After a few moments I located the place where the thing had been put, and eagerly I hurried thither.
Yes, there was the black box as I had seen it before. It seemed as though it had never been moved since the hour when Father Solomon had put it back. Feverishly I took it, and then looked fearfully around me, because even then I fancied that watchful eyes might be upon me. But there was nothing.
Holding the box in one hand, and the candle in the other, I remember thinking that my best plan was to get out into the open air, where I could again examine its contents. But I was too impatient for this. Propping my candle between two stones I got down on my knees, and prepared to open it, but I stopped with a start and a shudder.
I could have sworn that I heard a cackling mocking laugh close to my ears, and again I looked fearfully around. But there was nought to be seen, and so still had all things become that the silence seemed to make a noise.
"It is nought but my fancy," I said aloud, and I shivered at the sound of my own voice. Also many wild fancies flitted across my mind. I thought I saw Lucy Walters change from a beauteous nut-brown maid, with skin fair and smooth, and altogether lovely to behold, into a hideous corrupt-looking hag. She shook a leprous finger at me, and leered mockingly into my face. Again also I thought I heard the mocking cackle of old Father Solomon, which seemed to arouse all sorts of unearthly wails.
"It's nought but my fancy," I again repeated aloud, and this time the sound of my voice gave me courage. I no longer feared unearthly visitants. The thing was in my hands, and I would examine it.
The lid of the box opened without difficulty, and I saw a piece of paper lying within it. As I saw it I laughed aloud, so pleased was I.
Then I took the thing in my hand, and unfolded it.
This is what I read:—
He that diggeth a pit shall fall into it.
If the iron be blunt, and he do not whet the edge, then must he put forth more strength.
The lips of a fool will swallow up himself. The beginning of the words of his mouth is foolishness, and the end of his talk mischievous madness.
Vanity of vanity, saith the preacher, all is vanity.
The Words of Solomon the Wise.
This was all. The marriage contract was gone, and nothing was left in its place save the paper on which the words were written that I have here set down.
Eagerly I peered into the hole where the box had been placed; but it was empty. Nothing was there save the void space which mocked me.
I stamped my foot in my rage. This, then, was the end of my work. Old Solomon had outwitted me, even as he had said, and I fancied I saw the grin on his face as he had planned my discomfiture.
After a time I grew more calm. There must be a meaning in all this. If the old man had planned all this he must have had reasons for so doing. Had he come hither to find me, and being unable to do so had he been stricken with fear? After all the thing I had seen was different from this. I had seen the signature of Lucy Walters, and of Charles Stuart. Nothing could destroy that fact. If the old man had taken the parchment away, and destroyed the house, he had done so with a purpose. He must have had a motive in so doing. Was that motive fear or interest? Besides, the old man must have another hiding-place. True I had been a fool, a double-dyed fool, for not keeping the thing when I had once held it in my hand; but it might not be too late to redeem the past. I would find out the meaning of what I had seen; I would probe the thing to the bottom.
All my superstitious fears were gone. I no longer heard whispering voices, or wailing cries; I no longer saw grinning faces or evil forms. The darkness had no dread for me; my anger had driven away all my terrors.
Taking the box with me I hurried back to the stairway by which I had entered, and a few minutes later I stood in the sunlight again. The evening had now begun to draw to its close, but the sun was still visible behind the tree tops, and after the darkness in which I had been immured its light was very pleasant.
"I will not rest until the box hath the true parchment again," I said grimly, as I placed within it the paper on which old Father Solomon had written his mocking words. "There must be some trace of him somewhere; how can I find it?"
I gave a long shrill whistle, and a few seconds later I heard Black Ben whinnying. This was followed by the trample of hoofs, and directly after he came up to me, and rubbed his nose against my hand.
"Ben," I said to him, "we are beaten this time; but you and I will yet succeed," and I patted him gently.
Again he whinnied as though he understood, while I bethought me of what I must do next.
I had some trouble in putting away the black box in my saddle-bag, but I at length succeeded in doing so, after which I rode through the dark woods towards the highway. By the time I had gone a little way I felt both faint and hungry. The excitement through which I had passed had left me with a great languor, so presently seeing a peasant I inquired the way to the nearest inn, which I found was of the better order of places of refreshment, and where I had no difficulty in obtaining food for both man and beast.
After seeing to it that Black Ben was well groomed and foddered, and having partaken of a good meal myself, I felt my own man again, and ere long found my way into the room where three or four men, whom I judged to be farmers, were drinking. They had been talking eagerly when I entered, but on seeing me they rose, touched their forelocks, and then sat down again.
I greatly desired them to speak freely, so having ordered more refreshments for them I tried to draw them into conversation. To my satisfaction I soon discovered that my bounty unloosed their tongues, and I found that they vied with each other to answer whatever questions I asked. Nevertheless I was wary even in this, for I was desirous at all hazards to avoid arousing suspicion. I therefore spoke first of the possible harvest, and of the good times we hoped to have now that the king had come to his own.
After this I spoke of the coming of the king, and of the gay doings at Dover, and presently, little by little, I led mp the conversation to Pycroft Hall. Directly the name passed my lips, however, they became silent, as though a great fear possessed them.
"Is aught ill with the place?" I asked.
"There is no Pycroft Hall now," said one presently, and his voice almost sank to a whisper as he spoke.
"No Pycroft Hall? Why I saw it not long since myself, and a gloomy old place I thought it was," I said.
"The devil hath blown it to atoms," said the man fearfully.
"You are but laughing at me," I cried.
"Nay, worshipful master, but we be not. It hath only happened of late that this hath come to pass."
"Since what hath come to pass?"
"We were speaking of it at the moment when you entered the room, young master, and not knowing how you might relish such talk, we e'en held our tongues."
"What talk?"
"Why, about the devil blowing up Pycroft Hall."
"If you know aught I should be glad to hear it. I love much such stories as you speak of."
"You are not one that fears the devil, young master?"
"I trust in an easy conscience and a good sharp sword," I made answer. "Nevertheless I love the gossip of the times, whether it concerns the devil or of those who have no dealings with him."
