Mr. Windsor's guests had all departed, the lights were out in the rooms so lately filled with the pleasant discord of animated voices, and the kindly old American host had gone to his rest with the satisfaction of believing that his last night in England would be enjoyably remembered by his new friends when he and his daughter were far on their voyage home.
But Mr. Windsor knew, a few weeks later, that beneath the smooth surface of his farewell party, as he had seen it, ran a secret current of fatal force and purpose. He had entertained unaware on that night nearly all the Royalist leaders, who had taken advantage of his invitation to meet in a place where suspicion of their movements could not follow.
The gentlemen left Mr. Windsor's house not in groups or even pairs, but singly. It was remarkable that none of them had a carriage, and that after leaving the house every one turned and walked in the same direction.
About an hour after the last guest had gone, in a large house belonging to a banished earl, where Featherstone had resided for the past two weeks, there was a full meeting of the Royalist chiefs, including those who had been at Mr. Windsor's, and many more. They had come singly from many quarters, but all on foot, and they had entered by a door on a quiet side street. There were perhaps forty men in all.
Here were old and dignified noblemen, more than one of whom wore threadbare coats and other signs of actual poverty; and here were young spirits aflame with the hope of action. Here a lot of antiquated baronet-squires flock together, and yonder stands a knot of grizzled colonels with the professional air of men awaiting orders. Here is the old Duke of Bayswater, listening through his eyeglasses, while Geoffrey Ripon and Featherstone have a quiet jest with Mr. Sydney.
Shortly after midnight—at about the same moment that Mrs. Oswald Carey received the bank-notes from Mr. Bugbee—the hum of conversation ceased in this meeting of the Royalists, and all eyes were turned toward a table in the centre of the long drawing-room, where stood John Dacre, who had just entered the room, his hands filled with papers.
Dacre was in the uniform of a staff officer, and on his breast he wore the battle-cross he had won in his first campaign, and also some gaudier honors awarded him for loyalty and devotion to the cause of the King.
The strong light of the chandelier showed the tense lines of his finely-cut face, which was white with excitement, and his eyes burned beneath his brows with a flame too strong to be subdued by any outer light.
Before he had uttered a word he had in some way imparted to many of those around him something of his own exaltation and intensity of spirit. He laid on the table thepapers he had carried, and looked round the room with his face proudly raised.
"Gentlemen!" he said, holding his voice from an exulting cry, "our campaign has begun. We are no longer without a leader. Our monarch has come to claim his throne, and, if necessary, to win it by the sword. This night King George sleeps in London. To-morrow he will sit upon the throne of England.God Save the King!"
But, though death might be the consequence, a brave cheer burst from the hearts of some of those who heard—some, but only a few, and among these were Geoffrey, Featherstone, and the grizzled colonels.
To many others that cheer seemed as deadly an outburst as the roar of artillery. For a moment all stood as before; then they broke and mingled, talking excitedly, and a goodly number edged toward the door, and soon made their way out of the house.
But at least twenty men remained, while Dacre issued orders, handed instructions already written, or verbally repeated important words to the officers who should the next day head the revolution.
"Colonel Arundel," said Dacre, addressing a white-haired but erect man of sixty years, "to you belongs the first word of the restoration."
The old colonel walked to the table opposite Dacre and bowed, as if awaiting instructions.
"At the hour of noon to-morrow," continued Dacre, speaking to Colonel Arundel, "the King's banner will be raised at Aldershot, and at that hour you will proclaim to the brigade under your command the restoration of the Monarchy and his Majesty's presence in the camp." The veteran withdrew with a proud smile.
"Colonel Featherstone, Sir James Singleton, Lord Arthur Towneley, Mr. Blaney Balfour;" as Dacre read from a list, the gentlemen named drew near the table. "You are of the royal escort; you will await the arrival of the King at Aldershot and accompany him to the camp."
When Dacre had issued all the prepared orders for the outbreak, the meeting broke up.
As Geoffrey walked with Dacre to their quarters, the streets of London were deserted and quiet, as if no danger lay hid in the clouds of the morrow. Dacre was filled, body and soul, with the assurance of a glorious success; but cool-headed Geoffrey felt none of his enthusiasm, though his step was light and his voice as full of cheer as his friend's mood required. But when they met a burly, quiet policeman on his beat, who placidly wished them, "Good-morning, gentlemen," Geoffrey could not restrain a burst of hearty laughter—which, however, he did not explain to Dacre.
Geoffrey slept soundly for a few hours, and was up early to keep his appointment with Dacre. He could scarcely credit his senses to find himself on such an errand, as he strode through the already busy streets, meeting the quiet folk at their early occupations, while he was bent on civil war in two hours' time, with his overcoat pockets heavy with loaded pistols!
Dacre and he breakfasted in a private room at the old Army and Navy Club almost in silence. They had met at the door, coming from opposite directions, and greeted each other with a firm grip of the hand. Under a large overcoat Dacre wore his old staff uniform, and he smiled proudly as Geoffrey took off his outer coat and showed his ancestors' silver-hilted sword buckled high round his body,so that it should not strike the ground or be seen below the coat.
As they drove to the railway station it was a dull, drizzling morning. At the station they saw many of those who had attended the meeting the previous night; but, by arrangement, the conspirators did not recognize each other, even by a sign. When they arrived at the Aldershot Station there was no indication of anything unusual. A few orderlies from the camp came and went, but this was an every-day sight.
The Royalists dispersed at once, some walking, some in the common camp omnibuses, and some in cabs. The point of assembly was in the officers' lines of the infantry camp, where Colonel Arundel, who was acting brigadier, had provided a large mess tent for their reception—and on this morning, by his arrangement and for their guidance, no other tent but this in the camp was marked by a flag.
On arriving at the tent, Dacre and Geoffrey found only two of their fellow-conspirators, both youths, awaiting them. But it was very early, not 9.30, and the hour of meeting was 11. The next man to arrive was Mr. Sydney, who, fearing a shot from his old enemy, the gout, more than a bullet from a Republican rifle, stepped gingerly from the omnibus that dropped him near the lines. As Geoffrey shook his hand, a pang went through his conscience for ever having made a jest of so simple and brave a heart.
By ones and twos, as the hours passed, the Royalists came to the rendezvous. Not once had they met with question or opposition. The sentries, as they passed, stood to "attention," evidently regarding them as officers belonging to the camp.
The mess tent was well removed from the regular roads of the camp, and only a few soldiers passed near it all the morning.
Once, while Geoffrey stood at the open door, a mounted artillery officer rode past. He was a young man, with a strongly-marked, stern face, and as he passed the tent it seemed to Geoffrey that he cast a sudden, keen glance within. At first, Geoffrey was so convinced of this that he turned to speak to Dacre; but glancing after the officer, he saw him stop and speak to a man who was coming toward the tent, and whom Geoffrey recognized as one of the military men of the previous night's meeting. After a few words they saluted like friends and separated.
