blamed by her mother for her share in the expedition of the previous
evening; moreover, the sight of her friend's misery sobered her into a
quite unwonted gravity. Deborah, on the contrary, passed the day in a
state of hysterical excitement. Like so many otherwise kind-hearted
women she possessed in a large degree that morbid love of horrors, which
is erroneously considered to be an attribute of the uneducated classes
alone.
At intervals during that terrible day, she darted in with some fresh
tale of misery, culled from the gossip of the neighbours or the chatter
of the maids. She poured forth these stories with an air of eager
excitement, nay, more, of intense enjoyment, ill-concealed beneath a
grave head-shaking and copious exclamations of pity and horror.
"They have built up a scaffold in the market-place," she announced
rapturously. "Oh! 'tis terrible to see it. Martha Hemming saith she
could not sleep for the sound of the hammering, and thinking of all the
poor creatures to be hanged there. 'Tis said they mostly go straight
from their trial to be hanged. Think on't. They may be hanging now, the
poor fellows. 'Tis said, down Dorchester way, the judges sent three
hundred to be hanged, and my Lord Jeffreys hath said it will not be his
fault if he doth not depopulate this place. 'Tis terrible. 'Tis as it
was in July. Dost mind it, Prudence, after the fight at Sedgemoor, when
Colonel Kirke first came here? They hanged them on the signpost of the
Inn. Oh! 'twas too horrible. Joan Marlow saw it. 'Twas said that one
wretch was strung up and cut down again four times ere he died. Think
on't. And the troopers jesting at him the while. 'Twas a fearsome
time! I doubt not 'twill be yet more dreadful now. 'Tis a wonder such
things should be. One can but pity them though they be rebels."
So she rattled on, while Cicely sat by shuddering with horror.
Later in the day Deborah became still more profuse and detailed in her
narratives.
"They say my Lord Jeffreys is fair raging. Some say he is mad or drunk,
for he laughs and jests, and then again bellows with fury. What a man
it is! But, oh! Prudence, I had nigh forgot. Philip Harke is hanged.
Straight from court they took him, hanged him till he was well-nigh
spent, then cut him down and quartered him. The horror of it! And none
dare tell his wife; but she was out ere they knew, and saw his head on a
pole in High Street, and has turned silly, they say. And small wonder
too; I shall not dare to walk the streets for a month. Praise be to God
we have no friends among them, saving, of course, your cousin, Lady
Cicely, yet 'tis terrible to see the heads and corpses. And the
market-place must be a shambles, they say."
"Peace, peace, Deb. 'Tis too horrible."
"Aye, is't not indeed so? They say there be a thousand prisoners, all
told. Yet belike 'twill not be death to all, though his lordship has
vowed to show no mercy. And the women; there be many among the victims.
'Tis truly awful. Mistress Brown from over by Lyme, I know not rightly
of what she is accused, yet I think 'tis but a matter of some rash
words, as that she would pay the excise dues to King Monmouth, or some
such folly, but she is condemned to be scourged through every
market-place in the country. And they say she as like not to be the
only one to meet with such a sentence. But to think on't.--A woman--and
but for a rash tongue. Why, who is safe? To be scourged! Oh! 'tis
brutal."
"Child! Child! Will you drive me mad?" cried Cicely, unable to endure
more. "Be silent."
Deborah stared at her in amazement.
"Indeed, I am sorry I have offended your ladyship," she murmured
somewhat sulkily; "though I see not how. 'Tis but natural to feel pity
for such misery, though they be but rebels and doubtless deserving of
their fate. Yet 'tis horrible for all that. Martha Hemming saith she
had seen----"
"Be silent, girl, I will hear no more," cried Cicely, springing to her
feet in desperation.
And then she stopped, and her heart leaped in terror, for she heard in
the hallway without the voice of Master Lane, calling to his wife, and
she divined by his tone that the news he brought was ill.
She went out calmly to meet him.
"Prithee, tell me, sir, tell me all," she asked in a strange, quiet
voice.
Master Lane started at sight of her. He hesitated, looking for his wife
to come to his aid. Then, meeting the agonised look in her eyes he
paused no longer, but stepped forward to take her hand between his own,
and told her gently, tenderly, the terrible sentence passed upon her
cousin.
