CHAPTER XXXII.
Darkness was rapidly descending, when the Earl of Eskdale, guided by Quartermaster Calderwood, entered the little street of the hamlet. They found Tom Higham amusing himself with talking nonsense in a strong London jargon to some Scotch lads assembled round the door, who hardly understood what he said, and whose own language was well nigh incomprehensible to him. His master beckoned him to follow with the horses, and was led to the very outskirts of the village, where a small cottage appeared, in no very good state of preservation, and quite separated from the rest of the hamlet, being situated in the midst of its own garden or kail-yard.
"This is the only place I can assign to your Lordship," said Calderwood, as they approached; "and I fear you must share it with another gentleman who joined us this afternoon from France. There is room, however, for two; and I must dispose of the servants elsewhere."
"I am in no way nice, Quartermaster," replied Smeaton. "I have been too much accustomed to a life in arms to mind sleeping under that wall, should it be necessary."
"Ah, my Lord, I am glad to hear it," replied Calderwood. "We are sadly in want of a few men of experience amongst us."
The ordinary reflection passed through Smeaton's mind, that the more men are wanting in experience themselves, the less are they inclined to profit by the experience of others; but he forbore reply; and Calderwood opened the door. No passage, no internal door, shut the single room in the lower part of the house from the external air; and, on entering, Smeaton found himself at once in a large apartment, tenanted by four persons. One was in the garb of a servant; two others seemed to be the master of the tenement and his wife, a sandy-haired man and a black-haired woman of about forty years of age; and these three were bustling about, apparently preparing for the evening meal. The fourth person was seated before a blazing fire on the north side of the cottage. He was tall, stout, and apparently well dressed; but the last gleam of day being on the point of extinction, no candles lighted, and a considerable quantity of smoke in the room, not much could be discerned of his figure by the flickering flame of the fire.
Mr. Calderwood spoke a few words to him, explaining the necessity under which Lord Kenmure lay of quartering another gentleman in the same tenement. The stranger immediately rose, with some polite expression of pleasure, and, while the good woman of the house lighted a solitary candle, advanced to meet the new corner.
The presence of the stranger was dignified and easy, his figure fine, and his face, if not altogether handsome or pleasing, striking and remarkable. He had much the air of a military man; and his profession, or his propensities, seemed indicated by a deep and somewhat recent scar upon his brow.
The moment he saw Smeaton, his face flushed either with pleasure or some other emotion; and the young nobleman, after gazing at him for a moment, as if partly recognising him and partly doubting his own eyes, held out his hand, saying:
"This is an unexpected pleasure."
The stranger took his offered hand and shook it hard, but with a peculiar look, not the most cordial. Putting his face close to Smeaton's ear, he said--
"Call me Somerville. My name is Somerville here."
Smeaton quietly inclined his head, saying:
"I believed you were in very distant lands, Mr. Somerville. When did you return to Europe?"
"Three or four months ago," replied his companion. "I have been wandering about in France since.--Now, my good woman, will my supper never be ready? Come, bestir yourself, and add something to it for this gentleman, who is doubtless as hungry as I am."
There was evidently a feeling of restraint upon him as he spoke, which he endeavoured in vain to cover by an affectation of ease and carelessness; and the moment he had addressed this adjuration to the woman of the house, he fell into a fit of thought, without at all attending to her grumbling reply.
Smeaton was also thoughtful; but he did not lose his ease and calmness; and, by a few good-humoured words, soon induced their hostess to hurry herself somewhat more than she had been doing previously.
I might give a long detail of all the little events which took place during the next hour, and relate how Smeaton's servant, and the servant of the gentleman calling himself Somerville, were provided with quarters elsewhere; how a bare-legged damsel, with all the beauty of youth and health, a clear complexion, and large bleak eyes, came in to borrow a pot, and was not suffered to depart without many gallant compliments and a half-resisted kiss from Mr. Somerville; and how two pretty children, with very scanty clothing, from a neighbouring cottage, stood leaning upon each other, and watched the strange gentlemen who had come, while they enjoyed the meal prepared for them. But I must pass over all such minute facts, and bring the reader at once to the moment when, after having concluded their supper, Smeaton and his companion were alone together, the host and hostess having retired to their early rest, leaving the two gentlemen with a large jug of whiskey on the table and a kettle of hot water on the fire.
