does the tumult of anticipation; and I was up early,and down in the yard looking to the horses before London was wellawake. As I entered the stable a man lying curled up in the strawrolled lazily over and, shading his eyes, glanced up. Apparently herecognized me, for he got slowly to his feet. "Morning!" he saidgruffly.

  I stood staring at him, wondering if I had made a mistake.

  "What are you doing here, my man?" I said sharply, when I had madecertain I knew him, and that he was really the surly ostler from theGatehouse tavern at Highgate. "Why did you come here? Why have youfollowed us?"

  "Come about your business," he answered. "To give you that."

  I took the note he held out to me. "From whom?" I said. "Who sent itby you?"

  "Cannot tell," he replied, shaking his head.

  "Cannot, or will not?" I retorted.

  "Both," he said doggedly. "But there, if you want to know what sort ofa kernel is in a nut, you don't shake the tree, master--you crack thenut."

  I looked at the note he had given me. It was but a slip of paperfolded thrice. The sender had not addressed, or sealed, or fastened itin anyway; had taken no care either to insure its reaching itsdestination or to prevent prying eyes seeing the contents. If one ofour associates had sent it, he had been guilty of the grossestcarelessness. "You are sure it is for me?" I said.

  "As sure as mortal can be," he answered. "Only that it was given mefor a man, and not a mouse! You are not afraid, master?"

  I was not; but he edged away as he spoke, and looked with so muchalarm at the scrap of paper that it was abundantly clear he was verymuch afraid himself, even while he derided me. I saw that if I hadoffered to return the note he would have backed out of the stable andgone off there and then as fast as his lame foot would let him. Thispuzzled me. However, I read the note. There was nothing in it tofrighten me. Yet, as I read, the color came into my face, for itcontained one name to which I had long been a stranger.

  "To Francis Cludde," it ran. "If you would not do a thing of which youwill miserably repent all your life, and which will stain you in theeyes of all Christian men, meet me two hours before noon at the crossstreet by St. Botolph's, where you first saw Mistress Bertram. Andtell no one. Fail not to come. In Heaven's name, fail not!"

  The note had nothing to do with the conspiracy, then, on the face ofit; mysterious as it was, and mysteriously as it came. "Look here!" Isaid to the man. "Tell me who sent it, and I will give you a crown."

  "I would not tell you," he answered stubbornly, "if you could make meKing of England! No, nor King of Spain too! You might rack me and youwould not get it from me!"

  His one eye glowed with so obstinate a resolv
e that I gave up theattempt to persuade him, and turned to examine the message itself. Buthere I fared no better. I did not know the handwriting, and there wasno peculiarity in the paper. I was no wiser than before. "Are you totake back any answer?" I said.

  "No," he replied, "the saints be thanked for the same! But you willbear me witness," he went on anxiously, "that I gave you the letter.You will not forget that, or say that you have not had it? But there!"he added to himself as he turned away, speaking in a low voice, sothat I barely caught the sense of the words, "what is the use? shewill know!"

  She will know! It had something to do with a woman then, even if awoman were not the writer. I went in to breakfast in two minds aboutgoing. I longed to tell Master Bertie and take his advice, though theunknown had enjoined me not to do so. But for the time I refrained,and explaining my absence of mind as well as I could, I presentlystole away on some excuse or other, and started in good time, and onfoot, into the city. I reached the rendezvous a quarter of an hourbefore the time named, and strolling between the church and thebaker's shop, tried to look as much like a chance passer-by as Icould, keeping the while a wary lookout for any one who might turn outto be my correspondent.

  The morning was cold and gray. A drizzling rain was falling. Thepassers were few, and the appearance of the streets dirty and, withlittered kennels, was dreary indeed. I found it hard at once to keepmyself warm and to avoid observation as I hung about. Ten o'clock hadrung from more than one steeple, and I was beginning to think myself afool for my pains, when a woman of middle height, slender and young infigure, but wearing a shabby brown cloak, and with her head muffled ina hood, as though she had the toothache or dreaded the weather morethan ordinary, turned the corner of the belfry and made straighttoward me. She drew near, and seemed about to pass me without notice.But when abreast of me she glanced up suddenly, her eyes the onlyfeatures I could see.

  "Follow me to the church!" she murmured gently. And she swept on tothe porch.

  I obeyed reluctantly; very reluctantly, my feet seeming like lead. ForI knew who she was. Though I had only seen her eyes, I had recognizedthem, and guessed already what her business with me was. She led theway resolutely to a quiet corner. The church was empty and still, withonly the scent of incense in the air to tell of a recent service. Itwas no surprise to me when she turned abruptly, and, removing herhood, looked me in the face.

