So much of them. One released my hands, and another at Smith’s request found him a light; and my new protector bidding me follow him, and leading the way upstairs to the bare room at the back whence I had broken out, those we left were deep in muttered plans and whisperings of the Marsh, and Hunt’s house, and Harrison’s Inn at Dimchurch, before we were out of hearing.
Smith’s first act, when we reached the room above, was to close the door upon us. This done, he set his candle on the floor — whence its flame threw dark wavering outlines of our figures on the ceiling — and moved to the hearth. Here, while I stared, wondering at his silence, he searched for some spring or handle, and finding it, caused a large piece of the wainscot to fall out and reveal a cavity about three feet deep and six long. He beckoned me to bring the candle and look in, and supposing it to be a secret way out, I did so. However, outlet there was none. The place was nothing more than a concealed cupboard.
THE PLACE WAS NOTHING MORE THAN A CONCEALED CUPBOARD
“Well?” he said, when he had moved the candle to and fro that I might see the better — his face the while wearing a smile that caught and held my gaze. “Well? what do you think of it, Mr. Taylor?”
I did not understand him, and I said so, trembling.
“It is a tolerable hiding-place?” said he.
I nodded; to please him I would have said it was a palace.
“And not a bad prison?”
I nodded again; staring at him, fascinated. I began to understand.
“And a grave?”
I shuddered. “What do you mean?” I muttered.
“Lay a man in there, bound hand and foot, and gagged; what would you find in a year’s time, Mr. Price? Not much.”
I stared at him.
“If they knew of that downstairs,” he continued, stopping to snuff the candle with his fingers, then looking askance at me, “would they use it, I wonder? Would they use it? What do you think, Mr. Price?”
Again I made no answer.
“Shall I tell them?” said he easily.
“What — what do you want?” I whispered hoarsely.
“That is better,” said he, nodding. “Well, to be candid, almost nothing. Two pledges. First, that you will give no evidence against anyone here. That of course.”
I muttered assent. I was ready to promise anything.
“And secondly, that you will, when I call upon you, do me a little favour, Mr. Price. It is a small matter, a trifle I asked you at my lady’s house three days back. Promise to do that for me, as and when I demand performance, and in ten minutes from this time you shall leave the house, safe, free, and unhurt.”
“I promise,” I said eagerly. “I promise honestly!”
But even while I spoke — this seemed to be the strangest of all the things that had happened to me that night, that this man should think it worth while to pledge me under such circumstances, or value at a groat a promise so given. For the pledge was a pledge to do ill, and as soon as he and the other conspirators were laid by the heels or had fled the country, what sanction remained to bind me? I saw that as I spoke, and promised — and promised. And would have promised fifty times — with the reservation that I did so under force majeure. Who would not have done the same, being in my place?
But I suppose I answered too quickly to please him, and so he read my thoughts, or he had it in his mind from the first to read me a lesson, for the words were scarcely out of my mouth before he slid his hand into his breast with the ugliest smile I ever saw on a man’s face; and he signed to me to get into the cupboard. “Get in,” he said, between his closed teeth; and then when, terrified by the change in him and the order, I began to back from it, “Get in!” he said, in a voice that set me shaking; “or take the consequences. Do you hear me? I am no Ferguson to threaten and no more.”
I dared resist no longer, and I crawled in, trembling and praying him not to shut me in — not to shut me in.
“Lie down!” he said, gloating on me with cruel eyes, and his hand still in his breast.
I lay down, praying for mercy.
“On your back! On your back!” he continued. “And your hands by your sides. So! That is better. Now listen to me, Mr. Price, and think on what I say. When you want to be laid out for good as you are laid out now, when you are ready for your coffin and shroud — and the worms — then break your promise to me, for coffin and shroud and worms will be ready. Think of that — think of that and of me when the temptation comes. And hark you, you fancy,” he went on, fixing his eyes on mine, “and you count on it, that I shall be taken with the others, or escaping shall be where you need not fear me. Don’t deceive yourself. If a week hence I am in prison, take that for a sign, and please yourself. But if I am free, obey, obey — or God help you!”
I know not how to describe with any approach to fidelity the peculiar effect which words apparently so simple had on me, or the terror, out of all proportion to the means chosen — for he spoke without oath, violence, or passion — into which they threw me, and which was very far from passing with the sound. I had feared Ferguson, but I feared this man more, a hundred times more! And yet I can give no reason, adduce no explanation, save that he spoke quietly, and so seemed to mean all and something beyond what he said. The plans for deceiving him and breaking my word which I had entertained a moment before melted into thinnest air while I lay and sweated in my narrow berth, not daring to move eye or limb until he gave me leave.
And he, as if he knew how fear of him grew on me under his gaze — or in sheer cruelty, I know not which — kept me there, and sat smiling and smiling at me (as the devil may smile at some dead man passed beyond redemption) — kept me there God knows how long. But so long, and to such purpose, that when at length he bade me rise, and looking closely into my face, nodded, and told me I might go — nay, later than that, when he had led me downstairs and opened the door for me, and supported me through it — for in the cold air I staggered like a drunken man — even then, I say, so heavy was the spell of fear laid on me, and such his power, I dared not move or stir until he had twice — smiling the second time — bidden me go. “Go, man,” said he, “you are free. But remember!”
