'I CRAVE YOUR MAJESTY'S PARDON WITH ALL MY HEART.' Page 266.
'I CRAVE YOUR MAJESTY'S PARDON WITH ALL MY HEART.' Page 266.
A Narrative of the Times of James II.
BY
M. AND C. LEE
AUTHORS OF
'JOACHIM'S SPECTACLES' 'ROSAMOND FANE' ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY J. AYTON SYMINGTON
GRIFFITH FARRAN BROWNE & CO. LIMITED
35 BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN
LONDON
PREFACE.
In the following narrative we have made use of two entirely distinct anecdotes: the history of the 'Maids of Taunton'—which is a well-known episode in the record of the Duke of Monmouth's Rebellion—and the romantic story of the marriage between Lord Sunderland's daughter and the Earl of Clancarty. But although these incidents have in reality no connection with each other whatever, we have ventured to combine the two, and found upon them the adventures of the young Lord Desmond and Frances Dalrymple.
M. AND C. LEE.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
LADY GREENSLEEVES' STORY (CONTINUED)
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
THE OAK STAIRCASE.
It was the opinion of Robin Dalrymple that Mangnall was a humbug. Such, at least, was the fact that he announced, in tones both loud and decided, as he closed a somewhat battered copy of that author's works with a tremendous clap, and tossed it contemptuously on the table. Lessons were over in the schoolroom at Horsemandown; and Miss Gregory, at the writing-table in her own peculiar corner, was doing her best to be deaf for a few moments to her pupils' clamour, while she tried to finish a letter in time for the post. Now the Horsemandown schoolroom was hardly the place one would choose for the purpose of writing a letter at any time—much less at four o'clock in the afternoon, when the operation of 'clearing away' was taking place. Fortunately, however, Miss Gregory was used to it; and her pen continued to scratch away valiantly, in spite of the opening and shutting of drawers, the tumbling of books or slates on the floor, the heavy bang of the piano lid, and the uproar of shrill voices that almost drowned the rest of the clatter around her. 'Yes,' repeated Robin, taking up a perilous position on the table between two inkstands: 'Mangnall is a humbug! Silvia, don't you agree with me?'
But Silvia was busily engaged with a sponge and a gallipot of water, generally known in the family as 'the schoolroom jam-pot;' and as she never could answer when appealed to suddenly, she was obliged to pause in her occupation of washing the slates, and lean both elbows on the table in order to meditate. Whereupon Sydney burst in: 'Humbug, of course! All lessons are humbug, except perhaps geography. That's the only one that has something like sense in it.'
Robin raised his eyebrows incredulously. 'Sense in geography! Why, Syd, if there is a thing that's utterly abominable and senseless, that's it. To have to remember what's the capital of what, and where rivers "take their source," and to find out the latitude and longitude of wretched places where one never goes, and never wants to go!'
'But that is the very thing,' said Sydney. 'I do want to go there; and, what is more, I mean to go some day when I'm a sailor, and sail round the world. I want to go to China and India and South America—Egypt, of course (not Europe. I don't care for stupid, civilised places).'
'Oh Syd!' interrupted Silvia's deliberate little voice. 'Not care to see Edinburgh or Rome! Think of Horatius. Don't you care to see places where things happened long ago, or where celebrated people used to live? I did so like going over the Tower last year, and seeing where the poor little princes were murdered, and where Sir Walter Raleigh was imprisoned, and putting my hand on the very same stone that perhaps his had been on.'
'But why?' asked Sydney. 'It makes no difference. The stone looks just the same, whether he touched it or not.'
Silvia could not tell why. She could only knit her brows, and repeat in a meditative tone her favourite phrase, 'Somehow—I don't know,' till Sydney grew tired of waiting for an answer, and began again.
'Well, all that I can say is, that I don't care a farthing for the Tower of London, or Horatius, or Sir Walter Raleigh, or any of those people. I never can remember which is which, or what they did. I want to travel, and discover new countries, and fight wild beasts and savages, and see all sorts of extraordinary plants and animals, and forests full of poisonous snakes and fire-flies, and tremendously big ferns, and humming-birds, and get into all sorts of dangers, and go where no one has ever been before. Oh, that would be glorious!'
'Somehow,' began Silvia, rousing herself from a reverie, and going on rather languidly with her slate-cleaning duties—'I don't know—(well, you needn't laugh whenever I open my mouth, Sydney). I mean to say, I should like to have the "goloshes of fortune."'
'What! Like the people in Robin's fairy-book?' said little Dolly.
'Yes: who always got whatever they wished for, directly they put the goloshes on. I should like to jump back into the Middle Ages, like the old Professor.'
'But you know, Silvia,' Robin remarked, with a very sagacious look in his round brown eyes: 'you know how much the Professor hated the Middle Ages when he got into them.'
'That,' rejoined Silvia, 'was because he managed so badly. He didn't know he was in the Middle Ages at all. I should know where I was, and not be surprised at everything looking different and odd. I should keep wishing myself first in one century and then in another, I think——'
'Yes. And only imagine,' said Sydney, 'how Queen Elizabeth would open her eyes when you told her about railways, and the penny post, and balloons, and photographs, and velocipedes!'
'Oh, Syd, I wish you wouldn't! As if I should tell her anything about those stupid things! Of course I shouldn't talk about what wasn't invented—then-a-days,' finished Silvia, after pausing in vain for a suitable expression.
'Well, do you know,' announced Robin, putting his hands in his pockets, and nodding his head emphatically, 'I think the "goloshes of fortune" would be awfully wasted on you two. Such stupid things to wish! I know what would be much jollier than journeying back into the Middle Ages among all those ridiculous people in Mangnall; or going to places where one never can find their latitude or longitude.'
'My dear Robin,' cried Christie, 'your grammar is getting perfectly wild.'
'Pooh! Bother grammar. Because Christie happens to be twelve, she is always setting-up to be as clever as Miss Gregory. As if one could worry one's self about grammar out of school hours. Now, Silvia, I'll tell you where I'd go if I had those goloshes: I'd go right into fairy-land, and see all the people in the Arabian Nights and the Midsummer Night's Dream, and Hans Andersen's stories. They would be much better worth seeing than your Sir Walter Raleighs and Horatiuses and Syd's savages. I shouldn't care to see real people; they would put me so in mind of Mangnall.'
'I don't much like Mangnall,' Silvia confessed. 'But I tell you what: it would be rather nice to be put into it one's self when one is grown up. I mean to write books some day; and then, perhaps, I might be put into the British Biographies!'
'Oh Silvia, and have a portrait like this!' cried Robin, opening the ill-used book at a page where Miss Mitford was depicted in company with other worthies, whose heads had been adorned by Sydney with cocked hats, and whose eyes had been altered by Robin to a size and blackness appalling to behold.
'Come, boys,' said Christie, after there had been a general laugh at Silvia's ambition, 'make haste and finish putting away, and then we'll go and have some fun in the long garret.'
This suggestion cleared the room very speedily; for the long garret was much esteemed by the young Dalrymples, on a wet afternoon like the present, as a capital substitute for the garden or the park. Here they had a long and exciting game of hide-and-seek; and it was not till the autumn afternoon was near its close, and twilight was gradually creeping on and filling the corners of the garret with gloom, that Silvia, the least active of the party, and tired of the sport, stole away by herself to one of her favourite haunts. This was the top step of the fine old oak staircase, which formed one of the chief beauties of the house of Horsemandown. From there she could peep through the carved, twisted bannisters, and watch whatever went on in the hall below. Sometimes it was Sir Bernard Dalrymple's brown setter and Robin's little rough terrier romping on the mat by the hall door which engaged her attention; sometimes it was her mother watering the flowers, that seemed to bloom perpetually in the sunny hall window; and sometimes it was Sydney and Christie having one of their most exciting games of battledore, which were really worth looking at, so well did they both play.
When these amusements failed, and the hall was deserted, as was the case at present, Silvia found plenty of companions in the pictures, which covered the walls around her. Beyond the fact that they were most of them portraits of her own ancestors, she knew very little about them. But that did not matter, for she used to find names for them all out of whatever book she was reading. These names generally had nothing to do with their style of dress, which Silvia considered a matter of no consequence: she only cared for some imaginary likeness of feature or expression. Thus, a tall, thin, dark-eyed gentleman with a Vandyke beard had been christened by turns 'Hamlet,' 'Prince Giglio,' or 'Osmond de Centeville,' according to whether Silvia was absorbed in Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare, The Rose and the Ring, or The Little Duke; while a severe-looking dame, with powdered hair and an unmistakable hoop, did duty with equal faithfulness for 'The Lady of Branksome Tower,' or the Witch Aunt in Mrs Leicester's School.
On the present occasion Silvia was not left long in undisturbed possession of her favourite nook, for on the dispersion of the garret-party she was joined by Robin; who, after remarking with a yawn that prisoners'-base indoors was decidedly slow, tried to get rid of his superfluous energy by sliding down the bannisters to the bottom of the staircase. Silvia felt obliged to put down her book, and watch him as he climbed slowly up again outside the railing, and felt much relieved when he appeared at the top.
'What book are you poring over now?' he inquired with some contempt, peeping over his sister's shoulder. 'History! Oh Silvia, how can you—in play-time?'
'It's not history; it's a story,' said Silvia indignantly; 'at least it is just like a story. And it is so interesting.'
'But it's all true?' said Robin, with a face of great disgust.
'Well, it is just as nice as if it wasn't,' replied his sister. 'And besides, I think I rather like books to be true, or, at any rate, to think that they might be true. I can't think why you hate all the people in history so, Robin!'
'I don't hate them all,' said Robin, after pondering the subject with a very grave face. 'I like them when they do something uncommonly jolly; and, besides, there certainly are some that I want to know about very much indeed. One's own relations, I mean. I know they are in history books—that is, some of them: relations who lived a long time ago. What do you call them?'
'Ancestors do you mean?' said Silvia. 'I want to know about them too; for Uncle Algernon once told me that there were some very curious stories about the pictures in this house, especially those on the staircase.'
'Did he?' said Robin. 'Then that's what papa meant when I asked who that boy was.' (Robin pointed, as he spoke, to a picture that hung on the wall opposite.) 'He said I must ask Uncle Algernon, for he was a namesake of his, and knew all about him. I always call him "Bluecoat," and I want to know about him more than any of them.'
Silvia surveyed the picture in question with a great deal of interest. It represented a boy of about Robin's age, with dark, bright eyes, handsome features and chestnut curls, which hung down as low as the rich lace scarf which was tied round his neck. He wore lace ruffles at his wrists, and the blue velvet coat which had earned him Robin's nickname was adorned with the most elaborate embroidery.
'I wonder when he lived,' said Silvia thoughtfully. 'But, Robin, I should like to know still better about that little girl next him. Do you think she is his sister?'
'They are not a bit alike,' pronounced her brother. 'Oh Silvia, she's got regular green sleeves, don't you see, like that old woman in Granny's Wonderful Chair?'
'Yes; I found that out long ago. I always call her "Lady Greensleeves,"' replied Silvia.
'She is very pretty, I think, in spite of that funny dress. But she looks very proud and dignified.'
'I suppose she was some grand lady. How she stares at one!' added Silvia, hastily turning her eyes away, but only to meet the gaze of other generations of Dalrymples, who frowned or smiled on her in all directions. 'It is very odd that they should look at one so hard, isn't it?' she said in a half-whisper to Robin. 'I always notice it, especially when I am coming up to bed.'
'Yes,' replied her brother, 'It was Bluecoat staring at me so, that first made me notice him; and now I don't mind it a bit, but always nod to him and say good-night when I come up-stairs. I wish I knew all about him. Now, if we had but the goloshes of fortune, Silvia, what fun it would be! We would make all the pictures tell us their stories.'
'How would it be if I was to ask them?' said a voice just above the children.
Silvia started and looked round. Some one was leaning over the balustrade in the passage behind them.
'Why, Uncle Algernon!' exclaimed Robin after a pause of surprise; 'you haven't heard all we have been saying?'
'Well, I don't know about all,' said Uncle Algernon, laughing; 'but I heard about Bluecoat and Lady Greensleeves and the goloshes of fortune. So you want the portraits to tell you their stories, do you, Silvia?'
'Oh Uncle Algernon, do you think us very silly? But papa says you know their stories. Do you really? And how did you find them out?'
'How do you know that I haven't a pair of those goloshes hidden away in that cupboard in my dressing-room?'
'I wish you had!' sighed Silvia, looking wistfully at Lady Greensleeves' mischievous brown eyes and rosy smiling mouth.
'Well, but if you do know the stories, why shouldn't you tell them to us?' suggested Robin. 'It would be almost as jolly as if the pictures were to speak themselves; wouldn't it, Silvia?'
'Not quite, I think,' Silvia said, with a doubtful glance at Uncle Algernon. 'You see, it would be so nice to hear all that they used to think, and how Horsemandown looked in those days,—all in their own words, you know, Robin.'
'Ah, but then they would talk in an old way, like the people in history books,—"hath," and "natheless," and "by my halidome." I can't bear coming to those kind of words in Mrs. Markham.'
'Well, Silvia, what do you say to this?' said Uncle Algernon after a moment's silence, during which he had seated himself between his nephew and niece on the broad step. 'Lady Greensleeves and I are very old friends. I am going to take down her portrait to-night and clean it in my dressing-room. Now, suppose I were to ask her, as a very particular favour, to tell her story to you and Robin in her own words.'
'Oh uncle!' cried both children at once; 'how delightful! Will you really? But what do you mean? How can she, in her own words?'
'Never mind,' quoth Uncle Algernon, nodding significantly. 'As I said before, she is a very old friend of mine, and I have a strong persuasion that she won't refuse me this; besides, you forget the goloshes of fortune. Nothing can be refused to one, you know, when one has those goloshes on.'
'But, uncle, how can you make her tell it us?'
'Never mind,' said Uncle Algernon again, 'you will see all in good time. Only come to my dressing-room to-morrow when lessons are finished,—you and Robin, nobody else,—and I'll tell you what comes of my interview with her ladyship.'
The dinner-bell rang at this moment, whereupon Uncle Algernon jumped up and beat a hasty retreat into the said dressing-room.
'How does he mean to do it?' asked Silvia, after pondering for a whole minute without speaking.
'I don't know, I can't think, unless he means to write a story about her. You know he does write books; so perhaps——'
But at this juncture the discussion came to an end, for the lamp blazed up in the hall below, and Christie came rushing along the gallery, crying, 'Silvia, Robin, have you really been sitting here in the dark all this time? Why, the tea-bell rang a quarter of an hour ago. There are muffins; and Sydney is eating all the blackberry jam!'
The next morning Lady Greensleeves had disappeared from the staircase. Uncle Algernon had a passion for cleaning oil-paintings, and one or other of the family portraits was always to be found in his room whenever he came to stay at Horsemandown.
Not a moment was lost by Robin and Silvia when four o'clock struck that afternoon, and lessons were over, in rushing to the bright, pleasant room which was always called Uncle Algernon's dressing-room, and held sacred to him, even when he was away on his travels on the other side of the world.
There he sat in the midst of his books and drawings, and cases of stuffed birds and curiosities, brought from all parts of the globe. He was in a big arm-chair on one side of the fire-place, and the sofa was drawn up on the other. The portrait of Lady Greensleeves was in the room too, looking much fresher and brighter than she had done ever since the children could remember.
'Well, Silvia, here we are, you see, both at your service,' said Uncle Algernon as they entered. 'Make yourselves comfortable on the sofa; only, first allow me to introduce you to her ladyship, Frances Countess of Desmond, the wife of your old friend Bluecoat; or rather, to give him his proper name and title, Algernon Carey Earl of Desmond.'
'His wife!' ejaculated Robin, staring with a puzzled air, first at Uncle Algernon, and then at Lady Greensleeves' picture. 'But she is a little girl!'
'Oh, Robin,' said Silvia reproachfully, 'don't you know people used to marry when they were children long ago? Don't you remember about Jeanne D'Albret?'
'Used they?' asked Robin vaguely. 'Oh well, I never remember about people in history, so I daresay they did. But, Uncle Algernon, I thought Lady Greensleeves was an ancestor of ours, and that her name was Dalrymple?'
'So it was, before she married,' replied his uncle. 'But you shall hear all about it if you will sit down and listen. She has graciously consented to your wish, that she should tell you her history in her own words, but——'
'Oh, Uncle Algernon! Not really. I can't believe it. What do you mean?' cried Silvia, jumping upon her uncle's knee and putting both hands on his shoulders, while she gazed into his eyes to see if he were laughing or not.
'Are you in fun, Uncle Algernon?' said Robin, looking doubtfully from his uncle to Lady Greensleeves.
'No, indeed I am quite in earnest. Lady Greensleeves is going to tell you her history, only through me; for, you see, she only condescends to speak directly to a very old intimate friend like myself; so she has dictated it to me, and I will tell it in her own words exactly as she said it.'
'Oh, I understand!' exclaimed Robin, clapping his hands. 'It will be an I story, you know, Silvia—as if she had written it herself, like Robinson Crusoe.'
'Exactly,' said Uncle Algernon, laughing. 'And at my special request she has addressed it to you and Silvia, and has kindly consented to bring in as little of "natheless" and "by my halidome" and "in good sooth" as she can possibly help.'
'Oh, thank you, Uncle Algernon, how nice it will be! Please go on.'
And with Silvia on his knee, and Robin on the sofa opposite, Uncle Algernon began the story of Lady Greensleeves.
In the year 1674 (nearly two hundred years ago, my dears), I was born in this house. My name, as you now know, was not Lady Greensleeves or Lady anything then, but plain Mistress Frances Dalrymple. My father, Sir Bernard, was the third baronet of our house. You know his portrait in the mulberry-coloured coat and fair periwig over the dining-room chimney-piece; my mother's hangs opposite, just as it did when I first remember it. Well, as I said just now, I was born in this house, and till I was ten years old I never left it for a single night. You know we could not rush about in my time as you do now: as for going to the sea-side in the summer, such an idea never entered our heads. I suppose we were stronger than you modern people. At all events, doctors never ordered us change of air; and we did very well without it. Besides, we didn't care much about the sea in those days. I daresay you would hardly believe me if I told you that I never even saw it till I was past twenty, and then the sight was anything but pleasant to me. But this was the fact, nevertheless; and I do not think it ever occurred to any of us that we should like to stay by the shore and build castles in the sand, and hunt for shells and pebbles, as children do in these days.
'I was very happy here at Horsemandown running about with my three brothers—playing with the dogs, and attending to our chickens, our tame animals, our hawks, and goats, and rabbits. Ah, those were merry days! (jolly, I suppose you would say). Such games of hide-and-seek we used to have in the garden and park! There were about three times as many trees in the park in those days: one old hollow oak there was, a splendid hiding-place, but in which nobody ever thought of hiding, because it was always there that the seekers first came to search. Old Shad (Shadrach was his proper name), my father's falconer, used to call it Merlin's Oak. He knew an endless stock of stories about King Arthur and his knights, and Merlin, and all those people; and we used firmly to believe that King Arthur lived at Horsemandown, and that the great table inlaid with brass in my mother's grand withdrawing-room must have been the original round-table. As to Merlin, old Shad had not the smallest doubt that he was charmed to sleep in our favourite oak, and we thought of course that Shad knew all about it. I remember little Roger, the youngest of us all, asking Shad if he had ever been out hawking with King Arthur. Roger had very odd ideas about age. He thought nobody ever had been, or ever could be, older than Shad; and told Mrs. Rebecca, my mother's tirewoman (I beg your pardon, lady's-maid), that she was what he considered an elderly person. If she had been thirty-two instead of twenty-two, I don't think she would have laughed till she cried, or have taken the pains to chase Roger round the room for a kiss. My brothers were all younger than myself. Oliver came next to me. Poor Oliver, how fond I was of him! But so indeed I was of Miles and Roger. The same tutor taught us all; and the only lesson that I had apart from them was needlework. That hour which I spent every morning, doing silk embroidery under my mother's superintendence, was the time that I hated more than all the rest of the day. My mother was very skilful in this obnoxious embroidery, and indeed in all kinds of work; but in other respects she was not an accomplished woman. So, as she and our tutor, Master Waynefleet, were my only teachers till I was more than ten years old, I could neither dance nor sing, nor play upon the harp, as a well-educated young lady ought to have done. I don't think my mother considered these accomplishments necessary. At all events, she did not take my ignorance then much to heart. My father would sometimes look at me with a doubtful, critical sort of expression, and ask me an abrupt question, generally about my studies; sometimes he would inquire what I had been doing with myself all day, and my answers never seemed to please him. He would raise his eyebrows, and give a peculiar whistle, or a short laugh, which always made me feel very uncomfortable, and very much ashamed of myself, though I did not exactly know why. However, it was not very often that this happened, for I saw very little of my father; and, to say the truth, this did not much distress me. Children in these days can have no idea how dreadfully afraid of him I used to be; and yet I was by no means a shy or timid child. Rather the contrary. I was not afraid of my mother, nor of Master Nicholas Waynefleet; though I certainly never dreamed of treating him in the familiar way that you would treat your elders now-a-days. Not that I should have been any better if I had been born in this century. Dear me, no! I should probably have been the most pert and disrespectful of you all; but when I try to imagine myself romping with my father, and asking him questions, or answering him, as you do your papa and mamma, it really makes me quite cold and shaky. Ah! even mamma, though I loved her with all my heart (and no mother could be fonder of her daughter than she was of me), would have been rather astonished if I had plunged into her arms and given her one of those rough, unceremonious hugs and kisses that I so often see inflicted on the present Lady Dalrymple of Horsemandown. Why, she always taught me to courtesy when I entered or left a room, even if no one was there but herself; and I very seldom called her anything but madam. I daresay this seems frightfully cold and stiff to you, but it was as natural to me as it is to you to address your governess as "Miss Gregory," instead of using her Christian name. Mamma and I were a good deal together. I being the only girl, and papa being very seldom at home, I was her only companion, and my time was spent pretty equally between her and my brothers. My father, as I have said, was not often at Horsemandown. Some part of the year he was, of course, obliged to be in London to attend Parliament; but at other times he would be constantly away from home. He was a good deal at the court; for my father was a great favourite of King Charles II., and both he and my grandfather had been among those gentlemen who were sent over to Holland to bring home the King at the Restoration in 1660. He never took my mother with him either to London or to the court, and I do not think she had any more wish to go than he had to take her. His whole mind was wrapped up in politics, and she took not the slightest interest in them; neither did she care for the court and its gaieties. She used to tell me that she had had enough of court life when she first married, and hoped that, if ever I did go to Whitehall, I might be as glad to leave it as she had been. All her interest now was in me and my brothers, and in the affairs of the household and estate. She was an extremely brisk, active person, always busied about something. I was very proud of helping her in the garden, the still-room, and the kitchen; for she always superintended the making of preserves, pickles, and home-made wines, etc. We used to go about the garden together, cutting off the dead roses, gathering saffron, lavender, and camomile flowers, and spreading them out to dry in the sunny window-seats of the still-room,—into the dairy to watch the four apple-cheeked dairy-maids churning away at the butter, and pressing the cheese; and we used to attend to the poultry too; and to the bees; and to walk to any cottage on the estate where a sick person had been heard of, carrying sundry draughts, compounded by my mother's own hand. Well! I always like to remember those days. I think they were the best, or if not quite the best, at least they were some of the happiest days of my life. However, I daresay you would rather hear about my unhappiest days. That quiet, comfortable kind of life that one really enjoys most one's self, is not half so amusing to other people as one's misfortunes; but I am coming to a more interesting part of my story now. One morning (it was in December 1684, when I was between ten and eleven years old) Oliver and I were going out hunting with old Shad. He had begun to teach us to ride, almost before we could walk; and I must say I think we did him great credit. This was the first winter we had been ever allowed to hunt. Mamma had long given it up, though she was an excellent horsewoman. She had no time for it now, she said; but she never minded trusting us to Shad's care. And, after every gallop across country, Oliver and I used to nearly tease the life out of the poor old fellow till he promised to take us again. It was a fresh wind this morning, with some bursts of sunshine from time to time, as the clouds flew across the sky. Oliver and I would insist on racing one another through the park, heedless of poor Shad, who jogged behind at a sober pace, shouting to us imploringly not to tire the horses so early in the day. We were flying along in this way, both in mad spirits, down a rough, winding lane that skirted the park, both bent upon seeing who should first leap a little brook that crossed the path, when suddenly what should appear running towards us but a rough grey Irish staghound, the sight of which made Oliver exclaim, "Larry! and my father!" When his master went from home, Larry was seldom left behind. They both had been away for more than a month, staying with Sir Harry Mountfort at New Court, and my father had sent us no notice of his intended return. Oliver, when he saw Larry followed by two mounted figures advancing very carefully and deliberately over the stones and ruts of the narrow lane, immediately turned and trotted back to the side of the ill-used Shad, and I had a strong inclination to do the same; but my little mare Hebe was going at a pace somewhat too headlong to be checked in a moment, and I was over the brook almost before I had time to think about it. I had shot right between the two horsemen before I could pull up, and was not surprised to hear a loud exclamation of mingled wrath and astonishment as I flew past. A very strong exclamation it was,—not quite what your papa would like his little girl to hear; but gentlemen in those times were not scrupulous as to their language, even before their wives and daughters. When at length I managed to bring Mrs. Hebe to a standstill, my father had dismounted, and striding up to me, took hold of the bridle and turned her head. Not a word did he say to me till he had examined Hebe all over with an anxious and critical eye; then, patting her glossy neck soothingly, he turned his mind to me. I suppose I looked in a terrible fright. I certainly felt as if my cheeks were crimson, and my hands shook so that I dropped the reins. My father put them into my hand again with one of his sarcastic laughs, and then asked, less angrily than I expected:
'"And now, Mistress Frances, where might you be going to in such a hurry?"
'"We were going out with Mr. Atherley's hounds," I faltered out, finding it very hard to keep from bursting into tears.
'"Oh, indeed! Are you in the habit of following Mr. Atherley's hounds all by yourself?"
'"No, sir; Shad is taking me and Oliver. We have only been once before." And as I spoke, I saw, to my great relief, Shad and my brother emerging from a bend in the lane.
'"And pray, what does Shad mean by letting you start at this break-neck pace, and down this lane too,—full of holes like fish-pools, and flints as sharp as the point of my rapier? Out upon him! If you had thrown down Hebe! That old fool Shad shall be taken to account for this."
'In spite of the awe that I felt for my father, I could not sit silently and hear dear old Shad abused, especially when I knew my brother and I were alone to blame with regard to the "break-neck pace."
'"Indeed, sir," I cried eagerly, "it was not Shad's fault at all. He called to us the whole way not to gallop; but we wouldn't stop, because we wanted to run races."
'"Faith! but she's a spirited little damsel," said my father's companion, laughing. "Come, Dalrymple, as Hebe's knees, luckily, are not broken, you must forgive her this time. You won't have the trouble of keeping her in order much longer, you know. It will be somebody else's business to scold her soon."
'Somebody else! What could he mean? I dared not ask, for he had not spoken to me; so I could only glance curiously, first at him, then at my father. There was not much to be gathered from their faces, however. That of the latter was stern, and a little anxious, while his friend's expressed nothing but amusement.
'"There, there! A truce to that for the present, Mountfort," my father said as he caught my eye. "As you say, Hebe's knees are, luckily, not broken—(no thanks to her mistress, though); so we will say no more about it now. Frances, this is my friend, Sir Harry Mountfort. Give him your hand; and don't look sheepish, like a little country maiden who has never seen a gentleman in her life before."
'Now, however sheepish one may feel, one does not like to be called so before a stranger; so I held up my head, and made a tremendous effort to look dignified and self-possessed, as became Mistress Frances Dalrymple of Horsemandown. Sir Harry shook hands good-naturedly; asked me about my hunting; said I sat my horse admirably, and wished me a good day's sport; but I could hardly answer him properly, because I was trying all the time to hear what my father was saying to Shad and Oliver. He did not take Shad to task, as he had threatened to do, but merely told him to go on with Oliver, and to take the horses gently down the lane. But what was my dismay when he said, "Mistress Frances will not hunt this morning. I shall take her home with me!" I really could not keep the tears out of my eyes this time, it was such a terrible disappointment. I looked ruefully at Sir Harry, with a faint hope that he might remonstrate on my behalf, as he had done before. But no: he evidently did not mean to do any such thing; so I was obliged to keep my vexation to myself, and watch Shad and Oliver with longing eyes, as they vanished from view down the lane. I could not understand whether my father was still angry with me or not, but thought he must have put a stop to my hunting as a punishment for my carelessness in risking Hebe's knees. What other reason he could have, I tried in vain to imagine. He had never before cared to have me with him,—never before introduced me to any of the friends who from time to time he brought to Horsemandown. At all events, whatever his motive might be, I thought it very hard to be obliged to ride soberly home by my father's side, when I might have been galloping over the fields, leaping hedges and ditches,—chattering at my ease to Oliver, with no one to control us but poor, dear, old Shad, who let us do almost anything we chose; and whom in return, I am afraid, we teased without mercy. We rode slowly back up the lane, and through the park; and though I kept on crying to myself, I contrived to choke back the sobs that rose in my throat. But tears would roll faster and faster down my cheeks. I thought of my last day's hunting, when I had outstripped all the ladies of the party, not to mention Oliver and Shad,—when the master of the hounds had praised my horsemanship, and I had struck Miles and Roger with awe and admiration by bringing home the brush in my hat. How proud I was of my exploits that day! and how much I had been bent upon gaining even more praise this morning! Dear me! I am afraid I must have been a vain little girl in those days, and a very foolish one too, to make such a fuss about a little disappointment. A year later I had learned to be wiser; for the more of the world we see, the less important we think ourselves; and when once we know by experience what real trouble is, little everyday vexations seem much easier to bear. For some time my father and Sir Harry were too much wrapped up in their own conversation to take any notice of me or my tears. I daresay I should have listened too, and forgotten my grievance, if I could have understood what they were saying; but, unfortunately, they spoke French; and though I used to read French and make translations every day with Master Waynefleet, that was quite a different thing to being able to follow it when people chose to speak in very fast and eager undertones. Now and then I caught my own name, but that only made me feel more aggrieved at not understanding anything else. So I cried on like a silly child, "because I'd nothing else to do" (as that Irish song says, that Christie is always singing when she goes up and down stairs). At last Sir Harry turned his head to ask me whether I thought mamma would give him a night's lodging, and looked somewhat astonished at the sight of my dolorous face.
'"Why, Dalrymple!" cried he; "here's a melancholy state of things. Your daughter is weeping out those bright eyes of hers, by way of giving us a welcome to Horsemandown."
'"What's the matter now, Frances?"
'My father's glance of cold surprise, and the tone of annoyance with which he asked this, checked my tears in a moment.
'"Well!" he repeated when I hesitated, thoroughly ashamed of having behaved so childishly before a stranger. "Oh, is that all?" he said when I murmured something about hunting; and he looked at Sir Harry with a laugh, and an expressive shrug of the shoulders. "Don't be a baby, child! I expected to find you more of a woman."
'This was humiliating. I would have given up two or three days' hunting now not to have cried.
'"Never mind, Mistress Frances," said good-natured Sir Harry; "you can go a-hunting when I am gone, you know. I shall be off to-morrow morning, so you only have to-day to make my acquaintance; and you and I are going to be great friends, I am sure." And so we were, before many minutes had passed. My tears dried in the wind, and in a little while I found myself talking and laughing with Sir Harry Mountfort as if I had known him all my life, and much more at my ease then I had ever ventured to be with my father. Sir Harry asked me all sorts of questions, paid me all sorts of compliments, and said the most absurd things with the gravest of faces; and my father, too, talked more pleasantly than he had ever talked to me before, and laughed at his friend's ridiculous speeches as much as I did myself. I began to think Sir Harry the kindest man I had ever seen, and yet every now and then there was something in his eyes that gave me a suspicion that he was what Robin would call "chaffing me." All the time, I had a vague sort of feeling that my mother would dislike him, though I could not feel sure why. As we rode up to the house, Miles and Roger came tearing out of the poultry-yard to see who we were, but, upon closer inspection, tore back again, and, by the time we had dismounted, reappeared walking demurely one on each side of mamma, who wore her great black garden hood, and had her apron filled with eggs. However she was dressed, mamma could not look anything but a thorough lady, and a very beautiful woman too; still my father, as he greeted her and introduced Sir Harry Mountfort, was evidently a little bit distressed at her costume, and, I could see, was particularly scandalized at the exhibition of the eggs. "So you have brought back Frances!" she said, looking anxiously at my face, which still showed signs of my crying fit.
'"Nothing has happened? She has had no accident with Hebe?"
'"No, sweetheart," replied my father, with a tinge of impatience in his voice; "I wanted the child at home to-day. Surely when I come home, after being absent for so long, my daughter might be content to spend a few hours with me without grudging." Then, as I ran away to change my habit and tell my adventures to the boys, I heard him add in a lower key: "I must have a little conversation with you about Frances, Sir Harry and I have——"
'The rest of the sentence I lost, but I had heard enough to throw me into a state of extreme curiosity and excitement. Something must be going to happen to me,—there could be no doubt about that; but was it to be something agreeable or disagreeable? I felt half frightened, yet at the same time in tremendously high spirits, as I pondered over this mysterious something, and made all sorts of wild guesses as to what it could be. How I longed for Oliver to come home, that I might talk it over with him! But I knew he would not return till late in the afternoon; and Miles and Roger were so little. Besides, Roger was always making odd remarks, and saying just the thing one did not want him to say. There was no telling what he might repeat before Sir Harry or my father; for Roger never knew what it was to be afraid of anybody, and he had a way of looking at you solemnly, with his head first on one side and then on the other, and then coming out suddenly, in his slow grave voice, with some observation that from any of the rest of us would have sounded most impertinent, but which, from him, only sent people into fits of laughter. No! it would not do, I decided, to consult Miles and Roger. I must keep my conjectures to myself till I could be alone with mamma. She might perhaps tell me something, if there was anything to tell. I saw nothing of her, however, till dinner, which was in the middle of the day, not at eight o'clock in the evening: that was our supper-hour. We generally dined all together, even when my father was at home; but now that Sir Harry was in the house, I was rather afraid that we should be condemned to have dinner in the nursery. That might be all very well for the little boys; but for me, the eldest of the family, mamma's companion, to be classed with them, would be too humiliating. So I fussed and fidgeted, snapped at my brothers, and made nurse quite angry, and good-humoured Rebecca almost cross, by perpetually teasing them to know whether they thought I should be allowed to dine down-stairs. At length a man's step was heard on the staircase, and, when the door opened, who should be seen but my father! Nurse jumped up as if she thought the house must be on fire; Rebecca upset her work-basket and knocked down the fire-irons; and Miles and I stopped in the middle of a furious quarrel about a drum, which he wanted to turn into a cage for dormice. No wonder my father created such a sensation in the nursery; for never before had he been seen there, since I could remember, except once, when Oliver had swallowed a bullet, and was supposed to be dying. "Come down with me, Frances," said he, not deigning to observe the commotion he had excited. He held out his hand, and I sprang towards him, casting a triumphant glance at Miles and Roger as I did so. But my father, instead of taking me at once down-stairs, surveyed me all over so critically that I hung down my head and blushed crimson, painfully conscious of a large hole recently torn in my dress, and of hair which might have been brushed that morning, but which looked as if it had not been touched for a week.
'"Go and tell nurse to make you fit to be seen, child," said he in his usual cold, measured tones; "and then you can come with me."
'Of course nurse was excessively elaborate in her proceedings after this injunction. I thought she never would have done combing and curling my unfortunate locks, or arranging and smoothing each plait and fold of my best dress. But at last it was over, and I suppose the result was satisfactory; for though my father led me away without a word, Sir Harry Mountfort turned to my mother when we entered the dining-room, and said something about "a sweet little bride," and "hoping to see a coronet on those pretty dark tresses,"—remarks which, while they puzzled me exceedingly, caused me to hold up my head and colour with surprise and pleasure.
'I had never heard so many compliments before, and felt rather vexed that mamma only smiled very faintly, and immediately began to talk about something else—about a certain Earl Desmond, in whom both she and my father appeared to be greatly interested, though I, who had never heard his name before, could not care about him. So I let my thoughts wander off to all kinds of subjects. I wondered what sort of a day's sport Oliver and Shad were having,—whether Hebe was as sorry as I was, to be cheated of her day with the hounds; and then I wondered afresh what Sir Harry's mysterious words could mean. Perhaps it would be as well to listen to what was going on, in case I might be able to glean something from the conversation about myself. So I turned my eyes away with an effort from the sunny slope of green, swelling down, on which they were gazing (you know the view from the window of the oak parlour), and fixed them on Sir Harry just as he was saying:
'"Ah, your daughter will have a splendid position at court one day, I doubt not, madam. The Earl of Desmond's ancient title and large estates must give him a good deal of political influence, even if he does not turn out, as I think he will, a man with a pretty strong character of his own."
'The Earl of Desmond still! But what could he have to do with me? And how, oh how, was I to have a splendid position at court through his means? I did not dare to ask, as one of you would have done; for to speak in the company of one's elders, without being spoken to, was a proceeding unthought of in those days. I could only glance from Sir Harry's to my mother's face, and then for the first time I noticed how sad and anxious it looked. Her eyes, too, had a red rim round them, as if she had been crying. What could be the reason?
'"That she may be good and happy, sir, is all I desire for her," replied she; "and that I trust she may be, in whatever position she is placed."
'"With such a mother, she cannot be otherwise than good," replied Sir Harry, with a little bow. "And as for happiness, she will have all that people covet most, to give it her,—rank, wealth, beauty."
'And here, I suppose, Sir Harry caught sight of me gazing at him with eyes rounded by astonishment; for he broke off what he was saying, to ask me if I had forgiven him yet for spoiling my ride, and whether I would do him the great favour of showing him the fox's brush I had told him about, etc. etc. He certainly was very good-natured, and treated me more like a woman than any one had ever done before. He asked me to take wine with him, and bowed with so much deference, that I felt quite shy and uncomfortable for a moment. He asked about all my plays and studies, seemed quite interested in hearing of the delights of going fishing with Oliver and Roger, in stories about the young hawks which Miles and I were bringing up between us, and in the brood of rabbits which belonged to us all. Then he wanted to know if I was fond of music; if I could sing or play or dance; and, for the first time in my life, I felt rather ashamed of being obliged to say no to all these questions.
'"But you would like to learn, would you not?" said Sir Harry when we arrived at this point in the conversation, putting another bunch of grapes on my plate as he spoke.
'"Yes; I think I should, if mamma would let me;" and I looked doubtfully in her direction. But it was my father who replied.
'"Liking has nothing to do with it. Frances will of course learn whatever is necessary for her future rank and station. There is plenty of time: the child is only ten years old, I believe."
'"Eleven in May," I could not help whispering though dreadfully frightened at my own boldness; and I suppose mamma thought I had gone quite far enough, for she rose to leave the room, signing to me to follow her; which I did willingly enough, eager to escape the displeasure which I felt sure I read in my father's eyes, and hoping that now at last I should hear the meaning of all the mysteries which had puzzled me that morning. Mamma looked very grave, as she took my hand and led me into that little room which your uncle now calls his "laboratory," I believe, and which smells of sulphur and gunpowder, and all kinds of dreadful things. It never smelt of anything worse than dried lavender and rose leaves in my time; for it was mamma's own sitting-room, where she heard me my lessons, gave orders to the servants, and did all kinds of things, which the present Lady Dalrymple would leave to her housekeeper. I began to think that the something, which I felt sure was going to be revealed to me, was some dreadful misfortune, when she kissed me, and said:
'"My little Frances is longing to know what we were all saying at dinner-time about her, is she not?"
'"Yes—oh yes, madam. What is it? What did Sir Harry Mountfort mean by saying that I should have a splendid position at court some day? And what did——?" Here I stopped abruptly, for there were certainly tears in mamma's eyes, though she tried to smile, as she told me to bring my stool to her side, and she would tell me all about it.
'"You heard us talking about the Earl of Desmond, Frances," she said, smoothing my hair softly back from my forehead as I leant against her. "He is a boy of about fourteen, an orphan, and Sir Harry Mountfort is his guardian. Sir Harry is a great friend of your father's; and for various reasons which you would not understand, even if I told them to you, he has proposed that a marriage shall take place between you and his ward. Your father has consented; and he brought Sir Harry down here to-day to inform me of their plans, and to make various arrangements which are necessary, before the wedding can take place."
'"Wedding! Then I am to be married now?—soon?—not wait till I am grown up?" I asked eagerly.
'"I believe so; before very long, at any rate," said my mother. And I sat silent, trying to take it all in, for at least two whole minutes. Confused and surprised as I felt, I was not quite so much taken aback as Silvia would be if her uncle informed her that a like event was to happen to her; for I had often heard mamma talk about the little Princess Mary, the sister of the reigning king, Charles II., who had been married when she was only eleven years old.
'Moreover, my own mother's wedding had taken place when she was but fifteen, while a little cousin of hers had been a bride at nine.
'"Married to the Earl of Desmond!" I repeated slowly. "Then, shall I have to manage a house, and have keys, and settle the dinners, and order the servants, like you, mamma?"
'"Not for a great many years to come, I hope, Frances. I don't think you are quite fit for that at present, are you?"
'"I could order dinner, I think," said I; a momentary vision coming across me of myself in a sweeping gown just like mamma's, with mittens on my arms, a large apron with pockets in it, a chatelaine hanging by my side, and jingling an immense bunch of keys while I discoursed to the maids about bleaching the linen on the bowling-green, or to the men about the brewing; or perhaps gave away medicine, food, and advice to the poor people on Lord Desmond's estates. I gave it up with a little sigh, for I had a great desire to be considered a woman; and then, a fresh view of the case suddenly occurring to me, I cried: "Oh mamma, what shall I be called when I am married? Shall I be Lady Desmond, just as you are Lady Dalrymple?"
'"You will be Frances Carey Countess of Desmond, of higher rank than I am, my child. I am only the wife of a baronet: you will be the wife of an earl."
'This piece of grandeur filled my foolish little head with such a sense of elation, that I was on the point of running away directly to tell the news to nurse and my brothers; but a glance at mamma's face stopped me. "Don't you like my being Countess of Desmond, mamma?" I ventured to ask, a sort of vague fear coming into my heart for the first time. "They won't take me away from you, will they?" I took hold of her hand and held it very tight.
'"No, no," cried my mother in a voice which sounded as if she was angry with me; and yet she held me very close all the time. "You will be my Frances, my only daughter, just the same. A wife's duties are the same, in whatever station she is placed: and who can teach you to love, honour, and obey your husband, as well as I can? But what am I talking of!" she added in a different tone, seeing that I was looking at her, very much puzzled.
