Lord Chester was not idle.
He was sitting one afternoon at this time, Algernon’s last despairing letter in his pocket, on a hill-side four or five miles from the Castle. Beside him stood a young gamekeeper, Harry Gilpin, stalwart and brawny: there was no shooting to be done, but he carried his gun.
‘It is our only chance, Harry,’ said Lord Chester, in low, earnest tones. ‘We must do it. Things are intolerable.’
‘If there’s any chance in it; but it is a poor chance at best.’
‘What, Harry! would you not follow me?’
‘I’ll follow your lordship wherever you lead. I’ll go for your lordship wherever you point. Don’t think I’m afeard for myself. I’m but a poor creature—easy to find plenty as good as me; and if so be I must end my days in a convict-prison, why, I’d rather do it for you, my lord, than for lying accusations.’
‘Good, Harry,’ Lord Chester held out his hand. ‘We understand each other. Death rather than a convict-prison. We strike for freedom. Tell me next about the discontent.’
‘All the country-side is discontented, along o’ the old women. It’s this way, my lord. We get on right well, let us marry our own gells. When the gells gets shoved out o’ the way, and we be told by the Passon to marry this old woman, an’ that, why ... ‘tis nature.’
‘It is, Harry, and my case as well as yours. Then if all are discontented, we may get all to join us.’
‘Nay, my lord; many are but soft creatures, and mortal afraid of the women. We shall get some, but we must make them desperate afore they’ll fight.’