Part 44 (1/2)

He had courage to turn to the company and say, ”Gentlemen, I fear very much that Mr. George will not be here to-day; something hath happened--and--and--I very much fear some accident may befall him, which must keep him out of the way. Having had your noon's draught, you had best pay the reckoning and go home; there can be no game where there is no one to play it.”

Some of the gentlemen went away without a word, others called to pay their duty to her Majesty and ask for her health. The little army disappeared into the darkness out of which it had been called; there had been no writings, no paper to implicate any man. Some few officers and Members of Parliament had been invited over night to breakfast at the ”King's Arms,” at Kensington; and they had called for their bill and gone home.

CHAPTER XIII.

AUGUST 1ST, 1714.

”Does my mistress know of this?” Esmond asked of Frank, as they walked along.

”My mother found the letter in the book, on the toilet-table. She had writ it ere she had left home,” Frank said. ”Mother met her on the stairs, with her hand upon the door, trying to enter, and never left her after that till she went away. He did not think of looking at it there, nor had Martin the chance of telling him. I believe the poor devil meant no harm, though I half killed him; he thought 'twas to Beatrix's brother he was bringing the letter.”

Frank never said a word of reproach to me for having brought the villain amongst us. As we knocked at the door I said, ”When will the horses be ready?” Frank pointed with his cane, they were turning the street that moment.

We went up and bade adieu to our mistress; she was in a dreadful state of agitation by this time, and that Bishop was with her whose company she was so fond of.

”Did you tell him, my lord,” says Esmond, ”that Beatrix was at Castlewood?” The Bishop blushed and stammered: ”Well,” says he, ”I ...”

”You served the villain right,” broke out Mr. Esmond, ”and he has lost a crown by what you told him.”

My mistress turned quite white, ”Henry, Henry,” says she, ”do not kill him.”

”It may not be too late,” says Esmond; ”he may not have gone to Castlewood; pray G.o.d, it is not too late.” The Bishop was breaking out with some ba.n.a.le phrases about loyalty, and the sacredness of the Sovereign's person; but Esmond sternly bade him hold his tongue, burn all papers, and take care of Lady Castlewood; and in five minutes he and Frank were in the saddle, John Lockwood behind them, riding towards Castlewood at a rapid pace.

We were just got to Alton, when who should meet us but old Lockwood, the porter from Castlewood, John's father, walking by the side of the Hexton flying-coach, who slept the night at Alton. Lockwood said his young mistress had arrived at home on Wednesday night, and this morning, Friday, had despatched him with a packet for my lady at Kensington, saying the letter was of great importance.

We took the freedom to break it, while Lockwood stared with wonder, and cried out his ”Lord bless me's,” and ”Who'd a thought it's,” at the sight of his young lord, whom he had not seen these seven years.

The packet from Beatrix contained no news of importance at all. It was written in a jocular strain, affecting to make light of her captivity.

She asked whether she might have leave to visit Mrs. Tusher, or to walk beyond the court and the garden wall. She gave news of the peac.o.c.ks, and a fawn she had there. She bade her mother send her certain gowns and smocks by old Lockwood; she sent her duty to a certain Person, if certain other persons permitted her to take such a freedom; how that, as she was not able to play cards with him, she hoped he would read good books, such as Doctor Atterbury's sermons and ”Eikon Basilike:” she was going to read good books; she thought her pretty mamma would like to know she was not crying her eyes out.

”Who is in the house besides you, Lockwood?” says the Colonel.

”There be the laundry-maid, and the kitchen-maid, Madam Beatrix's maid, the man from London, and that be all; and he sleepeth in my lodge away from the maids,” says old Lockwood.

Esmond scribbled a line with a pencil on the note, giving it to the old man, and bidding him go on to his lady. We knew why Beatrix had been so dutiful on a sudden, and why she spoke of ”Eikon Basilike.” She writ this letter to put the Prince on the scent, and the porter out of the way.

”We have a fine moonlight night for riding on,” says Esmond; ”Frank, we may reach Castlewood in time yet.” All the way along they made inquiries at the post-houses, when a tall young gentleman in a gray suit, with a light brown periwig, just the color of my lord's, had been seen to pa.s.s.

He had set off at six that morning, and we at three in the afternoon. He rode almost as quickly as we had done; he was seven hours a-head of us still when we reached the last stage.

We rode over Castlewood Downs before the breaking of dawn. We pa.s.sed the very spot where the car was upset fourteen years since, and Mohun lay.

The village was not up yet, nor the forge lighted, as we rode through it, pa.s.sing by the elms, where the rooks were still roosting, and by the church, and over the bridge. We got off our horses at the bridge and walked up to the gate.

”If she is safe,” says Frank, trembling, and his honest eyes filling with tears, ”a silver statue to Our Lady!” He was going to rattle at the great iron knocker on the oak gate; but Esmond stopped his kinsman's hand. He had his own fears, his own hopes, his own despairs and griefs, too; but he spoke not a word of these to his companion, or showed any signs of emotion.

He went and tapped at the little window at the porter's lodge, gently, but repeatedly, until the man came to the bars.

”Who's there?” says he, looking out; it was the servant from Kensington.