CHAPTER XLII.
I will not dwell upon the first interview between Emmeline and her husband; I will not dwell upon many that took place, for many did take place between the time of his arrival as a prisoner in London and the day of his trial. There are sanctities in the deep emotions of the heart, the violation of which nothing but a holy cause can justify. I have no right to eat the show-bread on the altar of their love. I have no right, be they real or be they ideal characters, to intrude into the secrets of their hearts, and place the thrilling nerves beneath a microscope for the public eye. Suffice it to say that they met often, daily, sometimes twice a-day, by the skilful management of her who had been the young Earl's nurse; and that no annoyance or inconvenience happened to the young Countess of Eskdale during nearly a month, although some circumstances of suspicion--a number of strange men hovering about the house, and the appearance of others dogging them in their walk to the Tower--caused some apprehension in the mind of the old housekeeper, and induced her to redouble her precautions.
Emmeline had seen her cousin more than once. Kind, affectionate, self-devoted, he showed himself during their short and scanty interviews; but those interviews were not very many. Suddenly he disappeared, telling his fair cousin that he was about to visit Paris, but without mentioning the business on which he went; for, although he was very sanguine in all things, he loved her too well to give her hopes which might be disappointed, or to shackle her exertions in other directions by expectations from the uncertain projects he had in view. She knew that he went for the purposes of her husband's defence, and she thanked him with her whole heart; but this was all she knew, and, when he was gone, she felt anxious and eager for tidings which did not come.
Thus passed the days of a long imprisonment; but several steps had been gained, notwithstanding. The extreme laxity of those who had charge of the prisoners had become apparent, and Smeaton had established a certain sort of friendship with his jailers; but the principal fact was that they showed themselves accessible to bribes; so that the probability of escape was reasonably added to the probability of acquittal or of pardon. Nevertheless, with hope for their guide, they flattered themselves that the delay in bringing the prisoners to trial arose from the intention of sparing them; but they experienced a bitter disappointment in the end, when Smeaton and the rest were impeached of high treason by the House of Commons, and their trial came on with unusual rapidity.
As is well known, the greater part of the insurgent noblemen pleaded guilty. But Smeaton would not join in this plea. He acknowledged the whole share he had borne in the rebellion; he entered into minute details of all that had occurred; he showed, as well as he had the means of showing, that he was actually driven to join the insurgents; but he could bring no proof of the fact. Richard was still absent, although he had promised to return in a fortnight, and nothing had been heard of him when the trial took place. Smeaton's mere unsupported word had little weight with the peers; but, while most of the others were, upon their own plea, condemned at once, a space of time was taken to consider and to allow for the collection of evidence before his trial.
The lawyers laboured hard to induce him to withdraw his plea of not guilty, and cast himself upon the royal mercy; but, although his mind, till the insurrection had actually begun, had been in that doubtful and undecided state which is most painful to men of a determined and resolute character, yet, once having joined in it, either the prejudices of early education resumed their sway, or the enthusiasm of his companions infected his own mind, and he could not bring himself to believe that there was guilt in supporting by arms the sovereign whom all his family had served, and whose claim to the throne of England they had never on any occasion renounced. He did not feel himself guilty, and he would not plead guilty. It was a dishonouring word, a word that he would not have attached to any part of his conduct by his own act, and he resolutely adhered to his former plea. He gave no unnecessary trouble indeed; he admitted all the facts as they stood charged against him; but he contended that his acts were loyal and not treasonable, and it was only as an admission that he stated he had been willing to submit quietly to the existing state of things. To this, he added a detail of the transactions between himself and the Earl of Stair.
His defence was frequently interrupted; for the English law often decrees that the evidence which would clearly exculpate any man from all moral blame shall not be received in his justification. But he persevered in his course, and the very men who condemned him felt for him, and hardly believed their own words when they pronounced him guilty.
It is a strange thing, that law of treason, which affixes the most odious moral censure upon acts heroically mistaken and sometimes sublimely just; which compels men, by rigid rules and the admission of false premises, to pronounce that to be guilt which they know to be virtue; which places the same stain upon the lowest and most selfish crimes, and upon the most elevated patriotic deeds. A great fault exists somewhere; it is true, order and respect for law must be maintained; the will of the majority must rule; it may be, even, that, for general security, men must be punished for bold attacks upon existing institutions; but let us not be called upon to denounce as guilt that which is mistake, or enthusiasm, or virtue.