"You know that officer, sir?" asked Geoffrey, as the old soldier came to the tent door. "I thought he looked this way in an odd manner as he passed."
"Oh, yes," answered the other; "that is young Devereux, the clever fellow who has invented the tremendous gun, you know, and revolutionized the old tactics. An able fellow, sir—and a colonel at thirty-six. I knew his father forty years ago at Woolwich, when we were cadets."
"You think I was mistaken, then, in fancying that he looked this way?" asked Geoffrey.
"I should say so—bless my soul! I should hope so, too. That's the cleverest fellow in the whole service; and we don't want to meet him at the very start."
"Perhaps he may be with us?" suggested Geoffrey.
"No; it isn't likely. Devereux is with nothing but science and discipline. But if he were with us he would be better than twenty regiments."
"And against us?"
"Ah! there are circumstances that alter cases. Withus he would be free to act on his own devising, for we should make him commander of the forces. Against us he is only a subordinate, controlled by some stupid major-general."
Eleven o'clock came, and there were twenty-seven men in the tent. Besides these were the several officers of the regiment in camp, who were in their quarters ready for the signal.
At the door of the mess tent rose a tall flag-pole, with halyards attached, which entered the tent. To these, by the hands of Dacre, was fastened the Royal Standard of England, to be given to the breeze at the sound of the noonday gun.
At half-past eleven the bugles of the infantry regiments were heard sounding for a general parade; and in a few minutes the scarlet lines were seen on the parade ground, forming, wheeling, and marching into brigade formation.
The commanding officer and the colonels of six out of seven regiments would call on the troops to cheer for King George when they saw the royal banner at the mast. Inside the mess tent there was a scene of quiet preparation, which had its ludicrous as well as pathetic features. Many of the Royalists had come in military uniforms of various kinds and countries. As the hour drew near they laid aside their overcoats, and composed an odd group for a military critic. The Duke of Bayswater wore an old red tunic of the yeomanry cavalry, which he had commanded in his county half a century before; Mr. Sydney a lancer's fatigue jacket, which he had worn as a lieutenant in King Edward's time; there was one in the tunic of a captain of French artillery, and several others wore continental uniforms. Every one was armed in some way or other.
As the infantry brigade wheeled into line on the parade-ground a distant trumpet sounded far in the rear.
"Dacre, what is that trumpet?" asked Geoffrey, in a low tone.
Dacre looked at his watch as he listened. He did not reply, but shook his head and smiled at Geoffrey.
"That is an artillery trumpet," said the old officer to whom Geoffrey had spoken before, and who now came quietly to Dacre. "It came from the direction of Colonel Devereux's battery—though I remember distinctly he told me that this was not a field day."
It was clear to Geoffrey's eye that Dacre was suffering under some heavy fear or despondency that quelled his excitement. There was a look in his face of tense expectancy that was pitiful to his friend.
"The King was to have been here at eleven," said Geoffrey to him at last. "It is now twenty minutes to twelve. Can anything have happened, Dacre?"
Dacre looked at him reproachfully; but only shook his head, without a smile. Geoffrey walked to the door, and turned suddenly, almost with a shout.
"Here's Featherstone!" he cried. "He was in the King's escort; he has news."
The Royalists crowded around Featherstone as he entered, but their eager eyes found no reassurance in his face, which was pale, and, still more unlike Featherstone, full of anger and gloom.
He did not reply to the hail of questions which met him, but looked around for Dacre, and went to him.
"The King?" asked Dacre, sternly.
"The King has disappeared," answered Featherstone, "and no one knows where he has gone."
There was a dead silence in the tent; not a man moved. Dacre looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to twelve.
"He may be on the way here by another route," suggested the old Duke.
"What have you done to obtain information?" asked Dacre.
"At eleven o'clock the escort waiting at the station in London telephoned us that the train had gone and the King had not arrived. We waited ten minutes and then I telephoned direct to the house of the King's banker and received in answer these words: 'The King left here at two o'clock this morning to go on board his steam-yacht. He has sailed for America.' In reply to my questions, no reason was given for his going, as no one there knew, and Bugbee had not returned since the King's departure."
Featherstone folded his arms and looked at Dacre, on whom again all eyes turned. He held in one hand the royal banner, fast to the halyards, and in the other hand his watch.
At this moment the artillery trumpet heard before sounded much nearer, and it was answered, apparently, by other trumpets at different points of the camp.
"Gentlemen," said Dacre, drawing up his tall figure with superb pride, and looking calmly round the tent, "in two minutes it will be noon—the hour of our movement. Yonder rides the brave man who will proclaim the Monarchy, and it is too late now to warn him or his fellow-officers and patriots. We may draw back; but they will go on. The world will be the witness. If the King has been false to us—and we do not know that he has—we shall be true to our cause and to ourselves."
There was a pause. Dacre's eyes were on the dial in his hand.
"Gentlemen!" he cried, as he placed the watch in his pocket, "it is twelve o'clock! Shall I raise the King's flag?"
"Ay! Up with it!" rang out the brave shout.
At that instant the noonday gun boomed, and had the Royalists listened they might have heard the rumble of artillery and the rattling of cavalry surrounding them in a vast circle. But had they heard it they would not have been stayed. To withdraw now, to sneak away from the very brink of danger, would be worse than death. They must go on to the end. The world's eyes were on them, or would be to-morrow; the world is always looking at yesterday.
Like bees from a hive they swarmed, a handful of men, from the door of the mess-tent, drawing their swords to conquer a kingdom for a king who had run away. There was a noble despair in their hearts.
"Up with the King's banner!" shouted Featherstone, and Dacre went to the mast and drew up the flag.
"God save the King!" shouted every throat, as the heavy folds went upward.
But there was a hitch in the halyards, and Dacre's excitement did not allow him to remove it quickly. The royal banner stopped on its way aloft—stopped at the half mast—and there ominously remained for a full half minute before the lines were cleared and it soared to the masthead.
On the parade-ground seven regiments of infantry had wheeled into line, and presented arms as the commander rode to the front of the brigade. When the noonday gun boomed, a thrill went through the scarlet ranks, for eventhe linesmen knew that a tragedy was about to be enacted. The word had been passed through the camp that the Royalist traitors would at that hour declare themselves.
Never was drama seen upon the stage in which the actors approached the tragic ending so fatuously, so deliberately.
Colonel Arundel, riding in front of the staff, halted and faced the brigade. The troops presented arms; the band played the national anthem, "God Save the People!" When the music had ceased the eyes of Colonel Arundel were turned to the flag-pole at the mess-tent. His heart leaped within him when he saw the lines shake, and then, true to the moment of time, up went the flag of the King.
"Soldiers!" shouted the old commander, baring his white head and pointing to the royal banner; "behold the flag of your King and country! King George has come to claim his own again, and he is now in personal command of this camp. God save the King!"
The whole brigade stared at the flagstaff where the big banner of King George had stopped at the half-mast like a mourning emblem. A round of suppressed laughter came from the troops—a sound that sent a shudder through the old colonel's heart, which no violent outcry could have done.
