The Story of Francis Cludde

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  AWAITING THE BLOW.

  A moment later the servants in the hall heard a scream--a scream ofsuch horror and fear that they scarcely recognized a human voice inthe sound. They sprang to their feet scared and trembling, and for afew seconds looked into one another's faces. Then, as curiosity gotthe upper hand, the boldest took the lead and all hurried pell-mell tothe door, issuing in a mob into the courtyard, where Ferdinand Cludde,who happened to be near and had also heard the cry, joined them."Where was it, Baldwin?" he exclaimed.

  "At the back, I think," the steward answered. He alone had had thecoolness to bring out a lantern, and he now led the way toward therear of the house. Sure enough, close to the edge of the moat, theyfound Martin, stooping with his hands on his knees, a great wound,half bruise, half cut, upon his forehead. "What is it?" Ferdinandcried sharply. "Who did it, man?"

  Baldwin had already thrown his light on the fool's face, and Martin,seeming to become conscious of their presence, looked at them, but ina dazed fashion. "What?" he muttered, "what is what?"

  By this time nearly every one in the house had hurried to the spot;among them not only Petronilla, clinging to her father's arm, butMistress Anne, her face pale and gloomy, and half a dozen womenfolkwho clutched one another tightly, and screamed at regular intervals.

  "What is it?" Baldwin repeated roughly, laying his hand on Martin'sarm and slightly shaking him. "Come, who struck you, man?"

  "I think," the fool answered slowly, gulping down something andturning a dull eye on the group; "a--a swallow flew by--and hit me!"

  They shrank away from him instinctively and some crossed themselves."He is in one of his mad fits," Baldwin muttered. Still the stewardshowed no fear. "A swallow, man!" he cried aloud. "Come, talk sense.There are no swallows flying at this time of year. And if there were,they do not fly by night, nor give men wounds like that. What was it?Out with it, now. Do you not see, man," he added, giving Martin animpatient shake, "that Sir Anthony is waiting?"

  The fool nodded stupidly. "A swallow," he muttered. "Ay, 'twas aswallow, a great big swallow. I--I nearly put my foot on him."

  "And he flew up and hit you in the face?" Baldwin said, with hugecontempt in his tone.

  Martin accepted the suggestion placidly. "Ay, 'twas so. A great bigswallow, and he flew in my face," he repeated.

  Sir Anthony looked at him compassionately. "Poor fellow!" he said;"Baldwin, see to him. He has had one of his fits and hurt himself."

  "I never knew him hurt _himself_," Baldwin muttered darkly.

  "Let somebody see to him," the knight said, disregarding theinterruption. "And now come, Petronilla. Why--where has the girlgone?"

  Not far. Only round to the other side of him, that she might be alittle nearer to Martin. The curiosity in the other women's faces wasa small thing in comparison with the startled, earnest look in hers.She gazed at the man with eyes not of affright, but of eager, avidquestioning, while through her parted lips her breath came in gasps.Her cheek was red and white by turns, and, for her heart--well, it hadseemed to stand still a moment, and now was beating like the heart ofsome poor captured bird held in the hand. She did not seem to hear herfather speak to her, and he had to touch her sleeve. Then she startedas though she were awakening from a dream, and followed him sadly intothe house.

  Sadly, and yet there was a light in her eyes which had not been therefive minutes before. A swallow? A great big swallow? And this wasDecember, when the swallows were at the bottom of the horse-ponds. Sheonly knew of one swallow whose return was possible in winter. But thenthat one swallow--ay, though the snow should lie inches deep in thechase, and the water should freeze in her room--would make a summerfor her. Could it be that one? Could it be? Petronilla's heart wasbeating so loudly as she went upstairs after her father, that shewondered he did not hear it.