"Even now I know not truly how it befell," he continued sadly. "The
poor child was overwrought. She bandied words with the chief justice,
she defied him. He is not a man to brook defiance, and he revenged
himself. But 'tis not likely they will carry out their sentence. Money
can do much, influence more. We will talk it over together. Perchance
you might go to London, 'tis not to be doubted but his Majesty will have
pity upon her youth. You must see the Queen; she will surely show mercy
to a woman. I will do what I can to work upon my Lord Jeffreys; I have
friends who have some influence over his lordship, and they say money
can do much; I doubt not she shall soon be pardoned. Come, my child, we
must be brave; we must not despair."
He patted her hand kindly, full of pity for her misery. Cicely listened
to all in a strange apathy.
"No," she muttered dully, "no, we must not despair, not despair."
Then she turned from him slowly and mounted the stairs to her room in
perfect silence.
Master Lane looked after her anxiously.
"Poor thing! Poor thing!" he muttered, his eyes glistening with tears.
"'Tis hard indeed for her. Very hard."
Then he turned to find his wife, feeling his helplessness in the face of
this strange, silent misery, and seeking to ease his mind of the burden
of a sorrow he could neither grapple with nor relieve.
Cicely paced her room dry-eyed, trembling, striving to realise this
horror which had befallen them, striving to picture the execution of
such a sentence upon her tender, beautiful young cousin. She could not
do so. She repeated the words of the sentence again and again till they
jangled through her brain, yet she could not believe it, she remained
unmoved.
Then suddenly there flashed across her mind the question: "How shall I
face Rupert and tell him this?"
And on the instant her strange apathy vanished, on the instant she
understood the full horror of the sentence.
Oh! how could she face Rupert? Rupert whose love for his sister and
whose pride in that sister had almost excited her jealousy; Rupert,
whose last words to herself had been: "Take care of Barbara, and keep
her out of mischief." How could she face him, see the love and trust in
his eyes, the bright, brave smile upon his lips, and tell him that
Barbara had suffered shame, imprisonment, torture, and she had done
nothing, nothing to save her? No! rather let her die than face her
lover with that tale upon her lips.
She flung herself upon her bed in a passion of weeping.
But what could she do? The Winslows were not rich, she had little money
to offer these brutal judges, if indeed a reprieve were to be bought.
She had few relations, their influence at court was but small. It would
take much time even to gain access to the King, and in the
meanwhile----she shuddered at the thought.
She had made one appeal to the chief justice, alas! how vain an one;
even yet the remembrance of it filled her with terror. She could not,
dared not again face that terrible man, again kneel to him for mercy.
Aye, but for Barbara? for Rupert? Truly for their sakes she would do
even this. But the hopelessness of the attempt, the impossibility of
moving, by an appeal of hers, that pitiless heart! The conviction of it
crushed her brain.
And yet, surely, there must be one influence to move him, one road to
his favour. Surely, no man living can be absolutely immovable,
absolutely indifferent. Ah! could she but discover the key to his mercy
how eagerly would she sacrifice all to win it!
She opened her window, and leaned her hot temples against the casement,
breathing the cool evening air. Two men passed in the street below,
discussing gravely the events of the trial. Their words floated up to
her on the breeze. She caught the name of the lord chief justice.
"Ah!" said one, "the only sure road to his favour is by the informing of
a rebel. He hath been known to extend a pardon, if he may thereby gain
information of a more profitable victim. He is drunk with blood, and
crazy for gold."
They passed on, their footsteps echoing down the empty street.
"The only sure road to his favour is by the informing of a rebel."
The words rang in her ears, repeated again and again.
So therein lay the secret to win him.
Well, and surely that were easy. Did she not know of many a rebel, in
hiding near her own village of Durford? It needed but a word to unearth
them all.
"But it must be a more profitable victim," not a poor peasant who could
pay no penalty save death.
Well, and could she not supply that information also? While Captain
Protheroe went free, was there not a rebel to be apprehended, a rebel or
protector of rebels, surely much the same? For had he not himself
confessed to Barbara that he had connived at Rupert's escape, though
knowing well his hiding place? That surely was enough to hang a man,
and a man indeed deserving to be hanged, seeing 'twas undoubtedly he who
had betrayed Barbara!
Ah! what was this horrible temptation seizing upon her? She shuddered
at the power of it. To betray a man to his death, a man, moreover, who
had protected Rupert! She could not--she could not. There was
dishonour in the very thought. A Winslow a traitor! traitor to the hand
that helped him!
