The fifth of November

by Charles S. Bentley; Frank Kimball Scribner

THE WAY OF THE WORLD.

On hearing the sounds which indicated the departure of those in the room beneath, Elinor arose from her cramped position and noiselessly crept to the window. In the moonlit garden she could distinguish the figures of four men going in the direction of the lane at the back of the house. One she recognized as Sir Thomas Winter; the others were unknown to her. But in a moment she heard her father's voice as he uttered a warning to the horsemen: "Mind the ditch, Lord Percy! Sir Catesby, keep well to the left!"

Then Fawkes closed the door, and she could hear his movements as he went about extinguishing the lights. His footsteps sounded on the stairs. If by chance he came into the chamber and found her awake and up, what then? He would readily surmise how much it had been possible for her to hear. Once in his anger, she remembered, he had valued her life but cheaply;—within two short hours Elinor had learned to look upon her father with terror, almost with dread; those words of his rang in her ears: "I will kill the King if need be, even without help!"

The footsteps approached her room. What was she to do? It was too late to gain the bed and feign slumber, for the creaking of a loose board would certainly attract his attention. She hoped the door was secured, but had no recollection of locking it. At last he had gained the passage; now he was before her room and placed his hand upon the latch; it was not locked, for the door opened. The man peered in through the crevice and gazed in her direction. How her heart throbbed, shaking her whole body, and sending the blood through her veins with a sound which she feared he would hear. She thanked God that the moon shone directly through the window and her position was well out of its rays. He evidently did not see the girl, for after a scrutiny of the bed, which stood well in the shadow, and a muttered, "Safe, safe enough; all safe," he closed the door and passed down the corridor.

Elinor for a moment stood listening to the retreating footsteps; then sank into a chair, exhausted by the strain of the last few moments, and tried to gather her scattered thoughts. With woman's intuition she quickly grasped the enormity of all she had overheard, comprehending that high treason and wholesale murder had been planned; but the hardest truth for her to realize was that her father, whom she had always trusted and looked upon as the embodiment of honor and uprightness, was the foremost to suggest and even offer to carry out the fearful deed. "I will kill the King, if need be, even without help:" the awful sentence seemed to be repeated over and over again by the rustling night wind. Her first impulse was to save him from the consequences of such an act. Were not the names of Moore and Essex familiar to her? And what was their fate for even a suspected treason? Her hysterical imagination placed vividly before her the head of the father she loved, lying bleeding in that patch of moonlight on the floor.

But what could she do in her weakness? Go to her father and beseech him that, for love of her, he would take no part in this terrible crime? That would accomplish nothing, for she knew him to be one whom naught could turn from a deed he once undertook and looked upon as justified. And now the most passionate fanaticism had seized him—fanaticism of the most dangerous kind, born of wrongs done to his faith. To whom could she turn for aid? She knew but one who, perhaps, had some influence over Fawkes' stubborn mind. However, was not this very one as deep in the treason as her father? Winter! The name caused a shudder, bringing to mind that terrible morning ten days past. Winter! She must then seek help from him; her hopes clung only to a straw; nevertheless she would go and beg, if need be, even upon bended knee, that he would persuade her father to relinquish this terrible purpose. Yes, now was the time to act, for she feared in her indefinite terror that the morrow might be too late.

Quickly seizing a cloak and throwing it about her, Elinor crept toward the door and listened. The place was dark, and quiet as the grave. Swiftly she descended the stairs, then groped her way to the door and tried to withdraw the bolts. Would they never yield to her efforts? At last they slipped with a sound which echoed through the house. The girl paused, expecting to hear her father's voice, but the silence was unbroken. In a moment she was out in the moonlit street. How quiet and serene everything appeared. How in contrast to the tumult of her feelings. As she stood, the great bell of St. Paul's boomingly tolled out the hour—twelve o'clock.

"He must," she whispered to herself, "he must be home ere now, but what will he think of my coming to him at this time?" She tried to thrust this thought aside, and to gain repose of mind by walking more swiftly.

Arrived before Winter's residence, and trying the wicket at the entrance she found it yielded to her touch. The girl beheld a stream of light coming from between the curtains of a window on the second floor. The master of the house was then within. Quickly Elinor passed up the walk and stood before the door. As she raised the knocker her resolution almost gave way. What was she about to tell Winter. That she, a girl, was possessed of this terrible secret!

Suddenly came to her memory the dreadful words connecting this man's name with hers. She thought of the few times when they had been together; how eager he had seemed to be near her; with what a trembling clasp he had carried her fingers to his lips and imprinted upon them kisses which burned themselves into the very flesh. And now she was about to face him in the dead of night—and alone! Her fingers relaxed their hold. "Courage, courage," she murmured; and quickly laying hold of the knocker again, she smote thrice upon the panel and listened. There soon fell upon her ear the sound of some one coming in answer to her summons. The door opened and a sleepy servant stood regarding her with an air of no small astonishment.