"Does my mistress know of this?" Esmond asked of Frank, as they
walked along.
"My mother found the letter in the book, on the toilet-table. She
had writ it ere she had left home," Frank said. "Mother met her on
the stairs, with her hand upon the door, trying to enter, and never
left her after that till she went away. He did not think of
looking at it there, nor had Martin the chance of telling him. I
believe the poor devil meant no harm, though I half killed him; he
thought 'twas to Beatrix's brother he was bringing the letter."
Frank never said a word of reproach to me for having brought the
villain amongst us. As we knocked at the door I said, "When will
the horses be ready?" Frank pointed with his cane, they were
turning the street that moment.
We went up and bade adieu to our mistress; she was in a dreadful
state of agitation by this time, and that Bishop was with her whose
company she was so fond of.
"Did you tell him, my lord," says Esmond, "that Beatrix was at
Castlewood?" The Bishop blushed and stammered: "Well," says he,
"I . . ."
"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.
We rode over Castlewood Downs before the breaking of dawn. We
passed the very spot where the car was upset fourteen years since,
and Mohun lay. The village was not up yet, nor the forge lighted,
as we rode through it, passing by the elms, where the rooks were
still roosting, and by the church, and over the bridge. We got off
our horses at the bridge and walked up to the gate.
"If she is safe," says Frank, trembling, and his honest eyes
filling with tears, "a silver statue to Our Lady!" He was going to
rattle at the great iron knocker on the oak gate; but Esmond
stopped his kinsman's hand. He had his own fears, his own hopes,
his own despairs and griefs, too; but he spoke not a word of these
to his companion, or showed any signs of emotion.
He went and tapped at the little window at the porter's lodge,
gently, but repeatedly, until the man came to the bars.
"Who's there?" says he, looking out; it was the servant from
Kensington.
"My Lord Castlewood and Colonel Esmond," we said, from below.
"Open the gate and let us in without any noise."
"My Lord Castlewood?" says the other; "my lord's here, and in bed."
"Open, d--n you," says Castlewood, with a curse.
"I shall open to no one," says the man, shutting the glass window
as Frank drew a pistol. He would have fired at the porter, but
Esmond again held his hand.
"There are more ways than one," says he, "of entering such a great
house as this." Frank grumbled that the west gate was half a mile
round. "But I know of a way that's not a hundred yards off," says
Mr. Esmond; and leading his kinsman close along the wall, and by
the shrubs which had now grown thick on what had been an old moat
about the house, they came to the buttress, at the side of which
the little window was, which was Father Holt's private door.
Esmond climbed up to this easily, broke a pane that had been
mended, and touched the spring inside, and the two gentlemen passed
in that way, treading as lightly as they could; and so going
through the passage into the court, over which the dawn was now
reddening, and where the fountain plashed in the silence.
They sped instantly to the porter's lodge, where the fellow had not
fastened his door that led into the court; and pistol in hand came
upon the terrified wretch, and bade him be silent. Then they asked
him (Esmond's head reeled, and he almost fell as he spoke) when
Lord Castlewood had arrived? He said on the previous evening,
about eight of the clock.--"And what then?"--His lordship supped
with his sister.--"Did the man wait?" Yes, he and my lady's maid
both waited: the other servants made the supper; and there was no
wine, and they could give his lordship but milk, at which he
grumbled; and--and Madam Beatrix kept Miss Lucy always in the room
with her. And there being a bed across the court in the Chaplain's
room, she had arranged my lord was to sleep there. Madam Beatrix
had come down stairs laughing with the maids, and had locked
herself in, and my lord had stood for a while talking to her
through the door, and she laughing at him. And then he paced the
court awhile, and she came again to the upper window; and my lord
implored her to come down and walk in the room; but she would not,
and laughed at him again, and shut the window; and so my lord,
uttering what seemed curses, but in a foreign language, went to the
Chaplain's room to bed.