CHAPTER XXX
Few men are condemned to such an ordeal as that through which I had passed; and though some who read this, and are as remote from death as the wife, that may be any day, and must be one day, is from the young bachelor — though some, I say, and in particular those who never saw blade drawn in anger in their lives, but have done all their fighting in the cock-pit, may think that I carried it poorly in the circumstances, and with none of the front and bravado suitable to the occasion, I would have them remember the old saying, Ne sutor supra crepidam, and ask of a scholar only a scholar’s work. I would have them remember that in the shadow of the scaffold, even a man so gallant by repute as the Lord Preston of that day, stooped to be an evidence; and that in the same situation the family pride of Richard Hampden availed as little as the reckless courage of Monmouth, or the effrontery of Sir John Fenwick, to raise its owner above the common level.
Simpliciter, it is one thing to vapour at the Cocoa-tree among wits and beaux, and another to take the hazard when the time comes, as no less a person than my Lord Bolingbroke discovered, and that no farther back than ‘14. I would have large talkers to remember this. For myself I am content that I came through the trial with my life; and yet, not with so much of that either, that anything surer than instinct guided my steps when all was over to the Duke’s home in St. James’s Square, where arriving, speechless and helpless, it was wonderful I was not put to the door without more. Fortunately, my lord, marvelling at my failure to return before, and mindful, even in the turmoil of that evening, of the service I had done him in the day, had given orders in my behalf; and on my arrival I was recognised, half dead as I was, and taken to the steward’s room, and being let blood by a surgeon who was hastily called in, was put to bed, all who saw me supposing that I was suffering from vertigo, or some inj
ury, though no marks of blows on the head could be discovered.
That was a night long remembered in London. Messengers with lights, attended by files of soldiers, were every hour passing through the streets, searching houses and arresting the suspected. From mouth to mouth rumours of the conspiracy flew abroad; at nine o’clock it was stated, and generally believed, that the King was wounded; at ten that he had been seized; later that he was dead. Early in the evening the draw-bridge at the Tower was drawn, and the sentries were doubled; the City gates were closed and guarded; a whole battalion stood all night under arms at Kensington; the Council was in perpetual sitting; many houses were lighted from eve to dawn; nor since the great panic of Beachy Head in ‘90 had there been an alarm so deep or widespread.
If this was so in the city generally, at the Secretary’s residence, whither many of the prisoners were brought for examination as soon as they were taken, the excitement was at its height. The Square outside, then unenclosed, was occupied all night by successive groups of sight-seers, or of persons more nearly interested in the event. One consequence of this was that, with all this astir without, my case attracted the less notice within; and, unheeded and almost forgotten — which, perhaps, was the better for me — I was left in peace to sleep off the shock and fright I had experienced, of which the severity may be gauged by the fact that the afternoon of the next day was well advanced before I awoke, and finding myself in bed in a strange room, with cold broth and a little wine standing on a stool at my elbow, sat up, and looked round me in amazement. The steep slope of the ceiling towards the window, and the heavy flattened eaves which projected over the latter, soon apprised me that I lay under the leads of a great house; but this was the extent of my knowledge. However, my stomach presently called for food, and I took it; and my head ceasing to swim, I began to recall what had happened to me; and rising, and going to the window, I recognised the great and fashionable Square on which my window looked. At that and the thoughts of what I had gone through, and the danger I had escaped, I fell to quaking again, and for a moment the dizziness returned. But presently, the cheerful aspect of the room much aiding me, I recovered myself, and dressing, and finishing the food, I prepared to descend.
No need to say that I wondered much at all I saw, and particularly at the handsome and stately proportions of the staircase, which I descended without seeing any person until I reached the landing on the first floor. Here, looking timidly over the balustrade, I discovered that the buzz and hum of voices which I had heard as soon as I opened my door, came from the hall below, which appeared to be paved with heads. First and nearest to where I stood were clustered on the lower steps of the staircase a number of persons whom I took to be servants, and who, standing as if in the boxes of a theatre, were taken up with staring at what went on on the floor below them, and particularly at a row of eight or nine men, who seated on chairs along one side of the hall, seemed to be in the charge of a messenger and some tipstaves, and to be prisoners awaiting examination. Between these last and the stairs occupying the floor of the hall, and both moving and standing still, were a crowd of persons of condition, the greater part, to all appearance, clients of the Duke, or officers and persons who, having the entrée, had stepped in out of curiosity to see the sight.
