CHAPTER XL.
I must now turn to different scenes, and to people whom I have long left, in order not to break the chain of events immediately affecting the young Earl of Eskdale.
In one of the narrow streets leading away from Tower Hill, there is a house rather better than the others, but still small and inconvenient. Centuries ago, that street was the resort of many a gay and gallant attender upon the court; and, even at the time I speak of, was inhabited by a respectable though poor class of the population. It was the place where captains of ships trading between London and foreign ports usually found lodging during their stay on shore. The house I have mentioned was the best of those lodging-houses, and, through the kindness of the governor of the Tower--who was an easy kind-hearted man, as all his conduct to his prisoners showed--it had been hired for the family of Sir John Newark, immediately upon his arrival in custody of the messengers from Exeter. Let it be remarked, the whole house had been kind; and the good woman to whom it belonged, who had had the good luck before to let the whole of her apartments at once, went joyfully into a garret at a neighbour's, to make way for Emmeline and the servants.
How the fair young Countess of Eskdale had passed her time in that small dingy house; how sad had been her thoughts as, day by day, she received news from the north, and heard of her husband's part in the insurrection; how, at the end of about six weeks, she was joined by old Mistress Culpepper, and how, with marvellous fortitude and strength of mind, the good old servant supported the young lady in the sore trial which she underwent, I must not stop here to detail.
Emmeline sat alone in a little room on the ground floor, with small and narrow windows, parted by mullions and transoms, and affording but little light. She had paid her daily visit to Sir John Newark in the Tower, and had returned from a very unsatisfactory interview. The political prisoners, made at various times during the insurrections of 1715 and 1716, were treated, as all the world knows, with a degree of lenity--not to say laxity--during the time of their imprisonment, which contrasted strangely with the unrelenting severity shown to many of them in the end; and men, waiting for trial and destined to a bloody death, were suffered to enjoy the society of their friends almost without restriction; nay, more, were suffered to revel, to gamble, to drink within the dark walls which were only to be succeeded by the walls of the tomb, and to employ any means they might think fit, innocent or vicious, to wile away the time and banish the grim thoughts of approaching doom.
All these facilities were given to Sir John Newark; and, indeed, nothing was wanting to his comfort except liberty; but yet the imprisonment weighed upon him, and rendered him irritable and suspicious. To be deprived of all power of scheming--to be obliged to sit idle when he fancied that great opportunities for playing the game in which he was well practised were constantly occurring--to find the government maintain a cold and ominous silence in return for all the advances which he made, and to know that they had proofs against him of very dangerous intrigues, though not, perhaps, of high treason itself--all tended to depress and to annoy him more than the mere loss of his personal freedom.
During the last week he had, for the first time of his life, shown himself irascible and harsh towards Emmeline. He insisted that whenever she stirred out of the house, even to the gates of the Tower, she should be attended by two of his men servants, and she discovered that one or the other of these men was sent for daily, and examined strictly by his master as to where she had been, whom she had spoken with, and what she had done; in fact, that she was watched in London as she had been at Ale Manor. It is not, perhaps, wonderful that she felt more annoyed now than she had ever before felt at this espionage; for, until the arrival of the old housekeeper, it was carried on so strictly that she could hardly obtain any information regarding those events in the north, on the turn of which depended her whole happiness for life.
The good woman's appearance at the house, which was sudden and unexpected, was a great comfort to the poor girl. She no longer sat and wept by herself, or, with her eyes fixed upon the embers of the fire, gave herself up to thoughts which passed in rapid succession, like dark and terrible shadows of approaching misfortunes. Good Mrs. Culpepper sat with her now the greater part of each day, obtained information for her, talked of him she loved; and there was consolation in the very companionship, though the housekeeper was in no way cheerful; for her own anticipations regarding Smeaton were gloomy and sinister. She did not suffer them to find voice, indeed; yet her whole manner and words were tinged with sadness. Even that which afforded poor Emmeline the greatest delight gave her no comfort.
About three weeks before the period of which I speak, a letter had reached the lady, delivered by an unknown hand, but bearing the signature of her husband. It was the letter which Smeaton had written to her at Rothbury, and committed to the charge of Richard Newark. As her cousin's name was not mentioned, however, and he had never himself appeared, Emmeline knew not who had brought it; and she pored over it day after day as the only comfort of her solitary life; but the confirmation which that letter gave of the rumour that Smeaton was actually engaged with the insurgents in the north only excited darker apprehensions for his fate in the mind of his old nurse. It was in vain that tidings arrived, which produced some consternation in the minds of the good Londoners, by showing that the rebels were making a bold and, apparently, successful irruption into England; it was in vain that she heard of their advance towards Carlisle, or of the dispersion of the great body of militia in Penrith Moor, of the insurgents having seized upon Lancaster, and of the arming of Manchester in their favour; Mrs. Culpepper shook her head with a sigh. She had seen insurrection and civil war before, and her expectations were all sad.
