"O, 'tis your son!
I know him not.
I'll be no father to so vile a son."
ROWLEY, (_Woman Never Vexed._)
"Yet I have comfort, if by any means
I get a blessing from my father's hands."
_Idem._
Gerald sat with a troubled and moody air upon one of the stone benches of
the low hall, which, formerly intended, perhaps, as a sort of waiting-room
for the domestics of the establishment, was now used as the guard-room.
Although his thoughts were not upon the objects around him, he seemed to
be assiduously employed in cleaning and arranging his accoutrements--for
in spite of his birth and the fortune bequeathed to him by his uncle, he
was still left to fulfil the very humblest and most irksome duties of a
military life.
It had been part of the severe Colonel Lyle's system of education to inure
his adopted son to every toil and privation that might give health and
hardihood to mind as well as body; and upon the same principle, when he
had enrolled the boy as a volunteer in his own troop, he had compelled him
to serve as a common soldier. The colonel's strict and somewhat
overwrought sense of justice, as well as his peculiar political opinions,
had led him, moreover, to declare, that whatever the artificial position
of his adopted son in the supposed scale of society, it should be by merit
only that the young volunteer should rise from the ranks through the
various grades of military distinction; and upon his deathbed he had
urged his friend Seaman to pursue the same system, as long as Gerald
should feel disposed to follow under him the career of arms. Although
received, therefore, with certain reservations, upon an equality of
footing into the family of Colonel Seaman, and in some measure looked upon
as the accepted lover and future husband of the colonel's fair daughter,
young Gerald found himself condemned to go through all the inferior duties
and occupations of a common soldier.
Long accustomed, however, by his uncle's strict and unbending system of
training, to hardships little regarded by a roughly-nurtured youth of his
years, he never thought of murmuring against this harsh probation; and if,
now, he pursued his occupation with a troubled brow, it was far other
thoughts that caused that look of doubt and uneasiness.
The vaguest suspicions of his mistress's fickleness were sufficient to
excite the jealous temperament of a youth like Gerald, whose naturally
ardent and passionate disposition, whose hot Clynton blood had been only
subdued, not quenched, by the strict education of his severe, cold uncle
Lyle. But there were thoughts and feelings of a far more momentous and
harassing nature which now assailed him. The packet which he had
discovered among the bushes growing close upon the parapet wall, and which
had evidently been conveyed by stealth within the precincts of the
fortress, had borne the following superscription:--"For the Lord
Clynton--these."
It was Lord Clynton, then--it was his own father, who was a prisoner
within those walls.
Under sad auspices were his filial affections now first awakened. He was
aware of the danger that must attend his unhappy parent should he be
discovered to be, as was probably the case, one of those obstinate
malignants, as they were termed, who, after having made reluctant
submission when the fate of arms proved fatal to Charles I., had again
joined the royalist troops when the standard was raised for the young
prince, and fought in his cause, until the final overthrow at Worcester
forced them into flight from the country. It was in an attempt of this
kind that the prisoner had been taken. Gerald knew how almost certain
would be the old cavalier's condemnation under such circumstances. But
there were evidently hopes of saving him. Communications, it was clear,
had been established with the prisoner by persons outside the walls of the
fortress. It was known probably, that, by permission of the commander, the
prisoner was allowed to take the air for a certain time daily, in the
small court beneath the walls of the tower in which he was confined; and
this opportunity was watched, it would seem, for the conveyance of the
communication into the hand of the prisoner.
The conflicting struggle which had arisen in Gerald's mind, now gave place
to one overpowering feeling. He was determined at all risks, and at
whatever sacrifice to himself, to save his father. The breach of
trust--the dereliction from his honour--the probability of being obliged
to renounce the hand of the girl he loved, if detected in assisting in a
plot to favour the evasion of the old cavalier--all faded away before his
sight, and appeared as naught when compared with the hope of rescuing his
father from his cruel situation. What the nature of the scheme was which
Lord Clynton's friends seemed to be devising, in order to effect his
escape, or how far he could assist in such a project, he was unable to
divine. But the one thought was there, and mastered all--the thought that,
on opening the way of escape before his father, he should be able to say,
"Father, bless thy long-estranged son; it is he who saves thee." The rest
was doubt, confusion, and darkness.
