The King's Men: A Tale of To-morrow by Nathan Schachner
CHAPTER VI.
THE ROYALISTS.
It was a clear, cold night as the two strangely dissimilar friends,Dacre and Geoffrey, emerged from the shadow of Ripon Wood and stood fora moment on the cliff path looking down at the unquiet sea, which wasstill heaving and breaking from the force of the day's storm. From thehorizon before them the full moon had risen about two hand-breadths, andthe sky was all barred and broken with torn clouds moving rapidly,behind which the moonlight filled the sky. The white light fell on theblack sea like spilled silver, and made a glittering road across thewaves.
Dacre advanced to the very edge of the cliff and stood with folded arms,looking into the night as if it were a face or scroll to be read. Butthe eye, in truth, saw not, though the thoughtless sense perceived theshifting clouds and tossing sea. The vision was introspective wholly. Itwas turned on a wide inner field, where stood arrayed, like an order ofbattle, a strange array of Principles and Methods and Men.
Dacre was at work--at the work he loved and lived for. The enthusiast,like a general, was reviewing his spiritual and mental troops--proudlyglancing along the lines before he removed the screen and calledanother eye to behold. He had drawn them up, with their banners, to fillGeoffrey, at once, with his own confidence and knowledge--for it _was_knowledge and certitude, not opinion or fantasy, that filled him.
John Dacre was a magnificent dreamer, and he saw and lived amongmagnificent visions. The spirit that had evoked Royalty and Aristocracyand made them a potent reality for twenty centuries burned in him aspurely as in the old poet's picture of King Arthur.
No wrong that is all wrong can live for two thousand years and bind thenecks of men. Royalty was the first wave of the rising tide of humanity;Aristocracy was the second. Both were necessary--perhaps natural. Butthe waves fall back and are merged when the risen sea itself laps thefeet of the precipice.
It is hard to describe Dacre's face at this supreme moment, except bysaying that it was visibly lighted with an inner light. Standing in themoonlight, with his pale features made paler, the shadows of the facedarker, and his tall form straight and moveless as a statue, from theintensity of his thought, he almost startled the more prosaic Geoffrey,who had lingered to light a cigar before coming out on the breezy cliffpath.
"Hey! old fellow; what do you see?" Geoffrey asked as he came up.
But he had to speak again, laying his hand on Dacre's shoulder before hegot an answer, though Dacre had noted the question, as his answer showedwhen it came.
"See! I see a glorious panorama," and he turned and looked at Geoffrey,still with arms folded. "I have seen the history of our countrystretched out like a map upon the sea. I saw thereon all those thingswhich have made England famous forever among the nations--the kings, thenobles and the people, advancing like a host from the darkness to thelight."
"Yes, to the light of other days. But you know that has faded," saidGeoffrey, as he buttoned his overcoat and pulled down his hat.
"No; not the light of other days, but the light of to-morrow, whichnever fades."
"Well, then, I don't understand you, old man; that is all," saidGeoffrey, contentedly, as he paced along, casting a satisfied,thoughtless glance at the shimmering waves below, in some such naturalway as a sea-bird flying overhead might have done.
Geoffrey was of a placid and easy, perhaps lazy, disposition; but hisplacidity rested like the ice of a mountain lake on deep and dangerouswater. It was hard to ruffle him or even to move him; but when moved hewas apt not to return to the position he had left, nor to be quitenatural to the new position.
"How far away is your house?" asked Dacre.
"Not far; there, you see the light over there. Old Reynolds is sittingup for me and keeping the kettle going. He sticks by me through thickand thin. I have tried to make him take a better place, but he will notgo."
Dacre was silent, and they walked on, descending from the cliffs andfollowing a path across the wide lawn-like fields, darkened by enormousheaps of shadow from scattered chestnut trees.
An hour before the young men crossed these fields another figure, awoman's, had travelled the same path. She was wrapped in a dark cloak,and though she had lingered and loitered on the cliff-walk, she hurriedon the lower ground till she arrived near Geoffrey's lodge.
The speed with which she had walked proved that the woman was young, andwhen the strong wind tightened the light cloak on the outline of hertall figure, it could be seen, even in the moonlight, that she waslissome and beautiful.
She had, on leaving the cliff path, steered straight for the light inGeoffrey's house; but when she approached it she walked slowly, and atlast stopped in the deep shade of a tree within fifty feet of the lodge.From this position she could look into Geoffrey's sitting-room, where afire burned brightly and a light stood in the window facing the cliff.
"I shall wait here," she said, speaking to herself, as if to giveherself courage by the whisper; "no one has seen me--no one but he shallever know."
