CHAPTER XLII.

The Tower the Marshalsea, Newgate, and other London jells, were filled

to overflowing. Prison regulations, which were few, and those not very

strict, were all, but entirely neglected; and scenes of revelry and

merriment, the most discordant with the place and all it associations,

occurred is the cells of the captives. It was not alone that the Tory

or High church party, waking from the apathy in which they had

indulged as long as activity could have been serviceable to the cause,

now contributed large sums of money to make the fate of the captives

as comfortable as a captive's fate can be; it was not alone that the

numerous friends and relations of the prisoners flocked to give them

consolation and support of every kind; but a revolution took place in

that strange fickle thing, public opinion; and many of those who, had

not their rank and station stood in the way, would have gone out, with

the hooting mob to witness the entrance of the rebel prisoners into

London, now began to regard them as martyrs and laud them as heroes.

Crowds hurried to see them and to testify their sympathy. No one who

could find or frame even a specious pretext for admission was

excluded; all hours and seasons were forgotten; and the gates of

Newgate were often thrown open in the midst of the night, to admit a

visitor, a servant, or a friend. The jailors declared that they were

worn to death with the continual turning of the keys; yet they did

their work very willingly--from no great feeling of compassion,

perhaps, but for the golden rewards which were sure to follow.

In the Tower, where the noblemen who had joined in the insurrection

were confined, a greater degree of decency certainly prevailed; but,

even here, very great laxity existed; and, from ten o'clock in the

morning till the same hour at night, the doors were opened to almost

any one who required admittance. In fact, the conduct of the

authorities, from the day of the surrender at Preston till the

termination of the whole tragedy, is perfectly unaccountable; so

capricious and strange were the alternations of lenity and severity.

During the march to London, it often happened that, on one day, the

prisoners of note would be confined in separate chambers, and not

permitted to see or speak with any one, while, on the very next, they

were allowed to wander about any towns they passed through; each under

the charge of a soldier, visiting their friends, or purchasing

whatever articles they required in the shops. One day, they would be

compelled to sleep upon damp stone floors, with none of the comforts

or conveniences of life; and the next they would dine with the

officers of their escort, faring sumptuously on all that the place

could afford. At one time, the sick and the feeble were provided with

coaches to carry them, with nothing but a trooper at the window; and

then, at Barnet, they were pinioned on their horses, and led into

London like condemned felons. Thus, too, after their arrival at the

place of their destination, they were allowed to live in luxury, and,

alas! in many cases in licentiousness, while all the time the terrible

catastrophe was being prepared with stern relentless determination.

In many instances, the prisoners themselves, at least those of

thoughtful and high-toned character, were obliged to entreat their

jailers to exclude the mixed multitude which flocked in to see them;

and even then they were often greatly annoyed; for the virtue of the

turnkeys was not stout enough to, resist the bribes which were

frequently given for admission to the cells. The greater number,

indeed, were well-pleased with the attentions they received, and

laughed, joked, and drank with the strangers who presented themselves;

but it must be said that a general impression prevailed amongst them,

that the facts of their having surrendered at discretion, and of their

being spared for the time, would secure them from the penalties of

treason. Many were even ignorant of the terms on which the surrender

had been made, and thoroughly believed that a promise of pardon had

been given, and others felt quite confident that the exertions of

influential friends would gain for them the lenity of a merciful

sovereign.

But George the First was _not_ merciful. Perhaps it would be too much

to accuse him of a disposition naturally cruel; but his heart was as

hard as that of any man who ever lived, and his conduct to the young

Countess of Nithsdale would prove the truth, even if it were not

witnessed by many another act.

Amongst those who took the least cheering view of his situation, was

Henry Earl of Eskdale, who flattered himself with no vain

expectations. On entering the chamber assigned to him in the Tower, he

looked round it as his last abode before he went to the scaffold; and,

although the small sum of money he had remaining was sufficient to

procure him comforts for the time, he counted it over with care, and

assigned a certain portion for each day's wants, calculating, as well

as he was able, the time likely to elapse before his death.

The morning after his arrival a number of persons were admitted to see

him, and at length he was glad to give the turnkey a guinea, as an

inducement to exclude every one but those who could declare they were

his personal friends.

"I have much need of thought and reflection, my good sir," he said;

"but, if I am to be troubled with strangers all day long, however

kindly their visits may be meant, I shall have no time to prepare to

defend my life, or to meet my death as becomes me."

"If your Lordship will give a list of those you wish to see," replied

the man, "I will keep out all others."

Smeaton wrote down the names of the few whom he thought likely to

visit him; but he had some difficulty when he came to the dearest name

of all. It was too sacred a name to be lightly spoken of; and

therefore, to meet all cases, he wrote down broadly: "Any one of the

name of Newark, any one of the name of Eskdale;" and then thinking of

poor Van Noost, he added his name to the paper, saying, as he gave it

to the man:

"If any one should urge strongly that he is a personal friend, let him

send in his name, and I will tell you whether to admit him or not."

The man had not even closed the door, however, when Van Noost

presented himself; and his agitation, on seeing his noble friend in

captivity, had something in it both touching and grotesque. He wept

like a child; but the pathetic was greatly lessened by his attempts to

conceal his emotion and speak through his tears. Smeaton treated him

with great kindness, congratulated him upon his escape and his

freedom, and listened patiently, to his account of all he had

undergone since they met. But he then turned the conversation to

matters of deeper interest to himself, by enquiring if his visitor had

seen Emmeline as he promised.

Van Noost almost started from his chair, exclaiming:

"Good gracious! I had nearly forgotten. I saw her this very morning,

my Lord; and she charged me with a message to say that she would be

here this evening as soon as it grew dark, if you would permit it;

and, indeed, who would not permit it? It seemed as if she thought the

time between this and night would never come to an end. I believe she

world have run here at once, if the old lady, Madame Culpepper, had

not dissuaded her."

Smeaton did not reply immediately; for many contending feelings were

busy in his bosom. To hold her once again to his heart; to tell her

how he had thought of her since they parted; to learn; from her own

lips, her views, her wishes, her feelings; to consult with and to

counsel her, were all motives which prompted him to say "Yes," without

a moment's hesitation. But he feared risk, and embarrassment, and

perhaps even misfortune, to her whom he loved better than himself. He

knew not that she was accustomed to come daily to the Tower; that her

person was known to the warders and many of the officers of the

prison, and that she was always accompanied by sufficient men to

protect her, as far as they were permitted to go. He thought of

Emmeline only as the simple inexperienced girl of the Manor House in

Devonshire, timid even in her innocent boldness, utterly unlearned in

the world and the world's ways. He knew not that she, as well as

Richard, had been schooled in sorrow, and that her mind had put forth

new powers, and her heart gained firmness, since they parted.

Can he be blamed, however, if he yielded, in some degree, to his own

wishes? He fancied that he considered all things fairly for her good,

as well as for his own happiness; but, perhaps, he was not altogether

unbiased when he said,

"Tell her, Van Noost, that I ardently long to see her; but yet I would

not have her come, especially at night, unless she can do so in

perfect safety, and in secresy also; for, till we have well considered

the next step, I do not wish our marriage to be made public, and I

must have no spot rest upon her name, even for her love to me. If she

can come safely, she knows what joy it will give me. If she can not,

that joy would be dearly purchased by peril to her. So tell her, Van

Noost. Go, my dear friend, go; and let her have my answer quickly."

"I will, my good Lord, I will," replied the statuary, fumbling in the

wide pocket of his coat; "but there is another matter I had well nigh

forgot too. Here is something I promised to deliver to your Lordship."

And, as he spoke, he produced a little packet--in shape very much

like a schoolboy's ruler, wrapped up in paper, and sealed at both

ends--which he laid upon the table.

