It was still in the midst of summer, but London was yet crowded,
although the Parliament had risen. The city was in great agitation,
too; for news of a battle, and the defeat of Monmouth--the great
Protestant leader, whom the Protestant Church had failed to
support--the idol of the people, whom the people, or, at least, all
those who were influential among them, had left to perish--had reached
London on the preceding night by rapid post from the West. A general
gloom hung over the metropolis in despite of the rejoicing of the
court; and many a man began to regret, too late, that he had not
mounted horse and buckled on his sword when every arm was needful, and
every purse should have been opened to support the cause which fully
one half of the nation had affected, at least, to advocate for many a
long year. But a multitude of those whom timidity, doubts of his
right, suspicion of his character, or disapproval of his conduct, had
kept from joining the standard of the great insurgent, although truly
attached to the cause of religious liberty, very soon had personal
motives furnished to them for bitterly repenting that they had not
thrown their weight into the scale, while there was a possibility of
the balance being turned. The slightest suspicion of having held
communication with Monmouth, or the smallest possible evidence of
dissenting from the Episcopal Church on any side but popery, was
treated as a high offense: rights, guarantees, statutes, were set at
naught, and many hundreds were snatched from their homes and cast into
prison without having committed any other crime than that of
entertaining a conscientious objection to the government and the forms
of the English Church.
Thus the gloom was increased through the city; nor was it diminished
when men found that a sort of trade in accusations was once more about
to commence; that the royal bounty was prepared to reward the
informer; and that a multitude of harpies round the court were all
ready to make a merchandise of clemency, as far as it could be wrung
from the hard, cold heart of James the Second.
All was gloom, then, although bells were ringing, flags flying, and
bonfires prepared, when a young gentleman, attended by two or three
horsemen, rode quickly along what was then known as the Reading road,
and entered the town without slackening his pace. He was impelled by
even stronger motives than the reward which had hurried forth the
earlier posts; and, though he took his way toward Whitehall, it was
not at the gates of the royal palace he dismounted. In one of the
streets in the vicinity of the court there was a large house, to which
I have before led the reader; and in one of the rooms on the ground
floor, at the moment the young stranger arrived before the door, sat
old Lord Woodhall, reading a broad sheet which gave an account of the
battle. He had been very much changed by the events of the last few
weeks. He was no longer the stout, hale, robust country gentleman
which he had previously appeared. He was shrunk and exceedingly thin,
and old age was marked upon every feature of his face. He was tall and
upright still, for the very fierce and angry feelings which consumed
his corporeal frame served to give him an energy and a fire which
sustained him with unnatural strength.
The middle of a paragraph had been reached, detailing with many
blunders and exaggerations the closing scene of the battle, the flight
of Monmouth from the field, and the direction which he was positively
asserted to have taken, when the door was flung open at once, and
Robert Woodhall entered, booted and spurred, and muddy from the road.
"News! news! my noble lord," he exclaimed, with a triumphant air.
"I have it here, boy," answered Lord Woodhall, rapping the paper with
his finger.
"Ay, but better news than that, noble kinsman," said the young man,
with a laugh; and then, keeping up a tone partly jesting, partly
serious, he asked, "What did you promise me, my lord, if I put Ralph
Woodhall, the murderer of your son, into the hands of justice?"
"Why," said Lord Woodhall, with a good deal of hesitation, "I promised
I would give you Margaret, as your mother wishes; but I find she does
not love you--can not love you, she says."
"Perhaps because she loves her brother's murderer," replied the young
man, bitterly.
The old nobleman started as if a serpent had bit him, and exclaimed,
"Robert, Robert, do not set my whole blood on fire at such a thought!
Beware what you do, sir--beware what you insinuate! Is the man taken?
is he in prison?"
"Oh no, he is not," replied Robert Woodhall, in a cool, indifferent
tone; "I know where he is; I can put him in the hands of justice in
eight-and-forty hours. In double that time he may escape, for he goes
whither he will, and disports himself as a gentleman at large. But
what is that to me, if Margaret loves him better than me--if your
promise is to be unavailing, and your commands to be set at naught?"
The old man advanced sternly toward him, took his hand and wrung it
hard, murmuring in a low, fierce, emphatic tone, "Robert, you shall
have her! But put him in my power--but give him to the arm of the law,
and you shall have her, with all my estates, at my death. I say not
how soon she shall be yours; she must have time--I must have time; but
she shall be yours, I pledge you my honor, and my conscience, and my
soul. May God curse me and spare the murderer if I break my vow."
"That is all I can desire," answered Robert. "We will not hurry the
fair lady; and I think, my dear lord, that I can soon contrive to
clear her mind of any love for Master Ralph, if such a fancy has ever
crossed it. There are certain tales down there, which, even without
all that poor Henry knew--and told her, I believe--of this very
honest, religious young man's fidelity to her, must soon banish from
her heart every trace of affection toward him."