On the morning of which I speak, a rumour reached her of the fatal events of Preston; and, after Emmeline's visit to Sir John Newark, on which occasion Mrs. Culpepper accompanied her, the old lady went out into the town to see if she could obtain farther intelligence. Emmeline sat alone then in that small gloomy room, and her thoughts were very dark and sorrowful. She reasoned with herself, as was her wont, upon human life, and the strange turns of fate. She asked herself what was the ruler of this world, and what was his decree? Were the good, and the wise, and the kind-hearted, fated to sorrow and misfortune; the cunning, the remorseless, the unfeeling, to prosperity and triumph and success? Was hope only given for disappointment? Was imagination but the heightening curse to make all the bitterness of earth more bitter? Were the susceptibilities of everything that is beautiful and excellent in life only given to sharpen the sting of adversity, and make the edge of sorrow cut more deeply? She could hardly believe it; and yet, when she turned her eye to history, or even pondered what her own small experience taught her, she could hardly doubt that such was the case; and the only moral she could derive from the consideration was, that--"The reward of the good is not here."
Yet that is an oppressive and chilling conviction to the ardent heart of youth. It is a hard discouragement at the commencement of life's weary way. It requires an amount of faith and hope as its antidote which few of the young possess. It is one of the bars of the sieve though which the wheat is sifted from the chaff. Emmeline might and did turn her thoughts to God and to another world. She might and did feel that there was the rewarder and the reward; but yet her heart felt very sad to see the blight upon all the flowers of earth, and to fear that none would ever be matured into fruit.
While she was thus pondering sadly, she saw a man pass up the street, whose figure had something in it familiar to her eyes. In an instant after he repassed, and looked up towards the house. She instantly remembered his face. It was connected in her mind with a scene and a moment never to be forgotten. It was connected indissolubly with the memory of him she loved; and, by a sudden impulse, she sprang forward and opened the window.
"He must have seen my husband," she thought. "He must bear me some tidings, some message; a letter, perhaps."
Van Noost (for he it was) stopped the moment he heard the window open, looked up and down the street, which was vacant at the moment, and then approached.
"Lady, lady," he said, "I wish to speak with you. I bear you a message from one you know and love."
"Speak it now, speak it quickly," said Emmeline, clasping her hands together in her eagerness.
"Ay, lady, it is a sad message and a sad tale," rejoined the good statuary, with tears rising in his eyes; "and you will hear it soon enough."
"Speak, sir, speak!" cried Emmeline. "What did my Lord say?"
"He said, dear lady," answered Van Noost, "that he feared there was little hope of himself and the others escaping from the position in which they had placed themselves, much against his wishes and advice. He besought you, however, to take comfort, what ever might happen to him, and to place your trust in God. He would not write, he said, for fear of his letter falling into other hands; for I myself escaped with difficulty; but he bade me assure you that, whatever occurred, he loved you with his whole heart till his last hour."
"Then where is he? What has become of him?" asked Emmeline. "Tell me, tell me."
"I left him at Preston, madam," replied Van Noost, "but surrounded by the King's forces, and ready every moment to be overwhelmed by numbers. He insisted upon my leaving the army and making my peace with the government; but he himself remained, though fully aware of all the danger."
"At Preston!" said Emmeline, thoughtfully. "How long is it since you left him?"
"This is the ninth morning," replied Van Noost. "I reached London three days ago, and gave myself up to government. I looked honest, I suppose; or else they could not do without my statues any longer; for, after keeping me in prison two days, and examining me strictly, they let me go back to my own house upon the sole condition of showing myself to a messenger twice in every four-and-twenty hours."
"Nine days!" exclaimed Emmeline. "That is a long time. Has no news arrived from Preston since?"
Van Noost looked down upon the ground; and his good rosy countenance turned white with emotion.
"You have some tidings," said Emmeline, in a low tone. "Tell me what they are, I beseech you, sir. I can bear them, whatever they be. Speak quickly, or my heart will break."
"Alas, lady!" ejaculated Van Noost.
"He is dead," said Emmeline, in a tone wonderfully calm. "He has been killed in the battle!"
"No, no! Not so, indeed," replied Van Noost. "He is a prisoner, lady, but not dead. All the rest are prisoners too."
Before he ended, Emmeline's ear was deaf to his words. Fancy had so fully possessed her, only the moment before, with the idea of her husband's death, that when she heard he was still living, though a captive, the change from despair to hope was too sudden; her heart beat for a moment violently, then became still as if in death; and she sank upon the floor.
Poor Van Noost was shocked and terrified; he thought he had killed her; and he would fain have made his way through the window to give her help; but just at that moment the tall and stately form of Mrs. Culpepper appeared coming up the street; and, as soon as she saw him looking in at the window, she hurried her pace, asking him sharply--
"What are you doing here, sir, staring in at the window of this house? Are you a thief who would fain break in and steal? Ah," she continued, as he turned more fully towards her, "I think I have seen your face before. Yes, I recollect you now. What are your tidings? Where did you leave my Lord? Is he amongst the prisoners?"
"He is, madam," replied Van Noost, who stood in great awe of the stately presence of the housekeeper. "He is amongst the prisoners, if, by 'my Lord,' you mean the Earl of Eskdale. But I beseech you, look to the lady within; for a message I have just borne her has, I fear, well nigh broken her heart."
"Or the rash telling it," said Mrs. Culpepper, somewhat sternly; but she added the next moment: "You did not intend it, I dare say. Come in with me." And she knocked sharply at the door. It was opened by one of the men, who seemed somewhat surprised to see her accompanied by a stranger. But no one in the household ventured to question the proceedings of Mrs. Culpepper; and, telling Van Noost to follow, she entered the room on the right hand. They found Emmeline lying where she had fallen, with her cheek as pale as the lily, and her eyelids closed. It was long before she could be brought to herself; but the old housekeeper sent away the servants, told Van Noost to wait without and she would speak with him, and then whispered comfort in the poor girl's ear.
