Weyman Stanley John
The Story of Francis Cludde

CHAPTER XXI
MY FATHER

Tell him all? I stood thinking, my hand on the key. The voices of the rearmost of the conspirators sounded more and more faintly as they passed up the shaft, until their last accents died in the room above, and silence followed; a silence in strange contrast with the bright glare of the torches which burned round me and lit up the empty cellar as for a feast. I was wondering what he would say when I told him all-when I said "I am your son! I, whom Providence has used to thwart your 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 hear his answer; and I lingered with my hand on the key until an abrupt knocking 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 grew to a frantic, hurried drumming on the boards-a sound which plainly told of terror suddenly conceived and in an instant full-grown. A hoarse cry followed, coming dully to my ears through the thickness of the door, and the next moment the stout planks shook as a heavy weight fell against them.

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

The strong light for an instant blinded him, and he blinked as an owl does brought to the sunshine. Even in him the long hours passed in solitude and the blackness of despair had worked changes. His hair was grayer; in patches it was almost white, and then again dark. He had gnawed 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 were bloodshot, his lean face was white and haggard and fierce.

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

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

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

"The queen is dying," I answered simply, "or dead, and you can do us no more harm. You are free."

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

"Yes, free," I answered, in a lower voice-"free to go out into the air of heaven a living man!" I paused. For a moment I could not continue. Then I added solemnly, "Sir, Providence has saved you from death, and me from a crime."

He leaned still against the wall, dazed, thunderstruck, almost incredulous, and looked from me to the open door and back again as if without this constant testimony of his eyes he could not believe in his escape.

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

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

"Did she come here?"

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

"No," I answered. "She sent for me and told me her terms. But Kingston and 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 brought this 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 his court to the Princess Elizabeth at Hatfield."

He looked down at the ground, thinking deeply. Most men would have been unable to think at all, unable to concentrate their thoughts on anything save their escape from death. But a life of daily risk and hazard had so hardened this man that I was certain, as I watched him, that he was not praying nor giving thanks. He was already pondering how he might make the most out of the change; how he might to the best advantage sell his knowledge of the government whose hours were numbered to the government which soon would be. The life of intrigue had 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? Why were 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 with this surprise. "Cludde," he said again-said it twice in a lower voice.

"Yes, Cludde," I answered, meeting and yet shrinking from his questioning eyes, "my name is Cludde. So is yours. I tried to save your 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 no fear.

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

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

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

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

"Since yesterday," I murmured. The words he had used on that morning at Santon, when he had bidden me die and rot, were fresh in my memory-in my memory, not in his. I recalled his treachery to the Duchess, his pursuit of us, his departure with Anne, the words in which 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 have been different. A pretty dutiful son you have been!"

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

"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 it only that, knowing it, we may go different ways. We have nearly done one 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 of kindliness and pride as he scanned me. We were almost of a height-I the taller by an inch or two; and in our features I believe there was a likeness, though not such as to invite remark.

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

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 up and mine is down, and I can do you no good now, but only harm. You are ashamed of me. Well, wait," he continued, nodding confidently. "Do not be 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 hour after Heaven had stretched out its hand to save him, he denied its power and took the glory to himself. I did not know what to say to him, how to undeceive him, how to tell him that it was not the failure of his treachery which shamed me, but the treachery itself. I could only remain silent.

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

"I have a plan, my lad. The Queen dies. Well-I am no bigot-long live the Queen and the Protestant religion! The down will be up and the up down, and the Protestants will be everything. It will go hard then with 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 coldly.

"Then listen. Sir Anthony, will hold by his religion. He used to be a choleric gentleman, and as obstinate as a mule. He will need but to be pricked up a little, and he will get into trouble with the authorities as 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 for him when I was quivering with fierce wrath and abhorrence? "Do you think that will benefit you?" I cried. "Do you think that you are so high in favor with Cecil and the Protestants that they will set you in Sir 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 am somewhat blown upon of late. But Providence has not given me back my son for nothing. I am not alone in the world now. I must remember my family. 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 one side. 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 will not see him lose a chance, should a chance turn up. Be satisfied. Keep your hands clean if you like, boy. We understand one another."

He laughed again and turned away; and, much as I dreaded and disliked him, there was something in the indomitable nature of the man which wrung from me a meed of admiration. Could the best of men have recovered more quickly from despair? Could the best of men, their plans failing, have begun to spin fresh webs with equal patience? Could the most courageous and faithful of those who have tried to work the world's bettering, have faced the downfall of their hopes with stouter hearts, with more genuine resignation? Bad as he was, he had courage 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, as one might ask a question of an old comrade.

