I repeated this, I think, with a good enough manner to persuade them that what I said was true; and presently afterwards took my leave.
As I sat in the wherry that took me back to the Privy Stairs—(I had announced of course, "to the Temple")—I was preparing in my mind what I should say. I had learned a considerable amount for an evening; for the conversation I had overheard, added to what Mr. Chiffinch had told me, added to what they had all said in the parlour, interpreted and fitted together, was pretty significant.
These were the points I arranged.
First, that the visit of the Duke, my Lord Grey and Sir Thomas Armstrong to Whitehall was to see in what state the guards were in case of a surprise; and the conclusion they had arrived at was they "were not like soldiers at all" but "very remiss."
Second, that a "demonstration" in London was very imminent.
Third, that they had won over my Lord Russell enough at least to gain the help that his name would give.
Fourth, I was confirmed in what Mr. Chiffinch had told me as to the probability of a rising in Scotland.
Fifth, I was confirmed in my view that the Duke was very deeply involved.
Sixth, it appeared to me exceedingly probable that my Lord Shaftesbury was still in town, though not in his own house: and, all things considered, it was very nearly certain that he was hidden in Wapping. He was, probably also, a little ill, or he would have been at our meeting to-night.
One conclusion then, immediate and pressing, came out of all this; that an assault on Whitehall and an attack on the King's person was in urgent contemplation.
* * * * *
Then, as we went up under the stars, my waterman and I, one of those moods came upon me which come on all men in such stress as I was; and I appeared to myself, for the time, to be worlds away from all this sedition and passion and fever. The little affairs of men which they thought so great seemed to me in that hour very little and wicked—like the scheming of naughty children, or the quarrels and spites of efts in a muddy pond. In that hour my whole heart grew sick at this miserable murderous pother in the midst of which my duty seemed to lie; and yearned instead to those things that are great indeed—the love of the maid who had promised herself to me, and the Love of God that should make us one. My religion—though I am a little ashamed to confess it—had been very little to me lately: I had heard mass, indeed, usually, on Sundays, in one of the privileged chapels, and had confessed myself at Easter and once since, to one of the Capuchins, and received Communion; yet, for the rest it had largely been blotted out by these hot absorbing affairs in which I found myself. But, in that hour (for the tide was beginning to set against us)—it came back on me like a breeze in a stifling room. I thought of that cleanly passionless life I had led as a novice, and of that no less cleanly, though perhaps less supernatural life, that should one day be mine and Dolly's—and these politics and these plottings and this listening at doors, and this elaborate lying—all blew off from me like a cloud.
When we were yet twenty yards from the Privy Stairs a wherry shot past us, with no light burning. There was but one passenger in it, whom I knew well enough, though I feigned to see nothing; and once more my sickness came on me, that it was for a King like this, slipping out on some shameful pleasure, that I so toiled and endangered myself.
* * * * *
When I had reported all to Mr. Chiffinch, sitting back weary in my chair, yet knowing that I must go through with the work to which I had set my hand, he remained silent.
"Well?" I said. "Am I wrong in any point?"
"Why no," he said. "Your information tallies perfectly with all I know, and has increased the sum very much. For example, I had no idea where my Lord Shaftesbury was. I have no doubt whatever, from what you say, that he is in Wapping."
"Will you send and take him there?" I asked.
"No," he said shortly. "Leave him alone. We failed last time we took him. And he can do no great harm there. Plainly too, he is at the waterside that he may escape if there is need. I shall set spies there; and no more."
"What is to be done then? Double the guards again?"
"Why that of course," said he.
"And what else?" I asked; for I could see that he had not said all.
"A counterstroke," he said. "But of what kind? You say the rising will be pretty soon."
"I do not suppose for a week or two at the most. They were decided, I am sure; but no more."
Suddenly the man slapped his leg; and his eyes grew little with his smile.
"I have it for sure," he said. "It will be for the seventeenth of November. That is the popular date. Queen Bess and Dangerfield and the rest."
"But what can you do?"
"Why," said he, "forbid by proclamation all processions or bonfires on that day. Then they cannot even begin to gather."
* * * * *
He proved right in every particular. The proclamation was issued, and met their intended assault to the very moment, as we learned afterwards, besides frightening the leaders lest their intention had been discovered: and the next night came one of the spies whom Mr. Chiffinch had sent down to Wapping, to say that my Lord Shaftesbury had slipped away and taken boat for Holland.
CHAPTER IX
Now indeed the fear grew imminent. I had thought that once my Lord Shaftesbury was gone abroad, one of two things would happen—either that the whole movement would collapse, or that the leaders would be arrested forthwith. But Mr. Chiffinch was sharper than I this time; and said No to both.
"No," said he, sitting like a Judge, with his fingers together, on the morning after my Lord Shaftesbury's evasion. "The feeling is far too strong to fall away all of a sudden. I dare predict just the contrary, that, now that the coolest of them all is gone—for he dare not come back again—the hot-heads will take the lead; and that means the sharpest peril we have yet encountered. This time they will not stop at a demonstration; indeed I doubt if they could raise one successfully; they will aim direct at the person of the King. It is their only hope left."
"Then why not take them before they can do any mischief?" I asked.
"First, Mr. Mallock," he said, "because we have not enough positive evidence—at any rate not enough to hang them all; and next we must catch the small fry—the desperate little ones who will themselves attempt the killing. It is now that I should be ready for a visit from your friend Rumbald, if I were you. They can have no suspicion that you have done anything but betray them in the way they intended: they have a great weapon, they think, in you, to continue carrying false news. Now, Mr. Mallock, is the very time come of which you once spoke to me—the climax, when they will feign to reveal everything to you, and then make their last stroke. You have seen my Lord Essex again?"
"Not a sight of him. I had only a very guarded note, two days ago, but very friendly: saying that the designs were fallen through for the present."
"Precisely what I have been saying," observed Mr. Chiffinch. "No, Mr. Mallock, you must not stir from town. I am sorry for your pretty cousin, and Christmas, and the rest: but you see for yourself that we must leave no loophole unguarded. His Majesty must not die out of his bed, if we can help it."