"What is this, Van Noost?" said the young nobleman, taking it up, and

surprised at its weight. "This is money, my good friend. I cannot

accept of this."

"Indeed, my Lord, you must," responded Van Noost, "or make a great

many people very unhappy. It is your share of a purse made up amongst

the loyal and true hearts of London, for the support of all the

Preston prisoners, and for their aid in their imprisonment, their

defence, or--" and he sunk his voice in a whisper--"or their escape.

You have no more than your fair share; and I doubt not that, in a few

days, a very much larger sum may be raised, of which your portion will

be brought to you also, either by me or by somebody else."

"Their escape!" said Smeaton thoughtfully. "Think you that escape is

possible, Van Noost?"

"Nothing more possible, my Lord," replied the statuary. "Why, never

was such a scene known as there is now in the prisons. Money is

abundant--all order is gone. The jailors think they do quite enough if

they only lock the doors. They vie with each other in being corrupt;

and, if we could but raise a few thousand pounds to bribe the

scoundrels, and we managed the thing properly, your lordship might

walk out of these gates in open day, without officer, turnkey, or

warder seeing you. Such is the strange effect of a pair of gold

spectacles."

"Would I could feel so certain," returned Smeaton. "The few thousand

pounds you speak of could soon be raised. A word in my dear mother's

ear would speedily procure it, if she be still living; and, if not, I

could procure it myself."

"Think you so, my lord, think you so?" said the statuary. "Would you

but trust me so much as to write down merely the words, 'Believe what

the bearer shall tell you on my account,' sign your name, and address

it to the Dowager Countess? I see they allow you paper, pens, and

ink."

"With all my heart, Van Noost," replied Smeaton. "I am quite sure you

would rather injure yourself than me."

And he wrote down on a sheet of paper the words which had been

required.

When he had sanded the paper and was handing it to Van Noost, a sound

of bolts being drawn was heard at the door. The statuary hurriedly

concealed what he had received, and the next moment Richard Newark

came in. He advanced towards the Earl with a frank bright look, and

shook him warmly by the hand. Then, turning to Van Noost, he said,

"Ha! idol-maker! Are you here? Get you gone--get you gone to Emmeline,

and stay with her till I come. The dear _gouvernante_ has gone forth

questing like a spaniel dog upon a pheasant, from a hint I gave her

last night. Do not leave her for a minute; and, if the man refuses you

admittance, pull his nose boldly, and walk in. He is an arrant coward;

so you may venture safely."

"I will--I will, sir," replied Van Noost. "He shall not stop me on

such an errand."

"If there be two of them," continued Richard, "knock down one. That

will be enough for the other."

Van Noost hurriedly took up his hat and left the room; and Richard

Newark, taking Smeaton's hand in his, said, in a quieter tone than

usual,

"Come, Eskdale, sit down and talk to me. I must try and keep my poor

whirling brain steady for a minute or two, while you tell me all and

everything with regard to your transactions with Lord Stair. There is

your only chance of safety. If you can show that you were driven into

the insurrection against your own inclination by the conduct of

others, as I know you were, a skilful lawyer tells me that you will

certainly be pardoned. New listen to what I know, then fill up the

gaps, give me some proofs, and I will follow the scent as keenly as my

bloodhound, Bellmouth. You sent a letter long before the outbreak to

Lord Stair. That letter never reached him. It was stopped by my

father. You went over to Mount Place, led to believe that you would

see nobody but one old fool; and you found twenty or thirty, young and

old, assembled, on a hint from my father, to meet you and trap you

into treason. The Exeter people sent down dragoons, who sought you at

Mount Place, and thence tracked you to Keanton; for they had secret

information from Ale Manor."

"But what could be your father's motive?" asked Smeaton.

"Keanton, for the first; to get you out of the way of Emmeline, for

the second," answered Richard. "But never mind motives. Let us deal

with facts. You afterwards, in the north, sent your servant with a

letter to Lord Stair, on receiving intelligence that he was on before

us at Wooler. Now, Eskdale, I doubt that letter ever having been seen

by him. Nay, I am quite sure it was not."

"Higham assured me," said the young Earl, "that it was put into his

hand, that he opened it, read it, and returned it with contempt. What

can make you think that he never saw it?"

"Because Lord Stair was, on that very day and hour, more than seven

hundred miles from Wooler as the crow flies," replied Richard. "His

regiment was there, true enough; but _he_ was in Paris. A man cannot

be in two places at once, noble friend. But come, do not pause and

wonder. This is all I know. Fill up, fill up! Let me hear the whole;

and I will try if my wits are not worth something, in spite of all

folks may say against them."

Smeaton did as he was bidden; and, sitting down at the table with his

young companion, he gave him a clear and complete narrative of

everything that had occurred after his arrival at Ale Manor, and

showed him the copies he had taken of his letters to Lord Stair. More

than once Richard asked him to stop for a moment, and wrote down the

heads of what he had heard; and then, looking at the letters, he

said--

"May I take these with me to copy? You shall have them to-morrow; for

you may need them. Strange that a piece of paper should sometimes be

the best armour for a man's neck!"

"Take them, take them," replied Smeaton. "They are but unauthenticated

copies, and could not be given in evidence, if Lord Stair has not

received them. Yet I can hardly believe that Higham would play me such

a trick."

"Where did you hire him?" asked Richard.

"He was recommended to me by the man in whose house I lodged," replied

the young Earl; "a good honest fellow, who had been a servant to the

Earl of Oxford."

"Put about you by the Jacobites," replied Richard, with a laugh, "to

keep you steady in the cause, and commit you to it if you wavered. The

man must be found and made to tell the truth."

"Hear you will have to seek him in the grave," said Smeaton; "for he

was sorely wounded at Preston, where he fought as boldly as a lion."

"Never mind," replied Richard. "Some of these letters must have

reached Lord Stair, I think; and, if I get at him, I will jump upon

his back, and never take my spurs from his side till we have passed

the winning-post. Good-bye, Eskdale, good-bye. Your trial will not

come on for a month, they say; and you wont see me for a fortnight,

perhaps; but I'll be working all the time. Tell Emmeline to mind well

every step she takes; for the villain scoundrel, William Newark, alias

Somerville, has made his peace with the court, pretends that he is the

most loyal subject of King George, has betrayed all that he knew of

Kenmure's and Forster's secrets, and is watching with all his eyes to

pounce upon Emmeline. He cannot rightly make out where she is; for I

have puzzled him about it. But he thinks that if he could but get her

into his hands, Ale Manor--which is hers, you know--would be his, and

he would be a great man in his generation. Once more, good-bye,

Eskdale; and, if you hear that I am drowned, shot, stabbed, or

otherwise disposed of, do not forget me. Say to yourself--'I was kind

to the boy; and he loved me well.'"

Thus speaking, he hurried to the door, and halloo'd to the turnkey to

let him out.

CHAPTER XLII.

I will not dwell upon the first interview between Emmeline and her

husband; I will not dwell upon many that took place, for many did take

place between the time of his arrival as a prisoner in London and the

day of his trial. There are sanctities in the deep emotions of the

heart, the violation of which nothing but a holy cause can justify. I

have no right to eat the show-bread on the altar of their love. I have

no right, be they real or be they ideal characters, to intrude into

the secrets of their hearts, and place the thrilling nerves beneath a

microscope for the public eye. Suffice it to say that they met often,

daily, sometimes twice a-day, by the skilful management of her who had

been the young Earl's nurse; and that no annoyance or inconvenience

happened to the young Countess of Eskdale during nearly a month,

although some circumstances of suspicion--a number of strange men

hovering about the house, and the appearance of others dogging them in

their walk to the Tower--caused some apprehension in the mind of the

old housekeeper, and induced her to redouble her precautions.

