"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."