There, then, I was nailed until more should happen. I dared not ask my cousins to come to town; for God only knew what mischief my Cousin Tom might not play; and I had not eyes on both sides of my head at once. I wrote only to Dolly; and said that once more I was disappointed; but that I would most certainly see her soon, if I had to ride two nights running, from town and back.
I accomplished this, but not until Christmas was well over, and indeed Lent begun. During those weeks, certainly nothing of any importance happened to me, though my Lord Essex kept me in touch with him, and I even was present at one very dismal meeting with him and Mr. Ferguson, when it was deplored, in my presence, that the "demonstration"—as they still called it—of the seventeenth of November had been so adroitly prevented; and my Lord Shaftesbury's death—which had taken place (chiefly, I think, from disappointment) that very week—was spoken of with a certain relief. I think they were pleased to have matters entirely in their own hands now. However they proposed no immediate action, which more than ever persuaded me that this was what they intended. Yet the days went by: and no more news came, either from them or from Mr. Chiffinch—so I took affairs into my own hands, and one night, before the gates of the City were shut went down to Hare Street with a couple of men, leaving James at home, for I could trust him better than any other man.
Now I need not relate all that passed at Hare Street; for every lover knows how sweet was that day to me. I had seen her not at all for more than a year—(one year of those three that were to pass!)—and though we had written often to one another, whenever we could get a letter taken, yet the letters had done no more than increase my thirst. I think she was dearer to me than ever; she was a shade paler and more grave, and I knew what it was that had made her so, for I had told her very plainly indeed that I was in peril and that she must pray much for me. My Cousin Tom was friendly enough, though I saw he was no more reconciled in his heart to our affair than he had been at the beginning; but I guessed nothing whatever of what he was contemplating. (However perhaps he was not contemplating it then, for he did not attempt it till much later.) Yet he was pretty reasonable, and interrupted us no more than was necessary; so we had that day to ourselves, until night fell, and I must ride again. I was so weary that night, though refreshed in my spirit, that I think I drowsed a little on my horse, and thought that I stood again at the gate of the yard with Dolly, bareheaded in spite of the cold, holding the lantern to help us to mount.
* * * * *
I was still brooding all the way up Fleet Street, and even to my own door; until I saw James standing there; and at the sight of him I knew that something was fallen out.
I said nothing, but nodded at him only, as a master may, but he understood that he was to follow upstairs. There, in my chamber I faced him.
"Well?" said I. "What is it?"
"Sir," he said, "a fellow came last night and seemed much put out when I told him you were out of town."
"What sort of a fellow was he?" said I.
"He was a clean-shaven man, sir, rather red in the face, with reddish hair turning grey on his temples."
"Heavily built?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well; what did he say?"
"He said that you would know what affair he was come about—that it was very urgent; and that he could not stay in town beyond noon to-day. He said, sir, that he was to be found till then at the Mitre without Aldgate."
Well; that was enough for me. But I did not relish the prospect of no sleep again; for I cannot trust my wits when I have not slept my seven or eight hours. But there was no help for it.
"James," said I, "bring my morning up here at once, with some meat too. I may not be able to dine to-day, or not till late. When you have brought it I shall have a letter ready, for Mr. Chiffinch. That you must take yourself. Then return here, and pack a pair of valises, with a suit in them for yourself. Have two horses ready at eleven o'clock: you must come with me, and no one else. I do not know how long we may be away. You understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. I must get some sleep if I can before eleven."
Then a thought came to me. If Rumbald must be gone from town by noon, would he not likely want me to go with him?
"Wait," I said. "I do not know this man very well; but I will tell you that his name is Rumbald and that he lives at the Rye, near Hoddesdon. You had best not come with me. But do all else as I have said; but you must ride by yourself at eleven, to Hoddesdon; and put up at the inn there—I forget its name, but the largest there, if there be more than one. Remain there until you hear from me again: I may want a courier. Do not go a hundred yards from the inn on any account; and do not seem to know me, unless I speak to you first. You may see me, or you may not. I know nothing till I have seen Rumbald. If you do not hear of me before ten o'clock to-night, you can go to bed, and return here in the morning. I will communicate with you by to-morrow night at latest. If I do not, go to Mr. Chiffinch yourself and tell him."
My mind was working at that swift feverish speed which weariness sometimes will give. I was amazed afterwards at my own foresight, for there was very little evidence of what was intended; and yet there had come upon me, as in an illumination, that the time for which we had waited so long was arrived at last. I do not see how I could have guessed more than I did; neither do I now see how I guessed so much.
My letter to Mr. Chiffinch was not long. It ran as follows:
"Rumbald hath been to see me; and bids me be with him, if I can, by noon to-day at the Mitre, without Aldgate. I know no more than that; but I am making ready to go down with him to the Rye at Hoddesdon, if he should want me there. I think that something is intended, if we are right in our conjectures. I shall have my man at the inn in Hoddesdon. You must send no one else for fear of alarming them, unless my man comes to you to-morrow to tell you that he does not know where I am. Is His Majesty still at Newmarket? If so, when does he purpose to return? Which road will he come by? Send an answer back by my man who bears this.
"R.M."
Well; that was all that I could do. I gave the letter to James; telling him not to awaken me with the answer till he came at eleven o'clock; and after eating a good meal, I went to my bed and fell sound asleep; and it seemed scarcely five minutes, before James came knocking, with Mr. Chiffinch's answer. I sat up on my bed and read it—my mind still swimming with sleep.
"Prospere procede!" it ran. "I will observe all that you say. The King and His Royal Highness are together at Newmarket. They purpose to return on a Saturday, as the King usually does; but he hath not yet sent to say whether it will be to-morrow, the 18th or the 25th. I shall hear by night, no doubt. Neither do I know the road by which they may come."
I read it through twice; then I tore it into fragments and gave them to
James.
"Burn all these," I said. "Are the horses ready?"
"Yes, sir," said James.
Undoubtedly my sleep had refreshed me; for by the time that I rode up to the Mitre without Aldgate, I was awake with a kind of clear-headedness that astonished me. It appeared to me that I had thought out every contingency. I had with me a little valise, ready for the country, if need be; yet I could return to my lodgings without remark. James was already on his way to Hoddesdon, and would be there if I needed him. No harm was done if my conjectures were at fault; I had left no loophole that I could see, if they were not. It was with a tolerably contented heart, in spite of the dangers I foresaw—(for I think these gave spice to my adventure)—that I rode up to the Mitre, and saw Mr. Rumbald himself standing astraddle in the doorway.