More than once during the earlier part of the meal, Somerville had given a momentary glance at his companion's face from under his heavy eyebrows, but withdrawn it as soon as he perceived that Smeaton's eyes were directed towards him. He meditated much, and often too; and, as I have said, there was an uneasy air about him which surprised his comrade for the time; for, when he had known him slightly some years before, he was famous for that easy daring impudence which was much affected in all countries by the class called men of wit and pleasure.
When they were left alone together, however, Smeaton at once changed the tone of the conversation, saying:
"Well, now we are without witnesses, we may speak of more interesting matters, Newark. When did you return from South America? I heard with great surprise, when I was at Nancy, that you had determined to turn merchant, and had taken some nom-de-guerre."
"Ay, a merchant adventurer," retorted the other, laying great stress upon the last word. "But it was more in the latter than the former character that I went, my good Lord. I have been back, as I told you, about three months, after having gilded my purse with a few ducats in the new world, let the Dons' blood when they were in danger of calenture from too much heat, and basked in the sweet smiles of the olive-brown dames of Peru and Mexico. I got tired of that, as of everything else in this wearisome world; and, hearing that stirring times were coming in this quarter, I thought I might as well return and stake a trifle--such as life and fortune--upon the game that is to be played, in the hope of recovering, somehow or another, a portion of what I and mine have lost."
"Did you see your uncle and aunt when you were in France?" asked Smeaton, fixing his eyes steadily upon him.
"No," replied the other, in a careless tone. "The good Lord, my uncle, is somewhat worse than senile, having fallen into a decrepitude of temper as well as of mind and body. He has turned himself into a corn-merchant, too, which does not suit my notions of propriety; and, as he never appreciated my high qualities and good points, I did not think it worth while to trouble him with my presence."
"I know you never agreed," remarked Smeaton; "and of course it is not for me to say which was in the right--"
"Meaning that I was in the wrong," said the other, with a laugh.
But Smeaton continued, as if he had not been interrupted, saying:
"You do not do him justice when you talk of senility. His mind is as clear and strong as ever, and his bodily frame but little shaken by the passing of years. I have had every opportunity of judging, having passed some weeks with himself and Lady Newark before I came to England."
"Ah! is he so strong in virtue and in muscles?" exclaimed the other, with a bitter laugh. "Heaven receive him to the place of saints, and that right speedily!"
"Nay, nay," said Smeaton. "I am sure, Newark, that wish is more upon your lips than in your heart."
"It is not, by ----," cried the other, with a fierce oath. "I should then be Lord Newark, at all events; and, as to ever getting back the lands as well as the lordship, that would be as the stars willed it, and they have always been kinder to me than he."
"I do not think you ever judged him fairly," said Smeaton, gravely. "He was certainly very kind to you in early life, and strained his small means to afford you a high education along with his two poor sons; but--"
"But I was what old women call wild, you would say," cried the other, who seemed to have a great habit of interrupting. "Well, I was wild, and scoffed a little at the doctrines and notions of elderly gentlewomen of both sexes, liking much better the doctrines of younger ladies, and occasionally quarrelled with gentlemen and soldiers who entertained heretical notions as to my right and liberties in certain cases. But what of that? I was none the worse for that. No, no, Eskdale. The head and front of my offence was his own weakness, folly, or treachery, in suffering his daughter to remain in the hands of the knave, John Newark."
"How could he help it?" asked Smeaton. "His life was not worth an hour's purchase if he ventured into England; and there was no one in this island on whom he could rely to take her from the sort of imprisonment in which she was kept, and replace her under her father's care. Doubt not, he would willingly have done it, had it been possible."
"Why did he not rely on me?" retorted the other, vehemently. "I would have released her, and brought her safely to France. I offered to do it--I had everything prepared; but he would not hear of it."
Ho muttered something to himself which Smeaton did not clearly hear, and then went on aloud--
"He made me appear like a vain boaster in the eyes of a dozen people. I told sweet John Newark that I would take away the girl from him, and cut his throat in the house where he has ensconced himself so snugly. I will do it too, before I have done with him."
"You must get him out of the Tower first," replied Smeaton; "for he is safely lodged there by this time."
"Ha!" exclaimed the other, laughing aloud. "A bagged fox! But come now," he continued, in a gayer tone; "what report do you make of that fair west countrie which I hear you have been visiting lately? Was Sir John flourishing when you were there? And what adventures did you meet with?"
"Sir John was quite well, and apparently prosperous," replied Smeaton; "that is to say, till the very day I came away, on the morning of which he was apprehended, and sent, I imagine, to the Tower. As to adventures, I met with few, and those not much worth relating."
