“I followed him to Egremont, for Sir Hugo is very active in enforcing the laws against poachers and papists,—he classes them together,—and often detains suspected persons at Egremont until they can be put in Whitford gaol. He took me into the house,—oh, Bess, I thought I could be calm and cool under all things, but when I saw the rooms where I had played when a boy, and thought of Roger, I could scarcely forbear weeping.
“Sir Hugo took me into the little book-room, off the gallery library, the very place I wished to go, as I knew of the ‘priests’ hole;’ but he said to me, smiling, ‘I know what you are looking for. It is closed up. The present owner of Egremont obeys the laws of the realm, and harbors no man against the law.’ I spoke no word, except, looking hard at the place in the wall where it had been, I said, without reflection, ‘God’s will be done.’ He kept me there until the next day,—the last night I was ever to spend under the roof of Egremont,—and the next day, my cassock and other things being found, the country was in an uproar, the Whigs demanding my blood, and others who would have been more merciful were afraid to speak, for fear of being thought implicated in last year’s hanging business. It was considered best, however, to remove me to London nine days ago, as some of the poor people at Egremont were muttering very much, and threatening to attack the Whitford gaol. So I was brought here and resentenced on Monday, before the Court of the King’s Bench, to be hanged, cut down while I was yet alive, and quartered. I was, however, spared that part of the sentence of Sir John Friend and Sir William Perkins, whose heads and quarters were ordered nailed to Temple Bar.”
A death-like paleness overspread Bess’s usually ruddy face. She was physically so strong, and in her buffet with the world she had acquired so much self-possession that her own agitation actually frightened her. She sat white and silent, and trembling in every limb. Not so Dicky, who was as calm as if the morning’s sun were not the last he was to see. “Now, Bess Lukens,” he said in a cheerful voice, meant to compose her, “listen to what I say, for I charge you with my farewells. I have nothing to give any one but my blessing. First, make my duty to my King, the Queen, and the Prince of Wales, and tell them I die their loyal and dutiful subject, as becomes an Egremont. Tell my superiors that I trust in God for grace to die in a manner befitting the Society of Jesus, and I thank them for having sent me here. As for Roger, say to him that I ever loved him best of anybody in the world, and that when I remember my boyhood, friendless but for him, and recall that I never learned from him or saw in him anything but the nicest honor, I cannot express the gratitude that fills my heart. It did my heart good to see how our poor people at Egremont still had him in loving memory, and longed for him to come back. And for you, Bess, the best and truest of friends—”
For the first time Dicky’s musical voice broke. Here was the actual farewell of the dying to the living. “You who have come to me when I expected to see no familiar face. Well, Bess, remember what I often said to you when you sang those sweet songs and anthems to my violin,—pray that we again sing them together in Paradise.”
Bess rose. She had told him little or nothing of what she had meant to say to him. She had not even told him about Madame de Beaumanoir and the money, but she felt herself unequal to more. Her strong body and her strong soul were alike giving way. As she went toward the door, like a sleep-walker, she heard Dicky’s clear, sweet voice calling after her,—
“Good-bye, dear friend; God bless thee forever and ever!”
His manacled hands were uplifted in blessing, his round, boyish face had a new and glorified expression, his eyes were glowing with faith and courage,—Dicky Egremont had grown to the full stature of a man, nay, of a hero.
By sunrise next morning the distance from Newgate prison to Tyburn was crowded with people, mostly on foot, but many on horseback, others in carts and chaises, and some even in coaches. The executions usually took place in the prison, but the execution of a young Jesuit of good family was too interesting an occasion for the citizens of London to be deprived of the full sight,—public executions being public holidays in London town. The drawing and quartering were likely to be highly interesting, and these Jesuit gentlemen had a reputation ever since the time of Queen Elizabeth of dying with much propriety.
It was a hazy July morning, the blue mist lying low along the river front, and a pallid sun shining dimly out of a gray sky. The green spaces in Hyde Park were full of a tumultuous crowd, laughing, talking, eating, and all tending toward Tyburn. Some wished to secure the best places so as to see the tortures to be inflicted on the young gentleman; others were willing to forego that in order to watch the bearing of the condemned on his tedious way in the cart from Newgate to Tyburn.
Among those earliest on the ground at Tyburn was Bess Lukens. She was attired altogether in black, and her tall and handsome figure and her striking beauty were intensified by her sombre dress. Her clear complexion was pale; and her face, although full of keen sorrow, was calm. All that was most earthly in her beauty was refined away, and her bearing was perfectly quiet, dignified, and lofty. By her side stood Diggory Hutchinson, in his holiday clothes. He was by no means so composed as Bess Lukens, but looked about him anxiously, and seemed nervous, though not irresolute. The multitude about the scaffold speedily recognized the fact that the tall, pale, handsome young woman, in her black gown and hood, was one near to the condemned. The crowd looked at her curiously and not unsympathetically; nor did they press upon her, so that she stood in a little ring of people, as it were, with Diggory close behind her. She bore the scrutiny of many eyes without flinching, and, indeed, was unconscious of it. Whispers began to be circulated about her as the crowds were increased by thousands, who began to pour, like a mighty river, from all quarters of the town into the Tyburn district. Some said, “She is his sister;” others, “She was in love with him;” and others again, “She tried to rescue him;” but Bess remained calm and unnoticing. At last one man, more callous and curious than the most, came up to her and said:—