A small party on horseback rode quietly along upon the very verge of Sedgemoor, where the land begins to slope upward. They were still upon the moor, however, which was in those days a moor in reality; for few spots on the eastern side of the Atlantic have undergone a more complete change in the short space of two hundred years. A slight elevation of the ground--one of the waves, as it were, of that earth-sea, concealed the travelers in a degree from the field on which the battle had lately been fought; but this shelter was not complete, for the little ridge was irregular, and in some places sunk to the level of the rest of the marsh. Nevertheless, the party pursued their way unmolested for more than three miles, not hurrying their horses, nor putting on any appearance of haste or dismay. Lady Danvers was in the front, with Ralph on one side, and the good old farmer on the other; and their spirits and hopes were beginning to rise, from the impunity with which they had proceeded on their last half hour's ride. They were taking a slanting course somewhat away from the field of battle, and Hortensia fondly trusted that every forward step put her and Ralph further from danger. The old man upon her left, too, was cheerful and light-hearted, and seemed to anticipate no peril or obstruction. Suddenly, however, as they turned a little angle of the ground, they saw two mounted men with carbines on their knees, fixed motionless right in the middle of the way, evidently posted there to cut off any fugitives who, after having made their way round the flanks of the enemy's position, might now be seeking to escape by favor of the hollow way.
A little confusion occurred in Hortensia's party as soon as the soldiers were perceived; and one of the farm-servants, who was riding behind, exclaimed, "Let us gallop away across the hill."
"Stay!" said Ralph, whose presence of mind generally came to his aid in moments of danger, "every thing now depends upon coolness and propriety of conduct. These men can not be avoided. We must meet them, and then act according to circumstances."
Thus saying, he begged Hortensia to halt for a moment, and then rode on alone, waving his hand to the man who was nearest. He was speedily challenged, and replied at once, "The king--King James."
"Ay, ay," said the soldier, "every one calls out King James this morning, though many a one hallooed out King Monmouth last night."
"We, at least, hallooed nothing of the kind," said Ralph, "for I was prevented from going to Bridgewater by hearing that the duke was there. At all events, you can not suspect that a lady took any part in such things, and I trust you will let her pass quietly, as every good soldier ought in a woman's case."
"I can't let any body pass, man or woman," replied the soldier, gruffly; "my orders are strict to stop every one, and have him examined by one of the superior officers. You must stay where you are, and so must every one of your party, till we make the signal from that bit of a mound. Take care that you stay quite still, and do not attempt to move away, or my companion will fire in front, and I will fire upon you in flank."
"We will remain in perfect quiet where we are," answered Ralph, in an indifferent tone; "but one thing let me add, that we would greatly prefer to speak with one of the generals, who probably might know us, than with any inferior officer."
"That's as it may be," answered the man. "I saw the general Himself there just now. Perhaps he may look back, if he's not gone too far. Well, you go back and stay with the rest."
Ralph returned to his party, and communicated what had taken place, evidently greatly to the alarm of Hortensia.
"Don't be afraid--don't be afraid," said the old farmer, in a cheerful tone. "I've got a secret that will tame them, especially if they bring us one of the colonels or generals."
But Hortensia's fears were roused for Ralph. "I am not in the least alarmed for myself," she said, in a low voice; "but indeed, Ralph, you are in a situation of great peril. Will it not be better for you to turn your horse, and try to make your escape the other way."
"No, no," he said, "I should only bring suspicion on you, and probably be taken before I had ridden a couple of miles. Besides, dear lady, I am wearied with this continual uncertainty; and, in truth, I think I have fully as good a chance of passing unobstructed in this direction as in any other."
Hortensia hung her head, and his answer did not seem fully to satisfy her. But no great time was allowed for thought or consultation. In less than five minutes the head of a considerable party of military men appeared over the hill; and, riding at a quick pace, they were soon in the little ravine leading to the spot where Hortensia and the rest were waiting. Preceding them by a step or two came a man, somewhat above the middle height, of distinguished aspect, and a countenance which, though not absolutely handsome, was expressive of high mental qualities, if there be any truth in physiognomy or phrenology. The panoply of war had evidently been thrown aside since the battle, and he was now dressed in the ordinary costume of a gentleman of the court, with the exception of the large jack boots and long heavy sword, with which no mere courtier would have liked to encumber himself. He gazed with a keen, shrewd, penetrating look upon the party as he rode up; but when, within about five paces, he seemed suddenly to recognize one of their number, and, doffing his hat, he spurred on up to Hortensia's horse, saying, "Dear Lady Danvers, can I believe my eyes?"
