The Story of Francis Cludde

  CHAPTER XXI.

  MY FATHER.

  Tell him all? I stood thinking, my hand on the key. The voices of therearmost of the conspirators sounded more and more faintly as theypassed up the shaft, until their last accents died in the room above,and silence followed; a silence in strange contrast with the brightglare of the torches which burned round me and lit up the empty cellaras for a feast. I was wondering what he would say when I told himall--when I said "I am your son! I, whom Providence has used to thwartyour plans, whose life you sought, whom, without a thought of pity,you left to perish! I am your son!"

  Infinitely I dreaded the moment when I should tell him this, and hearhis answer; and I lingered with my hand on the key until an abruptknocking on the other side of the door brought the blood to my face.Before I could turn the key the hasty summons was repeated, and grewto a frantic, hurried drumming on the boards--a sound which plainlytold of terror suddenly conceived and in an instant full-grown. Ahoarse cry followed, coming dully to my ears through the thickness ofthe door, and the next moment the stout planks shook as a heavy weightfell against them.

  I turned the key, and the door was flung open from within. My fatherstumbled out.

  The strong light for an instant blinded him, and he blinked as an owldoes brought to the sunshine. Even in him the long hours passed insolitude and the blackness of despair had worked changes. His hair wasgrayer; in patches it was almost white, and then again dark. He hadgnawed his lower lip, and there were bloodstains on it. His mustache,too, was ragged and torn, as if he had gnawed that also. His eyes werebloodshot, his lean face was white and haggard and fierce.

  "Ha!" he cried, trembling, as he peered round, "I thought they hadleft me to starve! There were rats in there! I thought----"

  He stopped. He saw me standing holding the edge of the door. He sawthat otherwise the room was empty, the farther door leading to theshaft open. An open door! To him doubtless it seemed of all sights themost wonderful, the most heavenly! His knees began to shake under him.

  "What is it?" he muttered. "What were they shouting about? I heardthem shouting."

  "The queen is dying," I answered simply, "or dead, and you can do usno more harm. You are free."

  "Free?" He repeated the word, leaning against the wall, his eyes wildand glaring, his lips parted.

  "Yes, free," I answered, in a lower voice--"free to go out into theair of heaven a living man!" I paused. For a moment I could notcontinue. Then I added solemnly, "Sir, Providence has saved you fromdeath, and me from a crime."

  He leaned still against the wall, dazed, thunderstruck, almostincredulous, and looked from me to the open door and back again as ifwithout this constant testimony of his eyes he could not believe inhis escape.

  "It was not Anne?" he murmured. "She did not----"

  "She tried to save your life," I answered; "but they would not listento her."

  "Did she come here?"

  As he spoke, he straightened himself with an effort and stood up. Hewas growing more like himself.

  "No," I answered. "She sent for me and told me her terms. But Kingstonand the others would not listen to them. You would have been dead now,though I did all I could to save you, if Penruddocke had not broughtthis news of the queen."

  "She is dead?"

  "She is dying. The Spanish Ambassador," I added, to clinch the matter,for I saw he doubted, "rode through here this afternoon to pay hiscourt to the Princess Elizabeth at Hatfield."

  He looked down at the ground, thinking deeply. Most men would havebeen unable to think at all, unable to concentrate their thoughts onanything save their escape from death. But a life of daily risk andhazard had so hardened this man that I was certain, as I watched him,that he was not praying nor giving thanks. He was already ponderinghow he might make the most out of the change; how he might to the bestadvantage sell his knowledge of the government whose hours werenumbered to the government which soon would be. The life of intriguehad become second nature to him.

  He looked up and our eyes met. We gazed at one another.

  "Why are you here?" he said curiously. "Why did they leave you? Whywere you the one to stop to set me free, Master Carey?"

  "My name is not Carey," I answered.

  "What is it, then?" he asked carelessly.

  "Cludde," I answered softly.

  "Cludde!" He called it out. Even his self-mastery could not cope withthis surprise. "Cludde," he said again--said it twice in a lowervoice.

  "Yes, Cludde," I answered, meeting and yet shrinking from hisquestioning eyes, "my name is Cludde. So is yours. I tried to saveyour life, because I learned from Mistress Anne----"

  I paused. I shrank from telling him that which, as it seemed to me,would strike him to the ground in shame and horror. But he had nofear.

