But her keen words gave no wound to Mr. Esmond; his heart was too hard. As he looked at her, he wondered that he could ever have loved her. His love of ten years was over; it fell down dead on the spot, at the Kensington Tavern, where Frank brought him the note out of “Eikon Basilike.” The Prince blushed and bowed low, as she gazed at him, and quitted the chamber. I have never seen her from that day.
Horses were fetched and put to the chariot presently. My lord rode outside, and as for Esmond he was so tired that he was no sooner in the carriage than he fell asleep, and never woke till night, as the coach came into Alton.
As we drove to the “Bell” Inn comes a mitred coach with our old friend Lockwood beside the coachman. My Lady Castlewood and the Bishop were inside; she gave a little scream when she saw us. The two coaches entered the inn almost together; the landlord and people coming out with lights to welcome the visitors.
We in our coach sprang out of it, as soon as ever we saw the dear lady, and above all, the Doctor in his cassock. What was the news? Was there yet time? Was the Queen alive? These questions were put hurriedly, as Boniface stood waiting before his noble guests to bow them up the stair.
“Is she safe?” was what Lady Castlewood whispered in a flutter to Esmond.
“All's well, thank God,” says he, as the fond lady took his hand and kissed it, and called him her preserver and her dear. SHE wasn't thinking of Queens and crowns.
The Bishop's news was reassuring: at least all was not lost; the Queen yet breathed, or was alive when they left London, six hours since. (“It was Lady Castlewood who insisted on coming,” the Doctor said.) Argyle had marched up regiments from Portsmouth, and sent abroad for more; the Whigs were on the alert, a pest on them, (I am not sure but the Bishop swore as he spoke,) and so too were our people. And all might be saved, if only the Prince could be at London in time. We called for horses, instantly to return to London. We never went up poor crestfallen Boniface's stairs, but into our coaches again. The Prince and his Prime Minister in one, Esmond in the other, with only his dear mistress as a companion.
Castlewood galloped forwards on horseback to gather the Prince's friends and warn them of his coming. We travelled through the night. Esmond discoursing to his mistress of the events of the last twenty-four hours; of Castlewood's ride and his; of the Prince's generous behavior and their reconciliation. The night seemed short enough; and the starlit hours passed away serenely in that fond company.
So we came along the road; the Bishop's coach heading ours; and, with some delays in procuring horses, we got to Hammersmith about four o'clock on Sunday morning, the first of August, and half an hour after, it being then bright day, we rode by my Lady Warwick's house, and so down the street of Kensington.
Early as the hour was, there was a bustle in the street and many people moving to and fro. Round the gate leading to the Palace, where the guard is, there was especially a great crowd. And the coach ahead of us stopped, and the Bishop's man got down to know what the concourse meant?