I must confess however that the sight of him gave me a little check. He appeared to me more truculent than I had ever seen him. He had his hands behind him, with a great whip in them; he hardly smiled to me, but nodded only, fixing his fierce eyes on my face. He had, more than I had ever noticed it before, that hard fanatic look of the Puritan. After all, I reflected, this maltster had commanded a troop under Cromwell at Naseby. His manner was very different from when I had last seen him; he appeared to me as if desperate.
However, I think I shewed nothing of what I felt. I saluted him easily, and swung myself off my horse. He had gone into the house at my approach; and I followed him straight through into a little parlour to which, it seemed, he had particular access, for he turned a key in the door as he went in. When I was in, after him, and the door was shut, he turned to me, with a very stern look.
"Well, Mr. Mallock?" he said. "I see you are come ready for a ride."
"Yes," I said. "I had your message."
He nodded. Then he came a little closer, looking at me with his fierce eyes.
"You understand what is forward?"
"I understand enough," said I.
"That is very good then. We will ride at once."
As we came out, a couple of men—one of them I noticed in particular, dressed as a workman—(I set him down for a carpenter or some such thing)—made as though they would speak to us; but Rumbald waved his hand at them sharply, as if to hold them off. I could see that he was displeased. I said nothing, but I marked the man closely: he was a little fellow, that looked ill. Mr. Rumbald's horse was already there; and mine was being held still by the ostler into whose hands I had given him. We mounted without another word; and rode away.
I think we did not speak one word at all till we were out from town. Such was his mood, and such therefore I imitated. He rode like a soldier, sitting easily and squarely in his saddle; and the more I observed him and thought of him, the less I liked my business. It was wonderful how some emotion had driven up the power that lay in him. All that genial hail-fellow manner was gone completely.
When we were clear of town he spoke at last.
"This is a very grave business, sir," he said. "We had best not speak of it till we are home. Have you no servants?"
He spoke so naturally of my servants that I saw he was astonished I had none. I had very little time to think what I should answer; it appeared to me that I had best be open.
"Yes," I said. "My man is gone on to Hoddesdon to await me there. I thought it was best he should not ride with us."
He looked at me with a peculiar expression that I could not understand; but only for an instant. Then he nodded, and turned his stern face again over his horse's ears.
My moods were very various as I rode on. Now I felt as a sheep being led to the slaughter; now as an adventurer on a quest; and, again, of a sudden there would sweep over me a great anxiety as to His Majesty's safety. The thought of Dolly, too, came upon me continually and affected me now in this way, now in that. Now I longed to be free and safe back at Hare Street; now I knew that I could never look her in the face again if I evaded my plain duty. One thing I can say, however, from my heart, and that is that never for an instant did I seriously consider any evasion. It was all in the course that I had chosen—to "serve the King." Well; I must do so now, wherever it led me. What, however, greatly added to the horror of my position was that I knew that this strong fellow at my side thought me to be a traitor to himself and was using that knowledge only for his own ends. He would surely be ruthless if he found I had served my turn; and here was I, riding to his house, and only two men in the world knew whither I was gone.
Rumbald had already dined; and thought not at all of me. We drew rein therefore, nowhere; but rode straight on, through village and country alike—now ambling for a little, once or twice cantering, and then walking again when the way had holes in it. So we passed through Totteridge and Barnet and Enfield Chase and Wood Green, and came at last to Broxbourne where the roads forked, and we turned down to the right. It was terrible that ride—all in silence; once or twice I had attempted a general observation; but he answered so shortly that I tried no more; and I am not ashamed to say that I committed myself again and again to the tuition of Our Lady of Good Counsel whose picture I had venerated in Rome. Indeed, it was counsel that I needed.
I did not know precisely where was the Rye, nor what it was like; for I had avoided the place, of design. I supposed it only a little place, perhaps in a village. I was a trifle disconcerted therefore when, as we crossed the Lea by a wooden bridge, he pointed with his whip, in silence, to a very solid-looking house that even had battlemented roofs—not two hundred yards away, to the left of the road. There was no other building that I could see, except the roofs of an outhouse or two, and suchlike. However, I nodded, and said nothing. No words were best: in silence we rode on over the bridge, and beyond; and in silence we turned in through a gateway, and up to the house, crossing a moat as we went.
Indeed, now I was astonished more than ever at the house. It was liker a castle. There was an arched entrance, very solid, all of brick, with the teeth even of a portcullis shewing. An old man came out of a door on our right, as our hoofs rang out; but he made no sign or salute; he took our horses' heads as we dismounted, and I heard him presently leading them away.
Still without speaking, the Colonel led me through the little guard-room on the right, hung round with old weapons of the Civil War, and up a staircase at the further end. At the head of the staircase a door was open on the right, and I saw a bed within; but we went up a couple more steps on the left, and came out into the principal living-room of the house.
It was a very good chamber, this, panelled about eight feet up the walls, with the bricks shewing above, but whitewashed. A hearth was on the right; a couple of windows in the wall opposite, and another door beyond the hearth. The furniture was very plain but very good: a great table stood under the windows with three or four chairs about it. The walls seemed immensely strong and well-built; and, though the place could not stand out for above an hour or two against guns, in the old days it could have faced a little siege of men-at-arms, very well.
Rumbald, when he had seen me shut the door behind me, went across to the table and put down his whip upon it.
"Sit down, sir," he said. "Here is my little stronghold."
He said it with a grim kind of geniality, at which I did not know whether to be encouraged or not: I did as he told me, and looked about me with as easy an air as I could muster.
"A little stronghold indeed," I said.
He paid no attention.
"Now, sir," he said, "we have not very much time. Supper will be up in half in hour; we had best have our talk first, and then you may send for your servant. Old Alick will find him out."
"With all my heart," I said, wondering that he made so much of my servant.
He sat down suddenly, and looked at me very heavily and penetratingly.
"Sir," he said, "you are going to hear the truth at last, I said we had not much time. Well; we have not."
"Then let me have the truth quickly," I said.
