desperately. "'Tis unjust to talk thus of those who fought for
Monmouth, unjust and untrue. We--they--'twas not a search merely for
excitement; 'twas not for evasion of lawful duties, but was to uphold
the sacred cause of justice; 'tis--'tis a slander to say else. Indeed,
sir, would men risk their lives, their homes, for a jest? Would they
fight, as the Duke's men fought, for a mere whimsey? 'Tis false to say
they had no reason, nor grievance. When religion is endangered and when
justice is o'erthrown men have grievance enow! You urge the King's
justice," he continued with scorn. "We hear enow of the King's justice
in these times from Exeter or from Dorchester. We shall watch it this
week in Taunton an I mistake not. But for the Duke's men, 'tis unfair
to speak of them as though they had been a band of rowdies. They were
true men, gallant men, and I would I had been among them."
He stopped as suddenly as he had begun, crimsoned to the roots of his
flaming hair, and glanced around him with a look of dogged recklessness,
as of one who had said his say and cared nothing for what should befall
him.
There had been a sudden astonished silence, all eyes fixed upon the lad
who had dared thus to beard Master Lane at his own table.
The elders regarded him with horror, the younger apprentices with awe
not untouched with a certain admiration. For Master Robert Wilcox's
opinions were well known. It was also well known that he had intended
to join the rebel army had he not been forcibly detained by his
godfather, Master Lane, who at the first sign of rebellion had packed
the fiery lad off to Portsmouth, where he had remained safe under the
sharp eye of his uncle, a retired shipmaster, till the danger had
passed. But despite the fact that Master Robert was a somewhat
privileged person and, notwithstanding his turbulent spirit, a favourite
with his godfather, that he should have dared to enter into public
discussion with his master, and upon such a subject, passed the bounds
of previous belief. All held their breath in expectation of the sharp
reprimand which they knew must follow, and which was, indeed, hovering
on Master Lane's lips, when he was once again interrupted, this time by
a member of his own family, a traitor, so it seemed to him, on his very
hearth.
The Lanes had two daughters. The elder, Deborah, was the image of her
mother, a solemn, staid, and eminently practical maiden, not, indeed,
without a certain love of excitement, but yet in most points a typical
burgher maid. Of the younger girl, Prudence, 'twas a matter of constant
wonder how such a madcap could spring from a family so grave, so
unemotional, as were the Lanes. Pretty, spoiled, saucy, mischievous,
she was the delight of her father; adventurous and romantic to a degree,
she was the plague of her mother; and in every respect she was a
constant alarm and puzzle to her duller-witted sister Deborah.
Now she chose to electrify her family by taking up the theme where
Master Wilcox had left it. First casting a bright, approving glance in
his direction, which caused that ardent youth to blush more crimson than
before, she proceeded to expound her views upon the subject with a
directness that amused the apprentices mightily and horrified her mother
and sister.
"Rob is right, dad. 'Tis mighty unfair to speak thus of the Duke's men
because they fell into the Bussex Rhine instead of winning the victory.
For all the world knows they had won if--if they had not been defeated.
For my part, I am for the Duke and for all who rode with him. And I
think 'twas splendid of Sir Rupert," she added, with a bright glance at
Lady Cicely, who could not resist a grateful smile in return, at her
saucy defender.
Mistress Lane frowned sharply, but the merchant only shook his head
indulgently at his spoiled daughter.
"What! here is a traitor indeed. Has my little Prue turned political?"
"Nay, dad, I care naught for politics, I only say 'tis finer to risk
life and fortune and all for--for principles, whatever they be, than to
sit year in and year out among ledgers and wool bales and to care
nothing for country and church, but think only how to keep a whole skin
and get money enow to live at ease and grow fat. 'Tis contemptible.
Nay, daddie, I meant not you," she added penitently. "You have fought,
I know well. I spake but of younger men who had as lief see their
country go to rack and ruin as risk a crown of their wealth or a scratch
to their finger to set it to rights."
She paused out of breath with her torrent of indignation. Her father
laid his hand on hers tenderly and shook his head gravely at her words.
"Nay, Prudence, Robert, children both, you know nought of the matter.