  The group left round Martin gradually melted away. Baldwin was theonly man who could deal with him in his mad fits, and the otherservants, with a shudder and a backward glance, gladly left him to thesteward. Mistress Anne had gone in some time. Only Ferdinand Cludderemained, and he stood a little apart, and seemed more deeply engagedin listening for any sound which might betoken the sheriff's approachthan in hearkening to their conversation. Listen as he might he wouldhave gained little from the latter, for it was made up entirely ofscolding on one side and stupid reiteration on the other. YetFerdinand, ever suspicious and on his guard, must have felt someinterest in it, for he presently called the steward to him. "Is hemore fool or knave?" he muttered, pointing under hand at Martin, whostood in the gloom a few paces away.

  Baldwin shrugged his shoulders, but remained silent. "What happened?What is the meaning of it all?" Ferdinand persisted, his keen eyes onthe steward's face. "Did he do it himself? Or who did it?"

  Baldwin turned slowly and nodded toward the moat. "I expect you willfind him who did it there," he said grimly. "I never knew a man saveSir Anthony or Master Francis hit Martin yet, but he paid for it. Andwhen his temper is up, he is mad, or as good as mad; and better thantwo sane men!"

  "He is a dangerous fellow," Ferdinand said thoughtfully, shivering alittle. It was unlike him to shiver and shake. But the bravest havetheir moods.

  "Dangerous?" the steward answered. "Ay, he is to some, and sometimes."

  Ferdinand Cludde looked sharply at the speaker, as if he suspected himof a covert sneer. But Baldwin's gloomy face betrayed no glint ofintelligence or amusement, and the knight's brother, reassured and yetuneasy, turned on his heel and went into the house, meeting at thedoor a servant who came to tell him that Sir Anthony was calling forhim. Baldwin Moor, left alone, stood a moment thinking, and thenturned to speak to Martin. But Martin was gone, and was nowhere to beseen.

  The lights in the hall windows twinkled cheerily, and the great firecast its glow half way across the courtyard, as lights and fire hadtwinkled and glowed at Coton End on many a night before. But neitherin hall nor chamber was there any answering merriment. Baldwin, comingin, cursed the servants who were in his way, and the men moved meeklyand without retort, taking his oaths for what they were--a man'stears. The women folk sat listening pale and frightened, and one ortwo of the grooms, those who had done least in the skirmish, hadvisions of a tree and a rope, and looked sickly. The rest scowled andblinked at the fire, or kicked up a dog if it barked in its sleep.

  "Hasn't Martin come in?" Baldwin growled presently, setting his heavywet boot on a glowing log, which hissed and sputtered under it. "Whereis he?"

  "Don't know!" one of the men took on himself to answer. "He did notcome in here."

  "I wonder what he is up to now?" Baldwin exclaimed, with gloomyirritation; for which, under the circumstances, he had ample excuse.He knew that resistance was utterly hopeless, and could only makematters worse, and twist the rope more tightly about his neck, to putthe thought as he framed it. The suspicion, therefore, that thismadman--for such in his worst fits the fool became--might be hanginground the place in dark corners, doing what deadly mischief he couldto the attacking party, was not a pleasant one.

  A gray-haired man in the warmest nook by the fire seemed to read histhoughts. "There is one in the house," he said slowly and oracularly,his eyes on Baldwin's boot, "whom he has just as good a mind to hurt,has our Martin, as any of them Clopton men. Ay, that has he, MasterBaldwin."

  "And who is that, gaffer?" Baldwin asked contemptuously.

  But the old fellow turned shy. "Well, it is not Sir Anthony," heanswered, nodding his head, and stooping forward to caress histoasting shins. "Be you very sure of that. Nor the young mistress, northe young master as was, nor the new lady that came a month ago. No,nor it is not you, Master Baldwin."

  "Then who is it?" cried the steward impatiently.

  "He is shrewd, is Martin--when the saints have not got their backs tohim," said the old fellow slyly.

  "Who is it?" thundered the steward, well used to this rustic method ofevasion. "Answer, you dolt!"<
br />
  But no answer came, and Baldwin never got one; for at this moment aman who had been watching in front of the house ran in.