"All will go well, dear lady," she said. "All will go well, sweet Emmeline. He is a prisoner; but he is still living; and there are a thousand chances in his favour. They may try him, but not condemn him. They may condemn him, and yet pardon him. They may be obdurate, yet he may escape. He shall escape, too, if there be wit in woman's head, such as men say. Take heart, take heart; everything is to be gained, so long as his life is safe."
It is wonderful how readily an old proverb springs before all other expressions in moments of haste or grief.
"Oh yes, while there is life there is hope," responded Emmeline, sobbing. "It was the joy of finding he was living, when Van Nooses first words had made me believe him dead, that overcame me. But where is Van Noost? Let him tell me more." And she looked towards the window wistfully.
"The man is in the hall," replied Mrs. Culpepper. "I will call him in."
She accordingly summoned Van Noost, and ordered one of the servants who was still with him in the hall to go below and mind his work, in a tone that admitted no reply. Van Noost was then questioned eagerly, and told the whole tale of his escape and the circumstances in which he had left the Earl of Eskdale. The good man was going on to disburden himself of all the news which he had gathered in London of the surrender of the insurgent army at Preston; but Mrs. Culpepper cut him short, saying--"What is your name, good sir, and where do you live?"
"My name is Van Noost," replied the statuary. "It is a well-known name. I am the famous artist in lead; and I live on the Reading Road, nearly opposite the end of Constitution Hill."
A grim smile came upon Mrs. Culpepper's face; and she said--"Very well. Perhaps we may want you. I doubt not you are willing to serve this young nobleman who so befriended you in getting you out of Preston."
"I would serve hits with my life's blood," replied Van Noost; "but, gadzooks! I must take care not to burn my fingers in the business again."
"You are more likely to burn your fingers with your lead than with any business we shall give you," observed Mrs. Culpepper, drily; "but, for the present, good-bye, sir; and if you get any news or hints worth hearing, pray let us have them. But be discreet; ask for me--Culpepper, the housekeeper; and, if I be not within, wait till I come."
"By my life, an imperious dame," said Van Noost to himself, as he retired; and the housekeeper, after remaining for a moment or two in silent thought, turned to Emmeline, saying--
"Comfort yourself, dear lady. I will away to Sir John, and carry him the intelligence I have got, which, probably, has not yet reached the Tower. I must contrive to get rid of some of these men who are here, for they will hamper our movements; and I think in this Preston business I can find an excuse for sending one at least, if not more, down to Ale. He has not forgotten the bait of Keanton yet, and will rise at it as readily as ever."
CHAPTER XLI.
Slowly, and for him very soberly, with his eyes bent upon the ground, and his thoughts heavier than his own statues, Van Noost took his way across the little street towards a turning which led away to the westward some small distance higher up. He had not passed the doors of three houses, however, when suddenly a voice called him by name; and, turning round, he saw the outline of a man's figure standing some way down a narrow entrance passage, and beckoning to him with his hand.
"Van Noost," said the voice again, "come hither. I want you. Come hither, man of flesh and lead. There is no danger to your carcase. A dagger would lose itself before it found your ribs. Don't you know me, man?"
"I can't see your face," replied Van Noost, "but, odds wounds! your voice is very like that of Master Richard Newark, who left us at Rothbury."
"Come in, come!" cried the other. "Do not stand chattering there like a pie on an elm tree, calling all the other birds to wonder what the fool is prating of. If you know my tongue, that is enough. Sound is as good as sight, and sometimes better. Come in, I say, thou man of molten images."
Without farther question, Van Noost entered the doorway, although with some degree of trepidation; for the poor man had been sadly shaken by all that he had lately undergone--fat being no case-hardening of the nerves, as many of us must very well know. No sooner was he within the door, however, than Richard Newark threw it sharply to, caught him by the arm, and drew him along towards a small room on the left, where the stronger light showed the statuary that he had not been mistaken. The small chamber was a fair specimen of an ordinary lodging house of the day--dingy with ages of uncleaned walls and unwhitened ceilings. Wooden chairs of an indescribable brown; a table of the same hue and material; a corner-cupboard garnished with broken cups and saucers--a piece of sealing-wax--a tallow candle in a brass candlestick, and a bottle with two or three glasses; a looking-glass of the breadth of one's hand; an old cracked punch-bowl, and two apostle spoons, made up the furniture. To these were added a pair of tobacco-pipes on the table, with a pile of shag tobacco in an open box, and several other articles, the peculiar property of the young tenant.
But if to find Richard Newark, the son of the wealthy and somewhat ostentatious Sir John, in so lowly a dwelling, excited the wonder of the statuary, what was his surprise at the appearance of the young man himself! The gay apparel which Richard, with youthful vanity, had ever affected, was partly cast aside, and he stood before Van Noost in the garb of a seaman, with large breeches tied with enormous bunches of rib-band at the knees, grey stockings, and half a foot of clean shirt shown at his waist. The upper man displayed the marks of a rather superior station. The long-waisted broad-flapped coat, with a small silver lace, seemed to indicate an aspirant to future command, and at the same time gave him the appearance of a man five or six years older than he really was; while the waistcoat of embroidered silk, and the laced cravat, showed the remnant of still higher pretensions.