He paused for a moment, asking himself if he should say more; but the other again went on, inquiring--
"What of the lady, what of the fair lady, sweet Mistress Emmeline? Is she as beautiful as I hear?"
"She is very beautiful and very amiable," replied Smeaton.
"And the son, Sir John Newark's son?" demanded the other. "They say his father intends to marry him to Emmeline, in the hope of securing his title to the estates, under all circumstances, and obtaining the title of Baron Newark, whatever party is in power. Did you hear anything of all this?"
"Nothing," replied Smeaton, thoughtfully. "From the character of the man, indeed," he continued, "such a scheme is not unlikely; but I do not think there could be any idea of carrying it immediately into execution. Richard Newark is a mere boy, some years younger than Emmeline herself. When first I saw him in London, he was rude, wild, and strange; but he has wonderfully improved, both in intellect and manners, in the troublous scenes we have gone through; and, though he will ever be eccentric, and very different from other persons, yet there are high and good qualities in him which make me love and esteem him much."
"Is he with his father in London?" asked the other, quietly.
"No," replied Smeaton. "He came with me into Northumberland to join the Northumbrian gentlemen now in arms; and, if Lord Kenmure agrees to the proposal which I have brought him this evening for a union of the two forces, you will see him in a day or two. In that case," he continued, gravely, almost sternly, "I must request you to treat him with all kindness, remembering that his father's faults are not his, and that he is under my protection."
The other laughed, though the hint galled him a little.
"Oh, certainly," he replied. "Your high and mighty protection, Lord Eskdale, will not be needed against me. I am not going to quarrel with a boy, nor to cut his throat because his father's ought to have been cut long ago. So there was no need of any threat."
"I used no threat indeed, Newark," said the Earl; "but, knowing you are of a quick and impetuous temper, merely suggested considerations which I thought would enable you to control it."
"Ay, right good," returned the other; "but there is no fear. I am not quarrelsome now-a-days, Heaven knows, or there is many a man I might quarrel with, without seeking out a boy for the purpose. But what, in this rout and dispersion, has become of fair Emmeline herself? Have you brought her too with you into Northumberland?"
"No indeed," replied the young Earl. "Sir John has taken her to London with him."
"Damnation!" muttered the other. "Why," he added, after an effort to control himself, "if he had left her behind at Ale, nothing would have been so easy as to get her off to France."
"But he did not so leave her," replied Smeaton, calmly. "And now, Newark, I will go and lie down in the room they showed me; for I have ridden hard and far, and passed last night under a stone wall. I must be up early, too, in the morning; for these noble lords here must come to a speedy decision; and that decision must be communicated at once to General Forster."
"Well, I shall stay here and make some way in the flagon," said the other. "Though this stuff, which is just the same as they call usquebagh in Ireland, is little better than molten fire, yet I feel that my blood wants a little warming in this accursed cold country."
"Your blood was always hot enough," observed Smeaton, moving towards the end of the stairs; "and that spirit is too strong for me. So good night, Newark." And he retired to rest.
The other remained for two hours or more, till the candle had nearly burnt into the socket. During that time, however, he drank little, but was absorbed in deep meditation, chequered apparently by many various feelings; for now he laughed, and now he looked stern and fierce.
"He did not recognise me," he muttered. "That is clear. No, not even by the mark he put upon my forehead. He shall pay that debt; but not just now. I can wait, and the interest will accumulate. We may make something of this," he again muttered, after a long pause. "We may make something of this. Let me see. John in prison on a charge of high treason; William marries the heiress, and then--what then? Why, services to the House of Hanover; one slight whirl of the weather-cock, and all is safe, especially if one could bring some intelligence with one. A Newark on the side of Hanover! That seems a strange figure of speech. One starts at it. Why should I care for whom I draw my sword? What have the Stuarts done for me? Ah! ha! ha! Doubtless, there will be plenty to keep me in countenance."
Thus saying, he rose, and retired also to rest.
Before daybreak, on the following morning, the young Earl was up and dressed, and the sky was still grey, when a messenger from Lord Kenmure reached him, requesting his presence at that nobleman's head-quarters. He found everything in bustle and activity, and he could see at once that a resolution was taken.
"We have just come to a sudden determination, my lord," said Kenmure, when Smeaton entered. "We find that Brigadier Macintosh, instead of advancing at once, after passing the Frith of Forth, has marched towards Edinburgh. He writes word, however, that he will join us shortly with his infantry, if we can maintain ourselves for a few days in the south, and gather together a body of cavalry. We have, therefore, resolved to advance as far as Rothbury to effect our junction with General Forster. It will then be necessary to retire across the border, and take measures for keeping up our communication with Macintosh. We shall consequently be your companions, instead of your followers, on the march."
