The King’s Highway by G. P. R. James (page 9)

is a near relation of mine.”

Wilton started, and turned round as if he would have gazed in his companion’s face, but the darkness of the night prevented him from well seeing what was passing there. As he recalled, however, his first interview with Green, his look, his manner, and the jesting tone in which he sometimes spoke, he could not but acknowledge that there was something in the whole resembling Lord Sherbrooke not a little, although Green was a much taller and more powerful man.

“This is strange enough, Sherbrooke,” he replied, “if you are not joking; and, indeed, I think you are not, for there is a certain likeness between you and him, though more in the manner than in the person.”

“It is quite true,” replied Lord Sherbrooke; “he is a near relation. But, however, in regard to the Duke, I see not how he can help you, though he certainly does very wonderful things sometimes, which nobody expects or can account for. I would hear all he has to say, then; but at the same time, Wilton, I would not neglect the other business with Vernon, for, you see, the Colonel names Saturday. This is Monday, and before that time the Duke’s head may be upon a pole, for aught we know. They make short work with trials and executions in these days.”

“I will not fail,” answered Wilton, “I will not fail. In such a case as this it is scarcely possible to do too much, and very possible to do too little. I trust your father will not detain me the whole day to-morrow.”

“Oh no!” replied Lord Sherbrooke: “I am going to remove the cause, Wilton. As soon as ever I arrived last night, I perceived that the Earl was delicately working at some grand scheme regarding the Duke, and I very soon perceived, too, that he was determined you and I should not have an opportunity of talking the matter over, for fear we should spoil proceedings. I was obliged to watch my opportunity to-night with great nicety, but to-morrow I go back, that is to say, if my sweet Caroline is ready to go with me, for I am the most obedient and loving of husbands, as all reformed rakes are, you know, Wilton.”

“But is the lady in town, and at your father’s?” demanded Wilton, with surprise.

“She is in town, dearly beloved,” replied Lord Sherbrooke, “but certainly not at my father’s; and now, Wilton, ask me no more upon the subject, for, between you and me, I know little or nothing more myself. I know not what brings her into London; who she comes to see here, or who the note was from that called her so suddenly up to this great den of iniquity. It is a very horrible thing, Wilton, a very horrible thing, indeed,” he continued, in the same jesting tone, “that any woman should have secrets from her husband. I have heard many matrons say so, and I believe them from my whole heart; but I’ve heard the same matrons say that there should be perfect reciprocity, which, perhaps, might mean that the wife and the husband were to have no secrets from each other, which, I am afraid, in my case, would never do, so I am fain to let her have this secret of her own, especially as she promises to tell me what it is in a few days. Reciprocity is a fine thing, Wilton; but it is wonderful what a number of different sorts of reciprocity there are in this world. Look there. Do you know there is something that puzzles me about that house.”

“Why, that is Lord Sunbury’s,” replied Wilton; “but there are lights up in the drawing-room apparently.”

“Ay, that’s one part of the story that puzzles me,” said Lord Sherbrooke. “I think the old housekeeper must be giving a drum. My valet tells me that on Saturday morning last there was a hackney coach stopped at that house, and two men went into it: one seemed a gentleman wrapped in a long cloak, the other looked like a valet, and stayed to get a number of packages out of the coach. Now I cannot suspect that same old housekeeper, who, as far as I recollect, is much like one of the daughters of Erebus and Nox, of carrying on an amorous correspondence with any gentleman; and it is somewhat strange that she should have lent the use of her master’s house, either for love or money. I should not wonder if the Earl himself had come to London before his baggage.”

“I should think not,” replied Wilton; “I should certainly think not. I had a letter from him not long ago, dated from Paris, and I think he certainly would have written to inform me if he had been coming.”

“I am not so sure of that, by any means, Wilton,” replied his friend. “I can tell you, that two or three things have happened to his good lordship lately, which, with all his kindness and benevolence, might make him wish to see two or three other people before he saw you. There is a report even now busy about town that he is corresponding from Paris privately and directly with the King, and that his arrival in England will be followed by a change of ministry, if he will consent to take office again, which seems to be very doubtful.”

These tidings interested Wilton not a little; and perhaps he felt a curiosity to ascertain whether Lord Sherbrooke’s suspicion was or was not correct. His mind, however, was too high and delicate to admit of his taking any steps for that purpose, and after some more conversation on the same subject, he and his friend parted.

On the following morning Wilton had an opportunity of visiting the Duke of Shrewsbury’s office, and found Mr. Vernon disengaged. To him he communicated all that he had to say in defence of the Duke, and found Vernon mild in his manners and expressions, but naturally cautious in either promising anything or in giving any information. He heard all that Wilton had to say, however, and assured him that he would lay the statement he made before the King on the ensuing morning, adding, that if he would call upon him in the course of the next day he would tell him the result. He smiled when Wilton requested him to keep his visit and its object secret, and nodded his head, merely replying, “I understand.”

On the following day Wilton did not fail to visit him again, and waited for nearly an hour till he was ready to receive him.

“I am sorry,” said Vernon, when he did admit him, “that I cannot give you greater satisfaction, Mr. Brown; but the King’s reply, upon my application, was, that he had already spoken with the Earl of Byerdale on the subject. However, it may be some comfort to you to know that his grace of Shrewsbury takes an interest in the situation of the Duke, and has himself written to the King upon the subject.”

CHAPTER XLI.

It was about the hour of noon, and the day was dull and oppressive. Though the apartments assigned to the Duke were high up, and in themselves anything but gloomy, yet no cheering ray of sunshine had visited them, and the air, which was extremely warm, seemed loaded with vapour. The spirits of the prisoner were depressed in proportion, and since the first hour of his imprisonment he had never, perhaps, felt so much as at that moment, all the leaden weight of dull captivity, the anguish of uncertainty, and the delay of hope, which, ever from the time of the prophet king down to the present day, has made the heart sick and the soul weary. It was in vain that his daughter, with the tenderest, the kindest, the most assiduous care, strove to raise his expectations or support his resolution; it was in vain that she strove to wean his thoughts away from his own painful situation by music, or by reading, or by conversation. Grief, like the dull adder, stops its ear that it may not hear the song of the charmer; and while she sang to him or played to him upon the lute, at that time an instrument still extremely common in England, or read to him from the books which she thought best calculated to attract his attention, she could see by the vacant eye that sometimes filled with tears, and the lips that from time to time murmured a word or two of impatience and complaint, that his thoughts were all still bent either upon the sad subject of his captivity, or upon the apprehension of what the future might bring.

At the hour of noon, then, the servant whom the Duke had chosen to wait upon him, and who was freely admitted to the prison, as well as a maid to attend upon the Lady Laura, entered the apartment in which the Duke sat, and announced that the Earl of Byerdale was in the antechamber. The Duke started up with an expression of joy, ordering him to be admitted instantly; and the Earl entered, assuming even an unusual parade of dignity in his step, and contriving to make his countenance look more than commonly severe and sneering, even though there was a marked smile upon it, as if he would imply that no slight pleasure attended his visit to the Duke.

“My dear lord,” he said, “I really have to apologize for not having waited upon you before, but it has been quite impossible. Since the King’s return I have been called upon daily to attend his majesty, besides having all the usual routine of my office to go through; otherwise I can assure your grace that I should have been with you long ago, as both duty and inclination would have prompted me to wait upon you. I am happy to see you so comfortably lodged here. I was afraid that, considering the circumstances, they might have judged it right to debar you of some indulgences; but my lord the governor is a good-hearted, kindly man.–Lady Laura, how are you? I hope you are quite well. I grieve, indeed, to see you and your father in this place; but alas! I had no power to prevent it, and indeed, I fear, I have very little power to serve you now.”

“From your lordship’s words,” said the Duke, after having habitually performed the civilities of the apartment–“from your lordship’s words, I fear that you take a bad view of the case, and do not anticipate my speedy deliverance.”

“Oh, you know,” answered the Earl, “that the trial must take place before we can at all judge what the King’s mercy may incline him to do; but I fear, my lord, I fear that a strong prejudice prevails against your grace. The King, as well may be, is terribly indignant at all persons concerned with this plot.”

“He may well be, indeed,” said the Duke; “for nothing ever made me more indignant than when I first heard of the purposed assassination and invasion myself. With that I had nothing on earth to do. I should have hoped that his majesty’s indignation on other points would have subsided by this time, and that clemency would have resumed her sway towards those who may have acted imprudently but not criminally.”

“Not yet, not yet, I fear, my lord,” replied the Earl; “six months, or a year longer, indeed, would have made all the difference. If your grace had but taken the advice and warning given you by my wise and virtuous young friend, Wilton, and made your escape at once to Flanders, or any neutral ground. I am sure I gave you opportunity enough.”

“But, my lord,” replied the Duke, “Wilton never gave me any warning till the very morning that I was arrested. It is true, indeed,” he added, recollecting the circumstances, “poor Wilton and I unfortunately had a little quarrel on the preceding night, and he left me very much offended, I believe, and hurt, as I dare say he told you, my lord.”

“Oh, he told me nothing, your grace,” replied Lord Byerdale. “Wilton, knowing my feeling on the subject, very wisely acted as he knew I should like, or, at least, INTENDED TO ACT as he knew I should like, without saying anything to me upon the subject. I might very well remain somewhat wilfully ignorant of what was going on, but I must not openly connive, you know.–Then it was not really,” he continued, “that your grace refused to go?”

“Oh, not in the least, not in the least!” replied the Duke. “I received his note early on the next morning, after he left me, and was consulting with my dear child here as to the necessary arrangements for going, when the Messengers arrived.”

“Most unfortunate, indeed,” said the Earl. “I had concluded, judging from your letter to me on the preceding day, that your grace that afternoon, notwithstanding all I had said regarding the young gentleman’s family, refused him the honour to which he aspired, and would not follow the advice he gave.”

Lady Laura rose, and moved towards one of the windows; and her father, with his colour a little heightened, and his manner somewhat agitated, replied, but in a low tone, “I did indeed refuse him Laura’s hand, and, I am afraid, somewhat harshly and angrily; but I never refused to take his advice or warning.”

“Ay, but the two subjects are so mingled up together,” said the Earl, “that the one may be considered to imply the other.”

“I see not how, my lord, I see not how they are so mingled,” said the Duke.

“Ay, it may be difficult to explain,” answered the Earl, “and I cannot do it myself; but so it is. It might not indeed be too late now, if it were not for this unfortunate prejudice of yourself or Lady Laura against my young friend, who, I must say, has served you both well.”

“How not too late, my lord?” demanded the Duke, eagerly: “all prejudices may be removed, you know; and if there were any prejudice, it was mine.”

“Still it would be an obstacle,” answered the Earl; “and the whole matter would of course be rendered much more difficult now. There might be still more prejudices to be overcome at present.–May I ask,” he added, abruptly, “if you have still got the note which Wilton sent you?”