  "They are here!" he cried, "a good hundred of them, and torches enoughfor St. Anthony's Eve. Get you to the gate, porter, Sir Anthony iscalling for you. Do you hear?"

  There was a great uprising, a great clattering of feet and barking ofdogs, and some wailing among the women. As the messenger finishedspeaking, a harsh challenge which penetrated even the courtyard arosefrom many voices without, and was followed by the winding of a horn.This sufficed. All hurried with one accord into the court, where theporter looked to Baldwin for instructions.

  "Hold a minute!" cried the steward, silencing the loudest hound by asound kick, and disregarding Sir Anthony's voice, which came from thedirection of the gateway. "Let us see if they are at the back too."

  He ran through the passage and, emerging on the edge of the moat, wasat once saluted by a dozen voices warning him back. There were a scoreof dark figures standing in the little close where the fight had takenplace. "Right," said Baldwin to himself. "Needs must when the oldgentleman drives! Only I thought I would make sure."

  He ran back at once, nearly knocking down Martin, who with a companionwas making, but at a slower pace, for the front of the house.

  "Well, old comrade!" cried the steward, smiting the fool on the backas he passed, "you are here, are you? I never thought that you and Iwould be in at our own deaths!"

  He did not notice, in the wild humor which had seized him, whoMartin's companion was, though probably at another time it would havestruck him that there was no one in the house quite so tall. He spedon with scarcely a glance, and in a moment was under the gateway,where Sir Anthony was soundly rating everybody, and particularly theporter, who with his key in the door found or affected to find thetask of turning it a difficult one. As the steward came up, however,the big doors at some sign from him creaked on their hinges, and theknight, his staff in his hand, and the servants clustering behind himwith lanterns, walked forward a pace or two to the end of the bridge,bearing himself with some dignity.

  "Who disturbs us at this hour?" he cried, peering across the moat, andsigning to Baldwin to hold up his large lantern, since the others,uncertain of their reception, had put out their torches. By its lighthe and those behind him could make out a group of half a dozen figuresa score of yards away, while in support of these there appeared abowshot off, and still in the open ground, a clump of, it might be, ahundred men. Beyond all lay the dark line of trees, above which themoon, new-risen, was sailing through a watery wrack of clouds. "Whoare ye?" the knight repeated.

  "Are you Sir Anthony Cludde?" came the answer.

  "I am."

  "Then in the Queen's name, Sir Anthony," the leader of the troop criedsolemnly, "I call on you to surrender. I hold a warrant for yourarrest, and also for the arrest of James Carey, a priest, and BaldwinMoor, who, I am told, is your steward. I am backed by forces which itwill be vain to resist."

  "Are you Sir Philip Clopton?" the knight asked. For at that distanceand in that light it was impossible to be sure.

  "I am," the sheriff answered earnestly. "And, as a friend, I beg you,Sir Anthony, to avoid useless bloodshed and further cause for offense.Sir Thomas Greville, the governor of Warwick Castle, and ColonelBridgewater are with me. I implore you, my friend, to surrender, and Iwill do you what good offices I may."

  The knight, as we know, had made up his mind. And yet for a second hehesitated. There were stern, grim faces round him, changed by thestress of the moment into the semblance of dark Baldwin's; the facesof men, who though they numbered but a dozen were his men, bound tohim by every tie of instinct, and breeding, and custom. And he hadbeen a soldier, and knew the fierce joy of a desperate struggleagainst odds. Might it not be better after all?

  But then he remembered his womenkind; and after all, why endangerthese faithful men? He raised his voice and cried clearly, "I acceptyour good offices, Sir Philip, and I take your advice. I will have thedrawbridge lowered, only I beg you will keep your men well in hand,and do my poor house as little damage as may be."

