THE LAST ROYALIST.
Geoffrey's jailers were lenient to him after that first day. He was
removed to a room with carpet and furniture; his table was well served;
he was allowed to walk about in the courtyards; books and pen and ink
were given him--everything but newspapers. The fact was that Bagshaw
felt he had gone too far. The vindictiveness, the cruelty of the
populace, was already a thing of the past--of that past when they had
not yet learned their power. The people were good-natured,
impressionable, forgiving; and that low murmur from the street on the
day of Dacre's execution, the third time the President had sought to
make his prisoner betray the King, had well-nigh driven Bagshaw from his
office. It was Richard Lincoln who had saved the government that day, by
his stern rebuke to the President; the latter liked him none the better
for that.
Geoffrey felt this change of sentiment in the manner of his keepers; and
when he remembered that first terrible day, it was but to hope that his
fears had been exaggerated. Undoubtedly John's sentence would be
commuted to imprisonment like his own.
But the more convinced Geoffrey became of this, the more his mind turned
to the other persons of those eventful days. The King had not
come--that was the grim fact--the King had not come to claim his own;
had left his honest gentlemen to fight or fall without him; and no one,
even now, could tell how different the event might have been that day
had George the Fifth but proved his own cause worth defending. Geoffrey,
Dacre, none of them had had news of the King since the day of Aldershot.
Up to the very stroke of noon, as Geoffrey remembered, Dacre had
expected him. But they had waited in vain. And now the White Horse of
Hanover, and with that the Norman Leopard, was a thing of the past. From
his window Geoffrey could see the red, white, and green tricolor in the
Tower yard. He inclined to think the King was dead.
Geoffrey had never been by conviction a Legitimist; hardly even had he
been one by affection. Dacre's magnetism, Dacre's nobility of purpose
had overcome his earlier judgment; for the one effort he had lent his
life to his friend, to stake on a cast of the die. Now that they had
fairly thrown and lost, he returned to his former judgment. But with the
cause that they had lost had gone his own future.
He did not care so much for this, since that last scene with Margaret
Windsor. What future was there for him now? Stone walls do not a prison
make; he might as well be here as penned up, useless, in his four acres
about the lodge at Ripon House. His friends--what friends had he? Dacre,
Sydney, Featherstone--they were walled up with him. And Geoffrey,
walking in the Tower yard, would look up to the scattered windows, and
wonder which of them was his friend's; and if he noticed a dull red
stain on the stones at the base of the wall, he thought it was some old
mark, dating from Cromwell or the Roses. Still, Geoffrey was a young
man, too young to have wholly learned to be a fatalist; but the more he
thought of escape, the more hopeless it seemed. With a confederate, a
friend outside, it might perhaps be possible. But what friend had he
left in the wide world? Geoffrey racked his memory to think of one.
There were some two hundred men he knew at his club in the West End--but
which one of these, who had not been at Aldershot, would leave his snug
rubber at whist for the Tower? There was Jawkins--if Jawkins could be
brought to think it worth his while. Mr. Windsor--the shrewd American
was with his daughter in America; and the daughter deemed him false, and
had forgotten him. False! There was Eleanor Carey; she had loved him;
would she not seek to save him? The woman whose maidenhood he had loved?
He had not heard of her since the night before Aldershot; but this was
rather a hopeful sign than otherwise. The more Geoffrey thought, the
more he felt assured that here was the one person in the world that
might be trusted to remember him.
So, when Geoffrey had been in prison some three weeks, and one day the
turnkey came and said that some one wished to see him, Geoffrey thought
of Mrs. Carey at once. His heart beat high with hope as he followed his
guide through a labyrinth of stairs and passages. He even forgot to look
closely at each door, as he was used to do, to find some sign of Dacre
or his friends. Eleanor! was on his lips to cry as the jailer opened the
door of a distant room and bade him enter.
In the centre, by a table, was standing an old man, dressed in black,
with a white head bent well forward upon his shoulders. It was
Reynolds, no longer dressed like a servant, but disguised in a suit of
broadcloth, such as was worn until recently by the oldest gentlemen. The
old man bent still lower, took Geoffrey's hand and kissed it.
"Thank God!" said he, in a whisper, "dear young master, you are alive,
at all events." Reynolds still used old-fashioned forms of speech.
It was a strange thing to Geoffrey to be still called young. He felt as
if he had seen a century at least--the twentieth. He looked at Reynolds
with a slight but decided feeling of disappointment. He had hoped for
Mrs. Carey.