The dark scene was over; the verdict was given, the sentence pronounced, the blade of the axe turned towards the prisoner, and one more of the gallant and the true was carried back from the bar to the Tower, to await the fate of a traitor.
In the anticipation of that moment, Smeaton had often felt how terrible it would be; he had doubted his own courage, his own fortitude; he had nerved his mind to resist all the impulses of his mortal nature, lest he should meanly and faint-heartedly supplicate for life, as others had done. He recollected that there were many endearing ties around him; that youth, and love, and hope, and high health, and all the bright amenities of being, attached him to the world in which he was; that it was full of delight and enjoyment to one so constituted mentally and bodily, and that the thought of parting with it in its hour of greatest excellence might well shake his resolution and undermine his firmness. But when each peer had pronounced his judgment, and when the frightful and barbarous sentence was passed, it was marvellous, even to his own mind, how calmly he bore himself, how firm and composed he felt. It seemed for the moment as if the tremulous, vibrating, anxious cord between hope and fear was snapped, and that his feet were firmly fixed upon the rock of fate. Take away hope, and there is no such thing as fear.
During a short space of time all hope was over in his bosom. But, in the meanwhile, others were preparing hope for him, and to two separate scenes we must turn, where busy love was eagerly exerting itself, in different ways and without concert, to avert the blow from his head. I know not which to depict first; for they both occurred on the same day, and very nearly at the same hour; but perhaps I had better choose the one which, from presenting few if any characters already brought under notice, may have the least interest for the reader.
Into a gorgeous room of a palace, containing a number of distinguished persons--some marked out to the eye by the splendour of their apparel, some by their beauty or their grace--entered a middle-aged man, small in stature, insignificant in appearance, and with his somewhat large head rendered more ridiculously conspicuous by a huge Ramillies wig. He was dressed in tea-coloured velvet, with his sword by his side and his hat on, and the door by which he entered was thrown open for him by one of the high noblemen of the Court; while another, bearing a light in either hand, walked backwards into the room before him. He was a very mean-looking person; cold, unloveable in aspect, looking like a small dancing-master in a holiday suit; but yet he was a King.
At one side of the room, supporting herself by the back of a chair, stood a tall and queenly woman of some sixty years of age. Her natural hair, as white as snow, appeared slightly from beneath the weeds of widowhood, and her striking and beautiful face--beautiful even in sorrow--was pale and worn with long and heavy sickness. The moment the king entered, she advanced towards him, with a step firm and dignified; but she sank upon her knees as she came near, and stretched out her hands towards him, holding what appeared to be a petition.
"Who are you, madam, who are you?" asked the King, in French.
"I am the unhappy Countess of Eskdale, sire," replied the lady, in the same language. "I do beseech you, hear me, and receive my petition for my poor son. Spare him, gracious monarch--spare him, and I pledge--"
She was not permitted to finish the sentence. The cold-hearted King drew back at her first words, and, with a sort of frightened and repulsive look, turned towards a different door from that by which he had entered. But the lady caught him by the skirt of his coat, pleading with all the earnestness of maternal love for her son's life, while he rudely endeavoured to shake himself free, walking with a quick step towards the other side of the room, and literally dragging her after him as she still kept her hold, endeavouring to force the petition upon him.
A gentleman with a cut upon his brow, who had entered with the monarch, now whispered in his ear in French:
"Be firm, sire! Be firm! Shall I remove her?"
The monarch made an eager motion of assent, and the other, casting his arms round Lady Eskdale, tore her away. The paper, which she held in her hand, dropped to the ground; and, instantly rising to her full height, as the monarch passed the door, she turned a look of dignified anger on him who had interposed to prevent the reception of her petition, and exclaimed aloud, in English--
"Oh, William Newark, William Newark! Ever ready, like the viper, to sting the hand that has fostered you, and to aid in all that is hard and selfish!"
"Poor lady!" said the gentleman thus addressed, with a look of contemptuous pity, and he followed the King. But there was another who followed also; a grave-looking man of the middle age, with a calm and placid countenance and a blue ribbon across his breast. With a quick but easy step, he hurried on, and overtook King George just as he had crossed an ante-room and was about to enter a large drawing-room beyond--round which were grouped a great number of brilliant-looking people in a blaze of light. He ventured to stop the sovereign in his advance, saying something to him in a very low tone in the Latin language; for many of the first nobility of England, at that period, did not speak French or German, and the first George's stock of English was not very copious.