"Oh, God!" she wailed, "what can I do? And how shall I live if I do
it?"
And yet that Captain Protheroe had betrayed Barbara in the end, she
firmly believed. And Barbara had risked so much for Rupert's sake, and
Barbara was in danger, and must be saved. What mattered it then though
she, Cicely, were guilty of this treachery, at the despicable thought of
which she shuddered? The shame would lie hidden in her own heart, the
loss of self-respect would be hers alone to bear, the matter would lie
between herself and her conscience. Barbara would be saved, and what
was her own peace of mind compared with the life of Rupert's sister?
Impulsively she donned her hat and cloak. She dared not pause lest her
resolution should fail her, lest her terror of the man to whom she was
going should sap her resolve, or her horror of the treachery weaken her
determination.
She descended the stairs softly, unobserved. The house was very silent.
But at the door she encountered Prudence, who hurried forward eagerly to
know whither she was bound.
"Do not stop me, Prue," she answered in a strange, cold voice. "I am
going to the White Hart Inn."
"To the White Hart! Not, surely, to see----"
"Yes, to see my Lord Jeffreys. I have----I have information to give
him."
"But Lady Cicely, you cannot go alone. 'Tis impossible. Wait at least
till dad can bear you company. Nay, you must, indeed."
Cicely put her aside firmly.
"No, Prue, I cannot wait. That which I have to do I must do at once, or
perchance 'twill never be accomplished. Leave me to go my way."
She passed out into the street. Prudence stared after her in
hesitation. Despite her youth, her quick burgher-wit taught her, far
more clearly than Cicely, the dangers of such an errand undertaken
alone. She knew, far better than did the elder girl, with her sheltered
life and breeding, the nature of such men as bore the chief justice
company in his nightly carouses at the White Hart Inn.
"No, no," she muttered. "She cannot go alone, alone among those
devils."
Quickly she snatched up hood and cloak and followed Cicely into the
quiet street.
Cicely scarce noted the presence of her companion. She hurried forward
rapidly through the half-deserted streets, looking neither to right nor
left, heedless of those terrible signs of butchery which greeted them at
every corner, and at sight of which Prudence shrank and shuddered with
horror.
At the inn the chief justice sat at supper with the circle of
boon-companions whom he had collected from among the followers of his
circuit.
At the door of the inn a sentry barred the girl's entrance, and to
Cicely's request for audience with the lord chief justice, his reply was
that the business must wait, seeing that his lordship was at dinner.
In vain Cicely pleaded for an interview however brief, in vain she
protested that her business was urgent, her information of the utmost
importance, even in vain she offered him money, the man was obdurate.
From the row of open windows above came the clink of glasses, the murmur
of men's voices, at times a loud burst of laughter. Cicely glanced from
the unmoved face of the sentry up to the open windows of the room in
which was the man she sought. She had carried her resolution so far,
she could not endure the thought of failure now.
As she glanced upward an officer lounged into view at one of the windows
and stared carelessly down on the group below.
"By Mahomet!" he exclaimed. "A petticoat. Two, i' faith, and main
pretty baggages into the bargain."
He turned and said something to his comrades, and the jest was greeted
by a burst of coarse laughter.
Other men crowded to the windows and stared down curiously at the two
girls, and as the first speaker turned away, the babble of voices in the
room grew, louder.
Presently the officer appeared in the doorway of the inn, and with a bow
of mock politeness requested the ladies to honour him by placing their
difficulties in his hands, and telling him the nature of their business
with the lord chief justice.
Shrinking involuntarily before the bold appraising looks with which the
man surveyed her face and figure, Cicely nevertheless answered bravely
enough that she possessed certain information concerning a rebel, but
could confide her knowledge to none save Lord Jeffreys himself.
"'Tis not his lordship's custom to deal with any business at so late an
hour," answered the officer. "Yet a request from those fair lips can
never go ungranted, so, an you will permit me, I will act as your
advocate, and plead with him for an interview. He would scarce refuse,
did he know what a pleasure his consent would afford him."
He led the girls into the inn, and with another low bow, and a last
critical survey left them in the passage and mounted to the room above
with his report.