But the next moment she almost screamed with terror at a sound behindher. A bramble cracked, and she saw a man within a few yards of her. Shewas terribly frightened, and could not speak or move.
It was old Reynolds, Geoffrey's servant, who had seen her on the cliffwalk, and had taken a night glass, with which his master often watchedthe ships, to see if this were not he returning from the house. Seeing awoman, Reynolds was surprised, for the cliff walk was lonely and not toosafe. He was still more surprised to see her turn into the path to thelodge, and he had not lost sight of her for a moment till she stoppedunder the tree.
When she turned, even in her terror, she assumed a defiant attitude, andshe held it still, facing the man.
Reynolds instinctively knew she was a lady, and with a touch of hishat, but a doubting sternness in his voice, he said:
"Who are you, please, and what do you want here at this hour of thenight--or morning?"
She was reassured, knowing the voice to be that of a common man, and asquickly judging him to be Geoffrey's servant.
"I am an old friend of Lord Brompton's family," she said, steadilyenough; "and as I return to London to-morrow, I have walked hereto-night just to see where the head of a grand old line is forced toreside."
Reynolds was touched on his tender spot. The sternness left his voice,and with bare head he said sadly:
"Ay, ma'am, in truth it is a sad sight to see the Lord of Ripon livingin the cottage that was once the home of his groom--for my father keptthe gate here for forty years."
"Lord Brompton has not yet come home?" asked Mrs. Carey, for it was she,though she knew he had not.
"No, ma'am; he hasn't yet come out on the cliff walk. I can see him withthis glass--as I saw you," he added, explaining his presence.
Mrs. Carey gave a grim little smile in the dark.
"You would like to see the lodge, perhaps, ma'am, inside as well asout?"
"Yes; I should like it very much; but I ought not to venture now. LordBrompton might return, and I should not wish him to know I had been herefor the world. I am overjoyed to know that he has at least one friendwho is faithful to him," and she held out her white hand to the old man.
She said this so graciously that old Reynolds was carried off his feet.This fine patronage sent him back to his young manhood, when he waswhipper-in to the old Earl's foxhounds, and heard such voices and sawsuch upright ladies in the hunting-field.
"Come in, my lady," he said, glancing at the cliff path; "he cannotreach here under half an hour. You can see all there is to be seen ofthe poor place in a few minutes."
The old man led, and she followed toward the lodge.
"Have a care of the steps, my lady; they are the worse for wear."
He entered before her, and threw open the door of the main room. Theplace was made cheery and comfortable by a blazing wood-fire on thegreat iron dogs, and a round copper kettle singing and steaming on oneside of the hearth.
The lady entered and stood by the table, glancing keenly at everyfeatur
"We do not use this door," he said, "for the boards out there are tooold to be safe."
Mrs. Carey went to the door, the upper part of which had once containedsquares of glass, but was now vacant, and saw that it opened on a shorthall-way about four feet deep, with an outer door, also half of glass,which was closed. Through this door-window the old man had looked towardthe cliff. Outside was an old piazza, deeply shadowed by overhangingtrees.
When Mrs. Carey returned to the table, her eye rested on a photograph onthe top of a heap of old letters. She reached her hand for it; buthesitated, glancing at the servant.
"May I look at this?" she asked, with a sweet smile; "I know almost allLord Brompton's friends;" and she took up the photograph.
One glance was enough; it was a woman's face, but only some passingwoman, whom no one could remember for a month. With a slight smile, shelaid it down.
There was nothing more to be gathered, except by closer investigation ofthe tempting irregularity. She beamed on the old man as she turned togo.
"You will meet his lordship on your way to the house," he said. "He willcome by the cliff path."
"Oh, no; I shall return by the lower walk, which is safer and shorter.What is your name?"
"Reynolds, my lady."
"Good-night, Reynolds; and please do not mention my visit to any one."
"Except to his lordship--"
"No; not even to him, Reynolds. It would only pain him to know that hisfriends were observing his changed estate. You understand?"
"I do, my lady, but--"
"But, Reynolds, I ask you to do this for my sake," and again the smilebeamed, the white hand was extended, and the subtle seductiveness ofbeauty had its way once more. Men are never so old, so humble, or soignorant as to be insensible to the charm. Faithful old Reynolds tookthe lovely soft hand in both of his, and bent his white head and kissedit.
"Even he shall not know," he said; and the next moment she wasgone--this time not across the moonlit field path to the cliff, but intothe dark shadows of the woods on the other side of the lodge.
Reynolds watched her till she was lost in the gloom, and then returnedto the lodge, closed the door, and started toward the cliff walk. Theold man was strangely excited over this first visit of his master to"his own house," and he could not rest till he had seen the end of it.