Perchance I spake unkindly of the rebels. I would not be unjust. But I
am growing an old man, I have passed through one civil war, and I pray
Heaven night and day that England may never see another. Had you been
living as was I through those terrible years, had you seen the country
devastated, families divided, brother against brother, aye, father even
drawing sword upon his own son; homes ruined, wives widowed, children
left fatherless through the whole length and breadth of the land--had
you seen these things, my children, you would understand better why I
speak thus harshly of those who raise the standard of rebellion within
our fair realm. Men may use all just, all peaceful means of redressing
their grievances, but should they fail, then, I say, 'twere better to
endure those grievances, aye, even injustice, in silence, than bring the
curse of civil war upon their country."
There was silence for a space. Then Prudence, whom no solemnity could
long depress, again broke out merrily:
"For all that, daddie, the Duke's a main handsome man, and one worthy to
be followed."
"Why, Prue?" exclaimed her sister teasingly, "methought you cared for
none save brave men. How canst speak thus of such a proved coward?"
"The Duke is no coward," exclaimed Prue hotly. "They be but lying knaves
who say otherwise. He is worthy to be followed and," with a saucy
glance at her father, "when he comes again I'll follow him myself."
"When he comes again!" cried Deborah in blank astonishment. "La! child,
where be thy wits? Dost not know he was beheaded on Tower Hill, two
months since?"
"Aye, so they say in London," answered the little rebel scornfully.
"But what should they know on't there? Here in the West 'tis known that
the Duke escaped, and that 'twas his servant, dressed in his coat, and
as like him as pea to pea, whom the soldiers took. He died in his
master's place as would many another, and the Duke will return again to
venge himself upon this bloody King."
Deborah stared in blank astonishment at the exposition of this
astounding theory which, notwithstanding its extravagance, did not lack
many believers other than the pretty Prudence. But Mistress Lane would
endure no more, and interrupted her daughter sharply.
"Prudence, you give your tongue too much license, as I have told you
oft. Go to your room and rest there till you be of a better mind. Nay,
Thomas, 'tis for the child's own good; who can say what trouble may
befall her if she will not curb that saucy spirit? To your room
instantly, Prudence; three days with bread and water will tame you, let
us hope, and let us hear no more of this nonsense."
Prudence rose slowly with pouting lips, and cast glances of entreaty in
the direction of her father, who resolutely refused, however, to meet
the eyes of the daughter whom as he knew too well he spoiled.
Robert Wilcox's countenance assumed terrible contortions in its
endeavour to express at the same time admiration of Prue's bravery and
indignation at Mistress Lane's severity, but he dared make no more
outspoken remonstrance.
Prue saw no escape and was leaving the room to go to her imprisonment
when Cicely intervened.
"Prithee, Mistress Lane," she pleaded gently, "forgive her. I make no
doubt 'twas but consideration for me made her speak so rashly, she will
be more careful hereafter. Nay, an you will forgive her, I will be her
surety for the next three days that no word of folly pass her lips. You
will grant me this, else shall I feel that I have brought dissension
into your household, and that would grieve me indeed."
She pleaded gently, but urgently, and Mistress Lane could not refuse so
honoured a guest. So Prudence was forgiven, after receiving a lecture
upon the virtue of silence in the presence of her elders.
But so ardent were the looks of gratitude for her interference which
Cicely received from the red-headed apprentice, that she learned at
least one secret that evening, and intercepting a glance or two 'twixt
him and the pretty Prudence, she suspected that she had learned yet
another.
The Lanes were an early household, and when Cicely rose in the morning,
having slept late after her journey of the previous day, she found they
had long been about their duties of the day. Nor had her affairs been
forgotten. Master Lane had been early to the prison to ascertain of
Mistress Barbara's comfort, but discovered, to his chagrin, that
admission was strictly forbidden.
He had next sought out the governor, hoping an exception might be made
in favour of so staunch a Tory as himself, but the governor informed
him, courteously enough, that such a favour was impossible. Hitherto a
visit to the prisoners had been an easy matter to compass, but in
consequence of the escape of some of the prisoners who accompanied the
train of the chief justice on the road to Exeter, an order had been
issued that no access should be allowed to the prisoners on any pretext
whatever. The governor expressed his regret at being obliged to refuse
the request, but he could make no exceptions. He consented, however, to
convey a hamper of fruits and other dainties to Mistress Winslow, and
promised to do all in his power to promote her comfort.
