It Might Have Been: The Story of the Gunpowder Plot Read online

  CHAPTER FIVE.

  BEGINS WITH TEMPERANCE, AND ENDS WITH TREACHERY.

  "Whate'er we do, we all are doing this-- Reaping the harvest of our yesterdays, Sowing for our to-morrows."

  S.V. Partridge.

  On the following evening, Aubrey put in an appearance at the White Bear.As soon as he entered, he gave a quick, troubled look round theparlour, before he went up to kiss his grandmother's hand. His AuntTemperance greeted him with, "Give you good even, my Lord Chamberlain!Lancaster and Derby! do but look on him! Blue feather in his hat--laceruff and ruffles--doublet of white satin with gold aglets--trunk hose o'blue velvet, paned with silver taffeta--garters of blue and white silk--and I vow, a pair o' white silken hose, and shoes o' Spanish leather.Pray you, my Lord, is your allowance from the King's Majesty fivehundred pounds or a thousand by the year?"

  "Now, Aunt, you know," said Aubrey, laughing. "That thou art aspendthrift?" answered she. "Ay, I do: and if thou run not into debtthis side o' Christmas, my name is not Temperance Murthwaite."

  "I'm not in debt a penny," retorted he.

  "Then somebody must have given thee thy pantofles," replied she. "Bethey a cast-off pair of his Majesty's, or did my Lord Oxford so muchalms to thee?"

  Aubrey laughed again, as merrily as if he had not a care nor a fault inthe world.

  "They cost not so much as you reckon," he said.

  "Four yards of velvet," calculated Aunt Temperance--"you'll not do itunder, stuffed that wise of bombast, nor buy that quality, neither,under eighteen shillings the yard--let's see,--that is three poundstwelve shillings: silver taffeta, a yard and an half, twenty-two andsixpence--that's four pounds fourteen and six; then the lining, dowlas,I suppose, at fourteen pence--"

  "They are lined with perpetuana, Aunt," answered Aubrey, who seemedgreatly amused by this reckoning.

  "Perpetuana--_lining_? Thou reckless knave! Three-and-fourpence theyard at the least--well, we'll say ten shillings--five pounds four andsix: and the lace, at four shillings by the ounce, and there'll be twoounces there, good: five pounds twelve shillings and sixpence, as I'm aliving woman! 'Tis sinful waste, lad: that's what it is. Your fathernever wore such Babylonian raiment, nor your grandfather neither, andthere was ten times the wisdom and manliness in either of them thatthere'll ever be in you, except you mean to turn your coat ere you are amonth elder."

  As Aubrey turned to reply, his eyes fell on Hans, coming home from themercer's. His face changed in a minute: but Hans came forward with hishand held out as cordially as usual, and a look of real pleasure in hiseyes.

  "Good even, Aubrey; I am glad to see you," said he.

  "Ay, see him, do!" cried Temperance, before Aubrey could answer; and heonly gave his hand in silence. "Look at him, Hans! Didst ever beholdsuch a pair of pantofles? Five pounds twelve shillings and sixpence!How much cost thine?"

  "Mine be not so brave as these," replied Hans, smiling. "My LordOxford's squire must needs wear better raiment than a silkman'sapprentice, Mrs Murthwaite."

  "Five pounds twelve shillings and sixpence!" persisted she.

  "Come, now, Aunt Temperance! They cost not the half," said Aubrey.

  "Who didst thou cheat out of them, then?" asked she.

  "I bought them," he answered, laughing, "of a young noble that had bornethem but twice, and was ill content with the cut and colour of them."

  "He'll come to no good," sternly pronounced Aunt Temperance.

  "You made a good bargain," said Hans. "That velvet cost full a poundthe yard, I should say."

  "Aubrey," inquired Temperance, "I do marvel, and I would fain know, whatthou dost all the day long? Doth thy Lord keep thee standing by hischair, first o' one leg, and then o' tother, while he hath an errand forthee?"

  "Why, no, Aunt! I am not an errand-lad," said Aubrey, and laughed moremerrily than ever. "Of late is his Lordship greatly incommoded, andhath kept his chamber during many days of this last month; but when hehath his health, I will specify unto you what I do."

  "Prithee specify, and I shall be fain to hearken."

  "Well, of a morning I aid his Lordship at his _lever_, and afterbreakfast I commonly ride with him, if it be my turn: then will he readan hour or twain in the law, without the Parliament be sitting, when heis much busied, being not only a morning man, but at committees also; inthe afternoon he is often at Court, or practising of music--just now heexerciseth himself in broken music [the use of stringed instruments] andbrachigraphy [shorthand]: then in the evening we join my Lady and hergentlewomen in the withdrawing chamber, and divers gestes and conceitsbe used--such as singing, making of anagrams, guessing of riddles, andso forth. There is my day."