Emmeline had seen her cousin more than once. Kind, affectionate,

self-devoted, he showed himself during their short and scanty

interviews; but those interviews were not very many. Suddenly he

disappeared, telling his fair cousin that he was about to visit Paris,

but without mentioning the business on which he went; for, although he

was very sanguine in all things, he loved her too well to give her

hopes which might be disappointed, or to shackle her exertions in

other directions by expectations from the uncertain projects he had in

view. She knew that he went for the purposes of her husband's defence,

and she thanked him with her whole heart; but this was all she knew,

and, when he was gone, she felt anxious and eager for tidings which

did not come.

Thus passed the days of a long imprisonment; but several steps had

been gained, notwithstanding. The extreme laxity of those who had

charge of the prisoners had become apparent, and Smeaton had

established a certain sort of friendship with his jailers; but the

principal fact was that they showed themselves accessible to bribes;

so that the probability of escape was reasonably added to the

probability of acquittal or of pardon. Nevertheless, with hope for

their guide, they flattered themselves that the delay in bringing the

prisoners to trial arose from the intention of sparing them; but they

experienced a bitter disappointment in the end, when Smeaton and the

rest were impeached of high treason by the House of Commons, and their

trial came on with unusual rapidity.

As is well known, the greater part of the insurgent noblemen pleaded

guilty. But Smeaton would not join in this plea. He acknowledged the

whole share he had borne in the rebellion; he entered into minute

details of all that had occurred; he showed, as well as he had the

means of showing, that he was actually driven to join the insurgents;

but he could bring no proof of the fact. Richard was still absent,

although he had promised to return in a fortnight, and nothing had

been heard of him when the trial took place. Smeaton's mere

unsupported word had little weight with the peers; but, while most of

the others were, upon their own plea, condemned at once, a space of

time was taken to consider and to allow for the collection of evidence

before his trial.

The lawyers laboured hard to induce him to withdraw his plea of not

guilty, and cast himself upon the royal mercy; but, although his mind,

till the insurrection had actually begun, had been in that doubtful

and undecided state which is most painful to men of a determined and

resolute character, yet, once having joined in it, either the

prejudices of early education resumed their sway, or the enthusiasm of

his companions infected his own mind, and he could not bring himself

to believe that there was guilt in supporting by arms the sovereign

whom all his family had served, and whose claim to the throne of

England they had never on any occasion renounced. He did not feel

himself guilty, and he would not plead guilty. It was a dishonouring

word, a word that he would not have attached to any part of his

conduct by his own act, and he resolutely adhered to his former plea.

He gave no unnecessary trouble indeed; he admitted all the facts as

they stood charged against him; but he contended that his acts were

loyal and not treasonable, and it was only as an admission that he

stated he had been willing to submit quietly to the existing state of

things. To this, he added a detail of the transactions between himself

and the Earl of Stair.

His defence was frequently interrupted; for the English law often

decrees that the evidence which would clearly exculpate any man from

all moral blame shall not be received in his justification. But he

persevered in his course, and the very men who condemned him felt for

him, and hardly believed their own words when they pronounced him

guilty.

It is a strange thing, that law of treason, which affixes the most

odious moral censure upon acts heroically mistaken and sometimes

sublimely just; which compels men, by rigid rules and the admission of

false premises, to pronounce that to be guilt which they know to be

virtue; which places the same stain upon the lowest and most selfish

crimes, and upon the most elevated patriotic deeds. A great fault

exists somewhere; it is true, order and respect for law must be

maintained; the will of the majority must rule; it may be, even, that,

for general security, men must be punished for bold attacks upon

existing institutions; but let us not be called upon to denounce as

guilt that which is mistake, or enthusiasm, or virtue.

The dark scene was over; the verdict was given, the sentence

pronounced, the blade of the axe turned towards the prisoner, and one

more of the gallant and the true was carried back from the bar to the

Tower, to await the fate of a traitor.

In the anticipation of that moment, Smeaton had often felt how

terrible it would be; he had doubted his own courage, his own

fortitude; he had nerved his mind to resist all the impulses of his

mortal nature, lest he should meanly and faint-heartedly supplicate

for life, as others had done. He recollected that there were many

endearing ties around him; that youth, and love, and hope, and high

health, and all the bright amenities of being, attached him to the

world in which he was; that it was full of delight and enjoyment to

one so constituted mentally and bodily, and that the thought of

parting with it in its hour of greatest excellence might well shake

his resolution and undermine his firmness. But when each peer had

pronounced his judgment, and when the frightful and barbarous sentence

was passed, it was marvellous, even to his own mind, how calmly he

bore himself, how firm and composed he felt. It seemed for the moment

as if the tremulous, vibrating, anxious cord between hope and fear was

snapped, and that his feet were firmly fixed upon the rock of fate.

Take away hope, and there is no such thing as fear.

During a short space of time all hope was over in his bosom. But, in

the meanwhile, others were preparing hope for him, and to two separate

scenes we must turn, where busy love was eagerly exerting itself, in

different ways and without concert, to avert the blow from his head. I

know not which to depict first; for they both occurred on the same

day, and very nearly at the same hour; but perhaps I had better choose

the one which, from presenting few if any characters already brought

under notice, may have the least interest for the reader.

Into a gorgeous room of a palace, containing a number of distinguished

persons--some marked out to the eye by the splendour of their apparel,

some by their beauty or their grace--entered a middle-aged man, small

in stature, insignificant in appearance, and with his somewhat large

head rendered more ridiculously conspicuous by a huge Ramillies wig.

He was dressed in tea-coloured velvet, with his sword by his side and

his hat on, and the door by which he entered was thrown open for him

by one of the high noblemen of the Court; while another, bearing a

light in either hand, walked backwards into the room before him. He

was a very mean-looking person; cold, unloveable in aspect, looking

like a small dancing-master in a holiday suit; but yet he was a King.

At one side of the room, supporting herself by the back of a chair,

stood a tall and queenly woman of some sixty years of age. Her natural

hair, as white as snow, appeared slightly from beneath the weeds of

widowhood, and her striking and beautiful face--beautiful even in

sorrow--was pale and worn with long and heavy sickness. The moment the

king entered, she advanced towards him, with a step firm and

dignified; but she sank upon her knees as she came near, and stretched

out her hands towards him, holding what appeared to be a petition.

"Who are you, madam, who are you?" asked the King, in French.

"I am the unhappy Countess of Eskdale, sire," replied the lady, in the

same language. "I do beseech you, hear me, and receive my petition for

my poor son. Spare him, gracious monarch--spare him, and I pledge--"

She was not permitted to finish the sentence. The cold-hearted King

drew back at her first words, and, with a sort of frightened and

repulsive look, turned towards a different door from that by which he

had entered. But the lady caught him by the skirt of his coat,

pleading with all the earnestness of maternal love for her son's life,

while he rudely endeavoured to shake himself free, walking with a

quick step towards the other side of the room, and literally dragging

her after him as she still kept her hold, endeavouring to force the

petition upon him.

A gentleman with a cut upon his brow, who had entered with the

monarch, now whispered in his ear in French:

"Be firm, sire! Be firm! Shall I remove her?"

The monarch made an eager motion of assent, and the other, casting his

arms round Lady Eskdale, tore her away. The paper, which she held in

her hand, dropped to the ground; and, instantly rising to her full

height, as the monarch passed the door, she turned a look of dignified

anger on him who had interposed to prevent the reception of her

petition, and exclaimed aloud, in English--

"Oh, William Newark, William Newark! Ever ready, like the viper, to

sting the hand that has fostered you, and to aid in all that is hard

and selfish!"

"Poor lady!" said the gentleman thus addressed, with a look of

contemptuous pity, and he followed the King. But there was another who

followed also; a grave-looking man of the middle age, with a calm and

placid countenance and a blue ribbon across his breast. With a quick

but easy step, he hurried on, and overtook King George just as he had

crossed an ante-room and was about to enter a large drawing-room

beyond--round which were grouped a great number of brilliant-looking

people in a blaze of light. He ventured to stop the sovereign in his

advance, saying something to him in a very low tone in the Latin

language; for many of the first nobility of England, at that period,

did not speak French or German, and the first George's stock of

English was not very copious.