So Master Lane was obliged to content himself by despatching a
consignment of delicacies to relieve the ordinary prison fare, which,
however, owing to the occupation of the governor, busy with a thousand
prisoners on his hands, and the venality of gaolers, never reached its
destination.
It had been with a twinge of remorse that he had ascertained, amongst
other details, that Barbara was confined in the very shed which he had
himself lent to the government; still he had done his utmost to prove
his interest in her cause and having brought Cicely news of his mission
with a further promise to do what he could to influence the authorities
in Barbara's behalf, he went to his work leaving her to pass the day as
best she could.
Long and wearisome were the hours to the tender heart of Cicely as she
sat over Mistress Lane's tambour frame, seeking by such occupation to
drive from her mind the ever rising fear of what the morrow might bring.
Mistress Lane was busy about her household duties, Deborah helping her,
but Prudence brought her work to the window-seat where Cicely had seated
herself and soon her busy tongue broke through the thin veneer of
shyness which she felt towards this lady, so beautiful, so unhappy, and
in her eyes, so eminently interesting, and she was presently chattering
busily, her work neglected on her lap.
Her eagerness and admiration banished Cicely's reserve, poor Cicely, so
anxious for sympathy, and Prudence had soon learned the whole story of
the betrothal to Sir Rupert, of their last meeting, and of Barbara's
daring escapade.
Prudence was charmed. 'Twas so romantic, so venturesome, so brave. She
listened eagerly to Cicely's description of her lover, of his reckless
daring and his tenderness. With all the ready passion of an emotional
nature she worshipped the heroine of so distressful a love-story and
with the eagerness of a romantic child espoused her cause.
Cicely was grateful for this ready sympathy and the mutual confidence
thus inspired induced her companion to tell her story too.
"Yes--'tis true, Robert saith he loves me, and though he be but a
'prentice, he is brave and--and splendid, and methinks I care for him
also, though 'twould not do to let him know how dearly. He is not as
the others. You marked him, perchance, at supper yester e'en. How he
spake his mind! He would be a soldier, an he had his way, he but bides
here to please my father, and and----"
"Perchance to see thee at times?" questioned Cicely, smiling.
"It may be so," was the demure answer. "But he will not be a
wool-merchant all his days, Lady Cicely. He means to be a great man,
perchance to be in the Parliament; think on't, to rule the kingdom, and
he could do it well, though I would not tell him so. But, indeed, I
care not what he be, so that he love me truly," she added naively.
"And what saith Master Lane to this?"
"Oh, dad likes him well, I doubt not. But we have not thought fit to
trouble him with the matter yet."
Cicely shook her head, but could not find it in her heart to be severe
with such an outspoken admirer of Rupert. She won Prue's heart more
completely still by her kindly wishes for the future, and a few
commendatory remarks concerning Master Wilcox's appearance, and the
younger girl's tongue once loosened on the subject she chattered busily
until they were joined by Mistress Lane, who cast a severe glance at her
daughter's neglected work.
The morning passed slowly away, but noon brought a visitor for Cicely in
the person of Peter Drew, the smith. He had ridden that morning from
Durford to offer his services to his ladies, and Cicely could not but
rejoice to see his honest, friendly face, though she was conscious of
the dangers of so sturdy a supporter of her family wandering
unrestrained in the streets of Taunton, and doubtless speaking his mind
to whomsoever he met. Indeed, a large bruise on his forehead and a
certain dishevelled appearance about his garments, betokened that he had
already met with a dissentient acquaintance.
Cicely questioned him closely on the subject and he reluctantly
confessed that such had indeed been the case.
"'Twere but a mon at Inn where I left Black Beauty," he explained
calmly. "Muzt needs ask my biznez, which I told un, arl vair and
pleazant. But a muzt needz zay 'twere waizer to keep fra mixing wi'
rebels and zuch laike, zo I told un my lady were no rebel. And a zaying
it appeared her were, I gaaeve un a tap on head to quiet un. But host
and others, zo plaize your ladyship, coom at me thereupon wi' bezoms,
whereat I knocked two flat, and others zhowing little ztomach to teaeste
my cudgel, I oop on Black Beauty and rid awai. 'Twere but a
mizunderztanding, zee, and none hurt, but a zhould laive an honest mon
to do her biznez in pace."