  Giving Baldwin the order, and bidding him as soon as it was performedcome to him, the knight walked steadily back into the courtyard andtook his stand there. He dispatched the women and some of the servantsto lay out a meal in the hall. But it was noticeable that the men wentreluctantly, and that all who could find any excuse to do so lingeredround Sir Anthony as if they could not bear to abandon him; as if,even at the last moment, they had some vague notion of protectingtheir master at all hazards. A score of lanterns shed a gloomy,uncertain light--only in places reinforced by the glow, from the hallwindows--upon the group. Seldom had a Coton moon peeped over thegables at a scene stranger than that which met the sheriff's eyes, aswith his two backers he passed under the gateway.

  "I surrender to you, Sir Philip," the knight said with dignity,stepping forward a pace or two, "and call you to witness that I mighthave made resistance and have not. My tenants are quiet in theirhomes, and only my servants are present. Father Carey is not here, norin the house. This is Baldwin Moor, my steward, but I beg for him yourespecial offices, since he has done nothing save by my command."

  "Sir Anthony, believe me that I will do all I can," the sheriffresponded gravely, "but----"

  "But to set at naught the Queen's proclamation and order!" struck in athird voice harshly--it was Sir Thomas Greville's--"and she but amonth on the throne! For shame, Sir Anthony! It smacks to me of hightreason. And many a man has suffered for less, let me tell you."

  "Had she been longer on the throne," the sheriff put in more gently,"and were the times quiet, the matter would have been of less moment,Sir Anthony, and might not have become a state matter. But justnow----"

  "Things are in a perilous condition," Greville said bluntly, "and youhave done your little to make them worse!"

  The knight by a great effort swallowed his rage and humiliation. "Whatwill you do with me, gentlemen?" he asked, speaking with at least theappearance of calmness.

  "That is to be seen," Greville said, roughly over-riding hiscompanion. "For to-night we must make ourselves and our mencomfortable here."

  "Certainly--with Sir Anthony's leave, Sir Thomas Greville," quoth avoice from behind. "But only so!"

  More than one started violently, while the Cludde servants almost to aman spun round at the sound of the voice--my voice, Francis Cludde's,though in the darknesss no one knew me. How shall I ever forget thejoy and lively gratitude which filled my heart as I spoke; whichturned the night into day, and that fantastic scene of shadows into afestival, as I felt that the ambition of the last four years was aboutto be gratified. Sir Anthony, who was one of the first to turn, peeredamong the servants. "Who spoke?" he cried, a sudden discomposure inhis voice and manner. "Who spoke there?"

  "Ay, Sir Anthony, who did?" Greville said haughtily. "Some oneapparently who does not quite understand his place or the state ofaffairs here. Stand back, my men, and let me see him. Perhaps we mayteach him a useful lesson."

  The challenge was welcome, for I feared a scene, and to be left faceto face with my uncle more than anything. Now, as the servants with aloud murmur of surprise and recognition fell back and disclosed mestanding by Martin's side, I turned a little from Sir Anthony andfaced Greville. "Not this time, I think, Sir Thomas," I said, givinghim back glance for glance. "I have learned my lesson from some whohave fared farther and seen more than you, from men who have stood bytheir cause in foul weather as well as fair; and were not for mass oneday and a sermon the next."

  "What is this?" he cried angrily. "Who are you?"

  "Sir Anthony Cludde's dutiful and loving nephew," I answered, with acourteous bow. "Come back, I thank Heaven, in time to do him aservice, Sir Thomas."

  "Master Francis! Master Francis!" Clopton exclaimed in remonstrance.He had known me in old days. My uncle, meanwhile, gazed at me in theutmost astonishment, and into the servants' faces there flashed astrange light, while man
y of them hailed me in a tone which told methat I had but to give the word, and they would fall on the verysheriff himself. "Master Francis," Sir Philip Clopton repeatedgravely, "if you would do your uncle a service, this is not the way togo about it. He has surrendered and is our prisoner. Brawling will notmend matters."

  I laughed out loudly and merrily. "Do you know, Sir Philip," I said,with something of the old boyish ring in my voice, "I have been, sinceI saw you last, to Belgium and Germany, ay, and Poland and Hamburg! Doyou think I have come back a fool?"