“No,” answered the Duke, “no. I destroyed it immediately, out of regard for his safety.”

“It was a wise precaution,” answered the Earl, “but unnecessary in his case. He has friends who will manage to justify whatever he does of that kind. Humble as he is in all his deportment, he can do many things that I could not venture to do. I have heard the King himself say, in presence of one half of his council, that he is under great personal obligations to Wilton Brown.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the Duke; “but may I request your lordship to inform me what it was you meant just now? You said it might not be yet too late.”

“I fear, my lord, I must not talk to your grace on the subject,” said the Earl; “there might be conditions you would not comply with. You might not like even the idea of flying from prison at all.”

“I do not see why, my lord,” exclaimed the Duke, “I really do not see why. But pray, may I ask what are the conditions?”

“Nay, I make neither any suggestions nor conditions,” replied the Earl, who saw that the Duke was fully worked up to the pitch he wished, “I only spoke of such a thing as escape being very possible, if Wilton chose to arrange it; and then of course the conditions he might require for his services struck my mind.”

“Why as yet, my lord,” answered the Duke, “our noble young friend has not even named any condition as the price of his services.”

“Perhaps, your grace,” replied the Earl, “he may have become wiser by experience. If I have understood you both right, his hopes were disappointed, and hopes which he imagined he entertained with great reason.”

“No, my lord, no!” cried the Duke. “He had no reason for entertaining such hopes. I cannot admit for a moment that I gave him any cause for such expectations.”

“Nay, then, my lord duke,” replied the Earl, with an offended look, “if such be your view of a case which everybody in London sees differently, the more reason why Wilton should make sure of what grounds he stands upon before he acts further in this business. However, I have nothing to do with the affair farther than as his sincere friend, and as having the honour of being his distant relation, which of course makes me resolute in saying that I will not see his feelings sported with and his happiness destroyed. Therefore, your grace, as we shan’t agree, I see, upon these matters, I will humbly take my leave of you.” And he rose, as if to depart.

“Nay, nay, my lord–you are too hasty,” replied the Duke. “I beseech you, do not leave me in this way. I may in former instances have given Wilton hopes without intending it; but the matter is very much altered now, when he has done so much more for me in every way. I do not scruple at all to say that those objections are removed.”

“Perhaps, my lord,” said the Earl, sitting down again, and speaking in a low voice, “we had better discuss the matter in private. Could I not speak to you apart for a moment or two? Suppose we go into the anteroom.”

“Nay, nay,” said the Duke, “Laura will leave us.–Go to your room, my love,” he added, raising his voice. “I would fain have a few minutes conversation with my noble friend alone.”

“Very wrong of you, Lord Byerdale,” she said, with a smile, as she walked towards the door, “to turn me out of the room in this way.”

Lord Byerdale smiled, and bowed, and apologized, all with an air of courtier-like mockery. The moment she was gone, however, he turned to the Duke, saying, “Now, my lord duke, we are alone, and I will beg your grace to give me your honour that no part of our present conversation transpires in any circumstances. I can then hold much more free communication with you. I can lay before you what is possible, and what is probable, and you can choose whatever path you like.”

“Most solemnly I pledge my honour,” replied the Duke, “and I can assure your lordship that I fully appreciate Mr. Brown’s merits and his services to me. He has not only talents and genius, but a princely person and most distinguished manners, and I could not have the slightest objection, as soon as his birth is clearly ascertained and acknowledged–“

“My lord duke,” replied the Earl, interrupting him, “I fear your lordship is somewhat deceiving yourself as to your own situation and his. Wilton, I tell you, can easily find the means of effecting your escape from this prison, and can insure your safe arrival in any continental port you may think fit to name. I do not mean to say that I must not shut my eyes; but for his sake and for yours I am very willing to do so, if I see his happiness made sure thereby.”

The Duke’s eyes sparkled with joy and hope, and the Earl went on.

“Your situation, my lord, at the present moment, you see, is a very unfortunate one, or such a step would in no degree be advisable. But at this period, when the passions of the people and the indignation of the King are both excited to the highest pitch; when there is, as I may call it, an appetite for blood afloat; when the three witnesses, Sir John Fenwick, Smith, and Cook, to say nothing of the corroborative evidence of Goodman, establish beyond doubt that you were accessorily, though perhaps not actively, guilty of high treason–at this period, I say, there can be little doubt that if you were brought to trial–that is, in the course of next week, as I have heard it rumoured–the result would be fatal, such, in short, as we should all deplore.”

The Duke listened, with a face as white as a sheet, but only replied, in a tremulous tone, “But the escape, my lord! the escape!”

“Is quite possible and quite sure,” replied the Earl. “I must shut my eyes, as I have said, and Wilton must act energetically; but I cannot either shut my eyes or suffer him to do so, except upon the following precise condition, which is indeed absolutely necessary to success. It is, that the Lady Laura, your daughter, be his wife before you set your foot from without these walls.”

“But, good heavens, my lord!” exclaimed the Duke–“how is that possible? I believe that Laura would do anything to save her father’s life; but she is not prepared for such a thing. Then the marriage must be celebrated with unbecoming haste. No, my lord, oh no! This is quite impossible. I am very willing to promise that I will give my consent to their marriage afterwards; but for their marriage to take place before we go is quite impossible–especially while I am a prisoner in the Tower of London–quite impossible!”

“I am sorry your grace thinks so,” replied the Earl, drily; “for under those circumstances I fear that your escape from the Tower will be found impossible also.”

A momentary spirit of resistance was raised in the Duke’s breast by feelings of indignation, and he tried for an instant to persuade himself that his case might not be so desperate as the Earl depicted it; that in some points of view it might be better to remain and stand his trial, and that the King’s mercy would very likely be obtained even if he were condemned. But that spirit died away in a moment, and the more rapidly, because the Earl of Byerdale employed not the slightest argument to induce him to follow the plan proposed.

“My lord, this is a very painful case,” he said, “a very painful case, indeed.”

“It is, Duke,” replied the Earl, “it is a painful case; a choice of difficulties, which none can decide but yourself. Pray do not let anything that I can say affect you. I thought it right, as an old friend, to lay before you a means of saving yourself; and no one can judge whether that means be too painful to you to be adopted, as nobody can tell at what rate you value life. But you will remember, also, that forfeiture accompanies the sentence of death in matters of high treason, and that Lady Laura will therefore be left in a painful situation.”

“Nay, my lord, nay,” said the Duke, “if it must come to that, of course I must consent to any terms, rather than sacrifice everything. But I did not think Wilton would have proposed such conditions to me.”

“Nor does he, my lord,” replied the Earl: “he is totally ignorant of the whole matter. He has never, even, that I know of, contemplated your escape as possible. One word from me, however, whispered in his ear, will open his eyes in a minute. But, my lord, it must be upon the condition that I mention. Wilton’s father-in-law may go forth from this prison before twelve to-morrow night, but no other prisoner within it shall, or indeed can.”

“Well, my lord, well,” replied the Duke, somewhat impatiently, “I will throw no obstacle in the way. Laura and Wilton must settle it between them. But I do not see how the matter can be managed here in a prison.”

“Oh, that is easily arranged,” replied the Earl–“nothing can be more easy. There is a chaplain to the Tower, you know. The place has its own privileges likewise, and all the rest shall be done by me. Am I to understand your grace, that you consider yourself pledged upon this subject?”

The Duke thought for a moment, and the images of the trial by his peers, the block and the axe, came up before his sight, making the private marriage of his daughter with Wilton, and the escape to France or Flanders, appear bright in the comparison.

“Well, my lord, well,” he said, “I not only pledge myself, but pledge myself willingly. I always liked Wilton, I always esteemed him highly; and I suppose he would have had Laura at last, if he did not have her now.”

“I congratulate you on your approaching freedom, Duke,” said the Earl, “and as to the rest, I have told you perfectly true, in saying that it is not Wilton who makes any conditions with you. He knows nothing of the matter, and is as eager to set you at liberty without any terms at all, as you could be yourself to obtain it. You had better, therefore, let me speak with him on the subject altogether. Should he come here before he sees me, only tell him that the marriage is to take place to-morrow evening, that it is all settled between you and me, and that as to the means of setting you free, he must talk with me upon the subject. You must then furnish him with your consent to the immediate marriage under your own hand. After that is done, he and I will arrange all the rest.”

The Duke acquiesced in all that was proposed to him, having once given his consent to the only step which was repugnant to him to take. Nay more, that point being overcome, and his mind elevated by the hope of escape, he even went before Lord Byerdale in suggesting arrangements which would facilitate the whole business.

“I will tell Laura after you are gone, my lord,” he said, “and her consent will be easily obtained, I am sure, both because I know she would do anything to save my life, and because I shrewdly believe–indeed she has not scrupled to admit–that she loves this young man already. I will manage all that with her, and then I will leave her and Wilton, and Wilton and your lordship, to make all the rest of the arrangements.”

“Do so, do so,” said the Earl, rising, “and I will not fail, my lord, as soon as you are safe, to use every influence in my power for the purpose of obtaining your pardon, which will be much more easily gained when you are beyond the power of the English law, than while you are actually within its gripe.”

The Earl was now about to take his departure, and some more ceremonious words passed between him and the Duke, in regard to their leave-taking. Just as the Earl had reached the door, however, a sudden apprehension seemed to seize the prisoner, who exclaimed, “Stay, my good lord, stay, one moment more! Of course your lordship is upon honour with me, as I am with you? There is no possibility, no probability, of my escape being prevented after my daughter’s hand is given?”

Nothing more mortified the Earl of Byerdale than to find, that, notwithstanding all his skill, there was still a something of insincerity penetrated through the veil he cast over his conduct, and made many persons, even the most easily deceived, doubtful of his professions and advances.

“I trust your grace does not suspect me of treachery,” he said, in a sharp and offended tone.

“Not in the least, not in the least, my lord,” replied the Duke; “but I understood your lordship to say, that my escape by the means proposed would be rendered quite certain, and I wish to ascertain whether I had not mistaken you.”

“Not in the slightest degree, my lord duke,” replied the Earl. “I pledge you my honour, that under the proposed arrangements you shall be beyond the doors of this prison, and at perfect liberty, before the dawn of day on Monday morning. I pledge myself to you in every respect, and if it be not so, I will be ready to take your place. Does this satisfy you?”

“Quite, quite,” answered the Duke. “I could desire nothing more.” And the Earl, with a formal bow, opened the door and left him.

CHAPTER XLII.

As soon as the Earl of Byerdale was gone, the Duke called Laura from her room, and told her what had been proposed. “Laura,” he said, as he concluded, “you do not answer me: but I took upon me to reply at once, that you would be well pleased to lay aside pride and every other feeling of the kind, to save your father from this torturing suspense–to save perhaps his life itself.”