In an hour from that time the troop was mounted, and on its way; but, when in full array, its numbers and its equipment were inferior even to the young Earl's expectations.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
It was on the evening of the brightest day which had shone for the last fortnight, when the Earl of Eskdale, accompanied by Mr. William Newark, under the name of Somerville, and followed by their two servants, rode into the small town of Rothbury. They found the place all gay and busy, the news of the advance of Lord Kenmure having reached it some hours before, and spread joy and expectation amongst the disheartened gentlemen of Northumberland. Half-a-dozen times, in riding through the little street, the young nobleman was stopped to inquire how far distant was the Scottish force; and his reply of "Half a day's march" seemed to give universal satisfaction.
One of the readiest to accost him was Van Noost, who, after having received his answer to the first question, ran on by the side of the Earl's horse, telling him, with great pride and satisfaction, that he had taken upon himself the duty of engineer and armourer that he had repaired and polished innumerable guns and pistols, and cast some thousands of bullets for the service of the forces.
"Your Lordship's quarters are quite ready for you, too," he cried. "I have taken care of that. All the Keanton men are lodged together in those two white houses; and in the one on this side is a capital apartment for you, next to the quarters of Master Richard. By the way," he continued, "a boy has arrived from Ale Manor with a large packet for you, which should have come to hand six days ago; but the poor lad has had to hunt us all over the country; and it is wonderful how he has escaped the enemy; for he has been in the very heart of General Carpenter's dragoons at Newcastle, and brought us intelligence of all his doings."
A few steps more took them to the house which Van Noost had pointed out; and Richard Newark came down to the door to meet his noble friend. He greeted him with every mark of joy and satisfaction; but glanced his eye, from time to time, towards Smeaton's companion with a look of inquiry and distrust. He rambled on, indeed, in his usual way, saying, as the Earl dismounted and gave directions regarding the horses and the servants:
"Well, Eskdale, so you have brought us the Scots. Now there is hope of doing something; for all this marching and countermarching is poor stuff; and I have felt like one out of a flock of sheep, driven hither and thither by the shepherd's dog. The man does not hear me. The Scotch wind has blown away his hearing. Eskdale, I say, there is a large packet come for you from Ale, addressed to you in Madame Culpepper's own peculiar cipher. I had a thousand minds to break it open; for I longed for news, and I am sure there must be some for me. But a seal--I don't like fingering a seal. Strange that a little bit of red resin, under the effect of our prejudices, should be stronger than an iron box!"
Smeaton shook him warmly by the hand, and, requesting his companion of the march to follow, entered the house with his young friend, who asked, in a low voice--
"Who have you got there? His face does not please me."
"It is, nevertheless, the face of a relation of yours," replied Smeaton. "I will introduce him to you as soon as we are alone; but let me see this packet. It may contain news of importance."
At the top of the first flight of steps were two good rooms, one of which, on the right hand, was retained for the use of the young nobleman; and here he found the packet which had been mentioned. Breaking it open at once, he perceived that it contained two letters for himself, and two for Richard Newark. Giving the latter instantly to his young friend, he invited Somerville to seat himself before he opened the letters which bore his own address, although one of them, in a small delicate hand--more like that of a lady in the present day than one of those times--seemed too precious to be long delayed. As soon as he had shown this piece of attention to his guest, he retreated into the window, and eagerly broke the seal of the letter addressed as I have mentioned. He was not deceived. Emmeline's name was at the bottom of the lines that were written upon the page; and, with a beating heart, he read words which might well have come from a more experienced mind or a less tender and affectionate heart. Yet love and tenderness were evident throughout, as the contents may show.
"My beloved Husband,--I snatch a moment and an opportunity to write to you, knowing what you must feel, but not knowing what you are doing. Anxious as I am to hear where you are, and all that you can tell me of your proceedings, I fondly believe that you are more anxious still to hear of your Emmeline. I am in London, in a small lodging near the Tower, at number thirty-two, in Tower Street, surrounded by the servants of my cousin, Sir John Newark, and, as he believes, cut off from all communication with other persons by their means. Amongst them, however, is one planed there by her who has befriended us at Ale Manor, and who has found means to assure me that he is devoted alone to my service. He will contrive to convey this to Devonshire. The time allowed me is but short.