"Who is he--who is he?" asked the monarch, also speaking Latin, though

not in its greatest purity. "What does he want at this hour?"

"He bears despatches from Lord Stair, sire," the nobleman answered who

had spoken to him; "and is charged to deliver them immediately into

your Majesty's own hands. He is the young gentleman whom your Majesty

declared to be more praiseworthy, on account of his speedy repentance

and atonement, than others who had never joined the rebellion."

He spoke still in a low tone; but the monarch replied, aloud, "Admit

him--admit him. He is a strange boy; but whatever comes from my Lord

Stair is worthy of immediate attention."

"The despatches were to be delivered in private, sire," observed the

other; "but the bearer was detained for want of horses on the Dover

road. Shall I--"

"So be it, so be it," replied the King. "Close the doors again. Make

everybody quit the room but you and Walpole, my lord; and then bring

the young man in."

The personage to whom he spoke proceeded to fulfil his commands, and

William Newark, in obedience to those commands, quitted the room with

a scowling brow, which was not brightened by the passing of Richard

Newark in the very doorway. He did not venture to say anything,

however, and the lad advanced with a small packet in his hand straight

towards the King, without any other salutation than merely a low bow.

"Bend your knee, bend your knee," said the elderly nobleman, in a

whisper, and the lad, after a moment's hesitation, did as he was

directed.

"I am glad to see you again, young gentleman," said King George. "You

have been to Paris, I suppose." And, at the same time, he took the

packet and broke it open. It contained two sheets; but, before he

proceeded to examine either of them, the monarch added a question. "Do

you know," he asked, "why Lord Stair happened to address me personally

instead of the Secretary?"

"Because the matter was for your Majesty's own ear," replied Richard

Newark, somewhat abruptly. "We do not give an apple to one boy to hand

it to another, for fear he should eat it himself."

The King laughed good-humouredly, and proceeded to read the first

sheet, which, beginning at the bottom of the first page, and ending at

the top of the fourth page, did not seem to contain much matter.

Whatever that matter was, it seemed to give the King great

satisfaction. "That is good; that is very good," he said. "He is an

invaluable man. We shall know how to honour him. All is safe in that

quarter." He then turned to the other sheet, and his face instantly

changed.

"Ha!" he said, with a curling lip, and an irritable eye "More about

this Lord Eskdale! He joined the rebels wittingly, adhered to them

till the last moment, was taken with arms in his hands, and he must

die. I have signed the warrant."

"Then kill me first, sir," rejoined Richard Newark, bluffly, "for I

first helped to engage him in the rebellion; and, had it not been for

his advice, I should never have quitted it. He went against his own

will, as your Majesty will see if you read; and, if he dies, it will

be as a bird that is caught in a trap because he was deceived by the

baits set for him. Your Majesty cannot understand till you read, any

more than I can see through that wall; for there is a great deal

beyond your sight or mine, unless a door be opened for each of us to

look through."

The King gazed at him for a moment in utter surprise, as if completely

astounded by the lad's impudence; but gradually a sense of the justice

of what he had heard seemed to overpower the slight sense of anger;

and, without answering a syllable, he turned his eyes to the paper,

and proceeded to read it to the very end. When he had done so, the

expression of his countenance was again greatly changed; a hesitating

and embarrassed look came upon his face. He put his finger under his

large wig, rubbed his temple, and pulled up one of his stockings,

which had somewhat slipped down the leg, and most likely tickled his

shin; then, turning to another gentleman present, he said, "Come with

me, Mr. Walpole--come with me, my Lord. I will go to my cabinet for a

moment."

Thus saying, he took two steps towards the door by which he had

entered, but then turned a sharp glance upon Richard Newark, who was

standing by with a vacant air, looking down at the hilt of his sword.

It was the same sword which Smeaton had given to him.

The monarch's look was certainly not very placable at first; but

something seemed to touch the risible organs in his brain or

heart--wherever they may lie--and we all know that in those organs a

great deal of the milk of human kindness is secreted. He laughed, low

but gaily, and said--

"Get away, sir, get away. Lord Stair has trusted his letters to a

somewhat indiscreet messenger."

"The best in the world could not have done better, your Majesty,"

replied Richard Newark, boldly; "for he has delivered them safely into

the best hands in the realm."

If he meant it, nothing could have been more dexterous than his reply.

It was a compliment, slightly veiled under a rudeness. But I very much

doubt whether he did mean it. However, King George smiled most

graciously, saying:

"Go, sir, go. We shall not forget you."

Richard Newark bowed and retired, while the King again took a step or

two towards the door.

Before he passed out of the room, however, the King turned to a

gentleman with a florid countenance, saying:

"We shall not meet that woman again, I hope; for I have not quite made

up my mind. Keep that man, Sir William Newark, from me. I do not like

him as I did."

So saying, and suffering Mr. Walpole and one of his attendants to

precede him, he followed slowly and thoughtfully out of the room.

The adjoining chamber was by this time vacant; the unhappy Lady

Eskdale had quitted it the moment after she had received so violent a

rebuff, and the courtiers who had been present when she sought to

force her petition upon the King, concluding that he had passed on

into the drawing-room, had thronged thither by another way. But a full

hour elapsed before the monarch joined his guests.

Now let us turn to the other scene which I have mentioned, in which

strong affection was busily engaged for Smeaton's deliverance, but in

a different manner. Let us break into the middle of it, however; for

what is to follow will explain what is passed.

"No, no, dearest lady," said old Mrs. Culpepper, in a low but eager

tone. "It must not be. The boat is prepared, the ship ready to sail

the moment his foot is on board. You must go with him, and all will be

safe."

"Then who is to stay and personate him in the prison?" asked Emmeline.

"Indeed it must be as I have said. Although you have bribed the people

to shut their eyes, yet I do not believe they dare venture to let

three people pass out when only two have passed in. In this I will

have my way, indeed. I fear nothing. I do not believe there is any man

so cruel as to punish a wife for saving her husband's life, I will

wrap myself in his _roquelaure_, and sit brooding over the fire. My

heart may beat; but no one will see it. My eyes may overflow; but I

will cover them with my hands. The first plan was the best--far the

best, and it is my bounden duty, as well as my earnest wish, to risk

anything to myself for his sake. Oh, Heaven what happiness will it be

hereafter, even if they should shut me in a prison and never let me

see his face again, to think that I have saved him!

"It is the same plan still, dear lady," replied Mrs. Culpepper, with

her usual calm and quiet manner; "but you must not, cannot execute it

in the way you propose. Consider your height, the difference between

your tiny figure and his. They would be blind indeed to mistake you,

and we cannot expect them to be so blind as that. I am shorter than he

is, but still I am very tall, and the difference will not easily be

seen. They will not mark very exactly, especially if he put his

handkerchief to his face and seem to weep. My clothes will nearly fit

him too; and--"

"And will you--will you stay in his place?" asked Emmeline, gazing in

her face, with a look of wonder and gratitude. "What will you say when

they find you there? You have no such excuse as I have."

"I will say, lady," replied the woman, earnestly, "that he drank the

milk from this breast as an infant; that he was to me as a child, when

God had taken my own; that he was my nursling, my beloved, my only

one, when I had lost all else, on earth who loved me, or whom. I could

love. Then, if they choose to shorten my days or make me pass them in

a prison, it is but little they can take away and little they can

inflict. It must be so indeed, Lady; and now we are only losing time.

They will not let us pass in or out after eleven. It is now past nine,

and it will take some time to disguise him as we wish. Haste then, to

get on your hood. I am quite ready. With this _sacque_ above my other

clothes, and a large French _capote_, everything is ready to hide his

face and figure."