Laura’s cheeks had not regained their natural colour since the first words respecting such a sudden marriage were spoken to her. That her father had consented to her union with Wilton was of course most joyful; but the early period fixed for such an important, such an overwhelming change in her condition, was startling; and to think that Wilton could have made it the condition of his using all his exertions in her father’s cause would have been painful–terrible, if she could have believed it. We must not, indeed, say, that even if it had been really so, she would have hesitated to give him her hand, not only for her father’s sake, but because she loved him, because, as we have said before, she already looked upon herself as plighted to him beyond all recall. She would have tried to fancy that he had good motives which she did not know; she would have tried, in short, to find any palliation for such conduct; but still it would have been very painful to her–still it might, in a degree, have shaken her confidence in high and upright generosity of feeling, it might have made her doubt whether, in all respects, she had found a heart perfectly responsive to her own.

“My dear father,” she replied, gazing tenderly upon him, and laying her two hands on his, with a faint smile, “what is there that I would not do for such objects as you mention, were it ten thousand times more than marrying the man I love best, even with such terrible suddenness.–It is very sudden, indeed, I must say; and I do wonder that Wilton required it.”

“Why, my dear Laura,” replied the Duke, “it was not exactly Wilton himself. It was Lord Byerdale took it all on his own shoulders: but of course Wilton prompted it; and in such circumstances as these I could not hesitate to consent.”

Lady Laura looked down while her father spoke; and when her first agitation was over, she could not but think, that perhaps, considering her father’s character, Wilton was right; and that the means he had taken, though apparently ungenerous, were the only ones to secure her own happiness and his, and her father’s safety also. The next instant, however, as she recollected a thousand different traits in her lover’s conduct, and combined those recollections with what her father said concerning Lord Byerdale, she became convinced that Wilton had not made such conditions, and that rather than have made them he would have risked everything, even if the Duke were certain to deny him her hand the moment after his liberation.

“I do not think, my dear father,” she replied, as this conviction came strong upon her–“I do not think that Wilton did prompt the Earl of Byerdale. I do not think he would make such conditions, on any account.”

“Well, it does not matter, my dear Laura,” replied her father, whose mind was totally taken up with his own escape. “It comes to the same thing. The Earl has made them, if Wilton has not, and I have pledged my word for your consent. But hark, Laura, I hear Wilton’s step in the outer room. I will leave you two together to make all your arrangements, and to enter into every explanation,” and he turned hurriedly towards the door which led to his bedroom.

Ere he reached it, however, he paused for a moment, with a sudden fear coming over him that Laura might by some means put an end to all the plans on which he founded his hopes of liberty.

“Laura,” he said, “Laura–for heaven’s sake show no repugnance, my dear child. Remember, your father’s safety depends upon it.” And turning away, he entered his bedroom just as Wilton opened the opposite door.

Laura gazed upon her lover, as he came in; and asked herself, while she marked that noble and open countenance, “Is it possible he could make any unworthy condition?”

Wilton’s face was grave, and even sad, for he had again applied to Vernon, and received a still less satisfactory reply than before; but he was glad to find Laura alone, for this was the first time that he had obtained any opportunity of seeing her in private, since she had been permitted to join her father in the Tower. His greeting, then, was as tender and as affectionate as the circumstances in which they stood towards each other might warrant; but he did not forget, even then, that subject which he knew was of the deepest interest to her –her father’s situation.

“Oh, dearest Laura,” he said, “I have longed to speak with you for a few minutes alone, and yet, now that I have the opportunity, I have nothing but sad subjects to entertain you with.”

His words confirmed Laura’s confidence in his generosity. She saw clearly that he knew not what had been proposed by the Earl; the very conviction gave her joy, and she replied, looking up playfully and affectionately in his face,–

“I thought, Wilton, that you had come to measure my finger for the ring,” and she held out her small fair hand towards him.

“Oh, would to Heaven, dear Laura,” he answered, pressing the hand that she had given to his lips–“would to Heaven, that we had arrived at that point!–But, Laura, you are smiling still. You have heard some good news: your father is pardoned: is it not so?”

“No, Wilton, no,” she said, “not quite such good news as that. But still the news I have heard is good news; but it is odd enough, Wilton, that I should have to tell it to you; and yet I am glad that it is so.”

She then detailed to him all that had occurred, as far as she had learned it from her father. Wilton listened with surprise and astonishment; but, though at the joyful tidings of the Duke’s consent, and at the prospect of her so soon becoming his irrevocably, he could not restrain his joy, but clasped her in rapture to his heart, yet there was a feeling of indignation, ay, and of doubt and suspicion also, in regard to Lord Byerdale’s conduct, and his purposes, which mingled strangely with his satisfaction.

“Although, dear Laura,” he said, “although this is a blessed hope for ourselves, and also a blessed hope for your father, I cannot help saying that Lord Byerdale has acted very strangely in this business, and very ill. It may be out of regard for me; but it is a sort of regard I do not understand; and, were it not that I am sure my dear Laura has never for a moment doubted me, I should say that he in some degree compromised my honour, by making that consent a condition of your father’s safety, which should only be granted to affection and esteem.”

Laura coloured slightly, to think that she had even doubted for an instant: but Wilton went on, relaxing the graver look that had come over his countenance, and saying, “We must not, however, my dear Laura, refuse to take the happiness that is offered to us, unless, indeed, you should think it very, very terrible to give me this dear hand so soon; and even then I think my Laura would overcome such feelings, when they are to benefit her father.”

“I do not feel it so terrible, Wilton,” replied Lady Laura, “as I did ten minutes ago. If I thought that you had made the condition, it would seem so much more as if you were a stranger to me, that it might be terrible. But when I hear you speak as you do now, Wilton, I feel that I could trust myself with you anywhere, that I could go away with you at any moment, perfectly secure of my future happiness; and so I reply, Wilton, that I am not only willing, but very willing.”

“We must lose no time, then, dear Laura,” replied Wilton, “in making all our arrangements. I must now, indeed, have the measure of that small finger, and I must speed away to Lord Byerdale with all haste, in order to learn the means that are to be employed for your father’s escape. I must inquire a little, too, into his motives, Laura, and add some reproaches for his having so compromised me.”

“For Heaven’s sake, do not–for Heaven’s sake, do not!” cried Laura. “My father would never forgive me, if, in consequence of anything I had said, you and Lord Byerdale were to have any dispute upon the matter, and the business were to fail.”

“Oh, fear not, fear not, Laura,” replied Wilton, smiling at her eagerness: “there is no fear of any dispute.”

“Nay, but promise me,” she said–“promise me, Wilton.”

“I do promise you, dear Laura,” he replied, “that nothing on earth which depends upon me, for your father’s liberation or escape, shall be wanting, and I promise you more, my beloved Laura, that I will not quarrel with the means, because my Laura’s hand is to be mine at once.”

“Well, Wilton,” continued Laura, still fearful that something might make the scheme go wrong, “I trust to you, and only beg you to remember, that if this does not succeed, my father will never forgive either you or me.”

Some farther conversation upon these subjects ensued, and all the arrangements of Laura and Wilton were made as far as it was possible. There were feelings in the mind of Wilton–that doubt of ultimate success, in fact, which we all feel when a prospect of bright and extraordinary happiness is suddenly presented to us, after many struggles with difficulties and dangers–which led him to linger and enjoy the present hour. But after a time, as he heard the clock chime two, and knew that every moment was now of importance, he hastened away to seek the Earl of Byerdale, and hear farther what was to be done for the escape of the Duke.

The Earl was not at home, however, nor at his office, and Wilton occupied himself for another hour in various preparations for the events that were likely to ensue. At the end of that time he returned to the Earl of Byerdale’s house, and was immediately admitted.

“Well, Wilton!” exclaimed the Earl, as soon as he saw him, with a cheerful smile, in which there was, nevertheless, something sarcastic–“have I not done well for you? I think this proud Duke’s stomach is brought down sufficiently.”

“I am only grieved, my lord,” replied Wilton, “that either the Duke or Lady Laura should have cause to think that I made it a condition she should give me her hand before I aided in her father’s escape. There seemed to me something degrading in such a course.”

The Earl’s brow, for a moment, grew as dark as a thunder-cloud, but it passed away in a sneer, and he contented himself with saying, “Are you so proud, also, my young sir?–It matters not, however. What did the Duke say to you? He showed no reluctance, I trust. We will bring his pride down farther, if he did.”

“I did not see the Duke, my lord,” replied Wilton, a good deal mortified at the tone the Earl assumed–“I only saw Lady Laura.”

“And what said she?” demanded the Earl. “Is she as proud as her father?”

“She showed no repugnance, my lord,” replied Wilton, “to do what was necessary for her father’s safety; and when she saw how much pained I was it should be thought that I would make such a condition with her, she only seemed apprehensive that such feelings might lead to any derangement of your lordship’s plan.”

“What?” said the Earl. “You were very indignant, indeed, I suppose, and abused me heartily for doing the very thing that is to secure you happiness, rank, station, and independence. But she conquered, no doubt. You promised to concur in my terrible scheme? Is it not so, Wilton?”

“Yes, my lord, I did,” replied Wilton.

“Upon my word, you are a pretty gentleman, to make ladies sue you thus,” continued the Earl, in a jeering tone. “I dare say she made you vow all sorts of things?”

“I pledged myself solemnly, my lord,” replied Wilton, “to do all that depended upon me to forward your lordship’s plan for the Duke’s escape, and she knows me too well to entertain a doubt of my keeping that promise to the letter.”

“Not my plan, not my plan, Wilton,” said the Earl, in a more pleasant tone. “It must be your plan, my young friend; for I might put my head in danger, remember. It is a different thing with you, who are not yet sworn of the privy council. I will take care, also, that no harm shall happen to you. The Duke was talking of some valet that he has, whom he wishes to send out of the prison to-morrow night. Now, what I propose, in order to facilitate all your arrangements with regard to Lady Laura, is to give you an order upon the governor of the Tower to suffer you and Lady Laura, and one man-servant and one maid, to pass out any time to-morrow before twelve o’clock at night. I write a little note to the Governor at the same time, telling him that, with the consent of all parties, you and Lady Laura are to be married privately in the Tower, to-morrow evening, by the chaplain, and I have provided you with all the necessary authorizations for the chaplain. You will find them there in that paper.–My note will not at all surprise the Governor, because it has been the common talk of the town for the last two months that you were going to be married to Lady Laura, and most likely the good Governor has not heard of the Duke’s whims at Somersbury. The note will therefore only serve as a reason for your wishing to go out late at night, which is contrary to rules, you know. The Governor will give orders about it to his subordinates, as he is going down to spend a day or two at Hampton Court, and testify his duty to the King. If, therefore, you go away with your attendants towards midnight, you will find nobody up who knows the Duke, and a livery jacket and badge may cover whomsoever you like. A carriage can be waiting for you on Tower Hill, and a small brig called the Skimmer is lying with papers sealed and everything prepared a little below Greenwich.–Now, Wilton,” he added, “if this does not succeed in your hands, it is your fault. Do you agree to every part of this as I have laid it before you?”

