The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “Have you likewise seen the vision, father?”

  Garnet made no reply, but regarded him steadfastly.

  “Has the blessed Winifred appeared to you, I say?” continued Fawkes.

  “No,” answered Garnet; “I am but just come hither. It is for you, my son, — the favoured of Heaven, — for whom such glorious visions are reserved. I have seen nothing. How did the saint manifest herself to you?”

  “In her earthly form,” replied Fawkes; “or rather, I should say, in the semblance of the form she bore on earth. Listen to me, father. I came hither last night to make my couch beside the fountain. After plunging into it, I felt marvellously refreshed, and disposed myself to rest on that stone. Scarcely had my eyes closed when the saintly virgin appeared to me. Oh! father, it was a vision of seraphic beauty, such as the eye of man hath seldom seen!”

  “And such only as it is permitted the elect of Heaven to see,” observed Garnet.

  “Alas! father,” rejoined Guy Fawkes, “I can lay little claim to such an epithet. Nay, I begin to fear that I have incurred the displeasure of Heaven.”

  “Think not so, my son,” replied Garnet, uneasily. “Relate your vision, and I will interpret it to you.”

  “Thus then it was, father,” returned Fawkes. “The figure of the saint arose from out the well, and gliding towards me laid its finger upon my brow. My eyes opened, but I was as one oppressed with a nightmare, unable to move. I then thought I heard my name pronounced by a voice so wondrously sweet that my senses were quite ravished. Fain would I have prostrated myself, but my limbs refused their office. Neither could I speak, for my tongue was also enchained.”

  “Proceed, my son,” observed Garnet; “I am curious to know what ensued.”

  “Father,” replied Guy Fawkes, “if the form I beheld was that of Saint Winifred, — and that it was so, I cannot doubt, — the enterprise on which we are engaged will fail. It is not approved by Heaven. The vision warned me to desist.”

  “You cannot desist, my son,” rejoined Garnet, sternly. “Your oath binds you to the project.”

  “True,” replied Fawkes; “and I have no thought of abandoning it. But I am well assured it will not be successful.”

  “Your thinking so, my son, will be the most certain means of realizing your apprehensions,” replied Garnet, gravely. “But let me hear the exact words of the spirit. You may have misunderstood them.”

  “I cannot repeat them precisely, father,” replied Fawkes; “but I could not misapprehend their import, which was the deepest commiseration for our forlorn and fallen church, but a positive interdiction against any attempt to restore it by bloodshed. ‘Suffer on,’ said the spirit; ‘bear the yoke patiently, and in due season God will avenge your wrongs, and free you from oppression. You are thus afflicted that your faith may be purified. But if you resort to violence, you will breed confusion, and injure, not serve, the holy cause on which you are embarked.’ Such, father, was the language of the saint. It was uttered in a tone so tender and sympathizing, that every word found an echo in my heart, and I repented having pledged myself to the undertaking. But, when I tell you that she added that all concerned in the conspiracy should perish, perhaps you may be deterred from proceeding further.”

  “Never!” returned Garnet. “Nor will I suffer any one engaged in it to retreat. What matter if a few perish, if the many survive? Our blood will not be shed in vain, if the true religion of God is restored. Nay, as strongly as the blessed Winifred herself resisted the impious ravisher, Caradoc, will I resist all inducements to turn aside from my purpose. It may be that the enterprise will fail. It may be that we shall perish. But if we die thus, we shall die as martyrs, and our deaths will be highly profitable to the Catholic religion.”

  “I doubt it,” observed Fawkes.

  “My son,” said Garnet, solemnly, “I have ever looked upon you as one destined to be the chief agent in the great work of redemption. I have thought that, like Judith, you were chosen to destroy the Holofernes who oppresses us. Having noted in you a religious fervour, and resolution admirably fitting you for the task, I thought, and still think you expressly chosen by Heaven for it. But, if you have any misgiving, I beseech you to withdraw from it. I will absolve you from your oath; and, enjoining you only to strictest secrecy, will pray you to depart at once, lest your irresolution should be communicated to the others.”