"Yes, indeed, Lord Churchill," she answered, with a well-pleased smile, for she well knew the courtesy of that great but heartless man; "and, to tell you the truth, I have some cause to be very angry with you, for you have been art and part in the offense, I fear, of forcing me many a mile out of my way, breaking my carriage to pieces, and very nearly getting me into the midst of a battle."
"Serious offenses, indeed," said Churchill, with a laugh; "but how have I had any share in these terrible acts?"
"Why, the simple fact is, I have been trying to pass toward Wells with this gentleman who is escorting me," said Lady Danvers--Churchill pulled off his hat with a low bow toward Ralph, and a keen look at his person, and Hortensia proceeded: "I could not effect my object, however, for I always found some of your troops in the way, and I was not a little afraid of them."
"Nay, nay, what a satire," exclaimed Churchill; "we should have treated you with all courtesy, as if we had been knights of old."
"No satire, but homely truth, general," replied Lady Danvers, pointedly. "The first we met with was Colonel Kirke's Tangier regiment; and his men, we heard from every tongue, were plundering the whole country, and abusing every one who fell into their hands."
Churchill's brow contracted, and he muttered, "This is too bad. That man ought to be punished. I hope you did not suffer insult or injury At his hands?"
"No; but I escaped only by turning down a narrow lane," answered Hortensia; "there my carriage was broken to pieces, as I have said, and I was obliged to mount a horse, and get away as fast as I could. What has become of the carriage and its contents, my maid, and my servants, remains yet to be seen."
"I grieve exceedingly that you have suffered such inconvenience," replied the officer; "and I can only compensate for it by insuring that you shall be safely and immediately escorted to Wells, or any where else that you think fit to go within reasonable distance. But who are these three gentlemen behind," he continued, in a louder tone, "in such exceedingly country attire?"
"Why, general, don't you know me?" said the good farmer, riding up; "I saw you at my lord's head-quarters yesterday morning. There it is, all about it. I am Josiah Bacon; and I think that ought to pass me and every one with me;" and he held forth a scrap of paper which he had produced from his pocket.
"I think I do remember your face," said Churchill, taking the paper, on which were written the following words:
"These are to certify that Josiah Bacon, a true and loyal subject of our sovereign lord, King James the Second, has voluntarily furnished eighteen horses for the service of the royal artillery, and to require all faithful lieges of his said majesty, and officers in the army under my command, to suffer the said Josiah Bacon to pass and repass the several posts and stations upon his lawful business or the king's good service.Feversham."
Below was written, "I hereby prohibit any soldiers or officers being quartered in the house or on the premises of the above-named Josiah Bacon, and require all men in the king's name to give him aid and assistance on every lawful occasion."
"Good," said Churchill, when he had read; "but who are these two men behind?"
"They are only two of my lads," replied the farmer; "you see the way of it was this, general--her ladyship there and this young gentleman came to my house yesterday afternoon, wanting to make their way to Bristol, or Bath, or Wells, or any of those places, but in a great fright about your soldiers, for Kirke's lambs had scared them. They had a servant with them then, and while we took them in and did the best for them, they sent the man on--Stilling I think they called him--to see which way they could get on in safety. I heard them with my own ears; so this morning, you see, after watching the battle last night from the windows--and heartily did we all pray for the king's success--they determined to go on when they heard you had won the victory; but, being still a little bit frightened about stragglers from the army and such like, they got me and these two fellows to come with them and show them the way, and take care of them."
Hortensia bad seldom, if ever, so much wished a long speech at an end; but Churchill listened with exemplary patience, and when the farmer had done, inquired, "Do you assure me, upon your loyalty, Master Bacon, that these two men are actually your farm-servants, and that they took no part in the battle last night?"
"Upon my soul and conscience they never were out of the house, and have been with me for the last two years," replied the farmer.
"Well, then, you can pass," said Churchill. "Will you ride on with them, Lady Danvers?"
"Come, Ralph," said Hortensia, joyfully.
But Churchill interposed with a grave look. "I beg your pardon," he said, "but I must ask this young gentleman a few questions before he proceeds with you."
He paused, as if he expected her to go forward; but Hortensia kept her hand tight upon her bridle rein, and the general then proceeded, saying, "May I inquire who you are, sir?"
"A very unimportant personage, my lord," replied Ralph.
"Not so, I should suppose from your bearing, sir," interrupted Churchill, in a courteous tone, "though not so important as I at first believed. You are about the same height as the Duke of Monmouth; and I fancied, when first I saw you, that I had caught the bird for which we had been beating the bushes all the morning. I perceive my mistake; but may I ask your name? You must be of the court, I think; but I have not the honor of recollecting you."
