CHAPTER XV
IF THERE WERE NEED
Time wore on in the ancient capital of England. The tramp of troops echoed in the streets, and the fleets of Britain made ready to carry her sons over seas for wars and for adventures. The intrigues of party against party, of church against church, of Parliament against king; the loves, the hates, the ambitions, the desires of all the city's hurrying thousands went on as ever. Who, then, should remember a single prisoner, waiting within the walls of England's jail? The hours wore on slowly enough for that prisoner. He had faced a jury of his peers and was condemned to face the gallows. Meantime he had said farewell to love and hope and faithfulness, even as he bade farewell to life. "Since she has forsaken me whom I thought faithful," said he to himself, "why, let it end, for life is a mockery I would not live out." And thenceforth, haggard but laughing, pale but with unbroken courage, he trod on his way through his few remaining days, the wonder of those who saw him.
As for Mary Connynge, surely she had matters enough which were best kept secret in her own soul. While Lady Catharine was hoping, and praying, and dreaming and believing, even as the roses left her cheek and the hollows fell beneath her eyes, she saw about her in the daily walks of life Mary Connynge, sleek and rounded as ever. They sat at table together, and neither did the one make sign to the other of her own anxiety, nor did that other give sign of her own treachery. Mary Connynge, false guest, false friend, false woman, deceived so perfectly that she left no indication of deceit. She herself knew, and blindly satisfied herself with the knowledge, that she alone now came close into the life of "Beau" Law, the convict; "Jessamy" Law, the student, the financier, the thinker; John Law, her lord and master. Herein she found the sole compensation possible in her savage nature. She had found the master whom she sought!
Cynically mirthful or irreverently indifferent, yet never did her master's strength forsake him, never did his heart lose its undauntedness. And when he bade Mary Connynge do this or that she obeyed him; when he bade her arise she arose; at his word she came or departed. A dozen nights in the month she was absent from the house of Knollys. A dozen nights Will Law was cozened into frenzy, alternating between a heaven of delight and a hell of despair, and ignorant of her twofold duplicity. A dozen nights John Law knew well enough where Mary Connynge was, though no one else might know. There was feminine triumph now in full in the heart of this Mary Connynge, who had gone white with rage at the sight of a rose offered across her face to another woman. Had she not her master? Was he not hers, all hers, belonging in no wise to any other?
For the future, Mary Connynge did not ponder it. An ephemera, once buried generations deep in the mire and slime of lower conditions, and now craving blindly but the sunlight of the day, she would have sought the deadly caress of life even though at that moment it had sealed her doom. Foolish or wise, she was as she was; since, under our frail society, life is as it is.
Only at night, on those nights when she was sleepless on her own couch beneath the roof of Catharine Knollys, did Mary Connynge allow herself to think. Tell, then, ye who may, whether or not she was a mere survival of some forgotten day of the forest and the glade, as she lay with her hands clasped in brief moments of emotion. Surely she hoped, as all women hope who love, that this might endure for her forever. Yet the next moment there came the thought that inevitably it all must end, and soon. Then her hand clenched, her eyes grew dry and brilliant. She said to herself: "There is no hope. He can not be saved! For this short period of his life he shall be mine, all mine! He shall not be set free! He shall not go away, to belong, at any time, in any part, to any other woman! Though he die, yet shall he love me to the end; me, Mary Connynge, and no other woman!"
Now, under this same roof of Knollys, separated by but a few yards of space, there lay another woman, thinking also of this convict behind the prison bars. But this was a woman of another and a nobler mold. Into the heart of Catharine Knollys there came no mere mad selfishness of desire, yearn though she did in every fiber of her being since that first time she felt the mastering kiss of love. There was born in her soul emotion of a higher sort. The Lady Catharine Knollys prayed, and her prayer was not that her lover should die, but that he might live; that he might be free.
Nor was this hope left to wither unnourished in the mind of the high-bred and courageous English girl. Alone, without confidant to counsel her, with no woman friend to aid her, the Lady Catharine Knollys backed her own hopes and wishes with resource and energy. There came a time, perilously late, when a faint rose showed once more in her cheek, long so worn, a faintly brighter light glowed in her deep eye.
When Sir Arthur Pembroke received a message from the Lady Catharine Knollys advising him that the latter would receive him at her home, it was left for the impulses, the hopes, the imaginings of that modest young nobleman to establish a reason for the message. Puzzling all along his rapid way in answer to the summons, Sir Arthur found the answer which best suited his hopes in the faint flush, the brightened eye of the young woman who received him.
