CHAPTER XXXVI.
It was still in the midst of summer, but London was yet crowded, although the Parliament had risen. The city was in great agitation, too; for news of a battle, and the defeat of Monmouth--the great Protestant leader, whom the Protestant Church had failed to support--the idol of the people, whom the people, or, at least, all those who were influential among them, had left to perish--had reached London on the preceding night by rapid post from the West. A general gloom hung over the metropolis in despite of the rejoicing of the court; and many a man began to regret, too late, that he had not mounted horse and buckled on his sword when every arm was needful, and every purse should have been opened to support the cause which fully one half of the nation had affected, at least, to advocate for many a long year. But a multitude of those whom timidity, doubts of his right, suspicion of his character, or disapproval of his conduct, had kept from joining the standard of the great insurgent, although truly attached to the cause of religious liberty, very soon had personal motives furnished to them for bitterly repenting that they had not thrown their weight into the scale, while there was a possibility of the balance being turned. The slightest suspicion of having held communication with Monmouth, or the smallest possible evidence of dissenting from the Episcopal Church on any side but popery, was treated as a high offense: rights, guarantees, statutes, were set at naught, and many hundreds were snatched from their homes and cast into prison without having committed any other crime than that of entertaining a conscientious objection to the government and the forms of the English Church.
Thus the gloom was increased through the city; nor was it diminished when men found that a sort of trade in accusations was once more about to commence; that the royal bounty was prepared to reward the informer; and that a multitude of harpies round the court were all ready to make a merchandise of clemency, as far as it could be wrung from the hard, cold heart of James the Second.
All was gloom, then, although bells were ringing, flags flying, and bonfires prepared, when a young gentleman, attended by two or three horsemen, rode quickly along what was then known as the Reading road, and entered the town without slackening his pace. He was impelled by even stronger motives than the reward which had hurried forth the earlier posts; and, though he took his way toward Whitehall, it was not at the gates of the royal palace he dismounted. In one of the streets in the vicinity of the court there was a large house, to which I have before led the reader; and in one of the rooms on the ground floor, at the moment the young stranger arrived before the door, sat old Lord Woodhall, reading a broad sheet which gave an account of the battle. He had been very much changed by the events of the last few weeks. He was no longer the stout, hale, robust country gentleman which he had previously appeared. He was shrunk and exceedingly thin, and old age was marked upon every feature of his face. He was tall and upright still, for the very fierce and angry feelings which consumed his corporeal frame served to give him an energy and a fire which sustained him with unnatural strength.
The middle of a paragraph had been reached, detailing with many blunders and exaggerations the closing scene of the battle, the flight of Monmouth from the field, and the direction which he was positively asserted to have taken, when the door was flung open at once, and Robert Woodhall entered, booted and spurred, and muddy from the road.
"News! news! my noble lord," he exclaimed, with a triumphant air.
"I have it here, boy," answered Lord Woodhall, rapping the paper with his finger.
"Ay, but better news than that, noble kinsman," said the young man, with a laugh; and then, keeping up a tone partly jesting, partly serious, he asked, "What did you promise me, my lord, if I put Ralph Woodhall, the murderer of your son, into the hands of justice?"
"Why," said Lord Woodhall, with a good deal of hesitation, "I promised I would give you Margaret, as your mother wishes; but I find she does not love you--can not love you, she says."
"Perhaps because she loves her brother's murderer," replied the young man, bitterly.
The old nobleman started as if a serpent had bit him, and exclaimed, "Robert, Robert, do not set my whole blood on fire at such a thought! Beware what you do, sir--beware what you insinuate! Is the man taken? is he in prison?"
"Oh no, he is not," replied Robert Woodhall, in a cool, indifferent tone; "I know where he is; I can put him in the hands of justice in eight-and-forty hours. In double that time he may escape, for he goes whither he will, and disports himself as a gentleman at large. But what is that to me, if Margaret loves him better than me--if your promise is to be unavailing, and your commands to be set at naught?"
The old man advanced sternly toward him, took his hand and wrung it hard, murmuring in a low, fierce, emphatic tone, "Robert, you shall have her! But put him in my power--but give him to the arm of the law, and you shall have her, with all my estates, at my death. I say not how soon she shall be yours; she must have time--I must have time; but she shall be yours, I pledge you my honor, and my conscience, and my soul. May God curse me and spare the murderer if I break my vow."
"That is all I can desire," answered Robert. "We will not hurry the fair lady; and I think, my dear lord, that I can soon contrive to clear her mind of any love for Master Ralph, if such a fancy has ever crossed it. There are certain tales down there, which, even without all that poor Henry knew--and told her, I believe--of this very honest, religious young man's fidelity to her, must soon banish from her heart every trace of affection toward him."