The vibration of the commander's voice was still in the air when a horseman dashed down to the head of the brigade, a man with a face of terrible power and purpose. It was Colonel Devereux. He faced the brigade like a man cast in iron, so still he sat for half a minute. He was an electric centre, reaching the eyes and nerves of every man in the brigade.
"Present—arms!" and the brigade sprang into motion beneath his thrilling voice.
"Men!" he said slowly, but with a force that sent his voice to both flanks of the brigade, "the command of this camp has this day been given to me by the only power on earth able to give it—the President of the British Republic."
"And I, sir—what am I?" indignantly demanded Colonel Arundel, but in a voice too low to reach the soldiers' ears. Insulted as he was he would have no altercation in front of the troops.
"You, sir!" answered Colonel Devereux, and his voice rang like a trumpet, "you are a traitor to the people!"
While this scene was in action, an insignificant movement took place on the inner flank of one regiment in the brigade. A sergeant and six men were detached, and the squad marched at a quick step along the rear till they came to the centre, when they wheeled to the front, passed through the formation, and halted directly in front of Colonel Arundel. The grounding of their arms completed the terrible charge of the new commander.
"Soldiers," cried Colonel Devereux, turning to the brigade, "behold the death of a traitor!"
The sergeant gave the word to his men in a low voice, and seven rifles were levelled at Colonel Arundel, who sat still in his saddle, hat in hand, as he had saluted the King's flag. One swift turn of his head now and he saw the great emblazoned banner in the air; the next moment his breast was torn to pieces, and the old man fell forward as his horse swerved, and then the body tumbled from the saddle and lay in front of the brigade.
"Colonel Gardener, take command here," said Devereux to an officer in the horror-struck staff; "and you, gentlemen," designating three or four of the staff by amotion of his hand, "follow me." He wheeled his horse and rode straight for the mess-tent, where the royal banner was flying.
A young artillery officer, with one Gatling gun and a dozen troopers, were galloping toward the place from another direction. They reached the tent at the same moment as Colonel Devereux.
"Halt!" he shouted to the gunners, and the mounted party stopped as if turned to stone.
"Haul down that flag!" he ordered Dacre, pointing with his naked sword.
"Never!" answered Dacre, standing at the foot of the mast.
Colonel Devereux gave a stern command to the officer of the gun; the piece was trained on the flagstaff, and next instant, with a hellish roar, its sixty bullets tore the flag-pole into shreds, and the enormous banner cumbered the wet earth.
Before the discharge Geoffrey had bodily seized Dacre and dragged him out of range. Better, perhaps, had he left him to his fate, for death at that moment, with his duty done, his sword in hand and his flag above him, would have saved him the deeper agony of shame and disappointment, which walked with him like shadows henceforward to the grave.
The officer in charge of the gun ordered his troopers and drivers to ride across the fallen banner; and the hoofs and muddy wheels rent it to pieces and befouled it in the mire.
"You are a coward!" cried Dacre, and rushing to the front he crossed swords with the mounted officer, wounding him in the arm. Next moment he was stretched senseless on the ill-fated flag, a gunner having struck him down with the stock of his carbine.
The others yielded without a word. The artillery officer, his hand dripping blood, took their swords one by one and flung them contemptuously on the flag, beside John Dacre's senseless body.
As they were marched off, surrounded by a cavalry guard, to be taken to London, Mr. Sydney, seeing that the Duke of Bayswater could hardly keep up, gave his arm to the infirm old man.
"This is a grim joke," said Sydney; "I wonder what they will do with our friend Dacre."
"Thanks," said the poor old fellow, leaning heavily on Sydney, and putting up his collar to keep out the rain. Then he turned a last look at Dacre, still lying as he had fallen. "If he is dead, I suppose they will bury him like a Christian gentleman, as he was." And, raising his hat, the courtly old man saluted the fallen soldier.
Featherstone handed Geoffrey a cigar, and lighted one himself as the procession started.
"I wonder where King George the Fifth is about this time," he said, with a forlorn smile.
"No matter where he is," answered Geoffrey, in a voice of settled belief; "one thing is certain: Monarchy is dead forever in England—and it is time!"
The news of the suppression of the conspiracy and the arrest of the ringleaders caused great excitement over England. Enormous crowds paraded the streets of London demanding the exile of all persons who had formerly borne titles. The King was hung in effigy and his lay figure cremated in the public kiln at Lincoln's Inn Fields. Socialism became rampant. A rabble of the lowest orders of the people invaded Hyde Park and the other public gardens, making day and night hideous with their orgies. The famous Albert memorial statue was blown to shivers by dynamite at high noon, and unbridled license became the watchword of the masses. Such anarchy had never been known in England. Even the government, who at first were inclined to suffer the demonstration against the Royalists to gather head, grew alarmed. Absolute revolution was imminent, and resolute measures had to be taken. Nor did the public temper cool until threescore of the most wretched of those who live in the foul dens of the great city lay dead along the streets of Kensington and Belgravia. The military were forced to shoot them down to stem the tumult.
Comparative quiet was restored at the end of ten days,and then the government ventured to bring the prisoners to London under a strong guard and lodge them in the Tower. Twenty thousand people, it is estimated, dogged the footsteps of the troops who escorted them, and it was only the points of bayonets and the muskets ready to deal death at a word that secured their safety. The conspirators marched two and two with lancers carrying loaded carbines on each flank. There were sixteen in all. John Dacre and Geoffrey Ripon were side by side. Neither of them had much hope of escaping the fury of the mob. The Duke of Bayswater and Colonel Featherstone rode a little in advance. The poor old duke's hat had fallen off, and his bald head was a shining mark for missiles. An egg had struck his pate and made an offensive daub.
The streets through which the procession passed were lined with spectators. From Government House, President Bagshaw and the leading members of the party in power looked down upon their victims, and the windows of Whitehall across the way afforded a view to the friends of the opposition, among whom sat Richard Lincoln and his daughter. The great commoner would have preferred to avoid the spectacle, but Mary had expressed a desire to see the prisoners on their way through the streets. She looked pale and stony-eyed as she sat watching for them, and her father sighed as he observed her, for he knew her secret. His brow was anxious. These were troublesome times and a source of concern to all who loved their country. He knew the government to be composed of men who thought only of their own interests. This semblance of authority was the sole bar that prevented the insubordinate masses from overriding law and decency. How long would President Bagshaw be able to withstand the popularclamor for a liberty that was akin to pillage? This foolish conspiracy had biassed thousands of order-loving citizens against conservative measures. His own party were reduced to a pitiful minority, and the conduct of the Royalists had caused a reaction which threatened to engulf the constitution and the laws. And, as if that were not enough to sadden the soul of an honest man, his only daughter loved the traitor whose mad enthusiasm had precipitated these ills upon the country.
It was Mary's voice that interrupted his revery.