"Who is he--who is he?" asked the monarch, also speaking Latin, though not in its greatest purity. "What does he want at this hour?"
"He bears despatches from Lord Stair, sire," the nobleman answered who had spoken to him; "and is charged to deliver them immediately into your Majesty's own hands. He is the young gentleman whom your Majesty declared to be more praiseworthy, on account of his speedy repentance and atonement, than others who had never joined the rebellion."
He spoke still in a low tone; but the monarch replied, aloud, "Admit him--admit him. He is a strange boy; but whatever comes from my Lord Stair is worthy of immediate attention."
"The despatches were to be delivered in private, sire," observed the other; "but the bearer was detained for want of horses on the Dover road. Shall I--"
"So be it, so be it," replied the King. "Close the doors again. Make everybody quit the room but you and Walpole, my lord; and then bring the young man in."
The personage to whom he spoke proceeded to fulfil his commands, and William Newark, in obedience to those commands, quitted the room with a scowling brow, which was not brightened by the passing of Richard Newark in the very doorway. He did not venture to say anything, however, and the lad advanced with a small packet in his hand straight towards the King, without any other salutation than merely a low bow.
"Bend your knee, bend your knee," said the elderly nobleman, in a whisper, and the lad, after a moment's hesitation, did as he was directed.
"I am glad to see you again, young gentleman," said King George. "You have been to Paris, I suppose." And, at the same time, he took the packet and broke it open. It contained two sheets; but, before he proceeded to examine either of them, the monarch added a question. "Do you know," he asked, "why Lord Stair happened to address me personally instead of the Secretary?"
"Because the matter was for your Majesty's own ear," replied Richard Newark, somewhat abruptly. "We do not give an apple to one boy to hand it to another, for fear he should eat it himself."
The King laughed good-humouredly, and proceeded to read the first sheet, which, beginning at the bottom of the first page, and ending at the top of the fourth page, did not seem to contain much matter. Whatever that matter was, it seemed to give the King great satisfaction. "That is good; that is very good," he said. "He is an invaluable man. We shall know how to honour him. All is safe in that quarter." He then turned to the other sheet, and his face instantly changed.
"Ha!" he said, with a curling lip, and an irritable eye "More about this Lord Eskdale! He joined the rebels wittingly, adhered to them till the last moment, was taken with arms in his hands, and he must die. I have signed the warrant."
"Then kill me first, sir," rejoined Richard Newark, bluffly, "for I first helped to engage him in the rebellion; and, had it not been for his advice, I should never have quitted it. He went against his own will, as your Majesty will see if you read; and, if he dies, it will be as a bird that is caught in a trap because he was deceived by the baits set for him. Your Majesty cannot understand till you read, any more than I can see through that wall; for there is a great deal beyond your sight or mine, unless a door be opened for each of us to look through."
The King gazed at him for a moment in utter surprise, as if completely astounded by the lad's impudence; but gradually a sense of the justice of what he had heard seemed to overpower the slight sense of anger; and, without answering a syllable, he turned his eyes to the paper, and proceeded to read it to the very end. When he had done so, the expression of his countenance was again greatly changed; a hesitating and embarrassed look came upon his face. He put his finger under his large wig, rubbed his temple, and pulled up one of his stockings, which had somewhat slipped down the leg, and most likely tickled his shin; then, turning to another gentleman present, he said, "Come with me, Mr. Walpole--come with me, my Lord. I will go to my cabinet for a moment."
Thus saying, he took two steps towards the door by which he had entered, but then turned a sharp glance upon Richard Newark, who was standing by with a vacant air, looking down at the hilt of his sword. It was the same sword which Smeaton had given to him.
The monarch's look was certainly not very placable at first; but something seemed to touch the risible organs in his brain or heart--wherever they may lie--and we all know that in those organs a great deal of the milk of human kindness is secreted. He laughed, low but gaily, and said--
"Get away, sir, get away. Lord Stair has trusted his letters to a somewhat indiscreet messenger."
"The best in the world could not have done better, your Majesty," replied Richard Newark, boldly; "for he has delivered them safely into the best hands in the realm."