"Will Van Noost sit down and take a pipe?" said Richard Newark. "We will soon have a glass of grog and a good gossip. Ay, do not stare till your eyes leap into the tobacco-box. Here I am, a sailor for the nonce; and, on my life and soul, I have a great mind to remain one till my dying day. Why, man, I never knew what freedom was before. Here I can go where I like, do what I like, say anything I please, to man, woman, or child, and no one takes offence or calls me a fool for my pains. 'Tis but a mad trick of the sailor-lad, do what I will, and I have learned more man's knowledge in this garb, during the month I have been in London, than I should have learned during ten years at Ale."
"Pray God, Master Richard, you have not learned more than is good for you!" ejaculated Van Noost. "I had an apprentice from the country, who was quite spoiled with three months' residence in London."
"But I am no apprentice, noble lead-boiler," retorted Richard. "What makes you think there is anything spoilable in me? I am not a haunch of venison, nor a new-caught trout, a cream tart, nor a jelly, to grow mouldy on a moist day, or stink in the nose when the wind is southerly. What makes you think I may, can, might, could, should, or ought to be spoiled?"
"Why, because I find you here, sir, masquerading in a low house," replied Van Noost, "while your beautiful cousin is pining in solitude in a house hard by, your father a prisoner in the Tower, and your best friend in bonds at Preston."
Richard Newark was instantly serious, and he leaned his head on his hand for a moment, in deep thought.
"You are wise," he said at length; "very wise, as this world's wisdom goes. So all men would judge me, seeing only what you see. But you are mistaken, nymph-maker. As to my father, his life is saved, if it ever was in danger, which I do not think. The son's virtue in abandoning rebels has been taken for an equipoise to the father's guilt in encouraging them underhand. That I have made sure of. Deserters and recreants are prime favourites now at court; and, as I was one of the first, I was abundantly well received."
He paused, with a bitter and sarcastic expression of countenance, and then went on--
"As to Emmeline, do not think, Master lead-melter, that I forget her. What am I here for? What am I in this garb for? Is it not to watch over her in secret, and turn the danger from her when it may come? Do I not know every step she takes through the streets? Do I not know when she goes out and when she returns? Do I not see every one who approaches her door? Poor Smeaton!" he continued, in a sadder tone; "what help can be given to him, Heaven knows! I do not. I wonder if it be true that he is one of the prisoners at Preston. Methinks he is not a man to be taken in the same sweep of the net with less fishes."
"Ay, sir, but he would not leave the less fish in the net and break through it himself, as he might have done," replied Van Noost.
"And as you did," said Richard Newark; and then, after a moment's silence, he added. "And so did I. Pshaw, man, do not look red in the gills about it! We are the wise men, and Smeaton the fool; but there are wiser men even than ourselves. For instance, the man who not only turns his back upon his friends, but sells them; the man who makes a merit of his treason, and bargains for something better than forgiveness. Do you understand me?"
"Faith, but darkly, Master Richard," answered Van Noost. "If you know any such, you know more than I do."
"I know one at least," replied Richard; and then, in his usual rambling way, he returned to the subject of his friend, saying, "Poor Smeaton! his has been a hard fate, to be lured into the fatal trap--cheated into the net at the very moment of his happiness. He has had foul play, Van Noost."
"Ay, he complained much of Lord Stair," observed Van Noost. "That man did not behave well to him."
"Lord Stair!" cried Richard Newark, with a laugh. "There were others who behaved worse than Lord Stair. Indeed, I know not that Lord Stair behaved ill at all; but others did. Lord Stair did not intercept his letters; Lord Stair did not lure him to meetings of conspirators upon false pretences; Lord Stair did not give information secretly against him, pretending to be his friend; but others did. Lord Stair did not take every means to drive him into rebellion, in order to get his estate; but others did."
"Who--who?" asked Van Noost, eagerly.
"My father," answered Richard Newark; and a dead silence followed for several minutes.
At length Van Noost said, in a low quiet tone--
"I think, Master Richard, if all this can be proved, the government would deal with the Earl of Eskdale's case favourably."
"And who is to prove it?" exclaimed Richard, vehemently. "Am I to go and denounce my own father to the government? Am I to expose all these turnings and windings of his to grave officials in flowing wigs?"
"No; but you might tell Lord Stair himself," replied Van Noost. "You might show him how this noble lord has been wronged; and, if he really have any regard for him, and be the man that people say he is, he will intercede for him with the King."
Richard Newark leaned his head upon his hand, and mused.
"Lord Stair is in Paris," he said, at length; "and I cannot--I must not--quit this spot. Besides, how do we know that Smeaton is living even now? They have shot some forty of their prisoners at Preston."
"Those were only officers who had served in King George's forces," replied Van Noost, "and, being found in rebellion, were tried by a court martial and executed on the spot; but the noble Lord was not amongst them. I have seen the list this very day. He is amongst those whom they are marching up to London."
"Well, we shall see, we shall see," said Richard. "We shall have time, at least. Time is everything in this world, as the grasshopper says; and, if I dared stir from this place, perhaps I might do something; but I must see Smeaton first. They keep them somewhat loosely in their prisons; and I shall get in, I dare say."