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

"Now farewell!" he said carelessly, "I am going to turn over a new leaf, and begin returning good for evil. Do you go to your friends and do 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 the ladder and depart.

What was he going to do? I was so deeply amazed by the interview that I did not understand. I had thought him a wicked man, but I had not conceived the hardness of his nature. As I stood alone looking round the vault, I could hardly believe that I had met and spoken to my father, and told him I was his son-and this was all! I could hardly believe that he had gone away with this knowledge, unmoved and unrepentant; alike unwarned by the Providence which had used me to thwart his schemes, and untouched by the beneficence which had thrice held him back from the crime of killing me-ay, proof even against the long-suffering which had plucked him from the abyss and given him one more chance of repentance.

I found Master Bertie in the stables waiting for me with some impatience. Of which, upon the whole, I was glad. For I had no wish to be closely questioned, and the account I gave him of the interview might at another time have seemed disjointed and incoherent. He listened to it, however, without remark; and his next words made it clear 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 Spanish faction, and of some of the council, will lie in giving trouble. To avoid this, we should show our strength. Therefore I want the Duchess to 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 go instead?"

"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 been the herald, a change which was even then beginning. As we rode down Highgate Hill that day, messengers were speeding north and south and east and west, to Norwich and Bristol and Canterbury and Coventry and York, with the tidings that the somber rule under which England had groaned for five years and more was coming to an end. If in a dozen towns of England they roped their bells afresh; if in every county, as Penruddocke had prophesied, they got their tar-barrels ready; if all, save a few old-fashioned folk and a few gloomy bigots and hysterical women, awoke as from an evil dream; if even sensible men saw in the coming of the young queen a panacea for all their ills-a quenching of Smithfield fires, a Calais recovered, a cure for the worthless coinage which hampered trade, and a riddance of worthless foreigners who plundered it-with better roads, purer justice, a fuller Exchequer, more favorable seasons-if England read all this in that news of Penruddocke's, was it not something to us also?

It was indeed. We were saved at the last moment from the dangerous enterprise on which we had rashly embarked. We had now such prospects before us as only the success of that scheme could have ordinarily opened. Ease and honor instead of the gallows, and to lie warm instead of creaking in the wind! Thinking of this, I fell into a better frame of mind as I jogged along toward London. For what, after all, was my father to me, that his existence should make me unhappy, or rob mine of all pleasure? I had made a place for myself in the world. I had earned friends for myself. He might take away my pride in the one, but he could never rob me of the love of the others-of those who had eaten and drunk and fought and suffered beside me, and for whom I too had fought and suffered!

* * * * *

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

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

"Do not shake your head," she continued, glancing at me with mischief in her eyes, "and flatter yourself you will not go back, but will go on making yourself and some one else unhappy. You will do nothing of the kind, Francis. Before the spring comes you and I will ride over the 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. Now you are somebody, if it be only in having a sister with a dozen serving-men in her train. Leave it to me. And now, thank Heaven, we are here! I am so stiff and cold, you must lift me down. We have not to ride far after dinner, I hope."

"Only seven miles," I answered, as the host, who had been warned by an outrider 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 us through the kitchen, where there was indeed a great fire, but no chimney, and so to a smaller room possessing both these luxuries. "Is all quiet?"

"Certainly, your worship," he replied, bowing and rubbing his hands. "There never was such an accession, nor more ale drunk, nor powder burned-and I have seen three-and there was pretty shouting at old King 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 discreet as if she had changed heads with Sir William Cecil. God bless her, say I, 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 the Duchess, 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 landlord answered, kicking the logs together-"to speak of, that is, your worship. 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 my cloak, 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's orders about church matters, and beaten the officers sent to see them carried out; and that, when the sheriff remonstrated with him, he beat him 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 my mind. Warwickshire was large; and yet something in the tale smacked of Sir Anthony.

"I did hear it," the host answered, scratching his head, "but I cannot call 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 in wonder. "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. At least 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 than if the thing had happened three years ago, before you met me. But to-morrow-when you have seen the Secretary of State, as I promise you you shall, this evening if he be in London-to-morrow you shall go in a different character, and with credentials."

"You will do this for me?" I exclaimed, leaping up and taking her hand, 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 England can 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 take Master Secretary by the beard!"