"And now, what shall I say to you, my dear husband? I need not speak of love and gratitude. I need not tell you how my whole heart is devoted to you. I need not say how earnestly I wish it were possible for you to come yourself, and either claim me as your own in the face of all the world, or take me home in secret to spend my life with you in quiet retirement and content. But I must beseech you on no account to venture near this city, unless you can do so in perfect safety; to sacrifice for Emmeline no security, to run no risk, and above all, not to let affection for her--that eagerness to see her which I am sure you feel--nor the indignation which you must experience at the conduct you have met with, induce you to take any part in the struggle for the crown of these realms, which your own calm and ever just judgment does not warrant. I am sure you will not, and yet I write these words because I feel that it will be a comfort to you to know that Emmeline has no selfish wish to be gratified at your expense. Consult your own honour; consult your own dignity. Think of her; love her for ever, but do not let one thought of her, one feeling for her, influence you in circumstances where duty and honour are concerned, knowing that your honour is far dearer to her than her own happiness or her own life.
"Oh, how I long to see you! How I long to tell you, dear Henry, all I have suffered, all I have thought, all I have felt--to pour out my whole soul and heart to him who has alone seen and known them. But let not my longing have the least weight with you. Act as if I had never existed, or as if you had never known me; but let the memory of your Emmeline be as the miniature-portrait of one well loved, ever nearest to your heart, and think, whenever you think of her, that she is blessing you, and praying for you, and beseeching Heaven to guide, preserve, and prosper you in whatever course your own wisdom and God's grace shall lead you.
"I know not how to end my letter. The words seem so strange that I have to write; and yet I am--I feel--I know I am--
"Your affectionate and dutiful wife,
"Emmeline Eskdale."
Smeaton, with all his warm and strong enthusiasm was not a man of that soft and melting character which tender feelings, and what was then called "sentiment," easily moved to tears. In those days, and for nearly a century afterwards, there was what I may call a lachrymose school, which was weeping on every occasion where anything touching presented itself or could be found. He was not of this school, and hardly knew of its existence; yet the words of his dear and beautiful Emmeline brought the moisture into his eyes, and he turned to the window that no one might mark what he considered a weakness.
The other letter contained merely a few lines from Mrs. Culpepper; but they were not of much significance, merely informing him that Sir John Newark was lodged in the Tower to await trial, that the accompanying epistle had come from the Lady Emmeline, together with the letters addressed to Mr. Richard Newark, and that she herself, Mrs. Culpepper, was most anxious to hear of his proceedings, pointing out at the same time the boy who brought the letters as one, whose wit and conduct justified the fullest confidence.
In the mean while, Richard Newark had opened the two letters addressed to himself, which were both in his father's hand, and had been written evidently under the idea that they might be opened and read before they were forwarded. The first was dated Exeter, and contained but a few lines, which were to the following effect:
"My dear son,--I beseech you, as soon as you receive these, to set out and join me without any delay. Should I be removed from Exeter before your arrival, you will easily gain intelligence of where I am, along the road. Follow quick, and delay not, as you value the love of
"Your affectionate father,
"John Newark."
The second letter was more in detail, and in not so mild a tone. It told the young gentleman that his father was detained a prisoner in the Tower, that his cousin Emmeline was lodging in the neighbourhood, desiring an opportunity of serving her uncle and guardian, and that she required protection and assistance in her desolate and solitary course. Sir John then went on to say, clearly with a view of conveying his complete submission and attachment to the government, that he had heard, with great pain, a rumour that his son had taken part with those who were attempting to subvert the existing government, and establish the sway of the Pretender, and he went on to command him, on his duty to his father, to separate himself from all such rash and disloyal persons, and immediately make the best of his way to London, taking up his abode in the house which had been engaged for his cousin Emmeline.
Richard Newark concluded the reading of his letters with one of his wild laughs, and then turned his look to Smeaton, who was still standing in the window, with his eyes fixed upon the lines he had received from Emmeline.
"Well, noble Earl," said the lad, "what news have you?"
Smeaton beckoned him up, and, with a sudden determination, put Emmeline's letter in his hand.
Richard Newark started at the first words, and his cheek became somewhat pale. For the moment he went no farther, but laid his finger on the line--"My beloved husband." He said nothing; but his look was a question, and Smeaton answered--"Even so, Richard." At the same time, he slightly raised his finger and looked towards the other side of the room, where Somerville, or William Newark, was seated, fondling the hilt of his sword, and observing everything while he affected to observe nothing. Richard caught Smeaton's hand in his own, and wrung it hard, saying, in a low voice:
"I am sorry I have dragged you into this thing. You should have gone after her. You can go even now."
