The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  Satisfied at last with the survey, Charles bade farewell to Captain Ellesdon, and with his attendants rode down the left side of the declivity to Charmouth, while the captain took his way on the right to Lyme.

  As they approached the little town, Charles asked Juliana if she was quite prepared for the part she had to play, and received a laughing response in the affirmative.

  Harry Peters had ridden on beforehand, so that when the party arrived at the little inn, the hostess, with the ostler and all the servants, were at the door ready to receive them.

  Luckily, most of the villagers were at Lyme fair, or there would have been a little crowd collected to gaze at the strangers. So dazzled was Dame Swan by Juliana’s beauty, as she assisted the young lady to alight, that she could look at no one else, but when she did bestow a glance on the king she did not think him half handsome enough to be the husband of such a charming creature.

  Leading Juliana into a parlour, where a cold collation was laid out, the good dame kissed her and wished her all happiness. They were followed by Charles, who laughingly inquired if the hostess meant to rob him of his intended bride.

  “I won’t rob you of her, sir,” replied Dame Swan; “and I’ll do my best to prevent any one else from taking her from you. Ah! sir, you ought to esteem yourself the luckiest man on earth to have obtained such a treasure.”

  “Why, so I do, dame. But is she not the luckiest woman?”

  “I’m sure I think myself so,” said Juliana.

  “I’m a very bad judge,” remarked the hostess. “I often say to myself, ‘It’s very well we are not all of one mind. What suits one person wouldn’t suit another.’”

  “It’s very clear I don’t suit your fancy, good dame,” cried Charles, laughing.

  Here they were interrupted by the entrance of the rest of the party, and they all on the king’s invitation sat down to the repast — Juliana, of course, being seated beside his majesty, and receiving particular attentions from him.

  Careless sat on the other side of the young damsel, who did not seem displeased to have him near her, but chatted with him very gaily. And the hostess subsequently remarked to Harry Peters, who had assisted her to wait on the company:

  “I shouldn’t have been surprised if that lovely creature had run away with the gallant-looking Cavalier on her right, and I almost think she prefers him to the accepted suitor. It’s not too late yet for her to change her mind.”

  “Oh! yes, it is a great deal too late,” rejoined Harry Peters. “Take care you don’t put such whims into her head.”

  “Not I, i’faith!” she rejoined. “But I’m pretty sure I’m right.”

  Later in the evening, the hostess was confirmed in her opinion when Careless and Juliana walked out into the little garden at the back of the house. She could not help listening to their conversation, and heard the Cavalier say, in very tender accents, as it seemed to her:

  “I must now bid you farewell! Fate seems resolved to separate us — but I hope we shall meet again. I will not ask you to be constant to me.”

  “I should think not,” mentally ejaculated Dame Swan, “seeing that she is just about to be wedded to another.”

  “But I vow that I will be so,” cried Juliana. “If a certain person, whom we both detest, and who interferes with our happiness, should only be removed, you will return at once, will you not?”

  “There is very little chance of his removal, I fear,” said Careless, with a profound sigh. “His success has been too complete of late.”

  “But something unexpected may occur,” said Juliana. “He may not be long in our way.”

  “I hope not,” said Careless. “But his present position appears secure.”

  “Still, I do not think he can long maintain it,” said Juliana. “He must fall soon.”

  “The announcement of his death will be my summons to return,” said Careless. “If some sure hand would only strike the blow.”

  “At a crisis like the present, when such great interests are at stake, that hand is not likely to be wanting,” said Juliana.

  “Great heavens! She is planning the poor young man’s destruction, before she has married him,” thought Dame Swan. “’Tis fortunate I have overheard the dreadful design, and can therefore prevent it. Hist! hist!” she cried.

  Alarmed by the sound, Juliana came instantly into the house.

  “I want to speak to you,” said the hostess, taking her hand, and drawing her into a small room which she called her own.

  After closing the door, she said in a tone of great sympathy, “I find you are very unhappily circumstanced.”

  “I do not understand you,” interrupted Juliana.

  “I have accidentally overheard what has passed between you and the handsome young Cavalier in the garden, and I find that you greatly prefer him to the swarthy-complexioned gentleman, to whom you have promised your hand. You are very young, and feeling for you like a mother, I cannot see you rush to destruction, without trying to prevent it. Break off this foolish engagement at once — at once, I say — and return to your father. Nay, if you hesitate, I will take you to him myself. You must not — shall not — marry this man!”

  “I do not mean to marry him,” said Juliana.

  “What is it you mean to do, in Heaven’s name?” cried Dame Swan, with an energy that alarmed the young damsel.

  “I find I must trust you,” she said. “I am sure you are perfectly loyal.”

  “Loyal! yes! I should like to see the king on the throne, and his enemies confounded. But what has my loyalty got to do with your engagement?”

  “Everything,” replied Juliana, reassured by the good woman’s words. “The king is now beneath your roof. He is the person whom you have been led to believe would be my husband; but the wretch of whom you heard us speak in the garden is the accursed regicide Cromwell. Now you understand it all?”