CHAPTER XXII
SIR ANTHONY'S PURPOSE

Late, as I have heard, on the afternoon of November 20, 1558, a man riding between Oxford and Worcester, with the news of the queen's death, caught sight of the gateway tower at Coton End, which is plainly visible from the road. Though he had already drunk that day as much ale as would have sufficed him for a week when the queen was well, yet much wants more. He calculated he had time to stop and taste the Squire's brewing, which he judged, from the look of the tower, might be worth his news; and he rode through the gate and railed at his nag for stumbling.

Half way across the Chase he met Sir Anthony. The old gentleman was walking out, with his staff in his hand and his dogs behind him, to take the air before supper. The man, while he was still a hundred paces off, began to wave his hat and shout something, which ale and excitement rendered unintelligible.

"What is the matter?" said Sir Anthony to himself. And he stood still.

"The queen is dead!" shouted the messenger, swaying in his saddle.

The knight stared.

"Ay, sure!" he ejaculated after a while. And he took off his hat. "Is it true, man?"

"As true as that I left London yesterday afternoon and have never drawn rein since!" swore the knave, who had been three days on the road, and had drunk at every hostel and at half the manor-houses between London and Oxford.

"God rest her soul!" said Sir Anthony piously, still in somewhat of a maze. "And do you come in! Come in, man, and take something."

But the messenger had got his formula by heart, and was not to be defrauded of any part of it.

"God save the queen!" he shouted. And out of respect for the knight, he slipped from his saddle and promptly fell on his back in the road.

"Ay, to be sure, God save the queen!" echoed Sir Anthony, taking off his hat again. "You are right, man!" Then he hurried on, not noticing the messenger's mishap. The tidings he had heard seemed of such importance, and he was so anxious to tell them to his household-for the greatest men have weaknesses, and news such as this comes seldom in a lifetime-that he strode on to the house, and over the drawbridge into the courtyard, without once looking behind him.

He loved order and decent observance. But there are times when a cat, to get to the cream-pan, will wet its feet. He stood now in the middle of the courtyard, and raising his voice, shouted for his daughter. "Ho, Petronilla! do you hear, girl! Father! Father Carey! Martin Luther! Baldwin!" and so on, until half the household were collected. "Do you hear, all of you? The queen is dead! God rest her soul!"

"Amen!" said Father Carey, as became him, putting in his word amid the wondering silence which followed; while Martin Luther and Baldwin, who were washing themselves at the pump, stood with their heads dripping and their mouths agape.

"Amen!" echoed the knight. "And long live the queen! Long live Queen Elizabeth!" he continued, having now got his formula by heart. And he swung his hat.

There was a cheer, a fairly loud cheer. But there was one who did not join in it, and that was Petronilla. She, listening at her lattice upstairs, began at once to think, as was her habit when any matter great or small fell out, whether this would affect the fortunes of a certain person far away. It might, it might not; she did not know. But the doubt so far entertained her that she came down to supper with a heightened color, not thinking in the least, poor girl, that the event might have dire consequences for others almost as dear to her, and nearer home.

Every year since his sudden departure a letter from Francis Cludde had come to Coton; a meager letter, which had passed through many hands, and reached Sir Anthony now through one channel, now through another. The knight grumbled and swore over these letters, which never contained an address to which an answer could be forwarded, nor said much, save that the writer was well and sent his love and duty, and looked to return, all being well. But, meager as they were, and loud as he swore over them, he put them religiously away in an oak-chest in his parlor; and another always put away for her share something else, which was invariably inclosed-a tiny swallow's feather. The knight never said anything about the feather; neither asked the meaning of its presence, nor commented upon its absence when Petronilla gave him back the letter. But for days after each of these arrivals he would look much at his daughter, would follow her about with his eyes, be more regular in bidding her attend him in his walk, and more particular in seeing that she had the tidbits of the joint.

For Petronilla, it cannot be said, though I think in after times she would have liked to make some one believe it, that she wasted away. But she did take a more serious and thoughtful air in these days, which she never, God bless her, lost afterward. There came from Wootton Wawen and from Henley in Arden and from Cookhill gentlemen of excellent estate, to woo her. But they all went away disconsolate after drinking very deeply of Sir Anthony's ale and strong waters. And some wondered that the good knight did not roundly take the jade to task and see her settled.