"My name, sir, is Woodhall," replied Ralph, at once.
"Your Christian name?" asked Churchill.
"Ralph Woodhall," answered the young gentleman, calmly.
"Then I fear, sir," rejoined the general, "that I must request you to accompany me to my quarters, and deprive Lady Danvers for a time of the advantage of your escort. I will take care, however, that your place is properly supplied, and that she shall suffer no inconvenience."
"That is all I could desire," replied Ralph; but Hortensia demanded, fixing her beautiful eyes upon Churchill's face with a look earnest and intense, "Does he go as a prisoner, my Lord Churchill?"
"Not exactly as a prisoner, dear Lady Danvers," replied Churchill, "but as my guest for the time;" then, seeing a look of doubt and grief on Hortensia's face, he added, "The truth is, then, and I must not conceal it from you, that I have heard at the quarters of Lord Feversham, the commander-in-chief, that orders have been given for the apprehension of a gentleman of the name of Ralph Woodhall on some charge, I know not well what. I do not apprehend him myself, because I am not a constable or a messenger; but I feel it my duty to stop him, in obedience to the intimation I have received."
"Then the offense with which he is charged is not a military offense," said Lady Danvers; "and, if so, there can be no need for Lord Churchill to make himself a constable for the occasion. I beseech you, my lord, as you must well know that this gentleman has had no share in this most unfortunate rebellion, to suffer him to pass on with me, for I feel that I have been greatly the cause of his having been placed in this situation. Had he not undertaken to see me safely to Wells, he would have been many miles from this spot at the present moment."
"Dear Lady Danvers," said Churchill, with that captivating grace which so peculiarly distinguished him, "you have been now at the court of England nearly three years, I think. Where few pass unassailed, you have retained an unblemished reputation--and your honor is too high and pure for envy even to attempt to cloud it--"
The color rose in Hortensia's cheek; for she thought he was about to censure her traveling with Ralph, and point to the effect it might have upon her fair fame; but Churchill turned his speech quite in a different manner, saying, after a momentary pause, "You esteem this reputation highly, dear Lady Danvers; not the softest or tenderest persuasions would induce you to swerve from the line of duty, or do one act that could tarnish your fair fame. The honor of a soldier must be kept equally unsullied; he must be as well prepared to resist entreaties as any beautiful lady in the land, and, be the temptation what it will, keep his conduct beyond all imputation. Was not this so, I fear I should yield to you at once."
Hortensia seemed still about to remonstrate, but Ralph besought her not to do so, and then spoke a few words in a low tone to the general himself.
Churchill made a sign to the escort which had accompanied him, spoke with an old officer who rode forward, and then some changes took place in the disposition of his little force. It was all done very rapidly, and while the troopers were cantering in different directions, the general once more advanced close to Lady Danvers, saying, in a low tone, "Do not be apprehensive about this gentleman, dear Lady Danvers. Doubtless no harm will happen to him. I believe the charge against him is something concerning a duel not quite regular in its forms; but in these days such events are never treated severely when the first effect of them upon the public mind is passed. We will endeavor to keep the matter back as long as possible, and there can be no doubt of the result."
"Will you promise me, Lord Churchill, to do the very best you can for him, and on no account to give him up to Colonel Kirke?" asked Lady Danvers, in a voice trembling with emotion.
"I give you my honor of both," replied Churchill, "and I think you need be under no alarm."
At the same moment Ralph approached, and, taking Hortensia's hand, he bent his head over it, saying, "Farewell, dearest lady; may God bless and protect you ever;" and, without waiting for a reply, he turned his horse and cantered away.
Hortensia saw that, as he rode, two of Lord Churchill's soldiers joined him, the one placing himself on the right, and the other on the left. Without a word to Lord Churchill--for her heart was too full to speak--she urged her horse forward on the road she had been previously pursuing. The moment after, the old officer who had spoken with Churchill, accompanied by two or three troopers, followed and took his place by her side, saying, "Lord Churchill has commanded me, my lady, to see you ten miles on the way--or further, should you require it."
Hortensia merely bowed her head in reply; and at that moment she would have given much for a vail or a mask, for the tears were streaming rapidly down her cheeks.
The insurrectionary war was over; but far the most bloody part of the whole tragedy was about to begin. There is certainly a degree of madness in the vices and crimes of the human race--a something beyond a mere spirit of evil--a something that hurries us out of the pale of reason, and teaches mankind to commit, even deliberately, acts which the right use of intellect would utterly forbid. We are all fond of the idea of glory. We feel our hearts glow at the recital of gallant actions. The splendor of great victories the sounds of triumph, and the shouts of military success excite our imagination, and warm the hellish part of the blood in our veins. But what becomes of reason?
