“I will go to Stonehenge this morning,” he said. “If Colonel Gunter should arrive, send him on to me there. In that case, I shall not return. If he comes not, you will see me again.”
“And the hiding-place shall be ready; but I sincerely trust your majesty may not require it.”
“I hope so too,” rejoined Charles. “But there is no certainty of my departure.”
They then proceeded towards the house, but had not gone far when they met Dr. Henchman coming towards them.
“I am about to return to Salisbury immediately,” he said. “Has your majesty any message for Lord Wilmot? I am sure to find him with Mr. John Coventry.”
“Tell him to meet me at Stonehenge,” replied Charles. “He must come prepared for a ride to the Sussex coast.”
“I will tell him exactly what you say, my liege,” rejoined Dr. Henchman.
“Perhaps he may bring me news,” said the king. “Perhaps I may have news to give him. In any case, let him be prepared.”
“Heaven protect your majesty!” exclaimed Dr. Henchman. “I trust your deliverance is at hand!”
With a profound obeisance he departed, and Charles and Mrs. Hyde returned to the house.
The king found his attendants in the hall, and at once communicated his intentions to them. After breakfast the whole party took leave of Mrs. Hyde and her brother-in-law, mounted their horses, and set off apparently for Salisbury.
* * *
CHAPTER XXIV.
HOW CHARLES ENCOUNTERED DESBOROUGH ON SALISBURY PLAIN.
After riding for a short distance along the banks of the Avon, the party separated, Colonel Philips and Colonel Wyndham proceeding towards Salisbury in the expectation of meeting Lord Wilmot, and perhaps Colonel Gunter; and the king and his fair companion, attended by Careless, shaping their course in the direction of Stonehenge, which was fixed as the general place of rendezvous.
Salisbury Plain has a charm of its own, which those who rode across it on that fine October morning fully experienced. Juliana was enchanted with the strange novelty of the scene, and allowed her gaze to wander over the apparently boundless expanse of turf. Not a tree could be seen — not a solitary cottage — not a shed — the undulating surface of the plain being only broken by the numerous barrows, that seemed to have been heaved up from the sod like gigantic mole-hills. Here and there a shepherd, looking grey as the turf itself, and tending a flock of sheep, could be distinguished. A singular cluster of sepulchral tumuli attracted them, and they spent some little time in examining the group. On coming forth from among the barrows they aroused a flock of bustards, and watched them scud swiftly over the plain, hallooing after them, and almost tempted to give them chase.
So occupied were they with the bustards that they did not perceive till they turned that a strong regiment of horse was advancing across the plain. Deeming a bold course the safest, Charles rode straight on, and Careless kept by his side. To ride through the ranks of the enemy was certainly a daring thing to do, but the perfect confidence with which the action was performed insured its success. The men looked sternly at them, but discovering nothing suspicious in their manner, allowed them to pass on. The danger, however, was not over. Behind the rear guard rode the commander of the regiment — a heavy, ungainly, sullen-looking personage, but richly accoutred. With him was an orderly.
“’Tis Old Noll’s brother-in-law, Desborough!” whispered Careless.
“I know him,” replied the king. “Heaven grant he may not know me!”
Desborough, it appeared, did not mean to let them pass unquestioned. Reining in his steed, he signed to them to stop. At the same time the orderly drew his sword, and called out, in an authoritative voice:
“Stand! Major-General Desborough, Commander-in-Chief of the Army of the West, would speak with you.”
Uncovering at this address, both of them remained stationary.
Desborough bent his lowering brows upon them, and fixed his eye upon the king. Charles, however, did not quail beneath his searching glance.
“Look at that man, Colville,” said Desborough. “Look at him well. Hast seen him before?”
“I do not think so, general,” replied the orderly. “Yet the face seems familiar to me.”
It was an anxious moment, for Desborough’s brow grew darker, but Juliana interposed.
“You cannot have seen my husband before, general,” she cried; “unless you have been to Salisbury, for he has never been further from the city than Amesbury, whither we are going now.”
“Is the young man thy husband?” demanded Desborough, in a tone that implied some doubt. “Attempt not to deceive me.”
“We have been married a twelvemonth,” she replied. “And not for a single hour have we been separated since we became man and wife.”
“That’s much to say,” remarked Desborough.
“But there are plenty of persons who can testify to the truth of the statement. My brother Amyas will tell you that Orlando Jermyn — that’s my husband’s name — and his wife are accounted the happiest couple in Sarum.”
