CHAPTER XXV.
IN HARBOR AT LAST.
"We must first help ourselves," Sir Anthony answered sharply; rousinghimself with wonderful energy from the prostration into which my storyhad thrown him. "I will send after her. She shall be brought back. Ho!Baldwin! Martin!" he cried loudly. "Send Baldwin hither! Be quickthere!"
Out of the ruck of servants in and about the hall, Baldwin camerushing presently, wiping his lips as he approached. A single glanceat our faces sobered him. "Send Martin down to the mill!" Sir Anthonyordered curtly. "Bid him tell my daughter if she be there to comeback. And do you saddle a couple of horses, and be ready to ride withMaster Francis to Watney's farm, and on to Stratford, if it benecessary. Lose not a minute; my daughter is with Master Ferdinand. Myorder is that she return."
The fool had come up only a pace or two behind the steward. "Do youhear, Martin?" I added eagerly, turning to him. My thoughts, busy withthe misery which might befall her in their hands, maddened me. "Youwill bring her back if you find her, mind you."
He did not answer, but his eyes glittered as they met mine, and I knewthat he understood. As he flitted silently across the court anddisappeared under the gateway, I knew that no hound could be moresure, I knew that he would not leave the trail until he had foundPetronilla, though he had to follow her for many a mile. We might haveto pursue the fugitives to Stratford, but I felt sure that Martin'slean figure and keen dark face would be there to meet us.
Us? No. Sir Anthony indeed said to me, "You will go of course?"speaking as if only one answer were possible.
But it was not to be so. "No," I said, "you had better go, sir. OrBaldwin can be trusted. He can take two or three of the grooms. Theyshould be armed," I added, in a lower tone.
My uncle looked hard at me, and then gave his assent, no longerwondering why I did not go. Instead he bade Baldwin do as I hadsuggested. In truth my heart was so hot with wrath and indignationthat I dared not follow, lest my father, in his stern, mocking way,should refuse to let her go, and harm should happen between us. If Iwere right in my suspicions, and he had capped his intrigue bydeliberately getting the girl I loved into his hands as a hostage,either as a surety that I would share with him if I succeeded to theestates, or as a means of extorting money from his brother, then Idared not trust myself face to face with him. If I could have mountedand ridden after my love, I could have borne it better. But the curseseemed to cling to me still. My worst foe was one against whom I couldnot lift my hand.
"But what," my uncle asked, his voice quavering, though his wordsseemed intended to combat my fears, "what can he do, lad? She is hisniece."
"What?" I answered, with a shudder. "I do not know, but I feareverything. If he should elude us and take her abroad with him--heavenhelp her, sir! He will use her somehow to gain his ends--or kill her."
Sir Anthony wiped his brow with a trembling hand. "Baldwin willovertake them," he said.
"Let us hope so," I answered. Alas, how far fell fruition short ofanticipation. This was my time of triumph! "You had better go in,sir," I said presently, gaining a little mastery over myself. "I seeSir Philip has returned; from settling his men for the night. He andGreville will be wondering what has happened."
"And you?" he said.
"I cannot," I answered, shaking my head.
After he had gone I stood a while in the shadow on the far side of thecourt, listening to the clatter of knives and dishes, the cheerful humof the servants as they called to one another, the hurrying footstepsof the maids. A dog crept out, and licked my hand as it hung nervelessby my side. Surely Martin or Baldwin would overtake them. Or if not,it still was not so easy to take a girl abroad against her will.
But would that be his plan? He must have hiding-places in England towhich he might take her, telling her any wild story of her father'sdeath or flight, or even perhaps of her own danger if her whereaboutswere known. I had had experience of his daring, his cunning, hisplausibility. Had he not taken in all with whom he had come intocontact, except, by some strange fate, myself. To be sure Anne was notaltogether without feeling or conscience. But she was his--hisentirely, body and soul. Yes, if I could have followed, I could haveborne it better. It was this dreadful inaction which was killing me.
The bustle and voices of the servants, who were in high spirits, soirritated me at last that I wandered away, going first to the dark,silent gardens, where I walked up and down in a fever of doubt andfear, much as I had done on the last evening I had spent at Coton.Then a fancy seized me, and turning from the fish-pond I walked towardthe house. Crossing the moat I made for the church door and tried it.It was unlocked. I went in. Here at least in the sacred place I shouldfind quietness; and unable to help myself in this terrible crisis,might get help from One to whom my extremity was but an opportunity.
I walked up the aisle and, finding all in darkness, the moon at themoment being obscured, felt my way as far as Sir Piers' flat monument,and sat down upon it. I had been there scarcely a minute when a faintsound, which seemed rather a sigh or an audible shudder than anyarticulate word, came out of the darkness in front of me. My greattrouble had seemed to make superstitious fears for the timeimpossible, but at this sound I started and trembled; and holding mybreath felt a cold shiver run down my back. Motionless I peered beforeme, and yet could see nothing. All was gloom, the only distinguishablefeature being the east window.