“Most assuredly, my lord,” replied Wilton, with eager gladness; “and I can easily show Laura now, that there is a sufficient motive for our marriage taking place so rapidly and so secretly.”

“I did not think of that,” said the Earl, much to Wilton’s surprise. “However, I shall leave to you entirely the execution of this scheme, Wilton. You understand that my name is never to be mentioned, however, and I take it as a matter of honour, that whatever be the result, you say not one word whatsoever to inculpate me.”

“None, my lord–none, upon my honour!” replied Wilton.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Wilton?” demanded the Earl. “If not, just be good enough to copy out that letter for me against my return, for the carriage is at the door, and I must go in haste to Kensington, to see the King depart for Hampton Court. The papers are all there in that packet I have given you–the order, the note, the special licence, and everything. Is there anything more?”

“Nothing, my lord. I thank you most sincerely,” replied Wilton, sitting down to copy the letter, while the Earl took up his hat and cane, and walked a step or two towards the door. The Earl paused, however, before he reached it, and then turned again towards Wilton, gazing upon him with a cold, unpleasant sort of smile.

“By the way, Wilton,” he said, “I promised to tell you part of your own history, but did not intend to do it for some little time. As we are likely however to be separated for a month or two by this marriage trip of yours, there is one thing that I may as well tell you. But you must, in the first place, promise me, upon your honour as a gentleman, and by all you hold most sacred, not to reveal one word thereof to any one, till the safety of the Duke is quite secured–do you promise me in that solemn manner?”

“I do, indeed, my lord,” replied Wilton, “and feel most sincerely grateful to your lordship for relieving my mind on the subject at once.”

“Well, then, Wilton,” continued the Earl, “you may recollect I said to the Duke that there was as ancient and good blood in your veins as in his own or in mine. Now, Wilton, my uncle, the last Earl of Byerdale, had two other nephews besides myself, and you are the son of one of them, who, espousing the cause of the late King James, was killed at the battle of the Boyne, and all he had confiscated. Little enough it was. You are his son, I say, Wilton. Do you hear?–His natural son, by a very pretty lady called Miss Harriet Oswald!–But upon my honour I must go, or I shall miss the King.”

And turning round with an air of perfect coolness and composure, the Earl quitted the room, leaving Wilton thunderstruck and overwhelmed with grief.

CHAPTER XLIII.

The whole of the Earl’s dark scheme was cleared up to Wilton’s eyes in a moment; and the secret of his own fate was only given to him in conjunction with an insight into that black and base transaction, of which he had been made an unwitting tool.

Horrible, most horrible to himself was the disappointment of all his hopes. The bright dreams that he had entertained, the visions of gay things which he had suffered the enchanter Imagination to call forth from the former obscurity of his fate, were all dispelled by the words that he had just heard spoken; and everything dark, and painful and agonising, was spread out around him in its stead. He was as one who, having fallen asleep in a desert, has dreamt sweet dreams, and then suddenly wakes with the rising sun, to find nothing but arid desolation around him.

Thus, painful indeed would have been his feelings if he had only had to contemplate his situation in reference to himself alone; but when he recollected how his position bore upon the Duke and Laura, the thought thereof almost drove him mad. The deceit which had been practised upon him had taught him to entertain hopes, and to pursue objects which he never would have dreamed of, had it not been for that deceit. It had made him throw open his heart to the strongest of all affections, it had made him give himself up entirely to ardent and passionate love, from which he would have fled as from his bane, had he known what was now told to him. He had been made also the instrument of basely deceiving others. He knew that the Duke would never have heard of such a thing as his marriage with Lady Laura; he, knew that in all probability he would never have admitted him into any extraordinary intimacy with his family, if he had not firmly believed that he was anything but that which he was now proved to be. He did not know, but he doubted much whether Laura, knowing her father’s feelings upon such a subject, would ever have thought of him otherwise than as an ordinary acquaintance. He knew not, he could not tell, whether she herself might not upon that subject entertain the same feelings as the Duke. But what would be their sensations, what their astonishment, what their indignation, when they found that they had been so basely deceived, when they found that he had been apparently a sharer in such deceit! Would they ever believe that he had acted unwittingly, when the whole transaction was evidently to the advantage of none but himself; when he was to reap the whole of the solid benefit, and the Earl of Byerdale had only to indulge a revengeful caprice? Would anybody believe it? he asked himself: and, clasping his hands together, he stood overpowered by the feeling of having lost all hope in his own fate, of having lost her he loved for ever, and, perhaps, of having lost also her love and esteem, and the honourable name which he had hitherto borne.

For a few minutes he thus remained, as it were, utterly confounded, with no thought but the mere consciousness of so many evils, and with the cold sneering tone of the Earl of Byerdale still ringing in his ears, announcing to him plainly, that the treacherous statesman enjoyed the wound which he had inflicted upon him, almost as much as the humiliation to which he had doomed the Duke.

Wilton’s mind, however, as we have endeavoured to show throughout this book, was not of a character to succumb under a sense of any evils that affected him. All the painful feelings that assailed him might, it is true, remain indelibly impressed upon his mind for long years. It was not that the effect wore out, it was only that the mind gained strength, and bore the burden that was cast upon it; and thus, in the present instance, he shook off, in a very short space of time, the thought of his sorrows themselves, to consider more clearly how he should act under them.

But new difficulties presented themselves with this consideration. He had solemnly pledged himself not to reveal what the Earl had told him till the Duke was placed in safety. He had pledged himself to Laura to throw no obstacle whatever in the way of her father’s escape by the means which the Earl had proposed. Neither was there a way of evading any part of the plan as the Earl had arranged it. Otherwise he would undoubtedly have attempted to postpone the marriage till after the Duke was free, and then, having placed his own honour beyond all question, to tell Laura and her father the whole truth. But as the Earl had taken care to inform the governor of the Tower that he was to go out with Lady Laura and the attendants after his private marriage to her, there could be no pretence for his staying in the Tower after the usual hour, and making use of the Earl’s order, if the marriage did not take place.

He saw that the wily politician had entangled him on all sides. He saw that he had left him scarcely a possibility of escape. He had either to commit an action which he felt would be dishonourable in the highest degree towards Laura, or to break the solemn pledge that he had made, and at the same time leave himself still under the imputation of dishonour; for he had nothing else to propose to Laura or her father but her instant marriage with himself, notwithstanding the circumstances of his birth, or the imminent risk of her father’s total ruin.

“She may think,” he said to himself, “and the Duke certainly will think, that I have never told this fact till the very last moment, when I have so entangled her that there was no receding. Thus I shall violate my word to the Earl, which his baseness, perhaps, would justify me in doing, but shall yet derive scarcely any benefit either to the Duke, or Laura, or myself.”

It was all agony, and clasping his hands together once more, he remained gazing upon the ground in absolute despair. Which way, he asked himself, could he turn for help or advice? His mind rested for a moment on Lord Sunbury. There were many strong reasons to believe that he was in London, but incognito; but as Wilton thus thought, he recollected his pledge not to mention either the plans the Earl had laid out, or the facts concerning his own birth which had been told him. And again he was at sea, but the next moment came the thought of Lord Sherbrooke and his strange acquaintance Green: he recollected that on that very night he was to meet the Colonel; he recollected that the very object of that meeting was to be the Duke; he remembered that Green’s words had been, “to apply to him in any difficulty, for that he had more power to do him a service than ever;” he recollected that the very person he was to see possessed some knowledge of his own history; and hope, out of these materials, however incoherent, strange, and unpromising they might be, contrived to elicit at least one ray of light.

“I will meet him,” he thought; “I will meet him, and will do the best that I can when I do see him. I must not allude to what I have heard; but he may have power that I do not know of, he may even aid me in some other plan for the Duke’s escape. I will set out as soon as it is dusk.”

As he thus thought, he turned towards the door, nearly forgetting the letter which the Earl had given him to copy; but his eye chanced to fall upon it as he passed, and saying aloud, “This man shall not see how he has shaken me,” he sat down, and copied it clearly and accurately. He then left the house, went home, ordered his horse, and made preparations for his journey. The sun was just touching the horizon as he put his foot in the stirrup, and he rode forward at a quick pace on the road towards Somersbury.

It was a beautiful clear evening, and many people were abroad; but for the first six miles he saw nobody but strangers, all hurrying to their several destinations for the night, travellers wending their way into the great metropolis, and carts carrying to its devouring maw the food for the next day. Between the sixth and seventh milestone, however, where the moon was just seen raising her yellow horn beside the village spire, he beheld a man mounted upon a powerful horse, riding towards him, who by his military aspect, broad shoulders, powerful frame, and erect seat upon his horse, he recognised, while still at some distance, as Green.

“Ah Wilton, my boy,” cried the Colonel, as he rode up, “I am glad to see you.–You are not behind your time, but there is an impatience upon me now that made me set off early. I am glad I did, for I have not been on my horse’s back for a fortnight; and there is something in poor Barbary’s motion that gives me back a part of my former lightness of heart.”

“I wish to Heaven that you could get it all back,” replied Wilton. “But I fear when it is lost it is not to be regained–I feel that it is so, but too bitterly, at this moment.”

“What you!” exclaimed the Colonel. “What is the matter, Wilton? What have you done? for a man never loses his lightness of heart for ever, but by his own act?”

“I think,” said Wilton, “from what I have heard you say, that you can feel for my situation, when I tell you, that, by the entanglements of one I do not scruple to call a most accursed villain, I can neither go on with honour in the course that is before me, nor retreat without dishonour; and even if I could do either, there would still be absolute and perpetual misery for me in life.”

“Who is the villain?” demanded Green, abruptly.

“The Earl of Byerdale,” replied Wilton.

“Ha, ha, ha!” shouted Green aloud. “He is a cursed villain; he always was, and ever will be. But we will frustrate the Earl of Byerdale, Wilton. I tell you, that, with my right hand on his collar, the Earl of Byerdale is no more than a lackey.”

“But you cannot frustrate him,” replied Wilton, “so as to relieve me, unless you can find means to set the Duke of Gaveston at liberty; and even then–but it matters not. I can bear unhappiness, but not dishonour.”

“Set the Duke at liberty!” said Green, thoughtfully. “He ought to have been at liberty already. He has committed no crime, but only folly. He has been stupid, not wicked; and besides, I had heard–but that may be a mistake. Let us ride on, Wilton,” he continued, turning his horse; “and as we go, tell me gill that has happened.”