"Well, master, this is what hath taken place. It is said that three days ago some of the king's men came hither to visit it. But before they reached it, although they drew near to it, they heard a great noise, as though the world were coming to an end. Of this there can be no manner of doubt, for I myself heard it, although I was a mile away."
"When was this?" I asked.
"Last Friday that ever was," replied the man. "Friday is the devil's day, and he played his game last Friday. For years it's been haunted as all the country knows. Your honour may have heard of it."
Hereupon he told me a long story which I will not set down here, because I have already mentioned much of the things he said in what I have previously written.
"Well," I said, when he had finished the story, "the king's men went to see it, you say."
"People say it was the king's men, but we be not sure. But be that as it may, when they were on the way to the house, a place I would not go to myself, no not for ten pound in gold, they heard a noise like a clap of thunder, and they said they felt the ground shaking under their feet."
"Well, what then?" I said eagerly, for the man stopped.
"When they came up to it they could see nothing for smoke," said the man; "a smoke that smelt of brimstone, and then they were so frightened that they came back. Next day the parson went near to see it, and he said he believed that the spell of the devil was broken, although the house was wellnigh blown to pieces."
"When did the parson go up?"
"On Saturday, but 'twas Friday evening when the king's men went up."
"You say you heard the noise yourself?"
"Ay I did, and I saw more than any of them."
"What did you see?"
"I saw the devil."
"Tell me about it?"
"I'm afraid," said the man. "I've never said so much to anybody before, even to my wife; but this drop o' drink that you've given me hath seemed to fire my courage."
"Tell me and you shall have some more. Nay, your jug is empty. I will order some more."
The landlord brought a stoup of strong waters and placed it on the table, and having left us, we all drew our chairs close to the farmer, so that we could the better hear what he had to say.
"It may be nought," said the farmer; "perhaps you, young sir, seeing you have much learning and have read wise books, may say it was nought; nevertheless I believe it was what I say it was, although there is one thing I cannot understand."
"And what do you say it was?"
"I say it was the devil."
"And what is the thing you cannot understand?"
"He had a woman with him."
"Ay, but I can understand that," remarked one of the others, who had been listening intently. "Wherever the devil is at work you always find a woman. For that matter I doubt if the devil could get on at all but for woman."
"That's true, John Trounsen," remarked the third. "My wife is a good woman, let who will say otherwise; but for all that there's a woman in all devilry. The devil could not do his work without witches, and I doubt not he was obliged to have many witches with him at Pycroft. All that's been done there these last few years could not have been done without them."
"But what did he look like?" I asked eagerly, for as may be imagined other thoughts had come into my mind than those spoken by the simple farmers.
"Look like?" said the farmer who told the story. "Well that again seems strange. And yet I do not know. The parson says the devil can appear as an angel of light, so I do not see why he cannot appear as an old man."
"Ay, an old man. This was how it happened, young master. I was passing by the Pycroft woods on Friday evening, when I heard the noise like thunder. It fairly seemed to shake the very ground. I looked around me, but I could see nothing. Then I heard something like a cackle, and on gazing around me I saw him standing a little distance from me with a woman by his side. Mind you, nothing was to be seen afore the great noise, then all of a sudden he appeared."
"Ay, that must have been the devil," remarked the man called Trounsen.
"All of a sudden, all of a sudden, just like he always comes! What did the parson say on Sunday? 'He cometh like a thief in the night,'" remarked the other.
"Did any smoke come out of his nostrils?" asked Trounsen.
"No, he was just a simple old man with a short neck and long whiskers. Ay, but you should have seen his eyes. Fire seemed to come from them."
"Did he say aught?"
"Nay, but he laughed—or rather he cackled, and then he shook his hand towards Pycroft. Ay but I was frightened."
"Did he see you?"
"Nay, he didn't, and you may be sure I made no noise."
"And the woman—what was she like?" I asked.
"Ay, there you have me again, master, for the woman was young, and I thought fair to look upon."
"Did either say aught?"
"Ay, they talked to each other in words which I could not understand; but presently I heard the woman say they must haste to Bedford, for there was work awaiting them there. But when she had spoken he shook his hand towards Pycroft and laughed such a laugh as I never heard before."
"'What'll you find!' he said in a terrible voice. 'Perhaps a few skulls, but nought else;' and then he started, as I thought, to come where I was, so I just creeped under a withy bush, and hid myself. After that I heard no more. When I dared to creep out again nought was to be seen. He had spirited both himself and the woman away."
After this the man told his story again, but I gathered nothing new. He simply detailed for the willing ears of the others such trifles as were of no importance to me. But he had told me enough to set me thinking. The man was doubtless old Solomon. But the woman, who was she? I called to mind that on the night when I first went to Pycroft I saw not only Mistress Constance Denman in the room, but another woman. Might not this be the same woman? She must have known Mistress Constance, else they had not been together. Moreover, what might be the significance of her desire to go to Bedford? Was not this the place to which Constance had flown? Was it not natural, therefore, that some understanding existed between them?
When all was quiet in the inn that night, and the visitors had departed, I lay thinking of all that had taken place, and I felt that I must start for Bedford the next day. It was by this means only that I should again find the old man, and I blessed the lucky happening which had led me to the inn, and thus had been enabled to hear the farmer's story. Much as I cudgelled my brains, however, I was unable to get any nearer the solution of the mystery which faced me, neither could I so much as arrive at a suggestion of the truth concerning the link which bound the unknown woman at Pycroft Hall with Mistress Constance Denman. Also I was as much in the dark as to the ties which bound these women to old Solomon. Everything was a mystery, and I knew not how to explain it.
Next morning I was on horseback again. I knew that my way to Bedford lay straight through London, yet did I not deem it wise to go thither. I had not yet accomplished the thing I had set out to do, and I did not feel like going back to the Duke of York to tell what I had seen and heard. So I determined to bear to the left until I reached the Portsmouth road, and then by riding through the little village of Wandsworth, and crossing Battersea fields, I should miss London altogether. I knew that I could obtain a ferry at Battersea, and then by riding across country I could get to Barnet without so much as being seen by any who dwelt in London town.