But, before he had crossed the first field leading to the cliffs hismysterious visitor had returned to the lodge. She had changed her mindas she walked toward Ripon House, had resolved to see Geoffrey thatnight, let old Reynolds learn what he might, and she had returned.
She called Reynolds in a low voice once or twice; then she opened thedoor and entered the lodge. The place was empty. She went to the sidedoor of Geoffrey's sitting-room through the little hallway and steppedout on the disused piazza, and from there she saw the old servant on hisway to the cliffs.
She was about to follow him but she checked herself suddenly.
"No! this is unexpectedly fortunate. The fates are in my favor--so far,at least. Ah me! what will they say presently?"
Turning from the window in a softened mood, she looked at the room witha new look. She saw across the chair, which she knew was Geoffrey's, hisold shooting-jacket, and she took it in her hands with a tender feeling,hardly knowing what she did. Holding it within her arms she stood withlowered head and a dreamy look in her eyes. While in this mood herglance fell on the old sword which lay on the table, still with theslip of paper tied to the hilt. She took it up and read the scroll.
Holding the jacket and the sword, she sat in Geoffrey's chair and staredinto the fire, with a smile, as if half enjoying her own audacity.
In a few minutes she heard a footstep, and presently the old servantentered the outer room, which was the kitchen of the lodge. She satstill, waiting till she saw him enter and start at her appearance, andready to smile his impressionable old soul into quietude.
But the ancient Reynolds unconsciously avoided the danger. He remainedin the outer room, and she heard him clatter among dishes and throw twologs on the fire. Then he went off into another room and did not return.
Reynolds, seeing that his master had company, was busy preparing the one"spare room" of the lodge for a possible guest.
Mrs. Carey grew tired of waiting. She went to the piazza door, openedit, and looked out. Crossing the moonlit field she saw Geoffrey, and hewas not alone; but she did not recognize his companion. The beautifulface was anything but beautiful just then, and the exclamation thatescaped her was as fierce as the stamp of her foot on the bare floor.
The two men were so close to the house that she could not escape by thefront door, and she did not know any other way. Could she instantly findReynolds she would then have asked him to conceal her till she could getaway unseen. But Reynolds did not appear.
It was a terrible moment for Mrs. Carey. Discovery in such a place andat such a time was an appalling thought. Even with Geoffrey alone shewould hardly have known how to meet the first surprised glance; butwith another, and whom she knew not, the idea was intolerable,impossible.
The men came on slowly; she heard their voices as they passed near thewindow. Then she recognized Geoffrey's companion, and could she haveleaped from the piazza and fled, she would have done so.
Of all the men she knew, the only man she feared, or perhaps respected,was Sir John Dacre. She did not understand him, while he seemed to readher very soul. His presence robbed her of self-confidence, and made hercontemptibly conscious of her frivolity, or worse. He was like atouchstone to her--and she never cared to be tested.
As the outer door opened and Geoffrey and Dacre entered the kitchen ofthe lodge, Mrs. Oswald Carey stepped into the little passage opening onthe veranda. She gently lifted the latch of the outer door, but kept thedoor closed. She carefully closed the inner door and crouched below theopening. If discovered by Geoffrey she would confess that fear ofDacre's presence had made her do this thing.
The conversation of the friends had been earnest, it was clear; andbefore they had been in the room five minutes Mrs. Carey's fears hadgiven way to her curiosity, and instead of shrinking from the door sheraised herself to a kneeling position, so as to be near the opening, andlistened with breathless attention.
"The truth is, Dacre," said Geoffrey, "that I am not sure of myself. Idon't know that I have any political principles whatever."
"This is not a question of politics, Ripon," answered Dacre, almoststernly; "it is a question, it is _the_ question of the reorganizationof the social life of England, which has been overturned and is indanger of being utterly destroyed."
"Well, even for that I am not particularly enlisted. It does not troubleme. Had you not told me about it, I should not have thought thatanything very serious was the matter with England, except that we of thetitled class have had a tumble and are as poor as the devil. But thensome other class has--"
"Stop, Ripon! It is unworthy of you to slight the dignity of England'snobility, however poor we may be."
"_We!_ Why, hang it, Dacre, do I not count myself in? And I do not speakslightingly. I fear I have no class, and therefore no prejudices. I wastoo young to be a conscious aristocrat before the Revolution, and now Iam too old to be a thorough Communist. But go on, Dacre, I know you havesomething to propose."
Even Dacre's enthusiasm cooled for a moment before the odd calmness ofGeoffrey, who was, as he himself surmised, a man almost without a classand undisturbed by the hopes, fears or prejudices of those who have one.