If he meant it, nothing could have been more dexterous than his reply. It was a compliment, slightly veiled under a rudeness. But I very much doubt whether he did mean it. However, King George smiled most graciously, saying:
"Go, sir, go. We shall not forget you."
Richard Newark bowed and retired, while the King again took a step or two towards the door.
Before he passed out of the room, however, the King turned to a gentleman with a florid countenance, saying:
"We shall not meet that woman again, I hope; for I have not quite made up my mind. Keep that man, Sir William Newark, from me. I do not like him as I did."
So saying, and suffering Mr. Walpole and one of his attendants to precede him, he followed slowly and thoughtfully out of the room.
The adjoining chamber was by this time vacant; the unhappy Lady Eskdale had quitted it the moment after she had received so violent a rebuff, and the courtiers who had been present when she sought to force her petition upon the King, concluding that he had passed on into the drawing-room, had thronged thither by another way. But a full hour elapsed before the monarch joined his guests.
Now let us turn to the other scene which I have mentioned, in which strong affection was busily engaged for Smeaton's deliverance, but in a different manner. Let us break into the middle of it, however; for what is to follow will explain what is passed.
"No, no, dearest lady," said old Mrs. Culpepper, in a low but eager tone. "It must not be. The boat is prepared, the ship ready to sail the moment his foot is on board. You must go with him, and all will be safe."
"Then who is to stay and personate him in the prison?" asked Emmeline. "Indeed it must be as I have said. Although you have bribed the people to shut their eyes, yet I do not believe they dare venture to let three people pass out when only two have passed in. In this I will have my way, indeed. I fear nothing. I do not believe there is any man so cruel as to punish a wife for saving her husband's life, I will wrap myself in his roquelaure, and sit brooding over the fire. My heart may beat; but no one will see it. My eyes may overflow; but I will cover them with my hands. The first plan was the best--far the best, and it is my bounden duty, as well as my earnest wish, to risk anything to myself for his sake. Oh, Heaven what happiness will it be hereafter, even if they should shut me in a prison and never let me see his face again, to think that I have saved him!
"It is the same plan still, dear lady," replied Mrs. Culpepper, with her usual calm and quiet manner; "but you must not, cannot execute it in the way you propose. Consider your height, the difference between your tiny figure and his. They would be blind indeed to mistake you, and we cannot expect them to be so blind as that. I am shorter than he is, but still I am very tall, and the difference will not easily be seen. They will not mark very exactly, especially if he put his handkerchief to his face and seem to weep. My clothes will nearly fit him too; and--"
"And will you--will you stay in his place?" asked Emmeline, gazing in her face, with a look of wonder and gratitude. "What will you say when they find you there? You have no such excuse as I have."
"I will say, lady," replied the woman, earnestly, "that he drank the milk from this breast as an infant; that he was to me as a child, when God had taken my own; that he was my nursling, my beloved, my only one, when I had lost all else, on earth who loved me, or whom. I could love. Then, if they choose to shorten my days or make me pass them in a prison, it is but little they can take away and little they can inflict. It must be so indeed, Lady; and now we are only losing time. They will not let us pass in or out after eleven. It is now past nine, and it will take some time to disguise him as we wish. Haste then, to get on your hood. I am quite ready. With this sacque above my other clothes, and a large French capote, everything is ready to hide his face and figure."
Emmeline looked down thoughtfully; but she said nothing, for her heart was too full to speak, and in a few minutes they set out upon their adventure, followed by two men servants, whom the old housekeeper had already prepared for the task in hand.
The moment they were gone, however, one of Sir John Newark's men, who had lived at Ale for several years, and who had been accustomed to act as one of his spies upon all that took place in the house, crept silently out and pursued them with a stealthy step down the little street. He saw them cross Tower Hill, and obtain admission at the gates; and then, turning to the right, he approached a house in a neighbouring street, hurrying his walk as much as he could without converting it into a run. At the moment he reached the door, one of the ordinary hackney coaches of the day drew up, and a gentleman in somewhat brilliant attire descended with a slow step. The man waited till he had paid the fare, and then plucked him by the sleeve, whispering something in his ear. The gloomy and discontented face of the other instantly cleared up, and he exclaimed, with a mocking laugh--"Ha, ha! Then they have put themselves in the trap. I will away to the Tower. You stay and watch at the gates. But no--better let them be caught in the very act, just when they fancy themselves secure. It will be more meritorious to bring him back after he has actually escaped than to prevent him from doing so. You are sure, quite sure? It would never do to take an old raven instead of a young hawk."