'Mamma, who was usually so quiet and composed, had a bright colour in her cheeks, and was talking faster and louder than I had ever heard her in my life before. She smiled when she saw how surprised I looked, and said, more in her natural voice:
'"You are too young, Frances, to understand quite what I was thinking about. I could have wished that your marriage could have been put off till you were old enough to know your own mind; but your father says it must take place at once. Of course he knows best; so that may be considered as settled. All I want you to remember is, that the promise you make on your wedding day you will some day be called upon to fulfil. And now run away and tell the others all about it."
'I said "yes;" but I do not think I quite took in all mamma meant, so eager was I to obey the last part of her commands and tell my wonderful news to the boys. I could not find any one in the nursery but nurse and Rebecca, who were quite as much surprised and struck with my tidings as I could have wished. Nurse said, "Mercy on us! Dear heart alive!" three times over, and then begged I would not forget my poor old nursey when I was a grand madam; while Rebecca took to calling me "my lady" from that day forward, till mamma discovered it and stopped her. But where were the boys? I cared much more for what Oliver thought of the matter than for the opinion of any one else in the world. And, besides—though I liked it—I found the servants' sudden respect rather embarrassing. Miles and Roger were out-of-doors, nurse said, "in some pickle or another," she'd "warrant them." Her words were certainly prophetic; for, after a long hunt, I discovered Miles on the top branch of a very rotten old ash tree, which overhung the deepest part of the pond in the park; endeavouring with a long looped string to catch the sails of his favourite toy boat, which had floated far away from the shore; while Roger, on the very edge of the steep bank, was making violent efforts to reach it with the end of a slender pole.
'Nothing I could say would induce them to come away, till I announced that I saw Shad and Oliver riding into the stable-yard, and proposed that we should race to meet them, and ask Shad to rescue the unhappy boat. Roger set off directly, and Miles got out of the tree so quickly that I really thought he must tumble into the pond in doing so. He scrambled down safe, however, with very green clothes and a very red face; and after a rush across the park, and a few words with Oliver, the two carried off the good-natured Shad between them, and I was left alone with my eldest brother. He was in very high spirits, and whenever I tried to begin my story, burst in with some new description of the run.
'"What a pity you didn't come, Frances!" said he at last. "By the by, what did my father want with you?"
'"That is just what I have been trying to tell you ever since you came in," said I pettishly; "but you would not listen; and I'm sure it's much more important than about the fox getting into Farmer Grimley's yard, or how you rode down all the pigs."
'"Why, what can it be?" said Oliver, looking intensely surprised. "You generally like to hear about all those sort of things so much, Frances."
'"Yes, yes, I know; but oh! Oliver, what do you think of this? I am going to be married to the Earl of Desmond!" Oliver opened his eyes so wide for a moment that I thought he would never be able to shut them again, and then, much to my astonishment and, I am afraid, disgust, went off into a hearty fit of laughter.
'"You going to be married! Oh Frances, I can't believe it! What can the Earl of Desmond want to marry you for?" I do not think Oliver meant to be rude, but brothers are not over particular; and I felt deeply offended. I, who had been treated with so much attention by my father's friend, who had been taken into mamma's confidence, and who was about soon to become, as I phrased it to myself, "a married woman," was I to be laughed at by a little boy a whole year younger than myself?
'"And pray, why should he not want to marry me?" said I, drawing myself up to my full height. "But, of course, one cannot expect a child of your age to understand anything about it; so I was wrong to expect it." And I walked away, with what I then thought an exact imitation of mamma's most dignified manner, imagining that Oliver must be completely crushed by this cutting reply. But he only laughed (it is impossible to put Oliver out of temper) and said:
'"Come, Fan, you needn't be quite so scornful. Of course I want to hear all about it. Who is the Earl Desmond? Not that gentleman who came here to-day, surely?"
'"No," said I, slightly softened, but still, I am afraid, rather patronizing; "he is a boy a year or two older than I am, Oliver—about fourteen, I believe."
'"You don't mean it?" cried he, very much excited. "I fancied he was grown-up. Is he coming here? will he live here? Oh Frances! I always did wish you were a boy; but of course, if you marry this Earl of Desmond, he will be my brother. I always did want another brother, Miles and Roger are so little. By the by, what is his name?"
'I did not know; and Oliver went on with a string of questions, all relating to my future husband, not one of which was I able to answer; for, to say the truth, though my head had been full of my marriage ever since I had heard of it, the bridegroom himself had hardly entered into my thoughts at all.
'"Why, Fan, how stupid of you!" cried Oliver at last, after listening to about a dozen "don't knows" in succession. "You don't seem to know anything. I can't think why you did not ask mamma more questions while you were about it. Girls are generally curious enough at any rate about other people's business. You might at least have found out whether he is to come here, or whether you are to go and live in his house. I declare I shall ask mamma myself to-night."
'"No, Oliver; indeed you had much better not. Do you know I think mamma is very unhappy about it?"
'"Unhappy! Then, of course, that must be because you are going away."
'"No, I don't know; but I have an idea that I am not going away, because, from what mamma said just now——"
'"Well, what did she say? Come, dear old Fan, you always tell me everything." And Oliver put his arm round my neck and pulled me down on a stone trough by the edge of the horse-pond—not the kind of seat, I think, that nurse would have chosen for the future Countess of Desmond, especially when that young lady had on her quilted scarlet kirtle and new silver-grey gown, worked with wheat and poppies. When Oliver rubbed his curly, yellow head against my cheek and called me "dear old Fan," I never could resist him, even when I was really out of humour; so, giving up the grand airs that I had been trying to assume, I sat by his side on the horse-trough and told him all that mamma had been saying about teaching me to love, honour, and obey my husband, and about my being called upon some day to fulfil the promises which I should make at my marriage.
'"It's the having to obey him that will be the worst part," was Oliver's first remark after we had both pondered silently for a moment. "That's just what you will particularly hate, Fan. I'm sure you'll never keep that part of the promise. Why, you never were over-fond of obeying any one except mamma."
'This was a slight drawback, certainly, when one came to think about it. Oliver was right in his opinion that I dearly loved my own way,—and, with my brothers and Shad, I generally contrived to get it: for to the boys I made the most of my privileges as the eldest and the only girl; and as to Shad, he was the one person in the house who was willing to let us all have our own way. But then there were so many people to keep us in order. When there was mamma, my father, Master Waynefleet, not to mention old nurse, one certainly did not want any one else to command one's obedience.
'"Oh, of course, one's husband would be different," I said a little bit doubtfully, nevertheless. "You know mamma always obeys my father, though I don't think she quite likes it; at least not always. Do you know she said to-day that she wished I could have waited till I was older, to be married, but that papa thought it best that it should be at once. So it must be settled." I did not add, as mamma had done, "till I was old enough to know my own mind." At ten years old, I thought people, of course, must know their own minds; and I felt quite sure that I wanted to be the Earl of Desmond's wife, and that it would be a terrible disappointment to me if anything were to happen to prevent the marriage, or even to put it off till I should be grown-up.
'"Well," said Oliver philosophically, "perhaps people's husbands are different; at all events, that's your business. As long as I'm not forced to obey him, I don't care who does. But, Fan, won't it be good fun when he comes here. Is he very rich? I daresay he'll bring his own horses, and perhaps hounds too, and we can all go out hunting together. I wonder if he cares for fishing?"
'"I think he is very rich and grand," I remarked; "because Sir Harry said something about my having a splendid position at court."
'Oliver's countenance fell rather at this idea. He evidently could not appreciate the delights of "a splendid position at court."
'"Ah, but that would not be for a long while, surely, Fan; very likely not till you are grown-up. Fancy you mincing about in a court dress, just like a peacock, and saying, 'May it please your Majesty,' and flourishing an enormous fan!"
'I was ashamed to confess it to Oliver, but in my secret soul I rather liked this picture of myself in the "splendid position."
'"Yes," continued Oliver, "we shall have good sport if this husband of yours is a pleasant kind of a fellow; but we should have better still, if he was going to take you away with him to live at his own house."
'This speech did not sound like a brotherly one; and it wounded my feelings severely.
'"Really, Oliver," cried I, with flaming cheeks and eyes brimming with tears, "you are very unkind and selfish. I thought you would be glad that I am not going ever so far away, where you would never see me at all."
'"Why, Fan! don't be silly. You always get into such a fume about nothing. I only meant that I might come and stay with you, and we could do everything we chose, and you could order dinner, and sit at the head of the table, and carve, of course; or I could carve for you, and we should have no lessons or cross-grained Master Waynefleets to plague us."
'"Ah, but you would only be able to come now and then," said I more gently, for my anger was a good deal softened down. Oliver's plans for my married life were certainly charming, and threw even the "splendid position" into the shade.
'"There's a good girl! That's the best of you, Fan. If you do put yourself in a fume for nothing, you are out again almost as soon as you are in. Now, you didn't really believe I wanted you to go away? Why you must know how dull it would be here, without you to quarrel with and lord it over the small boys!"
'The idea of such a state of things so melted Oliver, that, as we were quite alone—not even the said small boys in sight—he actually condescended to kiss me, or rather to let me kiss him,—a most unwonted sign of affection on his part; for he generally sturdily refused to be kissed by anybody but mamma (and even to that he submitted with great reluctance), except once a year, on his birthday. So, my good temper being quite restored by this, we sat very happily on our trough, chattering too fast to observe that Oliver's muddy boot was not improving the splendour of the scarlet kirtle, and that the poppy-covered skirt, to the length of at least two inches, was steeping itself in the green water of the horse-pond. Presently the sound of footsteps and voices made us look round; and when the yard-gate opened, and Sir Harry Mountfort and my father suddenly appeared upon the scene, we were so much startled, that Oliver's first exploit was to topple backwards into the trough, while I, with like promptitude, sprang up, plunging one foot ankle-deep into the pond. This was an embarrassing state of things. For the first time I became conscious of the deplorable state of my frock; and when I saw Sir Harry's stare of surprise, not unmixed with amusement, and my father's face of annoyance, I felt inclined to take another and more effectual plunge into the horse-pond, and vanish for ever in its stagnant depths. It really makes me laugh now to remember what a very absurd figure I must have looked, with my fine embroidered dress soaked in muddy water, and my hair blowing about in a mad state of dishevelment, from beneath one of Oliver's most ancient and battered hats, which I had snatched off a peg in the hall as I ran out to look for the boys after dinner. I had never been in the habit of caring much how I looked. Brothers of ten years old are not critical with regard to their sisters' appearance. On the contrary, they make a point of discouraging the least attempt to look "nice" (as you would call it); and as to taking care of their own clothes, or those of other people, why, I should have been withered up with scorn if I had suggested such a notion to my brothers! But I never had. It was only to-day that Sir Harry's compliments, and the prospect of my new dignities, had put it into my head to think about my dress and appearance. The fact that I was a remarkably pretty little girl had never struck me before; and now that I had begun to care for these things, and particularly wished to look my best, here was the bride-elect, the future Countess of Desmond, ignominiously caught splashing about in a stable-yard, drenched in mud and mire, and attired in that shabby, old, high-crowned hat. Oliver told me afterwards that I looked like a witch who had just been ducked. My father surveyed us from head to foot with a curling lip and severe eyes; then he turned, with a short laugh to Sir Harry, and said something in a low voice. The only words I could distinctly hear were: "Just as I told you ... put an end to this;" to which Sir Harry answered with a smile and a shrug of the shoulders, which stung me to such a degree that I forgot all his flattering speeches, and for a moment absolutely hated him.
'"Come here, Frances," my father said; and I obeyed slowly and reluctantly. "What would your mother say, child, if she heard you had been romping with your brother in the stable?"
'"She would not mind, sir; at least, perhaps, she would to-day, because of my holiday gown. But I often come here with Oliver."
'"And we were not romping," interrupted Oliver; "we were only talking; and it was my fault that she has spoiled her kirtle, for I dragged her down on to the trough. Indeed, sir, mamma always lets Fan come here; and she fishes for carp with me sometimes." I was grateful to Oliver for standing up for me; but I could have wished that he had not mentioned the carp just then.
'"Indeed!" was my father's reply. "Well, you had better go up to nurse and tell her to make you look more like a gentlewoman, and less like a strolling-player. A stable-yard is all very well for your brother, but hardly the place where one expects to find a young lady." This was a sentiment in which both nurse and Rebecca most thoroughly agreed; and they continued to enlarge upon it all the time that they were setting me to rights in the nursery.
'"A very fit place for Master Oliver, to be sure, seeing that he was a boy and had all his old clothes on, just come back from hunting. But to think that Mistress Frances should be found there! and by the strange gentleman too—Mistress Frances, who was going to be married so soon, and, what was more, to marry a lord! Alack! alack!" Nurse could only shake her head despondingly. Her young lady was certainly very far at present from her beau-ideal of "a grand madam." I felt very much humiliated, and consequently very cross and sulky; and when at last I was set free from nurse's hands, I stood in pouting silence watching the sunset out of the nursery window, and wishing that Sir Harry Mountfort and the Earl of Desmond had never been heard of; envying Oliver, who sat eating the dinner that had been kept for him, and holding forth to Miles and Roger on the adventures of Shad and himself during their morning's sport.....
'When I awoke on the morning of my wedding day, with a vague consciousness that something unusual was going to happen, the first thing that met my eyes was a dazzling heap of white satin that completely covered the table; and I had stared dreamily at it for some minutes before the fact that I was looking at my wedding dress dawned upon me. Then suddenly a clear recollection of what was going to take place came with a rush into my mind. I raised myself on my elbow and gazed round the room, which seemed quite spread over with silk and satin, ribbons and lace. And there was nurse bustling about amidst all the finery, herself in more gorgeous array than I had ever seen her wear before.
'"Now, Mistress Frances, my dear," quoth she, when she saw that I was awake, "'tis high time to get up and be dressed. Why, you've slept full an hour later than usual; and I wouldn't wake you, because I heard you tossing about last night, hours and hours after you should have been asleep and dreaming."
'This was true; for I had been in such a feverish state of excitement the night before, that though mamma had sent me to bed earlier than usual, I had heard the church clock strike one before I could go to sleep. And now, though the day to which I had been looking forward for the last month had actually come at last, though my wedding-dress was lying in all its glory before my eyes, I felt far more inclined to sink back on my pillow and fall asleep again, than to get up and be dressed, as nurse proposed.
'"What, sweetheart!" she went on, as I blinked my eyes drowsily; "sure, you haven't forgotten you are going to be married to-day? And there's the young gentleman himself playing in the garden with your brother, and never so much as set eyes on his bride!" These words of nurse's effectually roused me.
'"What!" cried I, wide awake at length; "did he come then, nurse, after all? And was it very late? And what is he like?" I took a flying leap out of bed before I had finished my string of questions, and, mounting on the window-sill, looked out upon the garden and park. You know the window I mean; my bedroom was the same that Christie and Dolly have now—only, in my time the uneven oak boards were not hidden by a carpet, and there was one immense four-post bed hung with green taffeta, instead of two little curtainless French ones. No pretty toilet-table was in existence then, decked out with pink calico and white muslin. That little square table in the library, carved with grapes and vine-leaves, and men with goat's legs, used to stand in the middle of my room in those days, and I used to look at myself in a small oval mirror in an ebony frame that hung on the wall, and the top of which I had ornamented with my fox's brush. Extremely bare and uncomfortable such a room would doubtless seem to you, but it never struck me in that light. Compared to the boy's room, it was extremely well furnished—almost luxurious. However, I must not dwell upon my dear old room and its furniture. I liked it because it was my own, and I kept all my treasures there; but of course I cannot expect you to take the same interest in it—only, I thought perhaps you might like to know how Christie's bedroom looked when I woke there on my wedding morning nearly two centuries ago. It was a lovely morning, though very sharp and wintry. The sky was a pale-blue one, without a single cloud; and a little snow had fallen during the night, but only enough to scatter a few flakes among the dark glossy leaves and red berries of the holly trees, and to sprinkle the country with a light powdery covering that sparkled like diamond-dust in the sun. I could see the boys as I looked from my window: there they were, as nurse had said, careering about the garden—Roger's small wiry figure, Miles' square sturdy one, and Oliver a head and shoulders above them both; and there was also a fourth figure, towards which I strained my eyes with intense interest. But at such a distance very little was to be seen; my curiosity was obliged to be satisfied for the present with the discovery that he was taller and stouter than Oliver, but neither his face nor even the colour of his dress was to be distinguished. This bird's-eye view of my bridegroom was unsatisfactory, being cut short by nurse, who dragged me indignantly down from the window-seat just as Lord Desmond was aiming at Oliver's head with a snow-ball, and I was watching in breathless excitement to see whether it would hit.
'"Lack-a-mercy! Mistress Frances, do you want to catch your death of cold on your wedding day, and for all the company to be at church before you are dressed?"
'Not wishing to bring down either of these calamities on my head, I reluctantly allowed myself to be drawn away from the window, and submitted passively to a longer and more elaborate toilet than I had ever undergone in my life before. Meanwhile I consoled myself by asking nurse all manner of questions about the bridegroom,—what he was like, who were his companions, and the time and manner of his arrival. I could not get a great deal of news out of her,—she was too much wrapped up in the splendours of my bridal gear. Only now and then, between her bursts of enthusiasm over each piece of finery in turn, and her pathetic warnings to me to "have a care of such brave, goodly raiment," did she find time to impart in snatches the following information.
'Sir Harry Mountfort had arrived the previous night with his ward the young Lord Desmond, and his little niece Mistress Agnes Blount, who was to be one of my bride-maidens. The house of New Court, Sir Harry's home, was about twenty miles from Horsemandown, and the travellers were nearly half-way upon their road when a report reached them of highwaymen being in the neighbourhood. This rumour, though vague and doubtful, was nevertheless somewhat alarming, as the country through which their journey lay was extremely wild and lonely; especially one part of the road through the Boarhurst woods—those woods where you had your picnic last summer. There were no broad, smooth carriage-drives through them, though, in our time; only a narrow bridle-path, through which Lord Desmond and his companions must ride in single file. So Sir Harry thought it prudent to go back for a larger escort, and it was on that account that they had not reached Horsemandown till ten o'clock in the evening (just an hour after mamma had, much to my indignation, ruthlessly sent me to bed). Thus much I contrived to draw out of nurse, by dint of persistent cross-examination all the time I was being dressed; also, that Lord Desmond was a dark young gentleman, a fair-spoken lad enough, and not ill-favoured, but nought to set beside Master Oliver, with his bonnie blue eyes and yellow locks.
'"As to little Mistress Blount, she was so wearied, poor lamb!" said nurse, "that she scarce kept her eyes open to eat her supper; and when my lady told me to put her to bed, she was not so loth to come as you were yesternight, Mistress Frances."
'I was rather anxious to go down to breakfast in full bridal array, from the rich lace veil to the long white gloves embroidered with silver thread; but nurse was greatly scandalized at such a suggestion.
'"A pretty notion, forsooth!" quoth she with a derisive snort. "What! Mistress Fan, would you have those beautiful lace ruffles dip into the trenchers, and get steeped in honey and conserves? Sure, Master Oliver's basin of milk would be pouring over your fine kirtle, before breakfast was over. No, no; I am going at least to send you to church fit to behold, happen what may afterwards."
'And mamma coming in while we were disputing settled the point instantly in favour of nurse's decree. I could not argue with mamma, so I was silenced as once; and quietly submitted to wear one of the pretty new dresses, which had been made for my wedding outfit. Mamma sent nurse away, saying that she would finish dressing me herself; and I was glad to be alone with her, for I had seen much less of her than usual of late. Ever since Sir Harry had left us, rather more than a fortnight before, there had been a constant bustle of preparation going on in the house. It was not only my approaching wedding that caused this bustle,—the Christmas festivities had also to be prepared for; and mamma had been busy from morning till night. Besides the roast beef and boar's head, the plum-pudding and mince-pies, for our own household, there was Christmas cheer for the poor people of the village to be supplied,—blankets and fuel and clothing to be given away. Then there were my wedding clothes, too, for mamma to think about. Such an ample new wardrobe had been provided for me, that I began to think that my husband and I were to take up our "splendid position at court" at once, after all, instead of waiting till the far-off time of being grown-up. I could not help feeling considerable pride and satisfaction in these new clothes of mine; they were made in such a much less childish way than my old ones, and cut so much more in the fashion of the day. Once, when nurse was asleep after dinner, I gave Oliver a private view of them; but he made such horrible faces of ridicule and contempt, that my own respect for them began to diminish on the spot.
'It certainly was wearisome work having these things continually tried on. "Pride feels no pain," nurse and Rebecca used to assure me when they pounced upon me just as I was rushing into the garden with the boys to feed the rabbits, or into the kitchen on the chance of getting a stray dainty from the manifold good things in preparation there. Nevertheless my pride generally gave way, on these occasions, to the twofold pain of being obliged to stand still, and of seeing the boys run off without me; and I used to pout and fume and twitch till it became hard to tell which was most out of humour—nurse, Rebecca, or myself.
'"What is the use of my having all these grand new things if I am not to have a house of my own, but to go on living at home just the same as ever?" This question suddenly struck me one day, and I asked nurse; whereupon she shut her eyes and shook her head, remarking that "little ladies shouldn't be curious;" after which she gave vent to a doleful and ominous sigh, and kissed me, muttering something about a "poor thoughtless dear." Now, as mamma was putting the finishing touches to my toilet, arranging my tucker, and smoothing the hair that always seemed to get into disorder if I moved my head, I put the same question to her; but she only smiled a little and stroked my head, telling me that I should know everything in good time. "But, madam," I persisted, "is Lord Desmond going to stay here, and live with us, and play with me, and do lessons like Oliver?"
'"No, my dear Fan," she said, "he will not stay with us, neither will you go away with him; but that is all I can tell you at present. To-morrow we shall have time for a little talk together, and then you shall hear all about your father's—about our plans for you. Now, sweetheart, you shall say your prayers to me this morning; and then we must go down to breakfast, and present you to this little bridegroom of yours." My mother said these last words playfully, and her own bright smile shone in her eyes for a moment; but in the next they were swimming with tears, and her voice sounded very odd and husky when, after I had prayed as usual for her, my father, and my brothers, she bade me pray also that my husband might be blessed, and that when I grew up to be a woman I might keep the promises which I was going to make to-day.
'How well I remember the sudden rush of shyness which came over me as I went down the staircase that morning! Never in my life before had I felt so painfully and intensely shy. Miles and Roger passed us, extremely snowy and wet and rosy, running up to their nursery breakfast, and at that instant I had a strong inclination to burst away from mamma and fly after them.
"I say," whispered Roger confidentially, catching my sleeve as he passed, "your husband wants to know if it makes you angry to be snow-balled."
'"Poor Fan," said Miles with heartfelt commiseration as he glanced at my dress, "I suppose she will never be able to make snow-balls now, or catch carp any more!"
'Mamma drew her hand gently away from me when we reached the door of the breakfast parlour, and I followed her into the room with glowing cheeks, and eyes fixed on the floor. It was in what is now the billiard-room that we used to breakfast, and it seemed to me perfectly full of people. Though Sir Harry Mountfort had not been able to bring his ward till the night before, there had been no lack of guests staying in the house since Christmas-eve. It was the first time for two or three years that my father had been at home at this season; and Horsemandown was fuller of visitors, and more merriment had been going on in the shape of mumming, dancing, and Christmas games, than had ever been the case before in my recollection. When I rose up from the very deep and swimming courtesy with which the young ladies of my time were taught to greet their acquaintances, I was for a few moments only conscious of eyes bent upon me, and voices buzzing confusedly in my ears.
"Ah, here she is at last!" "Here is the little bride!" "Poor child, how shamefaced she is!" "Faith, a well-favoured little maiden too!" were some of the exclamations that greeted my entrance; while my father came toward me at once, kissed my forehead very affectionately, and led me, wavering between shyness and curiosity, up to one of the deep window recesses, in which Sir Harry Mountfort stood talking to a group of gentlemen. He broke off what he was saying, and advanced to meet me, exclaiming:
'"But here comes the heroine of the day—the fair bride herself! And now for the introduction! Faith, Algernon, I should not mind changing places with you a few years hence, if that face performs all that it promises." The last words were said in rather a lower tone, as Sir Harry leant his hand on the shoulder of a boy who was talking eagerly to Oliver, and who had not turned, as most of the other company had done, when mamma and I came into the room. He was obliged to do so now, however, and, with rather an embarrassed smile, came forward at his guardian's bidding, took my hand, and, murmuring a few words of greeting, reluctantly kissed my cheek. I had not the least idea of what I ought to say to him, and apparently he was in the same predicament with regard to me. Mamma was obliged to go and attend to her other guests, so I was left helpless, gazing at my future husband in dead silence for a full minute. I suppose he found this disagreeable, for he coloured intensely, and at length with a great effort managed to say, "Oliver has been showing me your ponies."
'I said, "Oh!" and then by a sudden inspiration added, "Which did you think the prettiest?"
'"Oh! Oliver's, without doubt."
'"I think Hebe the prettiest," I said with decision. Silence fell on us once more, and I really thought this time it would last for ever. Never did I feel more grateful to Sir Harry than when he brought up his little niece to me, saying he hoped we should be great friends and see a good deal of each other.
'Agnes Blount set us at our ease directly. She was not at all shy; she found it possible to smile and answer prettily when my father politely hoped that she had recovered from the fatigues of her arduous journey. She told us all about the adventures she and her companions had met with the day before, appealing to Lord Desmond to confirm her accounts of the dreadful danger they were in from highwaymen, the darkness of Boarhurst woods, and the horrible state of the roads, until she set him talking as unrestrainedly as any of us. She won Oliver's heart by saying she was fond of rabbits, and mine by the interest she showed in hearing about the bridal preparations. The great banquet which had been preparing for so many days I described minutely, as indeed I was well qualified to do; for Miles and I had cried over the slaughter which had taken place in my mother's poultry-yard, and had only been comforted by watching the troops of red-armed cooks and scullions as they rushed hither and thither in endless bustle; while huge pasties, delicate cakes, mince-pies, and good things of all sorts, multiplied under their hands as if by magic. I whispered that the wassail bowl was to be thrice as large as usual, in my honour; and, finally, I imparted the important intelligence, that at the dance which was to conclude the day's festivities I was to appear in my bridal attire and open the ball. I don't think I had a very clear idea of how I was to manage this operation; but on that point Agnes managed to enlighten me, without showing any unfeeling superiority over my ignorance. She could do everything, I gradually discovered; at least a great many things that I could not, and which, therefore, I looked upon with respectful admiration. Sir Harry made her sing to us, in the afternoon, a dainty little song, with a harp accompaniment, which charmed everybody; and the graceful way in which she glided through the mazes of a minuet with one of our guests so delighted my father, that he paid her a formal and elaborate compliment on the elegance of her dancing. I remember being very much surprised at the time, to see him take so much notice of a little girl; but I found out afterwards why he took such an interest in Agnes Blount's accomplishments. Well, but I am getting on too fast. Of course you want to know all about my wedding, from the smoothing of the last crease in my voluminous satin train (the care of which was a source of dreadful anxiety to Agnes and her fellow bridesmaids) to the moment when Lord Desmond put upon my finger the tiniest gold wedding-ring in the world. It is a most bewildering scene to look back upon, even after all these years; and at the time I was so confused by what I had to do, so encumbered by the grandeur of my apparel, that I had but vague and indistinct ideas of what was going on around me. I remember the lines of eager faces which startled me when I stepped out of the coach at the churchyard gate. I recollect experiencing a sort of shock on seeing that the familiar path up to the church porch was covered with crimson cloth; but I think what struck me most of all with a sense of the solemnity of the occasion, was that Master Waynefleet whose thin locks I had contemplated for many a Sunday, combed back and tied with a piece of ribbon, was on this day resplendent in a curled and flowing wig, and wore a surplice literally crackling with starch. I believe I clung to my father's hand in a most undignified manner as he led me up the aisle. I have a vision of a rainbow-coloured crowd of people on either side of the altar; of mamma, a shade paler than usual, but trying to smile, in order to reassure me; of Oliver, in difficulties with his sword (which was only worn on state occasions, and was a source of mingled pride and embarrassment to its owner); of Roger, in the background, struggling desperately with nurse, in order to attain a lofty post of observation on the tomb of a crusading Dalrymple. But beyond this I saw nothing, and can only repeat what nurse told me afterwards, that "it was a gallant show, and did her old eyes good to look at it. I'd have gone ten miles barefoot any day to see you in all your bravery, Mistress Francis, dear, and that sweet young gentleman, my Lord Desmond, a-holding your hand so prettily, and your mamma, and all the grand ladies shedding tears for joy, as indeed it was most befitting they should."
'Nurse's praises and congratulations were the forerunners of a great many more to which I had to listen that day. At first I liked them, and thought it grand to be complimented on the "way in which I had borne myself on such a trying occasion;" but at last I grew very tired of hearing the same thing over and over again. The stiff, set speeches which people vied with each other in making, the perpetual allusions to my "tender years," and the hopes "that the union which had commenced under such propitious circumstances might hereafter be a source of great happiness to me, and of satisfaction to my parents," were very tiresome; and to all this I had to reply, as mamma had carefully impressed on me beforehand, "Madam, you do me much honour," or, "I thank you, sir, for your good wishes," while I made a profound courtsey to the lady or gentleman who addressed me. Things were not much better at the long, formal, wearisome entertainment which ensued, and which I thought never would be over. People made speeches and proposed toasts with every glass of wine they drank, and some of them drank a great many—so many that at last it was not quite easy to make out whose health they did propose; and when this point was settled, others seemed affronted at the toasts they had chosen.
'I thought it all very uninteresting, after the health of Lord and Lady Desmond had been drunk, and did not listen to what was going on. I only know that the noise got louder and louder; so that, by the time it was considered fitting that the ladies should retire to the withdrawing-room, the clamour was so great that it was almost impossible to distinguish what any one said. The last thing I saw, as we left the room, was Sir Harry Mountfort standing up, flushed and excited, holding a bumper of wine in one hand, while he brought down the other clenched fist with violence on the table, and called upon all present to fill their glasses and drink to the health of the Duke of York, the true heir to the throne.
'"What were they quarrelling about?" I asked Agnes Blount when the uproar had died away in the distance, and we had found a quiet corner to ourselves at the end of the long drawing-room.
'"Oh, politics, of course," she replied. "We always know at home, whenever the gentlemen get very much excited over their wine, and all speak at once, and don't seem to listen at all to what other people are saying, that they are talking about politics."
'"Well, but what are politics?" said I. "We don't ever hear anything about them here."
'"Oh, don't you know? They are all about the King, and the Parliament, Rochester, Halifax, and Godolphin, and a great many names I can't remember, for I never listen. But I should have thought you must have heard of them, for I know Sir Bernard Dalrymple always has more to say about all those people than anyone else who comes to my uncle's house."
"Then I suppose you have often seen my father before you came here?" I asked.
'"Oh yes; he has been there a great many times lately—I suppose to settle about your marriage. Algernon and I used to wonder what they could be talking about when we saw them pacing up and down the terrace by the hour together; till at last one day, just as we were going to the fish-ponds with some bread and honey to feed the carp, my uncle called Algernon to him and said, 'Come and shake hands with this gentleman, Algernon; he is going to give you his daughter to be your little wife.'"
'"Well, and what did Algernon say?" I asked eagerly; for, when Agnes arrived at this interesting point in the story, she hesitated.
'"I don't think he quite liked the idea at first. You see, he had not seen you then; and it seemed so strange and sudden an idea," said Agnes rather reluctantly.
'"But tell me exactly what he said," I persisted, with a not unnatural desire to know how my bridegroom had received the news which had excited me so much.
'"Why, he said, 'When I am grown-up, I suppose, sir?' 'Oh no,' replied Sir Harry; 'we will not put your constancy to so severe a trial. In six weeks' time your marriage is to take place.' Then Algernon grew very red, and looked at his piece of bread and honey so hard, that I thought he was making up his mind where he would take the first bite; but at last he looked up and said, 'If I must be married, sir, I would rather marry Agnes, because she knows where to find my fishing-tackle, and can always undo my line when it gets into a tangle.' My uncle burst into a great fit of laughter when he heard this, and Sir Bernard laughed a little too; but I grew very hot and uncomfortable, and thought I should like to run away. So I pulled Algernon's sleeve; but just then my uncle left off laughing and said, 'No, no, Algernon, I have no doubt that Agnes is much obliged for your good opinion of her; but, as her guardian as well as yours, I am afraid I must decline your kind proposal. And when you have seen your future bride, who is about the prettiest little damsel I know, you will, I trust, apologize to her father for having made such a proposition in his very presence.' Sir Bernard said no apology was needed. He shook hands with Algernon, and called him a fine fellow, and, turning to me, said he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing me at Horsemandown, and trusted I would be kind enough to impart to his daughter that knowledge of fishing operations which Lord Desmond thought so necessary in a wife. He looked very grave all the time, but I felt sure he must be laughing at me, and I had much ado to make my reverence and thank him without beginning to cry. That is how it was settled; and when Algernon found out that you had brothers, and that he was to have a week's holiday in honour of his wedding, he began to like the idea very much. For you know, when I am at school he has no companions at all at New Court, and his tutor and Lady Mountfort are so very strict and severe that he has but a dreary life of it."
'My feelings had varied to and fro during Agnes's recital. Sir Harry's complimentary remarks hardly made up for Algernon's indifference; but when she ended, I forgot his offences in pity for one whose only companions were a tutor and Lady Mountfort, whose stiff figure and severe expression of countenance had filled me with awe and dislike the moment I saw her. "How dreadful!" I exclaimed. "What should Oliver and I do if we had to live like that?"
'"Hush!" said Agnes; "don't speak so loud, or my aunt will hear you. She says children ought never to speak when they are in the same room as their elders, unless they are spoken to."
'"Oh! but to-day surely she would not mind. Mamma does not allow us, in general, to speak when any one is here; but on my wedding day"—and I drew up my head a little higher than usual—"things are different."
'"I don't know," replied Agnes, looking uneasily in the direction of Lady Mountfort; "she is so very particular. Perhaps I ought not to have told you all this, Frances."
'"I am very glad you have. Oliver and I have so often wanted to know something about Algernon, but mamma could not tell us much; and we never think of asking my father any questions."
'"What has Agnes been telling you?" asked Lord Desmond, who at that moment joined us with Oliver.
'"About New Court," interposed Agnes hastily, apparently afraid I should relate the whole of our conversation. "I was telling Frances how very, very strict my aunt is, and how quiet we are obliged to be in her presence. I am sure school is almost better, if it were not for the lessons."
'"Ah!" said Algernon with a heartfelt sigh, "I shall think it duller than ever, now I have been here. Only imagine, Agnes: they go out with the hounds once or twice a week here, with a groom who lets them do whatever they like! Why, when I go out riding at home, or whatever I do, there is always Master Hewling, with his starched countenance and croaking voice, saying, 'It is not fitting, my lord, that you should do this,' or, 'My duty to Sir Harry will not permit me to allow your lordship to do the other!' I have never been allowed to do what I liked since I came to Sir Harry's house—never!"
'"But I thought," said I with some dismay, remembering the brilliant castles in the air which Oliver and I had indulged in,—"I thought you had a fine house of your very own, with beautiful gardens, and park, and fishponds, and great stables as big as our whole house. That is what nurse told me!"
'"Ah!" said Algernon, looking so sad that I was quite sorry I had said anything about it, "that was where we lived when my father was alive. But it is of no use, for Sir Harry says I have not money enough to live there; and besides, it is sold—no, not sold—what is the word?—to somebody else."
'"Oh, but I heard something!" said Agnes, and then she stopped short and coloured, while we all looked very much interested.
'"Well, what did you hear?" asked Algernon eagerly. "I will know, Agnes."
'"I don't think I ought to tell," she said, faltering and looking very irresolute.
'"Did you promise you would not?" demanded Algernon. "No? Then tell me directly."
'And Agnes, who, as I found out afterwards, always did what everybody asked her, said: "It was only that I chanced to be in the room when my aunt was talking to Father Freeling about you, and she said, 'My husband has arranged a match for Algernon, which will put all these unfortunate money matters straight again. The young lady will have an ample fortune when she comes of age; and, what is better still, her father has undertaken to pay down, on her wedding day, a sum sufficient to clear off all those mortgages (wasn't that the word you meant, Algernon?) which Sir Harry's imprudent management rendered necessary.' 'Indeed!' Father Freeling said, 'I think Sir Harry has managed excellently well for the interests of his ward; and I suppose, on the lady's side, the title is considered'—I couldn't quite hear what; for just then my sampler frame dropped down, which I think reminded my aunt that I was in the room, for she spoke in a much lower tone after that, and I could only hear something about 'political considerations,' and the vote of Sir Harry being required for some 'parliamentary bill,' and so on. I could not quite understand what they meant, but I could see they thought you would be much richer for marrying Frances; so perhaps you will be able to go and live at your old home again. You would like that, Algernon?"
'"And we will all come and stay with you," cried Oliver, rather louder than prudence warranted; for we had been talking hitherto almost in whispers, in order to avoid the attention of our elders. I looked at Algernon to see what he thought of this proposal. He looked rather grave and puzzled; I think he understood a little better than we did the meaning of all those long words which Agnes had repeated so accurately, and which conveyed no idea to my mind at all, except that Agnes thought I was very rich; which struck me as being decidedly curious—my ideas of riches in those days being limited to the amount of money I had in an old china cup up-stairs in the nursery. I was just going to say that I had only at present one silver piece there, when the stiff rustle of Lady Mountfort's gown was heard approaching, and we all sank into silence. I should most probably have forgotten all about this conversation, so little did I understand the meaning of Agnes's words, had not Algernon much later in the evening said to me in a low voice:
'"Perhaps, Frances, you had better not talk about what Agnes told us to any one. She was not intended to hear it; and—and—somehow I fancy that your father and my guardian would not be over-pleased if we said anything about it."
'"Very well, I will not," I replied, wondering very much what part of Agnes's communication it could be which was likely to make the good-humoured Sir Harry angry.
'"You can keep a secret, I suppose?" said Algernon, surveying me, as I thought, rather contemptuously.
'"Of course," said I in an offended tone; "I keep all Oliver's. But" (my curiosity here becoming too much for my dignity) "I wish you would tell me why."
'"I can't," replied Algernon, "for I don't quite know myself; but I shall find out some day all about what they were saying. I wish I had heard it before; it has something to do with the reason you and I were married,—that is quite clear."
'"When you are grown-up, you will understand, I suppose," said I.
'"O yes; long before that."
'"But it won't make any difference," said I decidedly. "We can't be unmarried again, however we may wish it, I know; for mamma told me so."
'"Well, I didn't say I wished to be unmarried, did I?" demanded my bridegroom not very graciously, and colouring very much as he spoke.
'"Oh no," I said, feeling guiltily conscious of what Agnes had told me. "And I daresay we shall like it very much when we are grown-up."
'"Of course," replied Algernon. "And in the meantime it does not much matter, because I don't suppose we shall see each other very often."
'"Oliver thought you would come here and stay with us sometimes," I remarked. "He is always wishing for a boy of his own age for a companion, because Miles and Roger are so little."
'"Ah! I should like that," said Algernon, who evidently regarded a brother-in-law as a much more interesting and valuable acquisition than a wife. "But Sir Harry told me a little while ago that he was going to present me at court as soon as Parliament met, and that it had already been settled that I should be appointed one of the Duchess of York's pages."
'"Oh," said I, rather struck by this piece of intelligence. "Shall you like that? what will you have to do?"
'"I don't know exactly; but there are a great many pages—boys of my own age; so it is sure to be better than New Court at any rate, where there is no one at all to talk to when Agnes is away. And she is only a girl, after all."
'This remark was so exactly what Oliver would have made under similar circumstances, that I did not feel offended, and only asked whether Agnes always came to New Court in her holidays.
'"Yes; she has nowhere else to go. Her father and mother are dead, and Sir Harry is her guardian; and he promised her father that she should never be made a Roman Catholic; so that is why he sends her to school at Madame St. Aubert's. You know"—and Algernon lowered his voice to a mysterious whisper—"Lady Mountfort is a Papist, and she is always trying to convert people."
'"And is Sir Harry one too?" inquired I in a tone of horror; for to be a Papist in those days meant to belong to a religion proscribed by Act of Parliament, and hated by all good Church of England people.
'"I don't know exactly," said Algernon, "but he always does whatever she likes."
'Poor Sir Harry! I pitied him from my heart; and wondered more than ever how it happened that he should be the husband of such a sour-faced, disagreeable dame as Lady Mountfort.
'"I daresay she would like to make a Papist of me," he continued; "but she never shall; for my father was a Protestant, and I mean to be just like him."
'I thought this resolution sounded heroic, especially as I believed Lady Mountfort quite capable of inflicting a dungeon, bread and water, and perhaps even the rack, upon any unfortunate person whom she wished to convert; and I respected Algernon accordingly. He and I became very good friends before the evening was over, though I must say I infinitely preferred my first friend, Sir Harry, who danced with me several times—helped me out when I made mistakes, or appeared not to observe them—called me "Madame la Countesse"—and made himself so amusing, that I found myself many times regretfully wishing that I could have been married to him instead of to Algernon.
'Ah! well. People are not always quite so charming as one fancies they are; and I never liked Sir Harry so well after I discovered that it was he who brought about what I then considered as the greatest misfortune that could happen to me. He persuaded my father that I ought to be sent to school.
'Dear me! what floods of tears I shed when this dreadful fact was first announced to me. It was after all our guests had gone—when the gaieties of that exciting Christmas-time were over and done with—when I was, to all intents and purposes, only little Frances Dalrymple again, with all my short-lived splendour put away out of sight, like that wedding gown which nurse had packed so carefully in the great walnut chest, with dried lavender sprinkled between its shining folds.
'To be sent to school!—till the way to Taunton! I thought I might almost as well be sent to prison at once; and said so, in the midst of my tears, to mamma.
'"I shall never be allowed to run about, or play in the garden, or ride! Oh mamma, what will Hebe do without me?"
'Mamma almost smiled when I reached this climax, though she had looked grave enough just before; and seeing the smile, I went on in a more melancholy voice than ever:
'"Oh mamma, I didn't think you wanted me to go away."
'"Frances, Frances, you don't know what you are talking of," said my mother, taking me on her lap (great girl as I was), and holding me very tight in her arms. "Do you really suppose I shall not miss you a great deal more than Hebe will?"
'"Then why do you let me go?" I whispered, after a good many more tears at the idea of mamma thinking I cared more for Hebe than her.
'"Because your father thinks it best for you," was the answer—the answer with which mamma used to silence us even in our most rebellious moods. No one ever thought of disobeying his commands; and my hopes sank lower and lower.