He took his eyes from my face. I was glad of that; as I did not greatly like his regard. What, thought I, if I be alone with a madman?
"Well, sir," he said, "we are driven desperate, as you may have guessed. I say, we; for you have identified yourself with our cause a hundred times over. My Lord Shaftesbury is gone; my Lord Essex is hanging back. Well; but those are not all. We have other men besides those that have been urged on and urged on, and now cannot be restrained. I have tried to restrain them myself"—(here he gulped in his throat: lying was not very easy to this man, I think)—"and I have failed. Well, sir, I must trust you more than I have ever trusted you before."
Again he stopped.
Then all came out with a rush.
"Not half a mile from here," said he, "along the Newmarket road there be twenty men, with blunderbusses and other arms, waiting for His Majesty and the Duke, who will come to-morrow."
"But how do you know?" cried I—all bewildered for the instant.
His head shook with passion.
"Listen," said he. "We have had certain information that they come this way—Why, do you think we have not—" (again he broke off; but I knew well enough what he would have said!) "I tell you we know it. The King is not lying at Royston, to-night. He comes by this road to-morrow. Now then, sir—what do you say to that?"
My mind was still all in a whirl. I had looked for sudden danger, but not so sudden as this. Half a dozen questions flashed before me. I put the first into words:
"Why have you told me?" I cried.
His face contracted suddenly. (It was growing very dark by now, and we had no candles. The muscles of his face stood out like cords.)
"Not so loud!" said he; and then: "Well, are you not one of us? You are pledged very deeply, sir; I tell you."
Then came the blessed relief. For the first moment, so genuine appeared his passion, I had believed him; and that the ambushment was there, as he had said. Then, like a train of gunpowder, light ran along my mind and I understood that it was the same game still that they were playing with me; that there was no ambushment ready; that they had indeed fixed upon this journey of the King's; but that they were unprepared and desired delay. His anxiety about my servant; his evident displeasure and impatience; his sending for me at all when he must have known over and over again that I was not of his party—each detail fitted in like a puzzle. And yet I must not shew a sign of it!
I hid my face in my hands for a moment, to think what I could answer.
Then I looked up.
"Mr. Rumbald," said I, "you are right. I am too deeply pledged. Tell me what I am to do. It is sink or swim with me now."
He believed, of course, that I was lying; and so I was, but not as he thought. He believed that he had gained his point; and the relief of that thought melted him. He believed, that is, that I should presently make an excuse to get hold of my servant and send him off to delay the King's coming. Then, I suppose, he saw the one flaw in his design; and he strove, very pitifully, to put it right.
"One more thing, Mr. Mallock," said he, "this is not the only party that waits for him. There is another on the Royston road, among the downs near Barkway. They will catch him whichever way he comes."
I nodded.
"I had supposed so," I said; for I did not wish to confuse him further.
"Well," said he, "why I have sent for you is that you may help me here. There may be more guards with the King than we think for. It may come to a fight; and even a siege here—if they come this way. We must be ready to defend this place for a little."
It was, indeed, pitiful to see how poor he was as an actor. His sternness was all gone, or very nearly: he babbled freely and drunkenly—walking up and down the chamber, like a restless beast. He told me point after point that he need not—even their very code—how "swan-quills" and "goose-quills" and "crow-quills" stood for blunderbusses and muskets and pistols; and "sand and ink" for powder and balls. It was, as I say, pitiful to see him, now that his anxiety was over, and he had me, as he thought, in his toils. It was a very strange nature that he had altogether;—this old Cromwellian and Puritan—and I am not sure to this day whether he were not in good faith in his murderous designs. I thought of these things, even at this moment; and wondered what he would do if he knew the truth.
At supper he fell silent again, and even morose; and I think it possible he may have had some suspicions of me; for he suspected everyone, I think. But he brightened wonderfully when I said with a very innocent air that I would like my servant to be fetched, and that I would give him his instructions and send him back to London, for that I did not wish to embroil him in this matter.
"Why, certainly, Mr. Mallock," he said, "it is what I wish. I trust you utterly, as you see. You shall see him where you will."
He turned to his old man who came in at that instant, and bade him fetch Mr. Mallock's servant from Hoddesdon. I described him to Alick, and scribbled a note that would bring him. Then we fell to the same kind of talking again.
* * * * *
It was eight o'clock, pretty well, by the time that James came to the Rye. I had determined to see him out of doors where none could hear us; and before eight I was walking up and down in the dark between the gate and the house, talking to my host. When the two men came through the gate, Rumbald was very particular to leave me immediately, that I might, as he thought, send my man to Newmarket to put off the King's coming; and have no interruption.
"I will leave you," said he. "You shall see how much I trust you."
I waited till he was gone in and the door shut. Then I took James apart into a little walled garden that I had noticed as I came in, where we could not by any chance be overheard. Even then too I spoke in a very small whisper.
"James," said I, "go back to Hoddesdon; and get a fresh horse. Leave all luggage behind and ride as light as you can, for you must go straight to Newmarket; and be there before six o'clock, at any cost. Go straight to the King's lodgings, and ask for any of Mr. Chiffinch's men that are there, whom you know. Do you know of any who are there?"
"Yes, sir," whispered James; and he named one.
"Very good. With him you must go straight to His Majesty; and have him awakened if need be. Tell him that you come from me—Mr. Chiffinch's men will support you in that. Tell His Majesty that if he values his life he must return to town to-morrow—and not sleep anywhere on the way: and that the Duke of York must come with him. Tell him that there is no fear whatever if he comes at once; but that there is every fear if he delays. He had best come, too, by this road and not by Royston. You understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"I shall remain here until to-morrow night at the earliest. If I am not at home by Sunday night, go to Mr. Chiffinch, as I told you this morning. Is all clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then go at once. Spare no horses or expense. Good-night, James."
"Good-night, sir."
I watched him out of the gate. Then I turned and went back to the house.
CHAPTER X
It was a strange night and day that followed. On the one side my host found it hard, I think, to maintain the story he had told me, in action; for, in accordance with his tale, he had to bear himself as though he expected before nightfall the assassination of the King and His Royal Highness half a mile away, and the rush of the murderers to his house for shelter. On my side, it was scarcely less hard, for I knew nothing of how my man James had fared, or whether or no His Majesty would act upon my message. I guessed, however, that he would, if only my man got there; for Chiffinch's men (who now followed him everywhere) would be as eager as I that no danger should come to him.