Emmeline looked down thoughtfully; but she said nothing, for her heart

was too full to speak, and in a few minutes they set out upon their

adventure, followed by two men servants, whom the old housekeeper had

already prepared for the task in hand.

The moment they were gone, however, one of Sir John Newark's men, who

had lived at Ale for several years, and who had been accustomed to act

as one of his spies upon all that took place in the house, crept

silently out and pursued them with a stealthy step down the little

street. He saw them cross Tower Hill, and obtain admission at the

gates; and then, turning to the right, he approached a house in a

neighbouring street, hurrying his walk as much as he could without

converting it into a run. At the moment he reached the door, one of

the ordinary hackney coaches of the day drew up, and a gentleman in

somewhat brilliant attire descended with a slow step. The man waited

till he had paid the fare, and then plucked him by the sleeve,

whispering something in his ear. The gloomy and discontented face of

the other instantly cleared up, and he exclaimed, with a mocking

laugh--"Ha, ha! Then they have put themselves in the trap. I will away

to the Tower. You stay and watch at the gates. But no--better let them

be caught in the very act, just when they fancy themselves secure. It

will be more meritorious to bring him back after he has actually

escaped than to prevent him from doing so. You are sure, quite sure?

It would never do to take an old raven instead of a young hawk."

"I am quite sure," replied the man; "for I overheard it all, as I

listened at the hole I have made in the wall. This morning, I could

not make out which of the two it is who is to play his part; but just

now I heard, and I am quite certain. The old woman was his nurse, it

seems, and is ready to sacrifice her life for him."

"Well, well, go to the gates and watch," rejoined William Newark.

"Give instant information if they come forth. I will go and get a

messenger. There is one lives hard by."

The servant did as the other bade him; but he had not remained many

minutes near the gates of the Tower when some quick steps approached,

and he turned round towards the new corners.

"Ha, ha, old Truepenny!" said Richard Newark, taking the man's arm in

a firm grasp; "what are you on the watch for here?"

"Nothing, Master Richard," answered the man. "I am only just taking

the air."

"You won't let your intentions take the air, at all events," retorted

Richard Newark. "I know you, serviceable knave! This is the fellow,"

he continued, turning to the two young men who accompanied him, "this

is the fellow who informed of the smuggled tea."

"Then I will baste him to a stock fish," cried one of the youths,

brandishing his cudgel.

"No, no," interposed Richard, with a laugh. "Wait till you get him

back at Ale, and then tar and feather him. Hasten off, Argus, or we

will leave you no eyes to see out of."

The man had no hesitation in obeying; and, as soon as the young

gentleman had relaxed his grasp, ran across the open space as fast as

his legs would carry him.

Richard Newark then turned towards the gates again; but, taking three

steps in advance, paused, and, after a moment's thought, with his hand

pressed upon his brow, quietly glided away to a little distance,

followed by the two lads.

CHAPTER XLIII.

At the hour of half past ten, two persons issued forth from the room

in the Tower in which the young Earl of Eskdale had been long

confined. Both were dressed in female apparel; both were apparently

much affected, and it appeared very natural that they should be so, as

the following morning was appointed for the bloody spectacle of an

execution on Tower Hill. The limbs of the younger and shorter lady

trembled so much that they could hardly bear her up; but the other,

though apparently weeping and holding a handkerchief to her eyes,

seemed much more firm, and contrived to support the wavering steps of

her companion as they passed out into the passage.

The jailer who opened the door to give them exit from the room looked

in and saw a tall figure wrapped in a red cloak laced with gold,

seated by the fire, with the head leaning on the hand. "All is right,"

he cried, speaking to another man at the top of the stairs hard by.

"Pass them out!"

Hastening onward through the passages and courts of the Tower, as fast

as the agitation of the fair girl would permit, they came without

obstruction to the outer gate, where the two men servants were waiting

in the little gate-house. The turnkey who accompanied them seemed to

be a kind-hearted man for one in such an office; and, while the wicket

was being opened, he said--"Don't take it so much to heart, lady.

Perhaps he may be pardoned after all."

One of the tall warders who stood near gave him a grim contemptuous

look, and uttered a short cruel laugh; but the two visitors, without

reply, passed unopposed through the wicket, and stood upon Tower Hill.

The men servants followed, and the gate was closed.

Still keeping profoundly silent, they all walked on with great speed,

not towards the little street in which Emmeline had lived, but towards

the end of another street. When they were half way across the open

space, the latter of the two bent down, saying in a whisper--"Bear up,

bear up, dear Emmeline. We are well nigh safe now."

But hardly were the words uttered when two or three men came quickly

across, and one of them taught hold of the apparently elder woman's

arm, exclaiming, with a mocking laugh--"You are a tall lady, upon my

soul, to walk upon Tower Hill of a night! Gadzooks, we must see more

of your ladyship!"

Another man--who subsequently turned out to be a messenger sent in

pursuit--at the same moment seized the young Earl (for I need hardly

say it was he) with a hard strong grasp, exclaiming--"Henry, Earl of

Eskdale, I charge you, in the King's name, to make no resistance."

With a faint despairing cry Emmeline sank to the ground, while they

dragged Smeaton away from her side. The two servants, running up,

demanded--"Who are you who dare to stop these ladies?" and angry words

began to pass; but Smeaton interposed, saying--"It is in vain, it is

in vain. Look to your lady, my good men. Convey her home safely. God

bless you, my Emmeline!"

"What is the matter, what is the matter here?" cried Richard Newark,

suddenly appearing with two or three more, while the man who had first

seized upon Smeaton left him in the hands of the messenger, and raised

Emmeline from the ground.

"Ah, Master Dick!" he exclaimed, "have _you_ a finger in this pretty

pie? Better put yourself out of harm's way, young man, as fast as

possible."

"How dare you touch that lady, scoundrel?" demanded Richard, in a

voice furious with passion, as he recognised the person of William

Newark. "Take that for your pains!" And, holding the scabbard of his

sword with his left hand, he struck his cousin a furious blow with the

right.

William Newark started forward and drew his sword; Richard's was not

long in the sheath; but the servants interposed, and parted them for

the time, though not till words had been spoken--some in loud anger,

some in the low tones of intense hate--which bore their fruit soon

after. The last four of those words were uttered in a whisper.

"At seven, and alone," said Richard, in his cousin's ear.

The other nodded his head, and turned sullenly away, while Richard

aided to raise the unhappy girl, whose last hope had been extinguished

by her husband's recapture, and carried her, still insensible, to her

dwelling.

In the mean time, the messenger and two of his men conducted their

prisoner back to the gates of the Tower with feelings in the bosom of

Smeaton too dark, too painful, for description. To his own fate his

mind had been long made up, and the extinction of a brief hope of

escape added little to the load he had to bear; but the thought of

what might befall Emmeline in consequence of her effort to save him,

and of the certain consequences to the devoted woman who had placed

her liberty and even her life in peril for him, was too heavy to be

borne with anything like calmness.

Arrived at the gates of the Tower, they found the wicket, to their

surprise, open, and a good deal of confusion under the archway of the

gate-house. Some twelve or fourteen men were collected; a buzz of

tongues was going on; and some loud and angry words were being spoken.

The lieutenant-governor himself, in a silk dressing-gown, was present,

with a man beside him, holding a lantern; and just as the messenger

passed the wicket, still holding the prisoner fast by the arm, they

heard that officer exclaim--

"Shut the gate, shut the gate! Every one keep silence! If you can be

discreet, no harm may come of this. If not, some of your necks may pay

for it.--Ha! who have we here?"

"An escaped prisoner, Mr. Lieutenant," answered the messenger, who was

willing to take all possible credit to himself. "I am sharp enough;

and I got information of this fine plot."

