THE ROYALISTS.
It was a clear, cold night as the two strangely dissimilar friends,
Dacre and Geoffrey, emerged from the shadow of Ripon Wood and stood for
a moment on the cliff path looking down at the unquiet sea, which was
still heaving and breaking from the force of the day's storm. From the
horizon before them the full moon had risen about two hand-breadths, and
the sky was all barred and broken with torn clouds moving rapidly,
behind which the moonlight filled the sky. The white light fell on the
black sea like spilled silver, and made a glittering road across the
waves.
Dacre advanced to the very edge of the cliff and stood with folded arms,
looking into the night as if it were a face or scroll to be read. But
the eye, in truth, saw not, though the thoughtless sense perceived the
shifting clouds and tossing sea. The vision was introspective wholly. It
was turned on a wide inner field, where stood arrayed, like an order of
battle, a strange array of Principles and Methods and Men.
Dacre was at work--at the work he loved and lived for. The enthusiast,
like a general, was reviewing his spiritual and mental troops--proudly
glancing along the lines before he removed the screen and called
another eye to behold. He had drawn them up, with their banners, to fill
Geoffrey, at once, with his own confidence and knowledge--for it _was_
knowledge and certitude, not opinion or fantasy, that filled him.
John Dacre was a magnificent dreamer, and he saw and lived among
magnificent visions. The spirit that had evoked Royalty and Aristocracy
and made them a potent reality for twenty centuries burned in him as
purely as in the old poet's picture of King Arthur.
No wrong that is all wrong can live for two thousand years and bind the
necks of men. Royalty was the first wave of the rising tide of humanity;
Aristocracy was the second. Both were necessary--perhaps natural. But
the waves fall back and are merged when the risen sea itself laps the
feet of the precipice.
It is hard to describe Dacre's face at this supreme moment, except by
saying that it was visibly lighted with an inner light. Standing in the
moonlight, with his pale features made paler, the shadows of the face
darker, and his tall form straight and moveless as a statue, from the
intensity of his thought, he almost startled the more prosaic Geoffrey,
who had lingered to light a cigar before coming out on the breezy cliff
path.
"Hey! old fellow; what do you see?" Geoffrey asked as he came up.
But he had to speak again, laying his hand on Dacre's shoulder before he
got an answer, though Dacre had noted the question, as his answer showed
when it came.
"See! I see a glorious panorama," and he turned and looked at Geoffrey,
still with arms folded. "I have seen the history of our country
stretched out like a map upon the sea. I saw thereon all those things
which have made England famous forever among the nations--the kings, the
nobles and the people, advancing like a host from the darkness to the
light."
"Yes, to the light of other days. But you know that has faded," said
Geoffrey, as he buttoned his overcoat and pulled down his hat.
"No; not the light of other days, but the light of to-morrow, which
never fades."
"Well, then, I don't understand you, old man; that is all," said
Geoffrey, contentedly, as he paced along, casting a satisfied,
thoughtless glance at the shimmering waves below, in some such natural
way as a sea-bird flying overhead might have done.
Geoffrey was of a placid and easy, perhaps lazy, disposition; but his
placidity rested like the ice of a mountain lake on deep and dangerous
water. It was hard to ruffle him or even to move him; but when moved he
was apt not to return to the position he had left, nor to be quite
natural to the new position.
"How far away is your house?" asked Dacre.
"Not far; there, you see the light over there. Old Reynolds is sitting
up for me and keeping the kettle going. He sticks by me through thick
and thin. I have tried to make him take a better place, but he will not
go."
Dacre was silent, and they walked on, descending from the cliffs and
following a path across the wide lawn-like fields, darkened by enormous
heaps of shadow from scattered chestnut trees.
An hour before the young men crossed these fields another figure, a
woman's, had travelled the same path. She was wrapped in a dark cloak,
and though she had lingered and loitered on the cliff-walk, she hurried
on the lower ground till she arrived near Geoffrey's lodge.