“Alas!” replied Wilton, riding on beside him, “that is of all things what I cannot and must not do. If I could speak, if I could open my mouth to any one on the subject, one half of my difficulties, one half of my grief; would be relieved at once. But that I am pledged and bound not to do, in a manner which leaves me no relief, which affords me no means of escape.”

“Well, then, Wilton,” said his companion, “I know there are situations in which, to aid a friend at all, we must aid him upon his own showing, and without inquiry. We must do what he asks us to do without explanation, or sacrifice his service to our pride. Such shall not be the case with me. I will do what I can to serve you, even to the last, altogether without explanation. Let me ask you, however, one or two questions.”

“I will answer them, if I can,” replied Wilton. “But remember always, there is much that I am pledged not to reveal at present.”

“They will be very easily answered, my boy,” replied Green. “Have you seen the Earl of Sunbury?”

“I have not,” replied Wilton, “though I believe he is in England. To him I should have applied, certainly, if I had been able to explain to him, in any degree, my situation.”

“He is in England,” replied Green: “I saw him two days ago; but I leave him to smart for a time under the consequences of an imprudence he has committed. In the next place, I have but the one general question to put,–What can I do for you?”

“I know not, indeed,” replied Wilton, “though I sought you with a vague hope, that you might be able to do something. But the only thing that could in any degree relieve me would be, either to effect the escape of the Duke from the Tower–“

“That is impossible!” said Green, “utterly impossible! What was the alternative?”

“To obtain from the King a warrant for his liberation,” said Wilton, in a despairing tone, “which is impossible also; for how can I expect you to do what neither Vernon nor the Duke of Shrewsbury has been able to accomplish? The King’s only answer to all applications is, that he has spoken to the Earl of Byerdale; and in the Earl of Byerdale we have no hope. So that is out of the question.”

“Not so much as you imagine, Wilton,” replied Green. “I will do it if it is to be done, though I would fain have avoided the act which I must now perform. Come to me on Monday, Wilton, here upon this road where we now ride, and I think I will put the order in your hand.”

“Alas!” replied Wilton, “Monday will not do. The liberation must be for to-morrow night to answer the intended purpose. I have lately thought to do the bold, and perhaps the rash, act of going to the King myself–telling him all I know–and beseeching him to set the Duke at liberty. He even told me once, that I had done him good service, and that he would favour me. But, alas! kings forget such words as soon as spoken.”

“He has a long memory, this William,” replied Green; “but you shall go with me, Wilton. If it must be to-morrow, to-morrow it shall be. Meet me then at twelve o’clock exactly, at the little inn by the water, called the Swan, near Kingston Bridge. I will be there waiting for you. It is a likely hour to find the King after he comes from chapel; but I will apply beforehand both in your name and in mine; for I heard some time ago, from Harry Sherbrooke, that you had won such praises from William as he seldom bestows on any one.”

“At twelve to-morrow!” said Wilton, thoughtfully. “I was to have been at the Tower at twelve to-morrow. But it matters not. That engagement I at least may break without losing my honour, or wounding her heart. But tell me, tell me, Green, is there any hope, is there any chance of our being successful?”

“There is great hope, there is great chance,” replied Green. “I will not, indeed, say that it is by any means sure; for what is there we can rely upon on earth? Have I not seen everything break down beneath me like mere reeds, and shall I now put my faith in any man? But still, Wilton, I will ask this thing. I will see William of Orange–I will call him King at once–for King he is in fact; and far more kingly in his courage and his nature than the weak man who never will wear the crown of these realms again. We will both urge our petition to the throne; and even if he have forgotten the last words that he said to me, those which you have to speak perhaps may prove sufficient. He is not a cruel or a bloody-minded man; and I do believe he forgets his enmities more easily than he does his friendships. If we could have said the same of the race of Stuart, the crown of England would never have rested on the brow of the Prince of Orange. I thought to have led you to other scenes and other conferences to-night,” he added, “but this matter changes all, and we will now part. I will to my task, and prepare the way for to-morrow. You to yours; but fail not, Wilton, fail not. Be rather before than after the hour.”

“I will not fail,” replied Wilton; and after this short conference, he turned his rein and rode back to London.

As he went, he meditated on the hopes which his conference with Green had raised up again; but the brightness of those hopes faded away beneath the light of thought. Yet, though such was the case, the determination remained, and grew firmer and stronger, perhaps from the want of any very great expectation. He determined to appeal to the King, as the last act in his power; to do so firmly and resolutely; and if the King refused his petition, and gave him no reason to hope, to apply, as the next greatest favour, for a memorandum in writing of his having so appealed, in order that he might prove to Laura and her father that he had done all in his power to give the Duke an opportunity of rejecting that means of escape, which could only be obtained by uniting his daughter to one, from whom, in any other circumstances, he would have withheld her.

“It is strange,” he said to himself, “it is strange and sad, that I can scarcely move a step in any way without the risk of dishonour; and that the only means to avoid it requires every exertion to deprive myself of peace, and happiness, and love for ever.”

Thus he thought as he went along; and imagination pictured his next parting from her he loved, and all that was to follow it–the grief that she would suffer as well as himself–the long dreary lapse of sad and cheerless hours that was to fill up the remainder of existence for him, with all happy hopes at an end, and fortune, station, love, gone away like visions of the night.

Early on the ensuing morning, he despatched a note to the Tower, telling Laura that business, affecting her father’s safety, would keep him away from her at the hour he had promised to visit her. He would be with her, he said, at all events before nightfall; and he added every term of love and affection that his heart suggested; but at the same time he could not prevent a tone of sadness spreading through his letter, which communicated to Laura a fear lest her father’s hopes of escape should be frustrated.

By eleven o’clock Wilton was at the door of the small inn named for the meeting; and two handsome horses which were standing there, held by a servant, announced that Green had arrived before him. On going in, he found his strange friend far more splendidly dressed than he had ever seen him, apparently waiting for his coming. His fine person told to much advantage, his upright carriage and somewhat proud and stern demeanour, the grave and thoughtful look of his eye, all gave him the appearance of one of high mind and high station, accustomed to action and command. A certain sort of gay and dissipated look, which he had previously borne, was altogether gone: within the last few months he had become paler and thinner, and his countenance had assumed an air of gloom which did not even leave it when he laughed.

As Wilton now advanced towards him, he could not but feel that there was something dignified and imposing in his aspect; and yet it caused him a strange sensation, to think that he was going into the King’s presence in company with a man whom he had actually first met upon the King’s Highway.

“I am glad you have come early, Wilton,” said Green. “The King returns from the chapel at a quarter past twelve, and expects us to be in waiting at that hour, when he will see us. This is no slight favour, I find, Wilton,” he added, “for the palace is full of courtiers, all eager and pressing for royal attention. Let us go immediately, then, and ride slowly up to the palace.”

They mounted their horses accordingly, and rode on, speaking a few words from time to time, but not, indeed, absolutely conversing, for both were far too thoughtful, and too much impressed with the importance of the act they were about to perform, to leave the tongue free and unfettered.

On their arrival at the palace, they found that the King had not yet returned from the chapel; but on being asked whether they came by appointment or not, and giving their names, they were admitted into a waiting-room where two or three other people were already assembled. The moments passed slowly, and it seemed as if the King would never return.

At length, however, a distant flourish of drums and trumpets was heard, together with the sounds of many people passing to and fro in the courts and passages. Buzzing conversation, manifold footfalls, gay laughter, announced that the morning service was over, and the congregation of the royal chapel dispersed.

CHAPTER XLIV.

In the royal closet, at the palace of Hampton Court, stood King William III. leaning against a gilt railing, placed round some ornamental objects, near one of the windows. The famous Lord Keeper Somers stood beside him, while, at a little distance behind appeared Keppel, Lord Albemarle, and before him, a tall, fine-looking man, somewhat past the middle age, slight, but dignified in his person, and with an air of ease and grace in his whole position and demeanour, which bespoke long familiarity with courts. William gazed at him with a smile, and heard him speak evidently with pleasure.

“Well, my lord,” he said, “I am very glad of the news you give me. With the assistance of yourself, and my Lord Keeper here, together with that of our good friend the Duke of Shrewsbury, I doubt not now my affairs will go well. I am happy to see your health so well restored, my lord; for you know my friendship for you well enough, to be aware, that I was seriously afflicted at your illness, for your own sake, as well as because it deprived me of the counsel and assistance of one, who, as I thought he would, has proved himself the only person sufficiently loved by all men, to reconcile the breaches between some of my best friends.”

“Most grateful I am, sir,” replied the Earl of Sunbury, to this unusually long speech, “that Heaven has made me an instrument for that purpose, and I can never sufficiently express my gratitude, for your not being angry at my long absence from your majesty’s service. The arrangements thus being made, sire, I will humbly take my leave, begging your majesty not to forget the interests of my young friend, according to your gracious promise.”

“I will not forget, I will not forget,” replied the King. “When do you publicly announce your return, my lord?”

“I think it would be better not, sire,” replied the Earl, “till after we have notified the arrangements to the three gentlemen who retire.”

The King smiled. “That can be done to-morrow, my lord,” he said; “and I cannot but say, that the sooner it is done the better, for my service has already suffered.”

“That disagreeable task will of course fall on my Lord Keeper,” said Lord Sunbury, looking to Somers with a smile.

“I shall do it without ceremony, my lord,” replied Lord Somers. “It will be a mere matter of form; and if we could have found a position suitable to my Lord Wharton, I should say that we have constructed the most harmonious administration that I have seen since the glorious Revolution.”

The King’s brow grew somewhat dark at the name of Lord Wharton; and the Earl of Sunbury making a sign to the Lord Keeper to avoid that topic, took his leave of the King, saying, “I think I have your majesty’s permission to retire through your private apartments.”

As he was opening a door, a little to the King’s right hand, however, he was met by the Earl of Portland, who greeted him with a well-pleased smile, and then passed on towards the King, of whom Lord Somers was taking leave at the same moment.

“May it please your majesty,” said the Earl of Portland, as soon as the Lords Sunbury and Somers had departed, “the young gentleman whom you were once pleased to see concerning the Duke of Berwick’s coming to England, is now here, together with another gentleman calling himself Green, whom your majesty also, I understand–“

“Yes, yes,” said the King, “I will see him. I promised to see him.”

“You told me also, sire,” replied Lord Portland, “if ever this other gentleman applied, you would also see him. Mr. Wilton Brown, I mean.”

“I will see him too,” said the King. “I will see them together. Let them be called, Bentinck.”

Lord Portland went to the door, and gave the necessary orders, and in a moment or two after, Wilton and his companion stood in the presence of the King.

As they entered, Lord Albemarle said a few words to William, in a low tone, to which William replied, “No, no, I will tell you if it be necessary.–Now, gentlemen,” he said, “I understood, from the note received this morning by my Lord of Albemarle, that you requested an audience together, which as I had promised to each separately, I have given. Is your business the same or different?”