  "Forsooth, and a useless one it is," commented she. "The law-books andthe Parliament business seem the only decent things in it."

  "Ah, 'tis full little changed," remarked Lady Louvaine, "these sixtyyears since I dwelt at Surrey Place." And she sighed.

  "Temperance, I am astonished at you," interposed Faith. "You do noughtsave fault-find poor Aubrey."

  "Poor Aubrey! ay, that he is," returned his Aunt, "and like to be asight poorer, for all that I can see. If you'll fault-find him a bitmore, Faith, there'll not be so much left for me to do."

  "What is the matter?" asked Edith, coming softly in.

  "There's a pair of velvet pantofles and an other of silken hose thematter, my dear," answered Temperance, "and a beaver hat with a braveblue feather in it. I trust you admire them as they deserve, and himlikewise that weareth them."

  "They are brave, indeed," said Edith, in her quiet voice. "I would fainhope it is as fair within as without, my boy."

  She looked up in his face as she spoke with yearning love in her eyes;and as Aubrey bent his head to kiss her, he said, in the softest tonewhich he had yet employed since his entrance, "I am afraid not, AuntEdith."

  And Edith answered, in that low, tender voice--

  "`Thy beauty was perfect through My comeliness which I had put uponthee.' Dear Aubrey, let us seek that."

  Aubrey made no answer beyond a smile, and quickly turned theconversation, on his mother asking if he brought any news.

  "But little," said he. "There be new laws against witchcraft, which isgrown greater and more used than of old, and the King is mightily setagainst it--folks say he is afraid of it. None should think, I ensureyou, how easily frightened is his Majesty, and of matters that shouldnever fright any save a child."

  "But that is not news, Aubrey," said his mother plaintively. "I want tohear something new."

  "There isn't an artichoke in the market this morrow," suddenly remarkedher sister.

  "Temperance, what do you mean?"

  "Why, that's news, isn't it? I am sure you did not know it, till I toldyou."

  Mrs Louvaine closed her eyes with an air of deeply-tried forbearance.

  "Come, lad, out with thy news," added Temperance. "Wherewith hath myLady guarded her new spring gowns? That shall serve, I reckon."

  Aubrey laughed. "I have not seen them yet, Aunt. But I heard say ofone of the young gentlewomen that silk is now for the first to be wovenin England, so 'tis like to be cheaper than of old."

  "There's a comfort!" said Mrs Louvaine, rather less languidly thanusual.

  "I heard tell likewise of a fresh colewort, from Cyprus in the East--they call it broccoli or kale-flower. Methinks there is nought else,without you would hear of a new fashion of building of churches, latecome up--but his Lordship saith 'tis a right ancient fashion, whereinthe old Greeks were wont to build their houses and temples."

  "Methinks it scarce meet to go to the heathen for the pattern of achurch," said Lady Louvaine; "are not our old churches fair enough, andsuitable for their purpose?"

  "In this new fashion he no chancels," said Aubrey.

  "Well, and I should hold with that," cried Temperance: "they give riseto vain superstitions. If there be no mass, what lack we of a chancel?"

  "If men list, my dear, to bring in the superstitions," quietly remarkedLady Louvaine, "they shall scarce stick at the want of a chancel."

  "True, Madam: yet would I fain make it as hard to bring them as ever Icould."

  Aubrey left his friends about six o'clock, and Hans followed him to thedoor. On the steps there was a short, low-toned conversation.

  "Hans, after all, thou art a good lad. Did I hurt thee?"

  "'Tis all o'er now, Aubrey: no matter."

  "Then I did. Well, I am sorry. Shall I give thee a silver chain tomake up, old comrade?"

  "All is made up. Prithee, give me nothing--save--my brother Aubrey."

  Aubrey's tone was glib and light, though with a slight sub-accent ofregret. Hans's voice was more hesitating and husky. It cost Hans muchto allow any one a glimpse into his heart; it cost Aubrey nothing. But,as is often the case, the guarded chamber contained rare treasure, whilein the open one there was nothing to guard.

  "Thou art a good lad!" said Aubrey again, in a slightly ashamed tone, ashe took the offered hand. "Truly, Hans, I was after none ill, only--well, I hate to be watched and dogged, or aught like thereto."

  "Who does not?" replied Hans. "And in truth likewise, I was but cominghome, and spake my astonishment at seeing you."

  "We are friends, then?"

  "God forbid we should ever be any thing else! Good-night, and God keepyou in His way!"

  Not many days afterwards, an event happened, of some consequence to ourfriends at the White Bear. Their one powerful friend, Edward de Vere,Earl of Oxford, died in June, 1604.