  "I do not know what to think of you," he replied dryly, "but you hadbest----"

  "Keep a civil tongue in your head, my friend!" said Greville withharshness, "and yourself out of this business."

  "It is just this business I have come to get into, Sir Thomas," Ianswered, with increasing good humor. "Sir Anthony, show them that!" Icontinued, and I drew out a little packet of parchment with a greatred seal hanging from it by a green ribbon; just such a packet as thatwhich I had stolen from the Bishop's apparitor nearly four years back."A lantern here!" I cried. "Hold it steady, Martin, that Sir Anthonymay read. Master Sheriff wants his rere-supper."

  I gave the packet into the knight's hand, my own shaking. Ay, shaking,for was not this the fulfillment of that boyish vow I had made in mylittle room in the gable yonder, so many years ago? A fulfillmentstrange and timely, such as none but a boy in his teens could havehoped for, nor any but a man who had tried the chances and mishaps ofthe world could fully enjoy as I was enjoying it. I tingled with therush through my veins of triumph and gratitude. Up to the last momentI had feared lest anything should go wrong, lest this crowninghappiness should be withheld from me. Now I stood there smiling,watching Sir Anthony, as with trembling fingers he fumbled with thepaper. And there was only one thing, only one person, wanting to myjoy. I looked, and looked again, but I could not anywhere seePetronilla.

  "What is it?" Sir Anthony said feebly, turning the packet over andover. "It is for the sheriff; for the sheriff, is it not?"

  "He had better open it then, sir," I answered gayly.

  Sir Philip took the packet and after a glance at the address tore itopen. "It is an order from Sir William Cecil," he muttered. Then heran his eye down the brief contents, while all save myself prickedtheir ears and pressed closer, and I looked swiftly from face to face,as the wavering light lit up now one and now another. Old familiarfaces for the most part.

  "Well, Sir Philip, will you stop to supper?" I cried with a laugh,when he had had time, as I judged, to reach the signature.

  "Go to!" he grunted, looking at me. "Nice fools you have made of us,young man!" He passed the letter to Greville. "Sir Anthony," hecontinued, a mixture of pleasure and chagrin in his voice, "you arefree! I congratulate you on your luck. Your nephew has brought anamnesty for all things done up to the present time save for any lifetaken, in which case the matter is to be referred to the Secretary.Fortunately my dead horse is the worst of the mischief, so free youare, and amnestied, though nicely Master Cecil has befooled us!"

  "We will give you another horse, Sir Philip," I answered.

  But the words were wasted on the air. They were drowned in a greatshout of joy and triumph which rang from a score of Cludde throats themoment the purport of the paper was understood; a shout which made theold house shake again, and scared the dogs so that they fled away intocorners and gazed askance at us, their tails between their legs; ashout that was plainly heard a mile away in half a dozen homesteadswhere Cludde men lay gloomy in their beds.

  By this time my uncle's hand was in mine. With his other he took offhis hat. "Lads!" he cried huskily, rearing his tall form in our midst;"a cheer for the Queen! God keep her safe, and long may she reign!"

  This was universally regarded as the end of what they still proudlycall in those parts "the Coton Insurrection!" When silence came again,every dog, even the oldest and wisest, had bayed himself hoarse andfled to kennel, thinking the end of the world was come. My heart, as Ijoined roundly in, swelled high with pride, and there were tears in myeyes as well as in my uncle's. But there is no triumph after allwithout its drawback, no fruition equal to the anticipation. Where wasPetronilla? I could see her nowhere. I looked from window to window,but she was at none. I scanned the knot of maids, but could not findher. Even the cheering had not brought her out.

  It was wonderful, though, how the cheers cleared the air. Even SirThomas Greville regained good humor, and deigned to shake me by thehand and express himself pleased that the matter had ended so happily.Then the sheriff drew him and Bridgewater away, to look to their men'sarrangements, seeing, I think, that my uncle and I would fain be aloneawhile; and at last I asked with a trembling voice after Petronilla.