Again and again did he turn over in his mind a thousand projects by which
to aid in the evasion of the prisoner. Again and again did he endeavour to
conjecture what might have been already purposed. All appeared to him to
be impracticable on the one hand, and a mystery on the other. Already the
consciousness of his secret induced him to look upon every one with
suspicious eyes, as an enemy or a spy upon his conduct. But most of all,
with that prejudice which pointed him out his supposed rival as the
object of peculiar hatred, did he look upon Mark Maywood as his enemy in
this matter--that Mark Maywood, whose violent party feelings, and fierce
Republican abhorrence of royalty and the adherents of the fallen royalty
of England, had already manifested themselves in such frequent outbreaks
since his arrival as a fresh recruit in the troop--that Mark Maywood, who,
in case of the evasion of one of the detested cavaliers, would be foremost
to hunt him to the death--that Mark Maywood, who, even now, kept watch
over his father's prison, and might, if he discovered the packet which was
intended for the old man's hand, thwart for ever the only means of the
unfortunate prisoner's escape. And as this thought came across him, Gerald
counted, in an agony of mind, all the possibilities by which the packet
might meet the sentinel's eye. With beating heart he reviewed, in
imagination, every leaf which hid it, every overhanging branch which might
add to its concealment. Bitterly did he reproach himself in his heart,
that he had thrown it back to its hiding-place so hastily and carelessly
upon hearing the approach of the guard. It seemed to him that if the
packet were discovered, it would have been he who had delivered up his
father, who had betrayed the secret on which depended his father's safety.
The thought, however, that the evening was closing in, somewhat consoled
him. Eternally long seemed the time spent in this mute agony of doubt. At
length the hour sounded for the relief of the guard, and Gerald's heart
beat painfully. Now he might learn whether Maywood had made the dreaded
discovery. He placed himself as if by chance in the passage through which
the guard had to pass with the report to the governor, and gazed with
scrutinizing look into the face of the young soldier as he went by, as if
he could read an answer to his dreaded doubts in those dark eyes. Mark
Maywood's face, to which, in spite of its beauty, the closely clipped dark
hair in Roundhead fashion, contrasting with the thick mustache, gave a
harsh and hard look, was stern, frowning, and expressive of that sullen
severity which was usually put on by the enthusiasts of the day. In such a
face Gerald could read nothing to dissipate his doubts, but every thing to
strengthen them. Anxiously did he await the return of the relieved
sentinel to the guard-room. But when Mark Maywood came at last, he
interchanged but a few sentences with the older and sterner of his
comrades, said not a word to Gerald, and, taking a well worn Bible in his
hand, flung himself on a bench, and soon seemed lost in serious devotion.
Once, in truth, Gerald fancied that he raised his eye to scan him, as if
with scorn, and then indeed he first remarked that Maywood twisted between
his fingers a rose. For a moment his aversion to the young soldier as an
enemy to be dreaded for his father's sake, was absorbed in his hatred to
him as a suspected rival. That rose? how had he obtained it? Could Mildred
be so base as to encourage the handsome young enthusiast, who, in spite of
his gloomy character, had evidently, to Gerald's jealous eye, shown
himself feelingly alive to the attraction of pretty Mistress Mildred's
charms? For a moment the feelings of jealousy so completely overpowered
all others, that he started forward to challenge the young man to account
for the possession of that rose. But again the thoughts of his father came
across him. Such a challenge must necessarily involve him in a quarrel--a
quarrel would be followed by an arrest for breach of discipline--a
confinement of some hours, during which, he, who might have aided his
father's escape, might perhaps have left him to perish; and swallowing
with an effort all the bitter feelings that almost choked him--he again
turned away and sought his hard couch.
Sleep he could not; or if he dozed, the conflicting feelings of doubt,
apprehension for his father, and burning jealousy, still flitted through
his mind like a troubled and tormenting nightmare; and the next day Gerald
arose with the earliest dawn, in a state of mind the uneasiness of which
seemed intolerable.