"They are coming, father."
Lincoln looked out, and as far as the eye could reach the streets were black with a sea of heads. The glistening of bayonets, the waving flags, the uniforms, the mad shouts and derisive groans, and above the tumult the drums beating in full rhythm, made an exciting scene. But all was lost upon Mary. Her eye had singled out John Dacre, and she was gazing down at him in speechless agony. He appeared to her wan and sick. His clothes were torn and covered with mud. But he bore himself as ever, erect and dignified.
As though by instinct, he looked up to the window, and their eyes met. He raised his hat with the courtly grace of a gentleman, forgetting for an instant the situation and the consequences that may accrue to her he saluted. The glance of the crowd followed his gesture, and many caught sight of the pale girl and beheld her throw a rose to the handsome prisoner. It fell wide of him for whom it was meant; indeed, he did not see the flower fall. It dropped among the crowd, and would have been trampled in the mud beneath the feet of those who hated her lover had not Geoffrey Ripon darted from the ranks and snatched it upto his infinite peril, for the trooper at his side struck him with the butt of his carbine. "See," he said to Dacre, who was stalking on in unconscious revery; "see, she has thrown you a rose. Be of good cheer, man." And Geoffrey could not help thinking that if the one he loved had dropped a rose at his feet, how slight a thing his present plight would seem.
But Richard Lincoln saw her action, and, with a start of anger, he said, "That man is a traitor, Mary. And yet you are my daughter."
Those of his friends standing near had failed to notice her throw the rose, nor did they now heed the blush which mantled her face as she looked up at their leader.
"I know it, father; but I love him," she whispered, and she would have fainted had not Lincoln supported her with his strong arms and led her from the room.
There was another also who watched the prisoners with eyes of recognition. Mrs. Oswald Carey had left her lodgings early in the morning so as to secure a good position from which to view the procession, and from a coign of vantage close by the houses of Parliament was feasting her gaze upon the victims of her treachery. A long cloak covered her figure, and her face was muffled. Only her beautiful eyes were visible. Owing to the bitter feeling prevalent against the Royalists, she feared to show herself, for she had been so intimately associated with the dissipations of the nobility, the people would have stoned her. She felt proof against discovery in her present garb, and had waited for hours, hedged about by the rabble, for a glimpse of Geoffrey Ripon.
Her revenge had been swift and equal to her expectation. Its sequel was yet to follow. As she gazed at theface of the young man, which exposure had rather ennobled and made more handsome, strange feelings were awakened within her. She scarcely knew whether she were sorry to see him there in peril of his life, or that she would be pleased to know that he had paid the penalty of treason with his head. Her love and hate were so intermingled that she could not distinguish which had the upper hand. He passed close to where she was standing. But even had he been able to recognize her, he could not have suspected that her perfidy was the occasion of his misfortune. She had guarded her secret carefully. President Bagshaw had been true to his word. No rumor of the means by which the conspiracy was unearthed had reached the public ear.
As she made her way home through the crowded street after the procession had passed, reflection as to what would be Geoffrey's fate absorbed her thoughts. In the present state of the public temper it was not likely that he would escape death. To be shot for high treason seemed the logical sequel to his escapade. Well, if it must be so, she preferred to see him on the scaffold rather than in the arms of another. She would wait until all was over, and then find in America solace for her disappointment. She had played her cards well. The King was madly in love with her, and she had no fear of his sailing away without her. If so, there was Jawkins still. She had lulled the manager into such a feeling of security that he had run up to Scotland to undertake an important contract. An American billionaire, having rented the Trossachs for the season, had engaged him to superintend his arrangements. Titled people were at a premium since the discovery of the conspiracy, and Jawkins could command his own prices. Hisreply to this patron, "I will provide you with a pair of peers if I have to filch them from prison, but they come high," was illustrative alike of the energy and the business sagacity of the man. The poor old Archbishop of Canterbury, who had escaped from Aldershot scot free, was being hurried from one corner of England to the other to supply dinner requirements. Jawkins had caused her some trouble at first, it is true. Upon the receipt of her telegram at Ripon House he had hurried up to London, and ferreting out her lodgings accused her of wishing to give him the slip. She had assuaged his feelings by lunching with him at a public restaurant and permitting him to engage their passages to America for a fortnight later. Had it not been for the King's arrival she would have kept faith with him.
The trial of the prisoners was set down for one week after their consignment to the Tower. It was to take place in the House of Parliament, and the indictment against all was for high treason. The attorney-general, James McPherson, was to conduct the case for the government, and the accused retained the services of Calhoun Benjamin, a great-grandson of the Benjamin for some time a famous lawyer in the reign of Victoria. It was not permissible for any member of either house to appear as counsel. The constitution required that the joint bodies should adjudge the cause. Still, after the formal arguments any member was at liberty to rise to a question of privilege and address the assembly. Such was indeed the usual custom.
Mary Lincoln doubtless had this in mind when she whispered to her father the evening before the trial, "You will speak for him, will you not, father?"
"I cannot tell," said Richard Lincoln. "Why shouldI, Mary? His desert is death, and I should not know what to say in his behalf."
"But if all of us were treated according to our deserts, how few of us would escape scathing. Only you, father; I know of no one beside."
The patriot looked down at the pale girl sitting at his feet and stroked her hair. Her eyes were filled with tears, and she gazed at him imploringly. He knew her secret to the uttermost now. She had told him, all the evening of that dreadful day when London saw her throw down a rose to her country's traitor. Still, if it were to do again, would she not do it? Her love was stronger than her sense of shame.
Richard Lincoln sat and gazed into the fire. These were indeed troublesome times, but a light seemed breaking just below where the clouds lowered darkest. A week had seen a great change in public sentiment. Debate in Parliament had been fierce and bitter. At the head of his party he had striven to show that those who held the reins of power abused and deceived the masses, and that true liberty lay not in ignorant usurpation of right, but intelligent recognition of a lawfully constituted authority which regarded all alike. At first his purpose had been misinterpreted, but as by degrees the true significance of his words were grasped by the popular mind, groans gave place to silence, and sullenness to cheers. He had not hesitated to wield the axe of reform with a yeoman's hand, and the flying chips told of the havoc he was making among the dead wood of ignorance and craft. It was his aim to demonstrate that a demagogue in the seat of power is no less a menace to the happiness of the people than an aristocrat.
Yet in the face of his triumph arose the shadow of this strange, unnatural love; for it seemed unnatural to him that his only child should have given her heart to one whose ambition it was to destroy that which he had helped to establish and bring back the frippery of an unhallowed past. He had found it difficult at first to conceive it as possible, but her confession, and more eloquently still her pallid cheeks, left no room to question the truth of this misfortune. And to-morrow he would be called upon to doom to the scaffold the man whose being had become so much a part of hers as to have led her to play the traitor also. As thus he pondered the breaking light seemed to fade from the sky, and the clouds lowered gloomy and impenetrable.
"Father," said Mary again, "I am sure you can save him."