“It is the same, sire,” replied Green at once. “But I will beg this young gentleman to urge what he has to say in the first place.”

The King nodded his head to Wilton to proceed; adding, “I have little time this morning, and you may be brief; for if your business be what I think, it has been opened to me by a friend of yours, and you will hear more from me or him on Tuesday.”

“If your majesty refers to the Duke of Shrewsbury,” said Wilton, “I have not the honour of his acquaintance; but he promised, I know, to urge upon your majesty’s clemency the case of the Duke of Gaveston, in regard to which I have now ventured to approach you.”

“We are mistaking each other,” said the King. “I thought you meant something else. What about the Duke?”

“When your majesty was last pleased to receive me,” replied Wilton, “I had the honour of recounting to you how I had been employed by his grace to set free his daughter who had been carried away by Sir John Fenwick and other Jacobites. I explained to your majesty at that time that this daring act had been committed by those Jacobites in consequence of a quarrel between the Duke and Sir John Fenwick, which quarrel was occasioned by the Duke indignantly refusing to take part in the infamous conspiracy against your majesty. Since then, Sir John Fenwick has been arrested, and has charged the Duke with being a party to that conspiracy. He has done this entirely and evidently out of revenge, and as far as my testimony goes, I can distinctly show your majesty, that after his daughter was carried away, the Duke had no opportunity whatsoever of revealing what he knew of the conspiracy without endangering her safety till after the whole was discovered, for on the morning of her return to town, after being set free, the warrants against the conspirators were already issued.”

“You told me all this before, I think,” said the King, with somewhat of a heavy brow and impatient air. “Where is the Duke now?”

“He is in the Tower, sire,” replied Wilton, “a prisoner of state, upon this charge of Sir John Fenwick’s, and I am bold to approach your majesty to beseech you to take his case into consideration.”

The King’s brow had by this time grown very dark, and turning to Lord Portland, he said, “This is another, you see, Bentinck.”

“I beseech your majesty,” continued Wilton, as soon as the King paused, “I beseech you to hear my petition, and to grant it. It is a case in which I am deeply interested. You were pleased to say that I had conducted myself well, you were pleased to promise me your gracious favour, and I beseech you now to extend it to me so far, as at my petition to show clemency to a nobleman who, perhaps, may have acted foolishly in suffering his ears to be guilty of hearing some evil designs against you, but who testified throughout the most indignant horror at the purposes of these conspirators, who has been punished severely already by the temporary loss of his child, by the most terrible anxiety about her, and by long imprisonment in the Tower, where he now lies, withering under a sense of your majesty’s displeasure. Let me entreat your majesty to grant me this petition,” and advancing a step, Wilton knelt at the King’s feet.

“Why, I thought, young gentleman,” replied William, “that before this time you were married to the pretty heiress.”

“Oh no, sire,” replied Wilton, with a sad smile, “that is entirely out of the question. Such a report got abroad in the world, but I have neither station, fortune, rank, nor any other advantage to entitle me to such a hope.”

“And you, Colonel,” said the King, turning towards Green, “is this the object of your coming also?”

“It is, sire,” answered Green, advancing. “But first of all permit me to do an act that I have never done before, and kissing your majesty’s hand, to acknowledge that I feel you are and will be King of England. May I add more, that you are worthy of being so.”

The King was evidently pleased and struck. “I am glad to see,” he answered, holding out his hand to Green, “that we have reclaimed one Jacobite.”

“Sire,” answered Green, kissing the King’s hand, but without rising, “my affections are not easily changed, and may remain with another house; but it were folly to deny any longer your sovereignty, and,” he added, the moment after, “it would be treachery henceforth to do anything against it.–And now, sire,” he continued, “let me urge most earnestly this young gentleman’s petition, and let it be at my suit that the Duke’s liberation is granted. Wilton here may have many petitions yet to present to your majesty on his own account. I shall never have any; and as your majesty told me to claim a boon at your hands, and promised to grant me anything that was not unreasonable, I beseech you to grant me, as not an unreasonable request, the full pardon and liberation of a man who this young gentleman, and I, and Sir John Fenwick, and I think your majesty too, well know would as soon have attempted anything against your majesty’s life as he would have sacrificed his own. This is the boon I crave, this is the petition I have to present, and I hope and trust that you will grant my request.”

“And have you nothing else, Colonel, to demand on your own account?” said the King, gravely.

“Nothing, sire,” replied Green: “I make this my only request.”

“What!” said the King, after giving a glance as playful, perhaps, as any glance could be upon the countenance of William III. “Is this the only request? I have seen in English history, since it became my duty to study it, a number of precedents of general pardons, granted under the great seal, by monarchs my predecessors, to certain of their subjects who have done some good service, for all crimes, misdemeanours, felonies, et cetera, committed in times previous. Now, sir, from a few things I have heard, it has struck me that such a patent would be not at all inexpedient in your own case, and I expected you to ask it.”

“I have not, and I do not ask it, sire,” replied Green, in the same grave tone with which he had previously spoken. “I may have done many things that are wrong, sire, but I have neither injured, insulted, nor offended any one whom I knew to be a true subject of the Prince I considered my lawful King. Possessing still his commission, I believed myself at liberty to levy upon those who were avowedly his enemies, the rents of that property whereof they had deprived me fighting in his cause.–Sire, I may have been wrong in my view, and I believe I have been so. I speak not in my own justification, therefore. My head is at your feet if you choose to take it: death has no terrors for me; life has no charms. I stay as long as God wills it: when he calls me hence, it matters little what way I take my departure. My request, sire, is for the liberation of the Duke, who, believe me, is perfectly innocent; and I earnestly entreat your majesty not to keep him longer within the walls of a prison, which to the heart of an Englishman is worse than death itself.”

“I am sufficiently an Englishman to feel that,” replied the King.– “Your own free pardon for all offences up to this time we give, or rather promise you, should it be needed, without your asking it. Mark the King’s words, gentlemen. In regard to the liberation of the Duke, demanded of us, as you have demanded it; that is, as the only request of a person who has rendered us most important service, and to whom we have pledged our word to concede some boon, we would grant it also, but–“

“Oh, sire!” exclaimed Green, “let your clemency blot out that but.”

“Hear me, hear me,” said the King, relapsing into his usual tone; “I would willingly grant you the Duke’s liberation as the boon which you require, and which I promised; but that I granted the order for his liberation some four days ago, not even demanding bail for his appearance, but perfectly satisfied of his innocence. I ordered also such steps to be taken, that a _nolle prosequi_ might be entered, so as to put his mind fully at rest. I told the Earl of Byerdale the day before yesterday, that I had done this at the request of the Duke of Shrewsbury, and I bade him take the warrant, which, signed by myself, and countersigned by Mr. Secretary Trumbull, was then lying in the hands of the clerk. It is either in the clerk’s hands still, or in those of Lord Byerdale. But that lord has committed a most grievous offence in suffering any of my subjects to remain in a prison when the order was signed for their liberation.”

“May it please your majesty,” said Keppel, stepping forward, “I questioned the clerk this morning, as I passed, knowing what your majesty had done, and hearing, to my surprise, from my Lord Pembroke, that the Duke was still in prison. The clerk tells me that he had still the warrant, Lord Byerdale seeming to have forgotten it entirely.”

“He has forgotten too many things,” said the King, “and yet his memory is good when he pleases. Fetch me the warrant, Arnold. Colonel, I grant this warrant, you see, not to you. You must think of some other boon at another time. Young gentleman, I have been requested; by a true friend of yours and mine, to hear your petition upon various points, and to do something for you. I can hear no more petitions to-day, however, but perhaps you may find a kinder ear to listen to you; and as to doing anything for you,” he continued, as he saw Keppel return with a paper in his hand–“as to doing anything for you, the best thing I can do is to send you to the Tower. There, take the warrant, and either get into a boat or on your horse’, back, and bear the good tidings to the Duke yourself.”

As he spoke, the King gave the paper into Wilton’s hand, and turned partly round to the Earl of Portland with a smile; then looked round again calmly, and, by a grave inclination of the head, signified to Wilton and his companion that their audience was at an end.

As soon as they were in the lobby, Green grasped his young friend’s hand eagerly in his own, demanding, “Now, Wilton, are you happy?”

“Most miserable!” replied Wilton. “This paper is indeed the greatest relief to me, because it puts me beyond all chance of dishonour. No one can impute to me now that I have done wrong, or violated my word, even by a breath; but still I am most unhappy, and the very act that I am going to do seals my unhappiness.”

“Such things may well be,” replied Green, “I know it from bitter experience. But how it can be so, Wilton, in your case, I cannot tell.”

Wilton shook his head sorrowfully. “I cannot stay to explain all now,” he said, “for I must hasten to the Duke, and not leave his mind in doubt and fear for a moment. But in going thither, I go to see her I love for the last time. The metropolis will henceforth be hateful to me, and I shall fly from it as speedily as possible. I feel that I cannot live in it after that hope is at an end. I shall apply for a commission in the army, and seek what fate may send me in some more active life; but before I go, probably this very night, if you will give me shelter, I will seek you and the Lady Helen, to both of whom I have much, very much to say. I shall find you at Lord Sherbrooke’s cottage, where I last saw you? There I will explain everything. And now farewell.”

Thus saying, he shook Green’s hand, mounted his horse, and at a very rapid pace spurred on towards London by all the shortest roads that he could discover.

CHAPTER XLV.

The Duke’s dinner in the Tower was over. He had been much agitated all day, and Laura had been agitated also, but she had concealed her emotions, in order not to increase those of her father. It was, as we have said, Sunday, and the service of the church had occupied some part of that long day’s passing; but the rest had gone by very slowly, especially as the only two events which occurred to break or diversify the time told that there were other persons busy without, in matters regarding which neither Laura nor her father could take the slightest part, but which affected the future fate of both in the highest degree. Those two incidents were the arrival of Wilton’s note, which we have already mentioned, and a visit from the chaplain of the Tower, to tell the Duke and Lady Laura that he had received directions and the proper authorization (few of those things were needed, indeed, in those days) to perform the ceremony of marriage between her and Wilton at any hour that she chose to name. A considerable time passed after this visit, and yet Wilton did not appear. The Duke began to look towards Laura with anxious eyes, and once he said, “I hope, Laura, you neither did nor said anything yesterday to make Wilton act coldly or unwillingly in this business?”

“Indeed, my dear father, I did not,” replied Lady Laura, “and he promised me firmly to do everything in his power. Something has detained him; but depend upon it there is no cause either to fear or to doubt.”