'"But, mamma," I said despairingly, looking down at the little gold ring I was so proud of being allowed to wear, "surely married ladies don't go to school. I thought they did whatever they liked."
"Indeed they don't always, even when they are grown-up, Frances," she said with a little sigh. "If I did exactly what I liked, I should keep you at home with me, instead of sending you to school; but you see I have to trust to some one else to know what is best for you, and so must you. Why, it is just because you are Lord Desmond's wife, that your father thinks you ought to learn a great many things that I cannot teach you properly. If you were going to live down here in the country all your life, perhaps it would not matter so much; but when you are grown-up, you will most likely have to go out a great deal more into the world, and mix with a great many more people than I ever did; and you would find it very inconvenient to be ignorant of things which every one else knows quite well. For instance, you would like to be able to sing and dance as well as Agnes Blount."
'"I am sure I never could," I said, feeling as if Agnes's attainments were far beyond me, but beginning to have some glimmering perception of what mamma meant.
'"You must ask her to help you. You are to go to the school where she is now—Madame St. Aubert's. So you see you have one friend there already; and I have no doubt you will soon make many more. So cheer up, my foolish little Fan. You look as woebegone as if you were going to be sent to the Tower."
'Mamma's words were more cheerful than her face when she said this; and, as she put me down from her knee with a kiss, I began to see that the parting was as hard for her as it was for me; and I managed to say, though not without a deep sigh:
'"I don't suppose they will be half such good playmates as Oliver and the others; but I will try and bear it; and I will learn everything as quickly as I can, that I may come back sooner."
'"That's my good child," said mamma, patting my head approvingly. "And remember, there are always the holidays to look forward to. How you will enjoy them!"
'But the holidays seemed too far off for me to have much pleasure as yet in looking forward to them; and I crept away, in extremely low spirits, to tell Oliver of the fate that was in store for me.
'I need not tell minutely of all the days which followed before the time of my departure arrived. They seemed to me to be few enough, and to fly past with a rapidity that was quite dreadful. I spent most of them in visiting all my favourite spots in the park and garden—in saying good-bye to everybody, high and low, around Horsemandown—and in giving Oliver minute directions as to the health and treatment of my many pets. I will leave you to imagine my farewells, and take up my story six months after my arrival at that dreaded school, where happened all the adventures which make my history worth hearing.'
The Maids of Taunton.
Madame St. Aubert's young ladies were in the schoolroom one bright June morning, putting away books, inkstands, samplers, etc., with great energy and despatch; for both the clock of the old parish church, and the sun-dial on the terrace walk beneath the schoolroom windows, announced that morning lesson hours were over. That hour of freedom before dinner-time was always eagerly welcomed by us. But it had been longed for even more than usual this morning, for there was something new to be talked over amongst us to-day,—something which, in our opinion, was exciting and mysterious to a very high degree. In the first place, Madame St. Aubert had been called out of the room in the middle of a French lesson by one of the maids, and we were sure that some extremely interesting piece of news must have been imparted to her outside the door; for we could hear her exclamations of surprise and (as we fancied) alarm quite distinctly at first, though afterwards they sank into a much lower key. Then a buzz of voices was heard on the stairs: the quick, decided tones of our old vicar, Dr. Power, and the rather shrill and plaintive ones of little Monsieur Guillemard, from whom Madame St. Aubert's young ladies learned the gavotte, coranto, and many other stiff, elaborate dances that were fashionable at the court in those days. This was not the time for Monsieur Guillemard's lesson, nor was Dr. Power in the habit of calling so early. Something out of the common way must, doubtless, have happened; and there were we, obliged to sit demurely at our desks, with closed lips, only able to exchange eager glances of curiosity, and listen with straining ears to the subdued murmur on the staircase. Pauline, Madame St. Aubert's daughter, and Mrs. Fortescue, a lady next in command to Madame herself, were evidently no less curious than we were; for the former opened her black eyes very wide indeed, and arched her eyebrows significantly; while the latter frowned, bit her lips, and took up the French lesson where Madame had broken off, raising her voice meanwhile, and pretending not to hear the buzz outside the door, though she could not help casting from time to time an anxious glance in that direction. Presently Madame St. Aubert came back, looking much flushed and excited, but she only remarked to her daughter something about Dr. Power having wished to wait upon her for a few moments; and then the morning studies went on in their usual course, without further interruption. You will not wonder after this, that scarcely a third of the usual time was spent in putting the schoolroom in order. When this task was accomplished at last, we poured out into the garden, and settled down like a flock of sparrows on the soft turf under the lime tree; for the sun was very hot that morning, and the pleasantest spot in the garden was beneath the shade of those widely-spreading, pale green branches. A most unusual thing it was to have anything approaching to an event about which to puzzle our curious brains; for time used to go on very monotonously at Madame St. Aubert's,—monotonously, but at the same time not in the least slowly or heavily. There were too many of us, and we were too busy all day to be dull. Nevertheless, we were quite ready to catch at any fresh little piece of excitement that chanced to break in upon the sameness of the day. So there we sat, under the lime tree, and discussed the mystery, as we called it, of the morning. But though we chattered to our hearts' content, no conclusion could be reached concerning it. There was something against every suggestion offered. Agnes Blount thought that Madame must have heard of the death of some of her French relations; but if so, why should she only look excited and startled—not in the least melancholy or tearful? And Madames' tears were well known to be ready, and abundant, too, on the smallest possible occasion. Lucy Fordyce was of opinion that she might have lost some large sum of money,—perhaps all her fortune,—and that Dr. Power had come to break the news to her. There was the same objection, however, to this as to Agnes's idea about the French relations. Besides, Monsieur Guillemard was not a likely person to bring tidings of such a misfortune. Bessie Davenant was sure that the King must be dead; but this notion was instantly scouted as more improbable than any, for Madame would of course have proclaimed that piece of news on the spot, and ordered us to impress the date of such an important historical fact on our minds, as she had done when King Charles died, four months since—February 6th 1685. I never forgot that date to the last day of my life. How I longed to prompt Robin when Miss Gregory asked him one day on the stairs to tell her when King Charles II. died, and he couldn't answer! Well! we were still making conjectures, each one more wild and improbable than the last, when Pauline St. Aubert was seen tripping down the steps of the terrace. Now, Pauline was a great favourite among her pupils, especially the elder girls, some of whom were but little younger than herself; and as she was the very essence of good nature, and had never been known to keep a secret for more than half an hour at the utmost, we no sooner caught sight of her trim, graceful little figure approaching the lime tree, than we felt sure that the news, whatever it might be, was already ours.
'"Pauline! Pauline! The person above all others that we wanted!" cried Bessie Davenant, one of the bosom friends who were allowed to call Mademoiselle St. Aubert by her Christian name. Only three of us enjoyed that privilege, and these were Henrietta Sidney, Bessie Davenant, and Eleanor Page. We younger ones only ventured upon "Mademoiselle!" In a moment we were all upon our feet and gathered round Pauline; but, to our dismay, she had nothing to tell us, after all. Not that she had been seized with a sudden fit of discretion, but she was evidently perfectly ignorant of the matter, and quite as curious and as much perplexed about it as we were ourselves.
'"Indeed I am not a whit wiser than the rest of you," she said, laughing. "Mamma has not taken me into her confidence, I assure you. I did just venture to ask her whether it was ill news that had brought Dr. Power so early in the day, but she only chid me for being curious about what was no business of mine, and said that Dr. Power had come to take counsel with her on some matter that needed not my help."
'"How very strange!" cried Bessie, much aggrieved and disappointed. "But something is going on, Pauline. There can be no doubt about that, and I shall never rest till we have found out what it is."
'"Something! Yes, indeed!" echoed Pauline. "Do you know there is a strange man closeted in the little north parlour with mamma and Dr. Power? The door was ajar when I passed, and I saw him—a little, dark man, with a soldier-like bearing, I thought; but I had not time to see much, for he scowled at me quite savagely, and shut the door in a moment."
'There was a chorus of exclamations at this adventure of Pauline's. A little, dark man!—a stranger!—and soldier-like in bearing!—who shut the door with a ferocious scowl! This was a charming addition to our mystery; and Pauline was questioned and cross-questioned to a degree that no one else could have borne without losing patience. But she only laughed and shook her head, declaring that she had told us all she knew, and (she feared) a great deal more than she ought.
'"Oh! mamma was right," she said, throwing herself lazily on to the turf seat that went round the lime tree. "She knows that a secret is as sure to come out, if I have the keeping of it, as sand out of a sieve. But, oh! you are all so terribly curious, and I am such a 'bavarde.' Ah! well, never mind. We shall hear all about it in time, doubtless. Oh Frances, what a rent in your ruffle! What will Mrs. Fortescue say if she finds it out?"
'Pauline's words made me colour, and look down rather disconsolately at the ruffle in question, for I knew well enough what Mrs. Fortescue would say. Her commands, as we were leaving the schoolroom, had been, that Lady Desmond should not appear before her eyes again until that ruffle was mended; and Mrs. Fortescue's commands were not to be lightly treated. We stood in far more awe of her than of Madame St. Aubert herself; and I had not the least doubt that, if the dinner-bell rang before her orders were obeyed, I should be condemned to solitary banishment in the schoolroom while the other girls were enjoying their walk in the cool of the evening.
'"Poor child! How woeful she looks!" cried Bessie Davenant compassionately. "Never mind, Frances, I'll come and help you. There is time before dinner, if we run in at once, trusting to good luck not to meet Mrs. Fortescue by the way;" and Bessie, whose course of action was always prompt and decided, on account of her never waiting to think about anything, caught my hand, and we sped together across the lawn, and along the sunny terrace walk into the house, never pausing till we sank panting upon a bench in the schoolroom. We had sat there for a moment in silence, to recover our breath, when the sound of Mrs. Fortescue's voice made me give a guilty start, and glance at Bessie in alarm. The door was ajar of a little ante-room which opened into the schoolroom ("Madame's own closet," we used to call it), and Madame St. Aubert was there now. We could hear her voice, though we could not catch the words; but Mrs. Fortescue's was not pitched in so low a key.
'"The Duke of Monmouth!" we heard her exclaim, "will set foot, do you say, on English ground in two days? Then God save him, poor youth, and help him to his own rightful kingdom. But what a fearful struggle..."
'Bessie and I had been staring at one another for the last few moments in motionless surprise; but here, by mutual consent, we rose, and were about to slip quietly back to the door by which we had entered, when another voice cut short Mrs. Fortescue's speech, and brought us for an instant to a sudden standstill. This was a man's voice, and a very harsh and unrefined one, too, which certainly belonged to none of the few men whom Madame St. Aubert was wont to admit to her house.
'"Pardon, Madame," it said rather gruffly, "but I must pray you to be somewhat less loud. Remember whose life and fortune is at stake. This is no child's play, Madame, let me tell you!"
'At this juncture I pulled Bessie's dress, and, while the colour rushed into her face, she turned, and we stole softly from the room. I do not think either of us breathed freely till we found ourselves again in the garden, and safe from view in a shady, winding path, through a tangled confusion of shrubs and trees, which went by the name of "The Wilderness." As for myself, I had scarcely yet realized what a secret it was that we two had found out,—what those words meant that had come to our ears during the few moments when, astonished and taken aback, we paused and listened to what we had no right to hear. But their significance was clear enough to Bessie, for she had lived five years longer in the world than I had, and was a little more learned in the news of the day.
'"Oh Frances!" she exclaimed, looking half frightened, half triumphant, "what have we done! What would Madame say if she knew what we have heard? But oh! to think that the mystery should prove to be this. What glorious news! Oh, if I were only a man, to be with him! Alack! alack!" and Bessie leaned against an apple tree, and vented her excitement in a tremendous sigh.
'"But, Bessie, why? Do tell me. I didn't quite understand," I cried, feeling eager and excited too in a high degree, and quite ready to be as enthusiastic as Bessie herself—only, somewhat bewildered as to who was going to set foot on English ground, and why there should be such a commotion about him.
'"Hush! who is that?" said Bessie with a start, at the sound of approaching footsteps; and, even as she spoke, Henrietta Sidney came in sight, sauntering up the shady path.
'"Well, Frances, is the ruffle mended already?" she began, but stopped short at the sight of Bessie's flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. "Something is the matter," she remarked at length, in her gentle, composed, perhaps rather languid way.
'"Oh Henrietta!" exclaimed Bessie, springing forward and seizing both her hands; "if it is only you, I don't care. Yes, indeed, something is the matter. Such glorious tidings! The secret is out. And what do you think? The Duke of Monmouth is going to land in two days and claim his crown; and we shall have another civil war, to a certainty! There is that strange man that Pauline spoke of; but now, instead of the north parlour, he is in Madame's closet, talking to her and Mrs. Fortescue. Why he should come to tell them, I cannot imagine——"
'"But, Bessie, do stop one moment," interrupted Henrietta imploringly, "is this really true? And how did you find it out? This mysterious man did not surely confide all this to you and Frances!"
'"Oh no, no; they never meant us to hear it, of course." And Bessie and I hereupon poured out an explanation of how we had chanced to learn this wonderful piece of intelligence. Henrietta made no comment as she listened, but her face grew thoughtful and troubled. She evidently did not look at the affair quite in the same light that Bessie did.
'"And now, Henrietta," I began eagerly, when we had finished our story, "I want to know what they meant about the Duke of Monmouth, and why he is coming to England."
'"Hush!" she said in a tone that, for her, was almost sharp. And I was silenced directly; for, in spite of Henrietta's indolent, gentle manner, there was something about her now and then that made me feel slightly afraid of her. In fact I think that all the girls had a great respect for her judgment, though she was rather cold and shy, and by no means such a favourite among them as Bessie, or Pauline St. Aubert.
'"Indeed, Frances," she said earnestly, "you must not speak of this to any one else. You ought not to have told me. I wish, with all my heart, that we all knew as little of it now as we did half an hour ago."
'"But why?" asked Bessie, looking both crestfallen and alarmed at this view of the matter; for her excitement was a good deal damped by Henrietta's anxious tone and serious face.
'"Oh Bessie, don't you see? In the first place, you had no right to hear this, much less to tell me about it; and I cannot help feeling as if we were doing something dishonourable and underhand in knowing it at all. Besides, as the man himself said, this is no child's play. It seems to me that it must be a really weighty secret, which may bring Madame St. Aubert, and perhaps even us, into trouble some day."
'"Nonsense!" Bessie broke in impatiently; "you always were so discreet and cautious, Henrietta. 'Tis a marvel to me how you can talk in such a cold, selfish, heartless way. Why, even if it were to bring us into trouble—which is not likely at all—I should be proud to go through a little danger for such a cause."
'"Such a cause!" repeated Henrietta, with a slightly sarcastic smile. "Well, I don't know," she continued relapsing into her peculiarly low, deliberate tone; "but even if the cause were a right one, I should think another civil war would do more harm than good. My father has often told me stories about the last, and what he and my grandmother used to go through; and I do not want another to come in my time. No, Bessie, I call your tidings anything but glorious."
'"My dear Henrietta, I do not believe there will be a civil war at all. Depend upon it, all the country will flock to join the Duke of Monmouth. He is so much more popular than the King; and he is brave and handsome, and his manners are so gracious. Besides, he is going to defend the Protestant religion; and it is a well-known thing that King James wants to turn us all into Papists, and make bonfires of every body, just as cruel Queen Mary did."
'Henrietta knitted her forehead, in order, I suppose, the better to ponder the subject; and slowly plucked to pieces, leaf by leaf, a York and Lancaster rose that she wore in her sash.
'"I suppose," she said at length, with a little sigh, as she raised her head, "that, in truth, neither of us knows much about the matter. We only think as we have been taught to think at home. All I know is, what my father used to say about the Duke of Monmouth,—that he has no right to the throne whatever, and that, even if he were to get it, he has not wit enough to keep it; and also, that he is a bad, unprincipled man, who cares as little for the Protestant faith as for any other."
'"Then your father judges him very harshly and untruly, and can know nothing about him," cried Bessie, firing up in high indignation. "My uncle is his great friend, and I have often heard him say that the Duke of Monmouth is a stanch Protestant, and a man of honour, and far more noble and princely than the King."
'To this Henrietta made no reply, and at first I thought she was offended, and going off wrathfully without another word, for she turned away and moved a few steps up the shrubbery; then, after a moment's hesitation, she came back and laid her hand upon Bessie's arm.
'"Listen to me, Bess. I don't wish to quarrel about the Duke of Monmouth or anybody else; but in this we shall agree, I warrant: Madame St. Aubert ought to be told that we have found out this secret of hers. I am heartily sorry that you chanced to overhear it; but, since we have discovered it, and in this way too (which is a somewhat crooked one, I must say), I think the only straightforward thing to do is to go at once and tell her simply what we know, and how we knew it."
'Bessie opened her eyes very wide, and turned them with a quick, startled look upon Henrietta. "Well, I am ready," she said, the next moment, making up her mind, as usual, without the smallest hesitation. "You are quite right, Henrietta. It is but fair that Madame should know. It was shameful in me not to have spoken to her at the time. Come, Frances, we will go to her at once, and tell her that the Duke of Monmouth's secret is safe, at least as far as you and I are concerned;" and Bessie drew up her head proudly, and, throwing her arm round my waist, marched majestically through The Wilderness with a sort of defiant air, as if prepared to undertake the Duke of Monmouth's defence against his enemies in general, and Henrietta in particular. I, for my part, stepped along by Bessie's side, trying to look equally fearless and defiant, and feeling ready to stand by her through thick and thin; for we two were great friends, notwithstanding the five years' difference in our ages. As to the right or wrong of the question, I did not bestow a thought upon that, my ideas upon politics being vague to the last degree. I suppose no child in the kingdom, at that time, knew less about the events taking place in it than I did. I had seldom or never heard political subjects discussed at home, for mamma certainly hardly ever talked of them, and, I fancy, thought very little about them either; and even when my father was at Horsemandown, I saw so little of him or his friends that I had not the remotest notion as to what his opinions were. However, I was fond of Bessie, and Bessie believed in the Duke of Monmouth,—and that was enough for me; so I made up my mind to believe in him too. Nevertheless, I could not quite get rid of the impression which Henrietta's words had made. She had never been in the habit of taking much notice of me, or indeed of any of the younger girls; and we used to laugh at her languid, sleepy manner, and declare that Henrietta had no feelings—that the shock of an earthquake, or news that the great plague had broken out again in Taunton, would scarcely make her take the trouble of lifting her eyes from her book, or rising from her chair. I daresay she was quite aware of these jokes of ours, and that they did not help to make her less cold and indifferent towards us; but, for all this, one of Henrietta's quiet, lazily spoken remarks had often more weight with us than the most decided and strongly expressed opinions of the other girls. I looked back at her as she walked behind Bessie and me up the shrubbery. She was grave, and rather white, and though she had urged us to make this confession to Madame St. Aubert, I saw that she was going with intense reluctance, and entirely because she considered it a matter of honour and duty.
'"Are they still there?" whispered Bessie as we opened the schoolroom door and looked anxiously in the direction of Madame's closet. Yes! there they were still, without doubt; but the door was no longer ajar, and only an indistinct murmur of voices was audible from within. But as we lingered, hesitating what step next to take, the ante-room door opened, and Madame St. Aubert came forth, followed by Mrs. Fortescue and the stranger, whom Pauline had justly described as "a little, dark man, with a soldier-like bearing." Soldier-like it certainly was, but not the bearing of a gentleman. Indeed there was something about him which struck me, at the first glance, as low, unrefined, and decidedly disagreeable.
'Madame stopped short at the sight of us, for it was most unusual to find any of the girls in the school-room at that hour; and she looked considerably taken aback, and by no means pleased. As for the stranger, after staring at us for a moment in a most cool, insolent way, he turned, with a frown, to Madame St. Aubert, saying: "It seems to me, Madame, that one may scarce hope for privacy in your house for more than ten minutes at a time. And, pray, who may those young gentlewomen be?"
'There was something so peremptory and familiar in his way of speaking, that all three of the said young gentlewomen felt inexpressibly ruffled and indignant; but Henrietta's cheeks were burning, and I never had imagined before that her large, sleepy, grey eyes could look so absolutely fierce as they did for a moment just then.
'"Girls, what are you doing here at this hour? Why are you not in the garden with the rest?" asked Madame St. Aubert, without answering the strange man's question. She glanced at us sharply, and somewhat suspiciously, as if the idea had entered her mind that we might possibly have been listening to the conversation in the ante-room. There was a minute's silence, while Madame, annoyed and impatient, stood waiting for an answer.
'What a privilege I felt it then to be the youngest of the party! I drew back as far behind the others as I could, and twitched Bessie's dress. But though, as I said before, Bessie never stayed to think twice ere she set about an undertaking, she was not always quite so prompt in finishing it. Now and then things would suddenly prove too much for her, and she would break down helplessly before her schemes could be carried out. Now I pulled her dress without producing the slightest effect. It was clear that, if Madame St. Aubert was to be told of our discovery at all, Henrietta must be the person to do it. So, seeing that there was no help for it, she came forward, and speaking, evidently with a great effort, and in a rather husky voice, she gave a very short, but very clear, explanation of how matters stood. Meanwhile Madame St. Aubert looked every moment more and more perplexed and angry, and the mysterious man bit his lip and growled wrathfully to himself. I thought his ejaculations sounded uncommonly like oaths, only they were, fortunately, somewhat indistinct.
'"I warned you how it would be, Madame," said he bluntly, nodding with a sarcastic smile towards Mrs Fortescue, when Henrietta had finished her story. "You lack discretion, Madame—discretion—like most women. I crave pardon, but I cannot but say so. What with loud speaking, and doors left ajar, here are three babbling children acquainted with a matter which you solemnly promised should be kept strictly secret."
'YOU LACK DISCRETION, MADAME—DISCRETION—LIKE MOST WOMEN.'
'Poor Madame St. Aubert looked round distractedly. It was plain that she was very angry, and wished to pour forth her anger upon somebody, but could not make up her mind whether it should fall upon the head of this extremely plain-spoken gentleman, Mrs. Fortescue, or "those three babbling girls," her pupils.
'Mrs. Fortescue, however, though she might know herself in the wrong, was not a person to be easily browbeaten. "Very well, Colonel Dare," quoth she with severity; "and, craving your pardon, I must needs say that your courtesy is as scant as you deem our discretion. You would do well, sir, to learn something of chivalry from his Grace of Monmouth. He would not speak to the wife of one of his troopers in such a tone as you have used to us."
'This reproof seemed considerably to abash Colonel Dare; for his face grew very red—indeed I may almost say purple—and he muttered, in a stammering, confused kind of way, something about being a rough, honest soldier—not used to ladies' presence, and never thinking to give offence—only, somewhat hot in his zeal for the great cause; which excuses appeared in some degree to appease Mrs. Fortescue's wrath, and Madame's perplexity and distress. They evidently both wished to be on good terms with this odd, churlish, little Colonel Dare—Madame St. Aubert especially.
'"Come, come, Monsieur," she said, with a graceful little wave of the hand, "you have said quite enough. You have made 'l'amende honorable.' I have no doubt that Mrs. Fortescue is satisfied, and that we all understand one another perfectly. But now let me intreat you to set your mind at rest. I can assure you that these young ladies will not betray us. Is it not so, mes petites? You will give me each your word of honour to say nothing of this news that you have heard, until you have my permission. It can be but two or three days more before it will be known to the whole kingdom."
'"With all my heart, Madame," Bessie cried, springing forward in her impetuous way, her pretty bright face glowing with eagerness and enthusiasm. "There is nothing I would wish for more than to serve the Duke; and I would rather die a thousand deaths than say a word which could harm him!"
'"Ah! bravo! bravo! young mistress," exclaimed Colonel Dare, who had been surveying Bessie with a curious, critical gaze for some moments. "I see you are one of us. We have no fear of you. But this little lady here, what has she to say for herself?" and he glanced doubtfully from me to Madame St. Aubert.
'"I think she may be trusted," Madame said, smiling a little, and holding out her hand to me. "When one is already a wife, one ought to be discreet enough to keep a secret; eh, Frances? Yes, I think we may trust Lady Desmond!"
'These words made me altogether forget my shyness and my fright, and I ran to Madame St. Aubert's side, exclaiming as enthusiastically as Bessie herself: "Oh yes; indeed, Madame, you may trust me; and I would do anything to serve the Duke of Monmouth too, if I could—just as much as Bessie would." They all began to laugh at this speech (except Henrietta)—even the sour-looking Colonel Dare, which rather hurt my feelings, for I was quite in earnest, and really began to feel myself a loyal and devoted follower of the Duke of Monmouth, though, until the last hour, I had scarcely heard more of him than his name.
'"And Henrietta?" asked Madame St. Aubert gently, though at the same time with a shade of uneasiness in her tone—"But I scarce need call for your promise. You are no babbler, as we all surely know."
'Henrietta, however, made no answer. She had stood for the last few minutes with eyes fixed absently on the window, seeming to take no notice whatever of anything that was passing. Her mouth twitched nervously, and she was knitting her brows, as if trying to think out something that both puzzled and worried her a good deal.
'"Well, Henrietta?" demanded Mrs. Fortescue impatiently.
'"You will give us your word," said Madame, with her most persuasive smile; and then Henrietta roused herself with a little sigh, and gave the promise required, repeating Madame St. Aubert's own words: "Yes, Madame, I give you my word of honour to say nothing of this matter, until I have your permission."
'There was so much effort and reluctance in her tone as she said this, that Colonel Dare's fierce little black eyes were turned upon her with a distrustful glance. "If you follow my counsel, Madame," said he, "you will request young mistress here to give that pledge again with her hand upon the Bible."
'Once more Henrietta's face lighted up with indignation. "I have given my promise already, sir," she said proudly. "May I go, Madame?" and scarcely waiting for Madame St. Aubert's nod of assent, she made her courtesy and left the room.
'"Ah! never fear. She is safe enough," said Madame reassuringly. "Henrietta's promise is as good as an oath."
'A doubtful "Humph!" was Colonel Dare's only reply; after which came the abrupt question: "Pray, who is she?"
'"One of the Gloucestershire Sidneys. A daughter of Mr. Sidney of Nettlewood."
'"James Sidney of Nettlewood!" Colonel Dare scowled more disagreeably than ever as he repeated this name. "That speaks for itself. The Duke and he have but little love lost between them. I suppose that proud, sullen-looking damsel of his is not likely to have any intercourse with her father just now?"
'Madame St. Aubert again assured him of Henrietta's trustworthiness, and then went on to explain all about the family and connections of Bessie and myself. I was astonished to find how much he had already heard of me and my history. Indeed he seemed, I thought, to know quite as much, if not more than I did myself, of my father, Sir Harry Mountfort, and my young husband, Lord Desmond. At Sir Harry's name, both he and Madame St. Aubert shook their heads ominously. "No hope of him—not a jot," they pronounced. "Hand and glove with the King; and the young Earl Desmond a minor, and of course wholly under his guardian's influence for the present." But of my father they spoke far less despondingly. Why, I could not imagine; for, as I remarked before, I had not the smallest idea of what his political opinions might be. Colonel Dare, however, seemed to have some reason for thinking that my father was inclined to favour the Duke of Monmouth's claims; and he made one or two attempts to find out whether I had ever heard anything let fall by him upon the subject; but discovering in a very little while how utterly ignorant I was, he ceased questioning me, and turned to Bessie, who was ready enough to answer anything that he chose to ask. She had been brought up by her uncle, Sir Geoffrey Davenant, a Somersetshire knight, living not many miles from Taunton; and it was in his house that she had learned her ardent devotion to the Duke of Monmouth. Sir Geoffrey's political principles were apparently as well known to the shrewd Colonel Dare as those of Henrietta's father and mine; and he seemed very well satisfied with what he drew from Bessie concerning her uncle and her uncle's friends.
'"If I should chance to see Sir Geoffrey before many days are out, I shall tell him that his kinswoman's heart is with us," was Colonel Dare's parting speech to Bessie when Madame St. Aubert at last dismissed us. "Oh, if I were only as rich as Henrietta, or Eleanor Page!" So exclaimed Bessie, as we ran up-stairs into the great bed-chamber where the six elder girls slept. None of them were there at present; and Bessie sat down upon her own bed, with one arm thrown round me, sighing out again, "If I was but as rich as Henrietta!"
'"Why do you want to be rich, Bessie? Do you want money so much just now?"
'"How can you ask, child? That I may give it all to him, to be sure."
'"To that Colonel Dare?"
'"No, no. To the Duke, of course. But Colonel Dare would take it to him."
'"Bessie! To the Duke! But what does he want it for? Besides, hasn't he plenty of money of his own?"
"Oh Frances, you are such a child! How is he to raise soldiers without money? He must feed his army, and buy arms and horses and everything; and from what I have heard my uncle say, I suspect he has by no means more money than he wants, especially for such an enterprise as this. I should not wonder if that was what that gentleman wanted of Madame St. Aubert. She has a very good fortune, I know."
'These were quite new ideas to me, and rather surprising ones too; for, never having studied the subject deeply, I had always held a kind of vague belief that dukes, as a matter of course, had gold and silver to any amount they chose; while the fact that armies must eat, and that soldiers must be paid for fighting, had somehow never struck me before.
'"Frances, have you any money?" Bessie asked, rising suddenly, and opening a chest by the bedside. "Look! This is all I have left: not much, but it shall go to him. I know my uncle would give me more if I were really in need of it."
'She turned out the contents of a little Spanish leather purse upon the bed. There were three golden guineas, a crown piece, and a few small silver coins. It certainly did not look a very magnificent sum as it lay spread out upon the quilt; nor did my contribution make it much more imposing, for my whole store was but one double guinea piece, which I had meant to spend on presents for the boys, to be given when I went home at Christmas. But now I was fast catching Bessie's zeal. Who could think of Christmas presents in comparison with a great cause like this? I felt quite sure that Oliver would enter into my view of the case, if he could be consulted; so I laid my gold piece beside Bessie's, and we looked at them for a few minutes in solemn silence, which I was the first to interrupt.
'"I suppose Henrietta would not help us?"
'"Not she, forsooth!" said Bessie, with a contemptuous curl of the lip. "Nothing would induce me to ask her. But if we tarry so long, Colonel Dare will be gone. Many thanks to you, sweetheart, for what you have given;" and gathering up the little heap, Bessie put it into the purse, and tripped down-stairs with all possible speed. I leaned over the balustrade, and watched her as she met Madame St. Aubert and her visitor outside the study door, and I saw her blush and smile as he took the purse and raised her hand to his lips. Colonel Dare took his departure hastily, for all the girls from the garden were beginning to pour in, and the great bell was ringing for dinner.
* * * * *
'Three days had passed by, and Bessie, Henrietta, and I still kept our secret. I thought them rather pleasant days myself, for I was extremely proud of the important piece of knowledge which Madame St. Aubert had been involuntarily obliged to leave in my keeping. But I do not know that the two others wholly shared this opinion. Certainly Henrietta did not. She looked more and more grave and oppressed, and never spoke of the subject to either of us; while Bessie was in such a fever of expectation that it was all she could do to keep up her self-command before the other girls. Whenever we could manage it, she and I used to get alone together, and talk about the only subject that now had any interest for us. When should we hear the news of Monmouth's landing? would he be likely to march near Taunton? and would Bessie's uncle, Sir Geoffrey Davenant, take up arms in his behalf? These were the questions which we asked ourselves at least a dozen times a day; and I drank in Bessie's doctrines without a thought of disputing them, till I was becoming heart and soul as rebellious a little subject of King James as she was herself. I should probably have found it much harder to keep my lips sealed to the rest of the household, if there had been no Bessie with whom to chatter freely about the secret; and I have no doubt I was equally useful to her in enabling her to give a vent to her feelings.
'We two had always been friends from that first dismal winter's night when I first arrived at Madame St. Aubert's, a tearful, disconsolate little bride, tired out with the long, cold journey, and most unhappy at leaving—not the husband whom I had known for a day, but home, mamma, and my brothers; not to mention all the animals, that I cared for only next to them. Yes, that was a very miserable night to me; and I must confess that what added a sharp sting to my grief was the feeling of intense mortification at having to come down from the dignified position which I had held of late and so thoroughly enjoyed. A few days ago I was the most important person in the house,—treated with all the honour and attention due to a bride, and almost as if I were a woman; and now, here I was, only a little girl again, at school among strangers, and conscious of being younger and smaller than most of my companions, and not equal to any of them in good manners and accomplishments. How kind Bessie was to me that night! It was her bright winning manner and good-natured words that first began to set me at ease; and during my early school-days, whenever a home-sick fit of crying came over me, I always went to Bessie to be petted and comforted. That intense home-sickness had been over now for a long time. To be sure, I looked forward eagerly to the next Christmas, when I was to be at Horsemandown once more; but I had grown used to the routine of Madame St. Aubert's house by this time, and found myself much happier at school than I could once have imagined possible. Mrs. Fortescue was sharp and severe, sometimes, it is true; but Madame St. Aubert was, in general, remarkably kind to her pupils,—far more gentle and indulgent than most governesses of those days were wont to be. I did not dislike the studies either; though I must say we were somewhat hardly worked, and spent a great deal more time over them than would be considered wholesome in a schoolroom of the present time,—in the Horsemandown schoolroom, at all events. The learning to dance, to speak French, and to play upon the harp and virginals, was what I liked best; and I soon began to get on very well in those accomplishments—especially the music and dancing—and to discover that Agnes Blount's skill in them might not be so hopelessly beyond my reach, after all. My schoolfellows, too, I liked very much on the whole; and I think that on their part they had rather a respect for me—especially those of my own age—on account of my being, child as I was, already a wife, and wife to the Earl of Desmond. It seemed strange, even then, that among the pupils should be numbered a bride, and that she should be one of the youngest of all; but still not half so strange as if it were nowadays; for, according to a very common custom in those times, several of the girls were betrothed, and one or two of them had been so from babyhood. Well, but to continue my story. For three days, as I said, we had kept our secret. The excitement of the girls about Madame's "mystery," as they chose to call it, was beginning to go off. In fact it was fast fading away, in the interest of a scheme, started by Pauline, for getting up a little French masque, to be acted on her mother's birthday, or, as Pauline called it, her "fête." One morning, however, it happened that, although when Madame St. Aubert's fourteen young ladies sat down to breakfast the projected masque was uppermost in the minds of eleven of them, yet before their basins of milk were empty it had gone out of their heads altogether; and this was the reason: "Dr. Power begs permission to wait upon you, Madame," was a message that made every one look up in surprise. Half-past six was so very early for Dr. Power, who was celebrated for his late rising. Madame St. Aubert rose hurriedly from her chair, but before she could leave the table the Doctor himself peered in at the open door.
'"Too anxious to announce my news to await your summons, Madame," said he, with an apologetic bow so profound that his flowing wig almost swept the floor. "Ladies, you must pardon me for this intrusion; but when I tell you that the Duke of Monmouth has landed at Lyme——"
'"Landed at Lyme!" cried Madame St. Aubert, exultingly echoed by Mrs. Fortescue and Bessie.
'"The Duke of Monmouth!" repeated Pauline in tones of astonishment, while the young ladies all put down their spoons and opened their eyes; and murmurs of "Oh!" "Who?" "Where?" "What for?" ran round the table.
"Yes, landed yesterday morning at Lyme," Dr. Power proceeded, after a loud and violent fit of coughing, which seemed much to exasperate Bessie. "I only heard the news this morning. They say he was at the head of more than a thousand men last night, and by this time, I warrant me, all Dorsetshire and Devonshire will have joined him. It was Dare who sent me word. He left this place at two o'clock this morning, with a troop of forty horsemen behind him; thanks to your liberality, Madame." (Here Bessie glanced at me significantly.) "'Tis only a handful, to be sure," continued Dr. Power, "but he'll pick up more on the road. There's a piece of news for you, young ladies!" he rattled on, rubbing his hands and nodding triumphantly; "and a piece of news for King James too (not that he will be king much longer). Ah, I should like to know what he thinks of the business!"
'"Well, but, Dr. Power," cried Madame at last impatiently, for she had already made two vain attempts to strike in, and would not have managed to do so now had not Dr. Power's breath at last given way altogether,—"tell us some more details. How was he received in the place? Was there no opposition made to his landing?"
'"Opposition? None whatever. He was received most enthusiastically. The whole town was ringing with shouts of 'A Monmouth! A Monmouth! God save Monmouth and the Protestant religion!' Then up went his blue flag in the market-place, and his Declaration was read from the town-cross."
'At this point Bessie could not resist clapping her hands, and was even heard to utter a smothered "Hurrah."
'"And he proclaimed himself King?" asked Mrs. Fortescue.
'"No, no; not yet. He is prudent enough to put that off for a bit. He declares that his right to the throne shall be decided by a free Parliament; but he denounces his uncle for a tyrant, usurper, murderer, and I know not what beside. (Somewhat too strong in language this Declaration must be, to my thinking.) Well, and then he claims to be champion and leader of all English Protestants."
'"And so he is, without doubt," cried Madame St. Aubert, clasping her hands vehemently. "He will save us all from being made Papists, whether we will or no, or perchance burned alive at Smithfield. Ah yes! Mark my words, Dr. Power. He is the only man to save England, and all England will soon rise in arms to join him. God bless him, I say, and confound his enemies! Long live the Duke of Monmouth!"
'Madame's agitation at this juncture became too much for her. She sank suddenly into the nearest seat, and buried her face in her handkerchief. She was an excitable person always, Madame St. Aubert; but never before had she been seen by her pupils wrought up to such a state of uncontrollable excitement as this; and never before had our silent, formal breakfast been enlivened by such a commotion. There stood all the girls huddled together, surprised, embarrassed, curious, and some half frightened. There was my bowl of milk upset, and streaming quietly over the table-cloth, with Mrs. Fortescue actually taking not the smallest notice of it; there was Dr. Power with his wig more crooked than I could ever have conceived possible if I had not seen it; and, what seemed stranger to us than anything else, there was Madame St. Aubert perched on one of our narrow, long-legged, and most uncomfortable stools, instead of her own chair of state, and almost tumbling off, from the vehemence of her hysterical sobs.
'"What does it all mean? Is there going to be a civil war?" whispered Agnes Blount to Bessie, who was in far too much of a flutter either to hear or heed.
'"But does the King really want to burn us? Alack! alack! I will never be made a Papist," protested little Lucy Fordyce, her brown eyes round with horror.
'"I wonder if Madame will give us a holiday," suggested Camilla Fanshawe with great animation; and even as she spoke I heard Dr. Power making that self-same proposal to Madame St. Aubert, who was beginning to recover a little, the high stool not being a favourable place for giving way to "attendrissement."
'"Yes," she said, after drying her eyes and going back to her state chair. Yes, that was just what she had been about to announce. Who could be expected to attend to study after such a piece of news as this? Therefore she proclaimed a whole holiday, in honour of the day which, she hoped, we never would forget to the latest hour of our lives.
'"And now I wonder whether these young ladies know what it is that they are to keep in mind till the latest day of their lives," said Dr. Power, looking round upon us with his jovial, good-humoured smile. "This little maid, for instance," as his eye fell upon Lucy Fordyce's beaming face. "Come hither, child, and tell us all about it."
'But Lucy's ideas upon the subject were evidently misty in the extreme. She looked terribly puzzled and piteous; and I have no doubt that it was only a strong faith in the promised holiday that kept the tears out of her eyes. "Because—why, because," she stammered in answer to Dr. Power's question.
'"Why does Madame St. Aubert wish you to remember to-day?" repeated the Doctor.
'We are to have a holiday because the Duke of Monmouth——' and here Lucy came to a dead stop, being utterly at a loss to know what it was exactly that the Duke of Monmouth had been doing.
'"He came over from Holland on purpose to ask for a holiday, eh?" said Dr. Power, laughing, and tapping her under the chin. "Very good-natured of his Grace, upon my life! Well, well, never mind, sweetheart; but listen to me, and I'll tell you the reason of his coming over." Whereupon the good vicar launched forth into a vigorous little lecture, all about the Duke of Monmouth, and the great things that he was going to do for the country. Such a hero, according to Dr. Power's description, had never been known in England since the days of the Black Prince. Indeed I began to think again of those marvellous stories that Shad used to tell of King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table, and my admiration for the Duke of Monmouth waxed hotter than ever. The Duke (so Dr. Power told us) was a true and stanch Protestant, and his uncle King James a bigoted Papist, who would force us all soon to be Papists too, unless we chose rather to be put to the torture or burned alive, like those poor souls in wicked Queen Mary's reign. From this the Duke had come to save us. The King cared only for the privileges of the Crown, and nought for the rights of his subjects. He would make us slaves, and sell the country to France. Monmouth was bent solely upon guarding the liberty of the Parliament and the people. Under him we should be, as the Prayer-book said, "godly and quietly governed;" and every one would be free to worship in peace as his conscience taught him. Moreover, the Duke was the true heir. He had a better title to the throne than the present King. Why, Dr. Power did not wait to explain at that time. We should not understand the merits of the question, he said, even were he to enter into it; but such, he assured us, was the case. The Duke's enemies, with his uncle at their head, had contrived to banish him six years ago; but now, here he was back on English ground again, with a loyal band of followers. The country was rising in all directions. In a short time the best part of England would be with him, the Popish King would be driven from his throne, and a Protestant prince, loved and honoured by every true Englishman, would reign in his stead.
'So ended Dr. Power's oration, to which we listened with much respect and awe. No one, of course, presumed to question what he said; though I thought Henrietta looked as if she could have disputed the truth of some of his remarks had she dared. Mrs. Fortescue did murmur something about our parents' political opinions not having been consulted; but she was summarily quenched by Dr. Power's indignant "Pshaw! pshaw! Madame; are we to plant unsound political faith in young minds for any consideration whatever? No, Madame; if the parents of these children choose to disapprove what Madame St. Aubert teaches, why, then, let them take away their daughters from her care."
'For my own part, I thought it a matter of course that Dr. Power's side of the question must be the right one. It was enough for me that Madame St. Aubert and Mrs. Fortescue were on that side, not to mention my favourite, Bessie; but when Dr. Power,—the vicar of our parish, whom we were all in the habit of holding in the greatest veneration and respect as a pious and learned divine,—when he said that the Duke of Monmouth was right and the King wrong, it seemed to me that no one ought to have any more doubt upon the matter. It gave me a slight shock, to be sure, to hear his Majesty spoken of in such terms of disrespect, for mamma had always taught me that we ought to honour the King; but then Dr. Power had said that the Duke of Monmouth had really more right to be king than he, so my mind was set at ease upon that point. I had not learned in those days that even learned and pious men can sometimes make mistakes, nor that two people may be equally honest—equally wise and good—and yet see the same thing in a perfectly different light.
