“You served the villain right,” broke out Mr. Esmond, “and he has lost a crown by what you told him.”
My mistress turned quite white, “Henry, Henry,” says she, “do not kill him.”
“It may not be too late,” says Esmond; “he may not have gone to Castlewood; pray God, it is not too late.” The Bishop was breaking out with some banale phrases about loyalty, and the sacredness of the Sovereign's person; but Esmond sternly bade him hold his tongue, burn all papers, and take care of Lady Castlewood; and in five minutes he and Frank were in the saddle, John Lockwood behind them, riding towards Castlewood at a rapid pace.
We were just got to Alton, when who should meet us but old Lockwood, the porter from Castlewood, John's father, walking by the side of the Hexton flying-coach, who slept the night at Alton. Lockwood said his young mistress had arrived at home on Wednesday night, and this morning, Friday, had despatched him with a packet for my lady at Kensington, saying the letter was of great importance.
We took the freedom to break it, while Lockwood stared with wonder, and cried out his “Lord bless me's,” and “Who'd a thought it's,” at the sight of his young lord, whom he had not seen these seven years.
The packet from Beatrix contained no news of importance at all. It was written in a jocular strain, affecting to make light of her captivity. She asked whether she might have leave to visit Mrs. Tusher, or to walk beyond the court and the garden wall. She gave news of the peacocks, and a fawn she had there. She bade her mother send her certain gowns and smocks by old Lockwood; she sent her duty to a certain Person, if certain other persons permitted her to take such a freedom; how that, as she was not able to play cards with him, she hoped he would read good books, such as Doctor Atterbury's sermons and “Eikon Basilike:” she was going to read good books; she thought her pretty mamma would like to know she was not crying her eyes out.
“Who is in the house besides you, Lockwood?” says the Colonel.
“There be the laundry-maid, and the kitchen-maid, Madam Beatrix's maid, the man from London, and that be all; and he sleepeth in my lodge away from the maids,” says old Lockwood.
Esmond scribbled a line with a pencil on the note, giving it to the old man, and bidding him go on to his lady. We knew why Beatrix had been so dutiful on a sudden, and why she spoke of “Eikon Basilike.” She writ this letter to put the Prince on the scent, and the porter out of the way.
“We have a fine moonlight night for riding on,” says Esmond; “Frank, we may reach Castlewood in time yet.” All the way along they made inquiries at the post-houses, when a tall young gentleman in a gray suit, with a light brown periwig, just the color of my lord's, had been seen to pass. He had set off at six that morning, and we at three in the afternoon. He rode almost as quickly as we had done; he was seven hours a-head of us still when we reached the last stage.