Although I was eager to get to Bedford I knew that I incurred great danger by going thither. Doubtless searchers would be abroad to find the man who had liberated the daughter of Master John Leslie from Bedford Gaol, and as not many days had passed since the event, the desire to capture me must be still keen. Still nothing could be done without risk. I did not slacken speed but went straight on.
I wondered much by what means old Solomon could take the woman to Bedford, seeing that his peculiar appearance would attract much attention. But I knew that he was a man of great resource, and possibly he had friends unknown to me.
It took me two days to reach Bedford, even although Black Ben might have covered the distance in less time. The truth was, however, I could not accomplish the journey in one day, and I did not wish to reach Bedford town until after dark on the second day.
I little thought when I had fled from the inn, while a crowd of men were howling after me, that I should so soon draw near the same place, yet as the sun was setting on the second day after I had left the inn where I had heard news of Father Solomon I found myself at the very place where I had met the man called John Bunyan. My plans, however, did not make it a necessity for me to go so straight into danger. Rather it was my purpose to go to Goodlands, and by means of diligent inquiries to find out the things I desired to know. I did not hurry, for the sun had set in a clear sky, and I knew the twilight would last for wellnigh an hour, so Black Ben, catching my humour, walked quietly along, but we had not gone far in this way before I perceived something was afoot. There was the noise of the trampling of many feet in the near distance, while I could hear the excited manner of many voices.
I looked eagerly around me, but the trees and hedges being in full leaf hid wellnigh everything from me. I saw however that I was nearing the place where, on the night of Mistress Constance's escape from prison, we left the main road and turned towards the narrow lane where we had been molested by the constable and his friends.
"They seem to be coming from Goodlands," I said to myself, as I tried to locate the noise of the people, and at this my heart grew cold, for I feared lest something evil had happened to the woman I had tried to befriend.
Forgetting all possible danger to myself, therefore, I urged Black Ben forward, and soon I saw a number of people who as far as I could judge were much wrought upon. That they were not drunken was easy to see, for they walked circumspectly, and yet many angry cries reached me, as though there were a division of opinion among them. I had barely reached the spot where the lane joined the highway when in spite of myself I gave a cry, for there, right in the midst of a motley crowd, was Mistress Constance, while on either side of her walked a constable with a truncheon in his hand. Never, if I live until I am as old as Methuselah shall I forget the look on her face, for although the sun had now set, leaving only a great golden glow in the western sky, I saw it plainly.
She was very pale, I remember, save for a pink spot that burned on her cheeks, but she shewed no other sign of fear. Her lips were compressed and determined, while her eyes burned with a clear steady light. She stood perfectly straight too, and carried herself proudly, as though she were a May Queen walking amidst the plaudits of the multitude, instead of being a prisoner. Headgear she had none, but her hair hung in rich profusion around her shoulders and far down her back. Even then I caught the sheen of those curling tresses, which gave her the appearance of a queen of beauty.
She paid not the slightest heed either to those who muttered angry threats against her or those who evidently sympathized with her; her eyes were fixed on the distant skies, as though her thoughts were far away.
"What are they doing with her?" I said to a man standing on the outskirts of the crowd, but I spoke like a man in a dream, for I knew quite well.
"Doing? Why, taking her to gaol again; and I warrant she does not escape again, witch or no witch!"
And now I have to make confession of that which mayhap will draw away from me the sympathy of all good people, for at that moment I, Roland Rashcliffe, realized that I loved this woman more than my own life. I knew of what she had been accused, and she had never denied these accusations. She was said to be guilty of attempting to murder General Monk for seeking to bring back the king, and had been engaged in evil plots against his Majesty. And yet I loved her. But this was not all. She was the wife of Sir Charles Denman, a man who bore an evil name, and who had been actively interested in the death of the king's father. As such I should never have thought of her save as a murderess who had been married to a bad man. And yet at that moment I forgot everything. Forgot that her hands were stained with blood, forgot that her life was surrounded by mystery, forgot that she owed the allegiance of a wife to a husband, forgot everything, in fact, save that her life was dearer than my own, and that I must seek to save her at all hazards. That my love was hopeless I knew, for she belonged to another; that my determination to save her was madness I also knew, for what could one do among so many? Yet regardless of everything I sprang from my horse, and as if by magic I made a road for myself amidst the crowd till I reached her side.
"Mistress Constance!" I cried.
And then, spite of everything, a great joy came into my heart, for though she spoke no word I saw that as her eyes turned towards me they lit up with a great gladness, and she, as I thought, tried to hold out her hands towards me.
"Mistress Constance!" I repeated, and I forgot the gaping motley crowd which surged around, which I think was at that moment too curious to do anything save to stare at us in wonder. But as I spoke a second time I saw that the joy which shone from her eyes at her first sight of me passed away, and in its place came a look of terror.
"Escape! escape!" she said. "You cannot help me, and——"
But before she could finish the sentence a great yell went up from many throats.
"The man at The Bull!"
"The man who drugged Master Sturgeon's ale!"
"It is he who got her out of gaol!"
"Ay, we saw him taking her to Goodlands!"
These and a hundred other disjointed cries I heard, and then I was roughly seized by many hands.
"What shall we do with him?"
"Do! Why to gaol with him!"
"This will be sugar and honey to Master Sturgeon."
"Ay, and a feather in our cap when the king hears of it!"
"We'll see now if he'll laugh at us a second time!"
All this I heard as I was dragged along, but I took but little heed. My eyes were fixed on Mistress Constance's face, and I heeded not the angry shouts of those who held me in my delight at being near her.
"Why did you do this?" I heard her say.
"Because I could not help it," I replied.
At this moment I heard a great cry of fear, and turning I saw Black Ben rushing towards me, while the crowd made way for him. He might have judged that I was in danger, for he came up to me, his eyes wild and his head uplifted high in the air.
I thought for a moment that those who held me fast would have let me go as he came up, so fearful were they: nevertheless they did not release me, although they sheltered themselves behind me.
What would have happened I know not, for at that moment the crowd was much excited, but Black Ben, as I thought, seemed to be making for Mistress Constance—whereupon I spoke angrily to him and bade him be still. He obeyed like a child, for so much had we been together at home that he had learnt to take note of the tones of my voice, and to come at my call like a well-trained spaniel.