"Impossible, Richard," replied Smeaton, in the same low tone; "but you can, and you must. My station, my age, my name, my family, all forbid me to quit this cause when I have once embarked in it. Such is not the case with you. Emmeline requires protection, assistance, and support. To you I trust her in the fullest and most implicit confidence, and I beseech you to fly to her and to give her that aid which I cannot--I must not--attempt to afford."
"No, no," cried Richard, aloud, with a laugh, "no, no!" And then, suddenly breaking off, he exclaimed: "But you promised to introduce me to a relation, noble Earl. Confer the favour, I beseech you. I am poor in such things. I have but one father and a cousin in my purse; and I am avaricious of more wealth."
Smeaton put away his letters, and introduced his young companion to William Newark, begging Richard to get hold of their Quartermaster and find good quarters for their visitor.
Richard suffered his cousin to shake him by the hand, but eyed him still like a shy fiery horse, glancing askance at the approach of an unskilful rider. The other, however, was all ease and self-possession, rejoiced exceedingly, as he said, to see his young cousin, spoke with expressions of regret of Sir John's confinement in the Tower, and cursed the chance which deprived the cause of so strong an arm and so skilful a head.
He then began to talk of his quarters, and Richard led him away to seek them with an air which he seemed to think very satisfactory, but which Smeaton, who knew the lad better, judged to be anything but an indication of amicable feelings towards his newfound friend. The young nobleman's thoughts, however, were soon engrossed in other matters; for Emmeline's letter reawakened many a pleasant, many a painful train of reflections, and he gave himself up to memories for more than half an hour, before he turned his steps towards the quarters of General Forster.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
It is wonderful how rapidly Somerville, as he called himself, gained to all appearance upon the good opinion of his young cousin. They became quite intimate. Richard found out for him a very comfortable room, sat and talked gaily with him for more than an hour, and then left him with a promise to come and sup with him tête-à-tête that night, that they might talk over matters of family interest.
Quarters had not been procured for William Newark too soon; for hardly an hour had passed ere a troop of some seventy men entered the town, headed by a person named Douglas, whom good old Mr. Robert Patten terms a gentleman, but who, nevertheless, followed the ancient and honourable occupation of horse-stealing upon the border. In the bustle and confusion which attended the congregation of a body of between three and four hundred men, most of them calling themselves gentlemen, in the small town of Rothbury--little farther communication took place between Richard Newark and the Earl of Eskdale. They met once, and Smeaton thought fit to give his young friend a hint in regard to the character of his cousin.
"He was always wild, rash, and intemperate," he said, "yet with a great deal of shrewdness, which deprived him, of one excuse for the commission of follies. He cannot be said to have committed any from mere thoughtlessness, and I do not think that your father feels at all well disposed towards him."
"Doubtless," replied Richard; "nor do I. I don't like that cut upon his forehead. It is an ugly gash, resembling the one you gave the fellow at the back of Ale Head, when they were carrying away Emmy. It is quite as well to mark a friend that we may know him again. I don't think your handwriting on that fellow's head can be mistaken."
"You let in light upon me," said Smeaton, gravely; "and, if your suspicion is correct, I think him more than ever to be avoided."
"To be watched, noble friend--to be watched," returned Richard, with a laugh.
"I am the best watchman in the world. I recollect waiting three hours without moving hand or foot--I don't think I winked an eye--watching with my cross-bow for a hare, till Miss Puss came out, hopping, on her hind legs, with her ears up and her whiskers wagging, and I hit my mark. People call me wild and foolish; but I can always watch and make something of it--and I will watch now."
The concluding words were said with peculiar emphasis, and the moment he had uttered them, he turned away and plunged into a little crowd which had gathered round the last comers.
It was night when the two cousins sat down to their supper together which William Newark had taken care to make as good and plentiful as the circumstances would permit. He had even contrived--Heaven knows how--to get two or three flagons of tolerable wine; but he did not show at first any inclination to drink deep, and began the conversation with topics very different from those which chiefly occupied his thoughts.
"Our numbers are swelling," he said, as soon as the servants had put the food upon the table and retired. "That was a large troop which came in this morning, and I saw a whole crowd of foot mounting the white cockade."