  "What?" he cried. "What did you learn?"

  "That you are my father," I answered slowly. "I am Francis Cludde, theson whom you deserted many years ago, and to whom Sir Anthony gave ahome at Coton."

  I expected him to do anything except what he did. He stared at me withastonished eyes for a minute, and then a low whistle issued from hislips.

  "My son, are you! My son!" he said coolly. "And how long have youknown this, young sir?"

  "Since yesterday," I murmured. The words he had used on that morningat Santon, when he had bidden me die and rot, were fresh in mymemory--in my memory, not in his. I recalled his treachery to theDuchess, his pursuit of us, his departure with Anne, the words inwhich he had cursed me. He remembered apparently none of these things,but simply gazed at me with a thoughtful smile.

  "I wish I had known it before," he said at last. "Things might havebeen different. A pretty dutiful son you have been!"

  The sneer did me good. It recalled to my mind what Master Bertie hadsaid.

  "There can be no question of duty between us," I answered firmly."What duty I owe to any one of my family, I owe to my uncle."

  "Then why have you told me this?"

  "Because I thought it right you should know it," I answered, "were itonly that, knowing it, we may go different ways. We have nearly doneone another a mischief more than once," I added gravely.

  He laughed. He was not one whit abashed by the discovery, nor awed,nor cast down. There was even in his cynical face a gleam ofkindliness and pride as he scanned me. We were almost of a height--Ithe taller by an inch or two; and in our features I believe there wasa likeness, though not such as to invite remark.

  "You have grown to be a chip of the old block," he said coolly. "Iwould as soon have you for a son as another. I think on the whole I ampleased. You talked of Providence just now"--this with a laugh ofserene amusement--"and perhaps you were right. Perhaps there is such athing. For I am growing old, and lo! it gives me a son to take care ofme."

  I shook my head. I could never be that kind of son to him.

  "Wait a bit," he said, frowning slightly. "You think your side is upand mine is down, and I can do you no good now, but only harm. You areashamed of me. Well, wait," he continued, nodding confidently. "Do notbe too sure that I cannot help you. I have been wrecked a dozen times,but I never yet failed to find a boat that would take me to shore."

  Yes, he was so arrogant in the pride of his many deceits that an hourafter Heaven had stretched out its hand to save him, he denied itspower and took the glory to himself. I did not know what to say tohim, how to undeceive him, how to tell him that it was not the failureof his treachery which shamed me, but the treachery itself. I couldonly remain silent.

  And so he mistook me; and, after pondering a moment with his chin inhis hand, he continued:

  "I have a plan, my lad. The Queen dies. Well--I am no bigot--long livethe Queen and the Protestant religion! The down will be up and the updown, and the Protestants will be everything. It will go hard thenwith those who cling to the old faith."

  He looked at me with a crafty smile, his head on one side.

  "I do not understand," I said col
dly.

  "Then listen. Sir Anthony, will hold by his religion. He used to be acholeric gentleman, and as obstinate as a mule. He will need but to bepricked up a little, and he will get into trouble with the authoritiesas sure as eggs are eggs. I will answer for it. And then----"

  "Well?" I said grimly. How was I to observe even a show of respect forhim when I was quivering with fierce wrath and abhorrence? "Do youthink that will benefit _you?_" I cried. "Do you think that you are sohigh in favor with Cecil and the Protestants that they will set you inSir Anthony's place? You!"

  He looked at me still more craftily, not put out by my indignation,but rather amused by it.

  "No, lad, not me," he replied, with tolerant good-nature. "I amsomewhat blown upon of late. But Providence has not given me back myson for nothing. I am not alone in the world now. I must remember myfamily. I must think a little of others as well as of myself."

  "What do you mean?" I said, recoiling.

  He scanned me for a moment, with his eyes half-shut, his head on oneside. Then he laughed, a cynical, jarring laugh.

  "Good boy!" he said. "Excellent boy! He knows no more than he is told.His hands are clean, and he has friends upon the winning side who willnot see him lose a chance, should a chance turn up. Be satisfied. Keepyour hands clean if you like, boy. We understand one another."