"What are you going to do with me?" I said to the men who held me fast.
"Do? Take you to gaol, young master."
"Why? What charge have you against me?"
"We'll see to that to-morrow morning at the County Court!" was the reply.
"Then let my horse be taken to The Bull stables," I said, for even then I could not bear for him to suffer because of me.
"Ay, and who'll take him?" was the reply.
It was a strange procession as ever man saw, as we walked towards the river; for although my captors still held me fast, Black Ben walked near me, his eyes flashing, while every now and then he shook his head, and snorted dangerously.
When we reached The Bull we stopped.
"Call the ostler," I said, as though I were in command instead of being a prisoner, and a few seconds later, Black Ben allowed himself to be led into the stables.
By this time a greater crowd than ever had gathered. Indeed, as it seemed to me, the whole town had turned out to see us. This vexed me much, for I hated the thought that many hundreds of staring eyes were upon us, but Mistress Constance seemed to heed nothing. She walked along the street, and over the bridge, with head erect, and the faraway look in her eyes as when I had seen her first of all that night.
We were kept near to each other, so near in truth that I could have touched her had my hands been free, but she did not seem to heed me.
"Do not fear," I said to her.
"I fear nothing—for myself," she replied.
"We shall be perchance taken before the king. If we are we shall be set at liberty."
But she shook her head, and after that we spoke to each other no more that night, for a few minutes later I found myself in a dark dungeon of a place, where there was neither light to see, nor fresh air to be breathed.
I will not try to set down here the thoughts and feelings which possessed me that night. Indeed there will be no need to relate them, even if I felt inclined to do so. All who read this will know that it was not of myself that I thought, save only in so far as the interests of Mistress Constance were linked to my own. All my thoughts were concerned with her. Neither did I fear for myself, although I knew I was in great danger. I was for ever asking what would be done to her, and wondering at times whether the mystery which surrounded her would be explained.
As may be imagined, sleep was out of the question, and tired as I should have been under ordinary circumstances, I felt no weariness.
When daylight shewed itself, even in the foul den where I lay, I fell to wondering how Mistress Constance's hiding place had been discovered, and how she, who had felt so certain of being able to avoid capture, should have allowed herself to be taken by such a clumsy set of yokels as those who brought her thither. I wondered much also where Master Leslie might be, and why he was not by his daughter's side. I at length concluded that he must perchance have gone to London, or he might have found it necessary to place himself in hiding.
Concerning the defence I proposed making for myself I meditated not one whit, for all my interests were swallowed up in those of the woman, the very thought of whom filled me with joy, and yet tore my heart with grief. It must have been perchance eight o'clock when the door opened, and Master Sturgeon entered.
"Ah, young Master Jackanapes," he cried. "So your sins, like chicken, have come home to roost?"
"No, Master Sturgeon," I said, looking him steadily in the face. "I so enjoyed your company when last I saw you that I have taken the first opportunity to meet you again."
"Anger me not, or it will go hard with you," he cried.
"As to that, anger me not," I cried, "or I will e'en tell the town clerk and the mayor what a fool you are. I will tell them how drunk you were, and that I could not only have set one prisoner at liberty, but every one you had under lock and key."
I saw that I had made him fear, although he put a brave face on it.
"Bah! Master Braggart," he cried, "you will see that I will not be again taken in by your boasting."
"I never said I was a zealous servant of the king, even while I became so drunk that I failed to do my duty," I replied. "As to being a braggart, Master Gaoler, I have told you nought but the truth. And this I swear, if Mistress Constance Leslie, or whatever you are pleased to call her, be not kindly treated, I will see to it that a true story of the way you conducted yourself be widely published. Ay, it shall even reach the king's ears. In which case you will no longer be a gaoler, but a prisoner."
"As to that it is my full intention that she shall be treated with all due courtesy," he replied, "but tell me the meaning of what hath taken place, young master. Who are you, and why came you to Bedford? I promise you that aught you shall say to me shall do you good rather than harm."
"As to that presently," I replied. "But will you on your part first tell me something?"
"I will tell you all that seemeth right to tell," he replied.
"Then how was the woman who was brought here with me last night taken prisoner?"
"Ay, that is easy to tell," he replied. "I had my suspicion that there might be doings at Goodlands which it might advantage me to know, so I got a warrant to search the place from cellar to cock-loft. And this, as you will see, led to good results, for truly the constables had not been in the house a minute before this daughter of Master Leslie's came to the place where the constables were, and gave herself up. Was not this mighty clever on my part?"
"And then you searched no more?" I said.
"There was nought more to search for. You see I had the house searched the day after you—you—set her free from here; but nought could I find, no not a sign of her. But I bided my time. I said, 'she will return,' and in truth she did."
"You say you did this?" I asked.
"Ay I did—that is me and the justices together."
I said nought at this, although I was sore puzzled at his words, for I thought I saw a meaning in it all far greater than he had dreamt of.
"And now tell me what you promised to tell me?" he said.
"At what hour am I to be brought before the justices?" I asked.
"At ten o'clock," he replied.
"Then I must needs think of my defence," I replied, "and you will have to wait until their worships have examined me."
This, as may be imagined, did not satisfy him, but he had to be content, for I would not answer a single question he put.
At ten o'clock the next day I was brought before the justices of Bedford, but I never dreamed, as I appeared before them, of the things I should presently learn.
The place into which I was taken was of no great size, nevertheless a large number of people had squeezed themselves in. I judged from this that the affair had been much noised abroad, and that justices from the whole country side had come together, so great was the interest taken. I learnt, however, that the mode of procedure was to be of no ordinary nature, seeing we were no ordinary prisoners. I was told that the justices were to examine us concerning the nature of our guilt, and then if they thought fit, either to pass us on to the assizes or to set us at liberty, just as they felt inclined. But not being versed in the ways of the law, I did not trouble much about such matters. For of this I was sure: the justices would not dare to set Mistress Constance at liberty, seeing a warrant had been out against her for a great length of time, and it was not to be expected that they would have mercy upon me, seeing I had helped the woman to liberty.
Nevertheless I knew that for the sake of their own curiosity they would be sure to ask us many questions, and in this way such matters might come to light as I much longed to know.