The speed with which she had walked proved that the woman was young, and
when the strong wind tightened the light cloak on the outline of her
tall figure, it could be seen, even in the moonlight, that she was
lissome and beautiful.
She had, on leaving the cliff path, steered straight for the light in
Geoffrey's house; but when she approached it she walked slowly, and at
last stopped in the deep shade of a tree within fifty feet of the lodge.
From this position she could look into Geoffrey's sitting-room, where a
fire burned brightly and a light stood in the window facing the cliff.
"I shall wait here," she said, speaking to herself, as if to give
herself courage by the whisper; "no one has seen me--no one but he shall
ever know."
But the next moment she almost screamed with terror at a sound behind
her. A bramble cracked, and she saw a man within a few yards of her. She
was terribly frightened, and could not speak or move.
It was old Reynolds, Geoffrey's servant, who had seen her on the cliff
walk, and had taken a night glass, with which his master often watched
the ships, to see if this were not he returning from the house. Seeing a
woman, Reynolds was surprised, for the cliff walk was lonely and not too
safe. He was still more surprised to see her turn into the path to the
lodge, and he had not lost sight of her for a moment till she stopped
under the tree.
When she turned, even in her terror, she assumed a defiant attitude, and
she held it still, facing the man.
Reynolds instinctively knew she was a lady, and with a touch of his
hat, but a doubting sternness in his voice, he said:
"Who are you, please, and what do you want here at this hour of the
night--or morning?"
She was reassured, knowing the voice to be that of a common man, and as
quickly judging him to be Geoffrey's servant.
"I am an old friend of Lord Brompton's family," she said, steadily
enough; "and as I return to London to-morrow, I have walked here
to-night just to see where the head of a grand old line is forced to
reside."
Reynolds was touched on his tender spot. The sternness left his voice,
and with bare head he said sadly:
"Ay, ma'am, in truth it is a sad sight to see the Lord of Ripon living
in the cottage that was once the home of his groom--for my father kept
the gate here for forty years."
"Lord Brompton has not yet come home?" asked Mrs. Carey, for it was she,
though she knew he had not.
"No, ma'am; he hasn't yet come out on the cliff walk. I can see him with
this glass--as I saw you," he added, explaining his presence.
Mrs. Carey gave a grim little smile in the dark.
"You would like to see the lodge, perhaps, ma'am, inside as well as
out?"
"Yes; I should like it very much; but I ought not to venture now. Lord
Brompton might return, and I should not wish him to know I had been here
for the world. I am overjoyed to know that he has at least one friend
who is faithful to him," and she held out her white hand to the old man.
She said this so graciously that old Reynolds was carried off his feet.
This fine patronage sent him back to his young manhood, when he was
whipper-in to the old Earl's foxhounds, and heard such voices and saw
such upright ladies in the hunting-field.
"Come in, my lady," he said, glancing at the cliff path; "he cannot
reach here under half an hour. You can see all there is to be seen of
the poor place in a few minutes."
The old man led, and she followed toward the lodge.
"Have a care of the steps, my lady; they are the worse for wear."
He entered before her, and threw open the door of the main room. The
place was made cheery and comfortable by a blazing wood-fire on the
great iron dogs, and a round copper kettle singing and steaming on one
side of the hearth.
The lady entered and stood by the table, glancing keenly at every
feature. In brief space she had taken an inventory of the room. Old
Reynolds passed her and opened a side door which let in a flood of cool
air from the field where she had been a few minutes before. The old man
stood at the door a moment, watching the cliff path for his master.
"We do not use this door," he said, "for the boards out there are too
old to be safe."
Mrs. Carey went to the door, the upper part of which had once contained
squares of glass, but was now vacant, and saw that it opened on a short
hall-way about four feet deep, with an outer door, also half of glass,
which was closed. Through this door-window the old man had looked toward
the cliff. Outside was an old piazza, deeply shadowed by overhanging
trees.
