Moreover, there were two very immediate questions which pressed upon me, and saved me from much unprofitable rumination about myself. Dorothy had spoken of Anthony Herbert “waiting his trial,” when she herself was in Carlisle, and that was over a month ago. Was he still waiting, or was the trial over? I had no means of resolving that question, and many a night I lay awake in some barn or outhouse, blowing on my frozen fingers to keep them warm, and casting up the probabilities. I was thus in a perpetual fever lest, after all, my intentions should be thwarted by a too late arrival. And to make the matter worse, I was compelled to practise every precaution, lest I should be recognized. Of which there was, to my thinking, no small danger, for in the first place my flight from Blackladies had made, as I knew, some noise in these parts, and moreover I had ridden openly on the march to Preston.
So here was my second question: Could I reach Carlisle a free man? for that I deemed to be an altogether necessary and integral part of my design. Once a captive, I was foredoomed already upon my own account, and any plea that I might urge on behalf of Anthony Herbert would win the less credit, since it would be made at no cost whatever to me who made it. If, however, I could come undetected there, and so give myself up, why, the voluntary relinquishment of life might haply be taken as a guarantee and surety for my word. Consequently I was reduced to a thousand shifts to avoid attention; I went miles about to come upon a solitary inn, and more often than not, when I reached it, my heart would fail me, and I would take to my heels in a panic, or at best gulp down the hastiest meal, and pulling my coat about my ears, front the cold night again. It was then a good twelve days after the Swallow had lifted anchor and sailed down the coast, that I crept one dusky evening through the Botcher Gate into Carlisle; and what with the fear of capture and the fevers of delay, the endless fatigue to which during these many weeks I had been exposed and the inclemencies of the season, you may be sure I was in a sufficiently pitiable condition.
I repaired at once to the market-place, and picking out the most insignificant tavern, learnt therein, over a glass of brandy from my host, that I was as much as a week in advance of my time. The news was an indescribable relief to me; and going out, I hired a mean lodging in a little street near the Horse Market, where I would lie that night, and determine on my course. For since I had yet a week, I thought that I might dispose of some portion of that time to the best advantage, by discovering the particulars of the charge which Anthony Herbert would have to meet. In which task I did not anticipate a very great difficulty, inferring, from what Dorothy had told me, that, what with the speculation his picture had given rise to, I should find his case a matter of common gossip. Accordingly, in the morning I bought at a dealer’s a suit of clothes which would befit an apprentice, and tying my own hair in a cheap ribbon, which I was able to do, since I had discarded a peruke for convenience’ sake after I left Blackladies, and changing my boots for a pair of shoes, I walked across the town towards the castle, in the hope that, either amongst the loiterers at the gates, or in the meadow by the river, I might discover something to my purpose.
In this Fortune favoured me, for though I learned little or nothing upon the first day, about three o’clock of the afternoon upon the second, while I stood in the open space betwixt the castle and the town, a little brisk gentleman came stepping from the gate-house and glanced at every one he passed with a great air of penetration, as who should say, “My friend, you have no secrets from me.” He shot the same glance at me, though with more indifference, as though from habit he would practise it upon any who came in his way, be they mere apprentices. It was he, however, who was the one to be discomposed. For up went his eyebrows on the instant and his mouth gaped. He did not, however, stop, but rather quickened his pace and passed me. A few yards away he stopped to exchange a word with an acquaintance, but I noticed that he cast now and again a furtive glance towards me. My curiosity was fairly aroused, and being reluctant to lose any occasion that might serve me, I drew nearer and loitered in his vicinity until such time as the conversation should have ended.
Dismissing his acquaintance, he turned of a sudden.
“It is a disappointing place—Carlisle,” he began abruptly; “the grass grows in the streets, which, I take it, are the dirtiest outside Bagdad, and the houses, what with their laths and clay and thatch, are as little reputable to the eye.”
I knew not what in the world to make of this strange beginning, and so stared at the man in perplexity.
“You will have been sorely disappointed,” he suggested, “for I am told that, on the contrary, the streets of Preston are very clean and spacious, and the houses built with some taste.”
“It seems you know me,” said I, starting forward.
“It has almost that air,” he replied with a spice of mockery; “I have known more effectual disguises than an apron and a pair of brass buckles. But, indeed, had you dirtied your face, as you unwisely omitted to do, I should have known you none the less.”
He stood with his head cocked on one side, enjoying my mystification.
“I have no doubt, sir, of your discernment and penetration,” said I, thinking to humour him; “but since I cannot call to mind that you and I have ever met——”
He came a step nearer to me, and with a roundabout glance, to see that no listener was within earshot:
“There is a pretty unmistakable likeness of you yonder”—he jerked his head towards the castle—“though maybe the expression wants repose; moreover, I could not hear that you were taken prisoner, and so was inclined to expect you here.”
“Then who in the world are you?” I exclaimed.