The morning broke--the day advanced--and as no new measures seemed to be
taken with respect to the prisoner, Gerald's mind began by degrees to be
relieved from its trembling apprehensions as to the discovery of the
packet; eagerly did he await the hour of his own guard, which, in the
course of the morning, was announced to him to be at noon, and as usual in
the small inner court. His heart beat with impatience to see whether the
secret communication still remained in its hiding-place, and to
facilitate, if possible, the means of its falling into his father's hands.
At length the hour arrived--Accompanied by the corporal and the other
soldiers of the guard, he was taken to relieve his predecessor on the
post, and after an interchange of the usual formalities, was left alone.
His first impulse was to examine the bush into which, on the previous
evening, had been flung the packet. After looking carefully around him,
and, in spite of the absorbing thought which now occupied his attention,
casting one glance, accompanied by a troubled sigh, upon Mildred's window,
he approached the wall. Before, however, he could put aside the leaves,
several heavy steps resounded through the vaulted passage, and Gerald drew
back from the wall with all the seeming unconcern he could assume.
The persons who entered the court were the commander, Lazarus Seaman
himself, and three soldiers. With a grave salute, and a few words to
Gerald, the colonel gave directions that the heavy gate of the prison
tower should be opened, and motioning to one of the soldiers who
accompanied him to remain behind, he entered the tower with the two
others, and was immediately heard mounting the winding stair leading to
the room above, in which the prisoner was confined.
Again did Gerald's heart beat thick with apprehension. What could be the
purpose of this visit of the governor to his prisoner? Had a report of the
previous evening been the cause of this fresh examination? Did it result
from the discovery of the secret packet? Gerald trembled--a moment's
search among those bushes would convince him of the reality or vanity of
his agonizing fears, and yet he did not dare to stir a step to solve his
doubts. The eye of the other soldier was upon him. He listened with
straining ears to catch the faintest sound that came from the tower, as if
it had been possible for him to hear what passed in the chamber of the
prisoner; striving, at the same time, to master all expression of his
feelings, lest his secret should be read upon his brow by the very anxiety
to conceal it. Useless effort; for the soldier who remained behind paid
little heed to him, and would have been totally unable to comprehend his
motives for uneasiness, had even its expression been visible.
At length the steps of the governor and his party were heard descending
the stairs of the tower. As they emerged into the court, Gerald started
with a fresh burst of uncontrollable agitation. The old cavalier followed
the Roundhead colonel. With a few more words to signify to his prisoner
that the time allotted to him to take the air in that court was but short,
Lazarus Seaman again retired.
The soldier, already mentioned, remained behind as a sort of extra
sentinel, or watch, to prevent all possibility of escape, during the time
the prisoner was permitted to promenade the open space.
Gerald was in the presence of his father!
With what overpowering emotion did he now long to throw himself into those
arms, and be pressed to his father's heart! And yet the utmost caution was
necessary. A word might deprive him of all power to assist the prisoner in
his projected escape. It was with the utmost difficulty that he restrained
his feelings, and watched the noble form of the old cavalier as he paced
slowly and sadly up and down the court.
That, then, was his father!
The dark mourning habit which Lord Clynton wore in imitation of many of
the Royalist party, after the execution of their unfortunate master,
although soiled and torn, gave him an air of dignity in spite of its look
of sadness; and the long grizzled beard, which had evidently remained
untrimmed, having been left probably to grow uncultured as a sign of
sorrow, bestowed upon him an imposing expression, in spite of its
neglected state.
Although cast down and worn out by disappointment and vexation, there was
evidently a feverish and testy impatience in the old man's manner, which
was perhaps a symptom of the family temperament; and Gerald observed that
from time to time he looked sharply at both the sentinels, and then cast a
furtive glance at the clump of bushes near the wall. The packet then was
supposed by the prisoner to be still there; but yet uneasiness and doubt
were visible in his hasty looks. In reflecting upon the position of the
barred window of the prisoner's chamber, Gerald remembered that its tenant
might have witnessed the approach of the supposed fisherman, and divined
his motive, without being able to see what had passed near the bushes
themselves.