"But what keeps you here, sir?" asked Van Noost. "You surely cannot be tied down to this one little street."
"Very nearly," replied the young gentleman. "I am seldom absent for many minutes till that house opposite is shut up at night. Did you ever see a cat sitting before a mouse-hole, Van Noost, hour after hour, looking half asleep, yet ready to spring the moment the little brown gentleman, with the long tail, pops out, and nothing showing her impatience but by the convulsions of the tip of her tail? Well, I am just the cat, watching for I what know will follow, though I know not when. My scoundrel mouse is winding about in his secret holes and crannies, and thinking I know nothing of his doings. But let us talk of other things. I will think of all this, and you come and see me every day. There, drink some brandy and smoke your pipe. Or will you have wine? We will get wine in a minute. Here, William, John! My two hounds, where are you?"
To Van Noost's surprise, two men, or rather lads, for neither of them certainly was two-and-twenty, appeared in answer to the young gentleman's summons, dressed both alike, yet not exactly in livery, though they evidently acted the part of Richard Newark's servants. One was sent one way for meat, and another for wine; and, changing his place, the young gentleman seated himself behind a blind near the window, whence he could see down the little street in which the house stood. When the men had returned and set down the things which had been ordered, with plates, glasses, and knives, Richard moved his place again, saying to the elder of the two--
"Mind the watch, for I shall be busy for an hour or so."
"A bird shall not fly past without our seeing him," replied the man, and left the room with his companion.
At all times, and in all circumstances, Van Noost was well pleased to eat and drink. Care, fear, or anxiety never took away his appetite, and he did ample justice to the viands set before him.
A rambling desultory conversation followed; but Richard Newark would not suffer it to fall back into the channels through which it had been previously flowing. He talked of all that had occurred during the insurrection, of his own escapade to the north, and of what he had seen and done while travelling about with the Northumbrian gentlemen; and, though his conversation and his manners were now more like his former self, yet Van Noost could not help being much struck with the great change which had come over him within the last few months. That short period of busy existence--the companionship of men, and the association with superior minds--had effected a remarkable transformation; but the manliness of manner and decision of thought which he had gained could only be attributed to the habit and necessity of acting for himself, and the development, under such necessity, of a character naturally decided, sharp, and fearless, though rather distorted and out of shape.
The time passed pleasantly enough, and, on his departure, Van Noost promised to return. He did not fail to keep his word, but went back more than once, gaining in some degree upon Richard Newark's confidence at each visit, and consulting with him upon what was to be done in the case of the Earl of Eskdale.
The result of these consultations we shall see hereafter; but one thing Van Noost could not comprehend in his companion; namely, the obstinacy with which he refrained from going to see his fair cousin, and from even letting her know that he was in her immediate neighbourhood. The good statuary tried many circuitous ways of arriving at his motives; and, when at length he asked him distinctly, Richard replied, with one of his wild laughs--
"Ay, you could not understand, Van Noost; and, to say truth, I myself do not understand. I have seen birds caught by perching on lime twigs. Things have been put into my head which I wish had never come into it. Besides, I am better where I am. I can do more, devise more, prevent more, when I am working unseen. No, no, it would never do; but I must tell you what, good friend; I must have a little liberty and some fresh air. I must arrange, and trust to my two boys for a day now and then. I am getting ill in this close hole, and my brain begins to spin and whirl round as it used to do at school. Can you not contrive to hire us a couple of horses? for mine I sold when I came to London. We will have a ride, Van Noost--we will have a ride on the north road."
Van Noost readily consented, and it was agreed that the next day, at the hour of noon, he should be with a pair horses in Smithfield, where Richard Newark was to join him.
The young gentleman was on the spot before him, and there was an eagerness and excitement in his look, which the statuary did not understand. Springing on the horse's back, Richard Newark set off at a pace much too fast to be agreeable to his companion. They soon cleared the suburbs of London, however, passing a great number of people on the road, some on horseback and some on foot, who were all tending the same way, though at a more sober pace.
"I wonder what these people are all pouring out of London for," said Van Noost, as they rode along. "There must be some sport going forward."
"Ha! ha! don't you know!" exclaimed Richard, wildly. "They are going to meet the prisoners coming in, and so am I!"
This announcement was not altogether palatable to the good statuary, who felt certain that he should be recognized by some of the prisoners, and be placed in an awkward position. It was not, indeed, that he feared his acquaintance with those who had joined in the insurrection would in any degree endanger his personal safety; and, to do him justice, he would have risked that under any circumstances; but, as it was, he had made a clean breast of it to the Secretary of State, and obtained even more than he could expect, amounting, in fact, to a conditional pardon. The thought, however, of having fled from Preston; of not remaining with Roman courage (which he always had an ambition of displaying, if his constitution would but have let him) to fall with a falling cause, and of having sneaked away in much haste and trepidation at the approach of real danger, made him feel very awkward when he thought of encountering his former companions in rebellion. He explained his feelings to Richard Newark as well as he could, hinting, at the same time, that the young gentleman himself was in a similar situation.
But Richard only laughed aloud, saying, "Well, get out of the way then, when we come near them. Pop into an inn, or hide your shame-faced noddle in some barn or shed. As for me, I shall go up and speak to any one I know. I am not the least ashamed of anything I have done, and I will cut that man's throat who says I have cause to be."