No one has been fonder of such illusions than myself. No one has felt a deeper thrill in reading of feats of chivalrous daring, or listening to tales of great renown. But let the reader put such achievements to the same test to which I put them a few days ago. Let him take a picture of a great battle, where the fancy and skill of an accomplished painter have done the best that could be done to heighten the interest, and conceal the horrible details of the scene--where the dust, and the grime, and the convulsions are omitted altogether--where the languor of the dying and the prostration of the dead are made to group in fair, flowing lines around the feet of the trampling horses and the charging corps--where the blood is used sparingly in contrast with the pallor of the faces, to produce an harmonious effect of coloring, and the fiery bursting of a shell is kept in tone by a stream of gore lighted by the flash. Let him not strip it of any of the painter's adjuncts; let him leave it embellished as far as the pencil could embellish; but let him strip it of all that his own fancy has added, and let him take it and dissect it under the microscope-glass of reason. Let him look at the combatants, one by one, and ask what they are fighting for. The one for a name in history, which very likely he may never attain, and which, if he does, will benefit him in nothing. Another, because he is commanded to fight by some king or some leader, spilling his life's blood and taking the life of others at the nod of a man in whose face he would spit if he told him to black his shoes. Another is fighting for pure principles of patriotism, without ever asking himself if the same, or even higher ends, could not be obtained by any other than the butchering means with which he soils his hands. Others, and by far the greater part, are fighting for--from four-pence to a shilling a day; and they fight just as bravely, just as gallantly as the others! The whole, each and every one, are engaged in debasing God's image, breaking God's law, and taking from others the etherial essence they can never restore--the great, the mighty, the inestimable boon of life--for objects and purposes which two hundred years after, if not utterly forgotten, will be found to have changed but very little the course of events, or influenced the world's history. But take each of those figures separately--those dark, livid things lying on the ground, and think what has befallen him by this great achievement. That fair-haired youth, lying there, was the hope of a mother's heart, the only one dear to a widowed bosom, the support of her age and of her sickness. His last thought, as he felt the life-blood welling away from his side, was his "Poor mother!" and he saw before her, with the prophetic eye of death, years of wasting grief, neglect, and gnawing penury; and then, the workhouse. Then, again, that stout fellow, somewhat older, with the broad-sword still grasped in his dead hand; his fine open brow, his powerful limbs, all show a man who might have served his country, and the best interests of humanity, well in other fields than this--ay, in better, nobler fields. The last thought of his heart, when he felt the shot, was of his calm cottage in the country, and of the wife and babes he never shall see again. He thought of their future fate--of all the hard chances of life for them, deprived of a husband and a father; and a cloud of doubt came between his parting spirit and his God. Close beside him, slain probably at the same moment, lies the hardened reprobate, unchastised and unreclaimed, loaded with wickedness, and sent, without a moment's warning or a moment's thought, into the presence of offended Deity; and there, hard by, the young and unconfirmed waverer, with much matter for self-reproach in his heart--with a sense of wrong doing--with aspirations for better things--with resolutions for amendment not yet commenced; and he, too, is sent to his account, without real penitence or heart-breathed prayer, before purpose can become act.
There is a burning village in the back-ground, and doubtless there are many others round--homes destroyed--families left destitute--sons, fathers, husbands, brothers slain--weeping in all eyes--agony in all hearts. But this is only one circle beyond the immediate spot; for from that point of glory flow far away on every side deep streams of misery, and sorrow, and calamity, to which the transient joy and evanescent brightness of a great victory is but as a falling star in a dark night.
It may be said--nay, it has been said--that we must not look at these things too closely. Believe me, reader, that the act or the passion, which we dare not look at too closely, is evil. It needs no such close examination; for the judgment of the reason is pronounced upon it as it vails itself from inspection.
If such, however, be any true picture of the insane sin of war, what must we think of laws, and customs, and acts, and of the men who committed or made them, by which oceans of blood, shed deliberately on the scaffold, after fierce passion had subsided, have flowed over the page of history, making it little else than one scarlet crime? If it be doubtful--nay, more than doubtful--whether it be a less crime than murder to shed the blood of man for any thing but murder, what must we think of death, ay, and torture, being inflicted by one human being upon another, not only for acts, but for words, and even thoughts? Society must be a bad thing, and a weak one, if it requires to be defended by such crimes as these.