My plans therefore were more secure than Rumbald's; since I knew, either that His Majesty would come, and no harm done, or that, merely, he would not come. In the latter case Rumbald would be certified that I had done as he thought I would; and would, no doubt, let me go peacefully, to use me again later in the same manner, if occasion rose. For myself, then, I intended after nightfall at the latest to ride back to London and report all that had passed; and, if the King had not come, to lay all in Mr. Chiffinch's hands for his further protection.
I was left a good deal to myself during the morning—Mr. Rumbald's powers of dissimulation being, I think, less than his desire for them; and I did not quarrel with that. I was very restless myself, and spent a good deal of time in examining the house and the old arms, used no doubt, forty years ago in the Civil War, that were hung up everywhere. Within, as well as without, it was liker an arsenal or a barracks, than a dwelling-house. Its lonely situation too, and its strength, made it a very suitable place for such a design as that which its owner had for it. The great chamber, at the head of the stairs, and over the archway, where we had our food, was no doubt the room where the conspirators had held their meetings.
A little before eleven o'clock, as I was walking in the open space between the house and the gate, I saw a fellow look in suddenly from the road, and then was away again. Every movement perturbed me, as may be imagined in such suspense; yet anything was better than ignorance, and I called out to let him see that I had observed him. So he came forward again; and I saw him to be the little carpenter, or what not, that had wished to speak to Rumbald yesterday at the inn.
He saluted me very properly.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said he, "but is Mr. Rumbald within?"
Now I had seen Mr. Rumbald, not ten minutes ago, slip back into the house from the outhouses where he had pretended to go upon some preparation or other for the reception of the assassins this evening; but he had not known that I saw him.
"He is very busy at present," said I. "Cannot I do your business for you?"
(I tried to look as if I knew more than I did.)
"Why, sir," he said, "I think not."
He seemed, I thought, in a very pitiable state. (I learned some months later that he was come down expressly to dissuade Rumbald from any attempt at that time; but I did not know that then.) Here, only, thought I, is one of the chicken-hearted ones. I determined to play upon his fears, if I could, and at the same time, perhaps, upon his hopes.
"I think I can, however," I said. "You would be out of the business, if you could, would you not?"
He turned so white that I thought he would have fallen. I saw that my shot had told; but it was not a hard one to make.
"Hold up, man," I said. "Why, what do you suppose I am here for?"
"What business, sir?" he said. "I do not know what you mean."
I smiled; so that he could see me do it.
"Very good, then," I said. "I will leave you to Mr. Rumbald;" and I made as if I would pass on.
"Sir," he said, "can you give me any assurance?… I am terrified." And indeed he looked it; so I supposed that he thought that the attempt was indeed to be made to-day. I determined on a bold stroke.
"My man!" I said. "If you will tell me your name, and then begone at once, back to town, I will tell you something that will be of service to you. If not—" and I broke off.
He looked at me piteously. I think my air frightened him. He drew back a little from the house, though we were in a place where we could not be seen from the windows.
"My name is Keeling, sir. You will not betray me? What is it, sir?"
"Well," said I, "I can give you an assurance that what you fear will not take place. There is not a man here beyond myself and Mr. Rumbald and old Alick. Now begone at once. Stay; where do you live?"
He shook his head. A little colour had come back to his face again at the news.
"No, sir; that was not in the bargain. I will begone, sir, as you said; and thank you, sir."
He slipped back again very quickly, and was vanished. I suppose that he had ridden down in some cart all night, and that he went back in the same way, for I saw no more of him.
Well; I had gained two little points—I had kept him from Mr. Rumbald, which was one—(for I did not want my host to consult with any if I could help it)—and I had learned what perhaps was his name. This, however, I would test for myself presently.
At noon we dined; and having observed no difference in my host's manner, that might shew that he had any idea I had met with anyone, I made two remarks.
"I talked with a fellow at the gate this morning," I said; "he seemed to know nothing of the King's coming."
Rumbald jerked his head impatiently; and I perceived that we had not been seen. Presently I said:
"Who was that pale-looking fellow who wished to speak with you yesterday, Mr. Rumbald, at the Mitre?"
He looked sharply at me for an instant.
"His name is Thompson," said he. "He is one of my malting-men."
Then I knew that he had lied. A man does not invent the name of Keeling, but very easily the name of Thompson. So I saw that Rumbald had not yet lost all discretion; and indeed, for all his talk, he had hardly spoken a name that I could get hold of.
After a while I ventured on another sentence which suited my purpose, and at the same time confirmed him in his own view.
"If by any chance His Majesty should not come to-day—will it be done, do you think, to-morrow? Shall you wait till he does come?"
He shook his head and lied again very promptly.
"If it is not done to-day, it will never be done."
Looking back on the affair now, I truly do wonder at the adroitness with which we both talked. There was scarcely a slip on either side, though we were at cross-purposes if ever men were. But I suppose that in both of us there was a very great tension of mind—as of men walking on the edge of a precipice; and it was the knowledge of that which saved us both. After dinner I said I would walk again out of doors; and he thought it was mere affectation, since I must know by now that His Majesty was not coming.
"Well," I said, "if by any mischance His Majesty doth not come to-day, I will get back to town."
He looked at me; but he kept any kind of irony out of his face.
"You had best do that," he said.
* * * * *
Now it must have been forty miles from Newmarket to the Rye; and I had calculated that His Majesty would not start till nine o'clock at the earliest. He would have four horses and would change them at least three times; but they would not be able to go out of a trot for most of the way, so that I need not look for any news of him till three o'clock at the earliest. From then till five o'clock would be the time. If he were not come by five, or at the very latest half-past, I should know that my design had miscarried.