"It is false!" cried Lord Woodhall, vehemently. "She has no affection toward him. She dislikes you, because she knows you to be a libertine and a profligate."
"Better that, my lord, than libertine, profligate, and hypocrite too," answered Robert Woodhall, somewhat nettled.
"That is true, indeed," replied the old nobleman; "but no more of that; my word is given, and it shall be kept. Now, where is this man--this murderer?"
"Down in the West, there, my lord," replied Robert Woodhall; "but, saving your good pleasure, I must have the management of all this. None but myself must place him in the hands of the officer. I would not share that task with any one for half a kingdom."
"Thou art a fine lad, and shall have your way," answered old Lord Woodhall, attributing to regard for his dead son the zeal which proceeded in truth from mere personal hatred. "What is it you want now? How is it you intend to proceed?"
"I ask but a letter from you to the secretary of state," replied Robert, "desiring him to give me a messenger for the apprehension of Ralph Woodhall, and for his safe transmission to Dorchester jail, and you shall have information that he is there lodged by the very next post from the West.
"The letter you shall have," replied the old man; "and I will keep my word, let come what may. Seek me pen and ink."
The letter to the secretary of state was accordingly written, and, without even asking to see Margaret, Robert Woodhall went on his way rejoicing. At the office of the secretary of state he was detained some time, for much important business was going on in consequence of the late important events in the West. An intimation given, however, to one of the clerks, that he was the brother of Lord Coldenham, and fresh from Sedgemoor, at length obtained admission for him, and the secretary received him with much courtesy.
"Your brother's regiment did good service, Mr. Woodhall," he said; "you were with it, I suppose."
"I command a company in that regiment, my lord," answered Robert, with the color coming somewhat warmly into his cheek from a knowledge that in reality he had not been in the battle at all--and that by his own fault; "but your lordship's time is precious, I know, and the business I come upon is very urgent."
Sunderland fixed his eyes upon him for one instant very steadfastly, and the slightest possible smile curled his acute lip, while he said, "What is the business, Mr. Woodhall? I shall be most happy to serve you."
"If you will read that letter, my lord, you will see," replied Robert; and the secretary took and perused it rapidly. He made some difficulties, however. It was not customary, he remarked, to send a secretary of state's messenger to apprehend any one accused of any thing but state offenses. Common constables, or any ordinary officer of police, might be employed.
"It is not improbable, my lord," replied Robert, who had a vigorous perseverance in his nature which was not easily baffled--a touch of his mother's strong determination--"it is not improbable, my lord, that affairs of state may be complicated with other offenses in this instance. This man was certainly upon the field at Sedgemoor. He is also accused of harboring, comforting, and defending, against the officers of the law, a noted Dissenting preacher named Calloway."
Sunderland still seemed to hesitate, and Robert immediately added, "If your lordship has any scruple, however, it can easily be removed, I think, by an application to the king, who I know is extremely anxious that this notorious offender should be brought to justice. I can go to his majesty with Lord Woodhall, and return in a few minutes;" and he raised his hat slightly, as if about to depart.
"That is not necessary," said Sunderland, quickly; "I think you have made out a case; but recollect that the office can not be charged with the expenses, unless the young man be taken. Are you prepared to pay them, should you fail?"
"Perfectly," replied Robert Woodhall; "for I am certain of his apprehension, if we proceed quickly. I only trust your lordship will impress upon the messenger the necessity of dispatch."
All was soon arranged to his satisfaction, and Robert Woodhall set off with the messenger in two hours from that time.
A change, which may at first sight appear strange, came upon him as he journeyed. Courage, like all other qualities, is very variously modified in different men; and, besides the two great divisions of moral and physical, it has an infinite number of subdivisions. Some men--especially those of great imagination and hypochondriac temperament--are hesitating and even timid in the contemplation of distant danger, but become bold as lions, and perfectly self-possessed, in the moment of action. Others--and of these Robert Woodhall was one--are exceedingly brave in determination, but somewhat fearful in execution. He had, when he set out for London from Somersetshire, regarded the apprehension of his cousin Ralph with a malevolent pleasure, which made him resolve to see the work done himself, and to have the satisfaction of witnessing with his own eyes Ralph's consignment to a dungeon. He pictured to himself, with great delight, the anguish of the man he hated, and his removal out of the soft guardianship of Churchill--from which Robert sincerely believed he could and would escape as soon as the hot pursuit after Monmouth was over--to all the horrors and inconveniences of a county prison of those days. All along the road to London he had amused himself with such contemplations; he had gloated over Ralph's anticipated sufferings, and he had pictured each particular scene as it arose. But when he had obtained what he wanted, and was riding back with the messenger and his followers toward Somersetshire, he began to doubt and hesitate. Ralph was fiery, and Robert thought him more so than he really was. There was no certainty that he might not resist; and if he did, his resistance was likely to be dangerous. Robert feared, too, that his cousin might speak unpleasant truths regarding him, and he went on in his own mind swelling up objections to any further personal interference, till in the end he determined to put the messenger and his followers so far upon the track that there was no possibility of their missing the game, and then leave them to hunt it down themselves, taking all the credit to himself, and avoiding every risk.