Of all periods known in English history, the time of which I write was perhaps the one most foully stained by such abominations. The scene was just opening--the tragedy had merely begun when the battle of Sedgemoor ended; law, and all its forms, were set at naught; prisoners were slaughtered without trial, as without mercy; the suspected had imposed upon them tasks more terrible than death; and the simple well-wishers of an unsuccessful cause were forced to quarter the victims of tyranny, and imbrue their hands in the warm blood of friends, companions, and, we are assured, even relations. The fiend Kirke was busy in his brutal office all day long, and his ferocious soldiery drank deep of blood, and reveled amid the carnage in unbridled licentiousness. None escaped him or them upon whom the jealous eye of power fell, who could not pay enormously for life from some store unattainable by his death; for where there was a choice, Kirke always preferred blood.
Had Ralph Woodhall been given up at once by Churchill to any inferior officer, or even to Lord Feversham himself, it is more than probable his fate would have been instantly sealed. His presence on the field after the battle might have been judged enough. No investigation--no examination of witnesses would have been deemed necessary; and he might have been condemned and died ere he quitted the verge of Sedgemoor. But Churchill remembered his promise to Hortensia, and fulfilled it honorably. There was also something in Ralph's demeanor which he liked; for--gold and ambition apart--that great general was not insensible to high qualities in others. He was a keen judge of human nature too; and there was a straightforward frankness in Ralph's dealings with him, from which he argued so favorably that he stretched lenity toward him to the utmost. He conversed with him on his return to his quarters for some time, treated him with every sort of polite attention, and said to him in the end, "It may be some days before I see Lord Feversham, or have an opportunity of delivering you into the hands of those who will insure you a fair and impartial trial. You have answered me straightforwardly in every thing, Mr. Woodhall, and I have not the slightest doubt you are a man of your word. If, therefore, you will give me your parole of honor to consider yourself a prisoner, and not to absent yourself more than half a mile from my quarters, I will free you from the unpleasant attendance of a guard."
Ralph's parole was, of course, immediately given, and Churchill continued this liberal course of conduct as far as possible, from the knowledge that, the longer a trial is delayed, the more likely is a just if not a more lenient one to be obtained. He little knew at the time that the arch-fiend--compared with whom Kirke was indeed a lamb--was coming down with all speed to crush those whom military vengeance could not reach. Rumor, indeed, said that the well-known Jeffries would be sent into the West; but Churchill fancied wrongly that common decency would impel the court to withhold or restrain this unscrupulous perverter of the law.
The general's head-quarters had been moved to a considerable distance from East Zoyland; and he had invited Ralph and some of his own officers to a very plain and homely dinner, when, toward the close of the meal, a paper was presented to him, which he read attentively. No change of countenance took place; and he merely said to his trooper who brought in the paper, "Tell them to wait without."
When the dinner was over, however, and the guests were retiring, he beckoned Ralph to a window, and put the paper he had received into the young gentleman's hand. It was an order to deliver him up to a messenger who was charged to lodge him, without delay, in Dorchester jail.
"I fear I must obey it," said Churchill; "and now I will only add as a hint, that as soon as I have given you up, your parole to me is at an end. More than one man," he added, with a meaning smile, and no very unpleasant recollection, "has found safety and fortune by jumping out of window."
Ralph thanked him gravely; and the messenger and his two followers having been called in, the young gentleman was delivered into their hands.
I will not pretend that, had opportunity presented itself, Ralph would have neglected the hint which Lord Churchill had given him; but the messenger was shrewd and keen, the two officers watchful and severe, and, at the end of three days, Ralph Woodhall was lodged in Dorchester jail, and experienced for the first time the taste of real imprisonment. A low, miserable, damp cell was assigned to him; no food but bread and water, except what he paid for at enormous prices, was afforded to him by the jailer, and a light was refused him when night fell. It was not, indeed, intended that this course of treatment should be continued, as he had the means of paying for better accommodations; but it was what a jailer technically termed in those days "the taming of a bird," or, in other words, the preparation necessary to make him submit quietly to every imposition, however gross. Thus, in darkness, discomfort, and gloom, with memories and expectations equally painful, he passed his first night in the prison at Dorchester, where, for the present, we must leave him.