"Was this all!"--"All," the man swore upon his honor; all as he
hoped to be saved.--"Stop, there was one thing more. My lord, on
arriving, and once or twice during supper, did kiss his sister, as
was natural, and she kissed him." At this Esmond ground his teeth
with rage, and wellnigh throttled the amazed miscreant who was
speaking, whereas Castlewood, seizing hold of his cousin's hand,
burst into a great fit of laughter.
"If it amuses thee," says Esmond in French, "that your sister
should be exchanging of kisses with a stranger, I fear poor Beatrix
will give thee plenty of sport."--Esmond darkly thought, how
Hamilton, Ashburnham, had before been masters of those roses that
the young Prince's lips were now feeding on. He sickened at that
notion. Her cheek was desecrated, her beauty tarnished; shame and
honor stood between it and him. The love was dead within him; had
she a crown to bring him with her love, he felt that both would
degrade him.
But this wrath against Beatrix did not lessen the angry feelings of
the Colonel against the man who had been the occasion if not the
cause of the evil. Frank sat down on a stone bench in the court-
yard, and fairly fell asleep, while Esmond paced up and down the
court, debating what should ensue. What mattered how much or how
little had passed between the Prince and the poor faithless girl?
They were arrived in time perhaps to rescue her person, but not her
mind; had she not instigated the young Prince to come to her;
suborned servants, dismissed others, so that she might communicate
with him? The treacherous heart within her had surrendered, though
the place was safe; and it was to win this that he had given a
life's struggle and devotion; this, that she was ready to give away
for the bribe of a coronet or a wink of the Prince's eye.
When he had thought his thoughts out he shook up poor Frank from
his sleep, who rose yawning, and said he had been dreaming of
Clotilda. "You must back me," says Esmond, in what I am going to
do. I have been thinking that yonder scoundrel may have been
instructed to tell that story, and that the whole of it may be a
lie; if it be, we shall find it out from the gentleman who is
asleep yonder. See if the door leading to my lady's rooms," (so we
called the rooms at the north-west angle of the house,) "see if the
door is barred as he saith." We tried; it was indeed as the lackey
had said, closed within.
"It may have been opened and shut afterwards," says poor Esmond;
"the foundress of our family let our ancestor in in that way."
"What will you do, Harry, if--if what that fellow saith should turn
out untrue?" The young man looked scared and frightened into his
kinsman's face; I dare say it wore no very pleasant expression.
"Let us first go see whether the two stories agree," says Esmond;
and went in at the passage and opened the door into what had been
his own chamber now for wellnigh five-and-twenty years. A candle
was still burning, and the Prince asleep dressed on the bed--Esmond
did not care for making a noise. The Prince started up in his bed,
seeing two men in his chamber. "Qui est la" says he, and took a
pistol from under his pillow.
"It is the Marquis of Esmond," says the Colonel, "come to welcome
his Majesty to his house of Castlewood, and to report of what hath
happened in London. Pursuant to the King's orders, I passed the
night before last, after leaving his Majesty, in waiting upon the
friends of the King. It is a pity that his Majesty's desire to see
the country and to visit our poor house should have caused the King
to quit London without notice yesterday, when the opportunity
happened which in all human probability may not occur again; and
had the King not chosen to ride to Castlewood, the Prince of Wales
might have slept at St. James's."
"'Sdeath! gentlemen," says the Prince, starting off his bed,
whereon he was lying in his clothes, "the Doctor was with me
yesterday morning, and after watching by my sister all night, told
me I might not hope to see the Queen."
"It would have been otherwise," says Esmond with another bow; "as,
by this time, the Queen may be dead in spite of the Doctor. The
Council was met, a new Treasurer was appointed, the troops were
devoted to the King's cause; and fifty loyal gentlemen of the
greatest names of this kingdom were assembled to accompany the
Prince of Wales, who might have been the acknowledged heir of the
throne, or the possessor of it by this time, had your Majesty not
chosen to take the air. We were ready; there was only one person
that failed us, your Majesty's gracious--"
"Morbleu, Monsieur, you give me too much Majesty," said the Prince,
who had now risen up and seemed to be looking to one of us to help
him to his coat. But neither stirred.
