“Fool!” he cried, with a sardonic laugh. “Come, take the letter. I’ll save the Kirk the trouble of hanging you.”
No invitation could he have given me that I had more eagerly accepted, and for some moments we were wondrous busy in that hovel. The clash and slither of steel was the language in which Sir John and I discussed the enmity that for ten years had lain betwixt us. It was soon ended. He parried overwidely, and one opening he gave me that was too tempting to be left unheeded. He saw the error of it when two thirds of my cold bilbo were through his vitals.
He sank writhing to the ground, carrying the rickety table with him in his fall, and extinguishing the light. Swiftly I pounced upon him as he lay twisting and cursing in his last agony, and from his left hand I wrested the letter which with his fast-ebbing strength he feebly strove to clutch.
I rose up to find a man—whose figure was barely discernible in the gloom—standing in the doorway. I take it he was the landlord. As I turned he sprang forward wielding what appeared to be a club. He swung it aloft and aimed a blow at me; I leaped aside, and there was a crash as his weapon struck the floor. Another door, leading toward the interior of the hostelry, was opened, and a woman appeared bearing a rushlight.
This door was close beside me, and scarce knowing why, I bounded toward it, and brushed past her. I found myself in a smaller room, which in the fleeting glance I gave it appeared to be the kitchen. There was a door beyond, leading toward the open. I made for this, and outside I came upon an urchin holding a horse—Sir John’s, I opined.
I snatched the reins from the lad’s hand, and vaulting into the saddle, I buried my spurs in the animal’s flanks.
It was past midnight when I drew rein before the hostelry of the Crown, and got down to kick at the door until ’twas opened by the night-capped host. I pushed past him into the house, bidding him see to my horse, and paying scant heed to his grumbling. Then seizing a taper I drew forth the letter that already had cost a man his life that night, and read:
Dear Jack: It is my hope that the first messenger I dispatched to you, to warn you of the coming of Lal Faversham, hath reached you without mishap. From that letter you will have gathered that the fool took the bait I offered him with avidity. Within twelve hours he was on the road to Scotland, and not a moment too soon, for my angel Margaret arrived here but two hours after his departure. His absence, and the news which her father culled at Whitehall of his sudden flight, have set at rest her last doubt touching his faithlessness. She must perforce confess to me that things had fallen out as I predicted, and, in a fit of scorn at the cowardice of a faithless knave who dared not stay to face her, and at herself for ever having given him a thought, she did consent, within three hours after her arrival, to become my wife. Am I not the luckiest of men, Jack? And is not Faversham the most witless of fools? It is midnight—but six hours since Faversham’s departure for Perth, yet so much already is accomplished. This letter should reach you at Berwick before Faversham can gain the place, for whereas he goes by coach, the bearer travels on horse back, and will deliver this at York to another courier, who will pursue the journey. They have ample relays awaiting them along the road. Margaret has consented to marry me on Monday. The haste is necessary as I leave England with her immediately afterward. If you can contrive to consign Faversham into the hands of the Covenanters in time, and you care to adventure your handsome neck in London, you will add another ray to the happiness that is to be mine on Monday.
I set down the hideous missive, which bore Carleston’s signature, and stood dumfounded at the revelation which it brought me. Margaret lived—that at least was true. But unless I could get me back to London by Monday—and this already the dawn of Saturday—Carleston’s devilish plan must succeed. But I made a solemn vow that should I reach London too late to hinder Margaret from becoming the wife of Carleston, I would at least mend matters by making her also his widow.
In a frenzy, I called the host and bade him fetch back the horse that a while ago I had bidden him bait. Agape at my apparent madness, he went to rouse the ostler, from whom some moments later I received that stolen nag which, fortunately, was a stout and able animal. And I did so use it that by the noon of Saturday I was in Durham—albeit ’tis unlikely that horse would ever carry another man. I reached York toward ten that Saturday night, and there, more dead than living, I was compelled to halt and rest for a few hours.
All Sunday I rode, and all Sunday night—using three more horses on the journey, and well-nigh riding to death the last one, on which I ambled up King Street on Monday morning shortly after nine. Jaded beyond conception, and travel-stained as I was, I went forthwith in quest of Killigrew, the likeliest person to afford me the news I sought. I had the good fortune to find him still abed, for a royal frolic had kept him from his couch till daybreak. He was able to tell me that Carleston was to be found at the Dolphin, and Sir Everard Fitzmorris in Pall Mall. I waited for no more, but left him, and taking a hackney coach I went forthwith to the Dolphin Inn.
I found Carleston dressing, with the aid of his body servant, and humming a gay measure as I entered his chamber unannounced.
He caught sight of my reflection in the mirror, and wheeled sharply round, his cheeks going ghastly white.
“Gadswounds!” he ejaculated, as his eye rested on my dusty person.
“You had best dismiss your servant,” I suggested, as coolly as I might, whereupon he passively motioned the fellow to withdraw.
“So, my good friend Carleston,” I began, “you are arraying yourself for your nuptials, eh? ’Tis a mistake, my fine fellow—a mistake. ’Tis I who am to be the bridegroom, after all, not you. Yes, man, I—Lal Faversham. I have ridden hard so that I might come in time; harder even than your couriers who bore this letter to Sir John Gillespie,” and I flourished the paper under his nose.