It was still in the midst of summer, but London was yet crowded, although the Parliament had risen. The city was in great agitation, too; for news of a battle, and the defeat of Monmouth--the great Protestant leader, whom the Protestant Church had failed to support--the idol of the people, whom the people, or, at least, all those who were influential among them, had left to perish--had reached London on the preceding night by rapid post from the West. A general gloom hung over the metropolis in despite of the rejoicing of the court; and many a man began to regret, too late, that he had not mounted horse and buckled on his sword when every arm was needful, and every purse should have been opened to support the cause which fully one half of the nation had affected, at least, to advocate for many a long year. But a multitude of those whom timidity, doubts of his right, suspicion of his character, or disapproval of his conduct, had kept from joining the standard of the great insurgent, although truly attached to the cause of religious liberty, very soon had personal motives furnished to them for bitterly repenting that they had not thrown their weight into the scale, while there was a possibility of the balance being turned. The slightest suspicion of having held communication with Monmouth, or the smallest possible evidence of dissenting from the Episcopal Church on any side but popery, was treated as a high offense: rights, guarantees, statutes, were set at naught, and many hundreds were snatched from their homes and cast into prison without having committed any other crime than that of entertaining a conscientious objection to the government and the forms of the English Church.
Thus the gloom was increased through the city; nor was it diminished when men found that a sort of trade in accusations was once more about to commence; that the royal bounty was prepared to reward the informer; and that a multitude of harpies round the court were all ready to make a merchandise of clemency, as far as it could be wrung from the hard, cold heart of James the Second.
All was gloom, then, although bells were ringing, flags flying, and bonfires prepared, when a young gentleman, attended by two or three horsemen, rode quickly along what was then known as the Reading road, and entered the town without slackening his pace. He was impelled by even stronger motives than the reward which had hurried forth the earlier posts; and, though he took his way toward Whitehall, it was not at the gates of the royal palace he dismounted. In one of the streets in the vicinity of the court there was a large house, to which I have before led the reader; and in one of the rooms on the ground floor, at the moment the young stranger arrived before the door, sat old Lord Woodhall, reading a broad sheet which gave an account of the battle. He had been very much changed by the events of the last few weeks. He was no longer the stout, hale, robust country gentleman which he had previously appeared. He was shrunk and exceedingly thin, and old age was marked upon every feature of his face. He was tall and upright still, for the very fierce and angry feelings which consumed his corporeal frame served to give him an energy and a fire which sustained him with unnatural strength.
The middle of a paragraph had been reached, detailing with many blunders and exaggerations the closing scene of the battle, the flight of Monmouth from the field, and the direction which he was positively asserted to have taken, when the door was flung open at once, and Robert Woodhall entered, booted and spurred, and muddy from the road.
"News! news! my noble lord," he exclaimed, with a triumphant air.
"I have it here, boy," answered Lord Woodhall, rapping the paper with his finger.
"Ay, but better news than that, noble kinsman," said the young man, with a laugh; and then, keeping up a tone partly jesting, partly serious, he asked, "What did you promise me, my lord, if I put Ralph Woodhall, the murderer of your son, into the hands of justice?"
"Why," said Lord Woodhall, with a good deal of hesitation, "I promised I would give you Margaret, as your mother wishes; but I find she does not love you--can not love you, she says."
"Perhaps because she loves her brother's murderer," replied the young man, bitterly.
The old nobleman started as if a serpent had bit him, and exclaimed, "Robert, Robert, do not set my whole blood on fire at such a thought! Beware what you do, sir--beware what you insinuate! Is the man taken? is he in prison?"
"Oh no, he is not," replied Robert Woodhall, in a cool, indifferent tone; "I know where he is; I can put him in the hands of justice in eight-and-forty hours. In double that time he may escape, for he goes whither he will, and disports himself as a gentleman at large. But what is that to me, if Margaret loves him better than me--if your promise is to be unavailing, and your commands to be set at naught?"
The old man advanced sternly toward him, took his hand and wrung it hard, murmuring in a low, fierce, emphatic tone, "Robert, you shall have her! But put him in my power--but give him to the arm of the law, and you shall have her, with all my estates, at my death. I say not how soon she shall be yours; she must have time--I must have time; but she shall be yours, I pledge you my honor, and my conscience, and my soul. May God curse me and spare the murderer if I break my vow."
"That is all I can desire," answered Robert. "We will not hurry the fair lady; and I think, my dear lord, that I can soon contrive to clear her mind of any love for Master Ralph, if such a fancy has ever crossed it. There are certain tales down there, which, even without all that poor Henry knew--and told her, I believe--of this very honest, religious young man's fidelity to her, must soon banish from her heart every trace of affection toward him."
"It is false!" cried Lord Woodhall, vehemently. "She has no affection toward him. She dislikes you, because she knows you to be a libertine and a profligate."
"Better that, my lord, than libertine, profligate, and hypocrite too," answered Robert Woodhall, somewhat nettled.
"That is true, indeed," replied the old nobleman; "but no more of that; my word is given, and it shall be kept. Now, where is this man--this murderer?"
