The King's Men: A Tale of To-morrow

by Nathan Schachner

  CHAPTER XIV.

  THE LAST ROYALIST.

  Geoffrey's jailers were lenient to him after that first day. He wasremoved to a room with carpet and furniture; his table was well served;he was allowed to walk about in the courtyards; books and pen and inkwere given him--everything but newspapers. The fact was that Bagshawfelt he had gone too far. The vindictiveness, the cruelty of thepopulace, was already a thing of the past--of that past when they hadnot yet learned their power. The people were good-natured,impressionable, forgiving; and that low murmur from the street on theday of Dacre's execution, the third time the President had sought tomake his prisoner betray the King, had well-nigh driven Bagshaw from hisoffice. It was Richard Lincoln who had saved the government that day, byhis stern rebuke to the President; the latter liked him none the betterfor that.

  Geoffrey felt this change of sentiment in the manner of his keepers; andwhen he remembered that first terrible day, it was but to hope that hisfears had been exaggerated. Undoubtedly John's sentence would becommuted to imprisonment like his own.

  But the more convinced Geoffrey became of this, the more his mind turnedto the other persons of those eventful days. The King had notcome--that was the grim fact--the King had not come to claim his own;had left his honest gentlemen to fight or fall without him; and no one,even now, could tell how different the event might have been that dayhad George the Fifth but proved his own cause worth defending. Geoffrey,Dacre, none of them had had news of the King since the day of Aldershot.Up to the very stroke of noon, as Geoffrey remembered, Dacre hadexpected him. But they had waited in vain. And now the White Horse ofHanover, and with that the Norman Leopard, was a thing of the past. Fromhis window Geoffrey could see the red, white, and green tricolor in theTower yard. He inclined to think the King was dead.

  Geoffrey had never been by conviction a Legitimist; hardly even had hebeen one by affection. Dacre's magnetism, Dacre's nobility of purposehad overcome his earlier judgment; for the one effort he had lent hislife to his friend, to stake on a cast of the die. Now that they hadfairly thrown and lost, he returned to his former judgment. But with thecause that they had lost had gone his own future.

  He did not care so much for this, since that last scene with MargaretWindsor. What future was there for him now? Stone walls do not a prisonmake; he might as well be here as penned up, useless, in his four acresabout the lodge at Ripon House. His friends--what friends had he? Dacre,Sydney, Featherstone--they were walled up with him. And Geoffrey,walking in the Tower yard, would look up to the scattered windows, andwonder which of them was his friend's; and if he noticed a dull redstain on the stones at the base of the wall, he thought it was some oldmark, dating from Cromwell or the Roses. Still, Geoffrey was a youngman, too young to have wholly learned to be a fatalist; but the more hethought of escape, the more hopeless it seemed. With a confederate, afriend outside, it might perhaps be possible. But what friend had heleft in the wide world? Geoffrey racked his memory to think of one.There were some two hundred men he knew at his club in the West End--butwhich one of these, who had not been at Aldershot, would leave his snugrubber at whist for the Tower? There was Jawkins--if Jawkins could bebrought to think it worth his while. Mr. Windsor--the shrewd Americanwas with his daughter in America; and the daughter deemed him false, andhad forgotten him. False! There was Eleanor Carey; she had loved him;would she not seek to save him? The woman whose maidenhood he had loved?He had not heard of her since the night before Aldershot; but this wasrather a hopeful sign than otherwise. The more Geoffrey thought, themore he felt assured that here was the one person in the world thatmight be trusted to remember him.

  So, when Geoffrey had been in prison some three weeks, and one day theturnkey came and said that some one wished to see him, Geoffrey thoughtof Mrs. Carey at once. His heart beat high with hope as he followed hisguide through a labyrinth of stairs and passages. He even forgot to lookclosely at each door, as he was used to do, to find some sign of Dacreor his friends. Eleanor! was on his lips to cry as the jailer opened thedoor of a distant room and bade him enter.

  In the centre, by a table, was standing an old man, dressed in black,with a white head bent well forward upon his shoulders. It wasReynolds, no longer dressed like a servant, but disguised in a suit ofbroadcloth, such as was worn until recently by the oldest gentlemen. Theold man bent still lower, took Geoffrey's hand and kissed it.

  "Thank God!" said he, in a whisper, "dear young master, you are alive,at all events." Reynolds still used old-fashioned forms of speech.

  It was a strange thing to Geoffrey to be still called young. He felt asif he had seen a century at least--the twentieth. He looked at Reynoldswith a slight but decided feeling of disappointment. He had hoped forMrs. Carey.