"We shall take care," says Esmond, "not much oftener to offend in
that particular."
"What mean you, my lord?" says the Prince, and muttered something
about a guet-a-pens, which Esmond caught up.
"The snare, Sir," said he, "was not of our laying; it is not we
that invited you. We came to avenge, and not to compass, the
dishonor of our family."
"Dishonor! Morbleu, there has been no dishonor," says the Prince,
turning scarlet, "only a little harmless playing."
"That was meant to end seriously."
"I swear," the Prince broke out impetuously, "upon the honor of a
gentleman, my lords--"
"That we arrived in time. No wrong hath been done, Frank," says
Colonel Esmond, turning round to young Castlewood, who stood at the
door as the talk was going on. "See! here is a paper whereon his
Majesty has deigned to commence some verses in honor, or dishonor,
of Beatrix. Here is 'Madame' and 'Flamme,' 'Cruelle' and
'Rebelle,' and 'Amour' and 'Jour' in the Royal writing and
spelling. Had the Gracious lover been happy, he had not passed his
time in sighing." In fact, and actually as he was speaking, Esmond
cast his eyes down towards the table, and saw a paper on which my
young Prince had been scrawling a madrigal, that was to finish his
charmer on the morrow.
"Sir," says the Prince, burning with rage (he had assumed his Royal
coat unassisted by this time), "did I come here to receive
insults?"
"To confer them, may it please your Majesty," says the Colonel,
with a very low bow, "and the gentlemen of our family are come to
thank you."
"Malediction!" says the young man, tears starting into his eyes
with helpless rage and mortification. "What will you with me,
gentlemen?"
"If your Majesty will please to enter the next apartment," says
Esmond, preserving his grave tone, "I have some papers there which
I would gladly submit to you, and by your permission I will lead
the way;" and, taking the taper up, and backing before the Prince
with very great ceremony, Mr. Esmond passed into the little
Chaplain's room, through which we had just entered into the house:--
"Please to set a chair for his Majesty, Frank," says the Colonel
to his companion, who wondered almost as much at this scene, and
was as much puzzled by it, as the other actor in it. Then going to
the crypt over the mantel-piece, the Colonel opened it, and drew
thence the papers which so long had lain there.
"Here, may it please your Majesty," says he, "is the Patent of
Marquis sent over by your Royal Father at St. Germains to Viscount
Castlewood, my father: here is the witnessed certificate of my
father's marriage to my mother, and of my birth and christening; I
was christened of that religion of which your sainted sire gave all
through life so shining example. These are my titles, dear Frank,
and this what I do with them: here go Baptism and Marriage, and
here the Marquisate and the August Sign-Manual, with which your
predecessor was pleased to honor our race." And as Esmond spoke he
set the papers burning in the brazier. "You will please, sir, to
remember," he continued, "that our family hath ruined itself by
fidelity to yours: that my grandfather spent his estate, and gave
his blood and his son to die for your service; that my dear lord's
grandfather (for lord you are now, Frank, by right and title too)
died for the same cause; that my poor kinswoman, my father's second
wife, after giving away her honor to your wicked perjured race,
sent all her wealth to the King; and got in return, that precious
title that lies in ashes, and this inestimable yard of blue ribbon.
I lay this at your feet and stamp upon it: I draw this sword, and
break it and deny you; and, had you completed the wrong you
designed us, by heaven I would have driven it through your heart,
and no more pardoned you than your father pardoned Monmouth. Frank
will do the same, won't you, cousin?"
Frank, who had been looking on with a stupid air at the papers, as
they flamed in the old brazier, took out his sword and broke it,
holding his head down:--"I go with my cousin," says he, giving
Esmond a grasp of the hand. "Marquis or not, by ---, I stand by
him any day. I beg your Majesty's pardon for swearing; that is--
that is--I'm for the Elector of Hanover. It's all your Majesty's
own fault. The Queen's dead most likely by this time. And you
might have been King if you hadn't come dangling after Trix."
