I must now turn to different scenes, and to people whom I have long
left, in order not to break the chain of events immediately affecting
the young Earl of Eskdale.
In one of the narrow streets leading away from Tower Hill, there is a
house rather better than the others, but still small and inconvenient.
Centuries ago, that street was the resort of many a gay and gallant
attender upon the court; and, even at the time I speak of, was
inhabited by a respectable though poor class of the population. It was
the place where captains of ships trading between London and foreign
ports usually found lodging during their stay on shore. The house I
have mentioned was the best of those lodging-houses, and, through the
kindness of the governor of the Tower--who was an easy kind-hearted
man, as all his conduct to his prisoners showed--it had been hired for
the family of Sir John Newark, immediately upon his arrival in custody
of the messengers from Exeter. Let it be remarked, the whole house had
been kind; and the good woman to whom it belonged, who had had the
good luck before to let the whole of her apartments at once, went
joyfully into a garret at a neighbour's, to make way for Emmeline and
the servants.
How the fair young Countess of Eskdale had passed her time in that
small dingy house; how sad had been her thoughts as, day by day, she
received news from the north, and heard of her husband's part in the
insurrection; how, at the end of about six weeks, she was joined by
old Mistress Culpepper, and how, with marvellous fortitude and
strength of mind, the good old servant supported the young lady in the
sore trial which she underwent, I must not stop here to detail.
Emmeline sat alone in a little room on the ground floor, with small
and narrow windows, parted by mullions and transoms, and affording but
little light. She had paid her daily visit to Sir John Newark in the
Tower, and had returned from a very unsatisfactory interview. The
political prisoners, made at various times during the insurrections of
1715 and 1716, were treated, as all the world knows, with a degree of
lenity--not to say laxity--during the time of their imprisonment,
which contrasted strangely with the unrelenting severity shown to many
of them in the end; and men, waiting for trial and destined to a
bloody death, were suffered to enjoy the society of their friends
almost without restriction; nay, more, were suffered to revel, to
gamble, to drink within the dark walls which were only to be succeeded
by the walls of the tomb, and to employ any means they might think
fit, innocent or vicious, to wile away the time and banish the grim
thoughts of approaching doom.
All these facilities were given to Sir John Newark; and, indeed,
nothing was wanting to his comfort except liberty; but yet the
imprisonment weighed upon him, and rendered him irritable and
suspicious. To be deprived of all power of scheming--to be obliged to
sit idle when he fancied that great opportunities for playing the game
in which he was well practised were constantly occurring--to find the
government maintain a cold and ominous silence in return for all the
advances which he made, and to know that they had proofs against him
of very dangerous intrigues, though not, perhaps, of high treason
itself--all tended to depress and to annoy him more than the mere loss
of his personal freedom.
During the last week he had, for the first time of his life, shown
himself irascible and harsh towards Emmeline. He insisted that
whenever she stirred out of the house, even to the gates of the Tower,
she should be attended by two of his men servants, and she discovered
that one or the other of these men was sent for daily, and examined
strictly by his master as to where she had been, whom she had spoken
with, and what she had done; in fact, that she was watched in London
as she had been at Ale Manor. It is not, perhaps, wonderful that she
felt more annoyed now than she had ever before felt at this espionage;
for, until the arrival of the old housekeeper, it was carried on so
strictly that she could hardly obtain any information regarding those
events in the north, on the turn of which depended her whole happiness
for life.
The good woman's appearance at the house, which was sudden and
unexpected, was a great comfort to the poor girl. She no longer sat
and wept by herself, or, with her eyes fixed upon the embers of the
fire, gave herself up to thoughts which passed in rapid succession,
like dark and terrible shadows of approaching misfortunes. Good Mrs.
Culpepper sat with her now the greater part of each day, obtained
information for her, talked of him she loved; and there was
consolation in the very companionship, though the housekeeper was in
no way cheerful; for her own anticipations regarding Smeaton were
gloomy and sinister. She did not suffer them to find voice, indeed;
yet her whole manner and words were tinged with sadness. Even that
which afforded poor Emmeline the greatest delight gave her no comfort.
About three weeks before the period of which I speak, a letter had
reached the lady, delivered by an unknown hand, but bearing the
signature of her husband. It was the letter which Smeaton had written
to her at Rothbury, and committed to the charge of Richard Newark. As
her cousin's name was not mentioned, however, and he had never himself
appeared, Emmeline knew not who had brought it; and she pored over it
day after day as the only comfort of her solitary life; but the
confirmation which that letter gave of the rumour that Smeaton was
actually engaged with the insurgents in the north only excited darker
apprehensions for his fate in the mind of his old nurse. It was in
vain that tidings arrived, which produced some consternation in the
minds of the good Londoners, by showing that the rebels were making a
bold and, apparently, successful irruption into England; it was in
vain that she heard of their advance towards Carlisle, or of the
dispersion of the great body of militia in Penrith Moor, of the
insurgents having seized upon Lancaster, and of the arming of
Manchester in their favour; Mrs. Culpepper shook her head with a sigh.