  A strange study for a student of human nature is this Earl of Oxford--acurious compound, like his late royal lady, of greatness and littleness.He began life as a youthful exquisite. His costumes were moreextravagant, his perfumes more choice, his Italian more pure and fluent,than those of the other dilettante nobles of his time. He was a minorpoet of some note in his day, and was esteemed to be the first writer ofcomedy then living--though Shakespeare was living too. In middle lifehe blossomed out into a military patriot. He ended his days as a hard,cold, morose old man. His life-lamp was used up: it had been made so toflare in early youth, that there was no oil left to light him at theend, when light and warmth were most needed. Having quarrelled with hisfather-in-law, the great Earl of Burleigh, he registered a savage andsenseless vow to "ruin his daughter," which he could do only by ruininghimself. In pursuance of this insane resolution, he spent right andleft, until his estate was wrecked, and the innocent Countess Anne washunted into her grave.

  The son who succeeded to his father's title, and to the few acres whichthis mad folly had not flung away, was a mere boy of twelve years old.It became a serious question in Lady Louvaine's mind whether Aubreyshould remain in the household after the decease of the old Earl. Shefound, however, that the widowed Countess Elizabeth kept a very orderlyhouse, and a strict hand over her son and his youthful companions, sothat Lady Louvaine, who saw no other door open, thought it best to leaveAubrey where he was. The Countess, who had been Maid of Honour to QueenElizabeth, had been well drilled by that redoubtable lady into properand submissive behaviour; and she now required similar good conduct fromher dependants, with excellent reasons for absence or dereliction fromduty. That she was never deceived would be too much to say.

  Meanwhile, matters progressed busily in the house by the river-side.The conspirators took in a sixth accomplice--Christopher Wright, theyounger brother of John--and the six began their mine, about theeleventh of December, 1604.

  The wall of the House of Lords was three yards in thickness; the cellarof Percy's house was extremely damp, being close to the river, and thewater continually oozed through into the mine. Finding their task moredifficult than they had anticipated, a seventh was now taken into thenumber--a pervert, Robert Keyes, the son of a Protestant clergyman inDerbyshire. A second house was hired at Lambeth, of which Keyes wasplaced in charge, while to Fawkes was committed the chief business oflaying in the combustibles, first in the Lambeth house, and afterwardsof removing them to that at Westminster. Fawkes went cautiously abouthis business, purchasing his materials in various parts of the City, soas not to excite suspicion. He provided in all, three thousand billetsof wood, five hundred faggots, thirty-six barrels of gunpowder, withstones and bars of iron, in order that the explosion might be moredestructive. From the Bankside, or south bank of the Thames, where itlay in hampers, twenty barrels of the powder was first brought in boats,by night, to the house at Westminster, where it was stored in the cellarto await the finishing of the mine. By Christmas they had penetratedthe wall of Percy's house, and had reached that of the House of Lords.They thought it desirable now to rest for the Christmas holidays; Keyeswas left in charge of the house at Lambeth, and the others departed invarious directions.

  "Well, upon my word! Prithee, good my master, who's your tailor?"

  The speaker was Temperance Murthwaite, who was clad in the plainest ofbrownish drab serges, without an unnecessary tag or scrap of fringe, andcarried on her arm an unmistakable market-basket, from which protrudedthe legs of a couple of chickens and sundry fish-tails, notwithstandingthe clean cloth which should have hidden such ignoble articles frompublic view. The person addressed was Mr Aubrey Louvaine, and hiscostume was a marvel of art and a feast of colour.

  "My tailor is Adrian Sewell, Aunt, in Thieving Lane--"

  "Like enough!" was the response. "Well, Gentleman?"

  "Shall I--" The words died on Aubrey's lips. His aunt, who read histhoughts exactly, stood wickedly enjoying the situation.

  "Shall you carry the basket? By all means, if it please your Highness.Have a care, though, lest the tails of those whitings sully yon bravecrimson velvet, and see the fowls thrust not their talons into thatSpanish lace. Methinks, Master Aubrey, considering your bravery ofarray, you were best pocket your civility this morrow. It'll be lesserlike to harm the lace and velvet than the chicks' legs and thefish-tails. You may keep me company an' you will, if I be good enoughto trudge alongside so fine a Whitsuntide show as you are. That's twoof 'em."

  "Of what, Aunt?" said Aubrey, feeling about as unhappy as a mixture ofhumiliation and apprehension could make him. If they were to meet oneof Lord Oxford's gentlemen, or one of his wealthy acquaintances, he feltas though he should want the earth to open and swallow him.

  "Suits, Gentleman," was the reply. "Blue and white the first; crimsonand silver the second. Haven't seen the green and gold yet, nor theyellow, nor purple. Suppose they're in the wardrobe. Rather earlytimes, to be thus bedizened, or seems so to working folks--the Abbeyclock went eight but a few minutes since. But quality is donned early,I know."