Lincoln shook his head. "Not even if I would, girl," he replied, sternly.
"You, too, desert me," she murmured. She covered her face with her hands for a moment, then with a sudden impulse she stood, tall and resolute. Her eyes flashed fire. "If it is wrong to love a traitor, let it be so. I cannot help loving John Dacre, and I should like to die with him."
Richard Lincoln gazed at her in amazement. There was pride, too, in his glance. He saw in her transfigured face a repetition of his own youth when the spirit soared impatient of restraint and knew not yet the curbs that check the extravagance of ardent natures. In those early days he had struck out for the ideal right, even as her heart in the fulness of its love poured out its tide of passion. He held out his hands to her, and his lips trembled.
"My child, my child! would to God I could save your lover. You are dearer to me than all the world beside. Do not spurn your father's arms. His breast is your rightful place for comfort now."
She suffered him to clasp her in his embrace. "I will be brave," she whispered, looking up into his eyes. "Kiss me; I will be brave, and—and when he dies let me die, too."
"My child!" murmured Lincoln again, and there was terror as well as pity in his tone. He held her close, and her head rested on his shoulder. "All may yet be well, my dear one," he said tenderly.
Before daybreak the next morning a stream of people was pouring up from the city and winding its way through Cheapside and Fleet Street and the Strand to the judgment hall in the Houses of Parliament. By the time the guard from the Tower reached Westminster, vast multitudes lined the sidewalks and formed so dense a mass in the square in front of the gates that progress was well-nigh impossible. The populace was orderly, however, and fell back before the horses of a troop of cavalry, with no further demonstration than a sullen murmur.
The prisoners were brought before the bar of the Commons, and the Upper House entered immediately after to take their seats. It was an impressive scene. One might have heard a pin drop as the officer of the Crown rose to read the indictment, and again when, as he sat down, the hoarse voice of the clerk called out the names of the accused, shorn of all titles, to rise and answer to the charge of high treason against the Republic of Great Britain and Ireland.
"What say you, John Dacre—guilty or not guilty?"
"Not guilty."
Dacre's glance moved gravely around the vast hall and met the gaze of a thousand eyes without flinching. Fate willed that it should distinguish a pale, lovely face amid the press that lined the galleries, and linger thereon a moment as though loath to turn aside; but even while he gazed, the drapery and shoulder of another woman were interposed between his sight and the delicate features of Mary Lincoln, and shut her from his view. "What say you, Geoffrey Ripon? Are you guilty or not guilty?"
It was these words that had caused the stranger to lean forward and crane her neck—a beautiful neck that, muffled as she was, did not wholly escape the admiration of her neighbors. Her eyes sparkled with a light cold and malicious as the gleam which emanates from a blade of steel. As the lips of young Geoffrey Ripon flung back a clear denial of the charge, a hope was in his heart that the sweet maiden of his fancy might be among the hundreds looking down. She was not there, but her rival, Mrs. Oswald Carey, sat and watched each shade of his expression.
And now the witnesses were summoned and confronted the prisoners. The proofs were ample and overwhelming. It almost seemed mistrusting the intelligence of the judges to dwell upon the evidence, to quote the opening words of the attorney-general, and as a consequence the argument of that official was a model of conciseness. Then the time was come for the defendants' counsel. Mr. Benjamin arose and spoke for an hour. His speech was painstaking, but not particularly impressive. In conclusion he said that rebellion had often been punished before without the shedding of blood. He instanced Jefferson Davis, the great Secessionist, and the clemency of the American people. Mr. McPherson in reply adduced the Irish rebels executed by the government of Victoria, and thereat a shout arose which shook the walls of Parliament and was echoed by the crowd outside. Even the prisoners glanced at each other with downcast looks. The perspiration stood out in beads on the bald head of the Duke of Bayswater.
"It is all up with us," whispered Ripon to Dacre.
"My God and my King! It is a noble cause to die for," answered the cavalier, and his proud face looked beatified.
There was a dread and awful silence as the attorney-general finished his last words. The hour for judgment had arrived, unless it were that some senator or commoner wished to speak for or against the prisoners. A bitter and illiterate friend of the government saw fit to spring to his feet and enter upon a violent harangue. Clemency would be misplaced in the present juncture, he said. Death for one and all was the proper measure to be meted out to Royalists and traitors. His truculent words seemed to please the audience, and he sat down amid a tempest of applause. For an instant there was no movement on either side of the house, and then Richard Lincoln, the leader of the opposition, arose and stepped out into the aisle, so as to command his hearers. A flutter of expectation, a murmur of surprise, spread through the assembly, and as he opened his mouth to speak, every ear was alert to catch his words.
"I rise," he said, "to speak for the people, the great, true-souled people. They have, it seems to me, no representative here, or I have failed to interpret aright the language of my predecessor. Are the people merciless? Have they no heart? I know that the contrary is true.It is no argument with them that others have preferred cruelty to mercy, and vengeance to justice. I stand here to-day, for the people and for justice."
He paused, and as no sound expressed one way or the other the feelings of his auditors, he spoke once more:
"Let these men live. Fine or imprisonment will accomplish all that you desire, save the satisfaction of revenge. Capital punishment in this age of the world is an ugly smear upon the escutcheon of constitutional liberty. Let these men live, and your children's children will write you down in their books as worthy of remembrance. They are guilty, but blood will not atone for wrong-doing. Let them live, I say, in the name of justice and the people."
He finished and sat down. Not much of a speech in the way of argument, some will say. It is the manner more than the matter of words that sways men's hearts. No cheers were heard, it is true, but his hearers sat upon the benches thoughtful and silent. The Speaker of the House glanced about him, but no one rose to contradict the testimony that had fallen from the lips of Richard Lincoln.
And now the judges arose and left the hall. For four hours the assembly and the crowds in the streets waited in patience. Before the fifth had elapsed the usher's rod announced that a verdict had been reached. The silence was breathless. The Speaker took the scroll from the hands of William Peters, the leader of the House, and read aloud that John Dacre, as the master spirit of the late rebellion at Aldershot, was sentenced to be shot to death at noon of the next day, and that all the other leaders were to be imprisoned for the term of fifteen years.
There was a roar and a rush as the people rose to escapefrom the galleries, and few observed a slender girl slip from her seat to the floor. A woman with beautiful eyes, whose face was otherwise veiled from view, stooped to her succor, then gave a shrill cry. Mary Lincoln lay lifeless. Mrs. Oswald Carey, whose shriek it was that made this known, was not one to believe that a woman can die of a broken heart. But if even such a result of her treachery had been foreshadowed to her, she would not have faltered.
Immediately after the sentence was pronounced the prisoners were led back to the Tower. They were chained together by twos, and Sir John walked with Geoffrey. During the entire walk from St. Stephen's, along the river embankment, neither of them spoke to the other. For Geoffrey, at least, it was a subject of life-long regret that he had not done so.