She had seen insurrection and civil war before, and her expectations
were all sad.
On the morning of which I speak, a rumour reached her of the fatal
events of Preston; and, after Emmeline's visit to Sir John Newark, on
which occasion Mrs. Culpepper accompanied her, the old lady went out
into the town to see if she could obtain farther intelligence.
Emmeline sat alone then in that small gloomy room, and her thoughts
were very dark and sorrowful. She reasoned with herself, as was her
wont, upon human life, and the strange turns of fate. She asked
herself what was the ruler of this world, and what was his decree?
Were the good, and the wise, and the kind-hearted, fated to sorrow and
misfortune; the cunning, the remorseless, the unfeeling, to prosperity
and triumph and success? Was hope only given for disappointment? Was
imagination but the heightening curse to make all the bitterness of
earth more bitter? Were the susceptibilities of everything that is
beautiful and excellent in life only given to sharpen the sting of
adversity, and make the edge of sorrow cut more deeply? She could
hardly believe it; and yet, when she turned her eye to history, or
even pondered what her own small experience taught her, she could
hardly doubt that such was the case; and the only moral she could
derive from the consideration was, that--"The reward of the good is
not here."
Yet that is an oppressive and chilling conviction to the ardent heart
of youth. It is a hard discouragement at the commencement of life's
weary way. It requires an amount of faith and hope as its antidote
which few of the young possess. It is one of the bars of the sieve
though which the wheat is sifted from the chaff. Emmeline might and
did turn her thoughts to God and to another world. She might and did
feel that there was the rewarder and the reward; but yet her heart
felt very sad to see the blight upon all the flowers of earth, and to
fear that none would ever be matured into fruit.
While she was thus pondering sadly, she saw a man pass up the street,
whose figure had something in it familiar to her eyes. In an instant
after he repassed, and looked up towards the house. She instantly
remembered his face. It was connected in her mind with a scene and a
moment never to be forgotten. It was connected indissolubly with the
memory of him she loved; and, by a sudden impulse, she sprang forward
and opened the window.
"He must have seen my husband," she thought. "He must bear me some
tidings, some message; a letter, perhaps."
Van Noost (for he it was) stopped the moment he heard the window open,
looked up and down the street, which was vacant at the moment, and
then approached.
"Lady, lady," he said, "I wish to speak with you. I bear you a message
from one you know and love."
"Speak it now, speak it quickly," said Emmeline, clasping her hands
together in her eagerness.
"Ay, lady, it is a sad message and a sad tale," rejoined the good
statuary, with tears rising in his eyes; "and you will hear it soon
enough."
"Speak, sir, speak!" cried Emmeline. "What did my Lord say?"
"He said, dear lady," answered Van Noost, "that he feared there was
little hope of himself and the others escaping from the position in
which they had placed themselves, much against his wishes and advice.
He besought you, however, to take comfort, what ever might happen to
him, and to place your trust in God. He would not write, he said, for
fear of his letter falling into other hands; for I myself escaped with
difficulty; but he bade me assure you that, whatever occurred, he
loved you with his whole heart till his last hour."
"Then where is he? What has become of him?" asked Emmeline. "Tell me,
tell me."
"I left him at Preston, madam," replied Van Noost, "but surrounded by
the King's forces, and ready every moment to be overwhelmed by
numbers. He insisted upon my leaving the army and making my peace with
the government; but he himself remained, though fully aware of all the
danger."
"At Preston!" said Emmeline, thoughtfully. "How long is it since you
left him?"
"This is the ninth morning," replied Van Noost. "I reached London
three days ago, and gave myself up to government. I looked honest, I
suppose; or else they could not do without my statues any longer; for,
after keeping me in prison two days, and examining me strictly, they
let me go back to my own house upon the sole condition of showing
myself to a messenger twice in every four-and-twenty hours."
"Nine days!" exclaimed Emmeline. "That is a long time. Has no news
arrived from Preston since?"
Van Noost looked down upon the ground; and his good rosy countenance
turned white with emotion.
"You have some tidings," said Emmeline, in a low tone. "Tell me what
they are, I beseech you, sir. I can bear them, whatever they be. Speak
quickly, or my heart will break."
"Alas, lady!" ejaculated Van Noost.