  As Mistress Temperance emitted this tingling small-shot of words, shewas marching with some rapidity up Old Palace Yard and the Abbey Close,her magnificent nephew keeping pace with her, right sore against hiswill. At last Aubrey could bear no longer. The windows of the GoldenFish were in sight, and his soul was perturbed by a vision of the fairDorothy, who might be looking out, and whose eyes might light on thejewel of himself in this extremely incongruous setting of AuntTemperance and the fish-tails.

  "Aunt Temperance, couldn't--" Aubrey's words did not come so readily asusual, that morning.

  "Couldn't I walk slower?" suggested the aggravating person who was thecause of his misery. "Well, belike I could.--There's Mrs Gertrude upat the window yonder--without 'tis Mrs Dorothy.--There's no hurry inespecial, only I hate to waste time."

  And suiting the action to the word, Aunt Temperance checked her steps,so as to give the young lady, whether it were Gertrude or Dorothy, amore leisurely view of the fish-tails.

  "Couldn't Rachel go marketing instead of you?" sputtered out Aubrey.

  "Rachel has her own work; and so has Charity. And so have I, MrLouvaine. I suppose you haven't, as you seem to be gallivanting aboutWestminster in crimson and silver at eight o'clock of a morning. Nowthen--"

  "Aunt, 'tis not my turn this morrow to wait on my Lord's _lever_. Ishall be at his _coucher_ this even."

  "You may open the door, my master, if it demean not so fine agentleman.--Good maid! Take my basket, Rachel. The fish for dinner,and the chicken for to-morrow."

  "There's nobut four whitings here, Mistress: shouldn't there be five?"

  "Hush thee, good maid. They're twopence apiece."

  "Eh, yo' never sen [say] so!"

  "Ay, but I do. Let be; I'll have a bit of green stuff, or something."

  And as Rachel, looking but half satisfied, went off with the basket,Temperance threw open the parlour door.

  "Madam, suffer me to announce the Duke of Damask, the Prince of Plush,the Viscount of Velvet, and the Baron of Bombast. Pray you, look notfor four nobles; there is but one."

  "Aubrey!" was the response, in diverse tones, from the three ladies.

  The object of this attention did not look happy; but he walked in andoffered due greeting to his relatives. Temperance sat down, untied herplain black hood, and laid it aside.

  "And whither might your Lordship be going when I captivated you?" askedshe. "Not to this house, for you had passed it by."

  "In good sooth, Aunt, I did not--I meant, indeed--I should maybe havelooked in," stammered the young man.

  "Tell no lies, my lad, for thou dost it very ill," was Aunt Temperance'smost inconsiderate reply.

  "You might come to see us oftener, I'm sure, Aubrey, if you would," saidhis mother in a plaintive voice. "It is hard, when I have only onechild, that he should never care to come. I wish you had been a girllike Lettice, and then we could have had some comfort out of you."

  "My dear," said Aunt Temperance, "he is devoutly thankful he's not. Hedoesn't want to be tied at the aprons of a parcel of women, trust me.Have you had your pipe of open-work, or what you are pleased to call it,Gentleman, this morrow? Only think of hanging that filthy stench aboutthose velvet fal-lals! With whom spent you last even, lad?"

  The question came so suddenly that Aubrey was startled into truth."With some friends of mine in the Strand, Aunt." The next instant hewas sorry.

  "Let's have their names," said Aunt Temperance.

  "Well, Tom Rookwood was one."

  "Folks generally put the best atop. Hope _he_ wasn't the best. Whoelse?"

  "Some gentlemen to whom Rookwood introduced me."

  "I want their names," said the female examiner.

  "Well--one of them is a Mr Winter." Aubrey spoke with greatreluctance, as his aunt saw well. He selected Winter's name as beingleast uncommon of the group. But he soon found that Destiny, in theperson of Aunt Temperance, did not mean to let him off so lightly asthis.

  "What sort of an icicle is he?"

  "He isn't an icicle at all, Aunt, but a very good fellow and rightpleasant company."

  "Prithee bring him to see us. Where lodgeth he?--is he a London man?"

  "He is a Worcestershire gentleman, on a visit hither."

  "Pass him. Who else?"

  "Well--a man named Darcy."

  "A man, and _not_ a gentleman? Whence comes he?"

  "I don't know. Scarcely a gentleman, seeing he deals in horses."

  "Horses are good fellows enough, mostly: but folks who deal in horsesare apt to be worser,--why, can I never tell. Is the horse-dealerpleasant company belike?"

  "Not so much to my liking as Mr Winter."

  "I'm fain to hear it. Who else?"

  "There is a Mr Percy, kin to my Lord Northumberland."

  Aunt Temperance drew in her breath with an inverted whistle. "Lo, younow, we are in select society!"