  "Yes, Reynolds, I am alive, and glad to see you," he added, as he sawthe tears in the old man's eyes. "Sit down." Geoffrey pushed a chairtoward him; but the old man would as soon have thought of sitting downin the presence of the King. "And how is Ripon House?"

  "Ripon House, your lordship, is much the same. I think I may succeed inletting it to one of your lordship's old tenants." Geoffrey looked up,surprised; then he remembered that by Ripon House Reynolds meant thelodge. "With your lordship's permission I can get thirty guineas a yearfor it," Reynolds added.

  "By all means, Reynolds," said Geoffrey. "But, Reynolds, I must have no'your lordship' any more. That is done forever. I was foolish ever tohave consented to it."

  "Yes, your lordship," replied Reynolds, simply. "I knew your lordshipwould consent, so I have brought the first quarter's rent in advance."And the old man laid eight five-dollar gold pieces on the table.Geoffrey grasped his hand.

  "Thank you, Reynolds," said he. The old man was more embarrassed than ifhe had kissed him.

  "Your lordship--your lordship is--" Reynolds stammered, and Geoffreyinterrupted him.

  "None of that, remember;" he lifted a finger pleasantly. "But I askedyou about Ripon House."

  "The old castle (it was not half so old as the lodge) is shut up, earl,"said he. "The American is in his own country."

  "Reynolds, do you know what became of the King?"

  "No, your lord--Earl Brompton."

  "Or who it was that betrayed us? Some one must have carried all theparticulars of the plan to Bagshaw."

  The old man did not answer for a moment.

  "Reynolds, have you seen Dacre?"

  The question was sudden. "Does--does not your lordship know--" hefaltered. Geoffrey sprang from his chair.

  "They shot him."

  Geoffrey sank back to his seat. The old servant walked to the window,pulling out his handkerchief. Outside was heard the measured step of theturnkey pacing to and fro.

  "Reynolds, will you carry a letter for me?" said Geoffrey at last."Think before you answer. You are no longer in my service, you know. Ican no longer pay you."

  "I am always in the earl's service," Reynolds interrupted.

  "Thank you, Reynolds. The letter is to Mrs. Oswald Carey. You rememberher?"

  Reynolds started. "Forgive me, earl--but does your--your honor know--"The old man spoke in much trouble; Geoffrey looked up in amazement.

  "Oh, forgive me, Earl Brompton--but--I once told a lie to you. Thatnight--you remember that night when Sir John met your lordship in hisroom, and I said afterward there had been no one there?"

  "Yes," said Geoffrey. "What then?"

  "There was some one there. A lady was there. Mrs. Carey."

  A terrible light broke upon Geoffrey. It was she that had taken thepaper; it was she that was the traitor who had been the cause of Dacre'sdeath. And his old love for her had killed his friend.

  "There is no one left"--the words broke from his lips with a sob--"noone but you, Reynolds." He groaned aloud with rage and sorrow as he sawthe part this woman had played. She had come between him and the girl heloved; she had betrayed the loyal cause; she had struck down Dacre, withher lying lips, her lovely eyes. And he had almost loved her.

  "I have a message for yo
ur honor." Reynolds spoke humbly, timidly, as ifhis master blamed him. "The young American lady--Miss Windsor--beforethey went away, she desired me to write to her."

  Geoffrey looked up, as if a ray of light had entered the prison window."Wait," he said, simply. The old man stood at the window, while Geoffreydrew a chair to the table, sat down, and tried to write. Many a letterwas begun, half finished, and then torn into fragments. When at last anote was done and sealed, Geoffrey turned to Reynolds.

  "You will send it to her?"

  "I will take it to her in America," said the old man; and he hastilythrust the note into the breast of his coat, as the turnkey entered.Geoffrey thrust one of the gold pieces into the jailer's hand as he ledhim away.

  "You will be taken to Dartmoor Prison to-morrow," said the jailer, as ifin reply. Geoffrey looked over his shoulder to see if Reynolds heard;but the old man was busy in buttoning up his coat, and did not look hisway.

  The day after these occurrences the French mail steamer, putting in atCork Harbor, took on board several passengers. Among them was oldReynolds. It was Christmas week, and the ship was full of Americans,running home for the holidays, with the usual retinue of English andFrench servants, among whom Reynolds passed unnoticed. There were buttwo people in all the West that Reynolds cared to see; in Maggie Windsorand her father the old man had a strange confidence; but as for thesepeople, their evident prosperity made him sorrowful, their wealthoffended him.