"Yes, Reynolds, I am alive, and glad to see you," he added, as he saw
the tears in the old man's eyes. "Sit down." Geoffrey pushed a chair
toward him; but the old man would as soon have thought of sitting down
in the presence of the King. "And how is Ripon House?"
"Ripon House, your lordship, is much the same. I think I may succeed in
letting it to one of your lordship's old tenants." Geoffrey looked up,
surprised; then he remembered that by Ripon House Reynolds meant the
lodge. "With your lordship's permission I can get thirty guineas a year
for it," Reynolds added.
"By all means, Reynolds," said Geoffrey. "But, Reynolds, I must have no
'your lordship' any more. That is done forever. I was foolish ever to
have consented to it."
"Yes, your lordship," replied Reynolds, simply. "I knew your lordship
would consent, so I have brought the first quarter's rent in advance."
And the old man laid eight five-dollar gold pieces on the table.
Geoffrey grasped his hand.
"Thank you, Reynolds," said he. The old man was more embarrassed than if
he had kissed him.
"Your lordship--your lordship is--" Reynolds stammered, and Geoffrey
interrupted him.
"None of that, remember;" he lifted a finger pleasantly. "But I asked
you about Ripon House."
"The old castle (it was not half so old as the lodge) is shut up, earl,"
said he. "The American is in his own country."
"Reynolds, do you know what became of the King?"
"No, your lord--Earl Brompton."
"Or who it was that betrayed us? Some one must have carried all the
particulars of the plan to Bagshaw."
The old man did not answer for a moment.
"Reynolds, have you seen Dacre?"
The question was sudden. "Does--does not your lordship know--" he
faltered. Geoffrey sprang from his chair.
"They shot him."
Geoffrey sank back to his seat. The old servant walked to the window,
pulling out his handkerchief. Outside was heard the measured step of the
turnkey pacing to and fro.
"Reynolds, will you carry a letter for me?" said Geoffrey at last.
"Think before you answer. You are no longer in my service, you know. I
can no longer pay you."
"I am always in the earl's service," Reynolds interrupted.
"Thank you, Reynolds. The letter is to Mrs. Oswald Carey. You remember
her?"
Reynolds started. "Forgive me, earl--but does your--your honor know--"
The old man spoke in much trouble; Geoffrey looked up in amazement.
"Oh, forgive me, Earl Brompton--but--I once told a lie to you. That
night--you remember that night when Sir John met your lordship in his
room, and I said afterward there had been no one there?"
"Yes," said Geoffrey. "What then?"
"There was some one there. A lady was there. Mrs. Carey."
A terrible light broke upon Geoffrey. It was she that had taken the
paper; it was she that was the traitor who had been the cause of Dacre's
death. And his old love for her had killed his friend.
"There is no one left"--the words broke from his lips with a sob--"no
one but you, Reynolds." He groaned aloud with rage and sorrow as he saw
the part this woman had played. She had come between him and the girl he
loved; she had betrayed the loyal cause; she had struck down Dacre, with
her lying lips, her lovely eyes. And he had almost loved her.
"I have a message for your honor." Reynolds spoke humbly, timidly, as if
his master blamed him. "The young American lady--Miss Windsor--before
they went away, she desired me to write to her."
Geoffrey looked up, as if a ray of light had entered the prison window.
"Wait," he said, simply. The old man stood at the window, while Geoffrey
drew a chair to the table, sat down, and tried to write. Many a letter
was begun, half finished, and then torn into fragments. When at last a
note was done and sealed, Geoffrey turned to Reynolds.
"You will send it to her?"
"I will take it to her in America," said the old man; and he hastily
thrust the note into the breast of his coat, as the turnkey entered.
Geoffrey thrust one of the gold pieces into the jailer's hand as he led
him away.
"You will be taken to Dartmoor Prison to-morrow," said the jailer, as if
in reply. Geoffrey looked over his shoulder to see if Reynolds heard;
but the old man was busy in buttoning up his coat, and did not look his
way.
The day after these occurrences the French mail steamer, putting in at
Cork Harbor, took on board several passengers. Among them was old
Reynolds. It was Christmas week, and the ship was full of Americans,
running home for the holidays, with the usual retinue of English and
French servants, among whom Reynolds passed unnoticed. There were but
two people in all the West that Reynolds cared to see; in Maggie Windsor
and her father the old man had a strange confidence; but as for these
people, their evident prosperity made him sorrowful, their wealth
offended him.
