The King's Highway Part 43

"You are right, you are right, sir," he said; "and then, I hear Byerly's voice speaking to the old woman."

But before he could proceed to put Lord Sherbrooke's suggestion in execution, Byerly was in the room, holding up a large leathern bag, and exclaiming, "Here it is! here it is!"

"Alas!" said Caroline--"I fear dangerously obtained."

"Not in the least, madam," replied Byerly: "if the man dies, let it be remarked, he dies of fright, and nothing else; not a finger has been laid, in the way of violence, upon his person; but he would have given up anything to any one who asked him. We made him promise and vow that he would ride back to the town he came from; and tying his feet under his horse's belly, we sent him off as hard as he could go.

I, indeed, kept at a distance watching all, but the others gave me the bag as soon as it was obtained, and then scattered over the moor, every man his own way. I am back to London with all speed, and not a point of this will be ever known."

"Come hither, then, come hither, Byerly," said Green, leading him away; "we must see the contents of the bag, take what we want, and dispose of the rest. You had better come with me too, sir," he added, addressing Lord Sherbrooke; "for as good Don Quixote would have said, 'The adventure is yours, and it is now happily achieved.'"

Thus saying, the three left the room together, and were absent for nearly half an hour.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

It was evident to Wilton, that whatever was the enterprise in which Lord Sherbrooke and Green were engaged, it was one which, without absolutely wanting confidence in him, they were anxious to conceal from his knowledge; and, to say truth, he was by no means sorry that such should be the case.

He knew Lord Sherbrooke too well to hope that any remonstrance would affect him, and he was therefore glad not to be made a partaker of any secret regarding transactions which he believed to be dangerous, and yet could not prevent. In regard to Green too, there were particular feelings in his bosom which made him anxious to avoid any further knowledge of that most hazardous course of life in which he was evidently engaged; for he could not shut his eyes to what that course of life really was. Although, as we have already said, at that period the resource of the King's Highway had been adopted by very different people from those who even ten or twenty years afterwards trafficked thereon: though many a man of high education, gallant courage, and polished manners, ay, even of high birth, cast from his station by the changes and misfortunes of the day--like parts of a fine building thrown down by an earthquake, and turned to viler purposes--sought the midnight road as their only means of support: nay, though there were even some names afterwards restored to the peerage, which are supposed to have been well known amongst the august body of traffickers in powder and lead: yet Wilton could not but feel grieved that any one in whom he felt an interest should be tempted or driven to such an expedient, and at all events, he thought that the less he knew upon the subject the better.

That, however, which struck him as the most strange, was to find two beings such as those who were now left alone with him, graceful, beautiful, gentle, high-toned in manners, distinguished in appearance, fitted to mingle with the highest society, and adorn the highest rank, cognizant of, if not taking part in, things so dangerous and reprehensible.

A momentary silence ensued when he was left alone with the two ladies, and the first words that he spoke evidently showed to the Lady Helen what was pa.s.sing in Wilton's mind. She looked at him for a moment with a grave smile, and after she had herself alluded more directly to the subject, he expressed plainly the regret that he felt at what he witnessed.

"I regret likewise, my dear boy," she said, "much that has gone before, nay, almost everything that has taken place in the conduct of him you speak of for many years past. I regret it all deeply, and regret it far more than I do the present transaction. You will think it strange, but I see not well how this was to be avoided. Not that I believe," she added, thoughtfully, "that we ought to frustrate bad men by bad means; but nevertheless, Wilton, here was a very great and high object to be attained: utter destruction to all our hopes would have been the consequence of missing that object; and there was but one way of securing it. This is to be the last enterprise of the kind ever undertaken; and it was that very fact which made me so fearful, for I know how treacherously fate deals with us in regard to any rash or evil acts. How very often do we see that the last time--the very last time--men who have long gone on with impunity, are to commit anything that is wrong, punishment and discovery overtake them, and vengeance steps in before reformation."

Wilton did not, of course, press the subject, as it was one, in regard to which he would have been forced to converse on abstract principles, while the others spoke from particular knowledge. Nor was his mind attuned at that moment to much conversation of any kind, nor to any thoughts but those of his own grief.

The conversation lingered then till Green and Lord Sherbrooke returned. Captain Byerly was now no longer with them, and not another word was said of the transactions of that night. Green relapsed into gloomy silence, and very shortly after, the two ladies retired to rest.

The moment they were gone, Lord Sherbrooke grasped Wilton's hand, saying, "What is the matter, Wilton? You are evidently ill at ease."

Wilton smiled.

"You give me none of your confidence, Sherbrooke," he said, "and yet you demand mine. However, I will tell you in one word what I might well have expected has occurred. An explanation has taken place between the Duke and myself, and that bright vision has faded away."

