It is wonderful how rapidly Somerville, as he called himself, gained
to all appearance upon the good opinion of his young cousin. They
became quite intimate. Richard found out for him a very comfortable
room, sat and talked gaily with him for more than an hour, and then
left him with a promise to come and sup with him _tête-à-tête_ that
night, that they might talk over matters of family interest.
Quarters had not been procured for William Newark too soon; for hardly
an hour had passed ere a troop of some seventy men entered the town,
headed by a person named Douglas, whom good old Mr. Robert Patten
terms a gentleman, but who, nevertheless, followed the ancient and
honourable occupation of horse-stealing upon the border. In the bustle
and confusion which attended the congregation of a body of between
three and four hundred men, most of them calling themselves gentlemen,
in the small town of Rothbury--little farther communication took place
between Richard Newark and the Earl of Eskdale. They met once, and
Smeaton thought fit to give his young friend a hint in regard to the
character of his cousin.
"He was always wild, rash, and intemperate," he said, "yet with a
great deal of shrewdness, which deprived him, of one excuse for the
commission of follies. He cannot be said to have committed any from
mere thoughtlessness, and I do not think that your father feels at all
well disposed towards him."
"Doubtless," replied Richard; "nor do I. I don't like that cut upon his
forehead. It is an ugly gash, resembling the one you gave the fellow
at the back of Ale Head, when they were carrying away Emmy. It is
quite as well to mark a friend that we may know him again. I don't
think your handwriting on that fellow's head can be mistaken."
"You let in light upon me," said Smeaton, gravely; "and, if your
suspicion is correct, I think him more than ever to be avoided."
"To be watched, noble friend--to be watched," returned Richard, with a
laugh.
"I am the best watchman in the world. I recollect waiting three hours
without moving hand or foot--I don't think I winked an eye--watching
with my cross-bow for a hare, till Miss Puss came out, hopping, on her
hind legs, with her ears up and her whiskers wagging, and I hit my
mark. People call me wild and foolish; but I can always watch and make
something of it--and I _will_ watch now."
The concluding words were said with peculiar emphasis, and the moment
he had uttered them, he turned away and plunged into a little crowd
which had gathered round the last comers.
It was night when the two cousins sat down to their supper together
which William Newark had taken care to make as good and plentiful as
the circumstances would permit. He had even contrived--Heaven knows
how--to get two or three flagons of tolerable wine; but he did not
show at first any inclination to drink deep, and began the
conversation with topics very different from those which chiefly
occupied his thoughts.
"Our numbers are swelling," he said, as soon as the servants had put
the food upon the table and retired. "That was a large troop which
came in this morning, and I saw a whole crowd of foot mounting the
white cockade."
"Oh, yes," replied Richard Newark. "The horse were a goodly body;
thieves, sheep-stealers, smugglers, cattle-lifters, all well to do in
the world, and expert in their professions. Take care of your purse,
cousin of mine, if you have got one, for transfer is easy amongst
gentlemen of that class. As for the infantry, poor men, they only come
in for disappointment. It is wonderful how much more zeal than
discretion there is in infantry. If soldiers were only things to be
fired at and not to fire again, we should have had one of the
best-equipped armies of infantry in the world by this time. Thousands
have come in with a sweet petition for arms; and, though they have
been daily sent away with the assurance that we have no arms to give
them, they still march in, offering their services."
"I should think arms would be easily procured from your western side
of the country," observed Somerville. "You are so near the coast of
France, and have such excellent places for landing them."
"Ale Bay, for instance," added Richard, with a sharp look, and then a
laugh. "Ay, but the worst of it is, Cousin Bill, that the people at
Ale are always watching for something or another; and he would be a
cunning man who could land without being caught. My father knows that,
or he would not have lived there so long."
"Ay, he cannot choose where he lives now, poor fellow," responded
William Newark; "but I should think he would be somewhat uneasy at
leaving our fair cousin, Emily, there. Take some wine, Richard."