As he sat upon the deck that evening, his old cloak drawn about his
shoulders, a lady passed up and down before him, arm-in-arm with a
gentleman whom he had never seen. There was a grace, a certain sinuous
strength about the woman's figure that was strangely familiar to him. He
tried to think where he had seen such a form before; and, do what he
would, his memory would not stray from the library in the old lodge at
Ripon House. The man with her was middle-aged, or perhaps a little
older; he had a red beard of some three weeks' growth, not long enough
to hide the contour of his fat double chin. His small eyes had a way of
turning rapidly about, but not resting anywhere, as if he feared a
steady glance might lead some one to recognize him. Reynolds wondered
who he was.
The night was mild for the season, and there was a bright moon. All the
other passengers were below in the cabins, the sea was calm, and the
strains of an orchestra were heard from the great saloon, where the
passengers were dancing. There was an electric light behind where
Reynolds sat, and pulling the evening paper from his pocket he tried to
read. He had his own reasons for not caring to go below; apparently so
had the other two, for they still walked the deck in front of him. Once,
as they passed him, they stopped for a moment, and the light fell full
upon the woman's face. It was Mrs. Carey.
The paper fell from the old man's hands. Their eyes met for a moment,
then the woman turned away.
Reynolds was thunderstruck. Could that be Mr. Carey with her? he
thought. He had never seen Carey, but he fancied not. Her husband must
be a younger man. Reynolds hoped she had not recognized him. He hated
the woman now; he felt a fear of her, well grounded, after all that had
happened.
For several days after this the weather was bad, and Mrs. Carey came on
deck without her companion. Reynolds avoided her, and she did not seem
to notice him. Yet she had a fascination for him, and he would slyly
watch her from the corners of his eyes, as one looks upon some brilliant
serpent. This was the woman who had wrecked his master's life--who had
betrayed the King. Reynolds wondered where the King was then. He
fancied, with Geoffrey, that he must be dead.
On the fourth day they made the lightship anchored off the Banks, and
stopped for news and letters. Reynolds bought a paper; Mrs. Carey had a
telegram, which he saw her reading with evident interest. His newspaper,
which was a mere resume of the telegrams received in the ocean station,
had a long despatch about the so-called meeting at Aldershot. It said
that George of Hanover was believed to have fled to America, but that it
was not the policy of the government to pursue him.
"You seem interested in your paper, Mr. Reynolds," said a voice at his
shoulder. The old servant stood up, and touched his hat, from habit. It
was Mrs. Carey. She was dressed coquettishly in a sea-green travelling
dress that showed her beautiful figure at its best; her hair was coiled
above her fair neck in two glossy red-brown bands. Reynolds looked into
her deep eyes and hated her. He cared more for his master than for any
woman's eyes. "How did you leave poor Ripon?" she asked.
"My master is in Dartmoor Prison," said Reynolds, sadly.
"Your master is a crazy fool," said the beautiful woman, spitefully.
Reynolds made as if to go, but she detained him. "Why are you going to
America?"
"I have a message from Lord Brompton to the King," said Reynolds.
For fear that she might in some way thwart him, he did not tell her his
real errand.
Mrs. Carey laughed scornfully. "No need to go so far," said she, and she
beckoned with her hand. The stout man with the reddish beard came up,
like some huge, dull animal called by its mistress. His sensuous, fat
face was pallid with seasickness, and as he looked at Mrs. Carey there
was a senile leer in his eye.
"King George," said she, "this is a servant of Lord Brompton's."
The decks were almost deserted, and no one was near enough to overhear
them.
The old man's mouth opened; but he could only stare vacantly. He
stammered some incoherent syllables, and tried to bend his knees, but
they knocked together, trembling. He doffed his hat, and, with the
sea-breeze blowing his thin white hair about his temples, stood looking
at the King.
"I am sorry for your master," said the man with the beard. "But--it was
useless. Was it not useless, my dear?" he added, turning to Mrs. Carey.
She laughed contemptuously, but made no reply, and the two resumed their
promenade upon the deck. Reynolds watched them a long time sadly. She
seemed to have complete control over the man, and Reynolds noticed that
he even brought her a footstool, when she sat upon her sea-chair upon
the deck. No one among the passengers seemed to know him or notice him;
but many an admiring glance was turned upon Mrs. Carey. "Curse the
jade!" said Reynolds to himself. Now, indeed, he saw that it was all
true, and felt for the first time that his master would never come back
to Ripon House. But he could not understand it. To say that the sun fell
from the heavens would be but a poor simile to describe the effect this
interview produced on the old man's mind. He sat like one dazed through
the rest of the voyage. And King George, passing him, saw the old man
sitting there, and felt ashamed, abased, before the look of the old
servant. Only Mrs. Carey had a proud sparkle in her evil eyes, and
gloated in spirit at the message that the man would take to his master
back in England. And when, on the fifth day, they landed in Boston, she
got into a carriage and drove off with the King, and Reynolds saw her
wave her jewelled hand at him from the window.