"Indeed!" said Lord Sherbrooke, thoughtfully. "Have you, too, met with a reverse, Wilton? I thought that you were one of the exempt, that everything was to smile upon you, that prosperity was to attend your footsteps even to the close of life. But fear not, fear not, Wilton--this is only a momentary frown of the capricious G.o.ddess. She will smile again, and all be bright. It is not in your fate to be unfortunate!"

"Nay, nay, Sherbrooke, this is cruel jesting," said Wilton. "Surely my lot is no very enviable one."

"It is one of those that mend, Wilton," replied Sherbrooke, sadly. "I live but to lose."

He spoke with a tone of deep and bitter melancholy; and Green, who had hitherto scarcely uttered a word, chimed in with feelings of as sad a kind; adding, as an observation upon what Lord Sherbrooke had said, "Who is there that lives past twenty that may not say the same?

Who is there that does not live to lose?--First goes by youth, down into that deep, deep sea, which gives us back none of all the treasures that it swallows up. Youth goes down and innocence goes with it, and peace is then drowned too. Some sweet and happy feelings that belonged to youth, like the strong swimmers from some shipwrecked bark, struggle a while upon the surface, but are engulfed at last.

Strength, vigour, power of enjoyment, disappear one by one. Hope, buoyant hope, s.n.a.t.c.hing at straws to keep herself afloat, sinks also in the end. Then life itself goes down, and the broad sea of events, which has just swallowed up another argosy, flows on, as if no such thing had been; and myriads cross and re-cross on the same voyage the spot where others perished scarce a day before. It is all loss, nothing but loss," and he again fell into a fit of bitter musing.

"Come, Wilton," said Lord Sherbrooke, after a moment's thought, "I will show you a room where you can sleep. These are but melancholy subjects, and your fancies are grave enough already. They will be brighter soon--fear not, Wilton, they will be brighter soon."

"I know not what should brighten them," replied Wilton. "But I will willingly go and seek sleep for an hour or two, as I must depart by daylight to-morrow. In the meanwhile, Sherbrooke, I will ask you to let me write a brief note to the Duke, and trust to you to send it as early as may be; for to say the truth, in the bitter disappointment I have met with, and the harsh language which he used towards me, I forgot altogether to mention what you told me this morning."

The materials for writing were soon furnished, although Lord Sherbrooke declared, that were he in Wilton's situation, he would let the proud peer take his own course, as he had shown himself so ungrateful for previous services.

Wilton, however, only replied, "He is Laura's father, Sherbrooke,"

and the note was accordingly written.

"It shall be delivered early," said Lord Sherbrooke, as soon as it was ready. "Give it to me, Wilton; and now let us go."

Ere he quitted the room, however, Wilton turned to Green, and held out his hand, saying, "I am grieved to see you so sad. Can I by no means aid you or give you comfort?"

Green grasped his hand eagerly and tightly in his own, and replied, "No, my boy, no; nothing can give me comfort. I have done that which calmly and deliberately I would do again to-morrow, were I so called upon, and which yet, in the doing it, has deprived my mind of peace.

There may be yet one ray of comfort reach me, and it will reach me from you, Wilton; but it may be that you may wish to speak with me from time to time; if so, you will hear of me here, for I go no more to London. I have seen b.l.o.o.d.y heads and human quarters enow. Seek me here; and if you want anything, ask me: for though powerless to cure the bitterness of my own heart, I have more power to serve others than ever I had."

"I have tried more than once in vain to see you," replied Wilton; "not that I wanted anything, but that I was anxious to hear tidings of you, and to thank you for what you had already done. I will now, however, bid you good night, and trust that time, at least, may prove an alleviation of your burdens as well as those of others."

Green shook his head with a look of utter despondency, and Wilton quitted him, seeing that further words were vain. Lord Sherbrooke then conducted him to a small neat room, and left him to lie down to rest, saying--

"I know not, Wilton, whether I can conquer my bad habits so much as to be up before you go. If not, I may not see you for many days, for I have leave of absence," he added, with one of his light laughs, "from my most honoured and respected parent. Should you need me, you will find me here; and I would fain have you tell me if anything of import befals you. I shall hear, however--I shall hear."

Thus saying, he left him, and at an early hour on the following day Wilton was on his way homeward. He reached London before the time at which it was usual for him to present himself at the house of Lord Byerdale; but when, after pulling off his riding dress, he went thither, he found that the Earl had already gone to Whitehall, and consequently he followed him to that place.

The statesman seemed not a little surprised to see him, and instantly questioned him in regard to his interview with the Duke. That interview was soon told by Wilton, who loved not to dwell upon the particulars, and consequently related the whole as briefly as possible.

He told enough, however, to move the Earl a good deal, but in a different manner from what might have been expected. Once or twice he coloured and frowned heavily, and then laughed loud and bitterly.