It was part of the policy of Bagshaw's government thus to march them through the streets, a spectacle, like a caravan of caged beasts, for the populace. Geoffrey thought to himself, curiously, of the old triumphs of the Roman emperors he had read about as a schoolboy. Then, as now, the people needed bread and loved a show. But the people, even then, had caught something of the dignity of power. Silently they pressed upon the sidewalks and thronged the gardens by the river. Not a voice was raised in mockery of these few men; there is something in the last extremity of misfortune which commands respect, even from the multitude. And, perhaps, even then the first-fruits of freedom might have been marked in their manner, and magnanimity, the first virtue of liberty, kept the London rabble hushed.
Geoffrey's eyes were turned within as he walked, as if he were thinking, but of thoughts far distant, far back in the past. Dacre held his glance still high and forward, fixed and straight upon the road before him. Only once, when they passed the Temple gardens, did Geoffrey's eyes stray outward; it was when he marked the windows of his old study in the Inner Temple, where he had studied to be a barrister in days gone by; then his look grew introspective as before.
When they came to the gate of the Tower the soldiers divided and drew apart in two lines, between which the prisoners passed into the great courtyard. A squad of the Tower garrison—no longer in the gay livery of the King, but in the plain black coat and helmet of policemen—stood before the door. The banner of the British Republic—the red and white stripes, with the green union and the harp—floated over the loftiest tower of all. The prisoners were then separated, and each was led to a different cell. Then for the first time Geoffrey thought of Dacre; but he was already under a special escort and being led away; it was too late. The last that Geoffrey saw of him he was walking erect, with his silent lips still closed, steady like the course of some strong stream above the fall. As he watched him, Geoffrey heard the distant murmur of the people beyond the gates.
Geoffrey well remembered the room that was his prison. He had been taken there as a sightseer when a child. It was in the Beauchamp Tower; and—strange coincidence—there was the bear and ragged staff of Warwick, still visible, cut deep into the old stone walls.
So, thought he, it had all ended. History repeats itself, but in strange new forms that seem as if they half mock,half follow, the old. Then, the King was wrong; was now the people in the right? They brought him some food; and after eating he threw himself on the ground and tried to sleep. But his sleep was troubled with his dreams of waking: now he heard Margaret Windsor's broken words again; now he was in the great hall of St. Stephen's speaking; then he heard again the echo of the gun that shot down the royal flag, and then the silence of the people, forever estranged, more dread, more terrible than any words of enemies or noise of battle. Again he thought of Dacre and his look when all was lost: a look unchanged, unmoved; a look less of despair than the majesty of certain fate—a fate not new nor sudden, but chosen of his own calm will. A man of stone, thought Geoffrey; the incarnation of one thought; hardly human in his conscious strength. And yet, as Geoffrey saw him in the darkness of the night, his heart went out to him, and he felt that he loved this man as he had never loved a friend before.
The dawn came, and its gray damp breath broke through the iron bars. It seemed all unreal in the daylight. Old stones of escape passed through his mind: how men, in childish stories of history or romance, with some rude instrument of iron, had carved their will and way through walls as thick as these. But how idle they seemed! How futile, how vain to make with his two hands a way through stone, or burrow like a mole into the earth! And yet those legends seemed no less a dream than this of his.
There was a strange silence as the morning grew on; he wondered if the world outside were all asleep. He had foreseen it; and yet he had not quite foreseen this; some glorious end, in a battle, perhaps, fighting out in the freecountry, beneath the sun. Again his thoughts turned to his friend, and he felt a strange assurance that Dacre had foreseen it all along, but not held back his steps one whit for that. And there was Maggie—in America—could she, and her life, be in the same world with this? Yet it was natural enough, and such things had always been, only he had never truly pictured them. The day seemed endless. If he could only hear something of the others, and not be so terribly alone. If he could but learn where they were—where Dacre was. He heard a dull sound like the noise of distant firing, but more like thunder, coming heavily through the ground. Geoffrey ran to the window, drew himself up, and looked out through the bars. There was a sea of upturned faces, all pale and with one fixed look, a myriad times repeated, pointed to the base of the Tower below his window where he could not see. Then he fell back upon the ground, burying his face in his hands.
Dacre himself had slept that night a dreamless sleep, as he had slept any night before in the years since he had seen his path and chosen it. At noon the people came to his cell and led him out. Numbers of men were standing in the corridor and on the stairs; he looked on between the lines and walked to the door. Then he begged that his handcuffs might be removed. As he paused a moment, Richard Lincoln stepped forward and ordered that it should be done. Then he fell back, bowing once to Dacre. Richard Lincoln had come there from the death-bed of his daughter to do this last service to the man that she loved. Then Dacre passed on, out of the great door into the full light of the noon. There in front of him was a great concourse of people, the multitude Geoffrey had seen from his window. Dacre looked out from the prisongate with his fixed, clear eyes, but the road was growing very short before him now, and still his glance went on beyond—beyond the company of soldiers standing thirty yards in front, the butts of their rifles resting on the ground.
"John Dacre, you are found guilty of high treason to the people. Have you anything to say?" It was Bagshaw, the President, who spoke, in his capacity as general of the army.
Dacre made no reply. He was thinking of the treason of his King, and not of his own. And there in front of him were the people—the people, in might of numbers, in the majesty of strength, ten thousand to his one. But as he looked upon them their ten thousand faces were turned on his, their hearts within their eyes; and Dacre might have noted that in all of them there was not one but spoke pity—pity, in their silence, for himself. Then he turned aside from the door, with his back to the prison wall. "I am ready."
"John Dacre—you have nothing to say?" said the President again. "You may yet save yourself. Where is the King?" Dacre turned his glance upon him, slowly.
"I am ready," said he again. He seemed to overlook the President as he spoke, and he never looked at him again.
"Give the order to make ready!" said Bagshaw, angrily, to the officer in command, and the slight click of the rifles followed his words.
The narrow courtyard was as still as if deserted, though it seemed you could almost hear the breathing of the multitude that thronged the streets. But to die thus, penned in a narrow courtyard, passively, vainly, shot like a dog.A low murmur began to come from the people, indeterminate, inarticulate; it came to Dacre's ears like the hum of distant battle, and perhaps he saw the battle, and the royal standard, and that last unworthy King for whom this thing was done. Then came Bagshaw's voice again: "Where is the King?"
"Silence, sir!" thundered Richard Lincoln, and Bagshaw slunk back a pace or two, like a chidden dog.
"The King is dead," said Dacre, so clearly that all the people in the street heard him, but no one made a sound. Then he threw back his coat, as if to bare his breast to the levelled muskets; and as he did so the withered rose dropped out and fell into his hand. It was Mary Lincoln's rose that he had thrust there on the day before. And as he looked at it the false bonds of his faith fell from him like the fetters of a dream, and he looked upon the multitude and saw that theirs was the right, and he knew that his life was thrown away; then first he remembered she had loved him, and he saw what might have been. He saw the poor image of a king—the King who had deserted his own cause and left him in his loyalty alone; he saw the throng of humanity standing silent there before him, and the sweetness and the virtue of the life which he had put behind. Then for the first time his firm lips trembled, as he lifted the poor rose to his lips, and kissed it once, in memory of her whom he was leaving, as he thought. But Mary Lincoln was dead; and as he turned his face upward, he seemed to see some vision in the sky, and they say that a great glory shone into his face.