'The day was a most glorious one. Never was a more perfect summer morning. We were in exuberant spirits when we poured out into the garden, to make the most of our holiday, and talk about the great event which we were to remember to the last hour of our lives. I think we all obeyed that injunction of Madame St. Aubert's to the letter. I can answer for three of us at any rate.
'"We are absolved from our secret, Frances," said Bessie. "Madame St. Aubert called me back to tell me so, and to bid me give you both her best thanks for keeping it so well."
"She owes me her thanks," said Henrietta, with a sigh of relief. "It has been a very painful secret to me, and I am heartily glad to have done with it."
"So that was the reason your face grew so bright when Dr. Power told us the news!" cried Bessie, laughing. "I thought it could not be on the Duke's account."
'"No, indeed. I was only thinking that, now he really has landed, the news must soon be known all over the country. I have been very uneasy ever since that promise, Bessie. I was loth enough to give it, but I could not refuse to keep a secret that we had found out in such a questionable, hardly honourable, kind of way." Bessie opened her eyes.
'"Uneasy! But why uneasy? My dear Henrietta, if you had refused to promise, what difference would it have made? What could you have done?"
'"I don't quite know, but I felt as if I had no right to hide such a very serious piece of news as that. It seemed to me that I ought, in strict right, to let my father know of it."
'"Henrietta!" cried Bessie, aghast. "But you could not have done it; Madame would never have allowed that!"
'"No, I do not know that I could have managed it; but I might have tried. I fear I did wrong in making any promise, after all. Remember, Bessie, this is a terribly important matter: it is the beginning of a rebellion—of a civil war."
'"But, Henrietta," I asked, "won't your father join the Duke of Monmouth, then? Bessie says she is sure her uncle will. Oh, how I hope my father will, too! And, ah! poor Oliver, I know how he will long to be off to the Duke's army, and how he will try to persuade mamma that he is old enough." Henrietta smiled, and pulled my curls.
'"No, Francis, I hope your father will do no such thing; and I am quite sure that mine will not. However, happen what may now, my father, and the King, and everybody else too, knows what is going on, and can take whatever course they please; so I am content. I can do neither good nor harm in the matter now."
'"No," sighed Bessie: "if we were only men! But, as it is, we can do nothing to help the Duke, nothing whatever, except to pray that the right side may have the victory."
'"The right side," murmured Henrietta thoughtfully. "Yes, Bessie, we can pray for the right side."
'Now that our tongues were free once more, Bessie and I were ready enough to astonish the other girls with the history of our adventure three days ago; and great was the excitement and interest with which they listened to it.
'"I knew there was something!" "So that was why you all three vanished for such a long time?" "I thought Bessie squeezed up her lips unusually tight, as if she was afraid something was going to escape them." "I wondered why Frances had been looking so solemn and important lately." Such were the exclamations with which our story was greeted,—exclamations that rather hurt my feelings, and Bessie's too, I think, for we had prided ourselves upon behaving exactly the same as usual, and not looking in the least bit conscious or mysterious.
'"I wonder what your father will do, Frances," said Agnes Blount, "and Sir Harry, and poor Algernon too. Why, what will become of the pages if the King and Queen are driven away? Alack! alack! I hope he won't be beheaded, or anything dreadful happen to him!" This startling idea had not struck me before. Poor Algernon! of course I should not have liked him to be beheaded; though, at the same time, it was a great comfort to think that it was he, and not Oliver, whose neck might be in danger.
'"Nonsense, Agnes," I said, trying to speak very decidedly. "As if they would behead a boy!"
'"Oh, but they would," put in Lucy Fordyce. "Prince Arthur was only a boy, you know, and yet King John murdered him."
'"My dear Lucy, that was so very long ago. Besides Lord Desmond is not heir to the Crown." There was something in that argument, as Agnes allowed, still she did not seem quite satisfied.
'"No, but you see, Frances, he is one of the Queen's pages; and if there really is going to be another civil war, perhaps they will murder the King, as they did his father, and maybe the Queen too; and then, of course, any one belonging to the court will be in great danger. Oh Fan, supposing poor Algernon was to be killed, you would be a widow, you know. Oh dear! oh dear! How shocking!" This last recollection, added to her fears for Algernon, was too much for Agnes. She gave one half-stifled sob and burst into tears.
'This made me feel very uncomfortable, and more really frightened on Algernon's account than I had been at first; for it was such a new thing to see Agnes cry—Agnes, generally so blyth and sweet-tempered—that I began to fear that things must indeed be getting serious. Poor Algernon! We had not been particularly good friends that first and last time of our meeting, considering for what purpose that meeting had been, nor had our parting been much taken to heart by either of us; yet when I remembered his honest brown eyes, and round, rosy, good-humoured face as he rushed about so happily with my brothers, and then tried to imagine him with his curly head upon the block, or dying, sword in hand, amongst a heap of slaughtered pages, a sudden desire came over me to cry also.
"Fancy you a widow!" repeated Agnes, with another dismal sob, as I put my arm round her neck and tried to say something consoling.
'"Like Dr. Power's mother," suggested Lucy Fordyce, looking at me with a sort of scared expression.
'I made an effort to fancy myself like Dr. Power's mother, and the consequence was a violent fit of laughter, which checked my tears completely, and dried up Agnes's too; for Mistress Tabitha Power was eighty-five, and wore deep mourning robes which swept the ground, a black hood drawn almost over her face, and always leaned upon an ebony crutch with a silver handle. Then, when our laugh was over, Agnes began to wonder again what side my father and Sir Harry Mountfort would take in the coming war, if war there really was to be. Mamma, I felt pretty sure, would be for the Duke of Monmouth, because Dr. Power had said that the King would make Papists of us all; and I knew that mamma was the stanchest of Protestants, and that nothing on earth would be so abhorrent to her as the idea of having her own religion or that of her children interfered with. As to my father, I did not know what to think about him, but I had a vague impression that Colonel Dare thought him likely to favour the Duke's pretensions; and if Colonel Dare did not know, who did? Agnes was rather doubtful about Sir Harry. She wished very much to believe that he would take the same view of affairs as Madame St. Aubert and Dr. Power, but could not avoid a misgiving that, whatever his own opinions might be, the part which he eventually took would be decided by Lady Mountfort.
'"And she is a strict Catholic, you know, Frances; and no ones loves the King more than she does. I remember how she used to praise him when he was Duke of York. Ah! she will never let Sir Harry stand up against King James, and he always does everything she wishes."
'"Perhaps my father will persuade him," I suggested: "they are such great friends, you know."
'"Ah! you don't know Lady Mountfort," returned Agnes despondingly. She was quite a Monmouthite already, the only drawback being her uneasiness for Algernon. In fact Dr. Power's eloquence had plunged every one of us (Henrietta alone excepted) heart and soul into the Duke's cause, which was not to be wondered at. What else, indeed, was to be expected, considering how very little we knew about the business, save what he chose to tell us? So we sat under the lime tree all that pleasant sunny morning, making guesses as to what our respective relations intended to do; and trying to persuade ourselves that they, one and all, must, should, and would buckle on their swords for our hero, the Duke of Monmouth.
'Madame invited us to sup with her that evening in the north parlour; and a few of her particular friends were of the party—Dr. Power amongst them, who was in tremendous spirits, and made another speech, so brilliant that I thought it might almost have brought King James himself to come quietly down from his throne and make a present of his crown to his nephew. Yes, that was a delightful evening. We danced, and sang madrigals, and played games, and, before we broke up, drank Monmouth's health in a cup of that very choice canary which was generally considered sacred to Dr. Power, and which Madame's pupils had never aspired to partake of in their wildest dreams.
'Well, the time passed on, and little was talked of in the house but the Duke of Monmouth and his prospects. Scraps of news came in from time to time to feed our excitement, the bearer thereof being generally Dr. Power. First we heard of a skirmish at Bridport, which seemed to have been a somewhat confused and doubtful affair, in which neither side had got much the best of it. Then we were shocked by hearing that Colonel Dare was dead, shot in a quarrel with a Scotch gentleman, one of Monmouth's followers. Dr. Power shook his head very gravely when he told us this. It looked ill, he said, for the discipline of the Duke's army and the unity of his officers, that such an outrage should have taken place. However, the Duke had been highly indignant, and had done the only thing that could be done under the circumstances, and sent off the offending Scot, Colonel Fletcher of Saltoun, to the Continent.
'"So there go two of his best officers already," quoth Dr. Power, with a sigh; "and that's no trifling loss, let me tell you. Ah! well, I always told Dare it would come to this. I have known him from a boy, and he was always the same furious, hot-headed fellow. Ah-h-h," and Dr. Power went away, whistling to be sure, as usual, but the air he whistled was slow and plaintive, and his face a shade less cheerful than it was wont to be. But the next time he made his appearance he was brisk and light-hearted as ever; and well he might be, considering what tidings he brought. Four thousand men of the train-bands, under the Duke of Albemarle, had been arrayed near Axminster, and were preparing to meet the invaders; but no sooner did Monmouth's troops appear upon the scene than the train-bands retreated in confusion, without waiting to strike a blow, and the Duke—our Duke—was marching in triumph towards Taunton. It was Dr. Power's opinion that we might expect to see him that very evening. You may fancy the effect of this announcement upon Madame St. Aubert's household. The delight and excitement that reigned there were quite indescribable. Even the scullions in the kitchen were heard uttering distant hurrahs.
'The rest of the day was spent in bustle and preparation. The garden was stripped of all its gayest and choicest flowers, and the usual books, slates, and ink-stands which generally filled the schoolroom gave way to bright heaps of roses, lilies, pansies, and carnations, which were to be turned into wreaths and garlands before the evening. Ah, how well I remember that day!—the laughter and chatter as we worked at the wreaths, and the breathless interest with which we watched them put up afterwards in festoons, over door, balcony, and windows. All the gardens in Taunton must have been plundered, I think, that morning, for, as we looked down the street, every house seemed, like our own, to be absolutely glowing with flowers.
'It was nearly sunset when the sound of drum and fife, the ring of steel, and the even tramp of many feet announced that Monmouth and his army must be at hand; and never shall I forget the storm of cheers that welcomed him as he came riding into the town. It seemed to rise from every street in Taunton; and I suppose it was that I had never heard so many voices together before, but the sound gave me a curious, uncomfortable, half-frightened feeling, as if I must get out of everybody's sight, and cry. However, this was quite out of the question; the balcony where we stood being so much crowded, that it was a hard matter to move one's arms enough to throw down the pinks and roses with which our aprons were filled. The street was thickly lined on each side with people in holiday dress, and all carrying green boughs; and from every window and balcony handkerchiefs and scarves were waving, and flowers were raining down. The Duke looked up and bowed as he passed underneath our windows whereupon Madame St. Aubert gasped out, "O mon roi! mon roi!" and burst into one of her floods of tears; while Bessie, in the violence of her feeling, flung away handkerchief and basket as well as her flowers, and was heard afterwards anxiously questioning every one as to what could possibly have become of them. "Was I not right, Frances? Is he not a noble, gallant prince? Does he not look like a king?" demanded she triumphantly, when the Duke and his white horse could no longer be distinguished. And to this I agreed, with all my heart; as well I might, considering how many older and wiser folks than I had been completely carried away by Monmouth's handsome face and graceful winning manner.
'"Oh Henrietta, if you would only have come out to see him, you would have changed your mind!" Such was the assurance that all the girls repeated over and over again, when Henrietta was hearing a detailed account of the procession from beginning to end; for she had steadily refused to help in the making of the wreaths or to join the party on the balcony, and Madame was far too much pre-occupied to care whether she came or stayed away. A shrug of the shoulders, and a contemptuous "stiff-necked little fool!" was her only attempt at remonstrance. So Henrietta quietly managed to keep out of the way all the afternoon; and when the last man in the procession had passed out of the street, we ran off to find her, and pour out a description of the great sight we had seen, to the only person in the house who had not been a witness of it. She was as much interested, and asked as many questions as we could wish; but all our regrets that she had missed the pageant, and all our protestations that she must have changed her mind had she seen the Duke of Monmouth, only made her smile and shake her head.
'"Indeed, Bessie," she said, "I quite believe that he is as handsome and brave and gallant a gentleman as you say, but that is no proof against what my father told me; and now I know that, I hope that merely to look upon him would not make me change my mind. I suppose a comely face and gentle bearing are not enough to give him a right to the throne, nor to make him a good king, or a good soldier either."
'There was no denying this; nevertheless it made not the slightest impression upon any of us. Madame St. Aubert and Dr. Power believed in the Duke of Monmouth, and we were content to follow their lead. He was our hero, for whom we vowed that we would willingly have laid down our lives, and, at the time, we really fancied that we meant what we said. Next morning, though the flowers had vanished from the schoolroom, books and desks were not yet to be seen in their stead. To-day the first thing that met our eyes as we entered the room was a piece of sky-blue silk spread out upon the middle of the table, and surrounded by innumerable skeins of gold and silver thread, and silks in all the colours of the rainbow. These, Madame told us, were the materials for a banner to be presented to the Duke before his departure from Taunton—"presented by us, our very own selves," as Lucy Fordyce said, clapping her hands with delight.
'"Whoever has a hand in the making of it shall walk in the procession," said Madame, with a smile, as she drew the heap of silks towards her and began to disentangle the skeins.
'We were all feeling rather dull after the intense excitement of the day before, and the working of the banner seemed to be the very thing we felt most inclined to do,—something that could really be done for the Duke,—something that, by our efforts, we might make not unworthy to be offered. These thoughts were enough to revive all our enthusiasm, and to set us to work with an energy and perseverance which, I am afraid, we had never been known before to display in Madame St. Aubert's schoolroom. Pauline proceeded to draw out the pattern, Bessie to sort the silks into heaps of the same colour, but varying in shade; and the little ones were soon busy in winding skeins and threading needles for the whole party. To my own great joy, I was not classed among the "little ones" on the present occasion. Mamma had taught me to embroider very well; and, much as I hated it at home, I was glad to find, when I came to school, that there was one thing at least which I could do better than Agnes Blount,—better, indeed, than most of the girls much older than myself. Henrietta was the only one whom I could not hope to rival; and Henrietta would not help us. We dragged her into the room, and made her admire the soft rich blue of the silk, and the glittering gold and silver, with which it was to be ornamented, and from habit she began to show Mary Seymour how to hold her hand so as not to soil her work; but when she glanced over Pauline's shoulder and saw the pattern that she was copying, she exclaimed, "Oh Pauline!" in a voice of such disapproval and distress that we all looked up surprised.
'"Don't you think a lion and a unicorn will be pretty, Henrietta?" I asked anxiously. "I wanted to have some beautiful gold lilies, like those in that French book Madame showed us; but Bessie said that would not do, because the Duke of Monmouth must have the arms of England."
'"But he is to have a French motto," observed Lucy Fordyce. "And such an easy one. I can translate it quite well: 'God and my Right.' It is all to be written in gold letters. Don't you think it will look very well?"
'"Oh yes, very well indeed," replied Henrietta, with a little smile that seemed to make Bessie quite angry, for she said indignantly;
'"Well, Henrietta, and has he not the best right in the world to the royal arms? Is he not our king already?"
'"Oh, certainly, if wearing our king's colours makes him so; and I think he ought to be proud of having such a devoted subject. But, Bessie dear, I see you have changed your favourite rose colour for blue, which I have often heard you say does not suit you half so well."
'Bessie looked vexed at this speech, and her cheeks flushed for a minute; but then, glancing down at her blue breast-knot with a proud smile, she said enthusiastically, almost defiantly, "I don't care if you do laugh at me. It is the only thing I can do for him."
'"Ah! that is right! That is my own warm-hearted Bessie," cried Pauline, who always expressed her feelings far more openly and strongly than any of the rest of us. "I think it is very right and noble of her to do it, and I would do just the same—only, unfortunately, blue does suit me; so it is no sacrifice." And darting an indignant look at Henrietta, she flew to Bessie's side and bestowed an affectionate kiss on both her cheeks. Pauline's demonstrative ways used to make us all feel rather embarrassed sometimes; and Henrietta especially would become colder and more reserved than ever when Pauline was "attendrie" or "emue," as she expressed it. On the present occasion, however, her eyes twinkled with fun when she saw that Pauline's hasty movement had swept our beautiful banner down to the floor, while all the embroiderers had stopped their work to stare at Bessie, and did not even make an effort to save it.
'"Well, good-bye, Pauline," she said, turning to leave the room; "I won't hinder your work any longer. Your hero's standard is trailing in the dust, which is rather a bad omen; but it was not I that threw it there." And Henrietta vanished, while the rest of the party returned to their work with increased soberness and diligence, but rather less talking than before.
We prospered very well after we had begun: we were all anxious to show Henrietta what we could accomplish, even without her skilful fingers to aid us. Moreover, Madame St. Aubert came to superintend; and, after a time, when lion and unicorn were beginning to stand forth in all their bravery from their gay background, carefully balancing a glistening crown between their uplifted fore-paws, she brought in Dr. Power to see and admire. He praised our needlework to our hearts' content; but when he put on his spectacles to examine the device, he looked almost as grave as Henrietta had done, and gave a sort of subdued whistle of surprise. But Madame St. Aubert whispered something in his ear which caused him to say, "Ah! well, I thought it would come to that; but 'tis a pity—in my opinion 'tis a thousand pities—that the Duke should allow such a decided step to be taken."
'Madame St. Aubert drew herself up as stiffly as if she was going to hear Dr. Power the multiplication-table. "I have the best authority for saying that the measure was recommended by his Grace's most trusted advisers," replied she with dignity.
'Dr. Power looked as puzzled as though he had forgotten that twice one made two, and rubbed his wig till it was quite crooked, before he said, with an air of relief, "Well, Madame, the Scripture hath declared that in the multitude of counsellors there is safety; and so, I hope, it will prove on the present occasion. For myself, I shall certainly be able to say with all my heart, 'God save our King.'"
'I did not in the least understand what was meant by this conversation; and when I pulled Bessie's sleeve and asked her, she said she was not quite sure, and I must wait till to-morrow to know.
'I was not much wiser when the morrow came, and Bessie told me, with a beaming face, that the Duke of Monmouth was going to be proclaimed king in the market-place of Taunton. However, seeing that she looked very glad, I tried to feel glad too, and succeeded completely, when she informed me that, after the proclamation had taken place, our banner was to be presented by the whole school in procession, as the gift of the maids of Taunton.
'"And when—when is it to be, Bessie?" cried several voices.
'"Next Thursday, Madame says; so we have not too much time; but I'll work my fingers to the bone rather than it should not be done."
'We were all of the same mind about this; and work we did, with an energy that astonished even Madame St. Aubert, and that wore holes in some of our thimbles, even if our fingers escaped safe and sound. But were we not repaid for all our trouble on the morning, when Bessie, the leader of a long procession, stood by the market-cross, holding in her hand the staff from which floated our completed banner in all its beauty, just fluttering enough in the wind to show gleams of the red and gold, forming the scroll and tracery which adorned its ample folds? What a crowd filled the market-place! and however one pushed and struggled to catch a glimpse of Bessie, whose bright eyes were brighter than usual, and whose colour came and went every moment with excitement! "How pretty Bessie is!" I whispered to Agnes; "I never knew she was pretty till to-day." "Hush! Hush! the Duke is coming," was all Agnes had time to say, before such a cheer rang through the market-place as I never heard in my life before. It quite drowned the clatter of hoofs, as the Duke of Monmouth and his train came riding through the throng of people, the Duke smiling and bowing to every one as he passed, and having to take off his hat so often, that at last he kept it in his hand, and rode on, bare-headed, up to the market-cross, where he alighted, and, standing on the steps, bowed once more, while the cheers rose higher and higher. And now I thought the important time had come; but Bessie knew better, and waited while one of the Duke's followers, very richly dressed, blew a loud blast on a trumpet—to secure silence, I suppose—and then read in a high, monotonous voice, from a strip of parchment which he held in his hand, a proclamation, of which I could not catch one word. It was only by standing on tip-toe that I could see what was going on; and it was by keeping in this position, and holding fast by Agnes Blount's arm, that I saw how, when the gentleman had finished reading, he waved his hat in the air and shouted "God save the King!" with all his might. It must have been every voice in Taunton, I think, which joined the answering shout of "God save the King! Long live Monmouth, the true heir to the throne! The Protestant succession for ever! Down with the Papists!" I dropped back into my former position, and left my hold on Agnes's shoulder, not quite certain whether I felt most inclined to clap my hands and cheer as Dr. Power was doing, or to stop my ears and sob hysterically, like little Lucy Fordyce, who was quite scared at the noise.
'"Hush, hush, Lucy! don't cry, chérie," whispered Pauline consolingly. "There, it is all over now, Look at mamma: the Duke is going to speak to her. Oh, mon Dieu, what a handsome man! what fire in the eyes!" and Pauline, after good-naturedly putting Lucy into a place where she could see what was going on, relapsed into silence, only occasionally broken by murmured exclamations in French, when her feelings became too much for her.
'Madame St. Aubert knelt on one knee before the Duke, kissed his hand, and presented him with a Bible, splendidly bound in crimson and gold.
'"Ah! qu'il a l'air noble et gracieux! C'est un vrai roi!" cried Pauline below her breath, as the Duke took her mother's hand to raise her from the ground, bowed profoundly over it, and said as he took the gift she offered: "Madame, I have come to defend the truths contained in this book, and to seal them, if so it must be, with my blood."
'I heard these words quite distinctly, in the sudden silence which had followed the cheers; but, after the Duke had finished speaking, the noise grew more deafening than ever. A great many people were sobbing, too, besides Lucy Fordyce, though it could not have been with fright, like her, for they were quite grown-up.
'Dr. Power rubbed his hands together and said, "Right, right: those are the best words that have been spoken yet," quite out loud. And Eleanor Page whispered to Pauline, "I wish Henrietta was here: she would be convinced now."
'And now, at a sign from Madame St. Aubert, the whole school began to move forward, and we all fell into our proper places in the procession. Bessie did not change colour now, nor falter in the least, as she knelt before the Duke and gave the banner into his hand, with the few words which had been arranged beforehand for her to say: "Will your Grace deign to accept all we have to offer you—the best work of our hands, with the best wishes of our hearts?"
BESSIE DID NOT CHANGE COLOUR NOW, NOR FALTER IN THE
LEAST, AS SHE KNELT BEFORE THE DUKE AND GAVE THE
BANNER INTO HIS HANDS.
'"When you see these colours again, fair mistress," said the Duke, as he clasped the staff in his hand, "I trust they will have waved over a conquered field. We cannot but be victorious who fight under a flag worked by so many fair hands, and accompanied by the wishes of so many kind hearts. In the name of my followers as well as my own, I thank you, and all people of the good town of Taunton, for their faith in me and in my cause. I ask them to keep their faith only a little longer, and it shall be justified. We are in arms for the liberties of England, and for the Protestant religion, and therefore can say, without the shadow of a doubt or scruple, 'May God defend the right!'"
'Bessie's earnest "Amen" was repeated in a sort of shout by many voices, for the Duke spoke in tones clear enough to be heard by all around him. Dr. Power was just going to rub his hands again, but changed his mind, and rubbed one eye instead—very hard indeed—and then looked about him with such a triumphant smile, that I felt exactly as if he was saying, "I told you so. Did I not use almost these very words, young ladies? Let this be impressed upon your minds till the latest hour of your lives." Certainly the impression was made upon mine. I can recollect even now all that happened on that day, down to the most trivial particulars, with a minuteness that would satisfy even Dr. Power himself. But, anxious as he was that it should be so, I am quite sure that he never dreamed what terrible reason we should all have for remembering that twentieth of June to the latest hour of our lives.
The next day we watched the Duke of Monmouth's troops march out of Taunton on their way to Bridgewater. File after file of soldiers passed under our eyes, and yet there were more behind.
'"Thousands and thousands of them!" Camilla Fanshawe said, with a look of awe. "How can anybody doubt that the Duke will get back his rights, and win the crown which belonged to him, with such an army as that to fight his battles?"
'And yet we all agreed that its leader looked very melancholy. Though "Long live King Monmouth!" was echoing all down the street as he passed, he did not smile, but merely bowed mechanically, without caring to glance up at the faces which filled every window and balcony on both sides of the way.
'"Why does he look like that?" said Camilla, quite disappointed, like the rest of us, at the change which had come over the Duke since yesterday.
'"Perhaps he is sorry to leave Taunton," suggested Agnes. "You know every one seems to like him so much here, and maybe they will not in other places."
'"Perhaps he is thinking how many of the men who are marching with him now may never come back to Taunton," said Eleanor Page gravely.
'Henrietta sighed, and turned away from the window; and though the rest of us stayed there till the last strain of music died away in the distance, and the last straggler of the rabble who followed the army had vanished from our sight, yet it was with very sober faces that we gazed, for this was the first time that we really began to think what must be some of the consequences of the scene we had witnessed yesterday.
'"Will they fight a battle, and all be killed?" asked Lucy Fordyce anxiously.
'Nobody answered. But I am sure that we were all thinking the same thing, and were wondering how long it would be before we should hear news of the men who had just marched away from before our eyes, leaving the streets of Taunton to look duller and emptier than they had ever done before.
'We did not hear anything at all for about a week, and then only that the Duke had been well received at Bridgewater—that he had marched from there to Glastonbury, Wells, Bristol, and other places whose names I forgot as soon as I heard them. After this, reports became extremely vague. "The Duke was marching straight for London," we were told, "with the King's army flying before him;" but this was immediately contradicted by some one who knew (on the best authority) that the Duke was making his way through Worcestershire towards Shropshire and Cheshire, in order to collect his friends in those counties; after which we heard that he had won a decisive victory at Philips Norton, and then that there had been no battle at all there. By the time the great news really came, which brought back all our excitement and interest in a rush, most of the younger girls, and certainly myself among the number, were getting very tired of the perpetual discussions about the Duke and his prospects which went on among our elders.
'"We cannot do anything; so what is the use of talking about it?" Camilla said. And I secretly agreed with her, though my affection for Bessie generally kept me at her side during play-hours, in spite of the fact that she talked of nothing but this one subject, which was becoming, to my mind, a very stale one indeed.
'One morning I was standing by the window in our bedroom doing nothing, though I had been sent there to learn a lesson, given me as a punishment for inattention. I looked at my book for about five minutes, and then relapsed into a day-dream about Oliver and Hebe, which was broken by my hearing a noise in the street. Of course I went to the window to see what it meant, and to my astonishment beheld quite a crowd collected in front of our house,—among them Madame St. Aubert herself, whom I had left a quarter of an hour ago in the schoolroom reading aloud a book of French history to the elder girls. She was talking very fast and eagerly, and once wrung her hands with a sort of impatient despair, which convinced me that something dreadful was the matter. What could have happened? I was just thinking of venturing down-stairs, at the risk of a scolding, when I heard footsteps hurriedly approaching, and Bessie, looking white and terrified, entered the room.
'"Oh, Frances!" she cried as I sprang towards her. "Such news!—such miserable news! All is over with the cause now. There is nothing more to hope for." And Bessie sank into a chair and burst into a flood of tears.
'"But how do you know? What has happened? Has there been a battle? Is the Duke of Monmouth killed?" All these questions I hurried out at once, standing bewildered in the middle of the floor, staring at Bessie, who at last raised her head and went on with her story.
'"Job Tallis has come back." (Job Tallis was Madame St. Aubert's gardener, and was one of the many young men who had joined the Duke's standard while he was at Taunton.) "There has been a dreadful battle at a place called Sedgemoor, close to Bridgewater. The Duke's men fought like lions, Job says; but it was all of no use. They were outnumbered—their ammunition failed them—their cavalry were scattered by the first shot: that must have been Lord Grey's fault." And Bessie stopped to give a little stamp with her foot, and to wipe her eyes, as she said this: "Oh, if I was but a man? But there, that is nonsense. It was at night, and there was such a fog that it was impossible to see a dozen yards in front of you. They fought till after daybreak,—till Feversham's artillery broke their ranks to pieces—till they were literally ridden down by his cavalry."
'"And the Duke?" I asked, beginning to tremble, for Bessie's excitement was infectious. She shook her head.
'"Job knows nothing about him. He saw him last on foot, encouraging his men, and was close to him for a little while; but he was struck down by a pike (Job, I mean), and knew nothing more till the fight was over, and then he was almost taken prisoner, Oh! he has had a great many escapes and adventures; but I could not stay to hear about them, I wanted to come up here out of everybody's way."
'"But, Bessie, I don't understand what will become of the Duke if he is alive. Will he collect a great many more men and fight another battle? And if he is taken prisoner, what will they do to him? Will they——"
'"Don't, Frances," and Bessie covered her face with her hands and shuddered. "I don't know anything. It is too horrible to think about. Oh, he must escape! Perhaps he is in hiding somewhere; perhaps he has reached a seaport already, and is safe on board ship."
'I could not get much more from Bessie, who presently begged me to leave her alone; so I stole down-stairs and joined the rest of the household, who were every one of them assembled in the kitchen listening to Job Tallis's account of his own exploits, and of the utter ruin which had overtaken the Duke's forces, in spite of the valour of his army in general, and of the men of Taunton in particular. Nor was his the only evidence we had of the fight. Fugitives kept coming into the town, one after another, all that afternoon, and they all told the same story. Only, of the Duke nothing certain was known, except that he had not fallen upon the field of battle. Ah! well. We heard quite soon enough. From that day began a time when every morning brought us in bad news,—dreadful stories of the sufferings of the wounded men, or of the cruelties practised on their prisoners by the victorious soldiers.
'People were not so particular then as they are now about keeping children away from all that is shocking or horrible; and I remember standing, open-mouthed, listening to stories repeated by the servants, the elder girls, ay, and by Madame St. Aubert herself,—stories of such atrocities as it would make you ill to think about, and which I would not relate to you for the world. To be sure, it would not have been of much use keeping us in ignorance of what was going on, for in a few days' time Taunton itself was the scene of some of the worst horrors,—horrors so appalling that even the Duke of Monmouth's fate, when we came to hear of it, only gave us a momentary shock of pity and regret. You have read all about it in your books of history: you know that the Duke of Monmouth was "convicted of high treason, and executed on Tower Hill, in the thirty-seventh year of his age;" and that "those concerned in his rebellion were tried and sentenced by Judge Jeffreys, noted for severity in the execution of his office;" but you just think of it as something which takes up half a page of Mangnall's Questions, which must be learnt and said in a given time. You do not realize—how should you?—what it was to live in the midst of these things as I did—to have the events which make up the history of the time happening outside your very door—to be obliged even to take a part in them yourself. But I must go on with my story more regularly, or I shall never be able to make you understand the order in which everything took place.
'After hearing all the particulars which could be gleaned of the fight at Sedgemoor, of course we were wild to know something about the leaders of the thousand men who lay dead on the field of battle. Bessie, especially, was so eager about it, that she would run out into the street to question every fresh arrival from Bridgewater—whether it were a group of worn-out runaways, or a body of King James's soldiers in pursuit of the same. She got her news at last, and came in, crying, to tell us how Lord Grey had been captured on the border of the New Forest, disguised as a peasant; and how the Duke had been found soon after, hidden under some fern and brambles, famished with hunger, and so altered that he could hardly be recognised.
'"And who told you all this?" inquired Madame St. Aubert, who had been much shut up in her own room of late with Mrs. Fortescue, and was not aware of Bessie's little expeditions in search of information.
'"It was one of Colonel Kirke's officers, Madame," said Bessie, who knew she had been doing what was entirely contrary to all known rules; but who trusted to the "bouleversement" of Madame's ideas, and to the general disorder which prevailed in the school just then, to save herself from the scolding which she knew she richly deserved.
'"And pray, Mademoiselle Bessie, what business had you to be talking to Colonel Kirke's officers?" demanded Madame in her most freezing tone.
'"I would not have done it at any other time, indeed, Madame, but I was so anxious to hear some news of our poor Duke. The gentleman was very civil, and answered all my questions; but I did not like him much, though he asked me where I lived, and said he should do himself the honour of——"
'But Bessie was not allowed to finish her sentence, for Madame St. Aubert advanced a step or two, gave her a sound box on the ear, and then, to our great surprise, sank back in a chair and went into hysterics. Her "bouleversement" of ideas had taken a different turn from what we expected. Not that the box on the ear astonished us so very much. Madame had been known to bestow the like before, under circumstances of great provocation,—but that she should go into hysterics afterwards, this was remarkable indeed; and we stood looking at her in awe-struck silence till she recovered enough to speak. I suppose the knowledge that so many pairs of eyes were upon her, helped to restore her composure. At any rate, it was not long before she rose from her seat with great dignity (Madame always was particularly dignified after losing her temper), and requested Bessie to follow her out of the room. "As for you, young ladies," she said, turning round upon us as she reached the door, "let me beg that there may be no more of this unseemly curiosity about what does not concern you. You will hear quite enough about the Duke, without babbling about his affairs to everybody. Do you hear? From this day forth I forbid his name to be mentioned in my house, under pain of my severe displeasure." With these words Madame sailed out of the room, and remained invisible for the rest of the day.
'She left, however, a very rebellious set of pupils behind her. It was not so easy to stop all interest in our hero as it had been to arouse our enthusiasm for him. Many were the murmurs we indulged in, and the hard names we called Madame St. Aubert for being "so mean-spirited as to desert the Duke in the hour of his misfortune."
'This phrase was Bessie's, and we all admired it extremely. She came back from her private interview in a state of wrathful indignation, in which we all shared. "Madame St. Aubert," she said, "was a coward; and, now that the Duke of Monmouth's cause was lost, wanted to turn against him like the rest of the world, and to deny that she had ever befriended him. As if the Government would dream of meddling with her for what she had done! The Government had other things to think of. Don't you think so, Henrietta?" she concluded with a sudden change of voice, as if Madame St. Aubert had succeeded in frightening her a little in spite of her high tone.
'"I don't know about that," said Henrietta in her slow, considering way. "At any rate, it is as well to be prudent, Bess, or you might be getting other people into trouble without doing the Duke of Monmouth any good. You remember what we saw yesterday?"
'There was a moment's silence, as we remembered with a pang the wretched faces of a long line of prisoners, chained two and two, whom we had seen marching into Taunton between files of Colonel Kirke's soldiers. Colonel Kirke was in command of King James's troops now, since General Feversham had been sent for to London, and had entered Taunton with a large body of men the day before.
'"But, Henrietta," said Eleanor Page in rather a tremulous voice, "that was quite different: those poor men had been fighting for the Duke, and they were taken prisoners on the field of battle. Madame can't be afraid of anything of that sort happening to her."
'"Of course not," said Mary Seymour lightly; "Henrietta is such a croaker. For my part, I thought she would be delighted to hear of the Duke's misfortunes; she was always talking against him when he was here."
'Henrietta flushed up at this, and was just opening her mouth to answer, when Ph[oe]be Morris, one of the servant girls, rushed into the room, wringing her hands, crying and sobbing, in such a state of distraction that we could hardly make out what she said.
'"Oh Mistress Henrietta! Oh young ladies, where is Madame? Oh! get her to come and speak a word for him. Oh my poor Job Tallis: they've taken him away between them—two of those wicked soldiers; and he'll be hanged—I know he will; and all because they found his pike behind the kitchen door, with the blue ribbons on it I tied there a fortnight ago. Oh, what a fool I was not to hide it under the faggot stack when he brought it home!"
'"Hanged, Ph[oe]be! he can't surely be hanged for following the Duke. Why, they must hang every man in Taunton if they hang him: they all did the same thing. And that is impossible."
'"Oh, but they will, Mistress Bessie," persisted Ph[oe]be. "That Colonel Kirke is a wicked, wicked man. They have got a gallows in front of the White Hart Inn, and there were three strapping young fellows hung there this morning. You can see it if you like to come up-stairs to my bedroom window."
'But none of us took advantage of this offer, and Ph[oe]be, with her apron at her eyes, went away to tell her story to Madame St. Aubert; while we sat huddled together in the schoolroom for the rest of the day, talking in whispers, and making wild conjectures as to what would happen next.
'What a long, dreary evening it was! For once in our lives, we younger ones were glad when bed-time came—though, to be sure, Lucy Fordyce was seized with a crying fit; and I, for the first time in my life woke up, screaming, in the middle of the night, being quite convinced that I heard the soldiers coming upstairs to take me away. Perhaps I really did hear some one moving about; for the next morning neither Madame St. Aubert nor Pauline, who slept in her mother's room, appeared at breakfast. Mrs. Fortescue read prayers; and when the looks of astonishment and inquiry directed towards their empty places became too numerous to be borne any longer in silence, she told us that Madame St. Aubert had thought it best, both for her own safety and that of her pupils, to leave England for a short time. On account of the unsettled state of the country, it was necessary that the journey should be performed as quickly and secretly as possible, which was the reason why she had not been able to bid us farewell. But Pauline had left many affectionate messages for us all, and had said we were to wish her and her mother a safe journey, and speedy return.
'"As to yourselves, young ladies," Mrs. Fortescue went on, "you need not be in any fear for your own safety. Colonel Kirke does not imprison children; and if he did, you would be in no danger, for you have done nothing to deserve it. It is important that Madame St. Aubert should arrive safely in France; and therefore I am sure that I can trust you all to be silent and discreet on the subject of her journey, and on all other matters connected with this—ahem—this unfortunate business. I wish everything to go on as if she was here; so, after breakfast, you will be pleased to get your books, and we will continue our studies as usual."
'The conclusion of this speech was so remarkably commonplace, and Mrs. Fortescue so entirely everyday and matter-of-fact, as she sat at the head of the table pouring out mugs of milk and water, that our confidence was a good deal restored; and when the milk and water and thick slices of bread and butter had quite disappeared, we set about our tasks almost cheerfully—I, for one, glad to have something to do which might help me, for a time at least, to forget the dreadful things which could be seen out of Ph[oe]be's bedroom window.
'Not a word did Mrs. Fortescue ever say about Madame St. Aubert's sudden journey; but a rumour came round to us through Mary Seymour, who heard it from Molly the cook (who must, I fear, have listened at the keyhole), that Mrs. Fortescue had done all she could to persuade Madame to stay—had told her that her flight would bring suspicion on the whole house—and that, moreover, it was her duty to remain and protect the girls under her charge. Mrs. Fortescue had flatly refused to go herself; and therefore it was clear, as Molly said, that there was "a deal more stuff in her than in that Frenchified woman, for all her stiffness and stand-off manners." These very manners had caused Mrs. Fortescue to be anything but a favourite with us hitherto. We looked upon her only in the light of a person whom it was impossible to satisfy with a half-learnt lesson, and who could be very cross if we were inattentive or careless, or made mistakes about things which we knew quite well. But now, during the days of suspense and terror which followed close on Madame's departure, we learnt to like her better than we had ever done before. She treated us less like children, and yet was kinder to us when we behaved childishly. She went on with her own work, managing the house, and hearing the lessons, as if the cruelties of Colonel Kirke and his men were of no more recent date than those mentioned in the history of the Maccabees. And yet she comforted and soothed us when we sobbed and shivered over the dreadful stories poor Ph[oe]be was constantly bringing in, so patiently and gently that we hardly knew her for the same Mrs. Fortescue who used to scold if we made a single false stitch in our samplers, and rap our knuckles if we cried over our sums.
'A day or two after Madame St. Aubert's disappearance, Dr. Power came to see us. He came in the evening, with a carter's frock thrown over his black clothes, and a round hat pulled low on his forehead, so as partly to conceal his wig. He was a suspected man, he said, and did not wish to bring suspicion on our house too, by being seen to visit it. He was very much surprised indeed to find that Madame St. Aubert was gone. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders when Mrs. Fortescue told him this, with an expression which we took to indicate the most unqualified contempt; though I think now that there was mixed with it some show of admiration for her cleverness in having managed her escape so promptly and successfully.
'"Well!" he said at last, "if Madame thought flight was necessary, it was well she accomplished it when she did. I hear that Colonel Kirke's outposts are more numerous and vigilant than ever; and I suspect that he has been reprimanded by the authorities at Whitehall for his system of stringing up the rank and file of the Duke's followers—who, poor souls, have not a penny to buy their lives with—and allowing richer folk to purchase a free pass to some seaport town. I am no great friend to the King, as you know, Mrs. Fortescue,"—here Dr. Power lowered his voice almost to a whisper,—-"but I cannot believe that he approves of these military executions. They are shameful, abominable, illegal. It makes me sick to see them going on without the power to lift a finger to save one of the poor creatures,—young men that I have christened, and catechized, and married perhaps! And all for doing what they were told was a just and righteous thing. There'll be a reckoning for all this some time; but it is my belief that Colonel Kirke will get his deserts in this world, and I hope I may live to see the day!"
'Dr. Power walked up and down the room in a state of great agitation, which gradually calmed down when he saw how we were all staring at him in frightened silence.
'"I crave your pardon, ladies," he said, "for such an outbreak; but it is enough to make one's blood boil in one's veins to see such wholesale slaughter."
'Then he told us that more than a thousand people belonging to Taunton, suspected of having assisted the Duke of Monmouth, had been arrested and thrown into prison, where they would remain, awaiting their trial, until the beginning of the next assizes. He begged Mrs. Fortescue to be very careful to avoid all suspicion of having favoured the Duke, and to keep her young ladies within the precincts of the house and garden; for they would only see horrible sights if they went further. And, moreover, it was best to keep as quiet as possible while Colonel Kirke was in Taunton.
'Then the kind old Doctor bade us good-bye, and went sadly away, after carefully arranging his disguise, which, I remember, struck me at the time as being more likely to attract attention than to divert it—the effect, on the whole, being so very unnatural and peculiar. The next day we heard that he had been arrested. Well, I must not dwell any longer on that dreary time, for I have still much to tell. Bad as those days were, there were still worse to come, as we very soon found, when the terrible Judge Jeffreys arrived in Taunton. We had heard of his cruel deeds at Winchester—of the terrible fate of poor Dame Alice Lisle, sentenced to death for granting a hiding-place in her house to some of the rebels; and now he had come to hold the assizes here, in the very same town with us. I remember Mrs. Fortescue's look when the news came that he was actually in Taunton. Every tinge of colour faded out of her face,—out of her lips even,—and I thought she was going to faint; but she recovered herself, and tried to be more cheerful than usual for the rest of the day. Still that did not blind us. We could see clearly enough how uneasy she really was; and indeed I think all our hearts sank from the moment we heard those tidings; for, as Henrietta said, with a foreboding shudder, "If he could condemn an old gentlewoman like Dame Alice Lisle to be burnt, only for hiding a rebel, no fault could be small enough for him to spare."
'"Ay; and no punishment too cruel for his hard heart," cried Bessie passionately—"nobody insignificant enough to be passed over. Madame St. Aubert did well to escape so soon. I would we were all with her."