The old man was consequently still doubtful as to the safety of the
communication which was to be the key to his escape, and even more anxious
as to the means by which he might reach it. Gerald watched with
palpitating heart, how, in his promenade, the old cavalier approached
nearer and nearer, as if unconsciously, the parapet wall. Had he been
alone, all, he said to himself, would have been well; but there was
another witness to observe the prisoner's actions. Gerald in his turn also
scrutinized the comrade of his watch, and turned over in his mind schemes
to elude his vigilance.
The man employed upon the extra duty of this watch was well known to him
by sight and reputation. He was said to have been originally of Dutch
extraction; and certainly there was much in his heavy features, sleepy
eyes, and phlegmatic temperament, which seemed to attest the truth of such
a supposition--a supposition which was still more borne out by the report
that he owned the euphonious appellation of Gideon Van Guse. This,
however, was but vague hearsay; for, in imitation of the fantastic habit
of some of the fanatics of the time, Gideon had adopted a pious cognomen,
the softness of which he perhaps fancied to accord well with his own
placable and quiet disposition. He went by the name of Godlamb Gideon,
except upon those occasions when some of the more wicked of his comrades
took advantage of certain drowsy and somniferous points in his indolent
character, to bestow upon him the nickname of Go-to-bed Godlamb.
As Gerald cast his scrutinizing look upon him, Master Go-to-bed Godlamb
was standing planted against a wall, in the full warmth of an autumnal
sun, perched upon one leg, according to a habit which he seemed to have
inherited, by a sort of instinct, from the cranes of the country of his
fathers, and which he was generally observed to adopt when in a more than
usually drowsy disposition. His other leg was twisted round its brother,
in somewhat incomprehensible fashion. But in spite of this supposed
indication of drowsiness, Gideon's light eyes stared out from under his
preposterously high steeple hat with unusual wakefulness and rotundity,
and gave to his not very expressive physiognomy the appearance of that of
an owl.
Gerald thanked the good fortune that had sent him, at such a moment, a
comrade of so drowsy and phlegmatic a nature. But it was in vain that he
watched for some further indications of the usual results of Go-to-bed
Godlamb's pious meditations. The eyes _would_ still preserve a most
provoking rotundity; nay, more, they appeared determined, out of the most
obstinate spirit of opposition, to assume at that moment a liveliness they
never had been known to assume before, since they had opened on the light
of day.
The old cavalier still paced the court, but nearer to the bushes than
before. Impatient, also, at the loss of the precious moments as they
hurried by, Gerald approached his comrade.
"You seem weary, friend," he said.
"Yea, verily," answered Godlamb Gideon through his nose. "My soul is weary
with long watching; but if the flesh be weak, the spirit is still strong."
"Give way, comrade, give way," insinuated Gerald; "I will keep watch for
both, and none shall be the wiser."
"Nay, but the labourer is worthy of his hire," snorted Gideon with much
unction. "Odds pittikins, man," he blurted out immediately afterwards, in
another and more natural tone, "would you have me in arrest again for
sleeping on my post? That is to say," continued the Puritan soldier,
casting up his eyes, and again resuming his canting whine, "verily and of
a truth the hand of the scourger has been heavy upon me; the unjust have
prevailed against me; but I will watch, that I fall not again into their
toils."
Gerald turned away with impatient vexation. At that moment the old
cavalier, who had taken advantage of the few words passing between the two
sentinels, to approach the bushes unobserved, was bending down to possess
himself of the packet. As Gerald turned he again drew back, his purpose
unfulfilled.
Standing with his back to the other sentinel, Gerald now made a sign to
the old man, with his finger placed upon his lips, to say not a word, but
to repose his confidence in him. The prisoner started with surprise, and
looked at the young soldier with a mixture of hope and doubt. Before
making any further demonstration, Gerald again turned in his walk, to
assure himself that Gideon observed nothing of this interchange of looks
with the prisoner, and then again turning his back to him, placed his hand
upon his heart with a look of fervour and truth, which would have been
alone sufficient to inspire confidence in the old cavalier, and passing as
near him as he could with prudence, murmured in a low tone, "Trust to me!"