He himself asked for the house of Mr. Abraham Windsor. Mr. Windsor, like
most rich Americans, had a winter house in Boston, a plantation in
Florida, a palace in Mexico, a shooting-box in the mountains of Montana,
and other arrangements for circumventing the American climate; and
Reynolds was driven to a great stone house, with court and gardens,
fronting on a park. He asked for Miss Windsor; the servant looked at him
curiously, but bade him wait.
Reynolds was tired with the voyage and the bustle and hurry of arriving;
and this great city, this great America, so fine, so bright, so rich,
made him sad and depressed. What likelihood was there, he thought, that
this gay, luxurious American would think or care for his poor master
over in Dartmoor Jail? But, as he looked up, he started with
astonishment. Hung upon the wall was a water-color, beautifully done, of
the great avenue leading up to Ripon House. He heard a rustle at the
door, and, turning hastily around, he saw Miss Windsor. She was more
beautiful than the other, was his first thought; and making a step
forward, he bowed humbly, not daring to take the hand she frankly
extended to him.
"Mr. Reynolds!" she said, sweetly. "I am so glad to see you!" This was
well--she remembered him, at all events; and, therefore, his master.
"My lady," said he respectfully, "I have made bold to bring you a
letter--from England."
"From England?" she said, feigning surprise; but a quick blush mantled
her cheek.
"From the Tower of London," said Reynolds, gravely.
"From the Tower?" she cried; "is--is your master in prison?"
"My master is now in Dartmoor Prison, if it please you, my lady," said
Reynolds. "He was sentenced for fifteen years--for trying to serve the
King."
He drew forth the letter, carefully wrapped in a double envelope. She
took it from him quickly, and tore the covering open. This is what she
read:
"MY DEAR MISS WINDSOR: When I see you again--as I hope, if the
fates so will, I may--you, I hope, will be married, and I shall be
getting to be an old man. Fifteen years is much to take from the
sunny part of a man's life; and I can hardly look for much but
shadow after that. I have thought much of you, since I have been
here, and of our last meeting. And I have but one thing to tell
you--what, perhaps, it would have been better for me to have told
you long since--and to ask for your forgiveness for myself. I
should not like to think that you were thinking ill of me, all
these years that I am to stay within these walls.
"Eleanor Carey--at whose feet, as I now know, you must have seen me
that day at Chichester--was the woman I loved when she was a young
girl, beautiful, as you know; lovely, as I then thought. She was
Eleanor Leigh then. Eleanor Carey pretended on that day that she
had never ceased to love me. My noble friend John Dacre had formed
a plot to restore the King of England, and this woman was one of
us. It was she who made a breach between us that day. It was she
who went the morning before to my house, and, overhearing Dacre's
talk to me, stole a paper containing the names and plan of our
conspiracy. It was she who of all our friends was the only traitor.
She murdered my dear friend as truly as if it had been her hand
that dealt the blow. He was shot in the Tower court below here,
with his back to the wall, by a company of soldiers. And, as I now
believe, it was Eleanor Carey who in some way met the King, and
kept him from us on that day.
"I tell you all this that you may believe, in spite of all you may
have seen that day at Chichester, Eleanor Carey is not the woman I
love. You did not believe this at Ripon House. Margaret, will you
believe it now?
"Yours, forever,
"GEOFFREY RIPON."
"Fifteen years!" said Maggie, meditatively, after she had read the
letter, with varying waves of white and red in her face, not unremarked
by Reynolds, as he stood with his hat in his two hands.
"Fifteen years! Papa!"
The door of an adjoining room opened, and Mr. Windsor appeared.
"Yes, my dear."
"Papa, this is Mr. Reynolds."
"Mr. Reynolds, I am very happy to make your acquaintance."
"Mr. Reynolds was Lord Brompton's servant--at Ripon, you remember?"
"Oh! Reynolds, I am glad to see you."
"That will do, Reynolds; you can go."
"Papa, I have a commission for you in England."
Reynolds's face fell. "Any--any message for my master, my lady?"
"No. Oh--stop--yes. You may tell him," said Maggie, with a heightened
color, smiling, "you may tell him I am about to be married."