“Since you are so well satisfied I will not say you might have made a better choice,” observed Desborough. “But I think your husband may esteem himself lucky.”
“He tells me so repeatedly,” she replied; “and I am bound to believe him. Have you any more questions to ask me?”
Desborough looked again searchingly at Charles, but perceiving no change in his demeanour, and noticing, moreover, that the others seemed quite unconcerned, he signed to them to go on. The orderly sheathed his sword.
Respectfully saluting the major-general, Charles and his attendant proceeded quietly on their way. After a brief colloquy with the orderly, Desborough moved on, to Juliana’s great relief.
“At last he is gone!” she exclaimed. “Did I not act my part bravely?”
“Admirably,” replied Charles. “You have saved me from the greatest peril in which I have yet been placed. Desborough, I could plainly see, suspected me. But you puzzled him.”
Halting near a barrow, they watched the regiment as long as it remained in sight. They then rode on towards Stonehenge, which loomed in the distance.
* * *
CHAPTER XXV.
THE PARTING AT STONEHENGE.
There stand those grey mysterious circles of stones, that for centuries have braved the storms that have beaten upon the wide dreary plain on which they have been placed — none can tell how, or when. There they stand — stern, solemn, hoar, crusted with lichens, incomprehensible, enigmatical as the Sphinx; muttering tales of days forgotten, and of a people whose habits, customs, and creed are no longer understood. So strange and mysterious are the old stones, that no wonder the wildest fables have been told of them. Some have thought the pile was reared by magic art, others have deemed it the work of the Evil One, intended by him as a temple where unhallowed rites might be practised. But by whatever giant hands the mighty pile was reared, in whatever age and for whatever purpose — hallowed, or unhallowed — whether as an altar for human sacrifice, as a court of justice, or as a place of execution, all is now dim conjecture. There the huge stones stand as of yore, but their history is clean forgotten.
Though a couple of centuries are little in the history of Stonehenge, a great change has taken place since Charles visited the wondrous monument. A change for the worse. The mighty stones are there, but the aspect of the spot is altered. The genius of solitude that brooded over the pile has fled — fled with the shy bustard that once haunted its mystic circles, and with the ravens that perched on the stones. The wide rolling surface of the plain was then wholly uncultivated. Nothing was to be seen except the clustering barrows, and the banks that marked what is now called, with what truth we know not, a Roman cursus.
Charles approached the pile by an avenue edged by grassy banks, gazing with wonder, not unmixed with awe, at the gigantic circles. As he rode slowly on he came to a single upright stone, and paused to look at it.
Familiar with the
legends of the spot, Careless informed the king that the stone was called “The Friar’s Heel.”
“The tale runs,” he said, “that while the Evil One was engaged in constructing those mysterious circles, a friar passed by, and was indiscreet enough to make some disparaging remark upon the works. Having done so, he fled. The Demon, in a rage, hurled a huge stone at him, and grazed his heel, but did not check him. There stands the stone, deeply plunged in the earth, to prove the truth of the legend.”
Passing through the outer circle of smaller stones, they dismounted, and fastening up their horses to an obelisk-shaped fragment, surveyed the mighty ruin, examining the trilithons and monoliths.
“There is a superstition,” observed Careless, “that these stones cannot be counted alike twice.”
“I have heard it,” replied Charles; “and I remember what Sir Philip Sydney says on the subject:
Near Wilton sweet huge heaps of stones are found.
But so confused, that neither any eye
Can count them just, nor reason reason try
What force them brought to so unlikely ground.
“Let us make the attempt. ‘Twill serve to pass the time till our friends arrive. Do you think you can count them?” he said to Juliana.
“I will try, my liege,” she replied. “Where shall I begin?”
“With the altar-stone,” replied Charles.
Juliana then commenced her task, going carefully through the different circles, and not pausing till she reached the last stone.
“How many do you make them?” asked Charles.
“Seventy-seven,” she replied.
“My reckoning agrees with yours,” cried Careless, who had followed her.
“So far good,” observed Charles. “But you have not included the recumbent ‘slaughtering stone’ near the entrance, nor the ‘Friar’s Heel’ in the avenue, nor the two small stones near the earthen bank. Those will increase the number to eighty-one. Now for the second trial. Start from this stone.”
Very carefully Juliana performed her task. When she had reached the altar-stone, a smile lighted up her charming countenance, and she exclaimed joyously:
“Seventy-seven! I have counted the stones alike twice — and disproved the fable.”