Dacre walked to and fro with folded arms, while Geoffrey, slipping intohis old jacket, which he had been rather surprised to find wrapped roundhis ancestor's sword, busied himself with the kettle and a bottle he hadtaken from a cupboard.
"Listen, Ripon--
"Hold on, hold on, mine ancient friend," said the preoccupied Geoffrey,pouring hot water on the sugar in two glasses; "there's nothing likeIrish whiskey when you're talking treason."
"Ah, Geoffrey," said Dacre, sadly, as the friends clinked their glasses,"men can live treason as well as talk it."
"Is that confession or reproach?"
"Reproach, Ripon. The life you live is daily treason to your country.You sit idly by while England descends from the heights of her renownand is clothed in the rags of the banditti who have obtained power overher."
"Banditti--who? The Republicans?"
"Republicans or Anarchists, whatever they be called; the blind andimmoral mob that has been misled by wretches to destroy theirmotherland."
"Look here, Dacre, do you really mean to say that Republicanism isimmoral and unnatural?"
"Certainly; that is just what I mean."
"But look at America--the happiest, richest, most orderly and yet themost populous country in the world."
"I speak of Republicanism in England, not in America."
"But where is the difference?" persisted Geoffrey. "If the universalsuffrage of the people be virtue in America, how can it be vice inEngland?"
"As the food of one life may be the poison of another," answered Dacre."Human society has many forms, and all may be good, but each must bespecially protected by its own public morality. England was reared intogreatness and flourished in greatness for twenty hundred years on oneunvarying order. America has developed under another order, a differentbut not a better one."
"That may be, but in less than two hundred years America has reached apoint of wealth, order and peace that England has never approached intwo thousand."
"America," continued Dacre, "had nothing to unlearn. Her people had noroyal traditions--we have no democratic ones."
"There is something in that," said Geoffrey.
"There is everything in it. The Americans are true to their past, whilewe are false to ours. We are trampling on the glorious name and fame ofour country. We are recreant to our position, intelligence, to ourfathers' memories--or we shall be if we do not--"
"Do not what?" asked Geoffrey, as Dacre paused.
"If we do not unite and have another revolution!" answered Dacre, slowlyand firmly.
There was a slight sound outside the room, which made Geoffrey raise hiseyes and glance toward the window; but Dacre, now aflame with hissubject, stood before him and arrested his look.
"Ripon, do you think that the nobles, the gentlemen of England, havelain down like submissive creatures to this atrocious revolt? Do youthink nothing has been done?"
"In Heaven's name, what can be done?" asked Geoffrey.
"What did the Anarchists do when they wanted power?" asked Dacrefiercely. "They banded together in secret. They swore to be true to eachother to the death. They armed and drilled and prepared their plans.They watched every avenue, and took advantage of every mistake of ours.They inflamed the masses against the Royal Family, the Court, the Houseof Peers, the landed aristocracy, and when their hour of opportunitycame they raised the cry of revolution, and the government was changedin a day."
"Well?"
"Well!--we have learned their lesson. What they did we shall do. Wehave banded ourselves together. What is that?"
A noise like a creaking door had struck Dacre's ear, and he stopped.Geoffrey had heard it, too, and instantly jumped up and walked into thekitchen. Reynolds was not there; but Geoffrey heard him at work inanother room. He returned smiling.
"Either an owl or a ghost, Dacre," he said, looking out on the field."There is not a soul but old Reynolds within two miles of this place."
Dacre continued to pace the room, and as he walked he said in a lowvoice:
"I have said too much, or not enough, Ripon. Shall I proceed?"
"By all means, proceed."
"But you understand--you see the consequence? You know enough to knowwhether or not you want to hear more."
Geoffrey was silent, and sat looking at the fire. He was moved byDacre's words; but he was not filled with any new resolution. At last heraised his eyes and was about to speak. Dacre was regarding himintently, and now came and bent toward him.
"Come with us, Ripon," he said earnestly, dropping each sentence slowly."We want you. You are needed. It is your duty."
"I am not sure, Dacre, about that," answered Geoffrey, looking at hisfriend.
Dacre drew back, with a flush on his pale face.
"I am not sure of that," continued Geoffrey, unheeding the movement;"but I am sure of you, John Dacre, and I am ready to take your word forit, even when you tell me what is my duty. I am sure that if thegentlemen of England are in a league of your founding, or of yourchoice, they are banded for no dishonor, but for some noble purpose; andif you want me I am ready."
Dacre's mouth quivered as he grasped the hand his friend held out tohim. Then he took another turn across the room.
"Now, go on with your talk," said Geoffrey. "If there is any oath,propose it."