"Fire!" came the word, and the sheet of flame leaped out toward him, and he fell; and the rose-leaves, scattered by a bullet, lay about him on the stones.
Geoffrey's jailers were lenient to him after that first day. He was removed to a room with carpet and furniture; his table was well served; he was allowed to walk about in the courtyards; books and pen and ink were given him—everything but newspapers. The fact was that Bagshaw felt he had gone too far. The vindictiveness, the cruelty of the populace, was already a thing of the past—of that past when they had not yet learned their power. The people were good-natured, impressionable, forgiving; and that low murmur from the street on the day of Dacre's execution, the third time the President had sought to make his prisoner betray the King, had well-nigh driven Bagshaw from his office. It was Richard Lincoln who had saved the government that day, by his stern rebuke to the President; the latter liked him none the better for that.
Geoffrey felt this change of sentiment in the manner of his keepers; and when he remembered that first terrible day, it was but to hope that his fears had been exaggerated. Undoubtedly John's sentence would be commuted to imprisonment like his own.
But the more convinced Geoffrey became of this, the more his mind turned to the other persons of those eventful days. The King had not come—that was the grim fact—the King had not come to claim his own; had left his honest gentlemen to fight or fall without him; and no one, even now, could tell how different the event might have been that day had George the Fifth but proved his own cause worth defending. Geoffrey, Dacre, none of them had had news of the King since the day of Aldershot. Up to the very stroke of noon, as Geoffrey remembered, Dacre had expected him. But they had waited in vain. And now the White Horse of Hanover, and with that the Norman Leopard, was a thing of the past. From his window Geoffrey could see the red, white, and green tricolor in the Tower yard. He inclined to think the King was dead.
Geoffrey had never been by conviction a Legitimist; hardly even had he been one by affection. Dacre's magnetism, Dacre's nobility of purpose had overcome his earlier judgment; for the one effort he had lent his life to his friend, to stake on a cast of the die. Now that they had fairly thrown and lost, he returned to his former judgment. But with the cause that they had lost had gone his own future.
He did not care so much for this, since that last scene with Margaret Windsor. What future was there for him now? Stone walls do not a prison make; he might as well be here as penned up, useless, in his four acres about the lodge at Ripon House. His friends—what friends had he? Dacre, Sydney, Featherstone—they were walled up with him. And Geoffrey, walking in the Tower yard, would look up to the scattered windows, and wonder which of them was his friend's; and if he noticed a dull red stain on the stones at the base of the wall, he thoughtit was some old mark, dating from Cromwell or the Roses. Still, Geoffrey was a young man, too young to have wholly learned to be a fatalist; but the more he thought of escape, the more hopeless it seemed. With a confederate, a friend outside, it might perhaps be possible. But what friend had he left in the wide world? Geoffrey racked his memory to think of one. There were some two hundred men he knew at his club in the West End—but which one of these, who had not been at Aldershot, would leave his snug rubber at whist for the Tower? There was Jawkins—if Jawkins could be brought to think it worth his while. Mr. Windsor—the shrewd American was with his daughter in America; and the daughter deemed him false, and had forgotten him. False! There was Eleanor Carey; she had loved him; would she not seek to save him? The woman whose maidenhood he had loved? He had not heard of her since the night before Aldershot; but this was rather a hopeful sign than otherwise. The more Geoffrey thought, the more he felt assured that here was the one person in the world that might be trusted to remember him.
So, when Geoffrey had been in prison some three weeks, and one day the turnkey came and said that some one wished to see him, Geoffrey thought of Mrs. Carey at once. His heart beat high with hope as he followed his guide through a labyrinth of stairs and passages. He even forgot to look closely at each door, as he was used to do, to find some sign of Dacre or his friends. Eleanor! was on his lips to cry as the jailer opened the door of a distant room and bade him enter.
In the centre, by a table, was standing an old man, dressed in black, with a white head bent well forward uponhis shoulders. It was Reynolds, no longer dressed like a servant, but disguised in a suit of broadcloth, such as was worn until recently by the oldest gentlemen. The old man bent still lower, took Geoffrey's hand and kissed it.
"Thank God!" said he, in a whisper, "dear young master, you are alive, at all events." Reynolds still used old-fashioned forms of speech.
It was a strange thing to Geoffrey to be still called young. He felt as if he had seen a century at least—the twentieth. He looked at Reynolds with a slight but decided feeling of disappointment. He had hoped for Mrs. Carey.
"Yes, Reynolds, I am alive, and glad to see you," he added, as he saw the tears in the old man's eyes. "Sit down." Geoffrey pushed a chair toward him; but the old man would as soon have thought of sitting down in the presence of the King. "And how is Ripon House?"
"Ripon House, your lordship, is much the same. I think I may succeed in letting it to one of your lordship's old tenants." Geoffrey looked up, surprised; then he remembered that by Ripon House Reynolds meant the lodge. "With your lordship's permission I can get thirty guineas a year for it," Reynolds added.
"By all means, Reynolds," said Geoffrey. "But, Reynolds, I must have no 'your lordship' any more. That is done forever. I was foolish ever to have consented to it."
"Yes, your lordship," replied Reynolds, simply. "I knew your lordship would consent, so I have brought the first quarter's rent in advance." And the old man laid eight five-dollar gold pieces on the table. Geoffrey grasped his hand.
"Thank you, Reynolds," said he. The old man was more embarrassed than if he had kissed him.
"Your lordship—your lordship is—" Reynolds stammered, and Geoffrey interrupted him.
"None of that, remember;" he lifted a finger pleasantly. "But I asked you about Ripon House."
"The old castle (it was not half so old as the lodge) is shut up, earl," said he. "The American is in his own country."
"Reynolds, do you know what became of the King?"
"No, your lord—Earl Brompton."
"Or who it was that betrayed us? Some one must have carried all the particulars of the plan to Bagshaw."
The old man did not answer for a moment.
"Reynolds, have you seen Dacre?"
The question was sudden. "Does—does not your lordship know—" he faltered. Geoffrey sprang from his chair.
"They shot him."
Geoffrey sank back to his seat. The old servant walked to the window, pulling out his handkerchief. Outside was heard the measured step of the turnkey pacing to and fro.
"Reynolds, will you carry a letter for me?" said Geoffrey at last. "Think before you answer. You are no longer in my service, you know. I can no longer pay you."
"I am always in the earl's service," Reynolds interrupted.
"Thank you, Reynolds. The letter is to Mrs. Oswald Carey. You remember her?"