  “I do, I do,” cried Dame Swan.

  “I won’t trust you by halves,” said Juliana. “The king is about to embark at midnight for France. Major Careless, with whom I was conversing in the garden, will sail with him.”

  “Oh! I hope they will soon return!” cried the hostess. “I hope you will soon be wedded to the major! He is worthy of you. I am glad you have told me this, though the information is so astounding, that it has quite upset me. But I shall be right in a few minutes.”

  Now that this explanation had taken place with the hostess, Juliana felt quite at ease with the good dame, and was very glad to spend the rest of the evening with her in her room.

  To Charles the hours seemed to pass very slowly, and he longed for midnight, but he was in extremely good spirits, and all his attendants exerted themselves to amuse him.

  Every half-hour — indeed, more frequently — some one went out to ascertain the state of the weather. The night was fine and starlight, and a light breeze from the north-west was just what was desired. Charmouth, as the reader is aware, is about half a mile from the shore, but as an eminence intervenes the sea is not visible from the little town.

  These constant reports of the favourable state of the weather helped to keep up the king’s spirits. Missing Juliana, and deeming it necessary to maintain his part as her intended husband, he went in search of her and found her in the hostess’s room. Dame Swan was with her at the time, and the extreme deference now paid him by the hostess soon showed him that she had been let into the secret.

  Feeling, therefore, that further disguise was useless, he addressed her in his own proper character, and quite enchanted her with his affability.

  “I was not aware of the great honour intended me, my liege,” she said, “or I would have made more fitting preparations for your reception.”

  “You have done quite enough, my good dame,” said Charles. “In strict fulfilment of your promise, you have kept your house free from guests at a busy time, so that I have been perfectly private, and if I had departed without making any disclosure to you, I should have desired others to thank you in
my name.”

  Quite overwhelmed by his majesty’s condescension, the hostess could make no reply.

  “I must, also, compliment you on your discernment,” pursued the king, smiling. “You quickly perceived that I wanted some necessary qualifications for the part I attempted to play, and that I was not exactly the person with whom this charming young gentlewoman would have made a runaway match. A great liberty has been taken with her — excusable, only, under the circumstances — but you will understand that her loyalty alone induced her to consent to the scheme.”

  “Yes, but I played my part so indifferently, that I do not deserve your majesty’s thanks,” said Juliana.

  “Nay, the fault was mine,” rejoined the king. And he added in a low voice, “I ought to have changed parts with Major Careless.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER XV.

  THE WATCHERS BY THE SEA.

  By this time, most of the inhabitants of the little town who had been at Lyme fair had returned, and a great number of them flocked to the inn, and made so much disturbance, that the hostess was fain to serve them, but she would not let them into the parlour, and after they had emptied a few pots of cider — that being the liquor for which Charmouth was renowned — they quietly departed.

  Half an hour later, every house in the village — except the little inn, was closed — and its inmates had apparently retired to rest, since not a light could be seen in any of the windows.

  To avoid any chance of danger to his majesty, it had been arranged that Colonel Wyndham, attended by Harry Peters, should ride to the mouth of the Char about an hour before midnight, and there await the long-boat. On its arrival, Peters was to gallop back and give information to the king, who would be prepared to start on the instant with his companions for the place of rendezvous. The horses would be ready saddled, so that no delay could occur.

  Soon after eleven o’clock, the colonel, having received his majesty’s last commands, prepared to set out. Reuben Rufford, the ostler, brought out the horses, and both the colonel and Harry Peters noticed that the fellow appeared very inquisitive, and held up his lantern, so as to throw its light on their faces. When they were gone, Reuben observed to his mistress that he thought they could be about no good, but she rebuked him sharply, and he went back to the stable.

  Riding singly along the narrow green lane, already described as leading to the sea-shore, Colonel Wyndham and Peters presently arrived at the mouth of the Char.

  The place was perfectly solitary. They had encountered no one in the lane, and no one was to be seen on the beach. The only sound that could be heard was that of the waves breaking on the sandy shore. It was within half an hour of high water, and the tide was flowing rapidly.

  The night was dark, but clear, and they looked out for the Eider Duck, and fancied they could distinguish her in the offing, about a mile out. A light could be seen at the head of Lyme Cobb, which looked like a huge black ship moored to the shore. The dark sloping cliffs were wrapped in gloom, but nothing was to be feared in that direction, for the road along the beach was impassable in this state of the tide.

  For some time the watchers remained with their gaze fixed upon the sea, hoping to descry the boat, anxiously listening for the sound of oars. They heard nothing except the wearisome and monotonous sound of the waves.

  Hitherto scarcely a word had passed between them, but now the colonel could not help expressing astonishment that the boat did not make its appearance.

  “Have a little patience, sir,” said Peters. “It will soon be here, I’ll warrant you. Stephen Limbry will not prove false.”

  “I think not,” said the colonel. “Hark! ’tis the hour!”

  As he spoke a distant bell struck twelve, so slowly that in the deep stillness the strokes could be counted.

  The appointed hour had come, but no boat came with it.