"Thus to lose a crown," says the young Prince, starting up, and
speaking French in his eager way; "to lose the loveliest woman in
the world; to lose the loyalty of such hearts as yours, is not
this, my lords, enough of humiliation?--Marquis, if I go on my
knees will you pardon me?--No, I can't do that, but I can offer you
reparation, that of honor, that of gentlemen. Favor me by crossing
the sword with mine: yours is broke--see, yonder in the armoire are
two;" and the Prince took them out as eager as a boy, and held them
towards Esmond:--"Ah! you will? Merci, monsieur, merci!"
Extremely touched by this immense mark of condescension and
repentance for wrong done, Colonel Esmond bowed down so low as
almost to kiss the gracious young hand that conferred on him such
an honor, and took his guard in silence. The swords were no sooner
met, than Castlewood knocked up Esmond's with the blade of his own,
which he had broke off short at the shell; and the Colonel falling
back a step dropped his point with another very low bow, and
declared himself perfectly satisfied.
"Eh bien, Vicomte!" says the young Prince, who was a boy, and a
French boy, "il ne nous reste qu'une chose a faire:" he placed his
sword upon the table, and the fingers of his two hands upon his
breast:--"We have one more thing to do," says he; "you do not
divine it?" He stretched out his arms:--"Embrassons nous!"
The talk was scarce over when Beatrix entered the room:--What came
she to seek there? She started and turned pale at the sight of her
brother and kinsman, drawn swords, broken sword-blades, and papers
yet smouldering in the brazier.
"Charming Beatrix," says the Prince, with a blush which became him
very well, "these lords have come a-horseback from London, where my
sister lies in a despaired state, and where her successor makes
himself desired. Pardon me for my escapade of last evening. I had
been so long a prisoner, that I seized the occasion of a promenade
on horseback, and my horse naturally bore me towards you. I found
you a Queen in your little court, where you deigned to entertain
me. Present my homages to your maids of honor. I sighed as you
slept, under the window of your chamber, and then retired to seek
rest in my own. It was there that these gentlemen agreeably roused
me. Yes, milords, for that is a happy day that makes a Prince
acquainted, at whatever cost to his vanity, with such a noble heart
as that of the Marquis of Esmond. Mademoiselle, may we take your
coach to town? I saw it in the hangar, and this poor Marquis must
be dropping with sleep."
"Will it please the King to breakfast before he goes?" was all
Beatrix could say. The roses had shuddered out of her cheeks; her
eyes were glaring; she looked quite old. She came up to Esmond and
hissed out a word or two:--"If I did not love you before, cousin,"
says she, "think how I love you now." If words could stab, no
doubt she would have killed Esmond; she looked at him as if she
could.
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?
There presently came from out of the gate--Horse Guards with their
trumpets, and a company of heralds with their tabards. The
trumpets blew, and the herald-at-arms came forward and proclaimed
GEORGE, by the Grace of God, of Great Britain, France, and Ireland,
King, Defender of the Faith. And the people shouted God save the
King!
Among the crowd shouting and waving their hats, I caught sight of
one sad face, which I had known all my life, and seen under many
disguises. It was no other than poor Mr. Holt's, who had slipped
over to England to witness the triumph of the good cause; and now
beheld its enemies victorious, amidst the acclamations of the
English people. The poor fellow had forgot to huzzah or to take
his hat off, until his neighbors in the crowd remarked his want of
loyalty, and cursed him for a Jesuit in disguise, when he ruefully
uncovered and began to cheer. Sure he was the most unlucky of men:
he never played a game but he lost it; or engaged in a conspiracy
but 'twas certain to end in defeat. I saw him in Flanders after
this, whence he went to Rome to the head-quarters of his Order; and
actually reappeared among us in America, very old, and busy, and
hopeful. I am not sure that he did not assume the hatchet and
moccasins there; and, attired in a blanket and war-paint, skulk
about a missionary amongst the Indians. He lies buried in our
neighboring province of Maryland now, with a cross over him, and a
mound of earth above him; under which that unquiet spirit is for
ever at peace.