  “Fear nothing from me, father,” rejoined Fawkes. “I have no irresolution, no wavering, nor shall any engaged with us be shaken by my apprehension. You have asked me what I saw and heard, and I have told you truly. But I will speak of it no more.”

  “It will be well to observe silence, my son,” answered Garnet; “for though you, like myself, are unnerved, its effect on others might be injurious. But you have not yet brought your relation to an end. How did the figure disappear?”

  “As it arose, father,” replied Fawkes. “Uttering in a sweet but solemn voice, which yet rings in my cars, the words, ‘Be warned!’ it glided back to the fountain, whose waves as it approached grew still, and gradually melted from my view.”

  “But when I came hither, you appeared to be gazing at the spring,” said Garnet. “What did you then behold?”

  “My first impulse on awakening about an hour ago,” replied Fawkes, “was to prostrate myself before the fountain, and to entreat the intercession of the saint, who had thus marvellously revealed herself to me. As I prayed, methought its clear lucid waters became turbid, and turned to the colour of blood.”

  “It is a type of the blood of slaughtered brethren of our faith, which has been shed by our oppressors,” rejoined Garnet.

  “Rather of our own, which shall be poured forth in this cause,” retorted Fawkes. “No matter. I am prepared to lose the last drop of mine.”

  “And I,” said Garnet; “and, I doubt not, like those holy men who have suffered for their faith, that we shall both win a crown of martyrdom.”

  “Amen!” exclaimed Fawkes. “And you think the sacrifice we are about to offer will prove acceptable to God?”

  “I am convinced of it, my son,” answered Garnet. “And I take the sainted virgin, from whose blood this marvellous spring was produced, to witness that I devote myself unhesitatingly to the project, and that I firmly believe it will profit our church.”

  As he spoke, a singular circumstance occurred, which did not fail to produce an impression on both parties, — especially Guy Fawkes. A violent gust of wind, apparently suddenly aroused, whistled through the slender columns of the structure, and catching the surface of the water dashed it in tiny waves against their feet.

  “The saint is offended,” observed Fawkes.

  “It would almost seem so,” replied Garnet, after a pause. “Let us proceed to the chapel, and pray at her shrine. We will confer on this matter hereafter. Meantime, swear to me that you will observe profound secrecy respecting this vision.”

  “I swear,” replied Guy Fawkes.

  At this moment, another and more violent gust agitated the fountain.

  “We will tarry here no longer,” said Garnet, “I am not proof against these portents of ill.”

  So saying, he led the way to the chapel. Here they were presently joined by several of the female devotees, including Viviana, Anne Vaux, and Lady Digby. Matins were then said, after which various offerings were made at the shrine of the saint. Lady Digby presented a small tablet set in gold, representing on one side the martyrdom of Saint Winifred, and on the other the Salutation of our Lady. Anne Vaux gave a small enamelled cross of gold; Viviana a girdle of the same metal, with a pendant sustaining a small Saint John’s head surrounded with pearls.

  “Mine will be a poor soldier’s offering,” said Guy Fawkes, approaching the shrine, which was hung around with the crutches, staves, and bandages of those cured by the healing waters of the miraculous spring. “This small silver scallop-shell, given me by a pilgrim, who died in my arms near the chapel of Saint James of Compostella, in Spain, is the sole valuable I po
ssess.”

  “It will be as acceptable as a more costly gift, my son,” replied Garnet, placing it on the shrine.

  Of all the offerings then made, that silver scallop-shell is the only one preserved.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XIII.

  THE CONSPIRATORS.

  On Viviana’s return from her devotions, she found her father in the greatest perturbation and alarm. The old steward, Heydocke, who had ridden express from Ordsall Hall, had just arrived, bringing word that the miserable fate of the pursuivant and his crew had aroused the whole country; that officers, attended by a strong force, and breathing vengeance, were in pursuit of Sir William Radcliffe and his daughter; that large sums were offered for the capture of Guy Fawkes and Father Oldcorne; that most of the servants were imprisoned; that he himself had escaped with great difficulty; and that, to sum up this long catalogue of calamities, Master Humphrey Chetham was arrested, and placed in the New Fleet. “In short, my dear young mistress,” concluded the old man, “as I have just observed to Sir William, all is over with us, and there is nothing left but the grave.”