"I am quite sure," replied the man; "for I overheard it all, as I listened at the hole I have made in the wall. This morning, I could not make out which of the two it is who is to play his part; but just now I heard, and I am quite certain. The old woman was his nurse, it seems, and is ready to sacrifice her life for him."
"Well, well, go to the gates and watch," rejoined William Newark. "Give instant information if they come forth. I will go and get a messenger. There is one lives hard by."
The servant did as the other bade him; but he had not remained many minutes near the gates of the Tower when some quick steps approached, and he turned round towards the new corners.
"Ha, ha, old Truepenny!" said Richard Newark, taking the man's arm in a firm grasp; "what are you on the watch for here?"
"Nothing, Master Richard," answered the man. "I am only just taking the air."
"You won't let your intentions take the air, at all events," retorted Richard Newark. "I know you, serviceable knave! This is the fellow," he continued, turning to the two young men who accompanied him, "this is the fellow who informed of the smuggled tea."
"Then I will baste him to a stock fish," cried one of the youths, brandishing his cudgel.
"No, no," interposed Richard, with a laugh. "Wait till you get him back at Ale, and then tar and feather him. Hasten off, Argus, or we will leave you no eyes to see out of."
The man had no hesitation in obeying; and, as soon as the young gentleman had relaxed his grasp, ran across the open space as fast as his legs would carry him.
Richard Newark then turned towards the gates again; but, taking three steps in advance, paused, and, after a moment's thought, with his hand pressed upon his brow, quietly glided away to a little distance, followed by the two lads.
CHAPTER XLIII.
At the hour of half past ten, two persons issued forth from the room in the Tower in which the young Earl of Eskdale had been long confined. Both were dressed in female apparel; both were apparently much affected, and it appeared very natural that they should be so, as the following morning was appointed for the bloody spectacle of an execution on Tower Hill. The limbs of the younger and shorter lady trembled so much that they could hardly bear her up; but the other, though apparently weeping and holding a handkerchief to her eyes, seemed much more firm, and contrived to support the wavering steps of her companion as they passed out into the passage.
The jailer who opened the door to give them exit from the room looked in and saw a tall figure wrapped in a red cloak laced with gold, seated by the fire, with the head leaning on the hand. "All is right," he cried, speaking to another man at the top of the stairs hard by. "Pass them out!"
Hastening onward through the passages and courts of the Tower, as fast as the agitation of the fair girl would permit, they came without obstruction to the outer gate, where the two men servants were waiting in the little gate-house. The turnkey who accompanied them seemed to be a kind-hearted man for one in such an office; and, while the wicket was being opened, he said--"Don't take it so much to heart, lady. Perhaps he may be pardoned after all."
One of the tall warders who stood near gave him a grim contemptuous look, and uttered a short cruel laugh; but the two visitors, without reply, passed unopposed through the wicket, and stood upon Tower Hill. The men servants followed, and the gate was closed.
Still keeping profoundly silent, they all walked on with great speed, not towards the little street in which Emmeline had lived, but towards the end of another street. When they were half way across the open space, the latter of the two bent down, saying in a whisper--"Bear up, bear up, dear Emmeline. We are well nigh safe now."
But hardly were the words uttered when two or three men came quickly across, and one of them taught hold of the apparently elder woman's arm, exclaiming, with a mocking laugh--"You are a tall lady, upon my soul, to walk upon Tower Hill of a night! Gadzooks, we must see more of your ladyship!"
Another man--who subsequently turned out to be a messenger sent in pursuit--at the same moment seized the young Earl (for I need hardly say it was he) with a hard strong grasp, exclaiming--"Henry, Earl of Eskdale, I charge you, in the King's name, to make no resistance."
With a faint despairing cry Emmeline sank to the ground, while they dragged Smeaton away from her side. The two servants, running up, demanded--"Who are you who dare to stop these ladies?" and angry words began to pass; but Smeaton interposed, saying--"It is in vain, it is in vain. Look to your lady, my good men. Convey her home safely. God bless you, my Emmeline!"
"What is the matter, what is the matter here?" cried Richard Newark, suddenly appearing with two or three more, while the man who had first seized upon Smeaton left him in the hands of the messenger, and raised Emmeline from the ground.