  "What have you done with him?" she panted, laying her hand on my arm."Speak! Tell me what you have done with him?"

  The question, the very question, I had foreseen! Yet I tried to fencewith her. I said, "With whom?"

  "With whom?" she repeated bitterly. "You know me! I am not so changedin three years that you do not recognize me?"

  "No; I know you," I said.

  There was a hectic flush on her cheeks, and it seemed to me that thedark hair was thinner on her thin temples than when I had seen herlast. But the eyes were the same.

  "Then why ask with whom?" she cried passionately. "What have you donewith the man you called Clarence?"

  "Done with him?" I said feebly.

  "Ay, done with him? Come, speak and tell me!" she repeated in fierceaccents, her hand clutching my wrist, her eyes probing my face withmerciless glances. "Have you killed him? Tell me!"

  "Killed him, Mistress Anne?" I said sullenly. "No, I have not killedhim."

  "He is alive?" she cried.

  "For all I know, he is alive."

  She glared at me for some seconds to assure herself that I was tellingthe truth. Then she heaved a great sigh; her hands fell from mywrists, the color faded out of her face, and she lowered her eyes. Iglanced round with a momentary idea of escape--I so shrank from thatwhich was to come. But before I had well entertained the notion shelooked up, her face grown calm.

  "Then what have you done with him?" she asked.

  "I have done nothing with him," I answered.

  She laughed; a mirthless laugh. "Bah!" she said, "do not tell me lies!That is your honor, I suppose--your honor to your friends down in thecellar there! Do you think that I do not know all about them? Shall Igive you the list? He is a very dangerous conspirator, is Sir ThomasPenruddocke, is he not? And that scented dandy Master Kingston! OrMaster Crewdson--tell me of him! Tell me of him, I say!" sheexclaimed, with a sudden return from irony to a fierce eagerness, abreathless impatience. "Why did he not come up last night? What haveyou done with him?"

  I shook my head, sick and trembling. How could I tell her?

  "I see," she said. "You will not tell me. But you swear he is yetalive, Master Cludde? Good. Then you are holding him for a hostage? Isthat it?" with a piercing glance at my face. "Or, you have condemnedhim, but for some reason the sentence has not been executed!" She drewa long, deep breath, for I fear my face betrayed me. "That is it, isit? Then there is still time."

  She turned from me and looked toward the end of the aisle, where adull red lamp hanging before the altar glowed feebly in the warmscented air. She seemed so to turn and so to look in thankfulness, asif the news she had learned were good instead of what it was. "What isthe hour fixed?" she asked suddenly.

  I shook my head.

  "You will not tell me? Well, it matters not," she answered briskly."He must be saved. Do you hear? He must be saved, Master Cludde. Thatis your business."

  I shook my head.

  "You think it is not?" she said. "Well, I can show you it is! Listen!"

  She raised herself on a step of the font, and looked me harshly in theface. "If he be not given up to me safe and sound by sunset thisevening, I will betray you all! All! I have the list here," shemuttered sternly, touching her bosom. "You, Master Bertie,Penruddocke, Fleming, Barnes--all. All, do you hear? Give him up oryou shall hang!"

  "You would not do it!" I cried aghast, peering into her burning eyes.

  "Would not do it? Fool!" she hissed. "If all the world but he had onehead, I would cut it off to save his! He is my husband! Do you hear?He is my husband--my all! Do you think I have given up everything,friends and honor and safety, for him, to lose him now? No! You say Iwould not do it? Do you know what I have done? You have a scar there."

  She touched me lightly on the breast. "I did it," she said.

  "You?" I muttered.

  "Yes, I, you blind fool! I did it," she answered. "You escaped then,and I was glad of it, since the wound answered my purpose. But youwill not escape again. The cord is surer."

  Something in her last words crossed my memory and enlightened me.

  "You were the woman I saw last night," I said. "You followed us fromHigh gate."

  "What matter! What matter!" she exclaimed impatiently. "Better befootsore than heartsore. Will you do now what I want? Will you answerfor his life?"

  "I can do nothing without the others," I said.

  "But the others know nothing," she answered. "They do not know theirown danger. Where will you find them?"

  "I shall find them," I replied resolutely. "And in any case I mustconsult Master Bertie. Will you come and see him?"

  "And be locked up too?" she said sternly, and in a different tone."No. It is you must do this, and you must answer for it, FrancisCludde. You, and no one else."

  "I can do nothing by myself," I repeated.

  "Ay, but you can--you must!" she retorted, "or Heaven's curse will beupon you! You think me mad to say that. Listen! Listen, fool! The manwhom you have condemned, whom you have left to die, is not only myhusband, wedded to me these three years, but your father--your father,Ferdinand Cludde!"