I saw, moreover, that we were not treated as prisoners of the period were wont to be treated. Nay more, I saw that many of the rustics gazed on us with a kind of respectful curiosity.
"Who are their worships on the bench?" I asked of a man who had conducted me into the justice room, and he pointed them out to me in a friendly way.
"That is Sir John Napier," he said, pointing to a stout choleric old man, "and that," nodding to a man with a very solemn face, "is Sir William Beecher of Howbury. The one to his left is Mr. Gery of Bushmeade, who fought with King Charles against the Roundheads, while the one on his left hand is Sir St. John Chernocke of Hulcote."
And so on, speaking to me as if I were a visitor instead of a prisoner.
"They are the greatest gentry in Bedfordshire, young master," he said confidentially, "and King Charles himself might be proud to call some of them his friends. Not that they are easy to get over. No, no. They are terrible hard upon them as breaks the law."
I saw that Mistress Constance was not in the room when I entered and I wondered why, seeing I had been brought there just after ten, she had not also been conducted hither at the same time. But I had not to wait long, for scarcely had I taken a careful view of what was taking place when she was led in.
There was a general "hush" as she entered, and even the justices looked curiously towards her, as though she were to be treated with all due courtesy.
For this I have found throughout my whole life. It all depends on the woman herself as to how she is treated; and if she be not regarded with respect it is in nine cases out of ten because of the kind of woman she is. It may be different with men. In truth I know it is; for I have seen men of high standing and blameless character treated with discourtesy, amounting to rudeness if not to cruelty. But few men can speak lightly or rudely to a woman who is of gentle birth, and is in her own heart a gentlewoman. If there is any proof needed of this, it was made manifest that morning. For although Mistress Constance Leslie was the daughter of a man whom the king hated, and although she was accused of attempting to murder the great general by whose offices the king was brought back to the throne, there was not one of the justices who spoke to her in an unbecoming way. Therefore I say this: If a woman receives only scant courtesy, let her look to herself, for she will generally find the reason there. It is wellnigh impossible to respect a shrew, a slattern, or a gossip, although a man should in every case be courteous to womanhood, even if he find it hard to respect the woman.
Mistress Constance was still pale, except for the pink flush on her cheeks, but it detracted not one whit from her beauty. Rather in my eyes it added to it. Moreover, no man, I do not care who he is, could have doubted her modesty or gentleness. Indeed I hated the man who called her wife, and I wondered why God had allowed her to be mated to Sir Charles Denman. But this might be because, even as she stood before the justices, my heart went out to her, if possible more than ever.
She wore the same attire as on the previous night, and I heard a buzz of admiration pass around the room as she stood there bareheaded before the gaping crowd. But she seemed to be unconscious of it, for she took no notice of those who watched her, but instead turned her face to the justices, as if she would read their thoughts.
Her lips were compressed, but not a sign of fear did she shew. Not an eyelid quivered, neither did her hands tremble. Whether she saw me I know not. But she made no sign as if she did, although I thought I once saw her looking at me furtively.
I do not remember any of the formalities which preceded the trial; but when presently the chief justice called her name, she bowed in a stately way, and seemed prepared to answer any questions they might put.
"Constance Denman."
My heart grew bitter as I heard the name, and I thought I saw a look of anger cross her face.
"You are accused of attempting to stab to the heart with a knife his Grace the Duke of Albermarle, but who was at that time General Monk, and in truth did stab his secretary. Because of this a warrant hath been issued against you. Although for a long time you escaped the law, you have at length been brought to justice."
These words I have written down from memory, and although they may not be the exact words spoken, they give the sense of what was said.
She did not speak in answer to this, whereupon some one whispered to the justice who had spoken, who shook his head impatiently.
Then a man who had been writing, lifted his head and said—
"Your name is Constance."
At this she bowed.
"Daughter of Master John Leslie, of Goodlands?"
"Yes."
"Your age?"
"I was born on the 29th of June, 1640."
"You will then be twenty on your next birthday?"
"Yes."
At this there was a suppressed whisper around the justice house. "Just as I thought." "Beautiful, isn't she?" "Fancy a maid, and a lady born doing such a thing at that age;" and so on.
"On the 15th of January you were wedded to Sir Charles Denman?"
At this she did not speak.
"You must answer the question," said the chief justice.
I saw a look of terror pass across her face. Her hands clenched and unclenched themselves, while a crimson flush suffused her whole face.
"What have these questions to do with the crime of which I am accused?" she asked. "It is well known who I am. Moreover, there are certain questions which are painful, and they have nought to do with the deed of which I am believed to be guilty. Therefore be pleased to pass on!"
One might have thought she commanded the court, although she spoke in a low voice, and in a perfectly womanly way. I believe moreover that the principal justice would have saved her these questions, but the clerk insisted upon them.
"These be according to law, Sir William," he said, "and must be answered."
"You hear what the clerk saith?" replied the justice.
"I repeat the question," said the clerk. "You were married, were you not, on the 15th day of January, to Sir Charles Denman?"
She drew herself up as if to speak, but no words escaped her lips.
"How hateful the thought of the marriage is to her," I thought to myself, and my heart was full of joy at the thought of it.
At this moment there was a great confusion in the court, and I saw that all eyes were turned towards the door.
"Master John Leslie!" was whispered all over the place.
A man past his prime made his way towards the bench, and I saw at a glance that he must be related to Mistress Constance. He had the same cast of features, and although there were signs of weakness on his face which did not appear on that of his daughter, he was a man of noble appearance.
"I pray you to forgive my tardiness, Sir William," he said, nodding to the chief justice, "but it was far past midnight when the news was brought to me in London that my daughter was to be brought before you to-day. Since then I have ridden without ceasing so as to be here in time for—for the trial."
I thought then that this man would do his daughter harm rather than good by appearing in this way, for I saw looks of anger and dislike pass across the faces of some of the justices.
"Your presence is of no great importance, Master Leslie," said the justice drily, "and it seems a pity that you have journeyed all the way from London for nought. Besides, you hinder the procedure. The question is just asked whether your daughter married Sir Charles Denman, and I think she can answer it as well as you."