"Ah, Master Dick!" he exclaimed, "have you a finger in this pretty pie? Better put yourself out of harm's way, young man, as fast as possible."
"How dare you touch that lady, scoundrel?" demanded Richard, in a voice furious with passion, as he recognised the person of William Newark. "Take that for your pains!" And, holding the scabbard of his sword with his left hand, he struck his cousin a furious blow with the right.
William Newark started forward and drew his sword; Richard's was not long in the sheath; but the servants interposed, and parted them for the time, though not till words had been spoken--some in loud anger, some in the low tones of intense hate--which bore their fruit soon after. The last four of those words were uttered in a whisper.
"At seven, and alone," said Richard, in his cousin's ear.
The other nodded his head, and turned sullenly away, while Richard aided to raise the unhappy girl, whose last hope had been extinguished by her husband's recapture, and carried her, still insensible, to her dwelling.
In the mean time, the messenger and two of his men conducted their prisoner back to the gates of the Tower with feelings in the bosom of Smeaton too dark, too painful, for description. To his own fate his mind had been long made up, and the extinction of a brief hope of escape added little to the load he had to bear; but the thought of what might befall Emmeline in consequence of her effort to save him, and of the certain consequences to the devoted woman who had placed her liberty and even her life in peril for him, was too heavy to be borne with anything like calmness.
Arrived at the gates of the Tower, they found the wicket, to their surprise, open, and a good deal of confusion under the archway of the gate-house. Some twelve or fourteen men were collected; a buzz of tongues was going on; and some loud and angry words were being spoken. The lieutenant-governor himself, in a silk dressing-gown, was present, with a man beside him, holding a lantern; and just as the messenger passed the wicket, still holding the prisoner fast by the arm, they heard that officer exclaim--
"Shut the gate, shut the gate! Every one keep silence! If you can be discreet, no harm may come of this. If not, some of your necks may pay for it.--Ha! who have we here?"
"An escaped prisoner, Mr. Lieutenant," answered the messenger, who was willing to take all possible credit to himself. "I am sharp enough; and I got information of this fine plot."
The lieutenant-governor stared at him coldly, with no great appearance of satisfaction in his countenance.
"Pray, Mr. Messenger," he said, after a moment's thought, "had you any warrant for what you have done?"
The man looked aghast at the question, but replied, in a somewhat insolent tone--
"I needed no warrant to apprehend a convicted traitor whom you have suffered one way or another to slip out of the Tower."
The lieutenant still gazed at him with a frowning brow and teeth tight shut, and then said--
"You may have to prove, Mr. Messenger, that you possess such a justification of your conduct. I tell you, you have not."
Then, turning to one of the warders, he said, in a sharp tone--
"Shut the wicket, I say, and lock it. Let no one pass in or out till I return. Keep that man safe too," he continued, pointing to the messenger, "and be perfectly silent with him. Let no one exchange a word with him, as you value the King's favour.--My Lord of Eskdale, will you do me the honour of accompanying me back to your chamber? I wish to speak a few words with you.--Let go his arm, sir, this instant!"
The messenger instantly relaxed his grasp; and Smeaton, not less astonished than his captor, followed the lieutenant in silence back to the room where he had been confined. They found the door open; but within stood the turnkey, looking gloomy enough, with his arms crossed upon his chest, and old Mrs. Culpepper, with the young Lord's roquelaure now cast off, seated in her usual attire before the fire. The moment she heard steps, however, she started up, and, gazing at Smeaton, clasped her hands together in silence, with a look of unutterable anguish.
"Remove her to my lodging," said the lieutenant, speaking to the turnkey, "and keep her there under your guard till I come."
The young Earl, however, started forward, and took her by the hand.
"Thanks, excellent woman!" he exclaimed, "a thousand thanks! I pray God, as one of my last prayers, that he may defend you and my Emmeline, and shield you from all the ill consequences of this night."
Before she could reply--for her voice was choked with sobs--she was removed from the room; and the lieutenant, carefully closing the door, said, with a faint and rueful smile--
"That dress does not become you, my Lord. Let me beg you to throw it off, for I hardly know whether I am speaking to the Earl of Eskdale or an old woman."
"That is easily done," replied Smeaton, casting off the loose garment called a sacque, which was, for three-quarters of a century, a favourite habiliment of the ladies of France and England. "Now, sir, I am your prisoner again. I beseech you to leave me, for the last few hours of my life, to the thoughts which befit the occasion; and, if it be possible, to conceal the events which have taken place, so as to shield that excellent creature and all others from the consequences."