Such assurances, for a time, seemed to soothe the Duke, and put his mind more at ease; but as time passed, and still Wilton did not appear, his anxiety returned again; he would walk up and down the room; he would gaze out of the window; he would east himself into a chair with a deep sigh; and though he said nothing more, Laura, was bitterly grieved on his account, and began to share his anxiety for the result. At length a distant door was heard to open, then came the sound of the well-known step in the ante-room, making Laura’s heart beat, and the Duke smile; but there was nothing joyful in the tread of that step: it was slow and thoughtful; and after the hand was placed upon the lock of the door, there was still a pause, which, though in reality very brief, seemed long to the prisoner and his daughter. At length, however, the door opened, and Wilton himself entered the room. There came a smile, too, upon his lip, but Laura could not but see that smile was a very sad one.

“We have been waiting for you most anxiously, my dear Wilton,” said the Duke: “we have fancied all manner of things, all sorts of difficulties and obstacles; for I well knew that nothing but matters of absolute necessity would keep you from the side of your dear bride at this moment.”

“But you still look sad, Wilton,” said Lady Laura, holding out her hand to him. “Let us hear, Wilton, let us hear all at once, dear Wilton. Has anything happened to derange our plans, or prevent my father’s escape?”

Wilton kissed her hand affectionately, replying, “Fear not on that account, dear Laura; fear not on that account. Your father is no longer a prisoner.–My lord duke, there is the warrant for your liberation, signed by the King’s own hand, and properly countersigned.”

The Duke clasped his hands together, and looked up to heaven with eyes full of thankfulness, and Laura’s joy also burst forth in tears. But she saw that Wilton remained sad and cold; and mistaking the cause, she turned quickly to her father, saying, “Oh, my dear father, in this moment of joy, make him who has given us so much happiness happy also. Tell him, tell him, my dear father, that you will not, that you cannot think of refusing him your child after all that he has done for us.”

“No, no, Laura,” cried the Duke: “you shall be his–“

But Wilton interrupted him; and throwing his arms round Lady Laura, pressed her for a moment to his heart, took one long ardent kiss, and then turning to the Duke, said, “Pardon me, my lord duke!–It is the last! Nay, do not interrupt me, for I have a task to perform which requires all the firmness I can find to accomplish it. On seeing Lord Byerdale yesterday, he told me of the whole arrangements which he had made with you, and of the plan for your escape he showed me that, according to the note which he had written to the governor of the Tower, concerning the marriage between your daughter and myself, your escape could not be effected till the ceremony had taken place, as it was assigned as the cause for our leaving the Tower so late at night. He made me pledge myself not to disclose his part in the scheme to any one; and he then said that he would tell me the secret of my birth, if I would plight my honour not to reveal it till after your safety was secure. I pledged myself, and he told me all. I now found, my lord, that you and I had both been most shamefully deceived–deceived for the purpose, I do believe, of revenging on you and Lady Laura her former rejection of Lord Sherbrooke by driving her to marry a person altogether inferior to herself in station. You will see that he had placed me in the most difficult of all positions. If I carried out his plan of escape, I knowingly made use of his deceit to gain for myself the greatest earthly happiness. If I revealed to you what he told me, I broke my pledged word, and at the same time gave you no choice, but either unwillingly to give me your daughter’s hand, or to remain, and risk the chance of longer imprisonment and trial. If I held off and disappointed you in your escape, I again broke my word to Lady Laura. You may conceive the agony of my mind during last night. There was but one hope of my being able to escape dishonour, though it was a very slight one. I determined to go to the King himself. I engaged a gentleman to go with me, who has some influence; and this morning we presented ourselves at Hampton Court, His Majesty was graciously pleased to receive us: he treated me with all kindness, and gave me the warrant for your liberation to bring hither. That warrant was already signed; for the Duke of Shrewsbury had kept his word with me, and applied for it earnestly and successfully. The Earl of Byerdale knew that it was prepared, so that he was quite safe in permitting your escape. I have now nothing further to do, my lord, than to wish you joy of your liberation, and to bid you adieu for ever.”

“Stay, stay!” said the Duke, much moved. “Let me hear more, Wilton.”

But Wilton had already turned to Lady Laura and taken her hand.

“Oh, Laura,” he said, “if I have been deceived into making you unhappy as well as myself, forgive me. You know, you well know, that I would give every earthly good to obtain this dear hand; that I would sacrifice anything on earth for that object, but honour, truth, and integrity. Laura, I feel you can never be mine; try to forget what has been; while I seek in distant lands, not forgetfulness, if it come not accompanied by death, but the occupation of the battlefield, and the hope of a speedy and not inglorious termination to suffering. Farewell–once more, farewell!”

“Stay, stay!” said the Duke–“stay, Wilton! What was it the Earl told you? He said that you had as good blood in your veins as his own. He said you were even related to himself. What did he tell you?”

The blood mounted into Wilton’s cheek. “He told me, my lord,” he said, “that I was the natural son of his cousin.”

And feeling that he could bear no more, he turned abruptly and quitted the apartment.

As he did so, Lady Laura sank at her father’s feet, and clasped his knees. “Oh, my father,” she said, “do not, do not make me miserable for ever. Think of your child’s happiness before any considerations of pride; think of the noble conduct of him who has just left us; and ask yourself if I can cease to love him while I have life.”

“Never, Laura, never!” said the Duke, sternly. “Had it been anything else but that, I might have yielded; but it cannot be! Never, my child, never!–So urge me not!–I would rather see you in your grave!”

Those rash and shameful words, which the basest and most unholy pride has too often in this world wrung from a parent’s lips towards a child, had been scarcely uttered by the Duke, when he felt his daughter’s arms relax their hold of his knees, her weight press heavily upon him, and the next instant she lay senseless on the ground.

For an instant, the consciousness of the unchristian words he had uttered smote his heart with fear; fear lest the retributive hand of Heaven should have punished his pride, even in the moment of offence, by taking away the child whose happiness he was preparing to sacrifice, and of whose death he had made light.

He called loudly for help, and his servant and Lady Laura’s maid were soon in the room. They raised her head with cushions; they brought water; they called for farther assistance; and though it soon became evident that Laura had only fainted, it was long before the slightest symptom of returning consciousness appeared. The Duke, the servants, and some attendants of the governor of the Tower, were still gathered round her, and her eyes were just opening and looking faintly up, when another person was suddenly added to the group, and a mild, fine-toned voice said, in the ear of the Duke,–

“Good God! my lord duke, what has happened? Had you not better send for Millington or Garth?”

“She is better, she is better,” said the Duke, rising; “she is coming to herself again.–Good Heaven! my Lord of Sunbury, is it you? This is an unexpected pleasure.”

“I cannot say,” replied Lord Sunbury, “that it is an unexpected pleasure to me, my lord; for though I would rather see your grace in any other place, and heard this morning at Hampton Court that the order for your liberation was signed, yet I heard just now that you were still in the Tower; and, to say the truth, I expected to find my young friend Wilton with you. Let us attend to the lady, however,” he added, seeing that his allusion to Wilton made the Duke turn a little red, and divining, perhaps, that Lady Laura’s illness was in some way connected with the absence of his young friend, “she is growing better.”

And kindly kneeling down beside her, he took her hand in his, saying in a tender and paternal tone, “I hope you are better, my dear young lady. Nay, nay,” he added, in a lower voice, “be comforted; all will go well, depend upon it:–you are better now; you are better, I see.” And then perceiving that only having seen him once before, Lady Laura did not recollect him, he added his own name, saying, “Lord Sunbury, my dear, the father, by love and by adoption, of a dear friend of yours.”

The allusion to Wilton immediately produced its effect upon Lady Laura, and she burst into tears; but seeing Lord Sunbury about to rise, she clung to his hand, saying, “Do not leave me–do not leave me. I shall be better in a minute. I will send him a message by you.”

“I will not, indeed, leave you,” replied Lord Sunbury; “but I think we do not need all these people present just now. Your father and I and your woman will be enough.”

According to his suggestion, the room was cleared, the windows were all thrown open, and in about half an hour Lady Laura had sufficiently recovered herself to sit up and speak with ease. Lord Sunbury bad avoided returning to the subject of Wilton, till he fancied that she could bear it, knowing that it might be more painful to her, even to hear him conversing with her father upon such a topic, than to take part in the discussion herself. At length, however, he said,–

“Now this fair lady is tolerably well again, let me ask your grace where I can find my young friend, Wilton Brown. I was told at his lodgings that he had come on with all speed to the Tower, merely getting a fresh horse as he passed.”

“He was here not long ago, my lord,” replied the Duke, coldly. “He was kind enough to bring me from Hampton Court the warrant for my enlargement. He went away in some haste and in some sorrow, not from anything I said, my lord, but from what his own good sense showed him must be the consequence of some discoveries which he had made regarding his own birth. I must say he has in the business behaved most honourably, and, at the same time, most sensibly; and anything on earth that I can reasonably do to testify my gratitude to him for all the services he has rendered me and mine, I will willingly do it, should it cost me one half of my estates.”

Lady Laura had covered her eyes with her hands, but the tears trickled through her fingers in spite of all she could do to restrain them. Lord Sunbury, too, was a good deal agitated, and showed it more than might have been expected in a man so calm and deliberate as himself. He even rose from his chair, and walked twice across the room, before he replied.

“My lord duke,” he said, at length, “from what you say, I fear that both Wilton and your grace have acted hastily; and I am pained at it the more, because I believe that I myself am in some degree the cause of all the misery that he now feels, and of all the grief which I can clearly see is in the breast of this dear young lady. I have done Wilton wrong, my lord, by a want of proper precaution and care–most unintentionally and unknowingly; but still I have done him wrong, which I fear may be irreparable. I must see, and endeavour, as far as it is in my power, to remedy what has gone amiss; but whether I can, or whether I cannot do so, I have determined to atone for my fault in the only way that it is possible. The last heir in my family entail is lately dead: my estates are at my own disposal. I have notified to the King this day, that I have adopted Wilton Brown as my son and heir; and his Majesty has been graciously pleased to promise that a patent shall pass under the great seal, conveying to him my titles and honours at my death. This is all that I know with certainty can be done at present; but there may be more done hereafter, in regard to which I will not enter at present; and oh! my lord,” he continued, seeing the Duke cast down his eyes in cold silence, “for my sake, for Wilton’s sake, for this young lady’s sake, at all events suspend your decision till we can see farther in this matter.”

The Duke raised his eyes to his daughter’s face, and yielded, though but in a faint degree, to her imploring look.

“I will suspend my decision, my lord, at your request,” he replied, “if it will give you any pleasure. But Laura knows my opinion, and–“

“Nay, nay,” said the Earl, “we will say no more upon the subject then, at present, my lord: But as your grace has the order for your liberation, and there can be no great pleasure in staying in this place, perhaps your grace and Lady Laura will get into my carriage, which is now in the court; and while your servants clear your apartments, and proceed to make preparations at Beaufort House, I trust you will take your supper at my poor dwelling. There I may have an opportunity, my lord,” he added, turning with a graceful bow to the Duke, “of telling you, who are a politician, some great political changes that are taking place, though I fear, that as I expect no guests of any kind, and have hitherto preserved a strict incognito, I shall have no way of entertaining this fair lady for the evening.”