When Mrs. Carey returned to the table, her eye rested on a photograph on
the top of a heap of old letters. She reached her hand for it; but
hesitated, glancing at the servant.
"May I look at this?" she asked, with a sweet smile; "I know almost all
Lord Brompton's friends;" and she took up the photograph.
One glance was enough; it was a woman's face, but only some passing
woman, whom no one could remember for a month. With a slight smile, she
laid it down.
There was nothing more to be gathered, except by closer investigation of
the tempting irregularity. She beamed on the old man as she turned to
go.
"You will meet his lordship on your way to the house," he said. "He will
come by the cliff path."
"Oh, no; I shall return by the lower walk, which is safer and shorter.
What is your name?"
"Reynolds, my lady."
"Good-night, Reynolds; and please do not mention my visit to any one."
"Except to his lordship--"
"No; not even to him, Reynolds. It would only pain him to know that his
friends were observing his changed estate. You understand?"
"I do, my lady, but--"
"But, Reynolds, I ask you to do this for my sake," and again the smile
beamed, the white hand was extended, and the subtle seductiveness of
beauty had its way once more. Men are never so old, so humble, or so
ignorant as to be insensible to the charm. Faithful old Reynolds took
the lovely soft hand in both of his, and bent his white head and kissed
it.
"Even he shall not know," he said; and the next moment she was
gone--this time not across the moonlit field path to the cliff, but into
the dark shadows of the woods on the other side of the lodge.
Reynolds watched her till she was lost in the gloom, and then returned
to the lodge, closed the door, and started toward the cliff walk. The
old man was strangely excited over this first visit of his master to
"his own house," and he could not rest till he had seen the end of it.
But, before he had crossed the first field leading to the cliffs his
mysterious visitor had returned to the lodge. She had changed her mind
as she walked toward Ripon House, had resolved to see Geoffrey that
night, let old Reynolds learn what he might, and she had returned.
She called Reynolds in a low voice once or twice; then she opened the
door and entered the lodge. The place was empty. She went to the side
door of Geoffrey's sitting-room through the little hallway and stepped
out on the disused piazza, and from there she saw the old servant on his
way to the cliffs.
She was about to follow him but she checked herself suddenly.
"No! this is unexpectedly fortunate. The fates are in my favor--so far,
at least. Ah me! what will they say presently?"
Turning from the window in a softened mood, she looked at the room with
a new look. She saw across the chair, which she knew was Geoffrey's, his
old shooting-jacket, and she took it in her hands with a tender feeling,
hardly knowing what she did. Holding it within her arms she stood with
lowered head and a dreamy look in her eyes. While in this mood her
glance fell on the old sword which lay on the table, still with the
slip of paper tied to the hilt. She took it up and read the scroll.
Holding the jacket and the sword, she sat in Geoffrey's chair and stared
into the fire, with a smile, as if half enjoying her own audacity.
In a few minutes she heard a footstep, and presently the old servant
entered the outer room, which was the kitchen of the lodge. She sat
still, waiting till she saw him enter and start at her appearance, and
ready to smile his impressionable old soul into quietude.
But the ancient Reynolds unconsciously avoided the danger. He remained
in the outer room, and she heard him clatter among dishes and throw two
logs on the fire. Then he went off into another room and did not return.
Reynolds, seeing that his master had company, was busy preparing the one
"spare room" of the lodge for a possible guest.
Mrs. Carey grew tired of waiting. She went to the piazza door, opened
it, and looked out. Crossing the moonlit field she saw Geoffrey, and he
was not alone; but she did not recognize his companion. The beautiful
face was anything but beautiful just then, and the exclamation that
escaped her was as fierce as the stamp of her foot on the bare floor.
The two men were so close to the house that she could not escape by the
front door, and she did not know any other way. Could she instantly find
Reynolds she would then have asked him to conceal her till she could get
away unseen. But Reynolds did not appear.
