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The King's Men; A Tale of To-morrow, a novel by Robert Grant |
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Chapter 14. The Last Royalist |
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_ CHAPTER XIV. THE LAST ROYALIST 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 thought it 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 upon his 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 glance might 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 off the 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 resume 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 to his 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. He himself asked for the house of Mr. Abraham Windsor. Mr. Windsor, like most rich Americans, had a winter house in Boston, a plantation in Florida, a palace in Mexico, a shooting-box in the mountains of Montana, and other arrangements for circumventing the American climate; and Reynolds was driven to a great stone house, with court and gardens, fronting on a park. He asked for Miss Windsor; the servant looked at him curiously, but bade him wait. Reynolds was tired with the voyage and the bustle and hurry of arriving; and this great city, this great America, so fine, so bright, so rich, made him sad and depressed. What likelihood was there, he thought, that this gay, luxurious American would think or care for his poor master over in Dartmoor Jail? But, as he looked up, he started with astonishment. Hung upon the wall was a water-color, beautifully done, of the great avenue leading up to Ripon House. He heard a rustle at the door, and, turning hastily around, he saw Miss Windsor. She was more beautiful than the other, was his first thought; and making a step forward, he bowed humbly, not daring to take the hand she frankly extended to him. "Mr. Reynolds!" she said, sweetly. "I am so glad to see you!" This was well--she remembered him, at all events; and, therefore, his master. "My lady," said he respectfully, "I have made bold to bring you a letter--from England." "From England?" she said, feigning surprise; but a quick blush mantled her cheek. "From the Tower of London," said Reynolds, gravely. "From the Tower?" she cried; "is--is your master in prison?" "My master is now in Dartmoor Prison, if it please you, my lady," said Reynolds. "He was sentenced for fifteen years--for trying to serve the King." He drew forth the letter, carefully wrapped in a double envelope. She took it from him quickly, and tore the covering open. This is what she read:
"Eleanor Carey--at whose feet, as I now know, you must have seen me that day at Chichester--was the woman I loved when she was a young girl, beautiful, as you know; lovely, as I then thought. She was Eleanor Leigh then. Eleanor Carey pretended on that day that she had never ceased to love me. My noble friend John Dacre had formed a plot to restore the King of England, and this woman was one of us. It was she who made a breach between us that day. It was she who went the morning before to my house, and, overhearing Dacre's talk to me, stole a paper containing the names and plan of our conspiracy. It was she who of all our friends was the only traitor. She murdered my dear friend as truly as if it had been her hand that dealt the blow. He was shot in the Tower court below here, with his back to the wall, by a company of soldiers. And, as I now believe, it was Eleanor Carey who in some way met the King, and kept him from us on that day. "I tell you all this that you may believe, in spite of all you may have seen that day at Chichester, Eleanor Carey is not the woman I love. You did not believe this at Ripon House. Margaret, will you believe it now? "Yours, forever, "GEOFFREY RIPON."
"Fifteen years! Papa!" The door of an adjoining room opened, and Mr. Windsor appeared. "Yes, my dear." "Papa, this is Mr. Reynolds." "Mr. Reynolds, I am very happy to make your acquaintance." "Mr. Reynolds was Lord Brompton's servant--at Ripon, you remember?" "Oh! Reynolds, I am glad to see you." "That will do, Reynolds; you can go." "Papa, I have a commission for you in England." Reynolds's face fell. "Any--any message for my master, my lady?" "No. Oh--stop--yes. You may tell him," said Maggie, with a heightened color, smiling, "you may tell him I am about to be married." _ |
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