The old man again started; but there was more of pleasurable surprise, and
less of doubt, in his expression. Gerald's heart beat wildly, as his
father's eye beamed upon him for the first time with kindly and grateful
feeling.
The young soldier again looked at his comrade. Gideon's eyes were now
beginning to close, in the excess of his fervour over the pious page.
Walking quietly to the protecting bushes, Gerald bent over the parapet as
if to look into the stream, and plunging his arm at the same time into the
leaves, felt for the packet. After a moment's fear and doubt, he touched
it--he drew it forth. By a movement of his head, he saw the old man
watching him with increasing agitation; but, giving him another look to
re-assure him, Gerald rose from his posture, and was about to conceal the
packet in his bandoleer, when it slipped from his fingers and fell to the
ground. At the noise of the fall, Gideon's eyes again opened, and were
lifted up with owl-like sagacity of expression. Gerald's foot was already
upon the packet. Neither he nor the old cavalier dared to interchange a
look. Gideon's eyes said, as plainly as eyes could speak, that they were
not asleep, and had not _been_ asleep, and never intended to go to
sleep--in fact, were wonderfully wakeful. Aware that he could not remain
motionless upon the spot where he stood, under the full stare of Gideon's
eyes, Gerald let fall his musket, as if by accident, and then kneeling
with his back to his fellow-sentinel, contrived adroitly to raise the
packet at the same time with his musket, and to conceal it upon his
person. The prisoner was following his movements with anxious eagerness.
Possessed of the precious document, Gerald now felt the impossibility of
giving it into his father's hands, as long as the eyes of Godlamb Gideon
were upon them. There appeared to him to be but one practicable manner of
conveying the desired intelligence contained within it to the
prisoner--namely, by examining himself the contents, in such a manner as
not to excite the suspicions of his comrade, and then communicating them
in low and broken sentences to his father.
Placed in such a position as not to be observed by Gideon, he took the
packet from his bosom, and making the movement of breaking the fastening,
looked imploringly at the old cavalier. The old man comprehended the
glance, hesitated for a moment with a look of doubt, and then, clearing
his brow with an expression of resolution, as if there were no other
means, nodded his head stealthily to the young soldier, and moving to one
of the stone benches fixed against the walls of the court, the furthest
removed from the spot where Gideon stood, flung himself down upon it, and
with his face buried between his hands, seemed absorbed in thought.
From one of the capacious pockets of his full hose, Gerald now produced a
book--it was the Bible; for it was the fashion of the times among the
Puritanical party to carry the holy book about the person. With a short
humble prayer that he might not be thought to desecrate the sacred volume
by applying it to a purpose of concealment for his father's sake, he
placed upon its open pages the letter, which formed the only contents of
the packet, after having first torn away and concealed, unobserved, the
envelope, and then resumed his monotonous pacing up and down the court.
Gideon observed his comrade's seeming devotion, and appearing determined
to outrival him in excess of zeal, applied himself more sedulously than
ever to his book.
"Your friends are on the alert--a lugger lies off the coast ready for your
escape," said Gerald in a low tone to the old cavalier, as he passed as
near to him in his walk as discretion would permit.
Such was the sense of the commencement of the communication. The old man
made a gentle inclination of his head, to show that he understood him,
without raising it from between his hands. The young soldier looked at
Gideon; Gideon had shifted his legs, and perched himself in an attitude
bearing a more direct resemblance to that of a reposing crane than ever.
Gerald again cast his eyes upon his open book--
"All is prepared for to-night," he continued to mutter, as he again slowly
passed the seat of the prisoner. "Have the bars of your window been cut by
the file already conveyed to you?"
The old man again bowed his head with an affirmative movement.
As Gerald turned once more, Go-to-bed Godlamb was nodding his head over
his book, as if in very enthusiastic approval of its contents, but
unfortunately with so much energy--that he jerked it up again into an
upright posture--and immediately began staring straight before him with
great vehemence.