"He is dead," said Emmeline, in a tone wonderfully calm. "He has been
killed in the battle!"
"No, no! Not so, indeed," replied Van Noost. "He is a prisoner, lady,
but not dead. All the rest are prisoners too."
Before he ended, Emmeline's ear was deaf to his words. Fancy had so
fully possessed her, only the moment before, with the idea of her
husband's death, that when she heard he was still living, though a
captive, the change from despair to hope was too sudden; her heart
beat for a moment violently, then became still as if in death; and she
sank upon the floor.
Poor Van Noost was shocked and terrified; he thought he had killed
her; and he would fain have made his way through the window to give
her help; but just at that moment the tall and stately form of Mrs.
Culpepper appeared coming up the street; and, as soon as she saw him
looking in at the window, she hurried her pace, asking him sharply--
"What are you doing here, sir, staring in at the window of this house?
Are you a thief who would fain break in and steal? Ah," she continued,
as he turned more fully towards her, "I think I have seen your face
before. Yes, I recollect you now. What are your tidings? Where did you
leave my Lord? Is he amongst the prisoners?"
"He is, madam," replied Van Noost, who stood in great awe of the
stately presence of the housekeeper. "He is amongst the prisoners, if,
by 'my Lord,' you mean the Earl of Eskdale. But I beseech you, look to
the lady within; for a message I have just borne her has, I fear, well
nigh broken her heart."
"Or the rash telling it," said Mrs. Culpepper, somewhat sternly; but
she added the next moment: "You did not intend it, I dare say. Come in
with me." And she knocked sharply at the door. It was opened by one of
the men, who seemed somewhat surprised to see her accompanied by a
stranger. But no one in the household ventured to question the
proceedings of Mrs. Culpepper; and, telling Van Noost to follow, she
entered the room on the right hand. They found Emmeline lying where
she had fallen, with her cheek as pale as the lily, and her eyelids
closed. It was long before she could be brought to herself; but the
old housekeeper sent away the servants, told Van Noost to wait without
and she would speak with him, and then whispered comfort in the poor
girl's ear.
"All will go well, dear lady," she said. "All will go well, sweet
Emmeline. He is a prisoner; but he is still living; and there are a
thousand chances in his favour. They may try him, but not condemn him.
They may condemn him, and yet pardon him. They may be obdurate, yet he
may escape. He _shall_ escape, too, if there be wit in woman's head,
such as men say. Take heart, take heart; everything is to be gained,
so long as his life is safe."
It is wonderful how readily an old proverb springs before all other
expressions in moments of haste or grief.
"Oh yes, while there is life there is hope," responded Emmeline,
sobbing. "It was the joy of finding he was living, when Van Nooses
first words had made me believe him dead, that overcame me. But where
is Van Noost? Let him tell me more." And she looked towards the window
wistfully.
"The man is in the hall," replied Mrs. Culpepper. "I will call him
in."
She accordingly summoned Van Noost, and ordered one of the servants
who was still with him in the hall to go below and mind his work, in a
tone that admitted no reply. Van Noost was then questioned eagerly,
and told the whole tale of his escape and the circumstances in which
he had left the Earl of Eskdale. The good man was going on to
disburden himself of all the news which he had gathered in London of
the surrender of the insurgent army at Preston; but Mrs. Culpepper cut
him short, saying--"What is your name, good sir, and where do you
live?"
"My name is Van Noost," replied the statuary. "It is a well-known
name. I am the famous artist in lead; and I live on the Reading Road,
nearly opposite the end of Constitution Hill."
A grim smile came upon Mrs. Culpepper's face; and she said--"Very
well. Perhaps we may want you. I doubt not you are willing to serve
this young nobleman who so befriended you in getting you out of
Preston."
"I would serve hits with my life's blood," replied Van Noost; "but,
gadzooks! I must take care not to burn my fingers in the business
again."
"You are more likely to burn your fingers with your lead than
with any business we shall give you," observed Mrs. Culpepper,
drily; "but, for the present, good-bye, sir; and if you get any news
or hints worth hearing, pray let us have them. But be discreet; ask
for me--Culpepper, the housekeeper; and, if I be not within, wait till
I come."
"By my life, an imperious dame," said Van Noost to himself, as he
retired; and the housekeeper, after remaining for a moment or two in
silent thought, turned to Emmeline, saying--
"Comfort yourself, dear lady. I will away to Sir John, and carry him
the intelligence I have got, which, probably, has not yet reached the
Tower. I must contrive to get rid of some of these men who are here,
for they will hamper our movements; and I think in this Preston
business I can find an excuse for sending one at least, if not more,
down to Ale. He has not forgotten the bait of Keanton yet, and will
rise at it as readily as ever."