"Oh, yes," replied Richard Newark. "The horse were a goodly body; thieves, sheep-stealers, smugglers, cattle-lifters, all well to do in the world, and expert in their professions. Take care of your purse, cousin of mine, if you have got one, for transfer is easy amongst gentlemen of that class. As for the infantry, poor men, they only come in for disappointment. It is wonderful how much more zeal than discretion there is in infantry. If soldiers were only things to be fired at and not to fire again, we should have had one of the best-equipped armies of infantry in the world by this time. Thousands have come in with a sweet petition for arms; and, though they have been daily sent away with the assurance that we have no arms to give them, they still march in, offering their services."
"I should think arms would be easily procured from your western side of the country," observed Somerville. "You are so near the coast of France, and have such excellent places for landing them."
"Ale Bay, for instance," added Richard, with a sharp look, and then a laugh. "Ay, but the worst of it is, Cousin Bill, that the people at Ale are always watching for something or another; and he would be a cunning man who could land without being caught. My father knows that, or he would not have lived there so long."
"Ay, he cannot choose where he lives now, poor fellow," responded William Newark; "but I should think he would be somewhat uneasy at leaving our fair cousin, Emily, there. Take some wine, Richard."
"Emmeline, Emmeline," cried Richard, pouring out for himself some wine, "not Emily; how ignorant you are! But he is not at all uneasy about leaving her there, because he has taken her with him." And he laughed quite like a fool.
"Taken her to the Tower!" exclaimed his cousin. "I did not know they would receive a prisoner's family with him."
"Nor I either," replied Richard; "but they have not received her; she lives near with the servants and people, and my father took her to keep her out of harm's way. I have often heard him say that, if he had anything he wished to keep secret and snug, London was the place for the purpose. Now Emmeline is just in that case, and therefore you see he acts upon principle. Oh, he has a head, has he not? The Hanover people won't get it off so easily as they imagine; for he knows how to take care of it, as well as how to use it."
"Ay, doubtless," said the other. "And so the lady lives near the Tower, does she?"
"In good sooth," answered Richard, in somewhat of a mocking tone. "But what matters that to you, cousin of mine? It is a long way from this place to London. If you had a telescope, you could not see her."
"That would depend upon its strength," replied William Newark, "although, as I know not rightly where she lives, I could not well point it. In what street does she dwell? I know London thoroughly."
He spoke in an easy indifferent tone, judging that the lad would readily betray the place of Emmeline's abode, and making no allowance whatever for that shrewdness which is often joined to great simplicity.
"Oh, Heaven knows," replied Dick. "It is in some street, and the street has got a name; but what that name is has passed from my noddle these six hours, and the letters, as in duty bound, I put into the fire."
"Ha! you have had letters, have you?" exclaimed his cousin. "Who were they from, and what news did they give you?"
"They were from my father," replied Richard, "and gave me no news whatever, but merely commanded me to leave off soldiering, and go to London directly."
William Newark paused, and meditated for a moment or two, while Richard watched his countenance, keenly and searchingly, but with no more appearance of interest than if he had been marking the progress of a shadow on the wall. He saw a variation in the expression of his cousin's face; and, in truth, a total change had come over his plans. But Richard said nothing, quietly leaving the other to develope his own purposes.
"Do you know, Richard," said William Newark, at length, "I think your father is very much in the right in ordering you to join him in London, both on your account and his own. Your staying here in arms might damage him very much, and even bring his head to the block."
"Indeed!" ejaculated Richard. "What! cut off the father's head for the son's fault? That is reversing the line of succession, I think, and is neither heraldry nor justice."
"It sometimes happens, however," answered his cousin; "and the people will naturally say, that you would never have joined the insurrection, being so young, if your father had not prepared you to do so. Therefore, if you love your father, and would save his life, you had better do as he bids you; I might say, indeed, if you love yourself, and would save your own life, you would do so."
"I don't much care about my life," replied Dick; "but I have some small notion of honour."
"There is no honour to be got here," replied the other. "I am a man of honour too, and would cut any man's throat who said I was not; but I intend to leave these people, and that very speedily. Between you and me, Dick, there is neither honour, profit, nor safety to be had here. This insurrection will not succeed. Here are two generals with mighty armies of three or four hundred men, and neither the Englishman nor the Scotchman has the slightest knowledge of military matters. Kenmure and Forster are two quiet country gentlemen, who never saw a shotted cannon fired in their lives. They will get all who follow them into some horrid scrape, where you will be able to do nothing but hold out your hands for the king's troops to come and tie them. There will be disgrace, and ruin, and punishment. If there was a chance--if their own folly in appointing incapable country gentlemen to command in military operations did not deprive the cause of all likelihood--if we were going to fight like men instead of being trapped like sparrows, which will certainly be the end of it--I would let no danger daunt me. But as it is, Dick, I fairly tell you I shall march for London. You may do as you like."