They rode on as far as Highgate, leaving the crowd behind them as they went; and, a little beyond that place, they saw a cloud of dust upon the road before them, which seemed to announce the approach of the prisoners. There was a small public-house near, in which Van Noost took refuge as speedily as possible. Richard Newark dismounted also; but he remained on the outside of the house, with his arms folded on his chest. Half an hour elapsed, however, before the procession which they expected appeared; for the dust which they had seen was raised merely by a large party of horse grenadiers and foot guards, sent out to meet the unfortunate prisoners from Preston and escort them into London.
After calling for something for the good of the house, Van Noost placed himself at the window of the little sanded parlour, with a number of other persons, while the road before him was occupied by a small crowd from Highgate and the neighbouring villages. At length, the advance of a large body of men along the road was descried; and on they came at a slow pace, while a loyal shout of "Long live King George, and down with the Pretender!" burst from the crowd without.
Poor Van Noost's heart felt very big; and, when he saw the whole indignity to which his poor friends had been subjected, it was too much for him. Noblemen and gentlemen of high and distinguished character, men of honour and refinement and unblemished reputation, were being marched into London with their arms pinioned with ropes, each of their horses led by one of the foot guards, often by a mere common halter, while a large party of cavalry preceded and followed but did not flank them, as if for the express purpose of exposing them fully to the gaze of the multitude. Van Noost caught a momentary glance of many whom he knew, and especially of the Earl of Eskdale; but he saw little of what passed after, except that Richard Newark ran forward, laid his hand upon Smeaton's knee, and spoke to him eagerly, walking by the side of his horse till one of the soldiers put him rudely back.
The poor statuary's eyes filled with tears; and, retiring from the window, he made place for those who were struggling to get forward.
CHAPTER XLII.
The Tower the Marshalsea, Newgate, and other London jells, were filled to overflowing. Prison regulations, which were few, and those not very strict, were all, but entirely neglected; and scenes of revelry and merriment, the most discordant with the place and all it associations, occurred is the cells of the captives. It was not alone that the Tory or High church party, waking from the apathy in which they had indulged as long as activity could have been serviceable to the cause, now contributed large sums of money to make the fate of the captives as comfortable as a captive's fate can be; it was not alone that the numerous friends and relations of the prisoners flocked to give them consolation and support of every kind; but a revolution took place in that strange fickle thing, public opinion; and many of those who, had not their rank and station stood in the way, would have gone out, with the hooting mob to witness the entrance of the rebel prisoners into London, now began to regard them as martyrs and laud them as heroes. Crowds hurried to see them and to testify their sympathy. No one who could find or frame even a specious pretext for admission was excluded; all hours and seasons were forgotten; and the gates of Newgate were often thrown open in the midst of the night, to admit a visitor, a servant, or a friend. The jailors declared that they were worn to death with the continual turning of the keys; yet they did their work very willingly--from no great feeling of compassion, perhaps, but for the golden rewards which were sure to follow.
In the Tower, where the noblemen who had joined in the insurrection were confined, a greater degree of decency certainly prevailed; but, even here, very great laxity existed; and, from ten o'clock in the morning till the same hour at night, the doors were opened to almost any one who required admittance. In fact, the conduct of the authorities, from the day of the surrender at Preston till the termination of the whole tragedy, is perfectly unaccountable; so capricious and strange were the alternations of lenity and severity. During the march to London, it often happened that, on one day, the prisoners of note would be confined in separate chambers, and not permitted to see or speak with any one, while, on the very next, they were allowed to wander about any towns they passed through; each under the charge of a soldier, visiting their friends, or purchasing whatever articles they required in the shops. One day, they would be compelled to sleep upon damp stone floors, with none of the comforts or conveniences of life; and the next they would dine with the officers of their escort, faring sumptuously on all that the place could afford. At one time, the sick and the feeble were provided with coaches to carry them, with nothing but a trooper at the window; and then, at Barnet, they were pinioned on their horses, and led into London like condemned felons. Thus, too, after their arrival at the place of their destination, they were allowed to live in luxury, and, alas! in many cases in licentiousness, while all the time the terrible catastrophe was being prepared with stern relentless determination.
In many instances, the prisoners themselves, at least those of thoughtful and high-toned character, were obliged to entreat their jailers to exclude the mixed multitude which flocked in to see them; and even then they were often greatly annoyed; for the virtue of the turnkeys was not stout enough to, resist the bribes which were frequently given for admission to the cells. The greater number, indeed, were well-pleased with the attentions they received, and laughed, joked, and drank with the strangers who presented themselves; but it must be said that a general impression prevailed amongst them, that the facts of their having surrendered at discretion, and of their being spared for the time, would secure them from the penalties of treason. Many were even ignorant of the terms on which the surrender had been made, and thoroughly believed that a promise of pardon had been given, and others felt quite confident that the exertions of influential friends would gain for them the lenity of a merciful sovereign.
But George the First was not merciful. Perhaps it would be too much to accuse him of a disposition naturally cruel; but his heart was as hard as that of any man who ever lived, and his conduct to the young Countess of Nithsdale would prove the truth, even if it were not witnessed by many another act.