But he did not; so possibly even in these days he had other views. I have been told that, going up once to her little chamber to seek her, he found a very singular ornament suspended inside her lattice. It was no other than a common clay house-martin's nest. But it was so deftly hung in a netted bag, and so daintily swathed in moss always green, and the Christmas roses and snowdrops and violets and daffodils which decked it in turn were always so pure and fresh and bright-as the knight learned by more than one stealthy visit afterward-that, coming down the steep steps, he could not see clearly, and stumbled against a cook-boy, and beat him soundly for getting in his way.

To return, however. The news of the queen's death had scarcely been well digested at Coton, nor the mass for her soul, which Father Carey celebrated with much devotion, been properly criticised, before another surprise fell upon the household. Two strangers arrived, riding late one evening, and rang the great bell while all were at supper. Baldwin and the porter went to see what it was, and brought back a message which drew the knight from his chair, as a terrier draws a rat.

"You are drunk!" he shouted, purple in the face, and fumbling for the stick which usually leaned against his seat ready for emergencies. "How dare you bring cock-and-bull stories to me?"

"It is true enough!" muttered Baldwin sullenly: a stout, dour man, not much afraid of his master, but loving him exceedingly. "I knew him again myself."

Sir Anthony strode firmly out of the room, and in the courtyard near the great gate found a man and a woman standing in the dusk. He walked up to the former and looked him in the face. "What do you here?" he said, in a strange, hard voice.

"I want shelter for a night for myself and my wife; a meal and some words with you-no more," was the answer. "Give me this," the stranger continued, "which every idle passer-by may claim at Coton End, and you shall see no more of me, Anthony."

For a moment the knight seemed to hesitate. Then he answered, pointing sternly with his hand, "There is the hall and supper. Go and eat and drink. Or, stay!" he resumed. And he turned and gave some orders to Baldwin, who went swiftly to the hall, and in a moment came again. "Now go! What you want the servants will prepare for you."

"I want speech of you," said the newcomer.

Sir Anthony seemed about to refuse, but thought better of it. "You can come to my room when you have supped," he said, in the same ungracious tone, speaking with his eyes averted.

"And you-do you not take supper?"

"I have finished," said the knight, albeit he had eaten little. And he turned on his heel.

Very few of those who sat round the table and watched with astonishment the tall stranger's entrance knew him again. It was thirteen years since Ferdinand Cludde had last sat there; sitting there of right. And the thirteen years had worked much change in him. When he found that Petronilla, obeying her father's message, had disappeared, he said haughtily that his wife would sup in her own room; and with a flashing eye and curling lip, bade Baldwin see to it. Then, seating himself in a place next Sir Anthony's, he looked down the board at which all sat silent. His sarcastic eye, his high bearing, his manner-the manner of one who had gone long with his life in his hand-awed these simple folk. Then, too, he was a Cludde. Father Carey was absent that evening. Martin Luther had one of those turns, half-sick, half-sullen, which alternated with his moods of merriment; and kept his straw pallet in some corner or other. There was no one to come between the servants and this dark-visaged stranger, who was yet no stranger.

He had his way and his talk with Sir Anthony; the latter lasting far into the night and producing odd results. In the first place, the unbidden guest and his wife stayed on over next day, and over many days to come, and seemed gradually to grow more and more at home. The knight began to take long walks and rides with his brother, and from each walk and ride came back with a more gloomy face and a curter manner. Petronilla, his companion of old, found herself set aside for her uncle, and cast, for society, on Ferdinand's wife, the strange young woman with the brilliant eyes, whose odd changes from grave to gay rivaled Martin Luther's; and who now scared the girl by wild laughter and wilder gibes, and now moved her to pity by fits of weeping or dark moods of gloom. That Uncle Ferdinand's wife stood in dread of her husband, Petronilla soon learned, and even began to share this dread, to shrink from his presence, and to shut herself up more and more closely in her own chamber.

There was another, too, who grew to be troubled about this time, and that was Father Carey. The good-natured, easy priest received with joy and thankfulness the news that Ferdinand Cludde had seen his errors and re-entered the fold. But when he had had two or three interviews with the convert, his brow, too, grew clouded, and his mind troubled. He learned to see that the accession of the young Protestant queen must bear fruit for which he had a poor appetite. He began to spend many hours in the church-the church which he had known all his life-and wrestled much with himself-if his face were any index to his soul. Good, kindly man, he was not of the stuff of which martyrs are made; and to be forced, pushed on, and goaded into becoming a martyr against one's will-well, the Father's position was a hard one. As was that in those days of many a good and learned clergyman bred in one church, and bidden suddenly, on pain of losing his livelihood, if not his life, to migrate to another.