"None for you," said Dacre.
"Thanks."
Dacre then unfolded the plan of the revolution which would restore theHouse of Hanover, the House of Peers, the titles, and all the old orderof aristocratic classification which nearly twenty years before Englandhad put behind her. He wanted to see Geoffrey an actual leader, knowingthe qualities of the man; and to show him the position clearly he laidthe whole scheme bare. It was a terrible enterprise, but on the wholenot so formidable as a score of revolutions that have succeeded inEurope since the end of the nineteenth century.
"You say you will begin with the army?" asked Geoffrey. "How manyregiments have you?"
"We have eleven colonels in England to-day," answered Dacre, "and six ofthese will be with their regiments at Aldershot on the day of therevolution."
"How are their men? Are the subalterns with them? and can they carry thesoldiers?"
"Many of the subalterns are not with them; but there are someexceptions. When the Royal banner is raised and the King proclaimed,depend on it the common people will respond."
"How many men of note will be at Aldershot on that day?" asked Geoffrey.
"Here is a rough plan of the rising and a list of the gentlemen, whichColonel Arundel has drawn up," said Dacre, and he took from an innerpocket a paper containing about forty names, which he handed toGeoffrey, who glanced at it rapidly, recognizing nearly all the names,though he knew few of their owners. Half a score of dukes and earls andmarquises headed the list, including old Bayswater and the unfortunateRoyal Duke who had chosen to remain in England in poverty rather thanshare the King's exile in America. Lower down on the list were the namesof simple gentlemen like Featherstone and Sydney.
While Geoffrey was looking at the scroll, Dacre had taken up the oldsword and read the faded inscription tied to the hilt. Geoffrey saw himand smiled, as he laid the list on the table.
"It is true, Dacre," he said, laying his hand affectionately on hisfriend's shoulder. "I thought of the words of that scroll to-night whenI saw you interested in that girl with the beautiful eyes, who satbeside you."
"Why think of these words?"
"Because she was a commoner's daughter, Dacre; but none the less a nobleEnglish girl, fit match for any aristocrat in Europe."
"Doubtless," answered Dacre, calmly, looking at the silver hilt of theold sword.
"You have met Miss Lincoln before to-day? Yes--Miss Windsor told me so."
"Yes; I have seen her several times at Arundel House."
"Her father is a good man, Dacre. How will he regard our revolution?"
"As we regarded his, no doubt--as a crime."
"God!" thought Geoffrey, pacing the floor, "how strange that two men sonoble as these should look upon each other as traitors and enemies!"
"Were it not for Richard Lincoln the Monarchy would have been restoredten years ago. He is a powerful supporter of his class," said Dacre,slowly.
"Dacre!" said G
Dacre leaned his chin on the old sword, and looked silently into thefire.
"What will you do with such men as he, should this revolution succeed?"continued Geoffrey. "They will never submit."
"They must," said Dacre, with compressed lips, "or--" The sentence wasleft unspoken.
Geoffrey saw it was no use to argue. He had cast in his lot with Dacre,and there could be no drawing back.
"Stay with me to-night," said Geoffrey, as his friend was buttoning hiscoat. "Reynolds has prepared a room for you."
"No; I must see Featherstone, who returns to London early to-morrow. Ishould like to see you later in the day. I shall come here, I think."
"Yes; it is quiet here. Well, let me walk with you as far as the end ofthe cliff."
And lighting their cigars the two men struck across the field, Geoffreyhaving ordered old Reynolds to go to bed.
Mrs. Oswald Carey waited till the old man had left the kitchen andretired. Then she came from her hiding-place and at one glance saw whatshe wanted--the list of conspirators, which Geoffrey had laid open onthe table. Her keen sense of hearing had followed this paper as if itwere visible to her eyes, and she knew that it had not been returned toDacre. With a firm hand she seized the document, and the next moment shehad left the room, closing the two doors behind her. She kept close tothe wall as she circled the lodge to the lower path, and then shestarted on a rapid walk for Ripon House.
As Geoffrey returned he was thinking of the list, and he looked for it,with something of alarm at its absence. When he realized that it wasgone he walked through the kitchen and called up Reynolds.
"Were you in the room since I went out?" he asked.
"No, my lord."
"Is there any one else in the house?"
"No, my lord."
"Has there been any one else here to-night?"
The old man hesitated before he answered this time.
"No, my lord; no one has been here."
Geoffrey had not the slightest reason to doubt the faithful old man, buthad asked the questions for reassurance. As he retired for the night, orrather morning, he said to himself that Dacre had no doubt taken thedocument, which was too precious and too dangerous to be left in anyother hands.