Amongst those who took the least cheering view of his situation, was Henry Earl of Eskdale, who flattered himself with no vain expectations. On entering the chamber assigned to him in the Tower, he looked round it as his last abode before he went to the scaffold; and, although the small sum of money he had remaining was sufficient to procure him comforts for the time, he counted it over with care, and assigned a certain portion for each day's wants, calculating, as well as he was able, the time likely to elapse before his death.
The morning after his arrival a number of persons were admitted to see him, and at length he was glad to give the turnkey a guinea, as an inducement to exclude every one but those who could declare they were his personal friends.
"I have much need of thought and reflection, my good sir," he said; "but, if I am to be troubled with strangers all day long, however kindly their visits may be meant, I shall have no time to prepare to defend my life, or to meet my death as becomes me."
"If your Lordship will give a list of those you wish to see," replied the man, "I will keep out all others."
Smeaton wrote down the names of the few whom he thought likely to visit him; but he had some difficulty when he came to the dearest name of all. It was too sacred a name to be lightly spoken of; and therefore, to meet all cases, he wrote down broadly: "Any one of the name of Newark, any one of the name of Eskdale;" and then thinking of poor Van Noost, he added his name to the paper, saying, as he gave it to the man:
"If any one should urge strongly that he is a personal friend, let him send in his name, and I will tell you whether to admit him or not."
The man had not even closed the door, however, when Van Noost presented himself; and his agitation, on seeing his noble friend in captivity, had something in it both touching and grotesque. He wept like a child; but the pathetic was greatly lessened by his attempts to conceal his emotion and speak through his tears. Smeaton treated him with great kindness, congratulated him upon his escape and his freedom, and listened patiently, to his account of all he had undergone since they met. But he then turned the conversation to matters of deeper interest to himself, by enquiring if his visitor had seen Emmeline as he promised.
Van Noost almost started from his chair, exclaiming:
"Good gracious! I had nearly forgotten. I saw her this very morning, my Lord; and she charged me with a message to say that she would be here this evening as soon as it grew dark, if you would permit it; and, indeed, who would not permit it? It seemed as if she thought the time between this and night would never come to an end. I believe she world have run here at once, if the old lady, Madame Culpepper, had not dissuaded her."
Smeaton did not reply immediately; for many contending feelings were busy in his bosom. To hold her once again to his heart; to tell her how he had thought of her since they parted; to learn; from her own lips, her views, her wishes, her feelings; to consult with and to counsel her, were all motives which prompted him to say "Yes," without a moment's hesitation. But he feared risk, and embarrassment, and perhaps even misfortune, to her whom he loved better than himself. He knew not that she was accustomed to come daily to the Tower; that her person was known to the warders and many of the officers of the prison, and that she was always accompanied by sufficient men to protect her, as far as they were permitted to go. He thought of Emmeline only as the simple inexperienced girl of the Manor House in Devonshire, timid even in her innocent boldness, utterly unlearned in the world and the world's ways. He knew not that she, as well as Richard, had been schooled in sorrow, and that her mind had put forth new powers, and her heart gained firmness, since they parted.
Can he be blamed, however, if he yielded, in some degree, to his own wishes? He fancied that he considered all things fairly for her good, as well as for his own happiness; but, perhaps, he was not altogether unbiased when he said,
"Tell her, Van Noost, that I ardently long to see her; but yet I would not have her come, especially at night, unless she can do so in perfect safety, and in secresy also; for, till we have well considered the next step, I do not wish our marriage to be made public, and I must have no spot rest upon her name, even for her love to me. If she can come safely, she knows what joy it will give me. If she can not, that joy would be dearly purchased by peril to her. So tell her, Van Noost. Go, my dear friend, go; and let her have my answer quickly."
"I will, my good Lord, I will," replied the statuary, fumbling in the wide pocket of his coat; "but there is another matter I had well nigh forgot too. Here is something I promised to deliver to your Lordship."
And, as he spoke, he produced a little packet--in shape very much like a schoolboy's ruler, wrapped up in paper, and sealed at both ends--which he laid upon the table.
"What is this, Van Noost?" said the young nobleman, taking it up, and surprised at its weight. "This is money, my good friend. I cannot accept of this."
"Indeed, my Lord, you must," responded Van Noost, "or make a great many people very unhappy. It is your share of a purse made up amongst the loyal and true hearts of London, for the support of all the Preston prisoners, and for their aid in their imprisonment, their defence, or--" and he sunk his voice in a whisper--"or their escape. You have no more than your fair share; and I doubt not that, in a few days, a very much larger sum may be raised, of which your portion will be brought to you also, either by me or by somebody else."
"Their escape!" said Smeaton thoughtfully. "Think you that escape is possible, Van Noost?"
"Nothing more possible, my Lord," replied the statuary. "Why, never was such a scene known as there is now in the prisons. Money is abundant--all order is gone. The jailors think they do quite enough if they only lock the doors. They vie with each other in being corrupt; and, if we could but raise a few thousand pounds to bribe the scoundrels, and we managed the thing properly, your lordship might walk out of these gates in open day, without officer, turnkey, or warder seeing you. Such is the strange effect of a pair of gold spectacles."
"Would I could feel so certain," returned Smeaton. "The few thousand pounds you speak of could soon be raised. A word in my dear mother's ear would speedily procure it, if she be still living; and, if not, I could procure it myself."