"This is a very awkward affair, my Lord," observed the lieutenant, thoughtfully; "and, upon my life, I do not well know what is to be done. Will your Lordship answer me this one question on your honour? Were any of the jailers--I do not wish you to specify the individual--were any of the jailers accessory to your escape?"
"Not in the least, to the best of my knowledge and belief," replied Lord Eskdale. "They have had from me the ordinary gratuities and nothing more; nor am I aware of their having connived in the least. They were deceived, as you yourself, perhaps, might have been by the disguise."
"I thank your Lordship for that assurance," said the lieutenant; "for it sets my mind greatly at ease; but yet I hardly know how to act."
"Methinks, if you were simply to report that I had endeavoured to escape, and had been prevented, that would be all that your duty requires."
"I do not know that," replied the lieutenant. "It is true, I never yet heard of a pardon being revoked; but certain it is, that an attempt to break prison--"
"A pardon!" exclaimed Smeaton, with his heart beating more vehemently than it would have done at the sight of the block and axe. "What do you mean, sir?"
"I mean, my Lord, exactly what I say," replied the lieutenant-governor. "Just at the time when your Lordship must have been preparing to effect your escape, the Secretary of State's messenger brought me a letter, authorising me to announce to you His Majesty's free pardon, and to say that, though it will not pass the seal till to-morrow, you may consider yourself from this moment at liberty. How the events of this night may be construed, and what I ought to do in these circumstances, I really cannot tell. As a man of honour, my Lord, what ought I to do?"
In a state of terrible agitation, Smeaton walked twice up and down the room; and then, turning to the lieutenant, he said--
"No consideration, sir, shall make me ask you to neglect your imperative duty. You must inform the King, however terrible the state of suspense must be to me, and however perilous may be the result. I could wish it, indeed, done immediately; but at this hour of the night--"
"My Lord, you are, indeed, a noble man," replied the lieutenant; "and I do not think you will lose by your conduct. I had retired to bed, somewhat unwell, before the messenger arrived. He insisted upon my being awakened, and some delay consequently occurred. Otherwise, the pardon would have been announced to you before you made this attempt. When I came to your room with the information, as I was commanded, I found you gone. But I will tell you what I will do. His Majesty is still up, for there is a court to-night; and I will immediately set out and lay before him or the Secretary of State the facts as they are. Stay! Perhaps it may be better for you to write to the King yourself; and I will be your messenger. It is absolutely needful this step should be taken at once. You have writing-materials here. Pray, write as briefly as possible, while I put myself in a different dress to present myself at the palace."
Thus saying, he left him; and Smeaton proceeded, with a rapid hand, to write as follows:--
Sire--"Your Majesty's gracious clemency has been this moment announced to me; and I beg to lay humbly the expression of my gratitude before you. I know not anything but your own merciful consideration which can have induced you to spare me, though I assure you, on my honour, that the facts which I stated without proof at my trial, regarding the causes which, if I may use the term, had driven me or misled me to take arms, were strictly true. Let me also assure you that, henceforth, neither directly nor indirectly, will I ever be found opposing your title to a crown which I am now thoroughly convinced you hold by the will of a great majority of the people, if you still condescend to extend your mercy towards me. But at the same time, I feel it right you should be informed that, at the very moment your gracious pardon was notified at the Tower, I was engaged, without the participation of any one within these walls, in an attempt to effect my escape from prison, fully believing that in its success lay my only chance for life. That attempt was frustrated; and I will not even endeavour to persuade the royal officers of the Tower to conceal the facts from you, but willingly leave my life at the disposition of a monarch who has already shown himself more merciful towards me than I could have expected."
He had hardly concluded when the lieutenant returned; and, in a few minutes, the young nobleman was left once more alone, to wait with painful anxiety for the result.