"Down in the West, there, my lord," replied Robert Woodhall; "but, saving your good pleasure, I must have the management of all this. None but myself must place him in the hands of the officer. I would not share that task with any one for half a kingdom."
"Thou art a fine lad, and shall have your way," answered old Lord Woodhall, attributing to regard for his dead son the zeal which proceeded in truth from mere personal hatred. "What is it you want now? How is it you intend to proceed?"
"I ask but a letter from you to the secretary of state," replied Robert, "desiring him to give me a messenger for the apprehension of Ralph Woodhall, and for his safe transmission to Dorchester jail, and you shall have information that he is there lodged by the very next post from the West.
"The letter you shall have," replied the old man; "and I will keep my word, let come what may. Seek me pen and ink."
The letter to the secretary of state was accordingly written, and, without even asking to see Margaret, Robert Woodhall went on his way rejoicing. At the office of the secretary of state he was detained some time, for much important business was going on in consequence of the late important events in the West. An intimation given, however, to one of the clerks, that he was the brother of Lord Coldenham, and fresh from Sedgemoor, at length obtained admission for him, and the secretary received him with much courtesy.
"Your brother's regiment did good service, Mr. Woodhall," he said; "you were with it, I suppose."
"I command a company in that regiment, my lord," answered Robert, with the color coming somewhat warmly into his cheek from a knowledge that in reality he had not been in the battle at all--and that by his own fault; "but your lordship's time is precious, I know, and the business I come upon is very urgent."
Sunderland fixed his eyes upon him for one instant very steadfastly, and the slightest possible smile curled his acute lip, while he said, "What is the business, Mr. Woodhall? I shall be most happy to serve you."
"If you will read that letter, my lord, you will see," replied Robert; and the secretary took and perused it rapidly. He made some difficulties, however. It was not customary, he remarked, to send a secretary of state's messenger to apprehend any one accused of any thing but state offenses. Common constables, or any ordinary officer of police, might be employed.
"It is not improbable, my lord," replied Robert, who had a vigorous perseverance in his nature which was not easily baffled--a touch of his mother's strong determination--"it is not improbable, my lord, that affairs of state may be complicated with other offenses in this instance. This man was certainly upon the field at Sedgemoor. He is also accused of harboring, comforting, and defending, against the officers of the law, a noted Dissenting preacher named Calloway."
Sunderland still seemed to hesitate, and Robert immediately added, "If your lordship has any scruple, however, it can easily be removed, I think, by an application to the king, who I know is extremely anxious that this notorious offender should be brought to justice. I can go to his majesty with Lord Woodhall, and return in a few minutes;" and he raised his hat slightly, as if about to depart.
"That is not necessary," said Sunderland, quickly; "I think you have made out a case; but recollect that the office can not be charged with the expenses, unless the young man be taken. Are you prepared to pay them, should you fail?"
"Perfectly," replied Robert Woodhall; "for I am certain of his apprehension, if we proceed quickly. I only trust your lordship will impress upon the messenger the necessity of dispatch."
All was soon arranged to his satisfaction, and Robert Woodhall set off with the messenger in two hours from that time.
A change, which may at first sight appear strange, came upon him as he journeyed. Courage, like all other qualities, is very variously modified in different men; and, besides the two great divisions of moral and physical, it has an infinite number of subdivisions. Some men--especially those of great imagination and hypochondriac temperament--are hesitating and even timid in the contemplation of distant danger, but become bold as lions, and perfectly self-possessed, in the moment of action. Others--and of these Robert Woodhall was one--are exceedingly brave in determination, but somewhat fearful in execution. He had, when he set out for London from Somersetshire, regarded the apprehension of his cousin Ralph with a malevolent pleasure, which made him resolve to see the work done himself, and to have the satisfaction of witnessing with his own eyes Ralph's consignment to a dungeon. He pictured to himself, with great delight, the anguish of the man he hated, and his removal out of the soft guardianship of Churchill--from which Robert sincerely believed he could and would escape as soon as the hot pursuit after Monmouth was over--to all the horrors and inconveniences of a county prison of those days. All along the road to London he had amused himself with such contemplations; he had gloated over Ralph's anticipated sufferings, and he had pictured each particular scene as it arose. But when he had obtained what he wanted, and was riding back with the messenger and his followers toward Somersetshire, he began to doubt and hesitate. Ralph was fiery, and Robert thought him more so than he really was. There was no certainty that he might not resist; and if he did, his resistance was likely to be dangerous. Robert feared, too, that his cousin might speak unpleasant truths regarding him, and he went on in his own mind swelling up objections to any further personal interference, till in the end he determined to put the messenger and his followers so far upon the track that there was no possibility of their missing the game, and then leave them to hunt it down themselves, taking all the credit to himself, and avoiding every risk.