  As he sat upon the deck that evening, his old cloak drawn about hisshoulders, a lady passed up and down before him, arm-in-arm with agentleman whom he had never seen. There was a grace, a certain sinuousstrength about the woman's figure that was strangely familiar to him. Hetried to think where he had seen such a form before; and, do what hewould, his memory would not stray from the library in the old lodge atRipon House. The man with her was middle-aged, or perhaps a littleolder; he had a red beard of some three weeks' growth, not long enoughto hide the contour of his fat double chin. His small eyes had a way ofturning rapidly about, but not resting anywhere, as if he feared asteady glance might lead some one to recognize him. Reynolds wonderedwho he was.

  The night was mild for the season, and there was a bright moon. All theother passengers were below in the cabins, the sea was calm, and thestrains of an orchestra were heard from the great saloon, where thepassengers were dancing. There was an electric light behind whereReynolds sat, and pulling the evening paper from his pocket he tried toread. He had his own reasons for not caring to go below; apparently sohad the other two, for they still walked the deck in front of him. Once,as they passed him, they stopped for a moment, and the light fell fullupon the woman's face. It was Mrs. Carey.

  The paper fell from the old man's hands. Their eyes met for a moment,then the woman turned away.

  Reynolds was thunderstruck. Could that be Mr. Carey with her? hethought. He had never seen Carey, but he fancied not. Her husband mustbe a younger man. Reynolds hoped she had not recognized him. He hatedthe woman now; he felt a fear of her, well grounded, after all that hadhappened.

  For several days after this the weather was bad, and Mrs. Carey came ondeck without her companion. Reynolds avoided her, and she did not seemto notice him. Yet she had a fascination for him, and he would slylywatch her from the corners of his eyes, as one looks upon some brilliantserpent. This was the woman who had wrecked his master's life--who hadbetrayed the King. Reynolds wondered where the King was then. Hefancied, with Geoffrey, that he must be dead.

  On the fourth day they made the lightship anchored off the Banks, andstopped for news and letters. Reynolds bought a paper; Mrs. Carey had atelegram, which he saw her reading with evident interest. His newspaper,which was a mere resume of the telegrams received in the ocean station,had a long despatch about the so-called meeting at Aldershot. It saidthat George of Hanover was believed to have fled to America, but that itwas not the policy of the government to pursue him.

  "You seem interested in your paper, Mr. Reynolds," said a voice at hisshoulder. The old servant stood up, and touched his hat, from habit. Itwas Mrs. Carey. She was dressed coquettishly in a sea-green travellingdress that showed her beautiful figure at its best; her hair was coiledabove her fair neck in two glossy red-brown bands. Reynolds looked intoher deep eyes and hated her. He cared more for his master than for anywoman's eyes. "How did you leave poor Ripon?" she asked.

  "My master is in Dartmoor Prison," said Reynolds, sadly.

  "Your master is a crazy fool," said the beautiful woman, spitefully.Reynolds made as if to go, but she detained him. "Why are you going toAmerica?"

  "I have a message from Lord Brompton to the King," said Reynolds.

  For fear that she might in some way thwart him, he did not tell her hisreal errand.

  Mrs. Carey laughed scornfully. "No need to go so far," said she, and shebeckoned with her hand. The stout man with the reddish beard came up,like some huge, dull animal called by its mistress. His sensuous, fatface was pallid with seasickness, and as he looked at Mrs. Carey therewas a senile leer in his eye.

  "King George," said she, "this is a servant of Lord Brompton's."

  The decks were almost deserted, and no one was near enough to overhearthem.

  The old man's mouth opened; but he could only stare vacantly. Hestammered some incoherent syllables, and tried to bend his knees, butthey knocked together, trembling. He doffed his hat, and, with thesea-breeze blowing his thin white hair about his temples, stood lookingat the King.

  "I am sorry for your master," said the man with the beard. "But--it wasuseless. Was it not useless, my dear?" he added, turning to Mrs. Carey.

  She laughed contemptuously, but made no reply, and the two resumed theirpromenade upon the deck. Reynolds watched them a long time sadly. Sheseemed to have complete control over the man, and Reynolds noticed thathe even brought her a footstool, when she sat upon her sea-chair uponthe deck. No one among the passengers seemed to know him or notice him;but many an admiring glance was turned upon Mrs. Carey. "Curse thejade!" said Reynolds to himself. Now, indeed, he saw that it was alltrue, and felt for the first time that his master would never come backto Ripon House. But he could not understand it. To say that the sun fellfrom the heavens would be but a poor simile to describe the effect thisinterview produced on the old man's mind. He sat like one dazed throughthe rest of the voyage. And King George, passing him, saw the old mansitting there, and felt ashamed, abased, before the look of the oldservant. Only Mrs. Carey had a proud sparkle in her evil eyes, andgloated in spirit at the message that the man would take to his masterback in England. And when, on the fifth day, they landed in Boston, shegot into a carriage and drove off with the King, and Reynolds saw herwave her jewelled hand at him from the window.