I saw the eyes of father and daughter meet, and as far as I could judge she seemed to wish him to be silent, but of this I was not sure. I thought, however, that he paid no heed to her wishes, for he turned to the bench with a look of resolution in his eyes.
"You have asked whether my daughter is the wife of Sir Charles Denman," he said excitedly. "I will even answer you. She is not."
"Father!"
The cry which came from Mistress Constance was as I thought full of pain.
"Be silent," cried Master Leslie. "Our God is a God of truth, and I will no longer suffer a falsehood to be believed."
"Whose wife is she then?"
"She is no man's wife."
There was a silence like unto the silence of death in the room as he spoke, every one there seeming to be afraid to breathe.
"I speak the truth, Sir William," went on Master Leslie. "As you know I am not a man to utter light words. You have had occasion to say so more than once as we have sat side by side in this Chapel of Herne, the justice hall of Bedford. So you may e'en take that down, Master Cobb"—this to the clerk of the peace—"for what I have told you is the truth."
I looked at Mistress Constance's face again as he spoke, and for the first time I saw fear in her eyes. She evidently dreaded something which was of a fearful nature, and I sorely pitied her. Yet was my heart filled with such a joy as I had never known before. In truth it seemed to me that a great burden had rolled from my life, for it was no longer a sin to love her. I no longer hated Sir Charles Denman as I hated him before, even although my mind was filled with a great wonder at the meaning of it all.
I could see that the presiding justice was so astonished that he could not speak, while Master Cobb, the clerk of the peace, seemed busily writing, only to scratch out what he had written.
"I pray you, Master Leslie," went on Sir William Franklin, the presiding magistrate, "to speak plainly on this matter. You say that this woman is not the wife of Sir Charles Denman, and that she is no man's wife. Do you also say that it is not she who hath attempted the life of General Monk?"
"I do say it, Sir William; she hath attempted no man's life, and is as innocent of the whole matter as a babe but last night born."
"Then what meaneth all this turmoil? Why hath the warrant been issued? Why hath she been captured and brought hither?"
I saw that he was much excited, and that because of it he forgot much of the usual formalities of asking questions. I judged too that Master Cobb, seemed to be hesitating between his desire to conduct the affair after the usual order, and his great curiosity concerning what Master Leslie was saying.
"If you, Sir William, will come with me apart for a moment, I will explain all these matters to you," said Master Leslie, whereupon the other justices protested, declaring that such was not the law of our land. So Sir William had to concede that which was evidently against his desire to his brother justices.
"What's said must be said in the open court," he said. Then realizing that he had been conducting the affair in an unusual way he went on—
"Moreover, it is not you who are at present under examination. If you elect to give evidence after the prisoner hath been examined I will allow you to do so."
"Then let me say this," said Master Leslie, "whatever my daughter may deny, or whatever she may refuse to tell, I shall e'en take a straight course and tell everything which appertaineth to this business."
Upon that Master Leslie took a seat as near to his daughter as he was able, while Master Cobb, evidently relieved that events were to take a lawful course again, prepared to ask questions.
Again I looked around this little whitewashed hall, and looked at the eager faces of the crowd. I have been told that many trials of note had taken place in this Chapel of Herne, which was a building associated with the Grammar School, and used as a justice court, but I doubt if ever one caused more eagerness than that in which we were now engaged.
"I have asked you whether you were married to Sir Charles Denman. Will you answer?"
"My father hath told you. There is, therefore, no need for me to reply."
"But it is necessary you should. Please tell the bench."
"No, I have never married him."
"Are you guilty or not guilty of attempting the life of General Monk?"
She looked at her father before replying, and reading in his face the resolution to tell everything, she replied—
"But you were seen in his house, you wounded his secretary."
"That is not true."
"What evidence have you whereby you can prove your innocence?"
"I can prove that I was not in London at all at that time."
"Where were you then?"
"I can answer that when I am brought before a proper tribunal."
"Do you assert that this is not a proper tribunal?"
"Yes. If it were, my accuser should be here to accuse me. You have no right to try me here at all."
At this there was some discussion, and I believe that Master Cobb maintained that in the strict meaning of the law, it was the duty of the justices to detain her until she was formally charged by her accusers, but they were too curious to allow this so they went on with the trial.
"You say you can prove that you were not in London at the time of the attempted murder?"
"I can."
"Where were you at the time?"
"Answer, answer," said Master Leslie eagerly.
"I was in my father's house at Barnet."
"You say you can prove this?"
"I can prove it, Sir William, for I was myself there at the time. Also there be servants who can take oath to it."
This was spoken by Master Leslie eagerly.
"Then how came you to be accused of this crime?"
A great fear came into her eyes again, and she looked towards her father pleadingly.
At this Master Leslie spoke again.
"I have more than one daughter, Sir William, and if this guilt is to be fastened on one of them, it must be fastened upon my daughter Dorcas, who married Sir Charles Denman, and who lived in London. Thus, my daughter here, knew nought of the outrage until after it was committed."
"But General Monk's secretary heard her say she was called Constance Denman."
"I will explain that, although, as my daughter saith, this is not the proper tribunal for her to be judged, but I will tell the truth so that you may see that you do wrong by detaining her as a prisoner. My daughter Dorcas is the wife of Sir Charles Denman, as I have said. God hath not been pleased to give her the faculties of mind which He hath been pleased to give to my daughter here, and she became the slave of the man she married. It was her husband who commanded her to assume the garb of this my daughter here, it was her husband who commanded her to make it known that she was called Constance. Then," and here Master Leslie's voice became tremulous, "after she had escaped, my daughter Constance, who hath been unjustly imprisoned, in order to save her sister, so great is her love for her, assisted her to keep in safe hiding, and even appeared with Sir Charles Denman as his wife, in order to attract all suspicion upon herself, and save her sister."
There was a silence which could almost be felt as he said this, and I saw that the face of Mistress Constance was pale, as I thought with fear and shame.
"Thus my daughter here is guilty of nought save of a great and overmastering love for her sister," went on Master Leslie. "To save her she hath allowed herself to be hunted like a fox, to save her she hath travelled alone with her sister's husband."