Gerald bit his lips with vexation, and continued his walk. His eyes were
seemingly employed upon the page before him--
"A boat will be brought without noise under the walls at twelve this
night," continued the anxious son, repassing his father, where he sat.
"You must descend from your window by your bed-clothes."
Gerald resumed his walk. Gideon was winking and blinking with much
energy--
"The only difficulty is to elude the vigilance of the sentinel who shall
have the _midnight watch_"--muttered Gerald, as he again came back past
the prisoner.
The old man raised his head, and looked at him anxiously.
Gideon was again nodding, but with a lesser degree of enthusiasm, as
Gerald turned himself that way. The young man quickened his step, and was
soon once more by his father's side--
"Every means that lie in _my_ power shall be employed to favour your
escape," whispered Gerald, with much emotion.
The prisoner gave him an enquiring glance, as if to ask his
meaning--Gerald looked round--Godlamb was now snoring, after the fashion
of a well-known farm-yard animal--not the one whose name he bore.
"God grant," continued the young man in much agitation, "that the lot fall
to me to be the sentry on that watch--then all were well!"
"And who are you, young man," said the cavalier, "who thus interest
yourself so warmly in my fate?"
Gerald could no longer command his feelings. He flung himself at the old
man's feet.
"Father!" he exclaimed in smothered accents, "give me thy blessing."
"Your father! I!" cried the old cavalier; "you my son! you Gerald Clynton!
no--no--Gerald Lyle, I should have said. Tell me not so."
"I am your son Gerald--Gerald Clynton--Oh, call me by that name!"
exclaimed the kneeling young man in a choked voice; for the tears were
starting into his eyes.
"Thou art no son of mine. I know thee not! Leave me!" said Lord Clynton,
springing from his seat in bitter anger.
Go-to-bed Godlamb stirred uneasily upon his post. Gerald rose quickly
from his knees, trembling with agitation; for in spite of the violence of
his emotion, he had sufficient presence of mind to look cautiously round
at his sleeping comrade. Gideon's eyes were still closed over his book, in
that profound mystery of devotion which was one of his most remarkable
traits.
"My father!" cried Gerald imploringly to the old man, who now stood
looking towards him with a harsh and stubborn expression of countenance,
although the workings of emotion were faintly perceptible in the
lineaments of his face.
Lord Clynton waved him impatiently away, and turned aside his head.
"Oh, repulse me not, my father!" cried Gerald with imploring looks. "Why
am I still the proscribed son of your affections? What have I done, to be
thus driven from your arms? Am I still--though innocent of all wrong--to
pay so cruel a penalty for my unhappy birth?"
"Allude not to your mother!" exclaimed the old man passionately. "Defile
not her memory even by a thought, base boy! Were she living still, she
also would refuse to acknowledge her degenerate son."
"Great God! what have I done to merit this?" said the unhappy son,
forgetting, in the agitation of his mind, the strict principles of the
Puritanical party, which forbade as sinful this adjuration of the
Deity--"I thought to save you, my father, from your cruel situation--I
thought to aid your flight."
"Say rather," said the excited cavalier, giving way to his hot
unreasonable temper, "to trample on the prisoner--to scoff at him, and
triumph over him--to deliver him up to his enemies. What have I else to
expect from the degenerate rebel to the religion of his fathers, his
country, and his king. Go, boy--go, play the patriot at thy ease--reverse
the tale of the Roman Brutus--and denounce thy father to the block!"
"Unjust! unkind!" said the young man, struggling with his tears, which now
began to give place to feelings of indignation in him also. "But you have
ever been so. You have driven me, an innocent babe, from your affections
and your sight; and when now, first after long years, I beg a father's
blessing--stretch forth my arm to earn a father's thanks--you spurn me
from your feet, and heap unmerited obloquy upon my head."
"Unmerited!" echoed Lord Clynton. "Do you forget your disobedience? or do
the convenient tenets of your hypocritical party permit you to erase the
fifth commandment from the decalogue, and teach you that the honouring of
your father is an idle observance, not to be weighed in the balance
against the cause of the God of Israel and his people--so goes the
phrase--does it not?"