"Emmeline, Emmeline," cried Richard, pouring out for himself some
wine, "not Emily; how ignorant you are! But he is not at all uneasy
about leaving her there, because he has taken her with him." And he
laughed quite like a fool.
"Taken her to the Tower!" exclaimed his cousin. "I did not know they
would receive a prisoner's family with him."
"Nor I either," replied Richard; "but they have not received her; she
lives near with the servants and people, and my father took her to
keep her out of harm's way. I have often heard him say that, if he had
anything he wished to keep secret and snug, London was the place for
the purpose. Now Emmeline is just in that case, and therefore you see
he acts upon principle. Oh, he has a head, has he not? The Hanover
people won't get it off so easily as they imagine; for he knows how to
take care of it, as well as how to use it."
"Ay, doubtless," said the other. "And so the lady lives near the
Tower, does she?"
"In good sooth," answered Richard, in somewhat of a mocking tone. "But
what matters that to you, cousin of mine? It is a long way from this
place to London. If you had a telescope, you could not see her."
"That would depend upon its strength," replied William Newark,
"although, as I know not rightly where she lives, I could not well
point it. In what street does she dwell? I know London thoroughly."
He spoke in an easy indifferent tone, judging that the lad would
readily betray the place of Emmeline's abode, and making no allowance
whatever for that shrewdness which is often joined to great
simplicity.
"Oh, Heaven knows," replied Dick. "It is in some street, and the street
has got a name; but what that name is has passed from my noddle these
six hours, and the letters, as in duty bound, I put into the fire."
"Ha! you have had letters, have you?" exclaimed his cousin. "Who were
they from, and what news did they give you?"
"They were from my father," replied Richard, "and gave me no news
whatever, but merely commanded me to leave off soldiering, and go to
London directly."
William Newark paused, and meditated for a moment or two, while
Richard watched his countenance, keenly and searchingly, but with no
more appearance of interest than if he had been marking the progress
of a shadow on the wall. He saw a variation in the expression of his
cousin's face; and, in truth, a total change had come over his plans.
But Richard said nothing, quietly leaving the other to develope his
own purposes.
"Do you know, Richard," said William Newark, at length, "I think your
father is very much in the right in ordering you to join him in
London, both on your account and his own. Your staying here in arms
might damage him very much, and even bring his head to the block."
"Indeed!" ejaculated Richard. "What! cut off the father's head for the
son's fault? That is reversing the line of succession, I think, and is
neither heraldry nor justice."
"It sometimes happens, however," answered his cousin; "and the people
will naturally say, that you would never have joined the insurrection,
being so young, if your father had not prepared you to do so.
Therefore, if you love your father, and would save his life, you had
better do as he bids you; I might say, indeed, if you love yourself,
and would save your own life, you would do so."
"I don't much care about my life," replied Dick; "but I have some
small notion of honour."
"There is no honour to be got here," replied the other. "I am a man of
honour too, and would cut any man's throat who said I was not; but I
intend to leave these people, and that very speedily. Between you and
me, Dick, there is neither honour, profit, nor safety to be had here.
This insurrection will not succeed. Here are two generals with mighty
armies of three or four hundred men, and neither the Englishman nor
the Scotchman has the slightest knowledge of military matters. Kenmure
and Forster are two quiet country gentlemen, who never saw a shotted
cannon fired in their lives. They will get all who follow them into
some horrid scrape, where you will be able to do nothing but hold out
your hands for the king's troops to come and tie them. There will be
disgrace, and ruin, and punishment. If there was a chance--if their
own folly in appointing incapable country gentlemen to command in
military operations did not deprive the cause of all likelihood--if we
were going to fight like men instead of being trapped like sparrows,
which will certainly be the end of it--I would let no danger daunt me.
But as it is, Dick, I fairly tell you I shall march for London. You
may do as you like."
His cousin's words were evidently not palatable to Richard Newark, who
sat gloomy and silent for a minute or two, with his eyes bent upon the
table, saying nothing, till his Cousin exclaimed, with a laugh--"Come,
take some wine, Dick. It will cheer you."