"Lady Catharine," he began, impetuously, "I have come, and let me hope that 'tis at last to have my answer. I have waited—each moment has been a year that I have spent away from you."
"Now, that is very pretty said."
"But I am serious."
"And that is why I do not like you."
"But, Lady Catharine!"
"I should like it better did you but continue as in the past. We have met on the Row, at the routs and drums, in the country; and always I have felt free to ask any favor of Sir Arthur Pembroke. Why could it not be always thus?"
"You might ask my very life, Lady Catharine."
"Ah, there it is! When a man offers his life, 'tis time for a woman to ask nothing."
She turned from the open window, her attitude showing an unwonted weakness and dejection. Sir Arthur still stood near by, his own face frowning and uncertain.
"Lady Catharine," he broke out at length, "for years, as you know, I have sought your favor. I have dared think that sometime the day would come when—my faith! Lady Catharine, the day has come now when I feel it my right to demand the cause of anything which troubles you. And that you are troubled is plain enough. Ever since this man Law——"
"There," cried Lady Catharine, raising her hand. "I beg you to say no more."
"But I will say more! There must be a reason for this."
The face of the young woman flushed in spite of herself, as Pembroke strode closer and gazed at her with sternness.
"Lady Catharine," said he, slowly, "I am a friend of your family. Perhaps now I may be of aid to you. Prove me, and at the last, ask who was indeed your friend."
"We have had misfortunes, we of the family of the Knollys," said Lady Catharine. "This is, perhaps, but the fate of the house of Knollys. It is my fate."
"Your fate!" said Sir Arthur, slowly. "Your fate! Lady Catharine, I thank you. It is at least as well to know the truth."
"Pick out the truth, then, Sir Arthur, as you like it. I am not on the witness stand before you, and you are not my judge. There has been forsworn testimony enough already in this town. Were it not for that, Mr. Law would at this moment be free as you or I."
Sir Arthur struck his hands together in despair, and turning away, strode down the room.
"Oh, I see it all well enough," cried he. "You are mad as any who have hitherto had dealings with this madman from the North."
The girl rose to her full height and stood before him.
"It may be I am mad," said she. "It may be the old Knollys madness. If so, why should I struggle against it? It may be that I am mad. But I venture to say to you that Mr. Law is not born to die in Newgate yards. My life! sir, if I love him, who should say me nay? Now, say to yourself, and to your friends—to all London, if you like, since you have touched me to this point—that Catharine Knollys is friend to Mr. Law, and believes in him, and declares that he shall be freed from his prison, and that within short space! Say that, Sir Arthur; tell them that! And if they argue somewhat from it, why, let them reason it as best they may."
The young man stood, his lips close together, his head still turned away. The girl continued with growing energy.
"I have sent for you to tell you that Mr. Law's life has a value in my eyes. And now, I say to you, Sir Arthur, that you must aid me in his escape."
A beautiful picture she made, tearful, pleading, a lock of her soft red-brown hair falling unnoticed across her tear-wet cheek. It had been ill task, indeed, to make refusal of any sort to a woman so gloriously feminine, so noble, now so beseeching.
"Lady Catharine," said the young man, turning toward her, "this illness, this anxiety—"
"No, I know perfectly well whereof I speak! Listen, and I'll tell you somewhat of news. Montague, chancellor of the exchequer, is my warrant for what I say to you when I tell you that Mr. Law is to be free. Montague himself has said to me, in this very room, that Mr. Law was like to be half the salvation of England in these uncertain times. I could tell you more, but may not. Only look you, Sir Arthur, John Law does not rest in Newgate more than one week from this time!"
Sir Arthur took snuff, his voice at length regaining that composure for which he had sought.
"'Tis very excellent," he said. "For myself, two centuries have been spent in my family to teach me to love like a gentleman, and to deserve you like a man. What does this young man need? A few days of bluster, of assertion! A few weeks of gaming and of roistering, of self-asserted claims! Gad! Lady Catharine, this is passing bitter! And now you ask me to help him."
"I wish you to help him," said Lady Catharine, slowly, "only in that I ask you to help me."
"And if I did?"
"And if you did, you should dwell in a part of my heart forever! Let it be as you like."