Evidently the report gave complete satisfaction. It was received with
roars of laughter and a burst of eager questioning, and in a very short
space of time the officer reappeared below, and requested Cicely, with a
great show of politeness, to accompany him to the presence of the lord
justice.
"I have so favourably reported to his lordship, madame, that he is as
eager to see you as ever you can be to see him; indeed, 'tis yourself
should be the most powerful advocate."
"You are very kind, sir," faltered Cicely.
The man's manner made her shudder, but as she turned to accompany him
upstairs, followed by the reluctant Prudence, her heart leaped in
triumph at having so easily overcome the first obstacle in her path.
Surely now she was on the road to success. But when her companion flung
wide the door, and bowed her elaborately into the room above, she
stopped with a low cry of astonishment and fear, and the glad triumph
died within her. For then only did she understand that her interview
was not to be, as she had supposed, with the lord chief justice alone,
in the privacy of his chamber, but that it was in the presence of these
half-drunken roysterers, whose coarse laughter heard in the street below
had stung her cheeks to crimson; it was before these drinking, jesting,
pitiless men that she must tell her tale, and urge her plea.
It was too late then to retreat, but as she stood in the doorway, and
surveyed with anxious eyes the room and the company assembled there, a
vague, inexplicable fear took possession of her heart, and involuntarily
she groped for Prue's hand, and drew the girl closer to her side.
Down the centre of the room ran a long table, plentifully furnished with
meats and wines, at which were seated some of the officers of the troops
quartered in the town, the judges, and a sprinkling of the officials of
the circuit, and several pliable Tory gentlemen of the neighbourhood.
Candles were lighted on the table, and as their rays illumined the faces
of those who sat at meat they revealed no face that did not bear the
clear stamp of debauchery and wickedness. For even in that callous and
licentious age it would have been hard to find in all the length and
breadth of the realm a viler and more despicable coterie than this
company of noted officers, honoured judges, and highborn satellites who
sat at the board of the lord chief justice of England.
At the head of the table sat my Lord Jeffreys, the very picture now,
despite his ailment, of jovial good-humour. He had laid aside alike the
severity of the judge and the ferocity of the man, and as he lounged at
ease while the wine circulated freely, he warmed in the flattery of his
comrades, and cracking jests and capping stories, was himself the leader
and head-spring of their boisterous mirth.
On his right hand sat the commanding officer of the district, Colonel
Kirke. And it was at sight of the latter's face that Cicely first
realised to the full what manner of men were these before whom she
stood. For nature is not to be gainsaid, and now, even as in the days
of Cain, she imprints upon a man's features the sure tokens of his sins.
But no longer, as in that age of the world's innocence, do men flee
forth into the wilderness to hide their shame, rather they walk abroad,
regardless of the mark upon their foreheads, knowing well that none will
dare to call them to account.
And surely, in all the annals of our history, never was there a man more
hardened in cruelty, more steeped in licentiousness than this same Percy
Kirke. Yet the man was a great soldier, an able commander, fearless as
death itself. But withal one whom no man could hold in honour, whom no
woman could trust, for he would accept a bribe or betray a woman with
the same ease and satisfaction as he would toss off a cup of wine.
As Cicely and her companion were ushered into the room the colonel was
leaning across the table whispering a story into the ear of the lord
chief justice. The rest of the company turned silent as the two girls
remained timidly in the doorway shrinking from the cold gaze of so many
pairs of eyes.
At length, the story ended, Lord Jeffreys burst into a roar of laughter,
turned slowly in his chair, and after eyeing the two trembling women for
a moment in silence, snarled:
"Come, girl! 'Tis damned wearisome to be troubled with affairs of state
at this hour of the night, but since ye are here, say your say. What do
you want with me, eh?"
"I entreat your lordship's pardon for this intrusion," began Cicely
timidly. "An I might see your lordship alone----"
"What? An assignation! Oh! fie, madame," cried the chief justice,
glancing round at his companions with a mocking smile. Then he
continued sharply, "Nonsense, girl. Say what you want here and now, or
leave it unsaid and begone."
Seeing no escape Cicely called up all her courage and proceeded to urge
her plea.
"I have come hither on behalf of my cousin, Mistress Barbara Winslow,
who was to-day sentenced to----to a most cruel punishment. I am here to
beg your lordship to think mercifully of the matter and to grant me her
pardon."
Lord Jeffreys glanced at the speaker with a quick scowl.