It is very difficult for me to describe at all the state I was in—all the more as I dared not shew it. It was not merely that my Sovereign was at stake, but a great deal more than that. My religion too was in some peril, for if, by any mischance things should not go as I expected; if, as certainly occurred to my mind as one possibility in ten, I had completely mistaken Rumbald, and he had spoken the truth for once—it was not the King only who would perish, but the Catholic heir also, and then good-bye to all our hopes. Yet, I declare that even this did not affect me so much as the thought that it was the man whom I had learned to love that was in peril—to love, in spite of his selfishness and his indolence and his sins. It was all but an intolerable thought to me that that melancholy fiery man who had so scolded me—whom, to tell the truth, I had scolded back—that this man might, even in imagination, be mixed up with the horror of the firing of guns and the plunging of the wounded horses—should himself be shot at and murdered, there in the lonely Hertfordshire lane.
At about three o'clock I could bear it no more. God knows how many prayers I had said; for I think I prayed all the time, as even careless men will do at such crises. There was the grim house behind me, the leafless trees overhead, the lane stretching up northwards beyond the gate. All was very silent, except for the barking of a dog now and again. It was a very solitary place—the very place for a murder; there were no meadows near us, where men might be working, but only the deep woods. It was a clearish kind of day, with clouds in the west.
At about three o'clock then I went to the stables to see my horse. These were behind the house. There was no one about, and no other horse in the stables but Rumbald's own black mare that had carried him yesterday.
It came to me as I looked at my horse that no harm would be done if I put the saddle on him. Rumbald would but think me a little foolish for so confessing in action that I knew the King would not come; and for myself it would be some relief to my feelings to know that if by any mischance I did hear the sound of shots, I could at least ride up and do my best, though I knew it would be too late.
I saddled my horse then, and put on the bridle, as quickly as I could. Then, again, I thought there would be no harm done if I led him out to the gate and fastened him there. I looked out of the stable door, but there was no one in sight. So I led my horse out, as quietly as I could, yet openly, and brought him round past the front of the house and so towards the gate. I thought nothing of my valise; for at that time I intended no more than what I had said. I was uneasy, and had no determined plans. I would tell Rumbald, if he came out, that I was but holding myself ready to ride out if I were needed.
Then, as I came past the front of the house, I heard, very distinctly in the still air, the tramp of horses far away on the hill to the north; and I knew enough of that sound to tell me that there were at least eight or nine coming, and coming fast.
Now it might have been the coach of anyone coming that way. The races were at Newmarket, and plenty went to and fro, though it is true that none had come this way all day. Yet at that sound my heart leapt up, both in excitement and terror. What if I had made any mistake, and enticed the King to his death? Well, it would be my death too—but I swear I did not think of that! All I know is that I broke into a run, and the horse into a trot after me; and as I reached the gate heard Rumbald run out of the house behind me.
I paid him no attention at all, though I heard his breathing at my shoulder. I was listening for the tramp and rattle of the hoofs again, for the sound had died away in a hollow of the road I suppose. Then again they rang out; and I thought they must be coming very near the place he had told me of; and I turned and looked at him; but I think he did not see me. He too was staring out, his face gone pale under its ruddiness, listening for what very well might be the end of all his hopes.
Then the distant hoofs grew muffled once more, though not altogether; and, at that, Rumbald ran out into the road as he was, bareheaded; and I saw that he carried a cleaver in his hand, caught up, I suppose, at random; for it was of no use to him.
Then, loud and clear not a hundred yards away I heard the rattle and roar of a coach coming down the hill and the tramp of the hoofs.
"Back, you fool," I screamed, "back!" for I dared not pull my horse out into the road. "Throw it away!"
He turned on me with the face of a devil. Though he must have seen the liveries and the guardsmen from where he stood, I think not even yet did he take in how he had been deceived; but that he began to suspect it, I have no doubt.
He came back at my cry, as if unwillingly, and stood by my side; but never a word did he say: and together we waited.
Then, past the gate on the left, over the hedge, I caught a flash of colour, and another, come and gone again; and then the gleam of a coach-roof; and, though I had no certainty from my senses, I was as sure it was the King, as if I had seen him.
So we waited still. I drew up in my hands my horse's bridle, not knowing what I did, and moved round to where I could mount, if there were any road; and, as I did it, past the gate, full in view there swept at a gallop, first three guards riding abreast, a brave blaze of colour in the dusky lane; then the four grey horses, with their postilions cracking their whips; then the coach; and, as this passed, as plain as a picture I saw the King lean forward and look—his great hat and periwig thrust forward—and behind him another man. Then the coach was gone; and two more guards flew by and were gone too.
I lost my head completely for the single time, I think, in all this affair; now that I knew that the King was safe. There, standing where I was, I lifted my hat, and shouted with my full voice:
"God save the King!"
* * * * *
I turned as I shouted; and, as the last word left my lips, I saw Rumbald, his face afire with anger, coming at me, round my horse from behind, with the cleaver upraised. If he had not been near mad with disappointment, he would have struck at my horse; but he was too intent on me for that.
I leapt forward, for I had no time to do anything else, dragging my horse's haunches forward again and round; and with the next movement I was across my saddle, all-asprawl, as my horse started and plunged. I was ten yards away before the man could do anything, and struggling to my seat; but, as I rose and gripped the reins, something flew over my head, scarce missing it by six inches; and I saw the blade of the cleaver flash into the ditch beyond.
At that, I turned and lifted my hat, reining in my horse; for I was as mad with success as the other man with failure.
"God save the King!" I cried again. "Ah! Mr. Rumbald, if only you had learned to speak the truth!"
Then I put in my spurs and was gone, hearing before me, the hollow tramp and rumble of the great coach in front, as the King's party went across the bridge.
CHAPTER XI
It was three months later that I sat once more, though not for the first time since my adventure at the Rye in Mr. Chiffinch's parlour.
* * * * *
Of those three months I need not say very much; especially of the beginning of them, since I received then, I think, more compliments than ever in my life before. My interviews had been very many; not with Mr. Chiffinch only, but with two other personages whose lives, they were pleased to say, I had saved.
His Majesty had laughed very heartily indeed at the tale of my adventures.
"Odds-fish!" said he. "We had all been done, but for you, Mr. Mallock. It was three or four days after, at the least, that I had intended returning; and by that time, no doubt, our friends would have had their ambushment complete. But when your man came, all a-sweat, into my very bed-chamber, telling me to fly for my life—well; there was no more to be said. There was a fire too at my lodgings that same morning;—and poor Sir Christopher's low ceilings all ruined with the smoke—but that would not have brought me, though I suppose we must give out that it did. No; Mr. Mallock, 'twas you, and no other. Odds-fish! I did not think I had such an accomplished liar in my service!"