The lieutenant-governor stared at him coldly, with no great appearance

of satisfaction in his countenance.

"Pray, Mr. Messenger," he said, after a moment's thought, "had you any

warrant for what you have done?"

The man looked aghast at the question, but replied, in a somewhat

insolent tone--

"I needed no warrant to apprehend a convicted traitor whom you have

suffered one way or another to slip out of the Tower."

The lieutenant still gazed at him with a frowning brow and teeth tight

shut, and then said--

"You may have to prove, Mr. Messenger, that you possess such a

justification of your conduct. _I_ tell you, you have not."

Then, turning to one of the warders, he said, in a sharp tone--

"Shut the wicket, I say, and lock it. Let no one pass in or out till I

return. Keep that man safe too," he continued, pointing to the

messenger, "and be perfectly silent with him. Let no one exchange a

word with him, as you value the King's favour.--My Lord of Eskdale,

will you do me the honour of accompanying me back to your chamber? I

wish to speak a few words with you.--Let go his arm, sir, this

instant!"

The messenger instantly relaxed his grasp; and Smeaton, not less

astonished than his captor, followed the lieutenant in silence back to

the room where he had been confined. They found the door open; but

within stood the turnkey, looking gloomy enough, with his arms crossed

upon his chest, and old Mrs. Culpepper, with the young Lord's

_roquelaure_ now cast off, seated in her usual attire before the fire.

The moment she heard steps, however, she started up, and, gazing at

Smeaton, clasped her hands together in silence, with a look of

unutterable anguish.

"Remove her to my lodging," said the lieutenant, speaking to the

turnkey, "and keep her there under your guard till I come."

The young Earl, however, started forward, and took her by the hand.

"Thanks, excellent woman!" he exclaimed, "a thousand thanks! I pray

God, as one of my last prayers, that he may defend you and my

Emmeline, and shield you from all the ill consequences of this night."

Before she could reply--for her voice was choked with sobs--she was

removed from the room; and the lieutenant, carefully closing the door,

said, with a faint and rueful smile--

"That dress does not become you, my Lord. Let me beg you to throw it

off, for I hardly know whether I am speaking to the Earl of Eskdale or

an old woman."

"That is easily done," replied Smeaton, casting off the loose garment

called a _sacque_, which was, for three-quarters of a century, a

favourite habiliment of the ladies of France and England. "Now, sir, I

am your prisoner again. I beseech you to leave me, for the last few

hours of my life, to the thoughts which befit the occasion; and, if it

be possible, to conceal the events which have taken place, so as to

shield that excellent creature and all others from the consequences."

"This is a very awkward affair, my Lord," observed the lieutenant,

thoughtfully; "and, upon my life, I do not well know what is

to be done. Will your Lordship answer me this one question on your

honour? Were any of the jailers--I do not wish you to specify the

individual--were any of the jailers accessory to your escape?"

"Not in the least, to the best of my knowledge and belief," replied

Lord Eskdale. "They have had from me the ordinary gratuities and

nothing more; nor am I aware of their having connived in the least.

They were deceived, as you yourself, perhaps, might have been by the

disguise."

"I thank your Lordship for that assurance," said the lieutenant; "for

it sets my mind greatly at ease; but yet I hardly know how to act."

"Methinks, if you were simply to report that I had endeavoured to

escape, and had been prevented, that would be all that your duty

requires."

"I do not know that," replied the lieutenant. "It is true, I never yet

heard of a pardon being revoked; but certain it is, that an attempt to

break prison--"

"A pardon!" exclaimed Smeaton, with his heart beating more vehemently

than it would have done at the sight of the block and axe. "What do

you mean, sir?"

"I mean, my Lord, exactly what I say," replied the

lieutenant-governor. "Just at the time when your Lordship must have

been preparing to effect your escape, the Secretary of State's

messenger brought me a letter, authorising me to announce to you His

Majesty's free pardon, and to say that, though it will not pass the

seal till to-morrow, you may consider yourself from this moment at

liberty. How the events of this night may be construed, and what I

ought to do in these circumstances, I really cannot tell. As a man of

honour, my Lord, what ought I to do?"

In a state of terrible agitation, Smeaton walked twice up and down the

room; and then, turning to the lieutenant, he said--

"No consideration, sir, shall make me ask you to neglect your

imperative duty. You must inform the King, however terrible the state

of suspense must be to me, and however perilous may be the result. I

could wish it, indeed, done immediately; but at this hour of the

night--"

"My Lord, you are, indeed, a noble man," replied the lieutenant; "and

I do not think you will lose by your conduct. I had retired to bed,

somewhat unwell, before the messenger arrived. He insisted upon my

being awakened, and some delay consequently occurred. Otherwise, the

pardon would have been announced to you before you made this attempt.

When I came to your room with the information, as I was commanded, I

found you gone. But I will tell you what I will do. His Majesty is

still up, for there is a court to-night; and I will immediately set

out and lay before him or the Secretary of State the facts as they

are. Stay! Perhaps it may be better for you to write to the King

yourself; and I will be your messenger. It is absolutely needful this

step should be taken at once. You have writing-materials here. Pray,

write as briefly as possible, while I put myself in a different dress

to present myself at the palace."

Thus saying, he left him; and Smeaton proceeded, with a rapid hand, to

write as follows:--

Sire--"Your Majesty's gracious clemency has been this moment announced

to me; and I beg to lay humbly the expression of my gratitude before

you. I know not anything but your own merciful consideration which can

have induced you to spare me, though I assure you, on my honour, that

the facts which I stated without proof at my trial, regarding the

causes which, if I may use the term, had driven me or misled me to

take arms, were strictly true. Let me also assure you that,

henceforth, neither directly nor indirectly, will I ever be found

opposing your title to a crown which I am now thoroughly convinced you

hold by the will of a great majority of the people, if you still

condescend to extend your mercy towards me. But at the same time, I

feel it right you should be informed that, at the very moment your

gracious pardon was notified at the Tower, I was engaged, without the

participation of any one within these walls, in an attempt to effect

my escape from prison, fully believing that in its success lay my only

chance for life. That attempt was frustrated; and I will not even

endeavour to persuade the royal officers of the Tower to conceal the

facts from you, but willingly leave my life at the disposition of a

monarch who has already shown himself more merciful towards me than I

could have expected."

He had hardly concluded when the lieutenant returned; and, in a few

minutes, the young nobleman was left once more alone, to wait with

painful anxiety for the result.

But, in the meanwhile, we must follow the lieutenant to the palace.

The Secretary of State was called out to speak with him; and, after a

brief conference, returned to the court. An hour passed, and a few

minutes more, while the lieutenant remained in an ante-room, waiting

the King's pleasure. At length, the sound of many people passing out

was heard, with the roll of carriages; and a page entering bade the

officer follow him to the King's closet. Unable to speak either French

or Latin, he could simply lay the Earl of Eskdale's letter before the

King, and trust to the secretary to translate it accurately, and give

any farther explanation. When the monarch had heard the whole,

however, he laughed good-humouredly, saying--

"Escape! Of course he did try to escape. What could a gentleman in his

situation do better? No, no; our sign-manual is to the pardon. It only

wants the seal, and we will not revoke it. We could not revoke a

pardon, gentlemen. Severity may be re-considered--mercy never.

Besides, it is clear from the evidence of Lord Stair, and from that of

Colonel Churchill, who took Thomas Higham's dying deposition, that

this young nobleman had no will to the work they put him upon; that he

was at heart our own, notwithstanding the prejudices of his family;

and that the machinations of this Sir John Newark, and others, abused

a somewhat rash and hasty disposition. Something must be done with

that same knight. I fear we cannot touch him for treason; but as to

seditious practices, there must be some law which will affect him."