  He laughed again and turned away; and, much as I dreaded and dislikedhim, there was something in the indomitable nature of the man whichwrung from me a meed of admiration. Could the best of men haverecovered more quickly from despair? Could the best of men, theirplans failing, have begun to spin fresh webs with equal patience?Could the most courageous and faithful of those who have tried to workthe world's bettering, have faced the downfall of their hopes withstouter hearts, with more genuine resignation? Bad as he was, he hadcourage and endurance beyond the common.

  He came back to me when he had gone a few paces.

  "Do you know where my sword is?" he asked in a matter-of-fact tone, asone might ask a question of an old comrade.

  I found it cast aside behind the door. He took it from me, grumblingover a nick in the edge, which he had caused by some desperate blowwhen he was seized. He fastened it on with an oath. I could not lookat the sword without remembering how nearly he had taken my life withit. The recollection did not trouble him in the slightest.

  "Now farewell!" he said carelessly, "I am going to turn over a newleaf, and begin returning good for evil. Do you go to your friends anddo your work, and I will go to my friends and do mine."

  Then with a nod he walked briskly away, and I heard him climb theladder and depart.

  What was he going to do? I was so deeply amazed by the interview thatI did not understand. I had thought him a wicked man, but I had notconceived the hardness of his nature. As I stood alone looking roundthe vault, I could hardly believe that I had met and spoken to myfather, and told him I was his son--and this was all! I could hardlybelieve that he had gone away with this knowledge, unmoved andunrepentant; alike unwarned by the Providence which had used me tothwart his schemes, and untouched by the beneficence which had thriceheld him back from the crime of killing me--ay, proof even against thelong-suffering which had plucked him from the abyss and given him onemore chance of repentance.

  I found Master Bertie in the stables waiting for me with someimpatience. Of which, upon the whole, I was glad. For I had no wish tobe closely questioned, and the account I gave him of the interviewmight at another time have seemed disjointed and incoherent. Helistened to it, however, without remark; and his next words made itclear that he had other matters in his mind.

  "I do not know what to do about fetching the Duchess over," he said."This news seems to be true, and she ought to be here."

  "Certainly," I agreed.

  "The country in general is well affected to the Princess Elizabeth,"he continued. "Yet the interests of the Bishops, of the Spanishfaction, and of some of the council, will lie in giving trouble. Toavoid this, we should show our strength. Therefore I want the Duchessto come over with all speed. Will you fetch her?" he added sharply,turning to me.

  "Will I?" I cried in surprise.

  "Yes, you. I cannot well go myself at this crisis. Will you goinstead?"

  "Of course I will," I answered.

  And the prospect cheered me wonderfully. It gave me something to do,and opened my eyes to the great change of which Penruddocke had beenthe herald, a change which was even then beginning. As we rode downHighgate Hill that day, messengers were speeding north and south andeast and west, to Norwich and Bristol and Canterbury and Coventry andYork, with the tidings that the somber rule under which England hadgroaned for five years and more was coming to an end. If in a dozentowns of England they roped their bells afresh; if in every county, asPenruddocke had prophesied, they got their tar-barrels ready; if all,save a few old-fashioned folk and a few gloomy bigots and hystericalwomen, awoke as from an evil dream; if even sensible men saw in thecoming of the young queen a panacea for all their ills--a quenching ofSmithfield fires, a Calais recovered, a cure for the worthless coinagewhich hampered trade, and a riddance of worthless foreigners whoplundered it--with better roads, purer justice, a fuller Exchequer,more favorable seasons--if England read all this in that news ofPenruddocke's, was it not something to us also?

  It was indeed. We were saved at the last moment from the dangerousenterprise on which we had rashly embarked. We had now such prospectsbefore us as only the success of that scheme could have ordinarilyopened. Ease and honor instead of the gallows, and to lie warm insteadof creaking in the wind! Thinking of this, I fell into a better frameof mind as I jogged along toward London. For what, after all, was myfather to me, that his existence should make me unhappy, or rob mineof all pleasure? I had made a place for myself in the world. I hadearned friends for myself. He might take away my pride in the one, buthe could never rob me of the love of the others--of those who hadeaten and drunk and fought and suffered beside me, and for whom I toohad fought and suffered!

  * * * * *

  "A strange time for the swallows to come back," said my lady, turningto smile at me, as I rode on her off-side.