It was a terrible moment for Mrs. Carey. Discovery in such a place and
at such a time was an appalling thought. Even with Geoffrey alone she
would hardly have known how to meet the first surprised glance; but
with another, and whom she knew not, the idea was intolerable,
impossible.
The men came on slowly; she heard their voices as they passed near the
window. Then she recognized Geoffrey's companion, and could she have
leaped from the piazza and fled, she would have done so.
Of all the men she knew, the only man she feared, or perhaps respected,
was Sir John Dacre. She did not understand him, while he seemed to read
her very soul. His presence robbed her of self-confidence, and made her
contemptibly conscious of her frivolity, or worse. He was like a
touchstone to her--and she never cared to be tested.
As the outer door opened and Geoffrey and Dacre entered the kitchen of
the lodge, Mrs. Oswald Carey stepped into the little passage opening on
the veranda. She gently lifted the latch of the outer door, but kept the
door closed. She carefully closed the inner door and crouched below the
opening. If discovered by Geoffrey she would confess that fear of
Dacre's presence had made her do this thing.
The conversation of the friends had been earnest, it was clear; and
before they had been in the room five minutes Mrs. Carey's fears had
given way to her curiosity, and instead of shrinking from the door she
raised herself to a kneeling position, so as to be near the opening, and
listened with breathless attention.
"The truth is, Dacre," said Geoffrey, "that I am not sure of myself. I
don't know that I have any political principles whatever."
"This is not a question of politics, Ripon," answered Dacre, almost
sternly; "it is a question, it is _the_ question of the reorganization
of the social life of England, which has been overturned and is in
danger of being utterly destroyed."
"Well, even for that I am not particularly enlisted. It does not trouble
me. Had you not told me about it, I should not have thought that
anything very serious was the matter with England, except that we of the
titled class have had a tumble and are as poor as the devil. But then
some other class has--"
"Stop, Ripon! It is unworthy of you to slight the dignity of England's
nobility, however poor we may be."
"_We!_ Why, hang it, Dacre, do I not count myself in? And I do not speak
slightingly. I fear I have no class, and therefore no prejudices. I was
too young to be a conscious aristocrat before the Revolution, and now I
am too old to be a thorough Communist. But go on, Dacre, I know you have
something to propose."
Even Dacre's enthusiasm cooled for a moment before the odd calmness of
Geoffrey, who was, as he himself surmised, a man almost without a class
and undisturbed by the hopes, fears or prejudices of those who have one.
Dacre walked to and fro with folded arms, while Geoffrey, slipping into
his old jacket, which he had been rather surprised to find wrapped round
his ancestor's sword, busied himself with the kettle and a bottle he had
taken from a cupboard.
"Listen, Ripon--" said Dacre.
"Hold on, hold on, mine ancient friend," said the preoccupied Geoffrey,
pouring hot water on the sugar in two glasses; "there's nothing like
Irish whiskey when you're talking treason."
"Ah, Geoffrey," said Dacre, sadly, as the friends clinked their glasses,
"men can live treason as well as talk it."
"Is that confession or reproach?"
"Reproach, Ripon. The life you live is daily treason to your country.
You sit idly by while England descends from the heights of her renown
and is clothed in the rags of the banditti who have obtained power over
her."
"Banditti--who? The Republicans?"
"Republicans or Anarchists, whatever they be called; the blind and
immoral mob that has been misled by wretches to destroy their
motherland."
"Look here, Dacre, do you really mean to say that Republicanism is
immoral and unnatural?"
"Certainly; that is just what I mean."
"But look at America--the happiest, richest, most orderly and yet the
most populous country in the world."
"I speak of Republicanism in England, not in America."
"But where is the difference?" persisted Geoffrey. "If the universal
suffrage of the people be virtue in America, how can it be vice in
England?"
"As the food of one life may be the poison of another," answered Dacre.
"Human society has many forms, and all may be good, but each must be
specially protected by its own public morality. England was reared into
greatness and flourished in greatness for twenty hundred years on one
unvarying order. America has developed under another order, a different
but not a better one."