"It is false!" cried Lord Woodhall, vehemently. "She has no affection
toward him. She dislikes you, because she knows you to be a libertine
and a profligate."
"Better that, my lord, than libertine, profligate, and hypocrite too,"
answered Robert Woodhall, somewhat nettled.
"That is true, indeed," replied the old nobleman; "but no more of
that; my word is given, and it shall be kept. Now, where is this
man--this murderer?"
"Down in the West, there, my lord," replied Robert Woodhall; "but,
saving your good pleasure, I must have the management of all this.
None but myself must place him in the hands of the officer. I would
not share that task with any one for half a kingdom."
"Thou art a fine lad, and shall have your way," answered old Lord
Woodhall, attributing to regard for his dead son the zeal which
proceeded in truth from mere personal hatred. "What is it you want
now? How is it you intend to proceed?"
"I ask but a letter from you to the secretary of state," replied
Robert, "desiring him to give me a messenger for the apprehension of
Ralph Woodhall, and for his safe transmission to Dorchester jail, and
you shall have information that he is there lodged by the very next
post from the West.
"The letter you shall have," replied the old man; "and I will keep my
word, let come what may. Seek me pen and ink."
The letter to the secretary of state was accordingly written, and,
without even asking to see Margaret, Robert Woodhall went on his way
rejoicing. At the office of the secretary of state he was detained
some time, for much important business was going on in consequence of
the late important events in the West. An intimation given, however,
to one of the clerks, that he was the brother of Lord Coldenham, and
fresh from Sedgemoor, at length obtained admission for him, and the
secretary received him with much courtesy.
"Your brother's regiment did good service, Mr. Woodhall," he said;
"you were with it, I suppose."
"I command a company in that regiment, my lord," answered Robert, with
the color coming somewhat warmly into his cheek from a knowledge that
in reality he had not been in the battle at all--and that by his own
fault; "but your lordship's time is precious, I know, and the business
I come upon is very urgent."
Sunderland fixed his eyes upon him for one instant very steadfastly,
and the slightest possible smile curled his acute lip, while he said,
"What is the business, Mr. Woodhall? I shall be most happy to serve
you."
"If you will read that letter, my lord, you will see," replied Robert;
and the secretary took and perused it rapidly. He made some
difficulties, however. It was not customary, he remarked, to send a
secretary of state's messenger to apprehend any one accused of any
thing but state offenses. Common constables, or any ordinary officer
of police, might be employed.
"It is not improbable, my lord," replied Robert, who had a vigorous
perseverance in his nature which was not easily baffled--a touch of
his mother's strong determination--"it is not improbable, my lord,
that affairs of state may be complicated with other offenses in this
instance. This man was certainly upon the field at Sedgemoor. He is
also accused of harboring, comforting, and defending, against the
officers of the law, a noted Dissenting preacher named Calloway."
Sunderland still seemed to hesitate, and Robert immediately added, "If
your lordship has any scruple, however, it can easily be removed, I
think, by an application to the king, who I know is extremely anxious
that this notorious offender should be brought to justice. I can go to
his majesty with Lord Woodhall, and return in a few minutes;" and he
raised his hat slightly, as if about to depart.
"That is not necessary," said Sunderland, quickly; "I think you have
made out a case; but recollect that the office can not be charged with
the expenses, unless the young man be taken. Are you prepared to pay
them, should you fail?"
"Perfectly," replied Robert Woodhall; "for I am certain of his
apprehension, if we proceed quickly. I only trust your lordship will
impress upon the messenger the necessity of dispatch."
All was soon arranged to his satisfaction, and Robert Woodhall set off
with the messenger in two hours from that time.
A change, which may at first sight appear strange, came upon him as he
journeyed. Courage, like all other qualities, is very variously
modified in different men; and, besides the two great divisions of
moral and physical, it has an infinite number of subdivisions. Some
men--especially those of great imagination and hypochondriac
temperament--are hesitating and even timid in the contemplation
of distant danger, but become bold as lions, and perfectly
self-possessed, in the moment of action. Others--and of these Robert
Woodhall was one--are exceedingly brave in determination, but somewhat
fearful in execution. He had, when he set out for London from
Somersetshire, regarded the apprehension of his cousin Ralph with a
malevolent pleasure, which made him resolve to see the work done
himself, and to have the satisfaction of witnessing with his own eyes
Ralph's consignment to a dungeon. He pictured to himself, with great
delight, the anguish of the man he hated, and his removal out of the
soft guardianship of Churchill--from which Robert sincerely believed
he could and would escape as soon as the hot pursuit after Monmouth
was over--to all the horrors and inconveniences of a county prison of
those days. All along the road to London he had amused himself with
such contemplations; he had gloated over Ralph's anticipated
sufferings, and he had pictured each particular scene as it arose. But
when he had obtained what he wanted, and was riding back with the
messenger and his followers toward Somersetshire, he began to doubt
and hesitate. Ralph was fiery, and Robert thought him more so than he
really was. There was no certainty that he might not resist; and if he
did, his resistance was likely to be dangerous. Robert feared, too,
that his cousin might speak unpleasant truths regarding him, and he
went on in his own mind swelling up objections to any further personal
interference, till in the end he determined to put the messenger and
his followers so far upon the track that there was no possibility of
their missing the game, and then leave them to hunt it down
themselves, taking all the credit to himself, and avoiding every risk.