With the sound of King George's trumpets, all the vain hopes of the
weak and foolish young Pretender were blown away; and with that
music, too, I may say, the drama of my own life was ended. That
happiness, which hath subsequently crowned it, cannot be written in
words; 'tis of its nature sacred and secret, and not to be spoken
of, though the heart be ever so full of thankfulness, save to
Heaven and the One Ear alone--to one fond being, the truest and
tenderest and purest wife ever man was blessed with. As I think of
the immense happiness which was in store for me, and of the depth
and intensity of that love which, for so many years, hath blessed
me, I own to a transport of wonder and gratitude for such a boon--
nay, am thankful to have been endowed with a heart capable of
feeling and knowing the immense beauty and value of the gift which
God hath bestowed upon me. Sure, love vincit omnia; is
immeasurably above all ambition, more precious than wealth, more
noble than name. He knows not life who knows not that: he hath not
felt the highest faculty of the soul who hath not enjoyed it. In
the name of my wife I write the completion of hope, and the summit
of happiness. To have such a love is the one blessing, in
comparison of which all earthly joy is of no value; and to think of
her, is to praise God.
It was at Bruxelles, whither we retreated after the failure of our
plot--our Whig friends advising us to keep out of the way--that the
great joy of my life was bestowed upon me, and that my dear
mistress became my wife. We had been so accustomed to an extreme
intimacy and confidence, and had lived so long and tenderly
together, that we might have gone on to the end without thinking of
a closer tie; but circumstances brought about that event which so
prodigiously multiplied my happiness and hers (for which I humbly
thank Heaven), although a calamity befell us, which, I blush to
think, hath occurred more than once in our house. I know not what
infatuation of ambition urged the beautiful and wayward woman,
whose name hath occupied so many of these pages, and who was served
by me with ten years of such constant fidelity and passion; but
ever after that day at Castlewood, when we rescued her, she
persisted in holding all her family as her enemies, and left us,
and escaped to France, to what a fate I disdain to tell. Nor was
her son's house a home for my dear mistress; my poor Frank was
weak, as perhaps all our race hath been, and led by women. Those
around him were imperious, and in a terror of his mother's
influence over him, lest he should recant, and deny the creed which
he had adopted by their persuasion. The difference of their
religion separated the son and the mother: my dearest mistress felt
that she was severed from her children and alone in the world--
alone but for one constant servant on whose fidelity, praised be
Heaven, she could count. 'Twas after a scene of ignoble quarrel on
the part of Frank's wife and mother (for the poor lad had been made
to marry the whole of that German family with whom he had connected
himself), that I found my mistress one day in tears, and then
besought her to confide herself to the care and devotion of one
who, by God's help, would never forsake her. And then the tender
matron, as beautiful in her Autumn, and as pure as virgins in their
spring, with blushes of love and "eyes of meek surrender," yielded
to my respectful importunity, and consented to share my home. Let
the last words I write thank her, and bless her who hath blessed
it.
By the kindness of Mr. Addison, all danger of prosecution, and
every obstacle against our return to England, was removed; and my
son Frank's gallantry in Scotland made his peace with the King's
government. But we two cared no longer to live in England: and
Frank formally and joyfully yielded over to us the possession of
that estate which we now occupy, far away from Europe and its
troubles, on the beautiful banks of the Potomac, where we have
built a new Castlewood, and think with grateful hearts of our old
home. In our Transatlantic country we have a season, the calmest
and most delightful of the year, which we call the Indian summer: I
often say the autumn of our life resembles that happy and serene
weather, and am thankful for its rest and its sweet sunshine.
Heaven hath blessed us with a child, which each parent loves for
her resemblance to the other. Our diamonds are turned into ploughs
and axes for our plantations; and into negroes, the happiest and
merriest, I think, in all this country: and the only jewel by which
my wife sets any store, and from which she hath never parted, is
that gold button she took from my arm on the day when she visited
me in prison, and which she wore ever after, as she told me, on the
tenderest heart in the world.