"That may be, but in less than two hundred years America has reached a
point of wealth, order and peace that England has never approached in
two thousand."
"America," continued Dacre, "had nothing to unlearn. Her people had no
royal traditions--we have no democratic ones."
"There is something in that," said Geoffrey.
"There is everything in it. The Americans are true to their past, while
we are false to ours. We are trampling on the glorious name and fame of
our country. We are recreant to our position, intelligence, to our
fathers' memories--or we shall be if we do not--"
"Do not what?" asked Geoffrey, as Dacre paused.
"If we do not unite and have another revolution!" answered Dacre, slowly
and firmly.
There was a slight sound outside the room, which made Geoffrey raise his
eyes and glance toward the window; but Dacre, now aflame with his
subject, stood before him and arrested his look.
"Ripon, do you think that the nobles, the gentlemen of England, have
lain down like submissive creatures to this atrocious revolt? Do you
think nothing has been done?"
"In Heaven's name, what can be done?" asked Geoffrey.
"What did the Anarchists do when they wanted power?" asked Dacre
fiercely. "They banded together in secret. They swore to be true to each
other to the death. They armed and drilled and prepared their plans.
They watched every avenue, and took advantage of every mistake of ours.
They inflamed the masses against the Royal Family, the Court, the House
of Peers, the landed aristocracy, and when their hour of opportunity
came they raised the cry of revolution, and the government was changed
in a day."
"Well?"
"Well!--we have learned their lesson. What they did we shall do. We
have banded ourselves together. What is that?"
A noise like a creaking door had struck Dacre's ear, and he stopped.
Geoffrey had heard it, too, and instantly jumped up and walked into the
kitchen. Reynolds was not there; but Geoffrey heard him at work in
another room. He returned smiling.
"Either an owl or a ghost, Dacre," he said, looking out on the field.
"There is not a soul but old Reynolds within two miles of this place."
Dacre continued to pace the room, and as he walked he said in a low
voice:
"I have said too much, or not enough, Ripon. Shall I proceed?"
"By all means, proceed."
"But you understand--you see the consequence? You know enough to know
whether or not you want to hear more."
Geoffrey was silent, and sat looking at the fire. He was moved by
Dacre's words; but he was not filled with any new resolution. At last he
raised his eyes and was about to speak. Dacre was regarding him
intently, and now came and bent toward him.
"Come with us, Ripon," he said earnestly, dropping each sentence slowly.
"We want you. You are needed. It is your duty."
"I am not sure, Dacre, about that," answered Geoffrey, looking at his
friend.
Dacre drew back, with a flush on his pale face.
"I am not sure of that," continued Geoffrey, unheeding the movement;
"but I am sure of you, John Dacre, and I am ready to take your word for
it, even when you tell me what is my duty. I am sure that if the
gentlemen of England are in a league of your founding, or of your
choice, they are banded for no dishonor, but for some noble purpose; and
if you want me I am ready."
Dacre's mouth quivered as he grasped the hand his friend held out to
him. Then he took another turn across the room.
"Now, go on with your talk," said Geoffrey. "If there is any oath,
propose it."
"None for you," said Dacre.
"Thanks."
Dacre then unfolded the plan of the revolution which would restore the
House of Hanover, the House of Peers, the titles, and all the old order
of aristocratic classification which nearly twenty years before England
had put behind her. He wanted to see Geoffrey an actual leader, knowing
the qualities of the man; and to show him the position clearly he laid
the whole scheme bare. It was a terrible enterprise, but on the whole
not so formidable as a score of revolutions that have succeeded in
Europe since the end of the nineteenth century.
"You say you will begin with the army?" asked Geoffrey. "How many
regiments have you?"
"We have eleven colonels in England to-day," answered Dacre, "and six of
these will be with their regiments at Aldershot on the day of the
revolution."
"How are their men? Are the subalterns with them? and can they carry the
soldiers?"