'From the depths of our hearts we echoed Bessie's wish; and with only too good reason, as you will very soon see.
'The next morning, before we were more than half dressed, a succession of thundering knocks at the hall door, and sundry violent peals of the bell, brought all our toilets to a sudden standstill. There was a moment's startled silence in the room; then a burst of exclamations, and a rush to the window, from which nothing was to be seen except a few ragged boys standing about near our gate. Presently there was a murmur of strange voices in the house, and after a while a ringing scream from Ph[oe]be on the stairs. The next minute we heard her rush into the room where the elder girls slept, and, with one consent, we followed her there.
'"Do speak, Ph[oe]be! for Heaven's sake, tell us what is the matter," Bessie was saying, with an impatient stamp, as we entered; but "Alack, alack, alack!" was Ph[oe]be's only answer, as she leaned against the door-post, gasping and sobbing, and wringing her hands, until Henrietta silently offered her some water; after drinking which she became a little more coherent.
'"Oh, well-day! poor dear ladies! Lord have mercy upon us! They've come at last, as I've always feared they would, ever since Madame went away."
'We looked at one another in dumb horror.
'"They've come!" repeated Henrietta slowly. "And whom do they want, Ph[oe]be? What do they say?"
'"Oh, they want Madame, to be sure, and Mistress Pauline—only, they're gone. And now we are all arrested. I heard them say so—Madame Fortescue, and all of you, arrested in the King's name. Good-lack! good-lack! We shall all be hanged, and burnt, and made slaves, and what not. I knew how it would be when that wicked, murdering knave, Judge Jeffreys, came to Taunton. Poor dear young ladies! where shall we all be this time to-morrow?"
'Of course this question could only be answered by a chorus of sobs, lamentations, and exclamations of all kinds, in the midst of which in came Mrs. Fortescue, pale and grave as she had always been of late, but with something in her face that looked almost more like indignation than fear. Her presence quieted us directly; and we listened to her, and obeyed her in trembling silence, when she told us to finish our dressing as quickly as possible, for that there was a gentleman down-stairs who wished to put some questions to us. She stayed in the elder girls' room for a few moments after we left it, and then we heard her go down-stairs, followed by the still weeping Ph[oe]be.
'"Silly wench," Mrs. Fortescue was saying as they passed our door, "what need is there for you to fret yourself in this way? You are safe enough. Would we were all in such small peril!"
'The words rang in my ears. We really were, then, in some great danger. It had not proceeded from Ph[oe]be's frightened imagination. I clung to Bessie's side, when, having made ourselves ready, we at length proceeded, slowly and reluctantly, downstairs, and whispered to her imploringly to tell me what Mrs. Fortescue had said after we younger girls had been sent back to our own room.
'"Ph[oe]be was right," she answered in a low, scared tone. "Two of the sheriff's officers have come, and we are all put under arrest for having aided and abetted the Duke of Monmouth, they said, They spoke very roughly to Mrs. Fortescue. She scarcely knows what to fear. Perhaps——" But here Bessie broke off with a nervous start; for as we reached the foot of the stairs the door of the north parlour opened, and Mrs. Fortescue beckoned us in. I thought, as I crept in behind Bessie, of that fatal day when Pauline had told us of the mysterious, ill-favoured stranger closeted with her mother in this very room. There were two strange men there this morning—one decidedly ill-favoured, and both highly unprepossessing.
'One of the two was in the dress of a sheriff's officer; the other a spare, mean-looking little man, in a suit of rusty black. This man did not even rise from his seat as we entered. His companion had the grace to make a sort of swaggering bow before he asked Bessie, the tallest and eldest-looking amongst us, "whether she would be pleased to tell him her name." Poor Bessie! "Elizabeth Davenant" was spoken in such very low, tremulous tones that she was obliged to repeat it; whereupon he smiled complacently, murmuring, "Ay, even so," while the man in black noted it down on his tablets. This proceeding struck me with much awe; but think, what was my horror when I heard the next question: "And which is the Countess of Desmond?" Most unwillingly I was pushed forward by Mary Seymour, and immediately my name was inscribed upon the tablets, the sheriff's officer remarking meanwhile, "Sooth to say, she is a mighty little lady." How well I remember the pang of mortification which these words gave me even then, when I was absolutely quaking with fright. He turned next to Eleanor Page, and then to Henrietta, and so on, till all our names had been noted down by the little man with the tablets.
'"And these are all of the pupils, madam?" demanded the sheriff's man (Master Noakes his companion called him) of Mrs. Fortescue.
'"These are all," she repeated mechanically.
'"Very good, very good," Master Noakes proceeded, as with his back against the wall, and his arms folded, he surveyed us all critically. "And now, ladies, mayhap you'll be good enough to answer a few questions that I'm going to put to you; and look you, I must have the truth, and nothing more or less. You won't find it easy to hoodwink me, I warrant."
'These insolent words, and the threatening manner in which they were spoken, made some of us grow white with terror, while others reddened with indignation. I saw Henrietta's hand clench involuntarily, and she bit her lip till it bled.
'"Now, Mrs. Elizabeth Davenant," Master Noakes continued, "you can't deny that you and all your schoolmates here presented a silk banner to that notorious rebel and traitor the late Duke of Monmouth, when he proclaimed himself king here on the twentieth of June last."
'"I have no wish to deny it, sir," replied Bessie, plucking up her courage a little in her anger and offended pride. "It was I myself who gave the banner into the Duke's hand."
'"But on behalf of you all? These ladies were all with you?"
'"Yes, all; that is, except Mistress Sidney."
'"And you all helped to deck out the house with flowers and garlands the day that the Duke made his first entry into Taunton?"
'"All but Mistress Sidney, who would have nought to do with it."
'Master Noakes stared at Henrietta, and then smiled disagreeably, and winked at his friend.
'"And pray, which among you worked this fine banner of yours?" was his next question.
'I suppose I did not quite realize the danger of our position even then, for I remember feeling more elated than frightened as I stepped forward with the seven other girls, all older than myself, who had joined in the embroidery of the banner.
'"What! My Lady Desmond too?" remarked this detestable man in his bold, familiar way. "Can your little ladyship really do such dainty handiwork?"
'"Yes, indeed, sir!" was my prompt and indignant reply. "I worked more than half the unicorn." Whereupon Master Noakes laughed, and Mrs. Fortescue gave a quick, uneasy glance towards me, as if somewhat anxious to hear what more I might be going to communicate. But Master Noakes asked no more of me just then. After putting one or two questions to some of the other girls, he turned to Mrs. Fortescue, saying:
'"Then, madam, as I notified to you just now, I am commanded to arrest yourself and all these ladies in the King's name. A guard will be placed in the house, and no member of the household will leave it until the King's pleasure be further known."
'Mrs. Fortescue only bent her head in reply to this speech; but I fancied that there was a look of relief in her face, as if she had expected something worse. We all stood in dead silence for some moments, hardly daring even to look at one another. Ph[oe]be's news had been only too true. We were all prisoners—prisoners in our own house! And what the King's pleasure would be with regard to our further disposal I longed to ask, but dared not. But the worst had not come, after all. The little man in black broke the silence first by rising and counselling Master Noakes to go on and make an end of the affair as speedily as possible, as he had work enough before him, and could afford to waste no more time. I thought that making an end of the affair must mean than they were going to take their departure, and leave us to the care of the aforesaid guard, the idea of which frightened me very much. But no; they were not going away. The worst had not come, after all. Master Noakes's next words made my heart beat so fast, that I thought I should be choked.
'"I have a graver charge yet to bring forward," he said in a much more peremptory tone than he had used hitherto. "Mistress Davenant, Mistress Sidney, and my little Lady Countess here, can you deny that you knew of Monmouth's treasonable schemes full three days before he landed at Lyme, and that you sent money to him through his agent, Colonel Dare?"
'No one answered. Bessie tried to speak, but her voice died away into a whisper; and she could only cast an imploring, frightened glance at Mrs. Fortescue, who, resolved to make one last effort on behalf of her pupils, came forward and said in a tone of intense earnestness:
'"Once more, sir, let me remind you that these poor children cannot be answerable for the part they took in this matter. Whatever they have done, if not by Madame St. Aubert's express desire, was at least with her permission. You see what children, what mere babes, some of them are. What can such as they do for good or for ill in such high matters? It were surely the most cruel, shameful injustice——"
'"I pray you, madam, to hold your peace, and let them speak for themselves," interrupted Master Noakes, waving his hand authoritatively.
'"Let me at least say this much," persisted Mrs. Fortescue, not daunted by his rough words and imperious manner: "Mistress Henrietta Sidney neither gave money to Colonel Dare, nor had aught to do with the decorations, or the banner; and as to her knowledge of the Duke's coming, it was by simple chance that——"
'"No matter—no matter," quoth Master Noakes, cutting her short again. "She shall tell her own tale, I say. Now then, mistress," and he beckoned imperiously to Henrietta. "You heard what I said. Come, speak out, yea or nay?"
'"I did know of the Duke of Monmouth's plot full three days before he landed," she began firmly, after a moment's hesitation, "but I did not——"
'"Pshaw! no 'buts;' we can't wait for 'buts.' You admit that you did know; that's quite enough." Then he repeated his question to Bessie and me, and the little man with the tablets jotted down our answers as before, looking at us at the same time with a grim, half-amused, half-contemptuous smile, which was more disagreeable than I can describe. A strange chill of fear crept over me when I had whispered "yes" to Master Noakes's query. For the first time I saw that the danger coming upon us was very real and very near, and that there was no one to save us from it. I shall never forget how cold and sick with terror I felt for the next few minutes. It was a sensation that I had never known before. Bessie's answer was firm and frank—given in one of her impulsive bursts of courage; and she made a vigorous attempt to show Henrietta's innocence, and to take upon herself all blame for my share in what Master Noakes called "these treasonable doings;" but she was silenced as summarily as Mrs. Fortescue, and Henrietta herself, had been. And then at last we heard our fate—part of our fate at least: we were to be taken to prison; to jail!—and what would come afterwards we dreaded to imagine. It was for Judge Jeffreys to decide that,—Judge Jeffreys, of whom lately we had not been able even to think without hatred and horror. This sentence overwhelmed us all three. I burst into tears, and Bessie, after struggling for a moment to control herself, did likewise. Henrietta shed no tears: she made some incoherent, half-choked exclamation, and then stood quite silent; while the colour faded slowly out of her face, and she trembled so much that she was obliged to lean against the wall. Again Mrs. Fortescue tried to speak for us, doing her best to keep back the bitter indignation that was expressed plainly enough in her countenance. But in vain she forced herself to be calm and moderate, and to remonstrate as gently as possible against the cruelty of shutting up young girls of our age and rank in the common jail of Taunton. In vain she implored that, if we must go, she might be allowed to go with us; and, when that was refused, tried to secure a promise that at least we should be placed in a room by ourselves. The terrible fever known to be raging in the jail at this time was, she pleaded, reason enough for this—to say nothing of the sort of companions among whom we were likely to be thrown in such a place. But not the slightest effect did these arguments seem to have upon the two agents of Judge Jeffreys. They flatly refused to give the promise for which she begged so earnestly; and as to allowing her to accompany us, that was quite out of the question. She must stay to superintend her own imprisoned household, until it was settled what was to become of them. After that, her wish to see the inside of a jail might, doubtless, be complied with. Then they urged us to make ready for departure, without more loss of time; and Mrs. Fortescue, seeing that remonstrance was utterly useless, and in fact only likely to make matters worse, led the way out of the room, silently motioning to us to follow her—some crying audibly, some clinging together, hardly venturing to exchange remarks in half-stifled whispers, but all darting back nervous, anxious glances to see if Master Noakes was keeping a close and watchful eye on our movements. Yes, there he was close behind us; but, to our intense relief, he came no further than the first landing-place, and there took up his station, contenting himself with shouting, now a remark to his friend at the foot of the stairs, now an injunction to us in the room above to bestir ourselves about our preparations, or he would come and pack up our baggage himself. Oh, what a relief it was to shut the doors, and feel that at length we might speak without every word we uttered being noted down; and what a scene of confusion began now we were no longer under restraint. Bessie gave way entirely the instant she found herself in her own room. She threw herself upon the bed, and cried and sobbed so passionately that I felt almost appalled. This only was wanted to set flowing the tears of a good many more among us,—of Agnes Blount among the rest, who clung round my neck, weeping as if her heart would break. I had never before known how much we cared for each other. Meanwhile, moving about quietly amidst the buzz of voices, unmoved and unhindered by the girls who chattered, the girls who cried, and the girls who did nothing but stand in the way, Mrs. Fortescue, with the help of Henrietta and one or two more, collected the few necessaries that we were to take to our new quarters, and put them up together in the smallest possible compass; then, this business completed, she turned her attention to us. And we certainly were in need of it; for by this time Agnes's grief had infected me, and I was in almost as deplorable a condition as Bessie. Henrietta still kept her self-command, but she did not make any attempt to comfort us. Perhaps it was her intense shyness and reserve that stood in the way, perhaps it was the fear of breaking down herself—I do not know which; but all she did was to pause in her operations, and cast a wistful look towards me now and then, as if she were longing to speak, but dared not. Oh, how I longed for mamma at that moment! It seemed to me that I had never missed her before as I did now—no, not on that dismal day of my first coming to school. Poor mamma! had she any idea, I wondered, of the great trouble into which her unlucky little daughter had fallen.
'You see, the penny postage had not even been dreamed of in those days; and such a great event as the arrival of a letter had only happened to me twice since my arrival at Madame St. Aubert's. The last epistle had been written just after Sedgemoor; and my mother, little suspecting how my fortunes would be affected by that disastrous battle, called it "that most happy and thank-worthy dispensation of Providence," and bade me rejoice that the King's enemies were scattered, and the arch-rebel Monmouth safe in the Tower. And I had written an answer to that letter, but Madame St. Aubert had forbidden me to say anything about the Bible and the banner; or indeed to make any allusion to the part which she and her pupils had taken in the Duke's reception at Taunton.
'"During the disturbed state of the country," Madame said, "there was no knowing what might become of the letter, so it was as well to be as guarded as possible."
'When I thought of these things, I felt quite in despair about my story ever coming to mamma's ears, while my longing for her became more intense every minute. Presently Mrs. Fortescue's cool, firm hand was laid on my forehead, and then my arm was round her, and my burning, tearful eyes hidden upon her shoulder.
'"Poor little maid," she said compassionately, "I would I could send you safe back again to your mother. But, please God, you will see her before very long. So cheer up, child; you have nothing serious to fear—only a little hardship and discomfort for a few days, and then you will go home, and all will be well. They can't do any hurt to children of your age. All they want is a fine from your parents,—a heavy one, doubtless; but yours are wealthy enough to pay it, so you need have no fear. Poor Bessie yonder," continued Mrs. Fortescue, lowering her voice, "has most cause to be affrighted of any of you."
'"Oh madam, why?" I asked, looking up suddenly into her face, which was turned with an anxious, pitying expression towards the bed where Bessie still lay quivering with sobs.
'"She has not rich parents, child, like you and Henrietta: she had only her uncle to care for her, and he is in London under sentence of death, and all his property confiscated. Hush! do not tell her now; she will know it soon enough, poor child. I only learned it myself this morning; and I tell you that you may see how Bessie wants comfort yet more than yourself."
'"Yes indeed, madam," I whispered, and I dried my eyes resolutely, and tried my best to feel fearless and defiant of Judge Jeffreys and all his terrors. "But oh, madam," I could not help saying from the depths of my heart, "if they would but let you come with us."
'And then these words were scarcely out of my mouth when I felt inclined to laugh; for the thought struck me that a few weeks ago I could not have believed it possible that any one should really wish for Mrs. Fortescue's company who had the chance of being without it. Perhaps Mrs. Fortescue was thinking the same thing, for a sudden smile lit up her face for a moment; but the next it was sad and anxious as ever, and she said earnestly: "I would I might go with you, sweetheart, only that perhaps I am as much needed here. We are all prisoners, you know—not so much better off than you, after all. There!"—as another impatient summons from Master Noakes was heard from the staircase—"we must not linger any more now. God be with you, child. Don't be down-hearted; you have naught to blame yourself for in this matter. Say your prayers, and do your duty, and He will deliver you from evil."
'I suppose it was Mrs. Fortescue's manner more than her words that gave her so much influence over us all. We had always looked upon her as a person to be respected and obeyed; but ever since Madame's disappearance, she had been more than this. There was so much more softness and gentleness about her, and yet at the same time so much strength and spirit, that gave one a feeling of having some one to lean upon as long as she was with us. Her words had done me good; and seeing that it was so, she bade me make ready for departure with as much speed as possible, and then left me, to do what she could for poor Bessie's consolation. What she said, I did not know. I only saw her bend over the bed, and whisper for a moment or two; and then, impetuous and sudden as usual, Bessie sprang up and threw her arms round Mrs. Fortescue's neck with no more ceremony than if it had been mine. Just then came another of Master Noakes's resounding shouts, which were beginning to follow one another at shorter and shorter intervals, becoming every time louder and more peremptory. Mrs. Fortescue returned the kiss; and then, quietly unclasping Bessie's arms, began to twist up her pretty fair hair, which was in the wildest state of disorder possible. I think I never saw hair so nearly golden as Bessie's, nor did I ever see any with such a propensity for tumbling down. Ten minutes was the utmost length of time that those golden locks of hers had been known to keep smooth and in their place,—even Pauline's skill had failed in achieving more than this; and as for Mrs. Fortescue's hurried attempts to arrange them, the result would have sent us into fits of laughter at any other time: but just now nothing was a laughing matter.
'All was ready at last, and Mrs. Fortescue was trying to cut the numerous farewells as short as possible, and to impress upon the other girls that they were on no account to follow us down-stairs, when all last words were suddenly and effectually broken off by the tramp of heavy footsteps in the passage, and the sound of Master Noakes's voice actually close to the door.
'"Not a minute more will I tarry, ladies; so, if your baggage is not ready, you must e'en come without it. D'ye hear?"
'Mrs. Fortescue quietly opened the door, and, in her very haughtiest and most coldly polite manner, motioned him towards the staircase, saying that we were all ready to start whenever it might be his pleasure to do so, and suggesting that he should lead the way down-stairs. I hardly know what passed after that. An odd sort of vague, dreamy feeling came over me as if I was walking in my sleep, or as if I was not myself. A most uncomfortable sensation it was, like nothing I had ever felt before; and though I suppose it must have been brought on by fright, yet somehow I was less conscious of fear than at first. I began to fancy that perhaps, after all, it was only a dream, and that I should wake up presently and find that there had never been a rebellion at all, and that everything was going on as usual again. I was still in this curious kind of dreamy state when I left Madame St. Aubert's house, never to enter it again.
'I remember hearing Mrs. Fortescue beg that we might be allowed to wait for some breakfast. It had never entered my head till then that we had eaten nothing that morning—indeed I do not think any of us remembered it; and when Master Noakes refused, I believe the only person who really cared was Mrs. Fortescue. I did not feel hungry at all, only dull and stunned, and almost indifferent. I did not cry now when Mrs. Fortescue kissed me, though Bessie was half choked with her uncontrollable sobs; and for the first time I saw Henrietta's eyes swimming.
'She answered with a silent nod to Mrs. Fortescue's last hurried whisper, "Take care of them, Henrietta. I trust to you." And when the door had closed on Mrs. Fortescue, and we were actually in the conveyance provided by Master Noakes and his friend the notary, still that strange sense of being in a dream could not be shaken off. I gazed out at the well-known streets as we drove through the town, and tried to realize that we were indeed being carried to a prison; and then I looked at Bessie's tearful face opposite, and wondered at myself for feeling so apathetic. We drew up at last before a large, gloomy brick building, which I had seen only once before, and had looked upon with great awe and interest as "the jail," little dreaming then that the time was near when I myself should be entering those heavy iron gates, and lodging behind one of those dismal grated windows. The man who opened the door led us into a long dreary room, that looked almost empty, the only furniture being a table littered over with papers and parchments, and one or two wooden benches. Then Master Noakes, after talking with the man aside for a few minutes, and pulling out a paper (the order for our arrest, I suppose), announced that he was going to wait on the governor; and forthwith marched out of the room. We were left meanwhile under the charge of the little notary, who took not the slightest notice of us, but amused himself by sitting upon the table and examining carefully every one of the documents that were lying there.
'One or two words I had caught that had passed between Master Noakes and the porter—something about "no space, and the jail being as full as it would hold already;" and I fancied that perhaps they might not be able to take us in, after all, and that we should be sent back to Mrs. Fortescue. If it had not been for the presence of the notary, I should have asked Bessie or Henrietta; but there seemed a kind of spell upon me while I watched him sitting so silently upon the table, turning over the papers with such absorbing interest. So I said nothing, and sat leaning my head upon Henrietta's shoulder until I really think I should have fallen asleep, had not Master Noakes suddenly made his appearance again, bringing with him the governor of the jail. He was a worn, sharp-featured, and by no means good-humoured-looking person, and yet somehow I did not dislike his face. Not that he seemed to pity us in the least: he only stared at us with a perplexed, annoyed kind of look, and then said in a fretful, injured tone, as if he alone was the ill-used person:
'"So ill-considered to bring them here just now! when I scarcely know how to bestow those who are already here. His worship should have some reason in his commands. I tell you, sir, that the place is packed to overflowing as it is; and what with the fever too, 'tis enough to drive a man almost out of his wits."
'"That is no business of mine," replied the notary, getting off the table to salute the governor. "The order for the arrest of these young ladies is signed, as you see, by the Lord Chief-Justice himself. You won't care to go against that, I fancy."
'"But the house is to be guarded too, you say: why cannot they remain there?"
'The notary drew his companion away from our end of the room, and whispered in his ear. I could only catch the words "wealthy parents," which I remembered because I had heard Mrs. Fortescue use the same expression; and then he added in rather a louder tone: "Colonel Dare openly boasted that he was in communication with members of families of distinction residing in Taunton, even before the landing of the Duke of Monmouth. It has been proved that Elizabeth Davenant, Henrietta Sidney, and Frances Countess of Desmond were among the number. They supplied him with money, and were privy to the secret of the Duke's intended landing, three days before it took place. The rest of Madame St. Aubert's pupils are only accused of working and presenting a banner, as you doubtless remember."
"I remember the fact of the banner being presented," was the reply. "But what became of the governess?"
'"She passed Kirke's outposts by means of a bribe, and got safe off to France," replied this dreadful little notary, who appeared to know everything. "She escaped just in time too; for 'twas only the day after, that orders came down from London that no exceptions were to be made to the rule of arresting suspected persons. And not too soon either: Kirke was getting very lax. The law should be allowed to take its just course, sir, without all these exceptions and relaxations."
'"The law will have plenty to do here, then," said the governor in the same peevish tone of voice he had used before. "Three hundred prisoners here already; and to ask me to take in more! Well, I cannot gainsay your order, sir; but if these be ladies of quality, they will scarce relish the company I shall be forced to give them."
'"Prisoners must not expect good company," said the notary, glancing at us carelessly. "As long as you have them in safe keeping, his lordship will be satisfied. Master Noakes, it is time we were going. I wish you a good morning, sir; and the same to you, ladies." And, saluting us with something between a touch of the hat and a nod, Master Noakes and his companion strode out of the room.
'I was so much relieved to see them disappear, and to hear the ponderous door close after them, that my spirits rose again considerably; and in spite of the presence of the governor I ventured to whisper, "Oh Bessie, I am so hungry; couldn't you ask if we might have some breakfast?"
'The governor did not make any objection, though he looked as if Bessie was asking a great favour when she made the request in rather a trembling voice. I thought him what I called "cross," but I really believe now he was as kind to us as he dared to be, and kinder than prison rule permitted. He took us to his wife, who made us very comfortable, gave us plenty to eat, and petted me so much that I began to cry when the turnkey arrived to take us away from her. All my fright came back at the sight of his face and the sound of his jingling keys. "Why can't we stay here, madam?" I sobbed, taking fast hold of my new friend's gown. "I shouldn't mind being in prison, if we might. We would promise not to run away; and you might lock the door whenever you went out of the room. I don't want to see any more strange people; let me stay with you."
'"My poor little maid, I wish I could keep you," she said, kissing me. "But it is impossible. I should only be bringing you and all of us into trouble. I have kept you over long as it is, I am afraid." So saying, she thrust a cake into my hand, patted me on the shoulder, and pushed me gently towards Bessie, who put her arm round me, and led me from the room. I went on crying all the time we were following the turnkey through many long, dark stone passages, up steps and down steps, round corners and past closed doors, from behind which echoed noises, which caused us to quicken our steps to a run till we were safe out of hearing. At last our guide stopped before one of these, and began turning over his bunch to find the right key.
'"Oh, not there!" exclaimed Bessie in dismay; for the sounds of loud talking, shrill laughter, quarrelling, and swearing came to our ears so plainly, that even Henrietta looked frightened, and Bessie covered her ears with her hands to shut out the noise.
'"This is the women's ward," said the turnkey as he fitted one of his keys into the lock. "And here you will have to stay until your case comes on for trial."
'"If we could have a room to ourselves!" began Henrietta imploringly, pulling out her purse as she spoke. (She was the only one of us who had been sensible enough to bring one.)
'"'Tis impossible, mistress," said the jailer—"for to-night, at least. Well," as she put some money into his hand, "perhaps to-morrow there may be a room vacant. Folk don't stay very long here in these days." He gave a kind of ghastly grin as he spoke; and Henrietta turned suddenly away from him, looking quite white and sick. Then the heavy door began to creak on its hinges, and presently we found ourselves face to face with our fellow-prisoners. The noisy tongues stopped the moment the door was opened, and all heads were turned to look at us. Very confusing we found it to be stared at by so many pairs of eager eyes at once. The room, large as it was, seemed to me, at the first glance, to be quite full of people. There were women of all ages there—from eighteen to eighty—and of all ranks, too, apparently; for though most of them were rough, hard-featured, and bold-looking, there were some who were evidently ladies, and who seemed nearly as ill at ease as we felt ourselves to be. But there were no children, and a murmur of compassion ran through the crowd when they saw me. I suppose I did look very dismal; for my face was covered with tears, and I held Bessie with a sort of desperate clutch, as if she was my only protection, and our new abode a den of wild beasts. When the turnkey had shut the door behind us and gone away, a chorus of exclamations and questions was showered down upon us, which had the effect of frightening me more than ever, until I discovered that they were all of a friendly nature; and, in fact, that every one seemed to pity me nearly as much as I pitied myself. "Poor child! What a babe to be here! What has she done?" "One of my Lord Jeffrey's arrests, of course." "'Tis a cruel shame. She can't be more than ten years old."
'"What's your name, my little mistress?" asked several voices; and in spite of my fright I managed to sob out: "Frances Dalrymple—I mean Cary; and I was eleven last birthday."
'This piece of information was received with a burst of laughter, which quite checked my desire for making any more confidences; and I left Henrietta and Bessie to answer all the numerous questions which followed. Quite a little crowd collected round us to hear our story; and every one was loud in expressing indignation at the injustice of our arrest. But their sympathy alarmed me almost as much as everything else about them. They called the Lord Jeffreys such dreadful names. One woman swore, and clenched her fist whenever she mentioned him; and they became so excited and talked so loud when they began telling their own misfortunes, that I was glad when they got tired of talking to us, and one by one sauntered off to join other groups, and we were left in our corner unmolested. What a long, dreary morning that was! The only break in its monotony was the arrival of dinner, when we sat amidst a long row of our companions at the great deal table, and were served with bowls of greasy, watery broth, in which little bits of mutton were floating about. I was not at all hungry, but I was nevertheless both surprised and horrified when my next neighbour plunged her spoon into my bowl, and carried off the greater part of my meat. What remained looked less inviting than ever; so I begged her to take it all if she liked, and I ate the cake the governor's wife had given me instead. The girl looked slightly ashamed of herself when she saw Henrietta's eyes fixed upon her from the other side of the table, and turning to me, asked if I had had enough to eat. I said, "Yes, thank you," very politely. I was so afraid of her, that I think I should have said "yes" at any rate. But when I looked at her thin, pale face, I did not grudge her my dinner in the least, she looked so starved and miserable.
'"I thought you looked as if you did not care for it," she said. "When you have been here as long as I have, you will learn to take what is put before you the minute you get it, and be glad enough of it too."
'I could not help wondering whether I should also learn to take what was put before other people. But of course I did not dare to say so, and she went on in a tone of apology:
'"I'm just getting well of the fever. That's what makes me so hungry, I suppose. I never do get enough to eat here."
'"Were you very ill?" I ventured to ask, feeling rather sorry that I had eaten my cake so quickly.
"Yes; I believe so. I don't remember much about it. They told me I nearly died. There was one in the next bed to me that did."
'Bessie, who sat on the other side of me, gave a little start as she heard these words; but she did not say anything, and the girl went on.
'"I wished then that I had died too. I should have been out of this place then; but somehow I got better and better, and to-day I have come in here for the first time."
'"How long have you been in prison?" I asked, getting quite interested.
'"Ever since two days after the Battle of Sedgemoor."
'"Oh, how dreadful! And why?"
'"Because I gave the Duke of Monmouth a loaf of bread when he changed his clothes at my father's house, and bade God speed him," she replied. "And the next day the soldiers came looking for him, and father let it all out. So they took us both away, and brought me here; and what became of father I don't know to this day. I have never seen him since."
'By this time I had quite forgiven the loss of my dinner, and was not at all surprised when Bessie leant across me, with tears in her eyes, to say:
'"Oh, I'm so glad you did that! How proud you must feel of it. I would have given anything to have helped the Duke so."
'"It did him no good, poor gentleman," said the girl. "He was found, for all the pains we took to disguise him; and the King had him beheaded. Ah! well. I felt very sorry when I heard it first; for he was a kind gentleman, and a well-favoured. But I don't care now. He has brought so much trouble on us all, that I almost feel to hate him."
'"But he did not know. How could he guess that there would be all these dreadful executions? The King is responsible for them, not he," said Bessie, eager as ever in defence of her hero. "Besides he was fighting for his rights. Oh, I wish I had been able to do something for him!"
'"Don't talk to me of his rights!" said the girl fiercely. "If it had not been for him, I should have been at home and happy at this day; and so would you, and many another poor creature. Besides, what are his rights compared to all our lives, I should like to know?"
'"But surely, surely," cried I, "they can't punish you very much for merely giving him a loaf of bread?"
'"You don't know what you are talking of," she replied gloomily. "Haven't you heard enough about Judge Jeffreys since he has been in Taunton, to know that there is no punishment too hard for him to give, unless he is well paid to be merciful. You are ladies of quality: you will get off well enough, I warrant me; but I come of poor folk, and there is no greater crime than that in his eyes."
'I thought of what Mrs. Fortescue had said, and a chill crept over me. I sat quite silent all the rest of dinner-time, conjuring up all the dreadful stories I had heard from Ph[oe]be of Judge Jeffreys' cruelties. I thought of the men and women he had pilloried and flogged; of the twenty-nine men who were executed at Dorchester in a single day; of Mrs. Gaunt; of Lady Lisle; and of many another story too horrible to repeat to you, until I felt quite sick with fright. "What could be done to save Bessie from the hands of this wicked man?" I pondered vainly for some time; but suddenly a bright idea struck me, which I resolved to confide to Henrietta the moment dinner was over. I did not want Bessie to hear; so I felt rather glad that she went on talking to the pale girl, and allowed me to slip from her side after dinner without taking any notice. Then I pulled Henrietta away into a corner of the room, and poured out all my fears. That they were but too well founded, I saw directly from her face. She, too, had heard what Mrs. Fortescue told me of the fate of poor Sir Geoffrey Davenant. Bessie stood in real, terrible peril; there was no doubt about it. Henrietta trembled all over when she said this, but she begged me not to let Bessie know.
'"She must be saved," said Henrietta in a quick, agitated tone. "I don't know how; but, in some way or other, it shall be done."
'"Don't you think, Henrietta," I said, keeping my voice steady with great difficulty, "that if my father and mother are as rich as everybody says they are, they could pay the ransom for Bessie as well as for me? I could write and tell them all about it, and——"
'"Yes, to be sure. What a good thought, Frances! What was I about, not to think of it before? I'll write to my father too. Perhaps between them they might manage. They might petition the King. We won't despair. There are many worse off than we are, child."
'"Where shall we get paper and pens and ink?" I said, longing to begin, but casting a despairing glance round the room which was bare of any furniture but the table, and a couple of long benches on either side of it.
'"I have got them all in my trunk. Mrs. Fortescue thought of that," replied Henrietta. "She never forgets anything, I believe."
'It was a great comfort to have something to do. My fears for Bessie did not make me quite so unhappy when I was telling mamma all about them. Writing home made me feel less lonely; and, besides, there was the hope (I tried hard to think the certainty) that an answer to my petition would set all our misgivings at rest, and prove that my father was able and willing to pay any amount of money rather than that a hair of Bessie's head should be injured.
'Thus the afternoon slipped away much more quickly than the morning had done. Writing a letter was a serious business, and absorbed all our attention. Even Henrietta, who was considered one of the most accomplished of Madame St. Aubert's young ladies, proceeded very slowly, and paused a long time when she had to spell a difficult word; while, as for my epistle, it was so disfigured by blots, tears, bad writing, and mistakes, that I began to have grave doubts, as I went down, whether mamma would be able to read it. Then I had to consider what I had better say to interest my father in Bessie's case. I was so afraid of him, that I doubt if anything short of Bessie's danger would have made me bold enough to ask him a favour; but I would have done anything for her, and so I laboured away till my fingers were soaked with ink, and my head ached with composing sentences that should be as respectful as mamma could think necessary, and at the same time as urgent as I could make them.
'Bessie came to see what we were doing after a time, and said mournfully that her writing to her uncle was of no use, for she did not know where he was. She had never heard a word from him since the Battle of Sedgemoor. I was so afraid that she would see what I had written about poor Sir Geoffrey, that I put my arm on my letter, while I drew Bessie down to give her an affectionate kiss, and in consequence made the blots ten times worse. Then I laughed hysterically; and if it had not been for the example set me by Henrietta's grave face, I should have revealed the whole truth then and there.
'"How do you mean to send the letter?" asked Bessie, when she had comforted me for the blots by the assurance that mamma would not care.
'"I shall give them to the jailer next time I see him," replied Henrietta, "and beg him to give them into the keeping of the first letter-carrier that rides from Taunton. I think he will do it, especially if I give him a little money. He was not nearly so rough with us as that dreadful Master Noakes."
'"Don't let any one see you, then," said Bessie, lowering her voice. "That girl I was talking to but a moment ago, told me there are some women here who will never rest till they get every farthing of your money, if you let them find out that you have any. They bribe the jailer to get them drink whenever they can scrape a little money together, and then the noise they make is fearful."
'Bessie glanced, as she spoke, to the further end of the room, where sat a group of those women who had frightened us so much in the morning by their loud voices and reckless language. They were playing cards with a very greasy pack, and had done little else but quarrel over their game ever since dinner. The noise they made was distracting enough now, and what it would be when they were excited by drink we trembled to imagine. Alas! we knew only too well before the evening was over; for though Henrietta's purse remained safe hidden in her bosom, the prisoners found some other means of getting what they wanted, and the scene which ensued is beyond my power to describe. I do not suppose any of us were as fastidious as you would be now. For a gentleman to drink more wine than was good for him, was so sadly common in those days, that we had all seen instances of it in our own homes or amongst our father's guests; but the revel which was held in that wretched room was unlike anything we had ever seen before. We could only cower into a corner and try to remain blind and deaf to the shouts, the songs, the fighting, and quarrelling that were going on around us, and which continued, it seemed to me, hour after hour, until sleep overpowered the most noisy of the revellers, and they sank down, one after another, on the heaps of straw, which were their only beds. Silence reigned again, broken only by the deep snores which announced that our dreaded companions would alarm us no longer. The rest of the prisoners soon followed their example; and we were left the only wakeful ones, talking in frightened whispers, and not daring to move from our cramped position, lest we should rouse some of those still shapeless figures which lay ranged around the floor. How strange it was to sit there in the dim light watching the shadows grow blacker as the moon rose and peeped in at the high, narrow window. Bessie's golden hair looked pale and unnatural as the cold, white light fell upon it; and I hardly knew the pale, grave face for the same as the merry, bright one I loved so well. Yes, that night was indeed a miserable one. Even now it makes me quite melancholy whenever I think of it. I remember falling repeatedly into a kind of half-doze, and waking with a violent start each time from the same dream. I thought Master Noakes was trying to push me down-stairs. I did at last fall into a restless, uncomfortable sleep for a few hours, but all the time I never seemed quite to forget where I was; and when I woke at dawn, it was with a consciousness of something terrible hanging over me, though I could not at first distinctly recall what it was. So I raised my head from Henrietta's lap (it was on Bessie's I had gone to sleep), and looked round the great dismal room. Everything rushed back into my mind in a moment then: all the painful events of the day before—the past trouble and fear, and, what was yet worse, the dread of what might be to come. Henrietta was awake: she was sitting upright, supporting herself against the stone wall, and looking miserably white and tired, as if she had not slept the whole night.
'"Why Henrietta?" I began.
'"Hush! don't disturb her;" and she pointed to Bessie, who was lying with her head resting on one arm. "She is sleeping more quietly now, but for a long time she moaned and muttered, and tossed about so restlessly, that I was quite frightened. I was obliged to move your head on to my knee, for fear she should wake you."
'"But, Henrietta," I whispered, "have not you been asleep at all yourself?"
'"Oh yes; I believe I slept for a little while, until Bessie woke me by muttering in such a strange way. I am afraid she must be ill. Look at her cheek, how flushed it is now."
'It was indeed burning with a scarlet, unnatural flush, quite unlike her own soft, pink colour, which always reminded one of the petals of a wood anemone. Suddenly, as I looked at her, came into my mind what Mrs. Fortescue had said about the terrible fever at the jail, and the fear of infection; and I thought of that poor girl who was just recovering from it, and to whom Bessie and I had talked so much at dinner the day before. Somehow, the very serious risk that we ran had never struck me until this moment; but now that I did realize it, a perfect panic of fear began to overwhelm me.
'"Oh Henrietta!" I cried, springing to my feet. "She is going to have the fever. I know she is. Oh poor, poor Bessie! Perhaps she will die; and we shall all catch it, and die too. Oh mamma! I must go home to mamma. I cannot stay in this horrible place any longer;" and then I clung to Henrietta's neck, and sobbed in a kind of helpless, wretched way, feeling utterly unable to stop myself.
"'Hush! hush! sweetheart: think of Bessie," she whispered imploringly. "And the others too; they would be so angry if we woke them."
'But I was too far gone to control myself; and seeing this, Henrietta made no further attempt to check my sobs, but held me in her arms, and let me smother them on her shoulder. Bessie still slept on, in spite of my sudden outburst, and none of our fellow-prisoners gave any sign of being awake.
'"Frances," said Henrietta gently, after a little while, when I began to be somewhat calmer, "we must not forget our prayers, must we, though we are in such a place as this? Don't you think we might say them now, while it is all quiet, and there is no one to interrupt us?"
'She spoke with a sort of shyness and hesitation, as if it was an effort to talk of such a subject even to me, child as I was, and in the dim light of early morning. "If you please," I murmured; and we knelt and said the Lord's Prayer softly together, and then part of the Litany: "In all time of our tribulation, in all time of our wealth, in the hour of death, and in the day of judgment, good Lord deliver us!" It was the first time that I had ever said that passage with all my heart.
'When we had finished, I glanced at Henrietta's face, and there was something in her eyes, as they met mine, which made me, with a sudden impulse, give her such a kiss as I would have given Bessie.
'"I think you will not be so unhappy now, will you, dear Fan?" she said, returning it warmly, and stroking my hair; and I answered earnestly, "No, indeed;" for the mere effort of trying to repeat the well-known words that I had been used to say reverently night and morning, ever since I could remember, had soothed my paroxysm of grief and fright, and reminded me that our Father in Heaven was caring for us still, and that, under His protection, we might "dwell safely, and be quiet from fear of evil."
'"He will deliver us," murmured Henrietta, "sooner or later; so we will not frighten ourselves by looking forward to what may happen. We will make up our minds to hope for the best; shall we? You know the jailer half promised to give us a room to ourselves to-day. Oh, what a boon that would be!"
'This hope made me feel quite cheerful; and we sat talking in under-tones about our letters, and the possibility of persuading the jailer to forward them, until the sleepers around us began, one after another, to awake, roused by the returning sunbeams, which were now lighting up the room.
'It was not until all the rest were up and moving about—by no means noiselessly—that Bessie at last awoke. She had continued to sleep heavily—nothing seeming to disturb her in the least degree—until an old woman, with a particularly shrill, not to say cracked voice, struck up the old cavalier song of "The King shall enjoy his own again," which she elaborated with various trills, turns, and quaverings; and then at length poor Bessie gave a startled cry and sprang to her feet, almost before she had opened her eyes. She was quite well, she said, except for a little headache, but it was easy to see that it was by no means such a little one; and when the breakfast of somewhat watery porridge and dry bread made its appearance, she turned away with a shudder, declaring that she would starve rather than touch a mouthful. The morning passed away much as the day before had done. By Henrietta's wise suggestion we had made our toilets, as well as we could under the circumstances, before our companions had roused themselves enough to take any notice of us; but when Bessie began to plait her hair, and opened the trunk to take out our little mirror, a regular crowd was round her in a minute. It was just like our poultry-yard at home when mamma went out with her apron full of corn. The mirror was very soon taken out of her hands, and seemed to have but a small chance of returning to them. I suppose we must have been the only people in the room who possessed such a treasure; for it brought about so much pushing and jostling, and even fighting, among the women to whom Bessie had yielded it, that at last it was cracked right across, after which they became more quarrelsome than ever. Meanwhile some amused themselves by diving into our unfortunate little trunk, until every one of its contents had been pulled out and examined. One or two women interfered on our behalf, but this only made the wrangling worse; and Henrietta and I looked on in helpless dismay, while Bessie went on braiding her pretty golden locks in a sort of dull, indifferent way, as if she felt too languid to care either for the loss of her mirror, or the ransacking of her chest.
'But suddenly, in the midst of the commotion, there was a sound which silenced all the tongues in a moment, and made our eyes turn towards the door. There was a grating of the bolts, and a rattling of the key in the lock, and yet it was not nearly time for dinner. Was it only some new prisoner, or was it a summons, coming to one of ourselves, to the bar of the terrible Lord Chief-Justice? I remember quite well the intensely painful look of expectation upon all the faces round the room when the door opened, and the various murmurs of surprise, relief, and pity that sounded in our ears when we three were called upon to follow the turnkey.