Reynolds started. "Forgive me, earl—but does your—your honor know—" The old man spoke in much trouble; Geoffrey looked up in amazement.
"Oh, forgive me, Earl Brompton—but—I once told a lie to you. That night—you remember that night when Sir John met your lordship in his room, and I said afterward there had been no one there?"
"Yes," said Geoffrey. "What then?"
"There was some one there. A lady was there. Mrs. Carey."
A terrible light broke upon Geoffrey. It was she that had taken the paper; it was she that was the traitor who had been the cause of Dacre's death. And his old love for her had killed his friend.
"There is no one left"—the words broke from his lips with a sob—"no one but you, Reynolds." He groaned aloud with rage and sorrow as he saw the part this woman had played. She had come between him and the girl he loved; she had betrayed the loyal cause; she had struck down Dacre, with her lying lips, her lovely eyes. And he had almost loved her.
"I have a message for your honor." Reynolds spoke humbly, timidly, as if his master blamed him. "The young American lady—Miss Windsor—before they went away, she desired me to write to her."
Geoffrey looked up, as if a ray of light had entered the prison window. "Wait," he said, simply. The old man stood at the window, while Geoffrey drew a chair to the table, sat down, and tried to write. Many a letter was begun, half finished, and then torn into fragments. When at last a note was done and sealed, Geoffrey turned to Reynolds.
"You will send it to her?"
"I will take it to her in America," said the old man; and he hastily thrust the note into the breast of his coat, as the turnkey entered. Geoffrey thrust one of the gold pieces into the jailer's hand as he led him away.
"You will be taken to Dartmoor Prison to-morrow," said the jailer, as if in reply. Geoffrey looked over his shoulder to see if Reynolds heard; but the old man was busy in buttoning up his coat, and did not look his way.
The day after these occurrences the French mail steamer, putting in at Cork Harbor, took on board several passengers. Among them was old Reynolds. It was Christmas week, and the ship was full of Americans, running home for the holidays, with the usual retinue of English and French servants, among whom Reynolds passed unnoticed. There were but two people in all the West that Reynolds cared to see; in Maggie Windsor and her father the old man had a strange confidence; but as for these people, their evident prosperity made him sorrowful, their wealth offended him.
As he sat upon the deck that evening, his old cloak drawn about his shoulders, a lady passed up and down before him, arm-in-arm with a gentleman whom he had never seen. There was a grace, a certain sinuous strength about the woman's figure that was strangely familiar to him. He tried to think where he had seen such a form before; and, do what he would, his memory would not stray from the library in the old lodge at Ripon House. The man with her was middle-aged, or perhaps a little older; he had a red beard of some three weeks' growth, not long enough to hide the contour of his fat double chin. His small eyes had a way of turning rapidly about, but not resting anywhere, as if he feared a steady glancemight lead some one to recognize him. Reynolds wondered who he was.
The night was mild for the season, and there was a bright moon. All the other passengers were below in the cabins, the sea was calm, and the strains of an orchestra were heard from the great saloon, where the passengers were dancing. There was an electric light behind where Reynolds sat, and pulling the evening paper from his pocket he tried to read. He had his own reasons for not caring to go below; apparently so had the other two, for they still walked the deck in front of him. Once, as they passed him, they stopped for a moment, and the light fell full upon the woman's face. It was Mrs. Carey.
The paper fell from the old man's hands. Their eyes met for a moment, then the woman turned away.
Reynolds was thunderstruck. Could that be Mr. Carey with her? he thought. He had never seen Carey, but he fancied not. Her husband must be a younger man. Reynolds hoped she had not recognized him. He hated the woman now; he felt a fear of her, well grounded, after all that had happened.
For several days after this the weather was bad, and Mrs. Carey came on deck without her companion. Reynolds avoided her, and she did not seem to notice him. Yet she had a fascination for him, and he would slyly watch her from the corners of his eyes, as one looks upon some brilliant serpent. This was the woman who had wrecked his master's life—who had betrayed the King. Reynolds wondered where the King was then. He fancied, with Geoffrey, that he must be dead.
On the fourth day they made the lightship anchored offthe Banks, and stopped for news and letters. Reynolds bought a paper; Mrs. Carey had a telegram, which he saw her reading with evident interest. His newspaper, which was a mere résumé of the telegrams received in the ocean station, had a long despatch about the so-called meeting at Aldershot. It said that George of Hanover was believed to have fled to America, but that it was not the policy of the government to pursue him.
"You seem interested in your paper, Mr. Reynolds," said a voice at his shoulder. The old servant stood up, and touched his hat, from habit. It was Mrs. Carey. She was dressed coquettishly in a sea-green travelling dress that showed her beautiful figure at its best; her hair was coiled above her fair neck in two glossy red-brown bands. Reynolds looked into her deep eyes and hated her. He cared more for his master than for any woman's eyes. "How did you leave poor Ripon?" she asked.
"My master is in Dartmoor Prison," said Reynolds, sadly.
"Your master is a crazy fool," said the beautiful woman, spitefully. Reynolds made as if to go, but she detained him. "Why are you going to America?"
"I have a message from Lord Brompton to the King," said Reynolds.
For fear that she might in some way thwart him, he did not tell her his real errand.
Mrs. Carey laughed scornfully. "No need to go so far," said she, and she beckoned with her hand. The stout man with the reddish beard came up, like some huge, dull animal called by its mistress. His sensuous, fat face was pallid with seasickness, and as he looked at Mrs. Carey there was a senile leer in his eye.
"King George," said she, "this is a servant of Lord Brompton's."
The decks were almost deserted, and no one was near enough to overhear them.
The old man's mouth opened; but he could only stare vacantly. He stammered some incoherent syllables, and tried to bend his knees, but they knocked together, trembling. He doffed his hat, and, with the sea-breeze blowing his thin white hair about his temples, stood looking at the King.
"I am sorry for your master," said the man with the beard. "But—it was useless. Was it not useless, my dear?" he added, turning to Mrs. Carey.
She laughed contemptuously, but made no reply, and the two resumed their promenade upon the deck. Reynolds watched them a long time sadly. She seemed to have complete control over the man, and Reynolds noticed that he even brought her a footstool, when she sat upon her sea-chair upon the deck. No one among the passengers seemed to know him or notice him; but many an admiring glance was turned upon Mrs. Carey. "Curse the jade!" said Reynolds to himself. Now, indeed, he saw that it was all true, and felt for the first time that his master would never come back to Ripon House. But he could not understand it. To say that the sun fell from the heavens would be but a poor simile to describe the effect this interview produced on the old man's mind. He sat like one dazed through the rest of the voyage. And King George, passing him, saw the old man sitting there, and felt ashamed, abased, before the look of the old servant. Only Mrs. Carey had a proud sparkle in her evil eyes, and gloated in spirit at the message that the man would take tohis master back in England. And when, on the fifth day, they landed in Boston, she got into a carriage and drove off with the King, and Reynolds saw her wave her jewelled hand at him from the window.