  But Edith turned suddenly round. "Aubrey, is he a true Protestant?"She knew that Lord Northumberland was reckoned "the head of therecusants."

  "I really don't know, Aunt," replied Aubrey, to whom the idea had neverbefore occurred. "I never heard him say aught whence I could guess it.He is a very agreeable man."

  "The more agreeable, maybe, the more dangerous. My boy, do have a care!`He that is not with Me is against Me.'"

  "Oh, he's all right, I am sure," said Aubrey, carelessly.

  "You seem sure on small grounds," said Aunt Temperance. "Well, have wemade an end?--is he the last?"

  "No, there is one other--Mr Catesby."

  Aubrey had deliberately left Catesby to the last, yet he could not haveexplained for what reason. Lady Louvaine spoke for the first time.

  "Catesby?--a Catesby of Ashby Ledgers?"

  "I have not heard, further than that his home is in Northamptonshire,and his mother the Lady Anne Catesby."

  "I think it is. They are a Popish family, or were, not many years ago.Aubrey, come here."

  The young man obeyed, in some surprise. His gentle grandmother was notwont to speak in tones of such stern determination as these.

  "My boy!" she said, "I charge thee on my benison, and by the dear memoryof him from whom thou hast thy name, that thou endeavour thyself tothine utmost to discover whether these men be Papists or no. Ask not ofthemselves--they may deceive thee; and a Papist oft counts deceit nowrong when it is done in the interests of his Church. Make mycompliments to my cousin, my Lady Oxford, and give her the names ofthese gentlemen, and where they lodge; saying also that I do mostearnestly beseech that she will make inquiry by her chaplain, and giveme to know, how they stand concerned in this matter. Aubrey, you knownot the danger of such friendship: I do. Obey me, at your peril."

  Never in his life had Aubrey heard such words from the usually soft,sweet lips of the Lady Lettice. He was thoroughly frightened, all themore because the dangers to be feared were so vague and unknown. A fewminutes before, he had been feeling vexed with his Aunt Temperance forcatechising him so strictly about his friends. Now, this sensation hadquite given way before astonishment and vague apprehension.

  "Yes, Madam, I will," he answered gravely.

  And he meant it. But--

  What a number of excellent people, and what a multiplicity of gooddeeds, there would be in this naughty world, if only that littleconjunction could be left out!

  Aubrey quitted the White Bear with the full intention of carrying outhis grandmother's behest. But not just now. He must do it, of course,before he saw her again. Lady Oxford might take it into her head to paya visit to Lady Louvaine, in which case it would surely be discovered ifthe question had not been passed on. Of course it must be done: only,not just now. He might surely spend a few more pleasant evenings atWinter's lodgings, before he set on foot those disagreeable inquirieswhich might end in his being deprived of the pleasure. Lady Oxford,therefore, was not troubled that evening,--nor the next, nor indeed fora goodly number to follow. But within a week of his visit to the WhiteBear, when the sharp edge of his grandmother's words had been a littleblunted by time, and the cares of other things had entered in, Aubreyagain made his way to the lodgings occupied by Winter at the sign of theDuck, in the Strand, "hard by Temple Bar."

  There were various reasons for this action. In the first place, Aubreywas entirely convinced that the judgment of a man of twenty-one was tobe preferred before that of a woman of seventy-seven. Secondly, heenjoyed Winter's society. Thirdly, he liked Winter's tobacco.Fourthly, he admired Betty, who usually let him in, and who, being evenmore foolish than himself, was not at all averse to a few emptycompliments and a little frothy banter, which he was very ready tobestow. For Aubrey was not of that sterling metal of which hisgrandfather had been made, "who loved one only and who clave to her,"and to whom it would have been a moral impossibility to flirt with onewoman while he was making serious love to another. Lastly, the societyof his friends had acquired an added zest by the probability of itsbeing a dangerous luxury. He loved dearly to poise himself on the edgeof peril, though of course, like all who do so, he had not the slightestintention of falling in.

  On the evening in question, Betty made no appearance, and Aubrey was letin by her mistress, a plain-featured middle-aged woman, on whom he hadno temptation to waste his perfumes. He made his way up the stairs toWinter's door, and his hand was on the latch when he heard Percy'svoice.

  "Through by the seventh of February! You'll be nothing of the sort."

  "I cry you mercy. I think we shall," answered Catesby.

  Aubrey lifted the latch, and entered.

  Four gentlemen sat round the fire--Winter and Catesby; Percy, whomAubrey knew, and in whose hand was the pipe; and a fourth, a tall, dark,and rather fine-looking man, with brown hair, auburn beard, and amoustache the ends of which curled upwards.