Laura shook her head with a melancholy air, but made no reply. The Duke, however, was taken with the bait of political news, and accepted the invitation, merely saying, “I take it for granted, my lord, that Mr. Brown is not at your house.”

“As far as I know,” replied Lord Sunbury, “he is not aware of my being in England. I came to seek him here, wishing to tell him various matters; but up to this time, I have neither written to him, nor heard from him, since I have been in this country. And now, my lord,” he continued, taking up the warrant from the table, “you had better let me go and speak with the Governor’s deputy here, concerning this paper, and in five minutes I will be back, to conduct you, at liberty, to my house.”

Thus saying, he left them; and Lady Laura, certainly calmed and comforted by his kindly manner, and the hopeful tone in which he spoke, prepared with pleasure to go with him. Her father mentioned Wilton’s name no more; but gave some orders to his servant and, by the time that they were ready to go, Lord Sunbury had returned with the Lieutenant of the Governor, announcing that the gates of the Tower were open to the Duke. The Earl then offered his hand to the fair girl, and led her down to his carriage, saying in a low tone as they went, “Fear not, my dear young lady; we shall find means to soften your father in time.”

After a long and tedious drive through the dull streets of London, the carriage of the Earl of Sunbury stopped at the door of his house in St. James’s Square. None of his servants appeared yet in livery, and the man who opened the door was his own valet. He seemed not a little astonished at the sight of a lady and gentleman with his master; and the Earl was as much surprised to hear loud voices from the large dining-room on his left hand.

The Duke and Lady Laura, however, entered, and were passing on; but the valet, as soon as he had closed the door, advanced and whispered a few words to the Earl.

The Earl questioned him again in the same tone, put his hand for a moment to his forehead, and then said, addressing the Duke, “There are some persons up stairs, my lord duke, that we would rather you did not see at this moment. I will speak to them for an instant, and be down with you directly, if you will go into the dining-room. You will there, I understand, find Lord Byerdale and his son, the latter of whom, it seems, has come hither for my support and advice, and has been followed by his father.”

“But, my lord, my lord,” said the Duke, “after Lord Byerdale’s conduct to myself–“

“Enter into no dispute with him till I come, my dear duke,” said the Earl–“I will be with you in one minute; and his lordship of Byerdale will have quite sufficient to settle with me, to give occupation to his thoughts for the rest of the evening. You may chance to see triumphant villany rebuked–I wanted to have escaped the matter; but since he has presumed to come into my house, I must take the task upon myself.”

The tone in which he spoke, and the expectation of what was to follow, fixed the Duke’s determination at once; and drawing the arm of Lady Laura within his own, he followed the servant, who now threw open the door to which Lord Sunbury pointed, and entered the dining-room, while the Earl himself ascended the stairs.

CHAPTER XLVI.

A scene curious but yet painful presented itself to the eyes of Lady Laura and her father on entering the dining-room of Lord Sunbury’s house. On the side of the room opposite to the door stood Lord Sherbrooke, with his arms folded on his chest, his brow contracted, his teeth firmly shut, his lips drawn close, and every feature but the bright and flashing eye betokening a strong and vigorous struggle to command the passions which were busy in his bosom. Seated at the table, on which the young nobleman had laid down his sword, was his beautiful wife, with her eyes buried in her hands, and no part of her face to be seen but a portion of the cheek as pale as ashes, and the small delicate ear glowing like fire. The sun was far to the westward, and streaming in across the open space of the square, poured through the window upon her beautiful form, which, even under the pressure of deep grief, fell naturally into lines of the most perfect grace.

But the same evening light poured across also, and streamed full upon the face and form of the Earl of Byerdale, who seemed to have totally forgotten, in excess of rage, the calm command over himself which he usually exercised even in moments of the greatest excitement. His lip was quivering, his brow was contracted, his eye was rolling with strong passion, his hand was clenched; and at the moment that Laura and the Duke went round the table from the door towards the side of the room on which were Lord Sherbrooke and his wife, the Earl was shaking his clenched hand at his son, accompanying by that gesture of wrath the most terrible denunciations upon his head.

“Yes, sir, yes!” he exclaimed. “I tell you my curse is upon you! I divorce myself from your mother’s memory! I cast you off, and abandon you for ever! Think not that I will have pity upon you, when I see your open-mouthed creditors swallowing you up living, and dooming you to a prison for life. May an eternal curse fall upon me, if ever I relieve you with a shilling even to buy you bread! See if the man in whose house you have sought shelter–see if this Earl of Sunbury, with whom, doubtless, you have been plotting your father’s destruction–see if this undermining politician, this diplomatic mole, will give you means to pay your debts, or furnish you with bread to feed yourself and your pretty companion there! No, sir, no! Lead forth, to the beggary to which you have brought her, the beggarly offspring of that runagate Jacobite! Lead her forth, and with a train of babies at your heels, sing French ballads in the streets to gain yourself subsistence.–You thought that I had no clue to your proceedings. I fancied she was your mistress, and that mattered little, for it is the only thing fitted for the beggarly exile’s daughter. But since she is your wife, look to it to provide for her yourself!”

He must have heard somebody enter the room, but he turned not the least in that direction, carried away by the awful whirlwind of his fury. He was even still going on, without looking round; but it was a woman’s voice, the voice of a gentle, but noble-hearted woman that stopped him. Lady Laura, the moment she entered the room, recognised in the bending form of her who sat weeping and trembling at the table, one who had been kind to her in danger and in terror, and the first impulse was to go to her support. But when she heard the insulting and gross words of the Earl of Byerdale, her spirit rose, her heart swelled with indignation, and with courage, which she might not have possessed in her own case, she turned full upon him, exclaiming,–

“For shame, Earl of Byerdale!–for shame! This to a woman in a woman’s presence! If you have forgotten that you are a gentleman, have you forgotten that you are a man?” And going quickly forward, she threw her arm round the neck of the weeping girl, exclaiming, “Look up, dear Caroline: look up, sweet lady! You are not without support! A friend is near you!”

Lady Sherbrooke looked up, saw who it was, and instantly cast herself upon her bosom.

The Earl of Byerdale turned his eyes from Laura to the Duke, evidently confounded and surprised, and put his hand upon his brow, as if to collect his thoughts. The next minute, however, he said, with a sneering air, “Ha, pretty lady, is that you? Ha, my lord duke, have you escaped from the Tower? You are somewhat early in your proceedings! Why, it wants half an hour of night! But doubtless the impatient bridegroom was eager to have all complete, and I have now to congratulate my Lady Laura Brown upon her father’s sudden enfranchisement, and her marriage with my dear cousin’s natural child. Ma’am, I am your most obedient, humble servant. Duke, I congratulate you upon the noble alliance you have formed. You come well, you come happily, to witness me curse that base and degenerate boy. But it is a pity you did not bring the happy bridegroom, Mr. Brown, that we might have two fine specimens of noble alliances in one room.”

“You are mistaken, sir,” said the Duke furiously; “you are mistaken, sir. Your villany is discovered; your base treachery has been told by a man who was too honourable to take advantage of it, even for his own happiness.”

“Then, my lord duke,” replied the Earl of Byerdale, “he is as great a liar in this instance as you have proved yourself a fool in every one; for he plighted me his word not to reveal anything till your safety was secure.”

“It is you, sir, are the liar!” replied the Duke, forgetting everything in his anger, which was now raised to the highest pitch. “It is you, sir, who are the liar, as you have been the knave throughout, and may now prove to be the fool too!”

“Hush, hush!” exclaimed the voice of Lord Sherbrooke, raised to a loud tone. “Remember, my lord duke, that he is still my father!”

“Sir!” exclaimed the Earl, turning first upon his son, “I am your father no longer! For you, duke, I see how the matter has gone with this vile and treacherous knave whom I have fostered! But as sure as I am Earl of Byerdale–“

“You are so no longer!” said a voice beside him, and at the same moment a strong muscular hand was laid upon his shoulder, with a grasp that he could not shake off:

The Earl turned fiercely round, and laid his hand upon his sword; but his eyes lighted instantly on the fine stern countenance of Colonel Green, who keeping his grasp firmly upon the shoulder of the other, bent his dark eyes full upon his face.

The whole countenance and appearance of him whom we have called the Earl of Byerdale became like a withered flower. The colour forsook his cheeks and his lips; he grew pale, he grew livid; his proud head sunk, his knees bent, he trembled in every limb; and when Green, at length, pushed him from him, saying in a loud tone and with a stern brow, “Get thee from me, Harry Sherbrooke!” he sank into a chair, unable to speak, or move, or support himself.

In the meantime, his son had cast his eyes upon the ground, and remained looking downwards with a look of pain, but not surprise; while treading close upon the steps of Colonel Green appeared Wilton Brown with the Lady Helen Oswald clinging to rather than leaning on his arm, and the Earl of Sunbury on her right hand.

Those who were most surprised in the room were certainly the Duke and Lady Laura, for they had been suddenly made witnesses to a strange scene without having any key to the feelings, the motives, or the actions of the performers therein; and the Duke gazed with quite sufficient wonder upon all he saw, to drown and overcome all feelings of anger at beholding Wilton so unexpectedly in the house of the Earl of Sunbury.

For a moment or two after the stern gesture of Green, there was silence, as if every one else were too much afraid or too much surprised to speak; and he also continued for a short space gazing sternly upon the man before him, as if his mind laboured with all that he had to say. It was not, however, to the person whom his presence seemed entirely to have blasted, that he next addressed himself.

“My Lord of Sunbury,” he said, “you see this man before me, and you also mark bow terrible to him is this sudden meeting with one whom he has deemed long dead. When last we met, I left him on the shores of Ireland after the battle of the Boyne, in which I took part and he did not. The ship in which I was supposed to have sailed was wrecked at sea, and every soul therein perished. But I had marked this man’s eagerness to make me quit my native land, in which I had great duties to perform, and I never went to the vessel, in which if I had gone, I should have met a watery grave. During the time that has since passed, he has enjoyed wealth that belonged not to him, a title to which he had no claim. He has raised himself to power and to station, and he has abused his power and disgraced his station, till his King is weary of him, and his country can endure him no longer. In the meanwhile, I have waited my time; I have watched all his movements; I have heard of all the inquiries he has set on foot to prove my death, and all the investigations he instituted, when he found that the boy who was with me had been set on shore again. I have given him full scope and licence to act as he chose; but I have come at length, to wrest from him that which is not his, and to strip him of a rank to which he has no claim.–Have you anything to say, Harry Sherbrooke?” he continued, fixing his eye upon him. “Have you anything to say against that which I advance?”

While he had been speaking, the other had evidently been making a struggle to resume his composure and command over himself, and he now