What was that? A soft rustle as of ghostly garments moving in theaisle was succeeded by another sigh which made me rise from my seat,my hair stiffening. Then I saw the outline of the east window growingbrighter and brighter, and I knew that the moon was about to shineclear of the clouds, and longed to turn and fly, yet did not dare tomove.
Suddenly the light fell on the altar steps and disclosed a kneelingform which seemed to be partly turned toward me as though watching me.The face I could not see--it was in shadow--and I stood transfixed,gazing at the figure, half in superstitious terror and half in wonder;until a voice I had not heard for years, and yet should have knownamong a thousand, said softly, "Francis!"
"Who calls me?" I muttered hoarsely, knowing and yet disbelieving,hoping and yet with a terrible fear at heart.
"It is I, Petronilla!" said the same voice gently. And then the formrose and glided toward me through the moonlight. "It is I, Petronilla.Do you not know me?" said my love again; and fell upon my breast.
* * * * *
She had been firmly resolved all the time not to quit her father, andon the first opportunity had given the slip to her company, while thehorses were being saddled at Watney's farm. Stealing back through thedarkness she had found the house full of uproar, and apparentlyoccupied by strange troopers. Aghast and not knowing what to do, shehad bethought herself of the church and there taken refuge. On myfirst entrance she was horribly alarmed. But as I walked up theaisle, she recognized--so she has since told me a thousand times withpride--my footstep, though it had long been a stranger to her ear, andshe had no thought at the moment of seeing me, or hearing the joyfulnews I brought.
And so my story is told. For what passed then between Petronilla andme lies between my wife and myself. And it is an old, old story, andone which our children have no need to learn, for they have told it,many of them for themselves, and their children are growing up to tellit. I think in some odd corner of the house there may still be found avery ancient swallow's nest, which young girls bring out and look attenderly; but for my sword-knot I fear it has been worn out thesethirty years. What matter, even though it was velvet of Genoa? He thathas the substance, lacks not the shadow.
I never saw my father again, nor learned accurately what passed atWatney's farm after Petronilla was missed by her two companions. Butone man, whom I could ill spare, was also missing on that night, whosefate is still something of a mystery. That was Martin Luther. I havealways believed that he fell in a desperate encounter with my father,but no traces of the struggle, or his body wer
e ever found. The trackbetween Watney's farm and Stratford, however, runs for a certaindistance by the river; and at some point on this road I think Martinmust have come up with the refugees, and failing either to findPetronilla with them, or to get any satisfactory account of her, musthave flung himself on my father and been foiled and killed. The exacttruth I have said was never known, though Baldwin and I talked over itagain and again; and there were even some who said that a servant muchresembling Martin Luther was seen with my father in the Low Countriesnot a month before his death. I put no credence in this, however,having good reason to think that the poor fool--who was wiser in hissane moments than most men--would never have left my service while thebreath remained in his body.
I have heard it said that blood washes out shame. My father was killedin a skirmish in the Netherlands shortly before the peace of ChateauCambresis, and about three months after the events here related. Ihave no doubt that he died as a brave man should; for he had thatvirtue. He held no communication with me or with any at Coton Endlater than that which I have here described; but would appear to haveentered the service of Cardinal Granvelle, the governor of theNetherlands, for after his death word came to the Duchess of Suffolkthat Mistress Anne Cludde had entered a nunnery at Bruges under theCardinal's auspices. Doubtless she is long since dead.
And so are many others of whom I have spoken--Sir Anthony, theDuchess, Master Bertie, and Master Lindstrom. For forty years havepassed since these things happened--years of peaceful, happy life,which have gone by more swiftly, as it seems to me in the retrospect,than the four years of my wanderings. The Lindstroms sought refuge inEngland in the second year of the Queen, and settled in Lowestoftunder the Duchess of Suffolk's protection, and did well and flourishedas became them; nor indeed did they find, I trust, others ungrateful,though I experienced some difficulty in inducing Sir Anthony to treatthe Dutch burgher as on an equality with himself. Lord Willoughby deEresby, the Peregrine to whom I stood godfather in St. Willibrod'schurch at Wesel, is now a middle-aged man and my very good friend, theaffection which his mother felt for me having descended to him in fullmeasure. She was indeed such a woman as Her Majesty; large-hearted andfree-tongued, of masculine courage and a wonderful tenderness. And ofher husband what can I say save that he was a brave Christian--and inpeaceful times--a studious gentleman.
But it is not only in vacant seats and gray hairs that I trace theprogress of forty years. They have done for England almost all thatmen hoped they might do in the first dawn of the reign. We have seengreat foes defeated, and strong friends gained. We have seen thecoinage amended, trade doubled, the Exchequer filled, the roads madegood, the poor provided for in a Christian manner, the Church grownstrong; all this in these years. We have seen Holland rise and Spaindecline, and well may say in the words of the old text, which mygrandfather set up over the hall door at Coton, "_Frustra, nisiDominus_."
THE END.
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