  "Ha! Mr Louvaine? You are right welcome," said Winter, rising togreet his young friend, while Percy took his pipe from his lips, andoffered it to the latter. Nobody introduced the stranger, and Aubreytook but little notice of him, especially as thenceforth he sat insilence. He might have paid more if he could have known that afterthree hundred years had rolled by, and the names of all then known aseminent men should have faded from common knowledge, the name of thatman should be fresh in the memory of every Englishman, and deeplyinteresting to every English boy. He was in the company of Guy Fawkes.

  To appear as a nameless stranger, and indeed to appear at all as littleas possible, was Fawkes's policy at this moment. He was just about topresent himself on the stage as John Johnson, "Mr Percy's man," and forany persons in London to know him by his own name would be a seriousdrawback, for it was to a great extent because he was unknown in Townthat he had been selected to play this part. Yet matters were not quiteready for the assumption of his new character. He therefore sat silent,and was not introduced.

  They smoked, sipped Rhenish wine, and chatted on indifferent subjects,for an hour or more; discussed the "sleeping preacher," Richard Haydock,then just rising into notoriety--who professed to deliver his sermons inhis sleep, and was afterwards discovered to be an imposter; the lastbenefaction in the parish church, for two poor Irish gentlewomen ontheir journey home, recommended by letters from the Council; the lastnew ballad.

  "But have you beheld," asked Winter, when these topics were exhausted,"the King's new caroche of the German fashion, with a roof to fallasunder at his Majesty's pleasure?"

  "I have," said Catesby; "and methinks it shall take with many,gentlewomen more in especial."

  "Wherefore, now?" inquired Percy, laughing. "Think you gentlewomen lackair rather than gentlemen, or that they shall think better to show theirdainty array and their fair faces?"

  "A little of both," was the answer.

  "There is truly great increase in coaches of late years," remarkedWinter.

  "Why, the saddlers are crying out they are like to be ruined," saidPercy; "the roads are cloyed and pestered, and the horses lamed."

  "Ay, and that is not the worst of it," added Catesby. "Evil-disposedpersons, who dare not show themselves openly for fear of correction,shadow and securely convey themselves in coaches, and so are not to bedistinguished from persons of honour."

  The whole company agreed that this was extremely shocking, and piouslydenounced all evil-disposed persons in a style which Aubrey thought mostedifying. As he walked back later, he meditated whether he should makethose inquiries of Lady Oxford that night, and decided not to do so. Noreal Papist or traitor, thought the innocent youth, would be likely todenounce evil-disposed persons! The airs they had been singing, beforeparting, recurred to his mind, and he hummed fragments of them as hewent along. "Row well, ye mariners", "All in a garden green", "Phillidaflouts me," and the catch of "Whoop, Barnaby!" finishing up with"Greensleeves" and one or two madrigals--these had been their eveningentertainment: but madrigals were becoming unfashionable, and were notheard now so often as formerly. The music of Elizabeth's day, which wasmainly harmony with little melody, containing "scarcely any tune thatthe uncultivated ear could carry away," was giving way to a less learnedbut more melodious style. Along with this, there was a rapid increasein the cultivation of instrumental music, while vocal music continued tobe exceedingly popular. It was usual enough for tradesmen and artisansto take part in autiphons, glees, and part-songs of all kinds, whileballads were in such general favour that ballad-mongers could earntwenty shillings a day. A bass viol generally hung in a drawing-roomfor the visitors to play; but the few ladies who used this instrumentwere thought masculine. The education of girls at this time admitted ofscarcely any accomplishment but music: they were taught to read, write,sew, and cook, to play the virginals, lute, and cithern, and to readprick-song at sight,--namely, to sing from the score, withoutaccompaniment. Those who were acquainted with any language beside theirown were the few and highly-cultured; and a girl who knew French orItalian was still more certain to have learned Latin, if not Greek.German and Spanish were scarcely ever taught; indeed, the former wasregarded as quite outside the list of learnable tongues.

  It was a sore trouble to Aubrey that the White Bear and the Golden Fishwere next door to each other. Had he had the ordering of theirtopography, they would have been so situated that he could have droppedinto the latter, to sun himself in the eyes of the fair Dorothy, withoutthe least fear of being seen from the former. He stood in wholesomefear of his Aunt Temperance's sharp speeches, and had a less wholesome,because more selfish, dislike of his mother's ceaseless complaints.Moreover, Aunt Edith was wont to disturb his equanimity by a few quietoccasional words which would ring in his ears for days afterwards, andmake him very uncomfortable. Her speeches were never long, but theywere often weighty, and were adapted to make their hearers considertheir ways, and think what they would do in the end thereof--a style ofconsideration always unwelcome to Aubrey, and especially so since hisview of the world had been enlarged by coming to London.