"How's this?" he cried sharply. "What means this? Am I never to hear
the end of this pestilent woman? Is all the world mad concerning her?
But we will have no pleading here. You have come, I am told, to lay
information against a rebel. Beware, madame! If you have no such
errand, if you have tricked us, the worse for you."
"Nay, my lord," answered Cicely, trembling. "I have not deceived you.
I have information, not indeed of a rebel, but of one who hath connived
at an escape. But I will give it only in return for my cousin's free
pardon. On no other consideration."
"Say you so, indeed. And who may you be, madame, who dares to dictate
terms to his Majesty's representatives? Have a care, madame, have a
care."
"It matters little who I am, my lord," answered Cicely with some spirit,
"save only this. I am no spy, no common tale-bearer. I would not
willingly lay information against any man, and I vow that, do what ye
may, I will not speak a word further on the subject till I have your
assurance of my cousin's pardon."
Lord Jeffreys scowled savagely, but she met his glance unflinchingly,
and he turned away with an oath and swallowed a glass of wine.
"Well! Well!" he exclaimed testily. "Out with thy story, girl. Who is
this rebel?"
"You swear to me my cousin shall be pardoned?"
"Aye, aye. You shall have her pardon, an the affair prove serious enow
to merit it--a hanging matter. Now, the name of your rebel, and be
speedy, madame."
"'Tis--'tis Captain Miles Protheroe."
"Miles Protheroe!"
A shout of astonishment from the officers present greeted the name, all
eyes were turned on the informer. Only Colonel Kirke remained silent,
but he turned in his chair, and leaned forward with an eager glint in
his eyes, and his teeth gleamed white behind his black beard.
Then Cicely told her story. The silence, the universal attention
frightened her. She stammered, broke down, struggled on again. Only
the thought of Barbara nerved her to a finish. Jeffreys helped her by
an occasional sharp question, the rest of her audience sat in silence.
When she had finished her tale she turned to the lord chief justice
eagerly.
"Is--is that a hanging matter, my lord?" she asked, shuddering
involuntarily at the question.
"Oh, aye, 'twill serve, I doubt not."
"Then the pardon, my lord," she urged timidly.
"Pardon? Eh, what? What pardon?"
"For my cousin, Mistress Winslow. You swore she should be pardoned, if
I spoke."
Jeffreys looked round the table with a low laugh of amusement. Then he
slowly drained his glass.
"To be sure," he said. "To be sure. She shall be pardoned, freely
pardoned--when her sentence has been executed."
Cicely's heart grew suddenly cold.
"My lord! What mean you?" she gasped. "Surely--you cannot----No! No!
You swore to me she should have a free pardon."
"So she shall, so she shall," assented the judge. "A full and free
pardon, two years from to-day. I'll answer for it."
Cicely held out her hands in helpless entreaty.
"Ah! no, my lord. Surely you are jesting with me," she cried.
"Tut, you fool," he answered impatiently. "Do you deem a pardon is so
easily won? Jesting, forsooth; aye, 'tis a jest, i' faith," he laughed
brutally, "but I doubt if Mistress Winslow will find it so. They shall
tell her on't after her first taste of the whip, and see if her wits can
mark the humour on't."
He laughed heartily at this suggestion, some of his comrades and
satellites joining in his mirth.
But Cicely gave way utterly. She fell at his feet; she sobbed out
desperate entreaties to pitiless deaf ears.
"Ah! no, no, my lord, it cannot be, you cannot mean it. Say you do but
jest. Surely it is enough, this thing that I have done. For I have
told you, told you all I know. Ah! tell me what more I can do, what
more to win her pardon. Indeed I will do anything--anything, an you
will but pardon. Ah! my lord, my lord!"
Jeffreys looked down at her and laughed. Then he poured himself another
glass of wine, and pushed the bottle on to his neighbour.
"Take her away! Take her away," he said testily, pushing her with his
foot.
Cicely would have renewed her plea, but Prudence Lane, realising that
any such effort would be useless, and apprehending that to remain longer
in such dissolute and abandoned company might be to court insult even of
a more degrading character, leaned down to her companion, and with a
whispered entreaty, drew her to her feet. The door was flung open for
their departure and the two girls, Cicely clinging to her friend's arm
for support, were ushered from the room, and thence into the High
street.