Though fain to laugh at the smith's bold narrative, Cicely saw clearly
that she could not keep him in Taunton without hourly risk of the
recurrence of such an episode. She therefore gently told him that,
grateful though she was for his visit, he would yet serve her better by
remaining quietly at Durford and helping Phoebe to look after the Manor
House. And she prayed him return thither as speedily as possible, and
remain there till she sent for his assistance.
Peter was terribly disappointed. He shook his head, sighed, moved
restlessly in his seat. Then he rose and made a slow tour of the room,
peering cautiously behind every curtain and under every article of
furniture, and having ascertained to his satisfaction that he and Cicely
were alone, he approached her with an air of deep mystery, and exclaimed
in a loud whisper:
"An't plaize your ladyship, carn't her ezcaaepe."
"What, Peter!" exclaimed Cicely, astonished.
"Beggin' your ladyzhip's pardon, but 'twere last naight at the Royal
Jaaemes. A were there, a-talkin' o' Mistress Barbara i' gaol, and
'twere zaid, why couldn't her ezcaaepe? If it be but a matter o' boltz
and barz, I be a zmith by traaede, and they be zoon broken. I would na
interfere wi' king's justice i' the main, but vor Mistress Barbara, 'tiz
but raight her be freed at once. And zo I be coom hither to do it."
"'Twas very kind of you, Peter," answered Cicely, repressing a smile;
"but I fear it could not be done. You see there be sentinels guarding
the prison. We could not elude them."
Peter's face fell; he scratched his head for some moments in dubious
silence. Suddenly he slapped his leg in delight.
"A boggart!" he cried; "a boggart. 'Tis the very thing. I mind wull my
vayther tull me that when a were clapped i' gaol over te Cannington
vor--vor zome matter of stalin' a pig, brother skeered gaoler wi' a
boggart and a coom awai. Now an thee wull be a boggart and skeer
t'zentinels, I wull look to barz and boltz and Miztress Barbara will be
vree by mud-naight."
Cicely gasped. She pictured herself dressed as a ghost, hopping about
the streets of Taunton, a terror to the soldiery, while Peter in the
meanwhile broke patiently thro' the bars that shut in Barbara from
freedom. She broke into hysterical laughter. Peter was crestfallen at
this reception of his plan.
"I zim to think of nought elze," he muttered disconsolately. "There be
many weays o' ezcaaepe, Miztress Barbara herzell a told me, could I but
bring un to maind. There have been zome as pazzed vor prizoners to let
un ezcaaepe, but I could zcarce paz vor Mistress Barbara, and you,
'twere zmall good to vree her if your ladyship were left behaind. Then
there be a taael o' a mon let down i' a bazket, but I zee not raightly
how to do that. And there be birds wi' paaepers under wings, and loaves
o' bread wi' a rope inzaide. My waife could baaeke one, if your
ladyship thinks well on't. Tho' fai," he added doubtfully, "'twould
need be a maighty big one."
But Cicely could not allow the loyal fellow further to tax his inventive
powers, she knew it was indeed kinder at once to crush his hopes.
"No, Peter, it will not do. 'Tis true such plans have succeeded once,
but they could little avail us now. We must wait. Wait till to-morrow,
I doubt not she will then be freed. If she be not," she added with a
sudden shudder, as the fear of the alternative rose in her breast, "why,
Peter, if she be not, I will send for thee, and together we will free
her somehow, tho' it cost us our lives."
Peter begged to be allowed to stay in Taunton till the morrow, but
Cicely dared not risk it. She was firm in her resolution that he must
return, and return at once, and at length he reluctantly departed, still
mourning over his shattered dream of rescuing his beloved lady from her
prison, and bearing her back to Durford in triumph, even as did the
heroes of old whose deeds she so admired, and with stories of whom she
had so often dazzled his bewildered brain.
The day passed, and as evening drew near, Cicely was seized with an
irresistible fit of restlessness. This patient waiting was straining
her nerves past endurance; she longed to be doing something, anything so
it be definite action towards the release of her cousin. She could
tolerate the quiet house no longer, she must out.