"Then," cried the young man, flushing suddenly and hotly as he strode toward her, "do with me as you like! Let me be fool unspeakable!"
"And do you promise?" said Lady Catharine, rising and advancing toward him. Her face was sad and appealing. Her eyes swam in tears, her lips were trembling.
Sir Arthur held out his hand. The Lady Catharine extended both her own, and he bent and kissed them, tears springing in his eyes. For a time the room was silent. Then the girl turned, her own lashes wet. She stepped at length to a cabinet and took from an inner drawer a paper.
"Sir Arthur, look at this," she Said.
He took it from her and scrutinized it carefully.
"Why, this seems to be a street bill, a placard for posting upon the walls," said he.
"Read it."
"Yes, well—so, so. 'Five hundred pounds reward for information regarding the escaped felon, Captain John Law, convicted of murder and under sentence of death of the King's Bench. The same Law escaped from Newgate prison on the night of'—hum—well—well—'May be known by this description: Is tall, of dark complexion, spare of build, raw-boned, face hath deep pock-marks. Eyes dark; hair dark and scanty. Speaketh broad and loud.' How—how, why my dear Lady Catharine, this is the last proof that thou'rt stark, staring mad! This no more tallies with the true John Law than it does with my hunting horse!"
"And but few would know him by this description?"
"None, absolutely none."
"None could tell 'twas he, even did they meet him full face to face—no one would know it was Mr. Law?"
"Why, assuredly not. 'Tis as unlike him as it could be."
"Then it is well!" said Lady Catharine.
"Well? Very badly done, I should say."
"Oh, my poor Sir Arthur, where are your wits? 'Tis very well because 'tis very ill, this same description."
"Ah, ha!" said he, a sudden light dawning upon him. "Then you mean to tell me that this description was misconceived deliberately?"
"What would you think?"
"Did you do this work yourself?"
"Guess for yourself. Montague, as you know, was once of a pretty imagination, ere he took to finance. If he and the poet Prior could write such conceits as they have created, could not perhaps Montague—or Prior—or some one else—have conceived this description of Mr. Law?"
The young man threw himself into a seat, his head between his hands. "'Tis like a play," said he. "And surely the play of fortune ever runs well enough for Mr. Law."
"Sir Arthur," said Lady Catharine, rising uneasily and standing before him, "I must confess to you that I bear a certain active part in private plans looking to the escape of Mr. Law. I have come to you for aid. Sir Arthur, I pray God that we may be successful."
The young man also rose and began to pace the floor.
"Even did Law escape," he began, "it would mean only his flight from England."
"True," said the Lady Catharine, "that is all planned. The ship even now awaits him in the Pool. He is to take ship at once upon leaving prison, and he sails at once from England. He goes to France."
"But, my dear Lady Catharine, this means that he must part from you."
"Of course, it means our parting."
"Oh, but you said—but I thought—"
"But I said—but you thought—Sir Arthur, do not stand there prating like a little boy!"
"You do not, then, keep your prisoner bound by other fetters after he escapes from Newgate?"
"I do nothing unwomanly, and I do nothing, I trust, ignoble. I go to meet the Knollys fate, whatever it may be."
"Lady Catharine," cried Pembroke, passionately, "I have said I loved you. Never in my life did I love you as I do now!"
"I like to hear your words," said the girl, frankly. "There shall always be your corner in my heart—"
"Yet you will do this thing?"
"I will do this thing. I shall not whimper nor repine. I am sending him away forever, but 'tis needful for his sake. I shall be ready for whatever fate hath for me."
"Tell me, then," said Pembroke, his face haggard and unhappy, "how am I to serve you in this matter."
"In this way: To-morrow night call here with your coach. My household, if they note it, may take your coach for my own, and may perhaps understand that I go to the rout of my Lady Swearingsham. We shall go, instead, to Newgate. For the night, Sir Arthur Pembroke shall serve as coachman. You must drive the carriage to Newgate jail."
"And 'tis there," said Pembroke, slowly, "that the Lady Catharine Knollys, the dearest woman of all England, would take the man who honorably loves her—to Newgate, to feloniously set free a felon? Is it there, then, Lady Catharine, you would go to meet your lover?"
The tall figure of the girl straightened up to its full height. A shade of color came to her cheeks, but her voice was firm, though tears came to her eyes as she answered:
"Aye, sir, I would go to Newgate if there were need!"