  “What course have you resolved upon, dear father,” inquired Viviana, turning anxiously to him.

  “I shall surrender myself,” he answered. “I am guilty of no crime, and can easily clear myself from all imputation.”

  “You are mistaken,” she replied. “Do not hope for justice from those who know it not. But, while the means of escape are allowed you, avail yourself of them.”

  “No, Viviana,” replied Sir William Radcliffe, firmly; “my part is taken. I shall abide the arrival of the officers. For you, I shall intrust you to the care of Mr. Catesby.”

  “You cannot mean this, dear father,” she cried, with a look of distress. “And, if you do, I will never consent to such an arrangement.”

  “Mr. Catesby is strongly attached to you, child,” replied Sir William, “and will watch over your safety as carefully as I could do myself.”

  “He may be attached to me,” rejoined Viviana, “though I doubt the disinterestedness of his love. But nothing can remove my repugnance to him. Forgive me, therefore, if, in this one instance, I decline to obey your commands. I dare not trust myself with Mr. Catesby.”

  “How am I to understand you?” inquired Sir William.

  “Do not ask me to explain, dear father,” she answered, “but imagine I must have good reason for what I say. Since you are resolved upon surrendering yourself, I will go into captivity with you. The alternative is less dreadful than that you have proposed.”

  “You distract me, child,” cried the knight, rising and pacing the chamber in great agitation. “I cannot bear the thought of your imprisonment. Yet if I fly, I appear to confess myself guilty.”

  “If your worship will intrust Mistress Viviana with me,” interposed the old steward, “I will convey her whithersoever you direct, — will watch over her day and night, — and, if need be, die in her defence.”

  “Thou wert ever a faithful servant, good Heydocke,” rejoined Sir William, extending his hand kindly to him, “and art as true in adversity as in prosperity.”

  “Shame to me if I were not,” replied Heydocke, pressing the knight’s fingers to his lips and bathing them in his tears. “Shame to me if I hesitated to lay down my life for a master to whom I owe so much.”

  “If it is your pleasure, dear father,” observed Viviana, “I will accompany Master Heydocke; but I would far rather be permitted to remain with you.”

  “It would avail nothing,” replied Sir William, “we should be separated by the officers. Retire to your chamber, and prepare for instant departure; and, in the mean while, I will consider what is best to be done.”

  “Your worship’s decision must be speedy,” observed Heydocke; “I had only a few hours’ start of the officers. They will be here ere long.”

  “Take this purse,” replied Sir William, “and hire three of the fleetest horses you can procure, and station yourself at the outskirts of the town, on the road to Saint Asaph. You understand.”

  “Perfectly,” replied Heydocke. And he departed to execute his master’s commands, while Viviana withdrew to her own chamber.

  Left alone, the knight was perplexing himself as to where he should shape his course, when he was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Catesby and Garnet.

  “We have just met your servant, Sir William,” said the former, “and have learnt the alarming intelligence he has brought.”

  “What is your counsel in this emergency, father?” said Radcliffe, appealing to Garnet.

  “Flight, — instant flight, my son,” was the answer.

  “My counsel is resistance,” said Catesby. “We are here assembled in large numbers, and are well armed. Let us await the arrival of the officers, and see whether they will venture to arrest you.”

  “They will arrest us all, if they have force sufficient to do so,” replied Garnet; “and there are many reasons, as you well know, why it is desirable to avoid any disturbance at present.”

  “True,” replied Catesby. “What say you then,” he continued, addressing Radcliffe, “to our immediate return to Holt, where means may be found to screen you till this storm is blown over?”