“Mr. Nicholas Doyle,” said he, “and a lawyer of too much repute to be seen publicly hobnobbing with a rascally apprentice without questions asked. So if you please, you will just walk behind me until I come to my house, and when I go in at the front door you will slink round to the back.”
These directions I followed, and was shown up the stairs to the first floor, whereupon Mr. Doyle locked the door and drew a screen before the keyhole.
“Now, Mr.—Mr. Whitemen, shall we say?—for though your face is little known, your name has been heard here—I may offer you a chair;” which he did, drawing it politely to the fire, and therewith offered me his snuff-box, but “without prejudice to his politics,” as he said. For “none of your scatterbrained, romantical flim-flam for me,” said he. “An honest Whig, my dear sir. By the way,” and his eyes twinkled slyly, “I trust you did not find my staircase very dark?”
I was not in the humour to take any great pleasure in his witticism, as may be imagined, and I replied simply—
“You know the whole story, then?”
“Part the husband told me,” said he, nodding his head, “part the wife. I pieced it together.”
“The wife!” I exclaimed. “Then Mrs. Herbert is here—at Carlisle?”
“Doubtless,” he returned; “where else?”
“I did not know,” said I.
It was Mr. Doyle’s turn to look surprised.
“But,” said he, “she left word for you at Keswick. It was for that reason I told you I was not greatly surprised to come upon you.”
“Nay,” said I, “I have not been to Keswick. I learnt Anthony Herbert was here—well, from other sources. But,” and I started forward eagerly in my chair, “Herbert must then have sent for her;” and I spoke joyfully enough, for of late, and in particular since I had known where Herbert lay, I had begun to reflect that, after all, his enlargement, could that be brought about, did not altogether patch up the trouble.
“No,” answered Mr. Doyle; “Herbert only talked of her. I sent for her.”
“I may thank you for that,” said I. “They are reconciled?”
“It is a delicate point,” said he, “how far. My client, it appears, was persuaded by that worthy gentleman, Jervas Rookley, that—well, that there were more solid grounds for his jealousy than actually existed. It is true Rookley has shown something of his hand, but not all of it. We are in the dark as to his motives, and Mr. Herbert—well, doubtless you have some notion of the whimsies of a man in love. Now he is in the depths of abasement, now he is very haughty on the summits of pride. A man in love! My dear sir, a man in love is very like a leg of mutton on my roasting-jack in the kitchen. First he spins this way, then he spins that, and always he is in the extremity of heat whichever way he spins. He is like the mutton, too, in his lack of sense, and in the losing of the fat; and very often, when he is roasted through and through, my lady serves him up for the delectation of her friends. Believe me, Mr. Clavering”—he checked himself, but the name was out of his mouth—“when next you figure on the jack, you will do well to bear in mind my simile. A leg of mutton, my dear sir.”
Now, I had good reason to find his simile uncommonly distasteful, the more because I had a like reason for knowing it to be unjust; and, perhaps with more heat than was needed, I answered—
“For my part, I have no objection——”
“To a man in love!” said he, taking me up. “Nor I, indeed. On the contrary, I hold him in the greatest esteem, not so much, perhaps, for his falling in love, as for his consequent falling out of it, whereby comes much profitable litigation.”
“Well,” said I, anxious to put an end to his discourse, “your advice, Mr. Doyle, may be the best in the world; but you offer it to a man who will never find occasion for pursuing it” And at that his face became grave. “Let us get to the root of the matter. You tell me Jervas Rookley has shown his hand. In what way?”
“Why, he is to be the chief witness for the crown. It was he who laid the information against Herbert. And, you will observe, he is a strong witness. For what object had he in view, if he did not believe the information? What had he to gain?”
“I will not say that he did not believe it,” I returned; “I will not say that he does not believe it. But I know very well what he has to gain, and that is, the estate of Blackladies.”
And I told the lawyer of the double game which Rookley had played.
“One way or another, whichever king sat the throne, he was to recover the estate,” I continued. “If the Hanoverian won, why, I was to be exchanged for it; but since he thinks I have slipped through his fingers, he will be eager to make Herbert my substitute.”
“Yes,” said the lawyer, thoughtfully; “but there will be only your bare word for this.”
“But I shall have sacrificed my life to speak it,” I said anxiously. For this very point had greatly troubled me.
“No doubt that will carry weight,” he assented, “but enough—I do not know. It will, however, serve to bring about that reconciliation which seems so to weigh with you. Look! There is a copy of the indictment;” and running over to a bureau, he brought it back and thrust it into my hands.
I read it through carefully, from the beginning to the end.
“You will see,” said he, “that no direct act is alleged beyond the possession of that medal”
“That is mine,” said I.
“Can you prove it?” said he. “It was found in Mr. Herbert’s apartments.”
I thought for a moment, and with a cry sprang to my feet:
“Indeed I can,” I cried; “I can prove it” And I told him how.
“Good!” he exclaimed, in a voice which topped my own; and then—
“Hush!” he whispered, in the greatest reproach; “you should have more discretion, you should indeed.” And very cautiously he unlocked the door, and then flung it violently open. The landing, however, was clear.