"I understand you not," said Gerald. "In what have I refused to honour my
father? whose face I see for the first time to-day--at least since I have
thought and memory."
"In what?" exclaimed his father, with a bitter laugh, "said I not so?
Honour and dishonour are in your new-fangled vocabulary but vain words,
that you understand no longer. In what? If I, thy father--since to my
shame I must be so--if I have been led by my overwhelming grief for that
angel, who has long been at rest, to treat thee with wrong in thy
childhood, my conscience has no longer a reproach to offer me; for my son
has in return treated me with the bitterest scorn, and refused to come to
those loving arms, which at last opened to receive him. In what? I have
appealed to thee with the strongest appeal of a father's heart to join me
in the true and joint cause of murdered royalty, and I find thee even now
before me, with arms in thy hands, to aid the sacrilegious traitors to
their king--may be to turn them with parricidal arm against thy father."
"Again I understand you not," repeated Gerald, gazing wistfully in his
face. "Oh speak, explain--my father--this is a mystery to me!"
"Not understand me!" echoed Lord Clynton with scorn--"convenient phrase!
convenient memory! You understood not perhaps those letters I addressed
you, those letters in which I implored you to forget the past, and offered
you a loving welcome to my heart. But you could dictate a letter to your
uncle, in which you could upbraid me for my past unkindness, and refuse
to return. You understood not my urgent appeal to you to join the cause of
truth and loyalty, and fight by your father's side. But you could dictate
a second answer, worded with cold contempt, in which you could assert your
rebellious right--degenerate boy!--to follow those principles you dared to
my face to qualify as those of justice and religion."
"Letters!" repeated Gerald, astounded. "An appeal! I know of none--until
my uncle's death I scarcely was aware I had a father to whom I owed a
duty--I never heard that he followed another cause, but that which I was
taught to believe the right."
"No letters! No appeal!" said his father, half in scornful mistrust, half
in doubt.
"None--I protest to you, my father," replied the agitated youth. "Now--but
only now--can I construe rightly the words my uncle uttered on his
deathbed, which spoke of wrong he had done me and you."
"Can I believe all this?" said the passionate old cavalier, now evidently
wavering in his wrath.
"As God lives," said Gerald; "that God whom I perhaps offend, that I thus
call upon his name--that God who has said, 'Swear not at all.'" The old
cavalier shrugged his shoulders at this evidence of the Puritanical
education of his son. "I swear to you, that I know nothing of those
matters."
Lord Clynton was evidently moved, although the rebellious spirit within
still resisted the more affectionate promptings of his heart--
"Father, prove me," cried Gerald imploringly. "Let me live henceforth to
serve you--let me die for you, if needs must be--let me save you from this
prison--let me earn thy blessing--that blessing, which is my dearest
treasure upon earth."
Gerald again bent down at the old man's feet. Lord Clynton still struggled
with his feelings. There was still a contest in his heart between
long-cherished anger, and newly-awakened confidence. Before either could
again speak, the trampling of feet was once more heard along the vaulted
passage. The agitated son rose quickly to his feet, and strove to repress
his emotion. His father gave him one look; and that look he fondly
construed into a look of kindness. In another moment the colonel entered
the court, followed by two soldiers.
Gideon's poised leg fell to the ground; his eyes opened and stared out
wonderfully. That troubled stare told, as if the eyes had had a tongue,
that Go-to-bed Godlamb had been sleeping soundly on his post. Fortunately
for the somnolent soldier, the sharp looks of Lazarus Seaman were not bent
in his direction.
With a formal bow to his prisoner, Colonel Seaman informed him that the
time allotted to him for exercise in the open air was past. With another
formal inclination of the head, the old cavalier bowed to his jailer, and
turned to mount the tower stair. He exchanged not another look with his
son: but as he turned away, Gerald tried to read in his face a milder
feeling.
"I will save him, or will die!" muttered Gerald to himself, as the party
disappeared under the tower gateway. "I will force him to grant me that
blessing he has refused me--I will earn it well;" and he determined in his
mind that, come what might, he would find means to be appointed to the
midnight watch.