"Think you so, my lord, think you so?" said the statuary. "Would you but trust me so much as to write down merely the words, 'Believe what the bearer shall tell you on my account,' sign your name, and address it to the Dowager Countess? I see they allow you paper, pens, and ink."
"With all my heart, Van Noost," replied Smeaton. "I am quite sure you would rather injure yourself than me."
And he wrote down on a sheet of paper the words which had been required.
When he had sanded the paper and was handing it to Van Noost, a sound of bolts being drawn was heard at the door. The statuary hurriedly concealed what he had received, and the next moment Richard Newark came in. He advanced towards the Earl with a frank bright look, and shook him warmly by the hand. Then, turning to Van Noost, he said,
"Ha! idol-maker! Are you here? Get you gone--get you gone to Emmeline, and stay with her till I come. The dear gouvernante has gone forth questing like a spaniel dog upon a pheasant, from a hint I gave her last night. Do not leave her for a minute; and, if the man refuses you admittance, pull his nose boldly, and walk in. He is an arrant coward; so you may venture safely."
"I will--I will, sir," replied Van Noost. "He shall not stop me on such an errand."
"If there be two of them," continued Richard, "knock down one. That will be enough for the other."
Van Noost hurriedly took up his hat and left the room; and Richard Newark, taking Smeaton's hand in his, said, in a quieter tone than usual,
"Come, Eskdale, sit down and talk to me. I must try and keep my poor whirling brain steady for a minute or two, while you tell me all and everything with regard to your transactions with Lord Stair. There is your only chance of safety. If you can show that you were driven into the insurrection against your own inclination by the conduct of others, as I know you were, a skilful lawyer tells me that you will certainly be pardoned. New listen to what I know, then fill up the gaps, give me some proofs, and I will follow the scent as keenly as my bloodhound, Bellmouth. You sent a letter long before the outbreak to Lord Stair. That letter never reached him. It was stopped by my father. You went over to Mount Place, led to believe that you would see nobody but one old fool; and you found twenty or thirty, young and old, assembled, on a hint from my father, to meet you and trap you into treason. The Exeter people sent down dragoons, who sought you at Mount Place, and thence tracked you to Keanton; for they had secret information from Ale Manor."
"But what could be your father's motive?" asked Smeaton.
"Keanton, for the first; to get you out of the way of Emmeline, for the second," answered Richard. "But never mind motives. Let us deal with facts. You afterwards, in the north, sent your servant with a letter to Lord Stair, on receiving intelligence that he was on before us at Wooler. Now, Eskdale, I doubt that letter ever having been seen by him. Nay, I am quite sure it was not."
"Higham assured me," said the young Earl, "that it was put into his hand, that he opened it, read it, and returned it with contempt. What can make you think that he never saw it?"
"Because Lord Stair was, on that very day and hour, more than seven hundred miles from Wooler as the crow flies," replied Richard. "His regiment was there, true enough; but he was in Paris. A man cannot be in two places at once, noble friend. But come, do not pause and wonder. This is all I know. Fill up, fill up! Let me hear the whole; and I will try if my wits are not worth something, in spite of all folks may say against them."
Smeaton did as he was bidden; and, sitting down at the table with his young companion, he gave him a clear and complete narrative of everything that had occurred after his arrival at Ale Manor, and showed him the copies he had taken of his letters to Lord Stair. More than once Richard asked him to stop for a moment, and wrote down the heads of what he had heard; and then, looking at the letters, he said--
"May I take these with me to copy? You shall have them to-morrow; for you may need them. Strange that a piece of paper should sometimes be the best armour for a man's neck!"
"Take them, take them," replied Smeaton. "They are but unauthenticated copies, and could not be given in evidence, if Lord Stair has not received them. Yet I can hardly believe that Higham would play me such a trick."
"Where did you hire him?" asked Richard.
"He was recommended to me by the man in whose house I lodged," replied the young Earl; "a good honest fellow, who had been a servant to the Earl of Oxford."
"Put about you by the Jacobites," replied Richard, with a laugh, "to keep you steady in the cause, and commit you to it if you wavered. The man must be found and made to tell the truth."
"Hear you will have to seek him in the grave," said Smeaton; "for he was sorely wounded at Preston, where he fought as boldly as a lion."
"Never mind," replied Richard. "Some of these letters must have reached Lord Stair, I think; and, if I get at him, I will jump upon his back, and never take my spurs from his side till we have passed the winning-post. Good-bye, Eskdale, good-bye. Your trial will not come on for a month, they say; and you wont see me for a fortnight, perhaps; but I'll be working all the time. Tell Emmeline to mind well every step she takes; for the villain scoundrel, William Newark, alias Somerville, has made his peace with the court, pretends that he is the most loyal subject of King George, has betrayed all that he knew of Kenmure's and Forster's secrets, and is watching with all his eyes to pounce upon Emmeline. He cannot rightly make out where she is; for I have puzzled him about it. But he thinks that if he could but get her into his hands, Ale Manor--which is hers, you know--would be his, and he would be a great man in his generation. Once more, good-bye, Eskdale; and, if you hear that I am drowned, shot, stabbed, or otherwise disposed of, do not forget me. Say to yourself--'I was kind to the boy; and he loved me well.'"
Thus speaking, he hurried to the door, and halloo'd to the turnkey to let him out.