  He was just now in an awkward position, and the centre and knot of theawkwardness was Dorothy Rookwood. He was making no way with Dorothy.Her brother he met frequently at Winter's rooms, but if he wished to seeher, he must go to her home. If he went there, he must call at theWhite Bear. If he did that, he must first deliver his grandmother'smessage to Lady Oxford. And only suppose that Lady Oxford's inquiriesshould lead to discoveries which would end in a rupture between theGolden Fish and the White Bear--in Aubrey's receiving an order to dropall acquaintance with the Rookwoods! For Aubrey's training, while verykindly conducted, had been one of decided piety; and unchanged as washis heart, the habits and tone of eighteen years were not readily shakenoff. He could not feel easy in doing many things that he saw others do;he could not take upon his lips with impunity words which he heardfreely used around him. His conscience was unseared as yet, and ittormented him sorely. The result of these reflections was that Aubreyturned into Oxford House, without visiting King Street at all, andsought his bed without making any attempt to convey the message.

  Before the conspirators resumed their work after the Christmas holidays,they took two more into their number. These were Robert Winter ofHuddington, the elder brother of Thomas, and John Grant of Norbrook, whohad married Dorothy, sister of the Wrights. Catesby and Thomas Winterwent down to the Catherine Wheel at Oxford, whence they sent for theirfriends to come to them, and having first pledged them to secrecy, theywere then initiated into the plot.

  It was about this Christmas that Catesby also took into his confidencethe only one of the conspirators who was not a gentleman--his ownservant, Thomas Bates, partly because he had "great opinion of him forhis long-tried fidelity," and partly also because, having been employedin carrying messages, he suspected that he had some inkling of thesecret, and wished that, like the rest, he should be bound to keep it byoath. Bates is described as a yeoman, and "a man of mean station, whohad been much persecuted on account of religion." Having been desiredto confirm his oath by receiving the Sacrament "with intention," and asa pre-requisite of this was confession, Bates went to Greenway, whom heacquainted with the particulars, "which he was not desirous to hear,"and asked if he might lawfully join in such work. Greenway directed himto keep the secret, "because it was for a good cause," and forbade himto name the subject to any other priest. This is Bates's account;Greenway asserts that Bates never named the subject to him, either in orout of confession; but the Jesuit code of morality required his denial,if he had heard it in confession only. Poor Bates was the most innocentof the conspirators, and the most truly penitent: he was rather a tooland a victim than a miscreant. He lost his life through neglect of amuch-forgotten precept--"If sinners entice thee, consent thou not."

  The conspirators now set to work again on their mine, and wrought tillCandlemas Day, by which time they were half through the wall of theHouse. Fawkes was on all occasions the sentinel. They had providedthemselves with "baktmeats," pasties, and hard-boiled eggs, sufficientfor twenty days, in order to avoid exciting the suspicions of theirneighbours by constantly bringing fresh provisions to a house supposedto be occupied by one person alone. The labour was very severe,especially to Catesby and Percy, on account of their unusual height.The oozing in of the water was a perpetual annoyance. But one day,something terrible occurred.

  As the amateur miners plied their picks with diligence, the toll of abell was suddenly heard. John Wright, who was furthest in the mine,stopped with uplifted tool.

  "Blessed saints! what can that be?"

  Work was unanimously suspended.

  "It comes from the very midst of the wall!" said Catesby, growing ashade paler.

  "_Refugium peccatorum, ora pro nobis_!" piously entreated Percy,crossing himself.

  "Call Mr Fawkes," suggested Christopher.

  Mr Fawkes was summoned, by his official name of Johnson; and comingdown into the cellar, declared that he also distinctly heard the uncannysound.

  "'Tis the Devil that seeketh to make stay of our work," pronouncedPercy--a most improbable suggestion, for Satan surely had no cause tointerfere with his servants when engaged in his own business.

  "Have we here any holy water?" asked Catesby.

  "Ay, there is in the bedchamber," said Fawkes.

  "Pray you, fetch it quickly."

  The holy water was at once brought, and the wall was sprinkled with it.At that moment the tolling ceased.

  "Blessed be our Lady! the holy water hath stayed it," said Percy.

  After a few minutes' pause, the work was recommenced: but it had gone onfor barely an hour when again the unearthly bell began its work. Oncemore the benitier was brought, and the wall sprinkled; whereupon thediabolical noise stopped at once. For several days these processes wererepeated, the bell invariably being silenced by the sprinkling of theblessed element. At least, so said the conspirators.

  About the second of February, there was another scare. A strangerushing noise was heard on the other side of the wall, from what causewas unknown; and Catesby, as usual the chief director, whispered toFawkes to go out and ascertain what it was.

  Fawkes accordingly went upstairs, and out into the street. A waggonstood before the door of the House of Lords, and men were busy carryingsacks and tubs from the cellar to the waggon. Charcoal only was thensold by the sack; sea-coal being disposed of in tubs.