He recovered partly his composure at that, and sought to bluster it.
“Pah!” he laughed. “You have found it out, have you? Well, what now, my master? Are you come to pick a quarrel with me?”
It was my turn to laugh.
“Oddslife, no, you fool! Think you I would pick a quarrel on my wedding morn? Besides, ’tis but three days since I killed a man—your friend Gillespie.”
At that he started and changed color.
“No, no,” I pursued, smiling upon him as though he were my dearest friend. “I am come to pick no quarrel. I am rather come to give you a friendly word of counsel, Carleston. See that you are out of London before noon, and out of England before dawn to-morrow.”
“D—n you! ’Tis to threaten you are come.”
“Fie, Carleston! Who talks of threats? I do but advise. The King is like to hear at any moment, not only of your presence here, but of your achievements in Scotland after Dunbar. In truth, my dear Carleston,” I added, with another smile, “I chance to know that he will hear of all this before noon to-day. The vengeance of Charles Stuart is far-reaching, and I counsel you not to return to England while he fills the throne. Give you good day, my lord.”
And, turning, I left him standing there with mouth agape, the very picture of a fool. Yet but that it was my marriage morn, ’tis likely I should have left him in a plight yet worse.
Assured that he would take my warning, I repaired in the first place to my lodging at Whitehall to don my gayest suit, and thence, with scant delay I hastened to Sir Everard’s house in Pall Mall. In a fever, I followed the lackey who admitted me; my eyes burned in their sockets; my lips were dry; my mouth parched, and in a mirror I caught in passing a glimpse of a face that was gaunt and deadly pale.
I found Sir Everard in the library. His hair was become snowy white, and his tall frame had lost much of its upright firmness of nine years ago. In me mayhap he saw scant change, for at the first glance he knew me. He rose to receive me with a frown of anger ’twixt his brows.
“Faversham!” he exclaimed, then added before I could make answer, “What is your business here and on such a day?”
&nbs
p; “Upon no fitter day could I arrive, Sir Everard.”
“Know you not that my daughter is to be wed at noon?”
“I do indeed, Sir Everard, since I am come to be the bridegroom.”
The blood mounted hotly to his forehead.
“Is this some graceless jest? Are you so lost to shame? Is it not enough that your faithlessness hath well-nigh broken my poor child’s heart—for ’tis the way of woman to love those that are most unworthy. You who, like the craven hound you are, fled from London and the reproaches with which you fancied she might importune you!”
“’Tis false!” I thundered, silencing him by my very vehemence. “False as the foul lips that told it to you.”
“False?” he echoed incredulously. “Is it false that when you landed in England, some four months ago, you wrote to Margaret that your heart had changed? Is it false that you are to wed Anne Hyde? Despite that vile letter, sir, and the news we had of your approaching nuptials, my poor Margaret sought still to believe in you. She would not wed the man who by eight years of unflagging devotion had proved the quality of his affection; until first she had come to London and stooped to have speech with you. I allowed her this whim, to what purpose? To find you fled like a craven at the news of our approach. Tell me, sir,” he added, with withering contempt, “is that also false?”
“By God, sir, I will tell you,” I cried.
And then, in hot, passionate, maddened speech, I told him of the letter which, that night four months ago, I also had received—the false message that I had credulously believed was penned by my Margaret’s dying hand. That letter I showed him, and the ring. In burning words I painted to him my grief, and the bitterness that had soured for me the joys of the Restoration. Then I spoke of Carleston’s message delivered to me a week ago, and of the hope new-risen in my heart that sent me flying north. I told him how Heaven had guided me to the hostelry at Lenmuir, and I read aloud to him the letter that had cost Gillespie his life.
“Oh, Lal, Lal,” he cried, holding out both hands to me. “Let us thank God that you are yet in time.”
“I do, Sir Everard, and shall do so all my life,” I answered, seizing his trembling hands in mine. “Take me to Margaret, Sir Everard,” I cried a moment later. “For nine years have I waited, but not a moment longer.”
“Nor shall you, Lal,” came a voice behind us, and as I turned I saw the curtain that masked the doorway drawn aside, and standing there I beheld my love at last. I forgot as I looked that nine years of exile were sped since our last meeting, and meseemed that the very maid of seventeen that I had left was this. The same slight form, and the same sweet, tender face, though very pale and wistful now.
For a moment I stood as one robbed of all volition, then, with a loud cry, I sprang forward and fell on my knees before her. I caught her hands in mine, and with a sob I drew them to my lips.
“You heard me, sweet mistress?”
“I heard all, Lal,” she answered.
“And you believe?”
“Believe? I do indeed believe.”
Gently she drew her hands from mine, and taking my face betwixt them, she raised it until my eyes looked into hers.
And as her father had said a while ago—but in a voice that was infinitely tender, ineffably sweet:
“Oh. Lal, my Lal, thank God that you are come in time!”
Such was the morning of my wedding day; such the dawn of the happiness that Heaven hath vouchsafed me; such the true beginning, and not the end of the fortunes of Lal Faversham.
THE END
* * *
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