'"So soon! the latest comers of all! Ay! well. May we never see them back again; that's the best luck I can wish them!"
'"Nay, neighbour, there are worse places than this, evil though it be," said the musical old woman; and the words made me shiver.
'"I wish you well through your troubles, my little lady," said the girl with whom I had made friends the day before. She had been collecting those little possessions of ours that had been strewn about the floor; and now she was helping us to arrange the hoods and mantles, which, by counsel of the turnkey, we were hastily throwing on. "I will try and take care of your goods there," she said, glancing towards the trunk; and then, as I thanked her, she bent down and added in a hurried whisper: "I was awake this morning when you were saying your prayers; it made me think of my own again. Tell her" (and she nodded to Henrietta). "Fare ye well: and God bless you all."
'I did not shrink from her now as I might have done an hour ago. In my present terror I had forgotten all about the fever; but, ah! how sick at heart I felt when I heard the door close, and knew that we were really on our way to a court of justice—that in a few minutes more we should be in the presence of the merciless Judge Jeffreys! And when we actually stood in the court itself, and above the hum of many voices all around us the tones of some one declaiming in hoarse, fierce accents reached us from an open doorway, a cold agony of horror came over me, that was positive pain. I leaned against Henrietta and gasped with fright.
'"Courage, sweetheart," she whispered. "Indeed you have no need for all this fear. He cannot do anything so very terrible to you. If he does say a few rough words, they will very soon be over. Surely you are brave enough to bear that. Think what much worse things some people have suffered, and how bravely too!" Her voice was so steady and cheerful, and she looked down into my face with such a bright reassuring smile, that I felt for a moment a little bit relieved. What I should have done without her during those wretched moments of waiting, I cannot say. I thought afterwards that I should almost have died with terror then, if it had not been for the sense of comfort that it gave me to feel her hand clasping mine, and her arm round my waist.
'Fond as I was of Bessie, I had never had the same feeling of confidence and protection when I was with her that Henrietta's presence had begun to give me.
'Poor Bessie! I had scarcely looked at her since we left the prison, so much had my fears absorbed me. I was not, like Henrietta, strong and brave and unselfish enough to think of other people in the midst of our anxiety; and we had been waiting some time in that crowded ante-room, before I bethought myself of looking to see how she was faring. Then, greatly to my astonishment, I saw that she was speaking to some one among the throng of prisoners awaiting their trial, and at the next glance I recognised her acquaintance as no other than our good old vicar, Dr. Power. His face, as he turned to greet us, looked sadly changed,—no longer ruddy, and beaming with mirth and good-humour, but mournful and haggard, and full ten years older than when we had seen him last.
'"Poor children! poor children!" he muttered. "It grieves me to the soul to see you here. A babe like thee, too. Shame, shame on them!" he went on, looking compassionately at my tearful, frightened face. "But take courage, little maid. It can be but a matter of a few thousand pounds or so, to set you free again."
'"Ay, for her—for both of them," murmured Bessie. "But, oh! Dr. Power, tell me the truth," and she spoke in a hurried, terrified whisper, grasping his gown in her earnestness. "I cannot pay a fine, you know—I have only my uncle; and he is gone, no one knows whither. What will they do to me? You will tell me the truth, won't you? What will they—what can they do?" she repeated piteously, looking up at him with an imploring, eager, almost wild, expression in her blue eyes. There was not much encouragement to be gathered from his countenance.
'"Alack! alack! alack!" he said, looking intensely distressed. "My poor child, what can I tell you? Faith, I know no more than yourself. Would to God I had never had a hand in bringing all this sorrow upon you. And now I am powerless, quite powerless, to help you out of it. It breaks my heart!" He sighed heavily, and stood for some moments with his eyes fixed upon the ground. Then, turning to Bessie suddenly again: "Child," said he, "I fear I can do nought to help you. Nay, mayhap it may rather harm you to be seen conversing with me now. So fare ye well. The only piece of counsel that I can give you, is to plead for yourself."
'"Plead with him?" quoth the jailer under whose charge we were. "By your leave, sir, that's no wise counsel of yours. Far better tell her to hold her peace. What!"—here he sank his voice to a significant whisper, and raised his eyebrows expressively—"you don't know my Lord Chief-Justice better than that!"
'"Nay, surely even he, ruffian as he is, can scarce refuse to hear——" Dr. Power did not finish his sentence, but laid his hand affectionately on Bessie's head. She was looking then as she had looked on that fatal day when the banner was presented to Monmouth, only more beautiful. It struck me even at that moment, and I understood what Dr. Power meant. Fear and excitement had heightened the colour in her cheek, instead of taking it away, and added a feverish brightness to her eyes. I have never in my life seen any one so lovely as Bessie looked just then. Nevertheless the jailer only smiled a rather compassionate but yet more contemptuous smile, and shrugged his shoulders. He evidently had a very low opinion of Dr. Power's judgment in this matter.
'This unexpected meeting had made me in some degree forget my qualms; but that space of relief was only too soon over: and, oh! how my heart sank again when the moment came at last, and we were told to follow the jailer into court. All the former dread swept over me now stronger than ever. Dr. Power's farewell, "God be with you, my children, and preserve you. I doubt we shall never meet again!" hardly reached my ears. I certainly did not take in its meaning at the time; though afterwards the words came back to me with a pang, for the foreboding was a true one. I never saw him again.
'I clung to Henrietta's waist, and trembled so violently, that I believe she must have half carried me into the court. When I try to recall what was going on around us, everything seems in a mist until the moment when I found myself standing at the bar between Bessie and Henrietta. If you have set your hearts upon a vivid description of a court of justice, and a minute history of all the proceedings that took place there that morning, I am afraid you will be disappointed, because I have only an extremely vague impression of the whole scene. There was an immense room, an immense crowd of people; but the whole crowd—sheriff, mayor, lawyers, witnesses, and spectators—all looked like one hazy vision. Only one out of those rows and rows of faces did I see distinctly apart from the rest; and that was a face not soon forgotten by those who had once seen it. No; it only required a glance at those keen, fierce, deep-set eyes and scowling brows, and that savage, repulsive mouth, to enable one to recognise the Lord Chief-Justice. I recollect the rough, heavy tones with which he bawled out a command to "speak louder" when my name was asked, and I stammered out a timid, tremulous reply. His voice alone half-frightened me out of my wits; and, oh! the oath which he used, and the epithets which he bestowed on me and my father! (when at length, with a desperate effort, I did manage to pronounce my name audibly). I would not shock your ears by repeating them. The next thing I remember is, that some papers were read, which of course must have been the evidence taken down by the notary upon the day of our arrest; and then a string of rapid questions were put to us that were answered for the most part by Henrietta and Bessie—the same questions chiefly that had been asked us before by Master Noakes. Then some witnesses were called up and examined—some of Madame St. Aubert's servants, and two men who seemed to have been friends of Colonel Dare's. Of what they all said, I have not the least recollection. I only remember the blustering insolent way in which the Lord Chief-Justice from time to time interrupted them—sometimes bursting in with a furious oath, sometimes with a volley of abuse, sometimes with a horrible jest. I believe our examination lasted a very little while in reality—much less time than we had stayed waiting in the ante-room; but to me it seemed hours.
'We pleaded guilty to all the charges that were laid against us, only that Henrietta denied having given money to Colonel Dare, or having either helped in the working or presentation of Monmouth's luckless banner; whereupon she was silenced with a shower of foul language, that made us ready to sink into the earth with horror. When, however, at length we heard our sentence, the first thought that struck me was, that it was not such a very terrible one, after all. An order was given that our fathers or guardians were to be called upon immediately for the sum of ten thousand pounds apiece, in fine, for the "high crime and misdemeanour" of which we confessed ourselves guilty. This sum, over and above the seven thousand pounds which was the ransom for the rest of Madame St. Aubert's pupils, was the punishment which our additional piece of treason had brought down upon our heads. But "ten thousand pounds" were simply so many words to me, nothing more. I had not the smallest idea of what such a sum really meant. In fact, the idea of a hundred pounds would, in those days, have seemed to me quite as tremendous. I thought my father was a very rich man, and that, though he would doubtless be somewhat indignant at the demand, it was a matter of course that he would be able to pay the ransom. But Bessie knew the value of money better than I did.
'I heard a smothered cry beside me as Judge Jeffreys pronounced the sentence; and when, with scarcely a moment's pause, he signed to the jailer to remove us, she lingered for a moment, moved a few steps after us, hesitated again, and the next instant, while Henrietta and I stood motionless with horror and dismay, and even the jailer stared in speechless surprise, she had sprung back again to the bar. "My lord—my lord," she faltered in trembling, eager tones, "Hear me one moment, just one moment, I pray you, for the love of God. I can never pay such a sum of money. I have not a penny in the world; and there is nobody to pay it for me. Oh my lord, do have mercy. My uncle, Sir Geoffrey Davenant——"
'The Lord Chief-Justice must have been rather astonished at her sudden audacity, or he would hardly have allowed her to go on so long without interruption; but at this point he broke in with a rude, derisive roar of laughter. "Oh ho! so Sir Geoffrey is your uncle, is he? My very humble service to you, mistress. There, jailer, off with her! off with her! we have no time for such foolery as this."
'The jailer moved towards her, whispering, "Are ye mad, mistress?" and tried to lead her from the bar. But her spirit was up now; indignation and despair had made her forget all fear for the moment. With a glance that was almost fierce, she wrenched her arm from his grasp, and continued passionately:
'"You will not save me? You will not have pity on me? Then, at least, let me say this: if I must not plead for myself, at least let me plead for that poor child. I dragged her into this trouble, I persuaded her to give money; and for Henrietta Sidney, who——"
'"Take her away, jailer," thundered Jeffreys, with a curse and frown that made my heart stand still—"unless she wants to pay the ransom that her uncle paid this morning on Tower Hill." Then I saw Bessie turn white as death; and covering her face with her hood, she passively allowed the jailer to lead her away.
'The instant we had passed the threshold, I burst into a passion of tears. As for Bessie, she walked a few steps mechanically, and then, without a word or a sign, sank in a fainting fit on to the ground.
'As we re-entered the prison, the jailer carrying Bessie, still unconscious, in his arms, we were met by the governor. "Poor maid! poor maid!" he muttered pitifully, when he had heard the state of the case. "But, mercy on us, what a lack of discretion some people have! That she should have been so crazed as to dare to bandy words with the Lord Chief-Justice! Marry, what could she expect? She was in luck to escape so easily. Ah! these are fearful days, indeed." And he passed on, with an expressive shake of the head, pausing a moment to say in something of his old peevish manner: "I've ordered them to find you a chamber to yourselves. 'Tis sorely inconvenient, ay, well-nigh impossible to manage it; but there—well—my wife has been urging me so strongly——"
'He finished the sentence with a grunt as he walked away. This piece of news was certainly a drop of comfort in our cup of misfortune. It was such a relief to find ourselves at last alone. Though our room was dismal and comfortless enough, to be sure, still it was luxurious compared to the horrible place we had left two hours ago. Yes—only two hours ago, after all; but the very longest two hours that I ever remember in the whole course of my life. Ah! may you never know what it is to pass two such hours as those were!
'The turnkey left us, promising to send his wife with some strong waters, which he said would "bring the young mistress back to life again in a twinkling." He had laid Bessie gently down on the one straw mattress which the little room contained; and Henrietta knelt by her side, doing everything that she could think of to bring her to herself. I stood by, meanwhile, awe-stricken and bewildered, for I had never seen any one in a swoon before; and as the moments passed on, and she did not move or breathe, I began to fancy that she was dead, and that Henrietta was trying to hide it from me. At length, when the turnkey's wife came in with the "strong waters," and rubbed her temples, and poured a spoonful down her throat, Bessie did begin to show some signs of life. A tinge of colour came back to her cheeks, and she half-opened her eyes. But they had a strange, vacant look; and when I sprang towards her with an exclamation of joy, she gave an odd, frightened stare, as if she did not know me, and then broke out into a wild fit of laughter.
'It was in vain that Henrietta kissed her, and spoke to her quietly, and soothingly assured her that there was nothing now to fear, and that I tried to make her understand where we were: she took not the slightest notice of us, but only gazed at everything with the same blank, unnatural stare.
'"What is the matter with her? What shall we do?" I whispered, shrinking in dismay from her side.
'"Hush!" she whispered, and stood silently watching with intense interest the countenance of the turnkey's wife.
'The woman bent over the mattress, and, with her hand on Bessie's wrist, scrutinized her earnestly for a few minutes. Then, as she looked, her face changed and, turning to Henrietta, she said gravely: "This is somewhat more than a swoon, mistress. Look at her eyes, and feel her hands too—how cold and clammy! Dear heart! I fear she is very sick. Belike she is going to have the fever, poor lamb!"
'"The fever?" repeated Henrietta faintly.
'"Ay, mistress, it's been raging here of late; and there were some down with it in that room where you've been not very long since. Oh! it's been terrible bad in this place. I've lost two children by it, and I had a touch of it myself."
'Henrietta and I exchanged terrified glances. The remembrance of our conversation that morning was in the minds of both of us.
'"Ay, mistress, 'tis the sickness, I misdoubt me," said the turnkey's wife again, when Henrietta told her of Bessie's restless, feverish night, and her unnatural languor and depression in the morning. "'Tis always so with them when it begins. She was sickening for the fever all day, poor dear lady, depend upon it; and now this fright coming upon it, has driven the poor thing clean out of her wits. 'Twill be more than a miracle if it doesn't go hard with her. Ah! well-a-day, she won't be the first by a long way, whom that stony-hearted, blood-thirsty——"
'"Oh don't, pray don't talk so," implored Henrietta in a tone of distraction. "Only tell me what to do! Only bring her a physician. I will pay you anything you ask, if you will bring a physician to her."
'The woman shook her head doubtfully. She would see if it could be managed, she said; but it was for the governor to give permission. She durst do nothing without his orders, and he had just now gone into court as witness in one of the trials that were taking place; and then (she said), "Mayhap he will dine at his lordship's table. But there, lack-a-day," she concluded, "a physician could do but little for her now. The disease must have its course, you see, mistress; besides, it misgives me—it does indeed, ladies—that it will go hard with her, poor dear!"
'The turnkey's wife was evidently not given to looking on the bright side of things, but she seemed kind-hearted, in her way, notwithstanding; and she left the room, promising to do what she could about a doctor directly the governor was forthcoming.
'For some moments Henrietta and I could only stand looking at one another in mute dismay. It gave one such a miserable, helpless feeling to hear the dreadful fever was already with us—that Bessie was dangerously ill, and that we were absolutely powerless to help her. Neither of us knew what ought to be done. Doctors, medicine, proper food, none were to be had. Even the simplest comforts, that she had never before been without, were now hopelessly out of our reach. We could do nothing but make up the straw bed as well as we could with some of the contents of our baggage, which we had found in a tolerable state of preservation, lying in a corner of our new room. Strange to say, nothing was missing but the looking-glass. The poor girl had kept her word when she promised to do her best to take care of our goods. So we made up a pillow for Bessie, and threw over her everything in the way of covering that we could find, and then sat down, with heavy hearts, to watch by her side. She had sunk back into a perfectly unconscious state, looking as deadly white as she had been before she was aroused from her long swoon.
'"Oh, if Mrs. Fortescue were but here!" cried Henrietta, wringing her hands in despair. "If there was anything that we could do for her! But there is nothing—nothing at all—only to sit still helplessly, while she is perhaps dying under our very eyes. Frances, it is too horrible!" and for the first time since I had known her, I saw Henrietta cry.
'I had never before heard her speak so strongly and passionately—never imagined how intense her feelings were; and now the bitter grief in her voice, and the violent, uncontrolled way in which she wept, quite frightened me. I could only lean my head against her shoulder, and cry too; and in this disconsolate way we sat till the turnkey appeared with dinner. He brought us a message from his wife, to the effect that the governor would not return until late in the evening; but that she would come again herself, and bring a drink for the sick lady. Once more Henrietta entreated that a doctor might be brought, but once more in vain. Even when she offered every gold piece that her purse contained, the turnkey was obstinate still.
'"Not without the governor's authority," he persisted. "These were times when one must do nought rashly, if one meant one's head to stay on one's shoulders."
'Well, the hours went on dismally and wearily. Poor Bessie woke from her lethargy after a while, but in a state that shocked and frightened us more than ever. She tossed incessantly from side to side, with burning cheeks and parched lips—her blue eyes wide open, and brilliant with fever. Oh! what misery it was to sit and listen to her as she lay talking wildly and incoherently on all sorts of subjects—sometimes about Madame St. Aubert, and Pauline, and her old school occupations; at others, raving violently about Colonel Dare and the Duke of Monmouth. Then she would fancy herself again at the bar pleading before Judge Jeffreys, and implore piteously for mercy on her uncle. But, oh! the worst of all was when she started up and clung to Henrietta, screaming in an agony of fear that Judge Jeffreys was going to send her to the scaffold. The turnkey's wife came again in the afternoon with the promised draught; and whether it was the effect of that, or that she was at last thoroughly exhausted, I do not know, but she suddenly became quieter, and at length sank once more into a state of stupor. Thus the day wore on, and at last night came, and the turnkey's wife looked in to pay us a farewell visit, bringing another draught for Bessie, and a candle. She looked at the motionless figure on the mattress, with sincere pity in her face, and then shook her head despondingly.
'"You do not think her better?" asked Henrietta with a quivering voice.
'"She'll not be here in the morning," the woman answered gravely, after a moment's hesitation. "I wish I could stay with you to-night, mistress; but I've a sick babe to nurse myself." And with another wistful, compassionate glance towards the mattress, she bade us good night and closed the door.
'The next minute the silence that followed was broken by Bessie herself.
'"Henrietta, what time is it?"
'She spoke quite calmly and naturally, though her voice was very faint. A glance at her face showed that the delirium had passed away; but there was a curious expression in her eyes that I had never seen before. The wild, vacant look was gone, but they were still strangely bright; and there was something so deep and solemn, and at the same time so very sad and yearning, in the gaze which she turned upon me as I went to her side, that I almost shrank from her.
'"What o'clock is it?" she repeated, with an effort to raise her voice.
'"About nine, my love," Henrietta replied tremulously. "How do you feel, dear Bessie? You are better, I think, are you not?"
'Bessie made no answer. She only closed her eyes again, and leaned her cheek against Henrietta's hand. At length she opened them again, and said abruptly:
'"I heard what she said, Henrietta. She was quite right. I shall not be here in the morning."
'A thrill ran through me as she said this.
'"Oh don't, Bessie—don't speak so! You are, better now—indeed you are! You will get well, and my father and Henrietta's will pay." Here I broke off suddenly, checked by a warning glance from Henrietta, and buried my face in the pillow to choke back the rising sobs.
'"No, Frances, dear, I am not better," said Bessie, still in the same calm, steady tone; "and I don't think I want to get better. It is all coming back to me now. I remember what he said about my uncle. Was that very long ago, Henrietta?"
'"Only this morning, my dear."
'"Only this morning! And I feel as if it was all so very, very long ago. It seems like a dream—a dreadful, horrible dream. Ah! I thought I was going to die when he looked at me like that." She gave a sort of gasp and shudder, and clung more closely to Henrietta's hand. "I don't want to think of his face now, Henrietta. Do help me," she said plaintively. "Won't you read to me, and say some prayers?"
FOR A MOMENT SHE KNELT IN SILENCE, HER EYES
FIXED ON THE PAGE.
'Without speaking, Henrietta took out her prayer-book, and found the Service for the Communion of the Sick. Her strong self-command was almost giving way then. For a moment she knelt in silence, her eyes fixed on the page, and her lip quivering; but when her voice came, it was clear and firm, as if we had been at evening prayers in Madame St. Aubert's schoolroom.
'For some minutes after Henrietta had closed the book, Bessie lay quite still, with her eyes shut, and I thought at first that she had fallen asleep; but presently she looked up and said, with a faint sigh:
'"Henrietta, I never knew what you were before. It was my fault if we were not good friends in the old days. Will you forgive all those thoughtless words and taunts of mine?"
'Henrietta's answer was a long, fervent kiss.
'"You were right, too, when you said we should bring trouble upon ourselves," Bessie went on mournfully; "but I could not help it. I do not know that I could do anything else, if all should come over again. I thought I was doing right. My uncle loved the Duke. Only poor little Frances—She must forgive me too. I feel as if I was a good deal to blame for her part in this matter.'"
'"No, no, dear Bessie," I sobbed, flinging myself down by her side. "It was not your fault. Henrietta did nothing, and you know she has been punished as much as we have."
'"Dear little Fan, good-bye."
'These words were very faintly and wearily spoken; then her eyes closed again, and Henrietta, signing to me not to disturb her, drew me gently away from the bed. I made no remonstrance when she arranged some cloaks at the other end of the room, and begged me to lie down and try to sleep. All the afternoon I had felt tired and drowsy, and as if a heavy weight was pressing down my eyes. Now my head was aching painfully, my throat felt terribly parched and sore, and I lay down and sobbed on drearily, while Henrietta made me as comfortable as she could, and then went to keep watch by Bessie's side.
'"Perhaps she will be better to-morrow, if she goes to sleep," I murmured dreamily. But Henrietta's only answer was a silent kiss; and that is the last I remember of that weary night.
'It was broad daylight when I next opened my eyes. Henrietta was standing over me with a white worn face, and eyelids red and swollen with tears. I just recollect noticing this, and also vaguely wondering where Bessie was, for she was not lying on the mattress now; and when I raised my head, and tried to look round the room, there seemed no one there but Henrietta and myself. But I did not ask her any questions, and I made no reply when she spoke to me. In fact, her words did not seem to reach my senses, I felt far too ill and wretched to care for anything, except to be left alone. I certainly was conscious of an intense desire for that. It was agony to move my head, and my throat was so much swollen, and so painful, that I could scarcely breathe, much less speak. Certain hazy recollections I have of the turnkey's wife lifting me up, and pouring something down my throat. Then comes a long blank in my memory—that is, not quite a blank, for I have a confused remembrance of long restless nights and constant thirst, and horrible nightmare feelings, one of which was, that mamma perpetually appeared, bringing me a cup of cider, but that directly I tried to take it from her hand, she invariably dashed it to the ground. I woke up in my sound senses again. I heard Henrietta talking to somebody.
'"She will never get well here. The doctor told me so this morning. He says she must have pure air and wholesome, nourishing food; that nothing else can save her. Oh! what shall I do?"
'"Ah, poor little heart," said the voice of the turnkey's wife; "she is sorely changed, to be sure. She don't look as if you'd keep her here much longer. Well-a-day! My heart aches for her mother, poor lady; and they say her father's well-nigh ruined with gambling, and that's why he can't pay the fine."
'"And you sent the letter? You are certain that it went by a sure hand?" Henrietta asked anxiously.
'"Yes, yes, mistress, the letter's gone safe enough. But I've heard tell that they'll never let her come here till the money's paid; and sure she'll fret sadly to think how the poor child's lying sick and calling for her."
'"Henrietta," I said, when I heard the woman leave the room, "have you been writing to mamma?"
'She was looking down at me with a perplexed, pained countenance, but my words made it light up with a bright gleam of joy.
'"Frances, my darling, are you better? How glad I am to hear you speak like yourself again!"
'"Have I been very ill, Henrietta?"
'"Yes, dear, very ill indeed; but you are going to get better now, I hope."
'"I don't know. I thought you said—didn't you say something about a doctor?"
'"Yes, sweetheart; the governor sent you a doctor. He is coming again to-day."
'"And have I been very long ill?"
'"Only three days."
'"Only three days! but everything seems so long ago!"
'Even as I spoke, I remembered how Bessie had used the very same words; and I tried to raise myself on my elbow and look round, but I was much too weak to make the slightest movement without Henrietta's arm.
'"Where is Bessie?" I whispered.
'Henrietta's face changed, and she hesitated, as if doubtful what answer to give me; and, with a sudden pang, the thought came back to me of that night when I had cried myself to sleep, and that morning when, looking at the mattress where Bessie had been lying, I saw that she was no longer there. So I did not ask again, but passively swallowed the medicine that Henrietta brought me, and lay for a long time in silence, with my aching head in her lap. Then at length I repeated my first question, "Have you been writing to mamma?"
'"Yes, sweetheart; I wrote a long letter, and told her everything—how ill you were, and how much you wanted her. You kept imploring her to come all through last night."
'"Did I? Ah, I have been dreaming about her so much! Henrietta, did the doctor say that I should not get well?"
'"He thought you very ill, my dear; but you are so much better this morning, that I hope he will say that you are getting quite well now."
'"If mamma would but come!" I murmured. "I think I should get well if I could only have mamma."
'"Poor child!" said Henrietta, with a sigh. "I know that I cannot nurse you as well as she would. But she will come, Fan, when my letter reaches her. I am sure she will. And now, my dear child, you have talked too much already. You must lie still and rest now, and try to go to sleep."
'I was thinking of those words of the turnkey's wife, about my father being ruined, and not being able to pay the ransom; but I did not feel equal to the effort of asking Henrietta whether there was any truth in them, for I was very weary, and ill, and languid, and so weak that I could not even lift my arm. One thing more, however, I wanted to ask, before I followed her advice. "Henrietta, did you ever hear whether our letters were sent,—those letters that we wrote, you know, that first day?"
'"I do not know, but I fear not; for although I did ask the turnkey about them once, he would not give me a direct answer, and he looked so grim that I was afraid to say anything more."
'Henrietta did not tell me then that her ransom was already paid, and that the order for her release had been made out that very morning.
'It was not until some time afterwards that I found out how much I had to thank her for: how she had nursed me through those three days when I was lying between life and death, as untiringly and devotedly as if she had been mamma herself; nor how, when she might have left the jail the moment the order of release was signed, she had chosen instead to stay with me in the pestilential atmosphere of that wretched, comfortless little room, utterly refusing to leave me until my mother should come to take her place. But, as I said before, all this had not dawned upon me as yet. Besides, I felt that no one, however kind, could be quite the same as mamma when one was ill; so I am afraid I must have seemed very ungrateful to poor Henrietta, when I murmured fretfully, "Oh dear! oh dear! why doesn't my mother come? No one can nurse me as well as she can. I am sure I shall die if she won't come soon. Oh, mamma, mamma, I do want you so very much!" Then, with Henrietta's soothing words, and sweet low tones sounding in my ears, I sank exhausted into a long, deep sleep.'
'Surely that isn't the end?' said a disappointed voice, as Uncle Algernon paused, and gazed thoughtfully at the portrait of Lady Greensleeves, which was leaning against the wall, opposite his writing-table.
'That is all I know of Lady Greensleeves' story,' he replied, with a smile; 'but doubtless Blue-coat has something to tell. You must wait till I have had a confabulation with him, though.'
'When will that be?' cried Robin. 'I do want so to hear his story! You see boys are so much more interesting than girls.'
Uncle Algernon laughed, and asked Silvia what she thought; but Silvia was so much affected by the story, that she was unable to give a coherent answer, and being, moreover, much ashamed of her tears, she made rather a sudden exit, leaving Robin to extract a promise from Uncle Algernon that Bluecoat's story would be forthcoming at four o'clock on the morrow.
The children were punctual next day—so punctual, that they had to wait full five minutes before Uncle Algernon could finish what he was writing, add another sheet to the pile of manuscript in his desk, wheel his chair round to the fire, and begin.
BLUE-COAT'S STORY.
'I was out on the Palace bowling-green one afternoon, with some of my companions, most of them boys of my own age, and fellow-pages of mine. It was just after dinner, and almost the only time in the day when we were free to amuse ourselves exactly as we pleased; for though the life of a Court page was idle and profitless enough, perhaps worse than profitless, it was not all pleasure—not one continual holiday, as I had fancied it in the old days at Newcourt. I had to attend constantly upon the Queen, my mistress, at breakfast, dinner, and supper. When she rode, when she walked in the garden, or in St. James's Park, I was almost always obliged to follow her; and when she went out in her coach, I formed one of the escort on horseback. Then, in the evening, there was dancing, or sometimes a masque, in both of which I was often expected to take part; and this I rather liked than otherwise—the acting especially. But still the perpetual restraint and stiffness of Court etiquette, from morning to night, were very wearisome to me, and you cannot imagine how much I enjoyed the short time that I could really call my own, when I could put out my whole strength, hallo as loud as I chose, and use my legs and arms according to my own free will. Perhaps the part of my duties which I most hated was the standing about in the ante-room to the Queen's presence-chamber every morning, to receive letters and petitions, or deliver messages, or usher in people who came to wait on Her Majesty. Well, on the afternoon referred to, I was rejoicing in the thought of the tiresome business of the morning being over, and, preparing to enjoy myself thoroughly, I threw off my coat, and caught up a ball, when I heard the voice of one of the lacqueys calling for "My Lord Desmond."
'"Who wants me?" I cried impatiently; for the interruption was most vexatious when one had so very little time to spare.
'"There is a lady in the ante-chamber asking for you, my lord. She prays to see you immediately on very urgent business."
'A lady wanting me, and on very urgent business! This was strange. Could it be Lady Mountfort? I thought; and my spirits sank at the idea. But when I suggested this in an undertone to Hal Verney, my chief friend among the pages, he only laughed, and vowed that when I died the words "Lady Mountfort" would be found graven on my heart, as "Calais" was on that of Queen Mary.
"Far more likely," he said, "that it is only some one with a petition to the Queen for grace to some of the rebels. There have been so many here lately seeking pardons for their friends."
'"Oh! 'tis that, depend on it," said another. "Only it seems strange that they should have admitted her at this hour."
'"Well, whoever it may be, make haste to come back," called out Hal, as I walked reluctantly off to see this mysterious visitor of mine.
'"Did she give no name?" I asked of the lacquey.
'"No. She had refused to give any name," the man said. He could only tell me that she seemed of middle age, but that her face was so concealed by hood and muffler that not a glimpse of it was to be seen. I felt no good will towards her as I made my way through the noisy group of pages, gentlemen-ushers, Roman Catholic priests, and Protestant chaplains, that filled the doorway of the Queen's ante-chamber. Nevertheless it was with decided relief that I glanced at the tall, stately figure, standing in a corner of the room, which was pointed out to me as the lady. She was not Lady Mountfort, that was quite clear, in spite of the veil and muffler; so I was able to bow, and ask what her commands might be, with all the ease and self-possession I had learnt of late, and which would have been quite impossible to me six months before.
'"Can Lord Desmond let me have a few words with him in private?" she said in a very low and rather tremulous tone.
'But though she spoke almost in a whisper, I knew the voice directly. It was that of my mother-in-law, Lady Dalrymple.
'"Oh! find some place where I can speak with you alone," she repeated earnestly, as I looked round the room, considering where I should take her. "There is something that I must say to you—something that may be a matter of life or death."
'These words fairly startled me, and drove the game of bowls completely out of my head. Without any more hesitation, I pushed open a side door, close to where we were standing, and led the way to the Queen's private oratory, which I knew at that hour we were likely to have to ourselves. Lady Dalrymple threw back her veil as I shut the door of the little chapel, and held out both hands to me. She looked much older and thinner than when I had last seen her on my wedding day; and the kind, bright, cheerful face, of which I still kept such a pleasant recollection, had a look of melancholy which I had never seen there before.
'"Algernon," she began hurriedly, "you have not forgotten your little wife, my poor little daughter Frances, whom you promised to love and cherish and protect. Well, she is in trouble now, as you must know—in very great trouble and danger—and I have come to ask you to help her."
'"But, madam," I stammered, astonished and bewildered, "how——"
'"Algernon, you are bound to help her. You cannot refuse," she interrupted, almost fiercely.
'"But indeed I am ready, madam. I will help her with all my heart, if you will only tell me what I am to do."
'"I want you to petition the Queen for her," continued Lady Dalrymple, trying to control herself and speak calmly. "She will listen to you. She cannot deny a husband pleading for his wife. Can she?" And Lady Dalrymple laid her hand on my shoulder, and looked at me for a moment, with an expression in her eyes as if she was not quite sure whether she meant to laugh or cry. It reminded me of the smile with which she had greeted me that night when Sir Harry first presented me to her at Horsemandown; only it was so much sadder, that a vague terror rushed into my mind.
'"Where is Frances?" I asked abruptly. "And why is she in trouble?"
'"What! Is it really possible that you have not heard of the Taunton maidens?" cried Lady Dalrymple. "Why, theirs is one of the most cruel cases in all this wicked, horrible business. Of all the unjust sentences that Judge Jeffreys has passed during these terrible assizes, this is surely the most shameful of all. 'Where is Frances?' do you say, child? She is in prison—in the common jail—in company with criminals and outcasts. She and two of her schoolfellows were sent there. Yes, Judge Jeffreys had actually the heart to shut up three young girls in a place like that, where a fever is raging too. One of the poor children is dead already, and my poor little Fan will die too if she is not taken away from that terrible place. She is very, very sick, and they will not let me go to her."
'Poor Lady Dalrymple! There was such a tone of misery in her voice, that I felt at that moment as if I would have done anything in the world for her. And, besides, I had a strong feeling of pity for my poor little bride, for her own sake. I had not thought much about her, it is true, since the day of our wedding. We had been very good friends then, and I had considered her a pretty little girl, and merry and good-humoured enough. Still, she certainly did think great things of herself—there was no doubt about that—and generally managed to make her brothers give way to her. This I very soon found out; and, happening to have an equally good opinion of myself, and a most decided liking for my own way, of course these qualities did not raise her in my estimation. I did not at all care for girls, excepting only Agnes, who was just like my sister, and always did whatever I told her. Nevertheless, I was sorry for Frances from the bottom of my heart. I tried to fancy her shut up in a gloomy jail, ill with fever, with no one to nurse her, and perhaps nothing to eat or drink: she whom I had last seen with bright eyes and rosy cheeks, so fearless and high-spirited, and leading what I thought must be such a happy life at that charming old place Horsemandown, with her brothers, her dogs, and her ponies for companions! When I thought of this, the blood rushed to my cheeks with indignation at Judge Jeffreys' cruelty, and for a moment I felt almost choked, and as if I could not speak to ask how she had come to be in his power at all. Then Lady Dalrymple went on to tell me how Madame St. Aubert, Sir Harry's kinswoman, under whose care Agnes Blount and my wife had been placed at Taunton, had brought the King's severe displeasure upon herself and all her pupils, by leading them in procession to present a Bible and a banner to the Duke of Monmouth. All the details of the story which Lady Dalrymple told me, as far as she knew, you have already heard from Frances herself, so I will not repeat them.
"The affair of the Taunton maids," as it was called at Court, had been talked about for a day and then forgotten, or thrown into the background by other incidents of the Rebellion. Perhaps, as Lady Dalrymple hinted in the bitterness of her wrath and anxiety, there were some who had their reasons for hushing it up as soon as possible. But however this might be, it had somehow never entered my head to connect the "affair of the Taunton maids" with my little bride Frances, and Agnes Blount. No names had been mentioned; and fining and imprisonment seemed but a slight penalty when one heard of so many unfortunate people sentenced to be beheaded, hung, or transported; to say nothing of the chief victim of all, the Duke of Monmouth himself, whose fate created more interest and excitement at Court than that of all the rest put together.
'"But, madam," I asked timidly (for I always felt a little afraid of people in any great trouble), "will not Frances be set free directly the fine is paid?"
'"My good child, if she waits till then, she will never be set free. The fine they ask is shamefully extravagant for all the children, but for those three girls it is even more than that. It is an enormous ransom—a sum that is quite out of our power to pay."
'"But," I persisted, in astonishment, "I thought Sir Bernard was so very rich!"
'"Why should you think so?" demanded Lady Dalrymple, with a slight sharpness in her tone.
'"Oh, because—— It was only something that Agnes heard Father Freeling say at Newcourt."
'"Ah, well!"—and poor Lady Dalrymple sighed heavily—"perhaps Father Freeling was right once upon a time; but those days are over now. Sir Bernard has been very unfortunate; and as to this sum of money, Mr. Sidney may be able to pay it for his daughter, and, rich as he is, it will take half his fortune, but we cannot do it. Were we even to ruin ourselves and our other children, we could not do it; and my poor Frances must be saved some other way, unless she is to stay and die in that den of thieves."
'"She shall be saved!" I said to myself resolutely, and then stood pondering in silence on what the next step should be. "Madam," said I, a new idea striking me, "why should not I pay the ransom? If she is my wife, I have a right to do it more than any one else. Oh, surely Sir Harry could not have any objection! And if enough could not be had without, we might sell some of the land."
'"Nay, that is out of the question," she said, interrupting me with a melancholy smile. "My dear boy, I trust that you will help me to save her, but it cannot be done in that way. My husband has appealed to Sir Harry already, but he can do nothing. He cannot touch your money; and if he could, he would have no right to do so. You are under age. We have no right to ruin you even for her sake. No; my only hope now is to petition the Queen."
'"Then I pray you, madam, let me take you to the Queen. You would know what to say so much better than I should."
'But Lady Dalrymple shook her head very decidedly at this proposition. "No, Algernon, believe me, you would have a much better chance of success than I should. So many parents have pleaded in vain already. But she is your wife, and—so young as you both are—— Yes, indeed, I am sure it is far better that you should go."
'"Then I will go at once," I exclaimed impetuously, and should have acted on my words if Lady Dalrymple bad not caught my arm.
'"Gently, gently, my good Algernon; wait a bit. Where is her Majesty now?"
'"In her closet with the Princess Anne."
'"And is it usual to disturb her at this time?"
'I was obliged to admit that it was very unusual indeed, there being a sort of general order that at this time the Queen was to be molested on no pretext whatever, unless it were for some exceptionally weighty matter. And to-day the rule was more stringent than usual, as Her Majesty was closeted with the Princess Anne.
'"Then you must not go now. You must wait for a more convenient season. Algernon, I implore you not to be hasty. Everything depends upon speaking at the right moment."
'I saw the force of this counsel plainly enough, though had I been left to myself, I doubt if it would ever have struck me; for I was rather given to set about things in a blundering way, just at the moment when they came into my head.
'"When shall you next see the Queen?" asked Lady Dalrymple.
'"This afternoon, madam, she will walk in the gardens, or, mayhap, go on the river, and either way I shall attend her."
'"Then you will doubtless find some happy opportunity for your petition. I trust to you to choose your time wisely, and to make yourself heard. Now I must not stay longer. See, this is where I am lodging;" and she handed me a paper. "If you succeed, it will be easy enough to send me tidings."
'"But, madam, pray stay one moment. What must I say?"
'"Nay, child, choose your own words. Tell her Majesty the plain facts just as I told you; and surely, if she has a heart at all, they will be enough for her. Farewell! Be wary. But, for God's sake, be as speedy as you prudently can."
'Lady Dalrymple turned to leave the oratory; and as I moved to open the door, it was pushed back by some one outside, and Lady Sarah Buckthorne, one of the maids of honour to the Queen, came in for a few steps, and then stopped short with a look of astonished inquiry.
'"I was called in from—— This lady wished——" I began, somewhat confused.
'"I must beg pardon for intruding here," said Lady Dalrymple courteously; "but I had occasion for a few words with my kinsman, Lord Desmond, and as the ante-chamber was crowded and noisy, he brought me here for privacy."
'Lady Sarah made a stiff courtesy, took up a breviary that lay on the Queen's prie-dieu, and departed.
'"Is that one of the Queen's ladies?" asked Lady Dalrymple sharply; and when I told her, there was a look in her eyes for a moment that was almost fierce. "If they only understood——! If they could know but for one minute——!" I heard her murmur as we passed through the passage that led to the ante-chamber.
'When I got back to the bowling-green, a game was going on, in which everybody seemed too deeply interested to notice my reappearance. I was rather glad of this, for I was in no humour to play; so I stood looking on absently, while I pondered in my own mind what I should say to the Queen. Presently Hal Verney came up to rouse me with a slap on the shoulder, and asked why I was in the dumps, and who it was that had sent for me.
'"You see you were such an unconscionable time gone," he continued, "that you could not expect one to wait for you. But this game is almost over, and then we'll have a glorious match; so cheer up, man, and don't be moody."
'I gave Hal to understand that he had hit upon quite a wrong explanation of my moodiness, and that my interest in bowls for that morning was over. Whereupon he became so curious, that I ended by telling him all. Hal was such a quick, sharp-witted fellow, that I thought it very likely he might be of some use to me in managing my suit to the Queen. I had scarcely ever spoken of Frances to Hal before—partly because, I am sorry to say, she was so very seldom in my thoughts, and partly because, when I first came to Court, it had been the fashion with him and the others to consider my very early marriage as an excellent joke, and to pity me for being tied to a wife already. However, even if that jest had not been worn out long ago, there was far too much chivalry in Hal for him to dream of alluding to it now. He listened with more interest than I had expected, and was quite as vehement in his indignation against the Lord Chief-Justice as I was myself. '"You had better say nothing to the others about what you are going to do," was his first bit of counsel. "It is as well that it should not be noised all over the Palace before you make your petition. Why, Algernon, you must have heard all about the Taunton girls and that Madame St. Aubert before? 'Tis a marvel that you should never have thought of your wife being among them!" I could not but own that I had been extremely dull. "And then," Hal proceeded, "I daresay you never noticed how, one day, when Princess Anne asked what had become of them, Lady Sarah managed to turn the conversation, and prevent any one from answering her. Ah, well, if you had kept your eyes open, as I do, you would know something of these matters." I looked at Hal with intense respect. He certainly had a wonderful talent for keeping his eyes open, and finding out all the little intrigues that were going on in every quarter of the Palace. "Do you know," he went on, in very low and mysterious tones, "that the Queen's ladies have contrived to get the fines for those girls granted to them to divide among themselves? Isn't it a shamefully mean and pitiful thing to do? It was through Philip Buckthorne that I found it out."
'"The maids of honour!" repeated I in dismay. "Then there is no chance of the Queen's showing any grace to me!"
'"Nay, don't be too sure of that," said Hal sagaciously. "Depend upon it the Queen knows mighty little about the matter; and however that may be, it is not at all unlikely that she may grant a pardon to this one particular girl, when she hears who she is, and all about her."
'"I wish Lady Dalrymple would have agreed to ask an audience of the Queen herself," I sighed despondingly.
"She had too much wit to do that," pronounced Hal with a significant smile. "Don't you know that Sir Bernard Dalrymple is not in the King's good graces? Ah, you were not here in King Charles's time, so you don't know, of course. You see, he used to be in high favour with King Charles, but the Duke of York never liked him. Why, since the coronation, Sir Bernard has never been seen at Court. Then, besides, he lost tremendously at the gaming-tables—more than half his fortune, they say. And he is in debt. Oh, there is scarcely a soul in the Palace that he does not owe money to." I was quite aghast at this piece of information. It accounted for Lady Dalrymple's refusal to give her name, and her evident wish not to make herself known to any one but myself. And there was yet another reason why she should shrink from showing herself at Court, which Hal (thanks to his ever-open eyes) was enabled to confide to me. It had been whispered that Sir Bernard had had, at one time or another, some correspondence with Monmouth. It was only a rumour, with no shadow of proof. "Still," quoth Hal, "enough to make His Majesty look somewhat coldly on the Dalrymples of Horsemandown just at present."