"Many of the subalterns are not with them; but there are some
exceptions. When the Royal banner is raised and the King proclaimed,
depend on it the common people will respond."
"How many men of note will be at Aldershot on that day?" asked Geoffrey.
"Here is a rough plan of the rising and a list of the gentlemen, which
Colonel Arundel has drawn up," said Dacre, and he took from an inner
pocket a paper containing about forty names, which he handed to
Geoffrey, who glanced at it rapidly, recognizing nearly all the names,
though he knew few of their owners. Half a score of dukes and earls and
marquises headed the list, including old Bayswater and the unfortunate
Royal Duke who had chosen to remain in England in poverty rather than
share the King's exile in America. Lower down on the list were the names
of simple gentlemen like Featherstone and Sydney.
While Geoffrey was looking at the scroll, Dacre had taken up the old
sword and read the faded inscription tied to the hilt. Geoffrey saw him
and smiled, as he laid the list on the table.
"It is true, Dacre," he said, laying his hand affectionately on his
friend's shoulder. "I thought of the words of that scroll to-night when
I saw you interested in that girl with the beautiful eyes, who sat
beside you."
"Why think of these words?"
"Because she was a commoner's daughter, Dacre; but none the less a noble
English girl, fit match for any aristocrat in Europe."
"Doubtless," answered Dacre, calmly, looking at the silver hilt of the
old sword.
"You have met Miss Lincoln before to-day? Yes--Miss Windsor told me so."
"Yes; I have seen her several times at Arundel House."
"Her father is a good man, Dacre. How will he regard our revolution?"
"As we regarded his, no doubt--as a crime."
"God!" thought Geoffrey, pacing the floor, "how strange that two men so
noble as these should look upon each other as traitors and enemies!"
"Were it not for Richard Lincoln the Monarchy would have been restored
ten years ago. He is a powerful supporter of his class," said Dacre,
slowly.
"Dacre!" said Geoffrey, stopping in front of him, "it is we who are
class men. Richard Lincoln is a patriot!"
Dacre leaned his chin on the old sword, and looked silently into the
fire.
"What will you do with such men as he, should this revolution succeed?"
continued Geoffrey. "They will never submit."
"They must," said Dacre, with compressed lips, "or--" The sentence was
left unspoken.
Geoffrey saw it was no use to argue. He had cast in his lot with Dacre,
and there could be no drawing back.
"Stay with me to-night," said Geoffrey, as his friend was buttoning his
coat. "Reynolds has prepared a room for you."
"No; I must see Featherstone, who returns to London early to-morrow. I
should like to see you later in the day. I shall come here, I think."
"Yes; it is quiet here. Well, let me walk with you as far as the end of
the cliff."
And lighting their cigars the two men struck across the field, Geoffrey
having ordered old Reynolds to go to bed.
Mrs. Oswald Carey waited till the old man had left the kitchen and
retired. Then she came from her hiding-place and at one glance saw what
she wanted--the list of conspirators, which Geoffrey had laid open on
the table. Her keen sense of hearing had followed this paper as if it
were visible to her eyes, and she knew that it had not been returned to
Dacre. With a firm hand she seized the document, and the next moment she
had left the room, closing the two doors behind her. She kept close to
the wall as she circled the lodge to the lower path, and then she
started on a rapid walk for Ripon House.
As Geoffrey returned he was thinking of the list, and he looked for it,
with something of alarm at its absence. When he realized that it was
gone he walked through the kitchen and called up Reynolds.
"Were you in the room since I went out?" he asked.
"No, my lord."
"Is there any one else in the house?"
"No, my lord."
"Has there been any one else here to-night?"
The old man hesitated before he answered this time.
"No, my lord; no one has been here."
Geoffrey had not the slightest reason to doubt the faithful old man, but
had asked the questions for reassurance. As he retired for the night, or
rather morning, he said to himself that Dacre had no doubt taken the
document, which was too precious and too dangerous to be left in any
other hands.