His cousin's words were evidently not palatable to Richard Newark, who sat gloomy and silent for a minute or two, with his eyes bent upon the table, saying nothing, till his Cousin exclaimed, with a laugh--"Come, take some wine, Dick. It will cheer you."
"No," replied Richard, and pushed the flagon from him. At length he went on, setting his teeth hard--"Well, I will go. I can do them little good, and can be of more service to true-hearted folks there than here. I will go, cousin of mine. When do you set out?"
"Early to-morrow," replied William Newark. "I don't think it needful to tell Kenmure or Forster that, having been accustomed to serve under generals, I do not like to be commanded by bumpkins. I can write all those sweet things afterwards."
"I must tell Eskdale, however," said Richard Newark. "I cannot leave him without explanation."
"Take my advice, and do not say a word," answered his cousin. "He will only try to persuade you to remain by arguments you should not listen to."
"Not he," cried Richard Newark, with a scoff. "All his arguments go the other way. He has never ceased teasing me to go to London after my father, and to take care of Emmeline, and all that. However, I'll consider of it."
"Indeed!" exclaimed William Newark, in evident surprise at what he heard of the young Earl's conduct; and than he bit his lips to prevent himself smiling while he thought, "What a set of fools these people are! Surely one good head would be a match for a thousand of them."
Conceit is always an adjunct to cunning, and indeed is that adjunct which most frequently renders fruitless the dexterity of its companion. William Newark was mistaken in his calculations of Richard Newark's character; and, though every now and then he felt some misgivings from certain sharp turns of expression used by his young relation, he could not divest his mind of the idea that Richard was a mere pliable and eccentric boy, whom he could soon find means to twist into any shape he pleased. "I will use him as a tool," he thought, "to work my own purposes; but I must make haste. While his shrewd father remains in the Tower the stage is clear for me to play what part I please. Once let him get out, and I may meet with more than my match."
Richard Newark would drink no more wine, and soon after rose to return to his own quarters. He promised his cousin, however, to be ready to ride with him early on the following morning, with the full resolution of keeping his word. When he got beyond the door, however, he laughed aloud, and muttered, "Egad! What a fine thing it is to be called a fool! Men are always showing you their plans when they think you cannot make any use of the knowledge. Master William, you want watching, and you shall have it. I will be your shadow till I see you safe beyond the seas again. Ha, ha! The fool thinks to get hold of Emmeline, not knowing she is another man's wife already. He shall find himself mistaken."
With these thoughts he walked slowly to his own quarters, debating with himself whether he should tell Smeaton of his intentions. It was more in accordance with his character to set out without communicating with any one; but still his heart was kind and affectionate; and, when he reflected upon the pleasure it would give to Emmeline to receive a letter from her husband, he soon made up his mind. He found the young Earl seated quietly in his room, and alone; and a long conversation took place between them which I need not dwell upon here. Richard, indeed, did not tell his friend all his motives for the step he was about to take. He did not even mention that William Newark was to be the companion of his journey. He had no skill in explanations, and very often found it difficult to explain the motives of his actions to himself, rarely if ever attempting it to others; and in this instance he would have been obliged to enter into long details from which he shrank.
For his part, the Earl felt a sensation of relief and thankfulness, not easy to be described, when he heard Richard's resolution. To see the kind-hearted lad placed beyond the perils attending upon a desperate enterprise and a hopeless cause, would have afforded in itself much matter for rejoicing; but to know that Emmeline, in the difficulties and discomforts which surrounded her, would have the support and assistance of one so affectionate, true, and honest, took a great part of the heavy load from his heart. The conversation naturally turned to his marriage with Emmeline, in regard to which Richard evidently entertained some curiosity, and Smeaton succinctly detailed to him the whole facts, sparing the name of his father as much as possible. He then applied himself to write to Emmeline in such a manner as to prevent the possibility of any evil result, if the letter should fall into the hands of others; and, having done so, he committed it to the charge of his young companion, and bade him good night, never doubting that he should see him on the following morning.
The fatigues which Smeaton had undergone during the four preceding days made him exceed his usual period of rest by a few minutes; but, on rising, he found, to his surprise, that Richard had been gone more than an hour.