His Royal Highness, too, was no less gracious; though he talked in a very different fashion.
To him there was no humour in the matter at all; 'twas all God's Providence; and I am not sure but that he was not more right than his brother; though indeed there are always two sides to a thing. His talk was less of myself, and more of the interests I had served; and there too he was right; for, as I have said, if there had been any mistake in the matter, good-bye to Catholic hopes.
My first interview with Mr. Chiffinch astonished me most. When he had finished paying compliments, I began on business.
"You will hardly catch Rumbald," said I, "unless you take him pretty soon. He too will be off to Holland, I think."
He shook his head, smiling.
"I am sorry not to be able to give you vengeance for that cleaver-throwing; but you must wait awhile."
"Wait?" cried I.
"What single name do you know besides that of Rumbald, which was certainly involved in this affair? Why, Mr. Mallock, you yourself have told me that he observed discretion so far; and did not name a single man."
"Well; there is Keeling," I said.
"And what is Keeling?" he asked with some contempt. "A maltster, and a carpenter: a fine bag of assassins! And how can you prove anything but treasonable talk? Where were the 'swan-quills' and the 'sand and the ink'? Did you set eyes on any of them?"
I was silent.
"No, no, Mr. Mallock; we must wait awhile. I have even talked to Jeffreys, and he says the same. We must lime more birds before we pull our twig down. Now, if you could lay your hand on Keeling!"
He was right: I saw that well enough.
"And meantime," said I, smiling, "I must go in peril of my life. They surely know now what part I have played?"
"They must be fools if they do not. But there will be no more cleaver-throwing for the present, if you take but reasonable care. Meanwhile, you may go to Hare Street, if you will; though I cannot say I should advise it. And I will look for Keeling."
* * * * *
Well; I did not take his advice. That was too much to expect. I went to Hare Street in April and remained there a couple of months; but I do not propose to discourse on that beyond saying that I was very well satisfied, and even with Cousin Tom himself, who appeared to me more resigned to have me as a son-in-law. To neither of them could I say a word of what had passed, except to tell Dolly that my peril was over for the present, and to thank her for her prayers. During those two months I had no word of Rumbald at all; and I suspect that he lay very quiet, knowing, after all, how little I knew. If he went to Holland, he certainly came back again. Then, in June, once more a man came from Mr. Chiffinch, to call me to town. So here I sat once more, with the birds singing their vespers, in the Privy Garden, a hundred yards away, and the river flowing without the windows, as if no blood had ever flowed with it.
"Well," said Chiffinch, when I was down in a chair, "the first news is that we have found Keeling. You were right, or very nearly. He is a joiner, and lives in the City. He hath been to the Secretary of the Council, and will go to him again to-morrow."
"How was that done?" I asked.
"Why, I sent a couple of men to him," said the page, "when we had marked him down; who so worked on his fears that he went straight to my Lord Dartmouth; and my Lord Dartmouth carried him to Sir Leoline Jenkins. The Secretary very properly remarked that he was but one witness; and Keeling went away again, to see if he can find another. Well; the tale is that he hath found another—his own brother—and that both will go again to the Secretary to-morrow. So I thought it best that you should see him first here, to-night, to identify him for certain."
"That is very good," I said. "But, Mr. Chaffinch, if I appear too publicly in this matter, I shall be of very little service to the King hereafter."
"I know that very well," said the page. "And you shall not appear publicly at all, neither shall your name. Indeed, the King hath a little more business for you at last, in France; and you will wish perhaps to go to Rome. So the best thing that you can do, when we have seen that all is in order, is to wait no longer, but be off, and for a good while too. Your life may be in some peril for the very particular part that you played, for though we shall catch, I think, all the principal men in the affair, we shall not catch all the underlings; and even a joiner or a scavenger for that matter, if he be angry enough, is enough to let the life out of a man. And we cannot spare you yet, Mr. Mallock."
This seemed to me both reasonable and thoughtful; and it was not altogether a surprise to me. Indeed I had prepared Dolly for a long absence, thinking that I might go to Rome again, as I had not been there for a long while. Besides, waiting in England for the time laid down by Tom and agreed to by both of us, would make that time come no swifter; and, if there were work to be done, I had best do it, before I had a wife to engage my attention.
But I sighed a little.
"Well," said I; "and where is Keeling?"
"I have been expecting him this last ten minutes," said he.
Even as he spoke, a knock came upon the door. The page cried to come in; and there entered, first a servant holding the door, and then the little joiner himself, flushed in his face, I supposed with the excitement. He was dressed in his Sunday clothes, rather ill-fitting. He did not know me, I think, for he made no movement of surprise. I caught Mr. Chiffinch's look of inquiry, and nodded very slightly.
"Well, sir," began the page in a very severe tone, "so you have made up your mind to evade the charge of misprision of treason—that, at the least!"
"Yes, sir," said the man in a very timid way. (He must have heard that phrase pretty often lately.)
"Well; and you have found your other witness?"
"Yes, sir; my own brother, sir."
"Ah! Was he too in this detestable affair?"
"No, sir."
"Well, then; how do you bring him in?"
"Sir," said the man, seeming to recover himself a little, "I put my brother in a secret place; and then caused him to overhear a conversation between myself and another."
"Very pretty! very pretty!" cried the page. "And who was this other?"
"Sir; it was a Mr. Goodenough—under-sheriff once of—"
I could not restrain a start; for I had not thought Mr. Goodenough, the friend of my Lord Essex, to be so deep in the affair as this. Keeling saw me start, I suppose; for he looked at me, and himself showed sudden agitation.
"Good evening, Keeling," said I. "We have had a little conversation once before."
"Oh! for God's sake, gentlemen! for God's sake! I am already within an inch of my life."
"I know you are," said Mr. Chiffinch severely, "and you will be nearer even than that, if you do not speak the whole truth."
"Sir; it is not that I mean," cried the man, in a very panic of terror.
"Rumbald hath been—"
"Eh? What is that?" said Mr. Chiffinch.
"Rumbald, sir, the old Colonel, of the Rye—"
"God, man! We know all about Rumbald," said the page contemptuously.