"His pride is almost more absurd than I had fancied, Wilton," he said, at length; "but to tell you the truth, I have in some degree foreseen all this, though not quite to this extent. If he had willingly consented to your marriage with his daughter, he might have saved himself, perhaps, some pain, for he must consent in the end, and it would not surprise me some day to see him suing you to the alliance that he now refuses you. His grace is certainly a very great and haughty peer, but nevertheless he may some day find you quite a fitting match for his daughter."

"I trust it may be so, my lord," replied Wilton; "but yet I see not very well how it can be so."

"You will see, you will see, Wilton," replied Lord Byerdale: "it matters not at present to talk of it. But now sit down and write me a letter to the Lord Lieutenant of Hampshire, telling him that I must beg he and the Sheriff would take prompt measures for restoring peace and security in the county. Let him know that one of the government couriers was stopped and plundered on the road last night. Luckily the bag of despatches has been found upon the highway unopened, but still the act was a most daring one. The same sort of thing has been of frequent occurrence in that county: it is evident that a large troop of these gentry of the road make that part of the world their field, and we must put a stop to it."

Wilton sat down and did as he was bid, feeling, it is true, that he could give a good deal more information upon the subject than the Earl possessed, if he thought fit to do so. This, of course, he did not choose to do; and after the letter to the Lord Lieutenant was written, the Earl allowed him to depart, saying--"Our business is somewhat light to-day, Wilton; but do not be the least afraid on account of this fair lady. The Duke's foolish pride will come down when he hears more."

Wilton departed, in a meditative mood; for notwithstanding every a.s.surance given him, he could not but feel apprehensive, sad, and despondent. He might ask himself, in deed--for the Earl's words naturally led to such a mistaken question--"Who, then, am I? Who is it they would have me believe myself, that so proud a man should seek the alliance which he now scorns, as soon as he knows who I am?" But there seemed to him a sort of mockery in the very idea, which made him cast it from him as a vain delusion.

Though freed from ordinary business, and at liberty to go where he liked, with a thousand refined tastes which he was accustomed to gratify in his own dwelling, yet Wilton felt not the slightest inclination to turn his steps homeward on the present occasion.

Music, he knew full well, was by no means calculated to soothe his mind under the first effects of bitter disappointment. Had it been but the disappointment of seeing Laura at the time he expected to do so--had circ.u.mstances compelled him to be absent from her for a week or a month longer than he had expected--had the bright dreams which he always conjured up of pleasant hours and happy days, and warm smiles and sweet words, when he proposed to go down to Somersbury, been left unrealized by the interposition of some unexpected event--the disappointment would certainly have been great; but nevertheless he might have then found a pleasure, a consolation in music, in singing the songs, in playing the airs, of which Laura was fond; in calling up from memory the joys that were denied to hope, which can never so well be done, so powerfully, as by the magic voice of song.

But now all was uncertain: his heart was too full of despondency and grief to find relief by re-awakening even the brightest memories of the past: he could not gaze upon the days gone by, like the painter or the poet looking upon some beautiful landscape, for his situation he felt to be that rather of some unhappy exile looking back upon a bright land that he loved, when quitting it, perhaps never to return.

Neither could books afford him relief; for his own sorrowful feelings were now too actively present to suffer him to rove with the gay imagination of others, or to meditate on abstracted subjects with the thoughtful and the grave.

To fly from the crowds that at that time thronged the streets--to seek solitary thought--to wander on, changing his place continually--to suffer and give way to all the many strange and confused ideas and feelings of grief, and disappointment, and bitterness of heart, and burning indignation, at ill-merited scorn, and surprise and curiosity in regard to the hopes that were held out to him, and despairing rejection of those hopes, even while the voice of the never-dying prophetess of blessings was whispering in his heart that those very hopes might be true--was all that Wilton could do at that moment.

The country, however, was sooner reached in those days than it is at present; and after leaving Whitehall, he was in a few minutes in the sweet fields, with their shady rows of tall elms, which lay to the westward of St. James's-street. Here he wandered on, musing, as we have said, for several hours, with his arms crossed upon his chest, and his eyes scanning the ground. At length he turned his steps homeward, thinking that it was a weakness thus to give way; but still as he went, the same feelings and the same thoughts pursued him; and that black care, which in the days of the Latin poet sat behind the horseman, was his companion, also, by the way.

On reaching his lodgings, the door was opened by the servant of the house, and he was pa.s.sing on, but the girl stopped him, saying--"There is a lady, sir, up stairs, who has been waiting for you near an hour."

"A lady!" exclaimed Wilton, with no slight surprise; for though such a visit in those days might have pa.s.sed without scandal, he knew no one who was likely to call upon him, unless, indeed, it were the Lady Helen Oswald, whose interest in him seemed to be of such a kind as might well produce a visit upon any extraordinary occasion.