  In vain the colonel and his servant strained their gaze towards the spot where they supposed the boat was lying. No boat could be seen.

  Sometimes they fancied they could descry it, but the delusive object, whatever it might be, quickly vanished.

  Another hour passed by, and found them at their post, still gazing at the sea, still hoping the boat would come, vainly hoping, as it proved.

  The tide had turned, but had not yet perceptibly receded.

  Though staggered and uneasy, Colonel Wyndham had not lost faith in the shipmaster.

  “Should Limbry turn out a traitor, I will never trust man again,” he said.

  “Perhaps the seamen have gone ashore to the fair, colonel, and he has not been able to get them back again,” rejoined Peters.

  “The delay is unaccountable,” cried the colonel. “His majesty will be distracted.”

  “Shall I ride back, and inform him that no boat has yet come ashore?” said Peters.

  “That would make matters worse,” rejoined the colonel. “Stay till you can take him good news.”

  They waited for another hour, and for an hour after that, patiently — striving to persuade themselves that the boat would still come.

  The tide having now retreated to a considerable distance, the colonel rode upon the sand, and dashed into the water in his anxiety to discern the object he so fruitlessly sought.

  No boat met his gaze; and the sky having become clouded, the sea looked dark and sullen. His own breast was full of sombre thoughts. The hopes that had animated him a few hours ago were gone, and had given place to bitter disappointment.

  Still, though his hopes were crushed, he clung despairingly to his post, nor would he quit it, or allow Peters to depart, till day broke.

  When the first streaks of dawn fell upon the sea, he looked out for the treacherous bark, and beheld her lying within half a mile of the Cobb. She had not quitted her position since yesterday.

  However, it was useless to tarry longer. Even if the boat were sent now it would be impossible to embark in it at low water. Bidding Peters follow him, and in a state of mind bordering on distraction, he rode along the lane to Charmouth.

  But how could he face the king?

  * * *

  CHAPTER XVI.

  HOW THE GREY MARE PROVED THE BETTER HORSE.

  Limbry was not altogether in fault, though appearances were against him.

  Like many other men, he was under the governance of his spouse. And, as we shall now proceed to show, it was owing to Dame Limbry that the king’s well-planned escape to France was frustrated. It may be remembered that she had expressed to her daughter a resolution to ascertain the nature of the important business on which Captain Ellesdon and the two Cavaliers desired to see Limbry at the inn. But she did not succeed. Strange to say, the shipmaster for once kept his own counsel, and this unwonted reticence on his part only served to inflame his wife’s curiosity the more. Feeling his inequality in a contest with such a determined woman, Limbry showed his discretion by keeping out of her way as much as possible, and did not even acquaint her with his intention to go to sea; but desirous to propitiate her, he urged her to take her daughter to Lyme fair. As it turned out, he could not have acted more injudiciously. While at the fair, Dame Limbry heard the terrible Proclamation, and a suspicion immediately crossed her that the two gentlemen she had seen were fugitive Cavaliers from Worcester. The suspicion was converted into certainty, when about nine o’clock at night, just after she and her daughter had returned from Lyme, Limbry, who had been absent from home all day, came in, and instead of sitting down like a good husband and father to chat with them, went up-stairs at once to his own room, in order to pack up some linen.

  While he was thus employed, his wife, who had followed him, entered the room, closed the door, and putting on an injured expression of countenance, which she knew so well how to assume, asked him, in a tone that made him quake, what he was about.

  “Surely, you are not going to sea to-night?”

  “Yes I am,” he replied, finding further concealment impossible. “My landlord, Captain Ellesdon, has provided me with a freigh
t which will be worth infinitely more to me than if the Eider Duck were laden with goods. Distrusting your power of keeping a secret, I have hitherto kept the matter from you, but now that there is no risk of your blabbing, I may tell you that I am about to transport some passengers to St. Malo, and on my return I shall receive a very handsome sum from Captain Ellesdon for my pains.”

  But instead of appearing pleased, and congratulating him as he expected on his good fortune, with a countenance inflamed with anger, his wife screamed out:

  “I knew it. I felt quite certain you were about to transport some Royalists to France — perhaps the Malignant Prince himself. Foolish man! do you know that the penalty is death? Do you know that you are liable to be hanged for aiding the escape of traitors? This very morning I heard the Proclamation published at Lyme by the mayor, offering a reward of a thousand pounds for the capture of Charles Stuart, and threatening, with the heaviest penalties — even death — those who may aid the escape of his partisans. Now, I know that the men you have engaged to carry over to France are Royalists, and, as a dutiful and loving wife, I am bound to save you from the consequences of your folly. You shall not throw away a life which, if not valuable to yourself, is valuable to me and to my child. You shall NOT sail to France to-night!”

  “How will you prevent me?” inquired her husband contemptuously. “Tell me that.”

  “By locking you up in this chamber,” she replied.

  And before he could stop her, she slipped out of the room, and locked the door on the outside.

  “Now, get out if you can,” she cried, derisively.

  “Ten thousand furies!” cried Limbry, vainly trying to force open the door. “Let me out at once, or you will rue it.”