“You see, Mr. Whitemen, there is much we have to fight against apart from the charges. There is the apparent honesty of Mr. Rookley, and moreover there is this rebellion which calls for examples, and you may add to our difficulties a Cumberland jury. You will remember that we marched out against you at Penrith, four thousand strong. That will teach you. the temper of the county.”
“I do not remember,” I replied, “that your four thousand stayed to exchange opinions with us.”
Nicholas Doyle laughed good-naturedly.
“It is a hit, I will not deny,” said he. “But what if they hold to the plan, and decline to exchange opinions when they are in the jury-box, eh, my friend? what then? So you see there are dangers. With your help we may just save my client, but it will be by no more than the skin of his teeth. Without you we may as well submit to a sentence at the outset But,” and he spoke with a voice of the deepest gravity, “all this, which makes your evidence of the greatest value to us, renders it fatal to you. I do not mince words; I set the truth frankly before you. Your evidence may serve Mr. Herbert’s turn,—but there is no more than a chance of that—it will most certainly send you to an ignominious death. Every word you will speak will be a plea of guilty. And mark you, there is but one punishment for treason. It will be no stepping on to a scaffold, and reading a few protestations, and kneeling down at the block, as though you just condescended to leave the world. No, you will be drawn through the streets, trussed hand and foot, on a hurdle. Then they will hang you—for a bit, but not until you are dead. Then they will light a fire and take a knife to you and it will seem, I fear me, a weary while before the end is reached!”
“Good God!” I interrupted him, and snatched up my hat “Do you wish me to leave your client precisely to that same fate?”
“Where are you going?” he asked in an incredulous tone, noticing my movement.
“To Carlisle Castle,” said I.
“I thought as much,” said he, and took me by the arm. “I doubt if I should have said so much to you, had I not felt certain it would not weigh with you. But you are young, Mr. Clavering, very young; and though I must count you a traitor, and deserving all this punishment, I could not send you to that fate without you had counted up the cost.”
“That is kindly said,” I replied, and offered him my hand, which he shook very cordially. “But less than a fortnight ago I stood upon the sea-shore with never a soul in view and a ship’s boat on the beach and a ship spreading its sails to set me over into France. I am not like to be turned aside now.”
He looked at me with a certain shrewdness in his eyes.
“This is a reparation which you purpose? A man of the world would tell you there was no necessity for it”
“But you do not say that?” I returned.
“I say,” and he paused for a second—“I say damn women!” he cried, and brought his fist down upon the table.
“Even in that amiable sentiment I cannot agree with you,” I answered with a laugh. “And so I will make a call upon the Governor of the castle.”
But again he caught me by the arm.
“That would be the ruin of both of you. The Crown presses for an example to be made. And Jervas Rookley, I think, from what you yourself have said, will move heaven and earth to keep you out of court. If you go now to the castle, there is little likelihood of your giving evidence for Mr. Herbert; he must produce you at the trial, and not a moment before.”
Thereupon he recommended to me to lie quietly in my lodging during the week, and come not out except to see him now and again of a night. At his bidding, indeed, I repaired to his house on the following evening, and found a tailor there waiting for me. “For,” said Mr. Doyle, “we must make the most of our advantages, though my heart aches at dressing you up for the slaughter. But it will make a difference whether a lad in an apron and brass buckles gives himself up, or a proper young gentleman, with an air of means and dignity. Your word will gain credit with the jury. Lord! what a sight we shall have in the spectacle of Jervas Rookley’s face. By the way,” and he turned towards me with a certain customary abruptness, “Jervas Rookley’s face has something changed since I set eyes on it before.”
“Indeed,” said I, indifferently; “and in what way?”
“It is marred by a scar.”
“A scar!” I cried, with considerable satisfaction. “On the right side? It should stretch from the cheek bone to the chin.”
“It does,” answered Mr. Doyle, dryly. “I wonder how he came by it?”
“Yes, I wonder,” said I, reflectively, and chancing to look at each other, our eyes met, and we laughed.
“I think it very wise,” said he, “that you did not surrender yourself to the Governor of Carlisle Castle.”
This week passed monotonously enough for me, cooped up in my little apartment. But I had a great hope to cheer me through its passage. For, I had come so near to the attainment of my one end, and in the face of so many difficulties, that I could not but believe that Providence had so willed it, and having willed so much, would will that final issue which should crown the work; moreover, two days before the trial, Mr. Doyle brought me news which enheartened me inexpressibly. It was a message of thanks from Anthony Herbert, and to that message was added another from the wife, which showed me that the reconciliation had become an actual fact.
On the eve of the trial I slept at the house of Mr. Doyle. Indeed, from his window I heard the trumpeters, and saw the judge’s carriage go by; and so dressing myself the next morning in my new suit, with Mr. Doyle fluttering about me like a lady’s maid, I made my way quickly to the Guildhall.