After congratulating her on her success, Charles observed:
“I wonder whether a loving pair were ever betrothed at this altar?”
The significance given to the words, and the look that accompanied them, made Juliana cast down her eyes.
“’Tis strange that the same thought should have occurred to me,” remarked Careless. “How say you, sweetheart?” he continued, taking Juliana’s hand. “Shall we plight our vows here, in his majesty’s presence? You know that duty calls me hence, and that I may be long detained in France. Let me feel certain I shall not lose you.”
“You need not doubt me, Careless,” she rejoined, tenderly. “I shall ever be constant to you.”
They then bent before the king, and Careless, still holding her hand, exclaimed:
“Bear witness, sire, that I solemnly plight my faith to Juliana Coningsby.”
“And I as solemnly plight my faith to William Careless,” she added.
“I cannot pronounce a benediction upon you,” said Charles. “But I can bear witness to your betrothal. May your union speedily take place; and when it does take place, may you be happy!”
The betrothed pair had just risen, when the trampling of horse was heard.
“They come! they come!” exclaimed the king, joyously. “You were only just in time.”
And he hastened to the entrance of the pile.
When he reached the outer circle he perceived Lord Wilmot, accompanied by Colonel Wyndham and Colonel Philips, galloping towards the spot. With them was a fourth Cavalier, whom he doubted not was Colonel Gunter.
In another minute the party came up, sprang from their steeds, and advanced towards the king, who could not fail to read good news in their countenances.
“Welcome, my lord! thrice welcome!” he cried to Lord Wilmot.
“Yes, I bring you good news, my liege,” replied his lordship. “But it is for Colonel Gunter to tell it.”
Colonel Gunter was then presented to the king, and after making a profound obeisance, said:
“Your majesty will be pleased to hear that I have succeeded in hiring a vessel at Shoreham to transport you to Dieppe. She is only sixty tons, but a good, stout, well-built bark, and her master, Nicholas Tattersall, is perfectly honest and loyal. The vessel is laden with sea-coal, and bound for Poole, and Tattersall will at first stand for the Isle of Wight, but when he has been out at sea for a few hours he will alter his course, and make for the French coast. The skipper will be ready to sail as soon as your majesty and your companions reach Shoreham. With your permission I will attend you thither.”
“This is good news indeed!” cried Charles, transported with delight. “All my difficulties and dangers seem now at an end.”
“The only difficulties and dangers your majesty has to apprehend may occur during our journey to Shoreham,” observed Colonel Gunter. “But I trust we shall avoid them all.”
“Yes, sire, I firmly believe the worst is past,” said Colonel Wyndham. “Providence, who has hitherto watched over you, will guard you on your journey, and bring you safely to the coast. You need not fear the repetition of such an untoward circumstance as took place at Lyme. Would I could see you embark, but I should only endanger you if I went with you!”
“No, thou hast done enough, Frank,” cried the king, patting him affectionately on the shoulder— “far more than I ever shall be able to requite. We must part here — not for long, I trust. Thou shalt lend me thy horse, and take that which I have ridden. He will bear thee and Juliana back to Trent. Fail not to give my adieux to thy most amiable wife, and to thy venerated mother, whom I love as a son!”
He then turned to Juliana, and found that her bright eyes were dimmed. She had just parted with Careless.
“Be of good cheer,” he said. “I promise you he shall soon return.”
“Your majesty, I fear, promises more than you can perform,” she sighed. “But I will hope for the best.”
“I cannot thank you sufficiently for all you have done for me,” he said. “But you will always have a place next to Jane Lane in my regard. How I shall prosper when I have lost you both Heaven only knows. Farewell!”
He then pressed her hand to his lips, and springing on the steed from which Colonel Wyndham had just dismounted, he called to the others to join him, and was soon afterwards seen careering at their head across Salisbury Plain.
THE END
THE GOOD OLD TIMES
OR, THE MANCHESTER REBELS OF THE FATAL ‘45
CONTENTS
PREFACE.
BOOK I. ATHERTON LEGH.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
BOOK II. PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD IN MANCHESTER.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPT
ER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
BOOK III. THE MARCH TO DERBY, AND THE RETREAT.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
BOOK IV. CARLISLE.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
BOOK V. JEMMY DAWSON.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
BOOK VI. KENNINGTON COMMON.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
Faithful unto Death
With faltering voice, she weeping said,
“O, Dawson, monarch of my heart!
Think not thy death shall end our loves,
For thou and I will never part!”
SHENSTONE.
INSCRIBED
TO THE
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 687