'"If she was but your wife, Hal, instead of mine you would manage it so much better." Hal was, I suspect, quite of the same opinion, though he did not say so. We then stood considering the subject in silence for a minute. "Marry, Hal, now I think of it, I have a particularly bad chance with the Queen to-day!"
'"What! because of Carlotte? Ay, true enough. I forgot that. How very unlucky, to be sure!"
'Carlotte was one of those beautiful little black spaniels, which King Charles had brought into fashion, and which, in his time, quite swarmed wherever his Court happened to be. It was by the late King himself that Carlotte had been given to my mistress, and she certainly was one of the most perfect specimens of her kind that I ever saw. Not one of the Queen's many pets was valued like Carlotte. And you may imagine into what dire disgrace I had brought myself this morning, while we were walking in the park, by throwing a large stone, in picking up which she had broken three of her teeth!
'"Yes," pursued Hal, shaking his head with an air of profound wisdom, "that certainly is against you. You provoked her sorely by that piece of folly; and, I warrant, you will be out of favour with her for the rest of the day. And no marvel either! I'll tell you what, Desmond! I have an idea our best way will be to get some one else to speak to the Queen—some one who is a favourite of hers, who has a strong influence over her, and whose word would have some weight."
'I caught at this idea with great satisfaction; but then, who was this some one to be? Whose word would have the most weight with her Majesty? The maids of honour were clearly out of the question. One person after another came into my mind and was rejected.
'"How would the Princess Anne do?" Hal suggested, but in a doubtful tone.
'I shook my head. Princess Anne was the very soul of good-nature, it could not be denied; but had she a strong influence over the Queen, or any one else? No, we had a great misgiving that she had not. '"Hal," cried I suddenly, "I have it at last! Father Niccolo!"
'"Bravo!" was Hal's enthusiastic reply. "The very man!"
'And he was the very man, as far as regarded influence with the Queen; but whether he would be likely to prove a warm partisan of one of the Taunton rebels, the adherents of the "Protestant Duke," was more doubtful; for Father Niccolo was the most staunch, not to say bigoted of Papists.
'"No matter," said the undaunted Hal, when this objection was started; "we must find some way of making him do it."
'This bold yet simple plan for settling the difficulty was really enough to take one's breath away.
'"Make him do it!" gasped I. "The Queen's own confessor! Faith, Hal, that's more easily said than done."
'"Very likely," responded Hal, with his wonted coolness; "still, that's no proof that it can't be done at all."
'"Well, how you can dream of making him do anything, I can't for the life of me imagine."
'Neither could Hal, as he was fain to confess. "At least, not just at this moment," he said. "But never mind," he went on confidently; "wait a bit; we'll lay our heads together, and some scheme shall be hatched presently, I warrant you."
'"I suppose," I suggested, rather doubtfully, "there's not much chance of persuading him to do it, if we just go and tell him the whole story, simply, from beginning to end."
'"Odds fish, no!" cried Hal hastily (it was the fashion among the pages to affect this exclamation, because it was always in the mouth of the late King). "That is just like you, Algernon. You always want to go about matters in such a blundering, downright way! You were never born for a statesman, that's quite clear."
'I suppose I was not, for my instinct always was to use the simplest and quickest means possible to gain my point. I had an intense dislike to doing things in a crooked, roundabout way; and if I made the slightest attempt to do so, was sure to break down hopelessly. Now, Hal had undoubtedly a strong taste for a little bit of intrigue. Not that he would do anything that he considered mean or dishonourable. He had his own ideas of honour, and was staunch enough to them; but his Court life had begun very early, and had taught him a great many things which shocked me when I first knew him. Among them was this love of man[oe]uvring, which I could neither understand nor take a share in, notwithstanding my friendship for Hal. But he was older than I was; and I admired and respected him so much that I generally gave way to his opinion.
'"You see, we could not offer him a bribe worth having," Hal presently pursued; "and even if we could, I have my doubts as to whether he would take it. He is a superstitious fool, and chicken-hearted enough for anything; but I don't think he is so greedy as some folks that I wot of. No! Look you, Algernon, this is what we must do; we must frighten him into it."
'"Well, but how! Do you mean by some trick of goblins or demons?"
'"No, not that; though that were no bad notion either. There's nothing he would not believe. But I'll tell you the scheme I've thought of. You know Father Niccolo always paces up and down the green walk under the chapel windows, reading his breviary for some time before vespers. Well, we'll be in hiding in that dark alley leading down to the river, you and I, and two or three more of us. We must be right well cloaked and masked, of course—in such guise that he shall have no inkling as to who we are. Then, when Father Niccolo passes, out we rush, drag him into the alley, and force a promise from him to pray the Queen's grace for the maids of Taunton."
'"But, Hal, force a promise! how can that be managed? Father Niccolo is not very easily browbeaten, I imagine."
'"Leave that to me," replied Hal, whose confidence in his own powers seemed to increase with the necessity for using them. "It will be my business to arrange about that. Your legs and arms will be more wanted in this affair than your tongue, Algernon; and they are not to be despised in the matter of strength. I think I could be made to promise most things if held in your grip, with no chance of being released until I had passed my word. But are you willing that I should have the whole conduct of this affair?"
'"Oh, certainly; if you are quite sure there is no other way of gaining the pardon."
'"You must see yourself that this is the surest and swiftest," cried Hal eagerly; and then he hastily ran over the arguments which proved that every other scheme must fail. In fact, he was becoming so much in love with his plot, that I am sure he would have been highly disgusted if I had discovered a flaw in it, or had suddenly devised a much better one. But I could not, and so was obliged to fall in, heart and soul, with Hal's project. I was not without some doubts and scruples which I was ashamed to confess to him, but which troubled me a good deal at first, though I speedily forgot them in the excitement of planning and carrying out our enterprise.
'"In the first place," said Hal, "we must get one or two of the others to help us, who will keep our counsel, and do as they are told. Roger Crosbie for one, I think, and Phil Buckthorne for the other."
'"Is he to be trusted?" I ask rather doubtingly.
'"To be sure? He's too much of a blockhead to make out the meaning of half our proceedings. We need only tell him that we want to give Father Niccolo a fright. That will be quite enough for his thick skull to take in. In the matter of cloaks and disguises, you may trust me," Hal went on to say, looking very important. "I know of one who will get me all I want, and ask no questions, either now or afterwards. You need not open your eyes so wide, Master Innocence; but just go and secure Phil and Roger, and let out as little of the project as need be to them. They'll be ready enough to join us, I warrant, for the sake of the frolic."
'And he went off, whistling a bar of the "Old and Young Courtier"—a tune for which he had a great partiality—while I proceeded on the mission entrusted to me, distracted between my admiration for Hal's cleverness and a haunting fear which would beset me that we were not going the right way to work.
'It was quite dusk (about eight o'clock, I think) when we four conspirators, being released from attendance on the Queen till supper-time, one by one left the great gallery where most of our fellow-pages were congregated, and slipped away to don our disguises, and make our way down to the Palace gardens, which Hal had appointed as our place of meeting. Hal's mysterious friend evidently understood the art of concealment. We were cloaked and muffled to the eyes; and so tall and broad did my three companions look, that I hardly recognised them in the dim light. They were all in excellent spirits. Roger Crosbie and Phil Buckthorne (who, as I ought to have told you, was a brother of Lady Sarah's) had taken mightily to the idea of reducing Father Niccolo to a state of abject submission, by means of his fears. A Popish priest was considered fair game; and they offered not only to keep him prisoner in the dark passage till Hal had worked his will upon him, but also, if need were, to duck the unfortunate father in the river which ran at the further end of the alley. But Hal pronounced this to be both impolitic and unnecessary; and beseeching us to be silent and cautious, he led the way to our hiding-place.
'At the time at which I am speaking, the chapel and the Queen's apartments at Whitehall were all en suite; so that, when you stood in the green walk facing the chapel windows, you had the gardens on your left hand, with the windows of the Queen's rooms looking into them, and behind you a block of buildings, through which ran the narrow passage wherein we were to hide.
'And there we crouched down, waiting, with our eyes fixed on the strip of grass and paved walk, which were all we could see from the narrow opening in front of us, till it grew so dark, that it was impossible to distinguish between grass and pavement; and I began to fear that when Father Niccolo did come, we should not be able to see him.
'"I am beginning to feel uncommonly like Guy Fawkes," whispered Roger, half laughing, in my ear.
'I myself had been feeling so for some time; and it was only by calling up to my mind's eye a picture of poor Lady Dalrymple sitting lonely in her lodgings, waiting for the good news I was to bring her, that I could force myself to stay where I was, and go through with the undertaking. Just then the chapel bell began to ring for vespers; and between the strokes we distinctly heard a footstep echoing on the flagged pathway.
'"He's coming!" said Hal below his breath. And springing to his feet, he peered eagerly into the darkness.
'A figure was passing between us and the faint glimmer of light, which was all that remained, and in another moment it was surrounded, seized, enveloped over head and shoulders in a large cloak, and dragged struggling into the dark archway. The old priest fought desperately; and Roger and I were obliged to pinion his hands behind him with both our own before Hal dared raise the muffler, and whisper in his ear, "You are safe. Only be still, and no one shall harm you."
'A piercing scream was the only answer; and at the same moment I let go my hold, calling out in dismay, "Hal! Hal! It's a woman! I felt the rings on her hands."
'The woman, whoever she was, feeling our grasp on her arms loosen, made a violent effort, and slipping from our hands, darted up the alley, and disappeared from sight.
'"Idiots that you were, to let her go!" cried Hal furiously. "We must after her, and bribe her to hold her tongue, or she will raise a hue and cry, and we shall have a dozen people at our heels before we can reach the Palace."
'Off we started in hot pursuit, guided by the faint sound of footsteps flying in the direction of the chapel, which was the nearest place of refuge. But, alas! as ill luck would have it, Phil Buckthorne, whose legs were as quick as his brain was slow, was foremost in the race. He overtook the flying figure on the threshold of the chapel, and disregarding Hal's warning cry, which was raised as high as he dared, rushed in after her. The rest of us, when we reached the door, hesitated a moment what to do next. If we had taken to our heels then, we might have escaped scathless; but we could not leave Philip in the lurch, and so, after a pause of a few seconds, we followed his example, and went in. The chapel was lighted up in preparation for vespers; and the first person who met our astonished and horrified gaze was Lady Sarah Buckthorne! who sat sobbing on a chair by the altar, supported by Father Niccolo. In front of her stood Philip, looking utterly abashed and confounded, while he repeated slowly:
'"I tell you, sister, we meant no harm. There is no need to be frightened. 'Twas all a mistake."
'"No need to be frightened!" cried Lady Sarah angrily. "I ask you, father, if it was not enough to frighten me when a whole gang of young ruffians set on me at once, dragged me into a dark entry, and bound my hands behind me?"
'"There were but four of us," said Phil, looking very sheepish.
'He certainly had a talent for making matters worse, for he went on:
'"I shouldn't have touched you if I had known who it was; but we took you for Father Niccolo, you see."
'Lady Sarah laughed hysterically.
'Father Niccolo exclaimed, "Holy mother! what iniquity is this?" And Hal, seeing that all was lost, pushed past Philip, after privately shaking his fist at him, and stopped any further revelations by beginning a series of the most profuse apologies to the injured Lady Sarah. But Hal had been so taken aback on discovering who our prisoner really was that his words did not come quite so readily as usual. She would not listen. She had been very much frightened, and now she was very angry. Moreover, she was by no means so thick-witted as her brother, and was evidently beginning to suspect that our unlucky plot was something more than a mere frolic.
'"The Queen shall hear of this, sir," she replied to Hal's protestations. "You and your accomplices must be taught that her Majesty's ladies are not to be put in fear for their lives with impunity. You, Hal Verney, have been the ringleader in all sorts of mischief too long. It is time that your pranks should be put a stop to."
'"But, madam, hear me one minute. It was my doing. It was for my sake that Hal—that we—— In fact, if this comes to her Majesty's ears, the blame must rest with me," cried I, unable to keep silence any longer.
'"You here, my Lord Desmond!" cried Lady Sarah, while Hal plucked my sleeve impatiently to force me to be quiet (he had so much more faith in his own powers of persuasion than in those of any one else)—"I could not have believed it," Lady Sarah went on. "This matter must be sifted to the bottom."
'"It must, madam," interrupted Father Niccolo, who was evidently anxious to oust so many heretics from his chapel; "but this is not the place for the inquiry. The hour for vespers has struck, and I am expecting every moment—— There! it is too late." And so it was, for at that moment the doors at the other end of the chapel which communicated with the Queen's rooms were thrown open, and Her Majesty, leaning on the arm of the Lord Chamberlain, and followed by a crowd of her Roman Catholic attendants, advanced down the aisle.
'Of course the group at the altar broke up in confusion. Lady Sarah slipped quietly into her place amongst the other maids of honour, contriving to whisper me as she passed, "I must see you this evening before supper." Father Niccolo glided noiselessly into his stall, and we four, who, as Protestants, were not required to attend the Queen at her devotions, beat a hasty retreat to the door by which we had entered. It was accomplished in a moment, but it needed only one glance at the astonished face of the Queen to assure us that we had been observed. If we had had any hope before of Lady Sarah's tender mercies, or of Father Niccolo's good-nature, we had none now. Her Majesty would never forgive such an unwarrantable intrusion into her private chapel. Hal's most flowery apologies would be of no use now, and I might consider my suit as hopeless. We were all in rather low spirits as we walked away. Hal and Roger relieved their minds by abusing Phil Buckthorne; but I was too much out of heart even to do that. Here was the day almost at an end, and I was not one whit nearer fulfilling my promise to Lady Dalrymple than I had been in the morning. Indeed, difficult as I had thought it then to ask a grace of the Queen, it seemed almost impossible now. And Lady Dalrymple had implored me above all things to be speedy. I was at my wit's end to know what to do in the matter next, and gave vent to my perplexities in such a heavy sigh, that Hal clapped me on the shoulder, saying:
'"Cheer up, Algernon. I've been in and out of many a worse strait than this. The Queen's anger won't last for ever; and even if she does flout us for a time, we can live very well without Court favour."
'"'Tis not that, as you know full well," said I, rather roughly, for Hal's nonchalance was particularly irritating just then. "But how am I ever now to get the Queen's favourable ear for that other business?"
'"Whew!" ejaculated Hal in a sort of prolonged whistle. "I declare that I had quite forgotten all about it. Well, of all mishaps in the world, only think that we should have had the ill luck to run against Lady Sarah! She'll not rest till she ferrets out the whole story. What was it she said to you as we were coming out of the chapel?"
'When I told him he shook his head despondingly.
'"That bodes us no good, I'm afraid," said he. "She will never forgive us for the way we used her. I must confess the poor lady did get some rough handling among us. That grasp of yours on her shoulder must have been anything but pleasant. And how we dragged her mantle and hood about! I remember hearing a great rent, and thinking what wretched stuff the good father's gown must be made of."
'Hal went into a fit of laughter at the remembrance, which put the finishing stroke to my ill-humour. I broke away from him, and would not hear when he called after me:
'"Nay, but hear me, Algernon. I have thought of a plan."
'I resolved, however, that I would have nothing to do with Hal's plans for the future, and marched away to await my interview with Lady Sarah, feeling more angry with him than I had ever done before, and most ungrateful for his well-meant attempts to assist me. Phil Buckthorne at last summoned me to his sister's presence.
'"She has been asking me about a hundred questions," said he, "and boxed my ears for a simpleton when I told her 'twas only a frolic of ours to frighten Father Niccolo. She has got some maggot in her head, but what it is I can't say."
'I had only time for a hearty though secret wish that Lady Sarah was as great a simpleton as her brother, before I found myself standing within the door of her chamber, and face to face with the lady herself. Her sharp, black eyes seemed to look me through and through; and before I had settled how much of my secret I ought to reveal for the sake of shielding my companions, and how much I ought to keep back for the sake of Lady Dalrymple, she had drawn the whole story from me by a few skilful questions. Indeed, I soon found that she knew so much already about the danger my wife was in, and the pardon I had promised to obtain, that it was hopeless to try and keep anything from her.
'"And so for once in his life Master Hal Verney's schemes have miscarried," she said, with a mischievous laugh, "and you are farther from your object than ever. That boy's love of intrigue will be the plague of the whole Court by and by. I am heartily glad he should have been found out, even though I was the victim of this plot of his. I shall not grudge the fright he gave me, if it is the means of bringing on him the punishment his tricks so richly deserve. Indeed, there is not much doubt that he will receive that. The Queen is justly angry, both at what she saw of the unseemly invasion of her chapel, and also at what Father Niccolo has told her of your designs upon him, which my wise brother Phil so obligingly revealed. She hath already commissioned my Lord Chamberlain to make all inquiries upon the subject. So I am in great hopes that Master Hal Verney will either be dismissed from his pageship altogether, or at least find himself banished for a time to the solitudes of Windsor or Hampton Court, where he would find ample leisure to meditate upon his own ill-doings, and learn to amend his ways for the future."
'Lady Sarah looked so thoroughly and maliciously in earnest as she expressed her hopes of Hal's speedy disgrace, that I could not help exclaiming indignantly:
'"But why Hal more than any of the rest of us? You know, Lady Sarah, it is I who ought to get the worst of the punishment, whatever it may be. It was all my doing."
'"Tut, tut, child, never tell me," replied her Ladyship. "'Twas Hal Verney arranged the whole affair, I dare answer for it. I know his pranks of old. As for the rest, Phil deserves a punishment for not knowing his own sister, and I care not a jot what becomes of Roger Crosbie."
'"But I do," I burst out. "Roger and Phil knew nothing of our plans; they only joined for the sake of the frolic. I will go to the Queen and tell her everything, and say that if any one is to be banished or dismissed, it ought to me."
'"Indeed!" said Lady Sarah dryly. "And when you have given Her Majesty your instructions, and she has perchance followed your advice, and had you turned out of the Palace for a malapert rogue, pray what becomes of my Lady Desmond and your promise to her mother?"
'I stamped my foot on the ground with a sort of impatient despair as I thought of Frances, sick and lonely, and of Lady Dalrymple's face of misery when she implored my help.
'"What am I to do?" I muttered half-aloud, clenching my fists with a most gentlemanlike desire to knock Lady Sarah down.
'"Listen to me," she replied quietly, "and perhaps I shall be able to devise some means for getting you out of your trouble."
'I stared at the lady incredulously. Decidedly she was the very last person I should have thought likely to help me. Besides the rough treatment she had received at my hands this very evening, which had, as I thought, made her my enemy for ever, was she not one of the very maids of honour who were to profit by the ransom of the Taunton girls? A very odd smile hovered in the corners of Lady Sarah's mouth as she watched my face.
'"I daresay you would not have chosen me for a confidante," she went on; "but you cannot help yourself now, so you must attend to me. Unclench your hand, and don't look so furious, or I shall be afraid to stay in the room with you. I have felt enough of your strength to-night, sir, to desire no further exhibition of it."
'Lady Sarah glanced at a bruise on her wrist as she spoke; and I, feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself, could only turn very red and endeavour to stammer out an apology.
'"There, never mind that now," she proceeded. "What I want you to understand is this. Though I care nothing for what becomes of those boys (and I see you think me very hard-hearted for saying so), yet I am not quite so relentless as you doubtless imagine. I wish to save you from the consequences of your own folly. You are not like Hal Verney, who is always planning escapades of this kind for the sake of the intrigue, and the excitement; nor like Philip and Roger, who would engage in anything that promised them a frolic. You had some reason for joining in this wild scheme, ill-advised as it was, and therefore I will do my best to help you. My brother Philip is to ride to-morrow in the train of the Princess Anne, who goes to pay my Lord of Rochester a visit. You shall go in his place. The Princess will be away from Court nearly a week, and by that time this affair will have blown over. In the meantime I shall tell the Queen that there were but three of you who pursued me in mistake for Father Niccolo. She need never know of your being there at all; for she had no time to see how many of you were in the chapel, and the good father will not be able to inform her, for he scarcely knows one of you from the other, and certainly not you, you obstinate little heretic, who keep so carefully aloof from him. I will take care that Philip does not betray you; and I suppose you may safely count on the honour of Roger and Hal. Is it not so?"
'"Madam, you are very good," I stammered out, after a pause of extreme astonishment. "But, but—how can I possibly put myself in safety, while the others are left in the lurch? They would never betray me, I know that; but that is the very reason! Oh, it is impossible that I should leave them!"
'"Foolish boy, what good can your staying be to them? I can take care of my own brother, I suppose; and as to the rest, they will get no more than they deserve. Besides," Lady Sarah went on, speaking low, and very eagerly, "you must see that, if the Queen once discovers that you were mixed up in this business, you lose all chance of prospering in your suit. Whereas, if you keep your own counsel, deny all knowledge of the affair, and follow out my directions, I'll wager anything you like that your part in the doings of to-night never comes to the Queen's ears at all. Then you come back in a week's time, when Her Majesty has forgotten the misbehaviour of her pages. You present your petition, tell the touching story of your bride's imprisonment, and carry your point with flying colours."
'But I had not been a courtier long enough to appreciate the full force of Lady Sarah's arguments. My life at Whitehall had done me no good. I did things now which would have horrified me to see done by others six months before. I was becoming used to the selfishness, the scheming, and the want of principle shown by nearly every one around me; but I had never yet told a deliberate lie, nor allowed one to be told in my name. So I refused Lady Sarah's proposal again very decidedly, feeling hotly indignant that she should think me capable of the amount of deceit and treachery which the plan she proposed would imply. She only laughed at my anger, however, and protested that a page who never told a lie was a being who had never existed; that falsehood came as naturally to him as doubling and winding to a coursed hare, and was quite as necessary to his security.
'"As necessary as listening behind doorways to ladies of honour," said I, unable to resist giving vent to a suspicion which had flashed into my mind at the beginning of our conversation. In what way but by eavesdropping could Lady Sarah have obtained such an intimate knowledge of all Lady Dalrymple had said to me in the oratory?
'"Well, sir," she replied very coolly, though perhaps there was a shade more of red in her cheeks than before, "if I had not happened to overhear some of that interesting discourse this morning, how should I have been able to help you out of your difficulties to-night? You would never have told me your secret of your own accord."
'I involuntarily shook my head, and then, with a great effort to keep my temper, said, "I can't see why you should care to help me, madam. If you really do, I thank you; but I cannot do as you would have me, so I must manage this business as best I can. I know I have very little chance with the Queen, but I must try."
'"As you like it," replied Her Ladyship, shrugging her shoulders, and laughing a disagreeable little laugh. "You refuse my assistance, and imagine you can win a grace from Her Majesty by your own diplomatic talents! We shall see."
'"We shall see," I repeated mechanically, as I closed the door and walked away, after an elaborate farewell salutation to Lady Sarah; but I felt more down-hearted and uncertain what course to pursue than ever. I paced slowly along the corridor, pondering on Lady Sarah's proposal, so very strange and so unlooked-for from her, when suddenly an idea darted into my mind that directly threw a light on her meaning. Of course she was scheming to prevent my appeal to the Queen. Her policy was to send me out of the way for the present, until she could in some way contrive to render my petition useless, or perhaps put a stop to my presenting it altogether. Why had I been so dull as not to think of this before? For, as I said just now, Lady Sarah was one of the very persons for whose benefit these cruel ransoms were to be extorted. What was to be done? She had failed, to be sure, in baiting properly the first little trap she had laid for me; but there were many ether ways, of course, in which she might easily manage to thwart me.
'Why had I not followed my first impulse, and gone at once to the Queen in a straightforward manner? Why had I allowed Hal to persuade me for a moment that the crooked path could ever be the best? But, after all, why should I not take the straight path now? It seemed to me, without doubt the only thing to be done under the circumstances, and I resolved to do it. I would go to the Queen directly, without waiting for the next chance opportunity, and tell her my story before Lady Sarah should have time to stand between us. Yes, happen what might, I determined to make my petition without any more delay, with the forlorn hope that Her Majesty's pity and kind-heartedness might grant it in spite of my unlucky piece of misconduct. I had been pausing on the staircase while I turned these things over in my mind, and, having settled at last what my course of action was to be, my spirits suddenly rose to such a pitch that I felt it necessary to work them off by indulging in a slide down the bannisters (at home I very seldom went down-stairs in any other way, unless there was a chance of meeting Lady Mountfort, or Father Freeling); but, since my Court life began, opportunities did not come as often as I could have wished. However, here was an excellent one! For once in a way not a soul was in sight, above or below, so up I vaulted, and shot down to the first landing-place like lightning. But oh! what were my feelings, when, just as I started on my second journey, the Queen herself suddenly emerged from a passage, and advanced towards the foot of the stairs! One desperate attempt I made to stop myself, but only succeeded in giving my pace such an impetus, that I barely escaped charging straight into Her Majesty's arms. It seemed to me that I certainly was the very unluckiest person in Christendom. Just at this particular time, when it was so especially important to me to be in the Queen's good graces, who but I could have contrived to offend her twice in the same evening? I glanced nervously at her face, which showed plainly enough that she was extremely angry. As for me, I felt for a moment as if I had quite as much cause for anger as she had. Why need she have appeared just at that minute, and just in that particular place, too, where no one could possibly expect to meet her? A Queen, in my opinion, had no right to wander about in the region of the back-stairs, and take her pages by surprise when they were having a little harmless enjoyment. So, what with my confusion and vexation, by way of mending matters, I forgot to utter a word of apology, and stood stock-still before her, conscious of torn and crumpled ruffles, that the bow of my cravat was behind instead of before, and that there was a slit of appalling length in my claret-coloured velvet sleeve.
'"Well, sir, have you nothing to say for yourself?" was Her Majesty's exclamation, after the first pause of indignant surprise. "Perhaps you expect me to ask pardon for intruding upon your Lordship's privacy?"
'"I crave your Majesty's pardon with all my heart," I stammered out, as awkwardly as if I had been a horse-boy or a cow-herd, instead of a young courtier.
"I was only—that is—I never——" But Her Majesty cut me short with what I thought a perfectly withering smile, and a sharp "Enough, enough! Was ever such a bear before in the guise of a lady's page? You may go, sir; and I beg that this may be the last I see of you to-night. To-morrow that escapade of yours in the chapel must be inquired into; and I warn you that Father Niccolo shall not be insulted with impunity while my word has any weight in the Palace." And she swept past me with a look in her face which I knew quite well, and which always seemed completely to shut one's lips. When I saw the corners of her mouth drawn down, and that particular flash in her eyes, I felt that all poor Lady Dalrymple's hopes of my intercession had been in vain. Through my own fault I had lost every chance of gaining my suit. I stared after the Queen despairingly. She was going up the staircase, perhaps to Lady Sarah's room! I remembered my resolution of only five minutes ago. Now was the time to speak if I was to speak at all Yes, now or never! It would be useless, of course—of that I felt hardly a doubt; but it would be cowardly to give up without an effort, so that effort must be made. The next moment I was at the top of the staircase, pouring out my whole story to the astonished Queen, who stood perfectly breathless with bewilderment at my extraordinary, not to say daring behaviour. I told her everything from beginning to end without stopping, for fear she should dismiss me before hearing the whole—everything, that is, relating to my own affairs. I said as little as could be helped about Hal Verney, and nothing at all about Lady Sarah's proposal. There was no need to bring that in, and I did not want to accuse her unnecessarily. It was not till I had finished that I ventured to look up anxiously into the Queen's face. I was curious, and yet somewhat afraid, to see the effect which my unwonted proceedings would produce. Her mouth was not drawn down now—that was certainly a relief. I drew a long breath, and waited with beating heart and burning cheeks for her answer. When she did speak at length, it was not as she had spoken a few minutes before—not in the sharp icy tone that I had more than half expected to hear.
'"Come into my cabinet, child; this is not the place to discuss such matters in. I must hear this tale of yours over again, a little more clearly."
'And I followed her, quite trembling with pent-up eagerness, down-stairs (not this time on the balustrade), and into her own private cabinet. There my story had to be told again, interrupted very often by questions from the Queen, who seemed to listen with a great interest and attention when I repeated what Lady Dalrymple had told me about the troubles that my poor little wife had gone through, and the sickness and danger she was in at present. A really pained look came over her face, and her eyes filled with tears—somewhat to my amazement, I must say. That she was generous and warm-hearted, in spite of her pride and quick temper, and that she could sometimes do extremely kind things in a fit of impulse, I knew well enough; but that she should care so much for Frances' misfortunes as to cry over them, was more than I had dreamed of expecting, now especially, when I had just made her so angry. It was strange that she could feel so much pity for one person, and yet so little for all the rest of the miserable people who were suffering every day from having taken part in the Western Rebellion, some of whom were undergoing far more terrible punishments than the Taunton girls. Scores had been hung or beheaded, one or two even burned, and many shipped off as slaves to the colonies. I wondered whether she had felt as much distress for the Duke of Monmouth; whether she had tried at all to save him, or any of the unhappy prisoners whose friends were daily sending fruitless petitions to the Palace. If she could but have heard each one's story as she had heard mine, she never could have shown so much indifference to their fate. But all could not be saved, of course, whatever her wishes might be. Perhaps that was the reason why she appeared to be careless of all alike.
'In these speculations, however, I was soon interrupted by a tap on the shoulder from the Queen.
'"What are you knitting your brows about, child? Is it that you feel a husband's cares and responsibilities too much for you? Well, it is somewhat hard, I grant, for the troubles of married life to begin thus early. But never fear! I think I may promise to help you out of the present one. I will speak to the King to-night on behalf of this poor little wife of yours."
'How I thanked Her Majesty I really have not the smallest recollection. The boon that I feared was lost entirely, and all through my own folly, was actually gained after all; and I need not describe my relief and delight, which were all the greater for the difficulties I had gone through, and my hopelessness at last of winning it. How glad I felt now! How very, very glad that I had made and kept that resolution—hard as it was at the time—and had spoken out boldly and straightforwardly to the Queen! If I had kept silence, then I should most likely have found no other chance of speaking at all. Yes, I had done what was right, and that is the one deed which one never can regret. Not a very original remark, I am quite aware of that; but I never felt the truth of it so strongly in my life as then, and I have never forgotten it since.
'"Nay, you must not be too sure of my success," the Queen said, smiling, perhaps a little bitterly, as I tried to express my gratitude. "I will do my best; but remember, my power has a limit, though you look as though you scarce believed that. Ah, well!—now you may leave me. I will send a messenger to Lady Dalrymple, and bid her wait upon me early to-morrow morning. And, Algernon," she continued, as I knelt to kiss her hand before leaving the room, "you and your companions must make an apology for your rudeness to Father Niccolo, and the affair shall be passed over for this time, on condition that we hear no more of such crazy tricks for the future."
'It was all I could do to murmur out more thanks, and walk soberly out of Her Majesty's presence after this. And the first thing I did, when I found myself out of earshot, was to give vent to my feelings in a burst of whistling; after which I rushed off in search of Hal Verney, most anxious to make up the first quarrel we had ever had. He heard the news of how well my suit prospered with great satisfaction, though not, perhaps, with quite as much as if the cause had been carried by means of his own contrivance. However, I think he was somewhat consoled for the failure of that ingenious plan, when I told him that we had nothing to fear now on the score of Father Niccolo.
'What a long day that was to look back upon! It seemed as if a week had gone by since I was called in from the bowling-green to see Lady Dalrymple. For the first time in my life, I could not go to sleep directly my head was on the pillow, but lay awake, thinking of Frances in the Taunton jail, and wondering whether the order for release would, after all, come in time to save her.
'"My Lord Desmond, you are wanted in her Majesty's closet," said one of the Queen's officers-in-waiting, as he passed me in the ante-chamber the next morning.
'It was yet quite early; and though I had just been attending on Her Majesty at breakfast, she had made no allusion to her promise of the night before, except to favour me with a gracious nod and smile, which I thought looked encouraging.
'I suppose the gentleman saw me start and colour at his message, for he whispered to Roger Crosbie as I moved away, "What's in the wind now? Desmond looks as if some madcap prank were on his conscience. Has he got into trouble with the Queen, think you?"
'"Marry, no, I trust not!" I heard Roger say in a loud and horrified tone. "Why, I thought he told me we were out of that quandary! Sure he can't have tumbled into it again already!"
'I did not wait to reassure Roger, but rushed off with all speed to the painted cabinet, which room was an especial favourite of the Queen's, and generally went by the name of her "closet." She was not there when I went in; there was only a tall lady in black standing by the window whom I recognised this time without difficulty.
'"Well, Algernon," she said, coming to meet me with outstretched hands; "thank you a thousand times. You have gained your wife's liberty. God grant that it may not be too late to save her life!"
'The last words gave me rather a chill; for though the doubt had also occurred to me, I could not bear to think that she also had the same fears.
'"Then she is to be released, madam?" I asked, eagerly. "The King has really granted a pardon?"
'"Yes, a free pardon at the Queen's intercession. The whole of the fine is remitted, and I am going to bring her home. I start for Taunton in an hour. Poor heart," and she sighed, repeating half to herself, "if only I am not too late!"
'"Oh, pray, madam, do not say so," I cried earnestly. "You will not be too late,—indeed you will not! When once she is taken out of that horrible place, with you to nurse her too, she must get well. Oh, the sight of you will do her good directly, I am sure it will!"
"'I shall tell her what she owes to you," said Lady Dalrymple, taking my hands again, with tears in her kind, soft brown eyes.
'"I thank you again in her name, with all my heart. May I give your love to her, my dear?"
'I murmured with some difficulty a shy "Yes, if you please, madam." And then, as voices and footsteps were heard approaching the door, she drew me suddenly into her arms, and kissed me as if I had been one of Frances' brothers.
'"You are my son, you know, Algernon," she said, with a sort of half-apologetic smile. "God bless you, my dear boy, and keep both you and her!"
'Some of the Queen's ladies entered at that moment to summon Lady Dalrymple once more to their mistress's presence; and so I said farewell to my mother-in-law, and for the last time, though I little thought so then.
'Hal Verney, who, of course, had contrived to find out more of the matter than anybody else, informed me that Frances was not the only one to whom I had done good service by my petition. The Queen had inquired strictly into the matter of the Taunton maidens, and had been much displeased with several of her ladies for the lengths they had gone in it, and the hard-heartedness they had shown in the affair. Owing to her remonstrances, when she found out this, all the fines were decreased to about a third of what had been demanded at first; and one or two of the girls, whose parents were really poor, received, like Frances, a free pardon.
'I was very glad to hear this, for Agnes Blount's sake especially. She was at Newcourt when I went there for a short visit at Christmas; and from her I heard the whole story of the part which Madame St. Aubert's school had taken in Monmouth's insurrection, and the troubles which had befallen it in consequence. Agnes had been lately staying at Horsemandown, and she told me, as a great secret, that Lady Dalrymple wished very much that I should pay a visit there, but that Sir Harry, and more especially, Lady Mountfort, had resolutely refused to hear of it. Why, I could not wholly understand till afterwards; but I remember how desperately angry and disappointed I felt at the time.
'Well! you have heard all my Lady Desmond's adventures fully enough from her own mouth, so there is no need for me to say anything more about them. I will only tell you that she quite recovered from that terrible prison fever, though her sickness was a very long and serious one. Perhaps you may also like to know that Henrietta Sydney entirely escaped the infection. She stayed a long time at Horsemandown, helping Lady Dalrymple to nurse poor little Frances; and the friendship that began in Taunton jail was never interrupted to the end of both their lives.'
'Robin, I'm quite sure now that Uncle Algernon is writing a book about Bluecoat and Lady Greensleeves,' whispered Silvia, as they walked away from the dressing-room. 'Didn't you notice how he got up at once, and looked at a paper in his desk, just when he was in the middle of the story?'
'Well, I wish he would write a little more about Blue-coat, then,' observed Robin with a sigh. 'I liked it so very much.'
'Well,' said Silvia meditatively, 'I am not quite sure whether Lady Greensleeves' story wasn't the nicest; only I wanted to hear some more about Henrietta.' But oh! Robin, don't you want to know about Frances and Algernon when they were grown up, and how they met again, and whether they liked one another?'
'I'll tell you what, Silvia. We'll go back to-morrow, and ask Uncle Algernon whether he knows any more of their stories. I daresay he does, though he didn't say so.'
And accordingly, the next afternoon, Uncle Algernon once more heard a tap at the door of his dressing-room; and this time, when Silvia and Robin put their heads in, he was discovered standing before two portraits, which had been missing all that day from the staircase wall. One of these, labelled 'Frances Countess of Desmond, ætat 24,' was a stately dame, in the dress worn by the ladies of William and Mary's time—stiff and long-waisted, cut low in the neck, and with sleeves reaching to the elbow. But, despite the difference in dress and age, the wavy dark hair, the brilliant complexion, and the arch grey eyes could not be mistaken. Fourteen years had made very little change in Lady Greensleeves. The same, however, could not be said for poor Blue-coat. The bright sturdy boy that Kneller had painted bore scarcely any resemblance to the grave Lord Desmond of twenty-eight. His once round, rosy face was thin and brown, and his curly auburn locks were exchanged for a black periwig.
'Can you really be Blue-coat?' Robin could not help saying, after staring for some while at him in silence.
'Blue-coat grown up,' Uncle Algernon answered, smiling; 'and a good deal changed, but not for the better, eh, Robin? Well! so you want to hear his history now, I suppose?'
'Oh yes, uncle, please; and Lady Greensleeves grown-up story too. You know you have heard them,' pleaded Silvia, trying to pull him into the big leather chair. 'I am quite sure they told them both to you last night.'
'Yes,' added Robin. 'And you are going away to-morrow; and then you will be off to Egypt, and nobody knows when you will come back. So if you don't tell them, we shall never hear them at all.'
'Unless you leave the goloshes of Fortune behind you,' suggested Silvia mischievously.
'Ah! hem! You see, I'm afraid they would fit no one but myself,' Uncle Algernon answered, with a twinkle in his grey eyes. 'But, as you say, Robin, this is my last day here, and these stories are not quite so long as the others, so we will see what can be done.'
And after Robin and Silvia had waited for a moment in breathless silence, Uncle Algernon cleared his throat, and began as follows:—
'I am not going to tell you all about my life, from the time I was carried out of Taunton jail until I was what you call "grown up." I shall take up my story at the time when I was maid of honour to Queen Mary the Second, and pass over, in the very briefest way, all the events which took place before that period. I must, however, explain how it came to pass that I attained such a dignity. My father had left England soon after the failure of Monmouth's Rebellion, and then joined heart and soul with the party of the Prince of Orange, and had rendered him such services, that when, a year and a half afterwards, William and Mary were proclaimed King and Queen of Great Britain, my father returned to England in their train, one of the most distinguished of their courtiers. Sir Bernard Dalrymple had played his cards well, everybody said; and if some of his friends whispered a suspicion that his attachment to the new sovereign was not entirely disinterested, his wife and children remembered simply that his influence had been exerted in the cause of English liberty and good government, and could join with all their hearts in the Church's yearly thanksgiving for "the deliverance of their nation from Popish tyranny and arbitrary power." And thus it was that, Sir Bernard continuing in high favour at Court, his daughter, as soon as she was old enough, was appointed one of the Queen's maids of honour, and so took the first step towards obtaining that splendid position which had been prophesied for her years before. Poor Sir Harry Mountfort! I hope my added years and mamma's teaching had somewhat increased my wisdom since the days when his flatteries had turned my head; but I confess I could not help thinking of his words with a slight feeling of satisfaction, when the news of my promotion was first announced to me. I am afraid that, like a silly girl as I was, the peaceful regularity of life at Horsemandown did not satisfy me so entirely as to prevent an occasional wish for something more exciting. What was the use of being Countess Desmond, if one was to be always shut up in the country? Why should I trouble myself to learn so many accomplishments, if I had no one to dance with but Oliver? no one to praise my singing but the old vicar of the parish (who, truth to tell, was too deaf to hear a note)? and where was the pleasure of being married, if one never by any chance saw or heard of one's husband? It was not often, however, that I was troubled with such discontented thoughts as these. During the years that had passed swiftly and happily away since that dreadful time at Taunton, I had learned to think of it as a sort of bad dream, so confused with the delirium of fever, that I could scarcely separate what was real from what was fanciful, when I tried to recollect all that had happened in the jail; and my remembrance of the Earl of Desmond was almost as hazy. I knew that he had obtained my freedom, and thereby saved my life; for I should surely have died in the fever but for home care and nursing, and I was grateful accordingly; but he never came to see us, and when I asked the reason, I was told that Sir Harry Mountfort (who had followed the fortunes of King James, and had taken his ward with him into France) wished our marriage to be broken off. My father's poverty was one reason for this; and another was Sir Harry's strong desire that Algernon should embrace the Roman Catholic faith, as he himself had done. I never knew exactly how the breaking off was to be managed; and though, I suppose, I was sorry, I took as a far more personal matter the loss of our riches, when there was a talk of selling Hebe and the other horses, and would have given up my rank and state with the greatest pleasure, if by doing so I could have kept my pretty pony. But I am forgetting my own rule, and talking too much about things which happened long before I entered upon my duties as a Court lady. My father's difficulties had ceased by that time, Hebe was my own again, and I was the Countess Desmond still, chiefly because Algernon had refused to forsake his father's faith; and it was not so easy to declare our marriage illegal whilst we both remained members of the Church of England. Sir Harry Mountfort was dead, and his ward of age; but Earl Desmond had not yet come to claim his bride. No; at the time when the said bride, in a flutter of shyness and delight, was making her final preparations for her presentation to Queen Mary, her husband was a banished man, his lands confiscated, and his life, if he returned to England, in danger. Algernon had fought on the Jacobite side in the battle of the Boyne, had served Louis the Fourteenth in the Irish Legion afterwards, had joined in one of the numerous conspiracies to place King James again on the English throne, and, finally, had brought on himself the dire displeasure of the Government by skilfully effecting the escape of an important adherent of King James from the Tower, where he lay under sentence of death for high treason. It was my father's turn now to declare that Lord Desmond was no fit match for his daughter; and he made the declaration very often, and utterly refused to listen when Oliver suggested that he might use his influence with the Government to get Algernon's sentence of banishment reversed, and at least some of his estates restored to him.