  Sir William having assented to the proposal, Catesby instantly departed to acquaint the others, and, as soon as preparations could be made, and horses procured, the whole party composing the pilgrimage quitted Holywell, and, ascending the hill at the back of the town, took the direction of Mold, where they arrived, having ridden at a swift pace, in about half an hour. From thence they proceeded, without accident or interruption, to the mansion they had recently occupied near Holt. On reaching it, all the domestics were armed, and certain of their number stationed at the different approaches to the house to give the alarm in case of the enemy’s appearance. But as nothing occurred during the night, the fears of Sir William and his friends began in some degree to subside.

  About noon, on the following day, as Guy Fawkes, who ever since the vision at Saint Winifred’s Well had shunned all companionship, walked forth beneath the avenue alone, he heard a light step behind him, and, turning, beheld Viviana. Gravely bowing, he was about to pursue his course, when quickening her pace she was instantly by his side.

  “I have a favour to solicit,” she said.

  “There is none I would refuse you,” answered Fawkes, halting; “but, though I have the will, I may not have the power to grant your request.”

  “Hear me, then,” she replied, hurriedly. “Of all my father’s friends — of all who are here assembled, you are the only one I dare trust, — the only one from whom I can hope for assistance.”

  “I am at once flattered and perplexed by your words, Viviana,” he rejoined; “nor can I guess whither they tend. But speak freely. If I cannot render you aid, I can at least give you counsel.”

  “I must premise, then,” said Viviana, “that I am aware from certain obscure hints let fall by Father Oldcorne, that you, Mr. Catesby, and others are engaged in a dark and dangerous conspiracy.”

  “Viviana Radcliffe,” returned Guy Fawkes, sternly, “you have once before avowed your knowledge of this plot. I will not attempt disguise with you. A project is in agitation for the deliverance of our fallen church; and, since you have become acquainted with its existence — no matter how — you must be bound by an oath of secrecy, or,” and his look grew darker, and his voice sterner, “I will not answer for your life.”

  “I will willingly take the oath, on certain conditions,” said Viviana.

  “You must take it unconditionally,” rejoined Fawkes.

  “Hear me out,” said Viviana. “Knowing that Mr. Catesby and Father Garnet are anxious to induce my father to join this conspiracy, I came hither to implore you to prevent him from doing so.”

  “Were I even willing to do this, — which I am not,” replied Fawkes, “I have not the power. Sir William Radcliffe would be justly indignant at any interference on my part.”

  “Heed not that,�
�� replied Viviana. “You, I fear, are linked to this fearful project beyond the possibility of being set free. But he is not. Save him! save him!”

  “I will take no part in urging him to join it,” replied Fawkes. “But I can promise nothing further.”

  “Then mark me,” she returned; “if further attempts are made by any of your confederates to league him with their plot, I myself will disclose all I know of it.”

  “Viviana,” rejoined Fawkes, in a threatening tone, “I again warn you that you endanger your life.”

  “I care not,” she rejoined; “I would risk twenty lives, if I possessed them, to preserve my father.”

  “You are a noble-hearted lady,” replied Fawkes, unable to repress the admiration inspired by her conduct; “and if I can accomplish what you desire, I will. But I see not how it can be done.”

  “Everything is possible to one of your resolution,” replied Viviana.

  “Well, well,” replied Fawkes, a slight smile crossing his rugged features; “the effort at least shall be made.”

  “Thanks! thanks!” ejaculated Viviana; and, overcome by her emotion, she sank half-fainting into his arms.

  While he held her thus, debating within himself whether he should convey her to the house, Garnet and Catesby appeared at the other end of the avenue. Their surprise at the sight was extreme; nor was it less when Viviana, opening her eyes as they drew near, uttered a slight cry, and disappeared.

  “This requires an explanation,” said Catesby, glancing fiercely at Fawkes.

  “You must seek it, then, of the lady,” rejoined the latter, moodily.

  “It will be easily explained, I have no doubt,” interposed Garnet. “Miss Radcliffe was seized with a momentary weakness, and her companion offered her support.”

  “That will scarcely suffice for me,” cried Catesby.

  “Let the subject be dropped for the present,” rejoined Garnet, authoritatively. “More important matter claims our attention. We came to seek you, my son,” he continued, addressing Fawkes. “All those engaged in the great enterprise are about to meet in a summer-house in the garden.”