  He himself asked for the house of Mr. Abraham Windsor. Mr. Windsor, likemost rich Americans, had a winter house in Boston, a plantation inFlorida, a palace in Mexico, a shooting-box in the mountains of Montana,and other arrangements for circumventing the American climate; andReynolds was driven to a great stone house, with court and gardens,fronting on a park. He asked for Miss Windsor; the servant looked at himcuriously, but bade him wait.

  Reynolds was tired with the voyage and the bustle and hurry of arriving;and this great city, this great America, so fine, so bright, so rich,made him sad and depressed. What likelihood was there, he thought, thatthis gay, luxurious American would think or care for his poor masterover in Dartmoor Jail? But, as he looked up, he started withastonishment. Hung upon the wall was a water-color, beautifully done, ofthe great avenue leading up to Ripon House. He heard a rustle at thedoor, and, turning hastily around, he saw Miss Windsor. She was morebeautiful than the other, was his first thought; and making a stepforward, he bowed humbly, not daring to take the hand she franklyextended to him.

  "Mr. Reynolds!" she said, sweetly. "I am so glad to see you!" This waswell--she remembered him, at all events; and, therefore, his master.

  "My lady," said he respectfully, "I have made bold to bring you aletter--from
England."

  "From England?" she said, feigning surprise; but a quick blush mantledher cheek.

  "From the Tower of London," said Reynolds, gravely.

  "From the Tower?" she cried; "is--is your master in prison?"

  "My master is now in Dartmoor Prison, if it please you, my lady," saidReynolds. "He was sentenced for fifteen years--for trying to serve theKing."

  He drew forth the letter, carefully wrapped in a double envelope. Shetook it from him quickly, and tore the covering open. This is what sheread:

  "MY DEAR MISS WINDSOR: When I see you again--as I hope, if the fates so will, I may--you, I hope, will be married, and I shall be getting to be an old man. Fifteen years is much to take from the sunny part of a man's life; and I can hardly look for much but shadow after that. I have thought much of you, since I have been here, and of our last meeting. And I have but one thing to tell you--what, perhaps, it would have been better for me to have told you long since--and to ask for your forgiveness for myself. I should not like to think that you were thinking ill of me, all these years that I am to stay within these walls.

  "Eleanor Carey--at whose feet, as I now know, you must have seen me that day at Chichester--was the woman I loved when she was a young girl, beautiful, as you know; lovely, as I then thought. She was Eleanor Leigh then. Eleanor Carey pretended on that day that she had never ceased to love me. My noble friend John Dacre had formed a plot to restore the King of England, and this woman was one of us. It was she who made a breach between us that day. It was she who went the morning before to my house, and, overhearing Dacre's talk to me, stole a paper containing the names and plan of our conspiracy. It was she who of all our friends was the only traitor. She murdered my dear friend as truly as if it had been her hand that dealt the blow. He was shot in the Tower court below here, with his back to the wall, by a company of soldiers. And, as I now believe, it was Eleanor Carey who in some way met the King, and kept him from us on that day.

  "I tell you all this that you may believe, in spite of all you may have seen that day at Chichester, Eleanor Carey is not the woman I love. You did not believe this at Ripon House. Margaret, will you believe it now?

  "Yours, forever,

  "GEOFFREY RIPON."

  "Fifteen years!" said Maggie, meditatively, after she had read theletter, with varying waves of white and red in her face, not unremarkedby Reynolds, as he stood with his hat in his two hands.

  "Fifteen years! Papa!"

  The door of an adjoining room opened, and Mr. Windsor appeared.

  "Yes, my dear."

  "Papa, this is Mr. Reynolds."

  "Mr. Reynolds, I am very happy to make your acquaintance."

  "Mr. Reynolds was Lord Brompton's servant--at Ripon, you remember?"

  "Oh! Reynolds, I am glad to see you."

  "That will do, Reynolds; you can go."

  "Papa, I have a commission for you in England."

  Reynolds's face fell. "Any--any message for my master, my lady?"

  "No. Oh--stop--yes. You may tell him," said Maggie, with a heightenedcolor, smiling, "you may tell him I am about to be married."