'"What would be the use," said Sir Bernard, "of risking the chance of doing myself an injury, when I feel that I have not sufficient power to be of the slightest service to Algernon? No; the greatest kindness to the unhappy boy would be to make an agreement with him to set his marriage aside, which could easily be done, now that he and Frances are both of age. The law requires nothing but the consent of both parties, which, I imagine, would be very easily obtained, and then I would pay over to him the dowry he was formerly to have received with his bride, and leave him free to choose a wife for himself among the ladies at the French Court."
'"If he can find one generous enough to follow his fallen fortunes," muttered Oliver; adding aloud, "And what is to become of her little Ladyship? Surely it is rather hard for her to come down from her pedestal, and be plain Mistress Frances Dalrymple once more!"
'"How long do you suppose she will remain Mistress Frances Dalrymple?" asked my father, with his grave, set smile. "Rely upon me to study what is best for my daughter's happiness, sir, and find some better employment than that of dictating to your elders what course of action is best for them to pursue."
'I was not present during this conversation, but Oliver told me all about it afterwards, and how completely he had failed in his attempt in Algernon's favour.
'"Perhaps you might have persuaded my father better, Frances," he said, "but you would not come forward. You might have a chance even now if you had the courage, for I am sure that, if he would, he could help Algernon; but I begin to doubt whether you are very anxious to help him, after all."
'I shook my head doubtfully at the idea of my appealing to Sir Bernard.
'"You want," continued Oliver, "to turn the heads of all the Court gallants before you bestow your foolish little heart upon anybody. Is that it? I have no patience with you. But women are all alike!"
'"Oh, Oliver," I cried, colouring crimson at such an accusation, "it's not that." But Oliver was vexed, and would not listen to my hesitating attempt at an explanation, and marched indignantly out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
'"Oh, what dolts men are sometimes!" said I to myself, with an impatient little stamp of my foot on the ground. "Why can't he understand that Earl Desmond would most likely far rather have my dowry, and be rid of me altogether? Why, he has never seen me since I was a little girl, and I do not think I made a great impression on him then." I laughed as I remembered the conversation we had had on our wedding day, and my confident assurances to my bridegroom that we could not be unmarried again if we wished it ever so much. "Supposing he does wish it," I thought, "if I could persuade my father to intercede for him, and he should get back his estates through our means, he would feel bound to take me along with them, out of gratitude to the family. I could not bear that." But after all he was my husband. He had saved my life, and I ought, in common gratitude, to do something to help him now he was poor and friendless. Oliver said I ought. I wondered what it would be right to do; and the tears started to my eyes, as the thought of how mamma would have counselled me, and made everything clear and plain to my understanding, rose to my mind. Alas! I could no longer go to her with every trouble or pleasure. In the way that lay before me, I must learn to guide my own steps aright, and to follow as well as I could the course she would have approved, while knowing all the time that I should never hear her voice in praise or blame again. It was now two years since we had lost her, and home had never seemed like home since. It was more lonely for me than for any of the others; for Miles was at Oxford, Roger at Eton, and Oliver, my chief friend and companion, had received his commission, and was burning to join the army in Flanders, and share in the honours our troops were winning there. With him away, my life at Horsemandown would be desolate indeed; and so I think there was some excuse for me if my head was a little turned by the change in my prospects. "After all," said I, drying my eyes as my meditations came to an end, "it is of no use thinking about it. Oliver thinks, because my father is so gentle and kind to me, that I have more power with him than he has; but I know quite well that nothing I could say in Algernon's favour would make any difference when he has once made up his mind. If my Lord Desmond wanted his wife, he should not have mixed himself up with those wicked conspiracies against our good King. 'Tis his own doing if he never sees my face again; and if he prefers my dowry to me, he is most welcome to it, as far as I am concerned." But as I ran up-stairs to inspect the preparations for my journey to London, I found myself wondering whether the French ladies were very beautiful—fairer than that face I caught a glimpse of as I passed a mirror in the withdrawing-room—and whether, if Lord Desmond was to see me—— But here I stopped, with a laugh at my own vanity; and having by this time arrived at my chamber door, I succeeded, by a violent effort, in banishing him from my mind, and was able to give undivided attention to the important question of the trimming of my shaded lutestring gown. Should the ruffles be of Flanders or guipure lace? and what colour should I choose for the bows of my new cornette cap?
* * * * *
'Queen Mary's Court was not considered a gay one by those who remembered Whitehall during the last reign; but to me, who had never seen any town larger than Taunton, the life of a maid of honour seemed a whirl of gaiety. State balls, receptions, visits to the play-houses, and attendance on Her Majesty whenever she went into public! All these I enjoyed extremely. Even to learn the various little ceremonial observances which my position required was amusing enough at first. The Queen, my mistress, was gentle and kind; and having got over my first alarm at her exceedingly dignified manner, I became, like most of her ladies, very heartily fond of her. Even when Whitehall was deserted for the comparative quiet of Hampton Court, I was not dull. The loss of the theatres and the Mall was more than compensated for by the purer air, the greater freedom from restraint, and the merry hunting and hawking parties which were carried on when the season permitted. I had plenty of employment, companions of my own age, and more compliments and admiration than I had ever received in my life before. No wonder the thought of Algernon faded more and more out of my mind now there was no Oliver to talk about and pity him. I never even heard myself called by his name. It was not a popular one at that Court, and my father had ordained that I should be received there as his daughter, not as the wife of an exiled Jacobite. To all intents and purposes I was free, and might, if I chose, carry on as many love affairs as Lady Beatrice Falkland herself, the fairest and most coquettish of all her Majesty's waiting-women.
'But I see you think I am telling a very dull, long, rambling story, so I will not trouble you with a minute description of our way of life at Hampton Court. You would not care to hear how many hours I and my companions spent every morning working the life of Moses in tent-stitch, under the direction of the Queen herself; and you would be more shocked than interested to be told of the amount of time and money we wasted every evening at the card-tables, absorbed in the fascination of Ombre, Basset, or Spadille. I will pass on at once to an event which was very interesting to me, and which I hope, therefore, will prove so to you.
'One day, about six months after my arrival at the Palace, I was sitting in my own chamber in a very melancholy frame of mind. News had been received that morning of a great victory gained over the French in Flanders. Great were the rejoicings of the Court in consequence; but the messenger who had brought the tidings, and who had quite a budget of letters from absent husbands and brothers to their relations in the Palace, had none for me. I was just making up my mind that Oliver was either badly wounded or killed outright—for I knew his company had been engaged several times—when a tap at the door aroused me from my dismal conjectures, and Lady Beatrice Falkland, without waiting for permission, tripped into the room.
'"Your pardon, Mistress Frances, for my want of ceremony," she said; "but I knew you would fret about your brother till you brought on a fit of the vapours, if you were left alone, love, so I made bold to storm your fortress, and come in. Why, child, you are not the only one who has had no news. Do you suppose officers have nothing else to do the instant a battle is over but sit down and write long letters home? I have not had a line from my father since he landed at the Hague; but I am not going to cry my eyes out, and imagine all kinds of disasters, just because of that. I'll wager all my winnings last night that Mr. Dalrymple is alive and merry at this present moment. So cheer up, my dear, and listen to me; I've something very important to tell you."
'Lady Beatrice was so good-natured and light-hearted herself, that she raised one's spirits whether one would or no. I forgot my worst fears while listening to her cheerful voice, and was able, by the time she had finished speaking, to smile and ask, with some show of interest, what the very important matter was.
'"Important to you, I suppose you mean, Beatrice? I don't feel as if anything was of much importance to me now, except news of Oliver, and that I know you cannot have got."
'"You don't know anything of the sort, my dear," replied her Ladyship mischievously. "Perhaps I have, and perhaps I have not. There, don't look so wild. You shan't hear the story at all unless you let me tell it in my own way."
'I leant back in my chair, sighing impatiently; and Lady Beatrice went on:
'"You know that yesterday the Lady Derby, one or two others, and myself, went up to London to see the merry-making at St. James's Fair. My Lord Chamberlain escorted us, and as he was the only gentleman, he nearly ruined himself in buying fairings for us all. Oh! we had the merriest day, I assure you, I ever spent. I wish you had been there. However, if you had, I should not have met with the little adventure I am about to relate to you. It would have fallen to your share. Ah, you have no idea of what you missed! I must show you the shoe-buckles; they are of a new design, and very elegant. But to return to the stranger gallant I was talking about."
'"Why, Beatrice, how you run on! You have not got to any gallant at all, except the Lord Chamberlain."
'"Had I not? Well, listen then. As we got out of our coach at St. James's Gate, I dropped my kerchief. I turned back to look for it, and so was one minute behind the others. The Lord Chamberlain was so busy protecting the ladies through the crowd that he never missed me, and by the time I had found what I wanted, they were quite out of sight. I was beginning to get frightened, when, by good luck, a strange gentleman came forward, and offered very politely to escort me to my friends. Of course I was very thankful to him for his courtesy (for I am sure I could never have faced the rabble by myself), and we found the rest again before we had gone many steps. But this was not all. Lady Derby rebuked me so roundly for loitering and speaking to a stranger, that I did not dare tell her what happened afterwards. We met some gentlemen of our acquaintance in the fair, and while the others were talking to them, I said I would go and choose a fairing for you. I was looking at these same shoe-buckles, when up came the strange gentleman again, bowed very low, and, addressing me by my name, asked whether I would pardon his rudeness in speaking to me, and do him the great favour of pointing out which among my friends was Mistress Frances Dalrymple. We all had our black vizards on, you know; so how he found out who I was passes my comprehension. He seemed sorely disappointed when I told him you were not there; and as he had been so civil, I could not help saying that you were a great friend of mine, and that I would, if he pleased, bear you any message he chose to send."
'"Oh, Beatrice, how could you be so giddy?" I began reproachfully, but she interrupted me.
'"Nay, do but hear me out, and you shall scold me as much as you like afterwards. He told me that he knew your brother very well; that he had seen him lately, and had tidings from him which could only be delivered to your private ear."
'"From Oliver! Who can it be?" I said wonderingly, becoming much interested, though still rather doubtful. "But pray, if he wants to see me, why cannot he go to my father in a straightforward way, and ask for a proper introduction?"
'"He said it was impossible," replied Beatrice; "that there were reasons which he was sure you would approve which made secrecy absolutely necessary; that he had a token from your brother which would prove to you at once that he was speaking the truth. And so—in fact, he looked so pitiful, that—that—
"Well?" I said impatiently.
'"Well," she continued, "I arranged that he should have a private interview with you here in the Palace."
'"With me! without asking my consent first! Really, Beatrice, this is too much. Your thoughtlessness passes belief. How could you promise such a thing to a total stranger? Why, I do not even know the man's name!"
'"He said his name was Carroll, I think," replied Lady Beatrice demurely, but looking nevertheless mischievously delighted at my vexation; "and as to being a perfect stranger, why, he was as anxious to see you as if he had known you all his life."
"I will not see him," I said indignantly. "No gentleman would try to obtain an interview with a lady without her own permission; and yet, if he really has news of Oliver——! Oh, Beatrice, what shall I do?"
'But Beatrice would do nothing but laugh at my perplexities, and declare that I was as discreet and formal in my ideas as Lady Derby herself.
'"Conceive the Countess's horror," she said, "if it ever came to her ears that Mistress Frances Dalrymple, the most discreet, well-behaved damsel in the Palace, had had a secret interview with a mysterious stranger under her very nose! Oh, I would give anything to see her face when she found it out!" And Beatrice went into another fit of laughter, from which she recovered with some difficulty, and went on: "Seriously, Frances, you ought to be very much obliged to me for taking all this trouble to procure you news from your brother. Why, only half an hour ago you were in despair because you had not heard from him."
'"But then, why all this secrecy?" I objected again, though rather more faintly.
'"Pshaw, child, how suspicious you are! There may be twenty reasons for that. The gentleman may be in debt; he may have killed his antagonist in a duel; or suppose he should be your brother himself, in some dreadful difficulty or danger, come home to see you in disguise!"
'"Oh, if I thought that!" I cried, starting up. "But it is too improbable; and yet I don't know Oliver is so very rash and hasty, he might have involved himself in some serious trouble, and be afraid of applying to my father; but then it could not be safe for him to come here."
'"Ah! now you are getting something more reasonable, so I will tell you what I have arranged. Truth to tell, the gentleman did want me to promise that you should meet him in the park early this morning, but I thought I never should be able to make you agree to that; for it did not strike me till this moment that he might be only your brother after all. Do you know, Frances, I shall be quite disappointed if he is; it spoils my little romance completely."
'"Hush! oh, hush! It must be Oliver. Why did I not think of it before? Tell me quick, when am I to see him, and where? And are you sure he will not be discovered? I cannot think how you have contrived it."
'"Ah! that is my affair. Do you suppose I have never managed a secret meeting before now? But don't look so frightened. Not a soul in the Palace will be the wiser for Mr. Carroll's comings and goings. He is to be a haberdasher, come to shew you some new stuffs for your dress at the masquerade next week. One of the pages of the back-stairs, on whom I can depend, will conduct him here, and will answer any questions that are asked about him. What o'clock was that—four? He will be here directly."
'"Directly? Oh, Beatrice! I had no idea it was to be so soon. Why did you not tell me all this earlier?"
'For all reply, Beatrice held up her hand and listened.
'"Hark! he is coming. I hear footsteps along the gallery. Farewell, Frances. I must not spoil the tête-à-tête. I shall vanish through this door as Mr. Carroll is coming in at the other."
'And she was as good as her word, in spite of my despairing attempt to catch her hand, and my hurried whisper of "Pray don't go," as my first glance at the face of the stranger assured me that he was not Oliver after all. The page who had announced Mr. Carroll withdrew, after a low bow, and I was left alone with my strange visitor. I was so confused by his sudden entrance, and by the conversation I had just been having with Beatrice, that the self-possession my six months' sojourn at Court had taught me entirely evaporated; and it was not until I had finished a most profound courtesy, in return for an equally elaborate salutation from Mr. Carroll, that I ventured once more to look him in the face. No, it was not Oliver. No amount of disguise could have changed his blue eyes into brown ones, or altered his well-remembered features into those I saw before me. The gentleman was entirely unknown to me, I felt certain; and with this thought came back my resentment at his unwarrantable intrusion. So I summoned up my dignity with a great effort, and said, "The Lady Beatrice Falkland has informed me that you have tidings of my brother to give me, sir. I trust he was safe and well when you last saw him?"
'"I am speaking then to Lady Desmond?" asked Mr. Carroll eagerly, and with such a peculiar emphasis on the name as made me give an involuntary start. "Pardon me, madam. I should have said Mistress Frances Dalrymple; but your brother always speaks of you by your husband's name, and so has taught me to do the same."
'"My father wishes me to be called so," I said (wondering at the same time why I was making this explanation to a stranger, and much confused by the knowledge that my visitor's eyes had scarcely left my face since he entered the room), "and I am becoming so used to it, that—that——"
'"I understand," said Mr. Carroll, in a slow, quiet tone, which contrasted strangely with his former hurried, excited manner. "You are beginning to forget that you ever bore any other? Well, no doubt it is best that it should be so. Sir Bernard's policy has succeeded well. But I crave your pardon once more," he continued, as I coloured with surprise and embarrassment. "You are longing for news of your brother, and are justly wondering what right I have to allude to your private concerns. Perhaps, when you have read these letters, you will forgive me for forcing my presence on you; and if you do not, why, I will never trouble you with it again."
'I held out my hand eagerly for the packet, overjoyed at the sight of Oliver's well-known handwriting; but something in the tone of Mr. Carroll's voice made me pause and cast a puzzled, anxious glance at him before I opened my letter. He half smiled as his eyes met mine; and instantly such a flood of misty, bewildering recollections rushed across my mind, that I was obliged to cover my face with my hands and wonder vaguely where I was, before I could find voice enough to ask the question which was trembling on my lips. The large drawing-room at Horsemandown rose clear and distinct before me. I seemed to feel once more mamma's hand on my shoulder, pressing me forward, and to hear Sir Harry Mountfort's loud, jovial voice introducing, with mock formality, to Mistress Frances Dalrymple her future bridegroom, the Earl of Desmond. Was I dreaming? "Could it really be?" I began to ask myself. But before I had time to finish the sentence, or courage to look up, Mr. Carroll had made two steps forward, taken my hands in his, and said, "Frances, do you know me?" in a tone of such wistful anxiety, that I was compelled to answer.
'"Are you really Algernon?—I mean my Lord Desmond?" I stammered out, not because I doubted any longer, but because, in the entanglement of my ideas, I could think of nothing better to say.
'"I am indeed. Have I frightened you very much?" he exclaimed earnestly, as with crimson cheeks and beating heart I withdrew my hands, and sank into a chair. "Forgive me, madam. I have been too abrupt. I did not intend to part with my secret till you had been prepared for it by your brother's letter."
'"Oh no, I am not frightened, only very, very much surprised," I faltered. "I did not know it was safe for you to come to England. I never thought of seeing you here."
'"It is not safe," he replied carelessly. "I am entirely in your power. If you choose to betray me, or if your friend does not keep our counsel very rigorously, I should be committed to the Tower without fail, and most likely share the fate of many a one before me. But I am not afraid. I know enough of Oliver to feel sure that his sister could not be treacherous, even had I no claim on her but that of her brother's friendship."
'"Surely not," I said eagerly. "But oh! there must be many other chances of discovery. What could make you run such a fearful risk?"
'"You would not think so much of the risk if you had been in peril of your life as often as I have," said Lord Desmond, with a smile which recalled to me my bridegroom of eleven years ago. "I have been employed in so many hazardous intrigues, and have had so many hair-breadth escapes, that for the life of me I cannot feel as alarmed about my fate as I used to be. As to my reason for coming, you shall hear that presently, when you have read your brother's letter, which will show you that I had his authority at least for obtaining an interview with you, and as much help as he could give me in contriving it."
'I broke the seal and tried to read, but my mind refused to take in the sense of the words. I could think of nothing but the wonderful discovery I had made; and after gazing absently at the paper for about a minute, I put it down to say, "How did you meet Oliver? I thought you were in France. I don't seem to understand anything yet."
'"It was," replied Lord Desmond, "at a chocolate house at the Hague that I saw him first. He had been sent to the Government there with despatches from the generals in Flanders. I—well!—I had private business there connected with the affairs of His Majesty at St. Germains. I heard your brother's name mentioned accidentally, sought him out at his lodgings, and made myself known. I could not resist the temptation of finding out how I stood with you all, though, as a Jacobite and an exile, I know I had no right to expect any countenance from an officer in King William's army. Oliver was most generous and kind, greeted me as warmly as if we had been brothers indeed, and declared that he had long been hoping that chance would bring us together again. That meeting altered all my plans for the future. Before that I had been frittering away my time at St. Germains, seeing plot after plot for bringing the King back to his rights fail; and at last, when I found assassination and treachery were to be the means employed for his restoration, almost resolving to renounce politics altogether, enter some foreign service where I should not be obliged to fight against England, and so push my way up to distinction. The King's cause seemed to me hopeless after the affair of La Hogue. I could do him no good by living on at his Court as a pensioner on his bounty, and I was wearied to death with the splendour, the bustle, the squabbles and jealousies of Versailles and St. Germains. It was just when I had made up my mind to this that I received a letter from Sir Bernard Dalrymple. You know the proposal it contained?"
'"I knew he purposed writing to you, but I did not know he had actually done so," I said in surprise.
'"Indeed! then your brother was right after all. I was convinced, from what Sir Bernard said, that you, as well as he, wished to break off all connection between us. I did not wonder, for I saw that it was hard for you to be bound for life to a man without fortune, friends, or position; and I should certainly have taken your father at his word, and have allowed him to try all the means in his power to break off our marriage and leave you free, had it not been for the sight of Oliver's face in that Dutch coffee-house. It reminded me, somehow, of your mother, and of your home at Horsemandown, where everything looked bright and cheerful, and you all so much happier than I had ever been. I really believe it was his likeness to her which made me suddenly resolve to find out where he lived, and try if he would remember our old friendship."
'Here Lord Desmond paused a moment, but, as I did not speak, he went on. "You cannot imagine," he said, "what Oliver's kindness was to me. I had been so long alone in the world, that to be treated as if belonging to his family, to be told of all that had befallen them since last we met, as if he was sure of my sympathy and interest, was wonderfully strange and pleasant to me. And then he talked of you so fondly and proudly; he was so certain that you knew nothing of Sir Bernard's ambitious schemes in connection with your marriage (rumours of which had reached the gossiping little Court of St. Germains); he was so indignant at your father's letter;—that I began to have a faint, wild hope that you might think like him; that, perhaps, if—— In short, I determined, at all hazard, to see you once more, to hear your own wishes from your own lips, and not to give your father an answer, one way or another, until I should know them."
'My wishes! What were they? Half an hour before I should have declared unhesitatingly for freedom; not for the sake of making a grand marriage, but that I might continue my present careless, butterfly life, looking forward no further than to the days when Oliver should have returned from the wars, when we should all be together again, and pay a happy visit to Horsemandown. But now, when my eyes were full of tears at hearing Oliver spoken of by one who seemed to care for him almost as much as I did—when Lord Desmond's allusion to my mother had brought back to me the remembrance of the words she had used when she first told me I was to be married: "Remember, Frances, you are about to make a vow you will one day be called on to fulfil"—now everything was changed. What could I feel but pity for him, and self-reproach for my own hard-hearted conduct in refusing all help to Oliver, when he had tried his utmost to influence my father in Algernon's favour? But I would make up for that now. I would use all the power I possessed to persuade my father to intercede with the King; and if that failed, I would petition the Queen myself for a reversal of the sentence of banishment. I would do anything and everything to show my brother's friend that I was not the ambitious, calculating woman of the world he had pictured to himself. I would justify Oliver's trust in me, and then——
'"I am very sorry, Frances—I must come in," said the voice of Beatrice at the door, before I had time to say one word aloud in answer to Lord Desmond's appeal. "I have knocked three times, and have had no answer. The Queen commands your attendance in her cabinet immediately. She asked where you were; and when I replied with my little fiction about the haberdasher and the new stuffs, Lady Derby was seized with a desire to come and see them; so I ran on before to warn Mr. Carroll to make good his escape by the back-stairs before she arrives, unless he has bethought him of bringing some brocades and satins with him to bear out his supposed character."
'I started up in a tremor of agitation and dismay. "Oh, go! make haste; you will be discovered. She will be here directly."
"'I must see you again; but where?" said Lord Desmond, in a low voice, grasping the hand I held out to him as if he never meant to let it go.
'"Yes, yes, you shall. Come to the gardens—to the hornbeam walk they call Queen Mary's Bower—it will be safer than here—to-morrow at eight, when Her Majesty is at supper," replied Beatrice rapidly, as, confused and helpless, I looked to her for a suggestion.
'"You promise?" eagerly asked Algernon.
'"Yes, I promise," I repeated after him, in as steady a tone as my fright would permit.
'He hurriedly raised my hand to his lips, bowed low to Beatrice, and quitted the room without any further delay. It was not one moment too soon. Beatrice had barely time to close the door behind him and execute a little pirouette, expressive of satisfaction and relief, when Lady Derby entered by the opposite door, in a state of displeased surprise at my non-appearance in the Queen's cabinet. What excuses Beatrice made for me, and how I managed to go through the usual routine of duties for the rest of the day, I do not now remember. I was in a sort of dream the whole time, thinking over all that Lord Desmond had told me, building fantastic castles in the air, and impatiently longing for night, when I might be alone again, and read Oliver's letter in peace and quietness. The afternoon promenade had never seemed so irksome, nor supper such an endless business before. At cards I did not know whether my fortune was good or bad until I was told, and received the announcement of my losses so placidly, that I was complimented on the sweetness of my temper. I cannot say there was much sweetness left in it by the time bedtime came. Early as the hour was at which the Household retired to rest, I felt as if it never would come. When, however, at last ten o'clock struck, and the Queen had been attended with the usual formalities to her bed-chamber, and all the ceremonious "good-nights" had been said, Beatrice Falkland put her arm into mine as I turned towards my own room, and begged me to take pity on her, for she was dying of curiosity to know who the mysterious Mr. Carroll really was, and what his business with me. Of course I told her everything, and the story was sufficiently out of the common way to satisfy even he: appetite for romance.
'"My dear Frances," she said, "I vow it is exactly like the plot of the last play we went to see. A cruel father! a lover in disguise! a secret meeting! All en regie; only I believe that the hero in the piece had stabbed the heroine's brother, or poisoned her uncle, or committed some crime of that sort. 'Tis rather a pity that you are already married. It spoils the dramatic 'situation.' Now, own yourself grateful to me for my address in managing this little adventure for you. You would never have consented to see that poor, despairing, handsome Mr. Carroll, if I had given you any choice in the matter."
'But the subject appeared too serious for more than a very faint smile at Beatrice's extravagances; and when she rushed with much zest into a description of the various stratagems necessary for the management of my promised interview in Queen Mary's Bower, I became alarmed and bewildered at the prospect of what I had undertaken. I could not enjoy the concealment and mystery as she seemed to do, and, moreover, I was very doubtful of my power of so keeping my secret that no one in the Palace should suspect me of having one. Had it not been for my promise to Lord Desmond, and my desire to prove to him that I too could be generous and disinterested, I really believe I should have given up the fulfilment of the appointment altogether. But it was too late for that. So I let Beatrice talk on till she had fairly tired herself out; and when at last she departed, I gave a sigh of relief, and, snatching the precious letter from my pocket, prepared to get what comfort I could from the closely written pages. Oliver's warm praises of his friend, and his assurance that I should soon learn to care for Algernon as much as he did, made me smile and blush a little; and when he told me all that he had gradually learnt of Lord Desmond's utter friendlessness and poverty—of how, in spite of the services he had rendered the King, he was barely tolerated at the Court of St. Germains, on account of the difference of his religion—of how he had indignantly rejected the proposal of receiving my dowry as the price of the resignation of his bride—my doubt and despondency melted away entirely, and I resolved, more firmly than ever, to help him.
'But that meeting in Queen Mary's Bower, which I thought of all the next morning with a mixture of feelings impossible to describe, never took place after all. Long before the appointed hour arrived, the news had spread through the Palace that the banished Earl of Desmond had been discovered in disguise, lurking in the neighbourhood of Hampton Court, apprehended, and sent off to the Tower. Beatrice brought me the tidings, looking scared and horrified—as well she might: for to be sent to the Tower on the charge of conspiring against the Government was a prelude to certain death in case of the prisoner being found guilty; and Lord Desmond's name had so long been connected with the Jacobitical plots, that there was little chance of the accusation, falling to the ground for lack of witnesses and proofs. But if Beatrice was distressed, I was perfectly dumb with horror. Was this to be the end of all my brilliant plans for gaining Lord Desmond's pardon, and then recalling him from exile and obscurity to the enjoyment of "his own again"—the produce of my own exertions and entreaties? Was he no longer to have even the wretched alternative of death, and the life of banishment and poverty of which he was so weary? Oh, why had he been so mad as to risk his liberty for the sake of seeing me for a few minutes? And what an unsatisfactory interview it had been! "He does not even know the answer I meant to have given him," I cried in despair. "I daresay he thinks me a mercenary, heartless, unfeeling wretch, and that his arrest is of my contriving. Oh, Beatrice, what shall I do?" But though I asked the question, I knew that I might as well expect counsel from a humming-bird, or a butterfly, as from Beatrice.
'No one could be more bright and ready in managing the little intrigues and adventures in which she delighted. But the present emergency was much too serious for her; and she could only cry and caress me, put on a very pretty air of penitence for her share in bringing about our misfortunes, and suggest schemes of rescue and flight which could only succeed on the stage, and which, even there, would have been scouted by a critical audience. I could not help giving a somewhat derisive smile at her very wild schemes, and then sat trying to collect my thoughts, and decide what course of action I had better take first. Something must be done, and that speedily. But what? Would it be best to explain everything to the Queen, and entrust Algernon's safety to her kind heart and merciful interference? or should I rush to my father, who was in London, absorbed in parliamentary business, and bespeak his influence and aid, as if I had no more doubt of his will than of his power to be of assistance to his son-in-law?
'"You had better go and ask the advice of your friend the Baroness Von Hoogstraaten, if you only laugh at mine," said Beatrice, pretending to pout, though she was too good-natured to be really angry.
'"So I would, if she was but here," I answered, sighing. "Henrietta is so wise and clear-headed, she would be sure to know what would be best."
'"Did you not know," replied Beatrice, "that she had come back from Gloucestershire? She will be at the reception this afternoon; so you can consult with her as much as you please."
'This was good news for me; for Henrietta Sidney, now the wife of a Dutch nobleman, one of the King's most tried and trusted friends, was still as much as ever what I liked to call her, my elder sister, who laughed at me for my little vanities, shook her head when I did anything especially foolish, and whom I loved and admired as much as in the days when our friendship first began in the prison at Taunton.
'I used to see her very often when she was at her own house, near Hampton, but of late she had been visiting her father; and I, left to my own devices and management, felt that I certainly had not improved in judgment and discretion since we parted. Impatient as I was, however, to pour out all my troubles to her, I was obliged to wait till the next day to do so, for the reception was an unusually crowded one. The Baroness von Hoogstraaten had many acquaintances, and, moreover, she was a great favourite with the Queen, who talked to her so long about the buildings that were being added to the Palace, and the improvements in the gardens, that I had no time to do more than greet her very warmly, and tell her, with a very rueful expression in my looks, how much I wanted to see her in private.
'"Her Majesty has given you permission to come and breakfast with me to-morrow, Frances," she said, smiling at my dismal countenance; "so you must keep your budget of Court gossip till then. It must be a full one, to judge by your eager face."
'But I could not return the smile; and as I felt rather hurt at the allusion to Court "gossip," I felt a gloomy satisfaction in allowing Henrietta to depart under the impression that something very dreadful indeed had happened, rather hoping she would pass a sleepless night in trying to find out what it could possibly be. But when I met her next morning in her own garden, where she was superintending the fanciful clipping of the yew-trees Baron Hoogstraten loved, I saw that she knew already part at least of what I had to tell.
'"Forgive me, dear, for my little joke yesterday," she said. "Now I know that poor Lord Desmond is a prisoner in the Tower, I understand your troubled look well enough."
'"Ah, but you don't know all!" I said in a trembling voice, "Now listen, Henrietta, and give me all the help you can. I am half-distracted with trying to think what I had best do; for save Lord Desmond's life I must, and I know not how to set about it."
'I told my story without interruption, for Henrietta was never in a great hurry to express her own opinions; and we walked the whole length of the terrace, after I had finished, without her uttering a word. When we had reached the end of the long, straight path, she stopped, and said in her gentle, considerate voice—
'"Frances, dear, before I promise anything, I want you to answer me one question. Supposing it possible to gain Lord Desmond's pardon, as I hope and trust it may be, is his wife prepared to follow him into the exile and poverty I fear will still be his? or does she only want to pay the debt of gratitude she has owed so long, and be free?"
'"I don't know—I don't know anything," I said, beginning to sob helplessly. "Oh, Henrietta, save him first, and we can settle everything else afterwards."
'Henrietta put her arm round my waist, and drew me towards the house, saying, as if I had given the most lucid and sensible answer in the world:
'"Then come with me, dear, for there is no time to be lost. Lord Desmond's trial is to take place in a week; but if you are brave and patient, I THINK HE CAN BE SAVED."'
Uncle Algernon stopped here for a moment, and then said: 'The rest of the story must be told in Lord Desmond's words, for it concerns him even more nearly than his wife; and, besides, it really is his turn now: her Ladyship has had a great deal more than her fair share in the narrative.'
Some hours after my incursion into the Palace of Hampton Court, I was wandering about under the chestnut-trees in Bushy Park. I had been loitering there all that hot summer afternoon, watching from a distance the brightly-dressed group that had emerged from the Palace grounds, and crossed over the grass towards the piece of water at the south side of the park. I knew that it was Queen Mary and her ladies taking their usual afternoon stroll; and though I did not venture so near as to see their faces, there was a certain silver-grey gown and carnation-coloured petticoat which I recognised directly, and which I gazed upon with intense interest. They hovered about by the water-side for a while, and then strolled back again over the grass, and re-entered the great iron gates which separated the Palace gardens from the park. I watched them intently until they were out of sight; and then, turning away, wandered through the trees once more, until I came to the water's edge where they had been standing. There I stood, staring absently down at the bright blue sky, dotted with soft flakes of cloud, like pink shells, which lay reflected in the water beneath me. I was thinking of the curious stolen interview with my wife, which I had so long set my heart upon obtaining, and which, after all, had been so short, hurried, and unsatisfactory. Not that I had been disappointed in her—no, indeed, far from it! Oliver's description had in some degree prepared me for her unusual beauty. I remembered, too, how Sir Harry used to prophesy that she would some day be a lovely woman; and the first glance told me that his prophecy had been a true one. Among all the many lovely faces that I had seen at the Hague, at St. Germains, even at the Court of Louis XIV. himself, not one was there which I thought so beautiful as hers. Besides the clearly cut features, the sparkling, mischievous hazel eyes, and brilliant yet delicate complexion, there was a peculiar expression, arch, bright, and what the French would call malin, and yet at the same time very sweet and thoughtful—a look which I had never seen in any other face but that of my friend Oliver. No, it was not that I was disappointed in Frances, but that I wanted to have seen more of her—to have found out what her real wishes were, and whether they went with those of her father or of her brother. That question was a very difficult one to answer; for she had spoken but little, and the anxiety which she had shown on account of my peril, and the tears that rose in her eyes as she listened to my story, were doubtless simply because I was the friend of her favourite brother. How could I expect her to feel anything like cordiality towards a husband whom she had seen but once in her life, and that for a single day, more than eleven years ago? a husband, too, without home or fortune, who was living with a sword over his head, and to be rid of whom was well known to be the heart's desire of her father? I stood pondering these things on the water's brink till the sun had set; and when I roused myself at last, I was quite amazed to find that the statue of Diana on the fountain in the middle of the water had become only a dusky outline against the sky, and the wreaths of rose-coloured cloud had turned into one heavy leaden bank upon the horizon. It was clearly time to turn my steps towards Kingston, where I had been lodging for the last few days.
'So I sauntered leisurely towards the nearest gate of the park. A dark figure was moving about under a clump of chestnut-trees close at hand; but, as I came near, it vanished suddenly, and I passed on, thinking that it was most likely a startled deer. But just as I was turning out of the gate, there was a stealthy footstep behind me, and I paused to look back. One moment more and a hand was laid upon my shoulder, and I heard the fatal words:
'"You are arrested in the King's name."
'My hand was on my sword in an instant, but I had not time to draw it. Several more figures had already rushed through the gateway. My arms were held down, my sword unfastened, and I was dragged out of Bushy Park a prisoner.
'I need not say how bitter and desponding were the thoughts that filled my mind that night during our dark voyage up the Thames, on our way to the Tower. In a few hours I was about to pass through the Traitor's Gate; and I knew well, when I considered my case soberly, how very slender was my chance of leaving the Tower again, except for the scaffold. There was only one person in England who might perhaps speak a word in my behalf; and even if for her brother's sake she should take the trouble to speak it, was it likely that her petition would be of any use? Would not her father throw all his power into the opposite scale? Besides, I felt that my offences against King William were far too great and too notorious to be forgiven. My fate was sealed, and through my own desperate rashness.
'There was an end now of the meeting in Queen Mary's Bower, which I had forced Frances, half against her will, to promise me. I wondered when she would hear of my arrest. For one moment the doubt crossed my mind whether she might not already know it—whether it could indeed be possible that she had betrayed the secret of my visit to the Queen. But no, I knew that it could not be so. Was she not Oliver's sister? Had she not Oliver's truthful eyes, and frank, honest smile? Far more likely that my pretty little acquaintance of St. James's Fair, the lively, sparkling Lady Beatrice, had been babbling to some of her companions of the matter—perhaps to the Queen herself. Or, after all, might not the discovery have been made most easily through the page who had admitted me into the Palace? or that old Lady Derby, who so very nearly caught me in Frances' room? Her suspicions might have been roused, and then doubtless she would soon manage to come to the bottom of the whole story. But Frances had not betrayed me; or, if she had, it was involuntarily, not through treachery. I could have staked my life upon that. No; I had no right to blame any one but myself. I had been madly reckless, and I must abide by the consequences.
'Ten days had gone by, and I knew what the price of that morning's recklessness was to be.
'My trial was over, and my dark foreboding was coming to pass. Three more days I was to spend in the Tower, and then I was to die upon the scaffold. Not a word had I heard of Frances since the night that I was taken prisoner; but her father had been in court on the day of my trial, and the same night I had received a letter from him, in which he offered to use all his interest with the Government to gain my pardon, but upon one condition. I must give him my promise to agree that my marriage with his daughter should be dissolved. We were now both of age, and at liberty to break it off by mutual consent. His reasons for wishing this, he said, were of course clear enough to me; and he doubted not that I should agree without hesitation to take a course which was plainly the best for his daughter's interests, and the only one which gave me a hope of escape. But Sir Bernard said nothing of his daughter's wishes on the subject. If Frances really was as anxious as himself to dissolve the marriage, surely he would have laid as much stress as possible upon that argument. Perhaps he meant her to have no voice in the matter; or did he take it for granted that her wishes were the same as her father's? I rather wondered that Sir Bernard should have chosen to interfere at all with my fortunes. I was sentenced to death, and if I died, his daughter, whether she was my wife or not, would of course be free.
'When the sentence was pronounced, I had not felt for a moment the slightest expectation that a pardon was to be procured on any terms, and had made up my mind to meet my fate as became a soldier. Still, it seemed very hard to die so early—harder now, I fancied, than it would have been a month ago. Yet if my only hope of life was to give up all claim to be Frances Dalrymple's husband!—— No; I could not bear to think of being released from my engagement merely to save my own head from the scaffold. Honour and pride alike forbade that. So I wrote in answer to Sir Bernard's proposal, that if my wife could truthfully say that it was her own unbiassed wish that the marriage should be broken off, I was ready to give my consent; but upon that condition alone. I did not allude to the hopes he had held out of using his interest with the Government on my behalf, nor did I say anything of Oliver's friendship with me; for somehow I shrank from the least approach to what I considered the ignominy of pleading for my life. But when the letter was despatched, and day after day passed on without a word of news having reached my ears concerning my wife or any of her family, I must own that I felt intensely sick at heart. I had been in peril of death over and over again, but never before had it seemed so close and so real as now. Pain and death are not so fearful when one only looks forward to them vaguely, as possible at any time. It is knowing the exact moment—feeling that it will inevitably come, and cannot be put off by any human power whatever—this is the ordeal which is hard to pass through with unfaltering courage.
'I stood at the window of my prison, gazing out on the river below. Escape was utterly out of the question. My exploit two years ago, when I triumphantly bore off my friend Will Delamere from the Tower, was too well remembered to leave the remotest chance for me of repeating that feat on my own account! Besides, I had no fellow-conspirator outside the walls. Will could never have done it alone. Oh, if Oliver did but know of my danger! Not that he could really have done anything to help me, but I should at least have had one friend to stand by me during these last few days of my life. But Oliver would hear nothing of my fate till all was over. This trouble must be gone through unflinchingly, without one soul who cared about me to say a word of sympathy or comfort. I was still gazing abstractedly at the river, absorbed in these melancholy thoughts, when footsteps outside the door and the well-known jangle of keys aroused me. I looked round, rather expecting to see the chaplain, who had promised to pay me a visit in the course of the day. It was not the chaplain, however, who stood before me, when, after sundry clicking of locks and grating of bolts, the heavy door was pushed open at last. The two figures upon whom I gazed, with dazzled, astonished eyes, were those of Oliver and Frances Dalrymple. For a moment I stood overwhelmed and speechless with surprise, and Frances also was silent. Her face was half concealed by her hood, and her hand was trembling on her brother's arm.
'"Algernon," cried Oliver, grasping my hand eagerly, "who would have thought of our next meeting being here?"
'"Who indeed?" I gasped out, still in a trance of bewilderment. "In sooth, Oliver, I little thought of our ever meeting again at all; but——" I paused and glanced at the graceful little figure clinging to his side.
'"Come, Fan, speak to him. Tell him the good news yourself," urged Oliver, looking down at her with a half smile, and trying to draw her nearer to me. "Nay, child, he shall not hear a word from me. You have the best right to tell it; and he will welcome it more from his wife's lips than——"
'"Oliver, how can you be so cruel?" she burst out impetuously. "He shall not be kept in this suspense. My Lord Desmond, you are saved. The King has granted you a pardon, and you are free to leave the Tower whenever it pleases you."
'A tumult of mixed feelings came rushing over me when I looked into her sweet, eager face. She had left her brother's arm, and stood before me with a beautiful crimson flush on her cheeks, and her dark eyes glistening with tears, as they had done on that morning of our last, meeting in the Palace.
'"Saved! and on Sir Bernard's conditions?" I stammered out, hardly knowing what I said, while a cold pang of doubt and fear shot across me. But I did not need Oliver's emphatic "No, no; Sir Bernard has naught to do with it. 'Tis Fan who has managed all;" for Frances' reproachful eyes had answered my question, and before her brother had done speaking, her hands were clasped in mine, and the promise so lightly spoken in those childish days at Horsemandown was solemnly repeated now. Frances and I were husband and wife, until death us should part.
* * * * * * * * * *
'A few weeks after, my wife and I were sailing out of the mouth of the Thames, on board a vessel bound for Altona, and Frances, for the first time in her life looked out upon the sea. It was with very wistful eyes that she watched the shores of England growing fainter and fainter to her sight, for she had never left them before; and now she was an exile's wife, and might possibly wander over half the countries of Europe before she saw her native land again. The pardon which she had striven so hard to obtain had not been granted without the proviso that her husband should leave the country at once, and for ever; and without hesitation she had agreed to leave her own home and kindred and to share the future—which to her had once looked so brilliant—with a man whose prospects were already sufficiently blighted, but which without her would be hopelessly dreary indeed.
'Sir Bernard was very loth to let her go; but as the marriage could only have been annulled by our mutual consent, he had no choice but to be reconciled to it. He and I parted good friends; and he showed far more affection for his daughter, and sorrow at bidding her farewell, than I had ever believed him capable of feeling. But perhaps the hardest matter to both of us was the saying good-bye to Oliver, who, on his unexpected return from Holland high in the King's favour, had done a great deal towards overcoming his father's dislike to our marriage. Very many years passed by before we saw his face again.
'It was not until late in Queen Anne's reign that the sentence of my banishment was reversed, and my forfeited estates restored.
'Need I say that the first days of our return to England were spent with Sir Oliver Dalrymple, now the master of Horsemandown, where Frances and I smiled over the remembrance of our first meeting, and knelt together once more in the little parish church which had been the scene of our wedding so very long ago?'
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