The place had ceased to be a court of justice, and there was scarcely a man there but who forgot that nought was being conducted as the law provided.
"By this means she hath succeeded up to now in diverting attention from her sister, neither would she even now have told what I have told."
"This is a strange story, Master Leslie," said the presiding justice.
"It is strange," said the other, "but I could not stand by and see my innocent child suffer for her sister, and that is why I rode hither through the night, so that she might be set at liberty forthwith."
"And where is your guilty daughter?"
"I do not say she is guilty. Nay, I am sure she was but the tool of the man she married. But where she is now I know not, for never have I seen her since the night when the thing was attempted. All I have known is that my daughter here hath even made it known that she hath been in various places, so that she might keep any from suspecting the hiding-place of her sister. Of one thing I am sure, she is far away from here, else had not my daughter Constance given herself up here in Bedford. Therefore I pray you, Sir William, to let her return to my house at Goodlands, until I can prove to his Majesty's judges that she was not in London on the night when General Monk was in danger of his life."
At this there was again a consultation among the justices, and I verily believe that had not Master Leslie taken part in the king's father's death, they would have done even as he had asked, but several of them were strong Royalists, and hated Master Leslie and all his ways, while the others who had sympathy with him were afraid that when the matter came to the king's ears, he would be displeased at such a course of action.
So it was presently decided that, although the case had taken an unusual course, nought had yet been proved, and that seeing the king had taken especial interest in the matter, he must be informed as to what had taken place, and that meanwhile Mistress Constance must be confined in Bedford Gaol until the will of those in high places had been made known.
When the matter of my own imprisonment was brought forward it was decided that as I was evidently in league with Mistress Constance, and that as I had been guilty of a grave breach of the law, I must also be kept in prison until their worships had heard from London as to what should be done with me.
A little after noon, therefore, I was back in my prison again, and if the truth must be known, glad to be alone that I might think over what I had heard. For surely I had enough wherewith to puzzle my head. It is true the revelations which had been made had made clear many things which I had been unable to understand, yet many more remained in darkness, and in spite of many hours of thought I could see but little light.
Nevertheless, there was no happier man in Bedford than I, for although I knew that Mistress Constance cared nought for me, the way she had looked at me in the court proved that, I could think of her and love her without sin. And this I did until my heart ached with very loving.
For four days I neither saw nor heard aught of her, for the gaolers would speak no word, neither did Master Sturgeon come near me, but at the end of the fourth day I was told it was the king's will that we should proceed to London town without delay.
A great crowd gathered around the gaol at Bedford to see Mistress Constance Leslie and myself start for London. This was but little wonder, for the revelation made in the Chapel of Herne had spread like wildfire, and people had come from the whole country side to see us depart. I noticed too that we were not regarded with anger, nor treated with contumely. Rather I judged that Mistress Constance was looked upon with great favour, and I verily believe that had they been encouraged, the people would have cheered her with great gusto, for they looked upon her, not as one who had done aught to be ashamed of, but as one who had bravely suffered much for another's sake. As for myself they knew nought of me except my name, for this I had made known in the Court House, and that I had succeeded in helping Mistress Constance out of prison. Neither was this regarded as a great sin. Indeed it was believed that I knew of the truth of what Master Leslie had told, and therefore it was natural for me to render what help I was able. Concerning our former meeting I had of course been silent, and although I had been questioned closely I had given no answer which made any one the wiser.
One thing pleased me beyond measure, and this was the fact that Black Ben was returned to me, and that I was allowed to ride him to London. This I suspect was owing to the kindness of Sir William Franklin, who had known my father and had fought by his side during the first civil war.
We were, however, carefully guarded, so carefully that quite a company of armed men rode out of Bedford, making as I thought a good show that bright summer morning.
We must have travelled at least six miles before I had a chance of speaking to Mistress Constance, for although we rode side by side in the midst of those who guarded us, we had no chance of speaking a word to each other. For that matter I do not think she desired speech, for either she looked straight forward, or else looked away to the right, which was in the opposite direction from where I was.
When we had travelled a few miles, however, we were less closely watched. The constables talked with each other, now and then passing a jest, and again telling of the fine times they hoped to have when they reached London. Indeed I saw that while they took care there was no chance of escape, they paid us less and less heed.
Therefore as I had opportunity, I drew my horse so close to hers that my right foot almost touched her riding habit.
"I trust I have done nought to offend you," I said, looking into her face.
But she did not reply for several moments, but rather turned away her head from me.
"When you speak to me look straight on," she said.
I saw the wisdom of her words, for although the guard was more lax than when we left Bedford, I knew that watchful eyes were constantly upon us. I therefore obeyed her, and waited for her answer.
"How can I be offended, when you have tried to be my friend?" she asked; "but did you not tell me that you spoke the French tongue?"
"Yes," I replied in that language. "I do not speak freely, but perhaps enough to make you understand."
"Then speak to me in that tongue. You can understand now why I could tell you nothing when we first met."
"Yes," I replied, "I understand. It has made me very happy."
She gave me a searching glance. It was only for a moment that she looked, but I felt the beat of my heart quicken.
"There is much that you do not know—cannot know."
"I know enough to make me very happy," I repeated. "Almost ever since I saw you first I have felt a great burden upon my heart. Now it is gone."
"You believed I was guilty of—of——" here she stammered, and seemed at a loss how to finish her sentence, but I noticed the bitterness of her voice.
"No," I interrupted eagerly. "Never for one moment."
I thought her eyes grew softer, for I could not help looking at her as I spoke.
"Why then have you been made happy?"
"Because I know you are not the wife of that man."
The blood mounted to her cheeks, and the moment I saw this I turned away my head.
"You have been very good to try and help me," she said, "but it does not avail, it will not avail."
"I have done nothing," I replied, "nothing to what I would do if I could."
"Yes, you have done much. You have helped me to save my sister."
"Unconsciously," I replied. "I know nothing of her. If I had known I should not have cared. It was only you I wanted to help."
"It does not matter about me. She must be saved whatever may happen. I will see to that."
"Then you do not fear what the king may do?"
"No, I do not fear. But do not speak again, the men are beginning to watch us."