When the small party arrived at Taunton, Robert was anxious that they should proceed some way further that night; but the messenger, though a resolute and active officer, was a man who loved his comforts, and he would only consent to go on after having remained a couple of hours to rest and dine.
Robert had no stomach for his meat; for he had heard of the removal of Churchill's quarters, and he was anxious lest the prey should escape him. He wandered out, then, from the little inn at which he and his companions had alighted, and walked through the principal street of the town, where nothing but signs of gloom and dismay met him on every side, till, standing at the door of a larger inn, he beheld a good portly man in the livery of his family.
On inquiry, he found, much to his surprise, that his mother was in the house, and that a messenger from her had been dispatched that very evening to Lord Coldenham. In a few moments he was in Lady Coldenham's presence, and she showed as much gladness at the sight of her favorite son as she ever displayed on any occasion. She seemed much surprised to hear that he had been in London, but interrupted him in the course of his narrative to say, "You should not have been absent, Robert, when you knew that Ralph Woodhall was in the neighborhood. He has escaped the hands of Colonel Kirke, I find, but he must not escape us. There is much depends upon it."
She paused, and gazed upon him with a fixed, glassy sort of stare, and then added, "He must be taken--he must be tried--he must die! If he escapes you, you will repent your negligence long and bitterly. He is a viper in the path which must be crushed, and you should not have quitted the place till he was in prison."
"If your ladyship knew what I went for," replied Robert, "you would approve of my going. You know, of course, that the murderer was concealed at the house of Lady Danvers--"
"Give him no hard names, Robert," replied the old lady, with a bitter smile; "it signifies not to us whether he be a murderer or not. As to that pretty little bright-eyed doll, Hortensia Danvers, she must not stand in my way. She will find herself overmatched, with all her wit. But what were you going to say? Kirke searched her house; but the bird was flown. I know all that."
"But you do not know, my dear lady and mother," replied Robert, "that since then, Ralph Woodhall has fallen into the hands of Lord Churchill, who allows him to be what he calls a prisoner on parole--that is, gives him every opportunity of flying when he likes. Churchill would certainly not give him up to a common constable; and I went to London, first, to get a messenger to see our admirable cousin--as you object to the term murderer--lodged safely in prison, and, secondly, to secure for myself the fruits of my discoveries in pretty Margaret's hand and Lord Woodhall's estates."
Old Lady Coldenham shook her head gravely. "There will be difficulties there, I fear," she said; "the old lord's last letter on the subject was as cold as ice."
"The difficulties on his part are all removed," replied Robert. "I have his promise, sealed by every sort of vow and imprecation, that if I lodge Ralph in prison, I shall have Margaret's hand. Any difficulty will lie with her; but they must be overborne."
"What has she to do with it?" exclaimed Lady Coldenham; "she must, of course, marry whom her father tells her. His promise is quite enough, and he will not break it."
"It is to fulfill my part of the bond that I am now hurrying back," replied Robert; "and as Churchill has no knowledge whatever that I have made any discovery, we shall take him by surprise before he can afford Master Ralph the means of escape. The messenger is here in the town with me: a greedy beast, who spends half his time in eating. I trust he has done his supper by this time, and therefore, with your leave, will go and see if he be ready to ride forward. Where shall I find your ladyship when I have fulfilled my task?"
"The moment all is safe, send me a messenger," said the old lady; "and if I have the news that he is lodged in the clutches of the law, you will find me at Ormebar Castle the day after to-morrow. But mind he escapes you not. There is more hangs upon his life than you know of, Robert."
"He shall not escape," answered her son, confidently; "but there is one other man I would fain catch hold of too, if I could do so without burning my fingers--one who has insulted me, and been the chosen companion--servant, as he calls him--of this serpent Ralph: I mean old Stilling's son."
The color rose in the old woman's cheek; and she answered sternly, "Let him alone! You have behaved very ill, boy, and your folly will cost me five thousand pounds. How dared you meddle with the old man's daughter? You might have made concubines of all the girls in the village but her, without my caring; but you know not what you have done. Touch not the young man, however--do no one act against him, as you value all that you possess on earth. And now away. See that Ralph escapes you not; that is your business for the present. We may have more to settle hereafter."
Robert took his departure gladly, for there was a look upon his mother's face which he knew too well to remain exposed to her anger willingly; and the result of his further proceedings is already known to the reader.