  "Good-morrow, Master," said Roger Neck, the servant who wassuperintending the transaction, as Fawkes paused a moment, apparently tolook on, after the fashion of an idle man. Roger had seen him more thanonce, passing in and out of Percy's house; but he was the only one ofthe plotters ever visible in the daytime.

  "Good-morrow, friend. Selling your coals off?"

  "Ay, we're doing a middling stroke of business this morrow."

  "How much a load? We shall want some ere long."

  "Charcoal, fourteen shillings; cannel, sixpence to ninepence, accordingto quality."

  Fawkes walked down the street, to avoid suspicion, into King Street,where he turned into the first shop to which he came. It happened to bea cutler's, and he bought the first thing he saw--a dozen knives ofSheffield make. Had they been London-made, they would have cost fourtimes as much as the modest shilling demanded for them. He thenreturned to Percy's house, carrying the knives in his hand. Fawkes hadnow fully blossomed out in his new role of "Mr Percy's man," and wasclad in blue camlet accordingly, blue being then the usual wear ofservants out of livery.

  "What is it, Johnson?" asked Percy, addressing Fawkes by his assumedname, when he came down into the cellar.

  "It is a dozen of Sheffield knives, Master," replied Fawkes a littledrily: "and by the same token, our next neighbour is selling his coals,and looks not unlike to clear out his cellar."

  "Is that all?"

  "That is all."

  Two of the conspirators looked at each other.

  "If you could hire the cellar--" suggested Catesby.

  "Done!" said Percy. "It should save us a peck of trouble."

  "Who owns it?--or who hath it?" asked Catesby.

  "Why, for who owns it, I guess the Parliament House," answered Fawkes;"but for who hath it, that must we discover."

  "Pray you, make haste and discover it, then."

  Fawkes went out again to make inquiries. He found without difficultythat the cellar, like the houses adjoining, was held by the Wyniards,and it was agreed that Percy should call on them and endeavour to obtainit.

  He accordingly went to see his landlady, to whom he represented that hewished to bring his wife up to live with him in London--she was in thecountry at present, and he missed her sorely--but if that were done, hemust have more stowage for wood and coals.

  Mrs Wyniard's interest was aroused at once in a man who cared for hiswife, and felt a want of her society.

  "Well, now, I am sorry!" said she. "You see, we've let that vault toMrs Skinner--leastwise, Mrs Bright, she is now--o' King Street, tostore her coals. Her new husband's a coal-seller, see you. You shouldhave had it, as sure as can be, if I hadn't."

  "It were very much to my commodity," said Percy, truthfully this time,"if I could hire that cellar, and,"--the second half of the sentence wasa falsehood--"I have already been to Mrs Skinner, and hold herconsent."

  "Well, now, but that's a bit mean o' Skinner's wife," said Mrs Wyniardin a vexed tone; "she shouldn't ha' done that and ne'er ha' let me know.I wouldn't ha' thought that of Ellen Skinner--no, I wouldn't."

  "But," suggested Percy, insinuatingly, "if I gave you twenty shillingsover for your good-will, and prayed you to say nought to Mrs Skinner,and I will likewise content her?"

  "Well, you know how to drive a bargain, forsooth," answered MrsWyniard, laughing. "Come, I'll let Widow Skinner be--Mistress Bright, Imean. You shall have the vault for four pounds a quarter, if so beshe's content."

  Percy's next visit was to the coal-seller and his bride. Mr Bright wasnot at home, but Mrs Bright was; and though she could not write hername [Note 1], she could use her tongue to some purpose.

  "To be sure we hold the cellar. Sixteen pound by the year, and that'splenty. Takes a many loads of coals to make that, I warrant you."

  "I wondered," said Percy in a careless manner, as though he did not muchcare whether he got it or not, "whether you might let me the cellar forthe same purpose? I think to lay in wood and coals for the winter, andmy own cellar is scarce large enough, for I am a Northern man, and lovea good fire. This cellar of yours, being so close by, should be greatlyto my convenience, if you were willing."

  "Well, to be sure, and it would so!" assented innocent Mrs Bright."You see, I can't speak certain till my master comes in, but I'm sureyou may take it as good: he mostly does as I bid him. So we'll say, ifMrs Wyniard be content to accept the rent from you, you shall have itat four pound by the quarter, and give me forty shillings in my hand."[Note 2.]

  "Done," said Percy, "if your husband consent."

  "I'll see to it he doth," she answered with a capable nod.

  The bargain was struck: Andrew Bright did as he was told, and Percy wasto become the occupant of the cellar without delay.

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  Note 1. She signed her deposition by a mark, while her servant RogerNeck, wrote his name.

  Note 2. Examination of Ellen Bright, Gunpowder Plot Book, article 24.