I pretended to be examining Black Ben's saddle, and to attend to one of the buckles which kept up the left stirrup.
"What's the matter Master Rashcliffe," said one of the guards.
"Hath some one been meddling with my stirrups?" I asked. "They seem too short."
"They can be seen to when we stop at mid-day for food," he replied.
After that we rode on for another mile without speaking.
"I think I shall have some favour with the king," I said presently. "If so, you will soon be free."
"Perchance you will be free, but not I," she replied.
"If I am free you shall be free," I made answer.
"Why?"
"Because the king's prisons will be guarded too closely. London gaols are not like Bedford Gaol."
"But why should you be put in a London gaol? You have done nothing."
"No; but then I shall tell nothing."
"Ah," I said, catching at her meaning. "Then you know where your sister is?"
I spoke the French tongue and in a low voice, but she looked around nervously, and although she gave no answer I knew I had surmised the truth.
"Do not expect the worst," I said, "God lives."
"Yes, God lives, and I do not fear. Let the king do his worst."
"He may not suspect."
"But he will. When it is told him that I have—have done these things for my sister's sake, he will ask me if I know where she is."
"And you will not tell?"
"I shall not tell where she is. Then he will make me bear her punishment."
"No, I will save you."
Again she looked at me searchingly, and I thought I saw a glad light leap into her eyes. After that she gave a quick glance round as if to be sure that no one listened.
"No, you cannot save me. I am my father's daughter. Even now I am told that the king is planning a terrible vengeance on those who took part in his father's death."
"I will save you," I said quietly, and confidently. "Do not fear. Whatever happens do not fear. It may be that I shall not be able to do this in a day, or in a year—although I think I shall, but I will do it!"
"Why should you do it?"
"Because I love you."
I saw her start in her saddle, while her hands clutched her bridle rein nervously.
"That was why I was made so happy when I knew you had not married that man. I loved you even while I thought you were his wife. I fought against it because I thought it was a sin. But I could not help it. It never came to me until the other night when I saw them taking you to prison. I loved you before then although I did not know it. But I knew it then. I was glad when they left me alone in prison, because I could think of you. I did not sleep all the night. My heart was aching with love, all the more because I thought it was sinful, but I could not help loving you. Whatever happens now, I shall love you till I die."
"No! No!"
"Yes. I know you do not care for me; but I have my joy, the joy of loving."
"But you must not—it is wrong."
"Why is it wrong?"
"Because it is foolishness. I have taken another's burden—I may speak of it now. I have taken it willingly—gladly, but the burden means a curse to the one who bears it."
"Then I will try and bear some of the curse. Nay, do not deny me this. I must whether I will or not. Nothing you may say or do will alter me. I shall love you until I die. Besides, I am going to save you."
She did not say a word to this, but looked straight on. We were passing through rich loamy lands. All around the trees were in the glory of their summer garb, while the birds sang lustily from tree branch, and from hazel twig, but I do not think she either saw or heard.
I had eased my heart in speaking, and so I said no more for the time. Never perhaps had a man a more doubtful future than I, and yet I could have shouted for very joy. She heard not the song of the skylark as it mounted to the heavens, nor the notes of the thrushes as they poured forth their music to God. But I did, and it seemed to me as though they were God's messengers telling me not to be afraid to love, for it was His will. That she could ever love me never came into my heart. How could she? What was I that a maid so peerless in her beauty, so glorious in her life of sacrifice for another, should ever think of me save as one who delighted to do her will? But I had the joy of loving, and although my love were full of pain, and unsatisfied yearnings, I still loved, and rejoiced in it.
"Why? Why?" I heard her whisper presently.
"Because God would have it so," I made answer. "He brought us together that I might love you, and serve you. And this I will do as long as I have life and thought!"
"But if I am thrown into prison?"
"I shall still love you. Prison is nothing. Love has broken the bolts from many a prison door before this, aye, and will again."
"But what is the use of loving me?"
"To serve you."
"But if you cannot serve me?"
"Then I shall still have the joy of loving you. This let me say: what will happen I know not, but you must not be afraid. I shall be always thinking about you—always."
"But the king may keep me in prison for years."
"He will not; but if he does, what then? He cannot live for ever. Suppose we never meet again until we are old, I shall still love you."
Again there was a long silence between us, so long that I thought she had forgotten all I had said, so long that my mind had begun to wander. I had begun to paint pictures of the future years when we, both grown old, had met again, and I had renewed my vows to her.
"But if I were to love another, and wed him, what then?" She said this suddenly, as though the thought had just occurred to her.
"I don't know," I said, and my heart grew cold as I spoke. "Of course you can never love me, but I shall pray God that you may never love another."
"Love is not for me," she said presently; and I knew she was thinking of what might happen to her.
"If I were only worthy it would be," I said. "I have learnt many things since that night before the trial in the Chapel of Herne. I have learnt that love laughs at the wisdom of the wise. Do you know that the walls of Bedford Gaol troubled me not one whit nor did the presence of the gaolers keep me from seeing your face. We are guarded now on the right hand, and on the left. We can hear the rough laugh of those who watch over us, can hear the clanking of their spurs, and the noise of horses' hoofs, but for two hours I have never thought of them. We have our life in our own hearts—that is why."
After that we spoke not a word to each other throughout that long day, for our keepers began to guard us more jealously, especially when they discovered that they could not understand the language we spoke. My heart hungered for further speech with her, nevertheless I was happy, I had told her of my love and she was not angry; nay more, my promise to help her seemed to give her confidence.
I have thought since that never did a man tell a maid of his love under stranger circumstances. We were guarded on the right hand and the left, and we were being taken to judgement for having defied the laws of the land, yet had I chosen this time to declare the passion of my heart. A few hours hence prison doors might clank upon us again, while perchance the anger of those in high places might be so aroused that it might be made impossible for us ever to set eyes on each other from that day. Still I told her of my love, while my heart, in spite of pain, sang for very gladness. After all I was only a boy, and a boy whose heart is on fire recks not of circumstances.
I noticed presently that we were not going straight to London town, but that we took a road to the right. I asked the reason for this; but no reply was given me. For that matter, the constables on guard seemed as much in the dark as I, and this set me wondering all the more.