"No," replied Richard, and pushed the flagon from him. At length he
went on, setting his teeth hard--"Well, I will go. I can do them
little good, and can be of more service to true-hearted folks there
than here. I will go, cousin of mine. When do you set out?"
"Early to-morrow," replied William Newark. "I don't think it needful
to tell Kenmure or Forster that, having been accustomed to serve under
generals, I do not like to be commanded by bumpkins. I can write all
those sweet things afterwards."
"I must tell Eskdale, however," said Richard Newark. "I cannot leave
him without explanation."
"Take my advice, and do not say a word," answered his cousin. "He will
only try to persuade you to remain by arguments you should not listen
to."
"Not he," cried Richard Newark, with a scoff. "All his arguments go
the other way. He has never ceased teasing me to go to London after my
father, and to take care of Emmeline, and all that. However, I'll
consider of it."
"Indeed!" exclaimed William Newark, in evident surprise at what he
heard of the young Earl's conduct; and than he bit his lips to prevent
himself smiling while he thought, "What a set of fools these people
are! Surely one good head would be a match for a thousand of them."
Conceit is always an adjunct to cunning, and indeed is that adjunct
which most frequently renders fruitless the dexterity of its
companion. William Newark was mistaken in his calculations of Richard
Newark's character; and, though every now and then he felt some
misgivings from certain sharp turns of expression used by his young
relation, he could not divest his mind of the idea that Richard was a
mere pliable and eccentric boy, whom he could soon find means to twist
into any shape he pleased. "I will use him as a tool," he thought, "to
work my own purposes; but I must make haste. While his shrewd father
remains in the Tower the stage is clear for me to play what part I
please. Once let him get out, and I may meet with more than my match."
Richard Newark would drink no more wine, and soon after rose to return
to his own quarters. He promised his cousin, however, to be ready to
ride with him early on the following morning, with the full resolution
of keeping his word. When he got beyond the door, however, he laughed
aloud, and muttered, "Egad! What a fine thing it is to be called a
fool! Men are always showing you their plans when they think you
cannot make any use of the knowledge. Master William, you want
watching, and you shall have it. I will be your shadow till I see you
safe beyond the seas again. Ha, ha! The fool thinks to get hold of
Emmeline, not knowing she is another man's wife already. He shall find
himself mistaken."
With these thoughts he walked slowly to his own quarters, debating
with himself whether he should tell Smeaton of his intentions. It was
more in accordance with his character to set out without communicating
with any one; but still his heart was kind and affectionate; and, when
he reflected upon the pleasure it would give to Emmeline to receive a
letter from her husband, he soon made up his mind. He found the young
Earl seated quietly in his room, and alone; and a long conversation
took place between them which I need not dwell upon here. Richard,
indeed, did not tell his friend all his motives for the step he was
about to take. He did not even mention that William Newark was to be
the companion of his journey. He had no skill in explanations, and
very often found it difficult to explain the motives of his actions to
himself, rarely if ever attempting it to others; and in this instance
he would have been obliged to enter into long details from which he
shrank.
For his part, the Earl felt a sensation of relief and thankfulness,
not easy to be described, when he heard Richard's resolution. To see
the kind-hearted lad placed beyond the perils attending upon a
desperate enterprise and a hopeless cause, would have afforded in
itself much matter for rejoicing; but to know that Emmeline, in the
difficulties and discomforts which surrounded her, would have the
support and assistance of one so affectionate, true, and honest, took
a great part of the heavy load from his heart. The conversation
naturally turned to his marriage with Emmeline, in regard to which
Richard evidently entertained some curiosity, and Smeaton succinctly
detailed to him the whole facts, sparing the name of his father as
much as possible. He then applied himself to write to Emmeline in such
a manner as to prevent the possibility of any evil result, if the
letter should fall into the hands of others; and, having done so, he
committed it to the charge of his young companion, and bade him good
night, never doubting that he should see him on the following morning.
The fatigues which Smeaton had undergone during the four preceding
days made him exceed his usual period of rest by a few minutes; but,
on rising, he found, to his surprise, that Richard had been gone more
than an hour.