Hearing that the lord chief justice and his suite were to enter the town
that evening, she expressed her intention of going into the streets to
see them pass. She longed to see this man of whom she had heard so
much, the man upon whose lips hung the fate of her cousin, the fate of
the thousand prisoners who lay that evening in the city awaiting their
trial.
Mistress Lane opposed the wish, but Cicely was resolved; she was
obstinate, even irritable, in combating the good lady's arguments
against such a course. She scarce understood herself this eagerness to
see the judge's entry, she only knew that she must go out, must be
interested, distracted, or she should go mad with the thoughts she could
not banish from her brain.
So Mistress Lane left her to go her way, and allowed Prudence to
accompany her, tho' 'twas with many misgivings that she watched them set
out.
The two girls went their way and took up their position in the East
street.
The streets were very full, many people having come out to see the entry
of the judges. Groups stood at the corners, gravely discussing the
impending trial, men and women wandered aimlessly up and down
waiting--waiting, they knew not for what. Everywhere was a spirit of
restlessness, of suspense, and over all hung the great hush of
expectation. Men spake for the most part in subdued voices, nowhere
sounded the customary cries and cheerful noises of the streets. There
were few outward tokens of grief; sorrow and anxiety had so long
oppressed the people they had grown accustomed to their burden.
To-night, however, the thought of the dark morrow looming threateningly
before their sight had driven them out into the streets to wander
restlessly to and fro seeking to escape from that fear which would not
be shaken off, but followed ever behind them, whispering in the ear its
dread suggestions. The spirit of that terrible tribunal moved on
before; already the shadow of its presence darkened their hearts.
As they waited in the East street, acquaintances of Prudence passed the
girls, but none stopped to speak. Despite their kindness of heart the
Lanes were not popular with their fellow-townsmen, who, perhaps
naturally, felt suspicious of this prosperous Tory merchant.
Presently Robert Wilcox approached and encouraged by a smile from Cicely
he joined them, and the three strolled up and down the street together.
A sense of loneliness oppressed Cicely as she watched the covert glances
and whispers of the lovers. She tried to forget her own sorrows, tried
not to listen to the dismal conversations of the passers by, but in
vain. She could not escape from her thoughts, could not dismiss from her
mind that dreaded verdict, heard on the lips, written on the faces of
all around her, "There is no hope."
But at length a roll of kettle-drums announced the approach of the
judges; and as the procession turned into East street, everyone paused
instinctively to watch it pass.
Dragoons, halberdiers, and carriages all went slowly past, and last of
all came the great coach of the Chief Justice, Lord Jeffreys himself
reclining carelessly on his cushions within.
Cicely leaned forward eagerly to gaze at the man of whom she had heard
so much, and gave an exclamation of astonishment when her eyes rested on
his face. Where was the brutal, the ferocious judge of whom so many
terrible rumours had reached her ears? Where was that monster of
cruelty at whose name even the rough soldiers trembled? Surely not
here. This man so wonderfully handsome, this man with the lofty brow,
the noble expression, the sad, weary eyes, this could not be the
terrible Jeffreys. Yet if it were indeed he, if it were---- Why surely
then---- Her heart leaped high with hope. Surely then these stories
must be false, base calumnies of the rebels even such as those which
were told of Duke Monmouth by the supporters of the King.
And then a confusion at the street corner, a trooper's horse down upon
the cobbles, caused the procession to halt, the coach of the chief
justice was stationary but two yards from where she stood.
With a sudden wild impulse, born of new hope in her breast, Cicely
darted into the roadway, pushing to right and left the astonished men,
who would have barred her passage: darted quickly to the side of the
coach and laid her hand on the shoulder of Lord Jeffreys as he reclined
among his scarlet cushions.
"Mercy, my lord, mercy for my cousin," she cried, scarce knowing what
she did.
The occupant of the coach started from his reverie and turned to her,
bewildered for the moment at the suddenness of her address. He had, in
truth, been almost asleep, worn out with his painful journey over the
rough country roads.
"What is it, woman? What did you say?" he snarled sharply.
"Mercy, my lord, I entreat," she gasped nervously. "'Tis for one of the
prisoners, my cousin, Mistress Barbara Winslow. She is indeed innocent
enough, and, oh! my lord, she is so young."