"I am not sure, Sire," replied Mr. Stanhope, one of the secretaries of

state, "that this gentleman's acts do not amount to treason. His

letter to the Earl of Mar is undoubtedly treasonable."

"Well, well, see to it, see to it," said the King, "As to this young

lord, let the pardon pass. He may be set free at once."

"His Majesty says he will not revoke the pardon, Mr. Lieutenant," said

the Secretary. "You may set Lord Eskdale at liberty. But I think it

would be better if he were to pass some time in France."

The lieutenant of the Tower bowed and withdrew. Much to his

satisfaction, few questions had been asked; and, returning to the

Tower as fast as a pair of slow horses would draw him, he entered once

more that abode of gloom and sorrow. He found the messenger who had

seized Smeaton on Tower Hill, still in the gate-house, and ordered his

liberation, saying--

"You have somewhat exceeded your duty, sir; but it was in ignorance. I

find that the Earl of Eskdale's pardon was already signed. I have no

orders with regard to you. So you may go free; but you had better be

cautious."

He then proceeded straight to the room of his former prisoner, bearing

him the joyful tidings that his pardon was confirmed.

"As to this old lady," he said, "who chose to personate a young

gentleman, nothing whatever has been said with regard to her; and

therefore I suppose I must take upon myself the responsibility of

letting her go, having no warrant to detain her. With regard to

yourself, my lord, you can either remain here for the night, or depart

if you please. But I must not fail to inform you that Mr. Secretary

Stanhope hinted it might be better for you to pass some time quietly

in France. Will you pass out to-night or to-morrow?"

"To-night, assuredly," replied the young Earl. "I would fain bear the

comfortable tidings myself to those whose hearts are now full of

mourning, and first to that good old woman who has risked so much for

me."

"Come with me, then," said the lieutenant.

In about half an hour Smeaton, holding his good old nurse by the hand,

passed free through the gates of the Tower, with one of the governor's

servants carrying his little stock of baggage after them.

They took their way straight towards the street in which Emmeline's

abode had been fixed; and, though it was now nearly three o'clock in

the morning, lights were still to be seen through the crevices of the

shutters. It was with no slight anxiety that Smeaton waited for the

opening of the door, and it seemed long before it was unfastened. At

length, however, one of the men who had accompanied the Lady Emmeline

that night to the Tower appeared with a light, and uttered an

exclamation of joyful surprise when he saw the faces of those who had

just knocked.

"Hush!" said Smeaton, in a low voice. "How is your lady?"

"Oh, my lord, she will be well enough now," replied the man.

"Hark!" said Richard Newark, from the little parlour. "Hark! Emmeline,

look up. I told you so. There is hope--there is comfort still." And,

as he spoke, he threw open the door.

Emmeline had been sitting with het fair face, deluged in tears,

covered by her hands; but, at her young cousin's words, she looked

up--started forward--and in an instant was in her husband's arms.

I need not pause upon all the explanations that were given. I need not

tell the joy that was felt; and, indeed, as to the farther events of

that night, it is only necessary to say that, after hearing but a very

small portion of Smeaton's story, Richard Newark left the lovers to

their own happiness.

On the following morning, about eight o'clock, a note, written in a

crabbed boy-like hand, was given to the Earl of Eskdale, who opened it

hastily and read these words:--

"Noble friend,--I am going to try, this morning, whether you are a

good fencing-master, and whether the blade you gave me is worth

handling. Should I not join you and dear Emmy by eight o'clock, you

will hear something of me in Mary-le-bone fields. God bless you both

for a pair of loving turtles. If you don't see him again, think, from

time to time, of

"POOR DICK."

Emmeline had not yet risen; and Smeaton, calling some of the servants

hastily together, set out with terrible feelings of apprehension, for

the spot which the note had indicated, and which, I may remark, was

notorious at the time for the number of duels which it witnessed.

Calling some people, who were better acquainted with the locality than

themselves, to their aid, they searched the fields, which then

extended where now stands Baker Street and the adjacent masses of

houses, for some time without success; but, at length, they came upon

the body of a man lying on his back, with his sword still clutched in

his grasp, an old scar on his brow, and a sword-wound right through

his chest. Life had evidently been extinct for some time; and Smeaton,

who knew him well, bestowed little thought upon him.

Near the spot where he lay, which was one pool of gore, the ground was

again dabbled with blood; and, tracking the drops which marked the

frosty grass for nearly three hundred yards, they came to a place

where, under some tall trees, and with his back leaning against one of

them, sat Richard Newark, near a stile which he had apparently

attempted, in vain, to reach. His face was ashy pale, and his hand

rested languidly against the tree; but he still held a handkerchief,

sopped in blood, to his right side, as if to staunch the bleeding of a

severe wound. He could not speak nor even lift his head at first; but

Smeaton, while one of the men ran off for a surgeon and some

restoratives, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and with remarkable skill soon

contrived to stop the current which was draining away his life. He

recovered a little in a few minutes; and, after the arrival of the

surgeon, who immediately gave him some of the essences then in vogue,

looked up, with a light smile, in his friend's face, saying, "Ha, ha,

Eskdale! I have paid our friend all debts; but that which vexed the

scoundrel most was that he should be killed by the hand of a boy, as

he called me. How he did curse when he was dying! Well, you may set up

for a fencing-master when all other trades fail, though he did whip me

his point over the arm, because I did not turn my wrist quick enough,

as you taught me."

The surgeon insisted upon his keeping silence; and a door, taken off

the hinges, being obtained, he was placed upon it and carried away to

the nearest house where lodging could be procured. There the wound he

had received was more fully examined, and proved to be in reality of

no very dangerous character, except from the great loss of blood it

had occasioned. Before evening, he was better and stronger; and the

sight of Emmeline and her husband by his bedside seemed to revive and

cheer him greatly. But as the tidings of another fatal duel in

Mary-le-bone fields began to spread, inquiries and investigations were

set on foot which, it was evident, could not long be baffled. The fact

of the duel having taken place without seconds, or witnesses, rendered

the youth's situation rather perilous; and a long consultation took

place that night between the Earl of Eskdale and the surgeon.

On the following morning, early, a ship in the Thames, bound for

Dunkirk, received some five or six persons on board, and set sail

immediately. Amongst them was Richard Newark, who was carried into the

vessel on a mattress. There was also the young and beautiful Countess

of Eskdale, somewhat pale and anxious of look, who sat upon the deck

as they dropped down the river, with her hand resting on that of a

tall dignified lady, advanced in life and habited in deep mourning.

The rest of the party consisted of Smeaton, two men servants, the good

old woman who had played such a conspicuous part in the events which

have been narrated, and a maid servant.

There can be no doubt that the government at that time connived at the

escape of many persons from the rigour of the law; and certain it is

that the vessel I have mentioned was suffered to set sail without any

obstruction. The passage was smooth and easy; and the whole party

landed safely on the shores of France.

CHAPTER XLIV.

The darker scenes of the early part of the reign of George I. had

passed away, and, though there were troubles and contentions in many

parts of Europe, and conspiracies and designs against the existing

government in England, general tranquillity reigned in this island,

and prosperity and happiness were following fast upon the steps of

peace.

But I must lead the reader away from England to a small village in

France, some eight or nine miles from the capital; a sufficient

distance to retain all its rustic quietness, and yet near enough to

allow the intelligence of the great world to penetrate before it had

grown very stale. At the distance of half a mile from this village was

placed a small French château, built in a little trim park on a rising

ground. The château had nothing remarkable about it; it was just like

all other châteaux at the same period; a congregation of oddly-shaped

masses of building, with several little round towers, having conical

slated roofs, like candles with extinguishers on their tops. It had a

sunny and pleasant aspect, however, and an avenue of fine old walnut

trees ran up to it from the high road.