When the small party arrived at Taunton, Robert was anxious that they
should proceed some way further that night; but the messenger, though
a resolute and active officer, was a man who loved his comforts, and
he would only consent to go on after having remained a couple of hours
to rest and dine.
Robert had no stomach for his meat; for he had heard of the removal of
Churchill's quarters, and he was anxious lest the prey should escape
him. He wandered out, then, from the little inn at which he and his
companions had alighted, and walked through the principal street of
the town, where nothing but signs of gloom and dismay met him on every
side, till, standing at the door of a larger inn, he beheld a good
portly man in the livery of his family.
On inquiry, he found, much to his surprise, that his mother was in the
house, and that a messenger from her had been dispatched that very
evening to Lord Coldenham. In a few moments he was in Lady Coldenham's
presence, and she showed as much gladness at the sight of her favorite
son as she ever displayed on any occasion. She seemed much surprised
to hear that he had been in London, but interrupted him in the course
of his narrative to say, "You should not have been absent, Robert,
when you knew that Ralph Woodhall was in the neighborhood. He has
escaped the hands of Colonel Kirke, I find, but he must not escape us.
There is much depends upon it."
She paused, and gazed upon him with a fixed, glassy sort of stare, and
then added, "He must be taken--he must be tried--he must die! If he
escapes you, you will repent your negligence long and bitterly. He is
a viper in the path which must be crushed, and you should not have
quitted the place till he was in prison."
"If your ladyship knew what I went for," replied Robert, "you would
approve of my going. You know, of course, that the murderer was
concealed at the house of Lady Danvers--"
"Give him no hard names, Robert," replied the old lady, with a bitter
smile; "it signifies not to us whether he be a murderer or not. As to
that pretty little bright-eyed doll, Hortensia Danvers, she must not
stand in my way. She will find herself overmatched, with all her wit.
But what were you going to say? Kirke searched her house; but the bird
was flown. I know all that."
"But you do not know, my dear lady and mother," replied Robert, "that
since then, Ralph Woodhall has fallen into the hands of Lord
Churchill, who allows him to be what he calls a prisoner on
parole--that is, gives him every opportunity of flying when he likes.
Churchill would certainly not give him up to a common constable; and I
went to London, first, to get a messenger to see our admirable
cousin--as you object to the term murderer--lodged safely in prison,
and, secondly, to secure for myself the fruits of my discoveries in
pretty Margaret's hand and Lord Woodhall's estates."
Old Lady Coldenham shook her head gravely. "There will be difficulties
there, I fear," she said; "the old lord's last letter on the subject
was as cold as ice."
"The difficulties on his part are all removed," replied Robert. "I
have his promise, sealed by every sort of vow and imprecation, that if
I lodge Ralph in prison, I shall have Margaret's hand. Any difficulty
will lie with her; but they must be overborne."
"What has she to do with it?" exclaimed Lady Coldenham; "she must, of
course, marry whom her father tells her. His promise is quite enough,
and he will not break it."
"It is to fulfill my part of the bond that I am now hurrying back,"
replied Robert; "and as Churchill has no knowledge whatever that I
have made any discovery, we shall take him by surprise before he can
afford Master Ralph the means of escape. The messenger is here in the
town with me: a greedy beast, who spends half his time in eating. I
trust he has done his supper by this time, and therefore, with your
leave, will go and see if he be ready to ride forward. Where shall I
find your ladyship when I have fulfilled my task?"
"The moment all is safe, send me a messenger," said the old lady; "and
if I have the news that he is lodged in the clutches of the law, you
will find me at Ormebar Castle the day after to-morrow. But mind he
escapes you not. There is more hangs upon his life than you know of,
Robert."
"He shall not escape," answered her son, confidently; "but there is
one other man I would fain catch hold of too, if I could do so without
burning my fingers--one who has insulted me, and been the chosen
companion--servant, as he calls him--of this serpent Ralph: I mean old
Stilling's son."
The color rose in the old woman's cheek; and she answered sternly,
"Let him alone! You have behaved very ill, boy, and your folly will
cost me five thousand pounds. How dared you meddle with the old man's
daughter? You might have made concubines of all the girls in the
village but her, without my caring; but you know not what you have
done. Touch not the young man, however--do no one act against him, as
you value all that you possess on earth. And now away. See that Ralph
escapes you not; that is your business for the present. We may have
more to settle hereafter."
Robert took his departure gladly, for there was a look upon his
mother's face which he knew too well to remain exposed to her anger
willingly; and the result of his further proceedings is already known
to the reader.