However, I had no eyes for these, for with a beating heart I recognised among the dejected prisoners seated along the wall, four whom I knew. King, Keyes, Cassel, and Ferguson himself, and I had anything but a mind to stay to be recognised in my turn. I was in the act of withdrawing, therefore, as quietly as I could, when I saw with a kind of shock that the prisoner at the end of the row, the one nearest to me and farthest from the door, was a girl. It scarcely needed a second glance to tell me that the girl was Mary. The light at that inner extremity of the hall was waning, and her face, always pale and now in shadow, wore an aspect of grey and weary depression that, natural as it was under the circumstances, went to my heart, and impressed me deeply in proportion as I had always found her hard and self-reliant. But moved as I was, I dared not linger, since to linger might be to be observed. With a light foot, therefore, I carried out my first intention, and drawing back undiscovered, sneaked up the staircase to my room.
My clue in the circumstances was clear. Plainly it was to lie close and keep quiet and shun observation until the crisis was passed; then by every means in my power — saving always the becoming an evidence in court, which was too dangerous — to deserve the Duke’s favour; and as to the pledge I had given to Smith, to be guided by the future.
Such a line of conduct was immensely favoured by the illness to which I had so fortunately succumbed. Once back in my bed, I had only to lie there, and affect weakness; and in a day or two I might hope that things would be so far advanced that my share in them and knowledge of them would go for little, and I, on the ground of the personal service I had done his Grace, might keep his favour — yet run no risk.
In fact nothing could seem more simple than such a line of conduct; on which, the western daylight that still lingered in the room, giving my retreat a most cheerful aspect, I felt that I had every reason to hug myself. After the miseries and dangers of the past week I was indeed well off. Here, in the remote top floor of my lord’s great house in the Square, I was as safe as I could be anywhere in the world, and I knew it.
But so contrary is human nature, and so little subject to the dictations of the soundest sense, that I had not lain in my bed five minutes, congratulating myself on my safety, before the girl, and the wretchedness I had read in her face, began to trouble me. It was not to be denied that she had gone some way towards saving my life — if she had not actually saved it; and I had a kind of feeling for her on that account. True, things were greatly altered since we had agreed to go to Romford together, et nuptias facere; I had got no patron then, nor such prospects as I now had, these troubles once overpast. But for all that, it troubled me to think of her as I had seen her, pale and downcast; and by-and-by I found myself again at the door of my room with my hand on the latch. Thence I went back, shivering and ashamed, and calling myself and doubtless rightly a fool; and tried, by watching the crowd in the Square — but timidly, since even at that height I fancied I might be recognised — to divert my thoughts. With so little success in the end, however, that presently I was stealing down the stairs again.
I knew that it was impossible I could pass down the main staircase and through the servants unobserved, but I took it that in such a house there must be a backstairs; and coming to the first floor I turned craftily down the main corridor leading into the heart of the house, and pretty quickly found that staircase — which was as good as dark — and crept down it still meeting no one; a thing that surprised me until I stood in the long passage on the ground floor corresponding with the corridor above, and found that the door, which from its position should cut it off from the front hall, was fastened. Tantalised by the murmur of voices in the hall, and my proximity, I tried the lock twice; but the second effort only confirming the result of the first, I was letting down the latch as softly as I could, hoping that I should not be detected, when the door was sharply flung open in my face, all the noise and heat of the hall burst on me, and in the opening appeared a stout angry man, who glared at me as if he would eat me.
“What are you doing here?” he cried, “when twice I have told you — —” There he stopped, seeing who it was, and “Hallo!” he continued in a different and more civil tone, “it is you, is it? Are you better?”
Afterwards I learned that he was Mr. Martin, my lord’s house-steward, but at the time I knew him only for someone in authority; and I muttered an excuse. “Well, come through, now you are here,” he continued sharply. “But the orders are strict that this door be kept locked while this business is going. You can see as well, or better, from the stairs. There, those are the men. And a rare set of Frenchified devils they look! Charnock is in with my lord now, and I hope he may not blow him up with gunpowder or some fiendish trick.”
H
e had scarcely told me when, a stir in the body of the hall announcing a new arrival, a cry was raised of “Room for my Lord Marlborough and my Lord Godolphin!” and the press falling to either side out of respect, I had a glimpse of two gentlemen in the act of entering; one, a stout and very noble-looking man of florid complexion, the other stout also and personable, but a trifle smug and solemn. The steward had no sooner heard their names announced, than in a great fluster he bade me keep the door a minute; and pushing himself into the throng, he went with immense importance to receive them.
So by a strange piece of luck at the moment that the check of his presence was withdrawn, I found myself standing within three feet of the girl, whose seat was close to the door; moreover, the movement, by thrusting those who had before occupied the floor back upon the line of prisoners, had walled us in, as it were, from observation. Under these circumstances our eyes met, and I looked for a flush of joy and surprise, a cry of recognition at least; but though Mary started, and for an instant stared at me wide-eyed, her gaze fell the next moment, and muttering something inaudible, she let her chin sink back on her breast.
I did not remember that she, supposing I had informed, and ignorant of the scene which had bound me to the Duke of Shrewsbury, would see nothing surprising in my presence in his house, and more deeply wounded than I can now believe possible by her demeanour, I bent over her.
“Don’t you know me?” I whispered. “Mary!”
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 280