When the small party arrived at Taunton, Robert was anxious that they should proceed some way further that night; but the messenger, though a resolute and active officer, was a man who loved his comforts, and he would only consent to go on after having remained a couple of hours to rest and dine.
Robert had no stomach for his meat; for he had heard of the removal of Churchill's quarters, and he was anxious lest the prey should escape him. He wandered out, then, from the little inn at which he and his companions had alighted, and walked through the principal street of the town, where nothing but signs of gloom and dismay met him on every side, till, standing at the door of a larger inn, he beheld a good portly man in the livery of his family.
On inquiry, he found, much to his surprise, that his mother was in the house, and that a messenger from her had been dispatched that very evening to Lord Coldenham. In a few moments he was in Lady Coldenham's presence, and she showed as much gladness at the sight of her favorite son as she ever displayed on any occasion. She seemed much surprised to hear that he had been in London, but interrupted him in the course of his narrative to say, "You should not have been absent, Robert, when you knew that Ralph Woodhall was in the neighborhood. He has escaped the hands of Colonel Kirke, I find, but he must not escape us. There is much depends upon it."
She paused, and gazed upon him with a fixed, glassy sort of stare, and then added, "He must be taken--he must be tried--he must die! If he escapes you, you will repent your negligence long and bitterly. He is a viper in the path which must be crushed, and you should not have quitted the place till he was in prison."
"If your ladyship knew what I went for," replied Robert, "you would approve of my going. You know, of course, that the murderer was concealed at the house of Lady Danvers--"
"Give him no hard names, Robert," replied the old lady, with a bitter smile; "it signifies not to us whether he be a murderer or not. As to that pretty little bright-eyed doll, Hortensia Danvers, she must not stand in my way. She will find herself overmatched, with all her wit. But what were you going to say? Kirke searched her house; but the bird was flown. I know all that."
"But you do not know, my dear lady and mother," replied Robert, "that since then, Ralph Woodhall has fallen into the hands of Lord Churchill, who allows him to be what he calls a prisoner on parole--that is, gives him every opportunity of flying when he likes. Churchill would certainly not give him up to a common constable; and I went to London, first, to get a messenger to see our admirable cousin--as you object to the term murderer--lodged safely in prison, and, secondly, to secure for myself the fruits of my discoveries in pretty Margaret's hand and Lord Woodhall's estates."
Old Lady Coldenham shook her head gravely. "There will be difficulties there, I fear," she said; "the old lord's last letter on the subject was as cold as ice."
"The difficulties on his part are all removed," replied Robert. "I have his promise, sealed by every sort of vow and imprecation, that if I lodge Ralph in prison, I shall have Margaret's hand. Any difficulty will lie with her; but they must be overborne."
"What has she to do with it?" exclaimed Lady Coldenham; "she must, of course, marry whom her father tells her. His promise is quite enough, and he will not break it."
"It is to fulfill my part of the bond that I am now hurrying back," replied Robert; "and as Churchill has no knowledge whatever that I have made any discovery, we shall take him by surprise before he can afford Master Ralph the means of escape. The messenger is here in the town with me: a greedy beast, who spends half his time in eating. I trust he has done his supper by this time, and therefore, with your leave, will go and see if he be ready to ride forward. Where shall I find your ladyship when I have fulfilled my task?"
"The moment all is safe, send me a messenger," said the old lady; "and if I have the news that he is lodged in the clutches of the law, you will find me at Ormebar Castle the day after to-morrow. But mind he escapes you not. There is more hangs upon his life than you know of, Robert."
"He shall not escape," answered her son, confidently; "but there is one other man I would fain catch hold of too, if I could do so without burning my fingers--one who has insulted me, and been the chosen companion--servant, as he calls him--of this serpent Ralph: I mean old Stilling's son."
The color rose in the old woman's cheek; and she answered sternly, "Let him alone! You have behaved very ill, boy, and your folly will cost me five thousand pounds. How dared you meddle with the old man's daughter? You might have made concubines of all the girls in the village but her, without my caring; but you know not what you have done. Touch not the young man, however--do no one act against him, as you value all that you possess on earth. And now away. See that Ralph escapes you not; that is your business for the present. We may have more to settle hereafter."
Robert took his departure gladly, for there was a look upon his mother's face which he knew too well to remain exposed to her anger willingly; and the result of his further proceedings is already known to the reader.