But, in the meanwhile, we must follow the lieutenant to the palace. The Secretary of State was called out to speak with him; and, after a brief conference, returned to the court. An hour passed, and a few minutes more, while the lieutenant remained in an ante-room, waiting the King's pleasure. At length, the sound of many people passing out was heard, with the roll of carriages; and a page entering bade the officer follow him to the King's closet. Unable to speak either French or Latin, he could simply lay the Earl of Eskdale's letter before the King, and trust to the secretary to translate it accurately, and give any farther explanation. When the monarch had heard the whole, however, he laughed good-humouredly, saying--
"Escape! Of course he did try to escape. What could a gentleman in his situation do better? No, no; our sign-manual is to the pardon. It only wants the seal, and we will not revoke it. We could not revoke a pardon, gentlemen. Severity may be re-considered--mercy never. Besides, it is clear from the evidence of Lord Stair, and from that of Colonel Churchill, who took Thomas Higham's dying deposition, that this young nobleman had no will to the work they put him upon; that he was at heart our own, notwithstanding the prejudices of his family; and that the machinations of this Sir John Newark, and others, abused a somewhat rash and hasty disposition. Something must be done with that same knight. I fear we cannot touch him for treason; but as to seditious practices, there must be some law which will affect him."
"I am not sure, Sire," replied Mr. Stanhope, one of the secretaries of state, "that this gentleman's acts do not amount to treason. His letter to the Earl of Mar is undoubtedly treasonable."
"Well, well, see to it, see to it," said the King, "As to this young lord, let the pardon pass. He may be set free at once."
"His Majesty says he will not revoke the pardon, Mr. Lieutenant," said the Secretary. "You may set Lord Eskdale at liberty. But I think it would be better if he were to pass some time in France."
The lieutenant of the Tower bowed and withdrew. Much to his satisfaction, few questions had been asked; and, returning to the Tower as fast as a pair of slow horses would draw him, he entered once more that abode of gloom and sorrow. He found the messenger who had seized Smeaton on Tower Hill, still in the gate-house, and ordered his liberation, saying--
"You have somewhat exceeded your duty, sir; but it was in ignorance. I find that the Earl of Eskdale's pardon was already signed. I have no orders with regard to you. So you may go free; but you had better be cautious."
He then proceeded straight to the room of his former prisoner, bearing him the joyful tidings that his pardon was confirmed.
"As to this old lady," he said, "who chose to personate a young gentleman, nothing whatever has been said with regard to her; and therefore I suppose I must take upon myself the responsibility of letting her go, having no warrant to detain her. With regard to yourself, my lord, you can either remain here for the night, or depart if you please. But I must not fail to inform you that Mr. Secretary Stanhope hinted it might be better for you to pass some time quietly in France. Will you pass out to-night or to-morrow?"
"To-night, assuredly," replied the young Earl. "I would fain bear the comfortable tidings myself to those whose hearts are now full of mourning, and first to that good old woman who has risked so much for me."
"Come with me, then," said the lieutenant.
In about half an hour Smeaton, holding his good old nurse by the hand, passed free through the gates of the Tower, with one of the governor's servants carrying his little stock of baggage after them.
They took their way straight towards the street in which Emmeline's abode had been fixed; and, though it was now nearly three o'clock in the morning, lights were still to be seen through the crevices of the shutters. It was with no slight anxiety that Smeaton waited for the opening of the door, and it seemed long before it was unfastened. At length, however, one of the men who had accompanied the Lady Emmeline that night to the Tower appeared with a light, and uttered an exclamation of joyful surprise when he saw the faces of those who had just knocked.
"Hush!" said Smeaton, in a low voice. "How is your lady?"
"Oh, my lord, she will be well enough now," replied the man.
"Hark!" said Richard Newark, from the little parlour. "Hark! Emmeline, look up. I told you so. There is hope--there is comfort still." And, as he spoke, he threw open the door.
Emmeline had been sitting with het fair face, deluged in tears, covered by her hands; but, at her young cousin's words, she looked up--started forward--and in an instant was in her husband's arms.
I need not pause upon all the explanations that were given. I need not tell the joy that was felt; and, indeed, as to the farther events of that night, it is only necessary to say that, after hearing but a very small portion of Smeaton's story, Richard Newark left the lovers to their own happiness.
On the following morning, about eight o'clock, a note, written in a crabbed boy-like hand, was given to the Earl of Eskdale, who opened it hastily and read these words:--
"Noble friend,--I am going to try, this morning, whether you are a good fencing-master, and whether the blade you gave me is worth handling. Should I not join you and dear Emmy by eight o'clock, you will hear something of me in Mary-le-bone fields. God bless you both for a pair of loving turtles. If you don't see him again, think, from time to time, of
"Poor Dick."