In a small room in this château, very quietly furnished, sat a group

of people, with some of whom the reader is already acquainted,

enjoying a pleasant dessert of wild strawberries and light Burgundy

wine. Perfect contentment was upon all their countenances, and harmony

in all their hearts. One young man, indeed, was pale and grave, though

serene in aspect.

But I must begin with those of whom the reader as yet knows little.

They consisted of two elderly people and one young lady. The first was

a fine dignified man, somewhat beyond the middle age, with hair very

grey but with eyes still bright and keen. The second was a lady

younger, but not by many years; and, though they were both advanced in

life, as I have said, they continued to call each other by the names

of early affection.

Passing from one part of the chain of life to another very distant, we

must notice that bright-looking curly-headed boy, little more than two

years old, seated on the knee of that very beautiful girl whom he

calls "mother," in the good old Saxon tongue. It is Emmeline's boy,

and I need not say who is that gentleman by her side. An old lady

close by, now a little bowed with age, is the Dowager Countess of

Eskdale.

But who are the two whom I have mentioned as rather beyond middle

life? Emmeline calls them "father, mother;" and looks at them with

love none the less because she was so long bereaved of their fostering

care. The pale young man in a military dress, with signs of mourning,

too, in his apparel, is Richard Newark, and that fat, round,

rosy-pippin personage--Heaven! what a crowd of leaden figures rush

upon the imagination as one looks at him!

"It is strange, Dick," said Lord Eskdale, "that you and good Van Noost

should have arrived here this morning after we have not met for so

long a time! Do you know, Emmeline," he continued, turning to his

wife, "that this is the anniversary of the day on which I first set

eyes on that dear face?"

"Do you think I can ever forget it, Henry?" she answered. "It is the

first of my days of brightness. It is like a sweet song remembered in

a happy dream."

"And how can I ever thank you, my dear Lord," continued her husband,

addressing her father, "for giving me that commission to seek and

regain for you your daughter, which has ended in bestowing such

happiness on myself?"

"There are two things, my dear Harry, for which many sage friends have

blamed me," replied Lord Newark, "which I can never regret, and of the

wisdom of which even those who blamed me are now convinced; the one,

my having trusted a young man, whom I knew to be the soul of real

honour, with so delicate a task; the other, my having set at nought

all ideas of imaginary dignity, and, as a merchant, having secured to

my family that competence which I had lost by doing my duty as a

soldier. I am proud of both these acts, and both have ended in

happiness. Had my poor boys but lived to see this day, there would be

little in the past even to bring one cloud of melancholy over my

setting sun."

Richard Newark looked up in his face as he spoke, and asked--

"Would you never regret, my good Lord and cousin, having lost in the

cause of a bad prince those fair lands in Devonshire, to which I am

sure, if you feel like me, you must cling even in memory?"

"Not a whit, Dick," replied the old nobleman. "The favours of fortune,

or, as some would call them better, the gifts of God, are loans, my

dear boy, to be resumed when it is His pleasure; and--"

"Then I have borrowed them long enough," interrupted Richard Newark,

in his abrupt way; "and it is high time they should be restored."

"No, no, Dick," said Lord Newark. "They are yours since your father's

death. I have nought to do with them, and could not enjoy them even if

you gave them up."

"They are not mine at all," replied the young man, "never have been

mine, never have been my father's."

"But the forfeiture, the forfeiture!" exclaimed Lord Newark. "If

they are not yours, whose are they?"

"Emmeline's," replied her cousin. "The forfeiture extended not to her.

They were settled by deed upon your dear lady and her children, male

and female, two years before the forfeiture. You lost them by drawing

the sword against King William. She lost them, and your sons lost

them, by accompanying you in the war and in your flight. You four are

specially named in the act of attainder; and the lands fell to her at

once as the next heir. The cunning lawyers, I believe, outwitted

themselves by making the black and white parchment so particular; but

the original act, always preserved by my father, was found by Van

Noost when he went down to patch up an old monument in Aleton church

by putting a leaden hand on a stone figure. I was always sure there

was something of the kind, or my father would not have kept such a

sharp watch upon Emmy. He was not a man to keep pet birds in a cage

for the sole purpose of feeding them and hearing them sing. God rest

his soul! He did it all for me; and so I must say no more."

Lord Eskdale looked to Emmeline, with a thoughtful enquiring glance;

and she read his meaning in an instant.

"I will not take them, Dick," she said. "I cannot, will not, take them

from you. Am I not right, Henry?"

"But you must, sweet lady," replied Richard. "With what is left, I

have enough, and more than enough; so that you do not make me pay back

all that has been unjustly taken. The lands were conveyed to my father

by gift of the crown, saving the appearance of any nearer heir not

named in the act of forfeiture. The lands are yours therefore, and

ever have been yours. I will have nothing to do with them. I tell you,

dear cousin, I have enough, and far more than enough, for a single

man."

"But you may marry, Richard," said Emmeline. "You are very young to

make vows of celibacy."

"Never, never, Emmy," he said. "I will not transmit to others an

infirmity." And he laid his finger significantly upon his forehead.

A moment of grave silence succeeded; and then, looking at her father,

Emmeline, said--

"Would that I could give them back to you, my father!"

"There is nothing to prevent you, Emmy," said Richard Newark. "Lord

Stair tells me that your father can hop over the sea and perch upon

Ale at once, if he will but promise to live peaceably under the

government that exists. In a word, the attainder can be reversed in a

moment upon such a promise. His not having joined in the last affair,

where we all burnt our fingers more or less, has won him high favour."

Lord Newark bent down his head upon his hand, and fell into deep

thought.

"But come, let us talk of other things," said Richard Newark, after

pausing for an instant. "Business is dull work; and that is settled.

There is only one thing you must promise me, Eskdale and Emmeline.

When you are Lord and Lady of Ale Manor, you must let me have my

little room up two pair of stairs when I come to see you; and old Mrs.

Culpepper, when she is housekeeper again, must not make the maids

throw what she used to call my rubbish into the fire."

Emmeline held out her hand to him kindly; and her husband assured him

that he should be as free as air in any house of his.

"I have already made free with this house, at all events," replied

Richard Newark; "for I have asked Colonel Churchill to come down here

to-morrow. He wants much to see you again, Eskdale; and, I can tell

you, you owe him something more than a dinner and a bottle of wine."

"He was exceedingly courteous to me when I was a prisoner," said the

young Earl; "and I shall be very happy to see him."

"Ay, but you owe him more than that," answered Richard Newark.

"Let me tell him, let me tell him," cried Van Noost, who had sat

marvellously silent after the allusion to the leaden hand upon the

stone figure. "Let me tell him; for I first ferreted out the facts,

and got Colonel Churchill to write them down for my Lord Stair. After

he had received your surrender at Preston, my noble Lord, he went to

visit that rascal, Tom Higham, on his death-bed, and from his own lips

heard that the fellow had deceived you; that, bribed to lead you on

into the rebellion, he had given your letter into the hands of the

Colonel of Lord Stair's regiment, who tore it open, read it, and sent

it back, bidding him tell you that Lord Stair was in Paris, and that

if you would send a messenger to him, doubtless everything would be

explained, as that noble Lord had never failed in his word; not one

syllable of which the rascal told you."

"Heaven forgive him!" said Smeaton. "He did much harm."

The conversation proceeded in the same tone. But enough of it has been

given for all the purposes of this book. Were I to paint another

scene, it would be that of Christmas eve at Ale Manor House, where,

round the wide fire-place of the great hall, might be seen the faces

of the same persons as were seated round the table of that small

_château_.

But the story is long enough; and the reader's fancy must supply the

rest.

FOOTNOTES.

[Footnote 1: It was the place where the Earl of Derwentwater first

openly took part in the insurrection.]

[Footnote 2: Mr. Patten declares that he was the man who saved

Forster's life; but this is somewhat doubtful.]

THE END.