  "To be sure," Sir Anthony answered, furtively wiping his eyes. "I hadforgotten her, dear lad. I wish now that she had stayed. But tell me,Francis, how came you back to-night, and how did you manage this?"

  Something of what he asked I told him hurriedly. But then--be sure Itook advantage of the first opening--I asked again after Petronilla."Where has she gone, sir?" I said, trying to conceal my impatience. "Ithought that Martin told me she was here; indeed, that he had seen herafter I arrived."

  "I am not sure, do you know," Sir Anthony answered, eying me absently,"that I was wise, but I considered she was safer away, Francis. Andshe can be fetched back in the morning. I feared there might be somedisturbance in the house--as indeed there well might have been--andthough she begged very hard to stay with me, I sent her off."

  "This evening, sir?" I stammered, suddenly chilled.

  "Yes, an hour ago."

  "But an hour ago every approach was guarded, Sir Anthony," I cried insurprise. "I had the greatest difficulty in slipping through from theoutside myself, well as I know every field and tree. To escape fromwithin, even for a man, much less a woman, would have been impossible.She will have been stopped."

  "I think not," he said, with a smile at once sage and indulgent--whichseemed to add, "You think yourself a clever lad, but you do not knoweverything yet."

  "I sent her out by the secret passage to the mill-house, you see," heexplained, "as soon as I heard the sheriff's party outside. I couldhave given them the slip myself, had I pleased."

  "The mill house?" I answered. The mill stood nearly a quarter of amile from Coton End, beyond the gardens, and in the direction of thevillage. I remembered vaguely that I had heard from the servants inold days some talk of a secret outlet leading from the house to it.But they knew no particulars, and its existence was only darklyrumored among them.

  "You did not know of the passage," Sir Anthony said, chuckling at myastonishment. "No, I remember. But the girl did. Your father and hiswife went with her. He quite agreed in the wisdom of sending her away,and indeed advised it. On reaching the mill, if they found all quietthey were to walk across to Watney's farm. There they could get horsesand might ride at their leisure to Stratford and wait the event. Ithought it best for her; and Ferdinand agreed."

  "And my father--went with her?" I muttered hoarsely, feeling myselfgrowing chill to the heart. Hardly could I restrain my indignation atSir Anthony's folly, or my own anger and disappointment--and fear. Forthough my head seemed on fire and there was a tumult in my brain, Iwas cool enough to trace clearly my father's motives, and discern withwhat a deliberate purpose he had acted. "He went with her?"

  "Yes, he and his wife," the knight answered, noticing nothing in hisobtuseness.

  "You have been fooled, sir," I said bitterly. "My father you shouldhave known, and for his wife, she is a bad, unscrupulous woman! Oh,the madness of it, to put my cousin into their hands!"

  "What do you mean?" the knight cried, beginning to tremble. "Yourfather is a changed man, lad. He has come back to the old faith and ina dark hour too. He----"

  "He is a hypocrite and a villain!" I retorted, stung almost to madnessby this wound in my tenderest place; stung indeed beyond endurance.Why should I spare him, when to spare him was to sacrifice theinnocent? Why should I pick my
words, when my love was in danger? Hehad had no mercy and no pity. Why should I shrink from exposing him?Heaven had dealt with him patiently and given him life; and he did butabuse it. I could keep silence no longer, and told Sir Anthony allwith a stinging tongue and in gibing words; even, at last, how myfather had given me a hint of the very plan he had now carried out, ofcoming down to Coton, and goading his brother into some offense whichmight leave his estate at the mercy of the authorities.

  "I did not think he meant it," I said bitterly. "But I might haveknown that the leopard does not change its spots. How you, who knewhim years ago, and knew that he had plotted against you since, came totrust him again--to trust your daughter to him--passes my fancy!"

  "He was my brother," the knight murmured, leaning white and strickenon my shoulder.

  "And my father--heaven help us!" I rejoined.