  It would have been strange, indeed, if there had been swallows in theair. For it was the end of December. The roads were frost-bound andthe trees leafless. The east wind, gathering force in its rush acrossthe Essex marshes, whirled before it the last trophies of HainaultForest, and seemed, as it whistled by our ears and shaved our faces,to grudge us the shelter to which we were hastening. The long trainbehind us--for the good times of which we had talked so often hadcome--were full of the huge fire we expected to find at the inn atBarking--our last stage on the road to London. And if the Duchess andI bore the cold more patiently, it was probably because we had morefood for thought--and perhaps thicker raiment.

  "Do not shake your head," she continued, glancing at me with mischiefin her eyes, "and flatter yourself you will not go back, but will goon making yourself and some one else unhappy. You will do nothing ofthe kind, Francis. Before the spring comes you and I will ride overthe drawbridge at Coton End, or I am a Dutchwoman!"

  "I cannot see that things are changed," I said.

  "Not changed?" she replied. "When you left, you were nobody. Nowyou are somebody, if it be only in having a sister with a dozenserving-men in her train. Leave it to me. And now, thank Heaven, weare here! I am so stiff and cold, you must lift me down. We have notto ride far after dinner, I hope."

  "Only seven miles," I answered, as the host, who had been warned by anoutrider to expect us, came running out with a tail at his heels.

  "What news from London, Master Landlord?" I said to him as he led usthrough the kitchen, where there was indeed a great fire, but nochimney, and so to a smaller room possessing both these luxuries. "Isall quiet?"

  "Certainly, your worship," he replied, bowing and rubbing his hands."There never was such an accession, nor more ale drunk, nor powderburned--and I have seen three--and there was pretty sh
outing at oldKing Harry's, but not like this. Such a fair young queen, men report,with a look of the stout king about her, and as prudent and discreetas if she had changed heads with Sir William Cecil. God bless her, sayI, and send her a wise husband!"

  "And a loving one," quoth my lady prettily. "Amen."

  "I am glad all has gone off well," I continued, speaking to theDuchess, as I turned to the blazing hearth. "If there had been blows,I would fain have been here to strike one."

  "Nay, sir, not a finger has wagged against her," the landlordanswered, kicking the logs together--"to speak of, that is, yourworship. I do hear to-day of a little trouble down in Warwickshire.But it is no more than a storm in a wash-tub, I am told."

  "In Warwickshire?" I said, arrested, in the act of taking off mycloak, by the familiar name. "In what part, my man?"

  "I am not clear about that, sir, not knowing the country," he replied."But I heard that a gentleman there had fallen foul of her Grace'sorders about church matters, and beaten the officers sent to see themcarried out; and that, when the sheriff remonstrated with him, he beathim too. But I warrant they will soon bring him to his senses."

  "Did you hear his name?" I asked. There was a natural misgiving in mymind. Warwickshire was large; and yet something in the tale smacked ofSir Anthony.

  "I did hear it," the host answered, scratching his head, "but I cannotcall it to mind. I think I should know it if I heard it."

  "Was it Sir Anthony Cludde?"

  "It was that very same name!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands inwonder. "To be sure! Your worship has it pat!"

  I slipped back into my cloak again, and snatched up my hat and whip.But the Duchess was as quick. She stepped between me and the door.

  "Sit down, Francis!" she said imperiously. "What would you be at?"

  "What would I be at?" I cried with emotion. "I would be with my uncle.I shall take horse at once and ride Warwickshire way with all speed.It is possible that I may be in time to avert the consequences. Atleast I can see that my cousin comes to no harm."

  "Good lad," she said placidly. "You shall start tomorrow."

  "To-morrow!" I cried impatiently. "But time is everything, madam."

  "You shall start to-morrow," she repeated. "Time is not everything,firebrand! If you start to-day what can you do? Nothing! No more thanif the thing had happened three years ago, before you met me. Butto-morrow--when you have seen the Secretary of State, as I promise youyou shall, this evening if he be in London--to-morrow you shall go ina different character, and with credentials."

  "You will do this for me?" I exclaimed, leaping up and taking herhand, for I saw in a moment the wisdom of the course she proposed."You will get me----"

  "I will get you something to the purpose," my lady answered roundly."Something that shall save your uncle if there be any power in Englandcan save him. You shall have it, Frank," she added, her color rising,and her eyes filling, as I kissed her hand, "though I have to takeMaster Secretary by the beard!"