"What hath he been at now?"
"Sir; he and some of the others caught me but yesterday. They had heard some tale of my having been to Mr. Secretary, and—"
"And you swore you had not, I suppose," snarled the other.
"Sir; what could I do? Rumbald was all for despatching me then and there. They caught me at Wapping. I prayed them for God's love not to believe such things: I entreated: I wept—"
"I'll be bound you did," said Mr. Chiffinch. "Well? And what then?"
"Sir! they let me go again."
"They did? The damned fools!" cried Chiffinch.
I was astonished at his vehemence. But, like his master, if there was one thing that the page could not bear, it was a fool. I made him a little sign.
"Keeling," said I, "you remember me well enough. Well; I need not say that we know pretty near everything that there is to know. But we must have it from you, too. Tell us both now, as near as you can recollect, every name to which you can speak with certainty. Remember, we want no lies. We had enough of them a while back in another plot." (I could not resist that; though Mr. Chiffinch snapped his lips together.) "Well, now, take your time. No, do not speak. Consider yourself carefully."
It was, indeed, a miserable sight to see this poor wretch so hemmed in. The sweet evening light fell full upon his terrified eyes and his working lips, as he sought to gather up the names. He was persuaded, I am sure, that we were as gods, knowing all things—above all, he feared myself, as I could see, having met me first at the very house of Rumbald, as if I were his friend, and now again in the chamber of his accuser. It was piteous to see how he sought to be very exact in his memories, and not go by a hair's breadth beyond the truth.
At last I let him speak.
"Now then," I said, "tell us the names." (I saw as I spoke that Mr.
Chiffinch held a note-book below the table to take them down.)
"Sir, these for certain. Rumbald; West; Rumsey—"
"Slowly, man, slowly," I cried.
"Rumsey; Goodenough; Burton; Thompson; Barber—those last three all of Wapping, sir. Then, sir, there is Wade, Nelthrop, West, Walcot—" he hesitated.
"Well, sir," demanded Mr. Chiffinch very fiercely. "That is not all."
"No, sir, no no…. There is Hone, a joiner like myself."
"Man," cried the page, "we want better names than snivelling tradesmen like yourself."
The fellow turned even paler.
"Well, sir; but how can I tell that—"
"Sir," said the page to me sharply, "call the guard!"
"Sir," cried the poor wretch, "I will tell all; indeed I will tell."
"Well?"
"Sir, the Duke of Monmouth was in it—at least we heard so. He was certainly in the former plot!"
"And what was that?" asked the other very quietly.
"Why, sir; the plot to assault Whitehall; it is all one in reality; but—"
"We know all about that," snapped the page sharply. "Well; and what other names?"
"Sir; there was my Lord Russell."
I moved in my chair. Even to this day I cannot believe that that peer was guilty; though indeed he was found so to be. Mr. Chiffinch cast me a look.
"Proceed, sir," he said.
"And there was Mr. Ferguson, a minister; and Mr. Wildman; and my Lord Argyle in Scotland; and my Lord Howard of Escrick; and Mr. Sidney; and my Lord Essex. I do not say, sir, that all those—"
"There! there: go on. We shall test every word you say; you may depend upon it. What other names have you?"
"There was my Lord Grey, sir; and Sir Thomas Armstrong … Sir; I can remember no more!"
"And a pretty load on any man's conscience!" cried the virtuous Mr.
Chiffinch. "And so all this nest of assassins—"
"Sir; I did not say that. I said—"
"That is enough; we want no comments and glosses, but the bare truth. Well, Keeling, if this tale be true, you have saved your own life—that is, if your fellow murderers do not get at you again. You have been in trouble before, I hear, too."
"Sir; it was on the matter of the Lord Mayor—"
"I know that well enough. Well, sir; so this is the tale you will tell to-morrow to Mr. Secretary."
"Yes, sir, if I can remember it all."
"You will remember it, I'll warrant. Well, sir; I think I have no more questions for the present. Sir, have you any questions to ask this man?"
I shook my head. I was near sick at the torture the man was in.
"Well, sir; you may go," said the page. "And I would recommend you and your brother to lie very private to-night. There must be no more evasion."
* * * * *
When he was gone, Mr. Chiffinch turned to me.
"Well?" he said. "What do you think?"
"Oh! I think he speaks the truth, in the main," I said wearily. "Shall I be needed any more; or when may I leave town?"
"You must wait, Mr. Mallock, until we have laid hands on them."
* * * * *
It was not until the middle of July that I was able to leave. On the eighteenth of June a proclamation was issued, with the names of some of the conspirators; and numerous arrests were made. One matter pleased me a little, and that was that Keeling had been man enough after all, to warn some of the humbler folk, who had been led into the affair, of what he had done; and the most of these got clean away. Then Sheppard came forward and betrayed three or four who had met in his house, as I had seen for myself: and West added many details. A second proclamation containing the names, and offering rewards for the arrest of Monmouth, my Lord Grey, Sir Thomas Armstrong and the Reverend Robert Ferguson, was made after my Lord Russell's arrest; but all four of them escaped. My Lords Howard and Essex were taken on the tenth of July; and two days later Walcot, Hone and Rouse were convicted.
As soon as my Lord Russell's trial was begun, and the certainty that he would be convicted was made plain by my Lord Howard turning King's evidence, I left London with my man James. And before we were at Dover the news came to us that my Lord Essex, in despair, had cut his throat in the Tower. As for myself, I was glad enough to leave; for I was both sick and weary of intrigue. It would be of a very different sort in France; and of a kind that a gentleman may undertake without misgivings: so, though I was loth to leave the land where Dolly was, the balance altogether left me refreshed rather than saddened.
* * * * *
It was a clear day as the packet put out from Dover; and, as I stood on deck, watching the cliffs recede as we went, there came on me again that same mood that had fallen on me as I went up the river so long ago from Wapping. Once more it appeared to me as if I were in somewhat of a dream. Those men I had left behind, awaiting trial and death; Mr. Chiffinch; the King, the Court, even Dolly herself, appeared to have something phantom-like about them. Once more the realities seemed to close about me and envelop me—or rather that great Reality whom we name God; and all else seemed but very little and trifling.