CHAPTER XXIV
The Escape
-
THE short winter day was nearly ended. The streets were
deserted, save for a few random stragglers, and these hurried straight
along, with the intent look of people who were only anxious to
accomplish their errands as quickly as possible and then snugly
house themselves from the rising wind and the gathering twilight. They
looked neither to the right nor to the left; they paid no attention to
our party, they did not even seem to see them. Edward the Sixth
wondered if the spectacle of a king on his way to jail had ever
encountered such marvelous indifference before. By and by the
constable arrived at a deserted market-square and proceeded to cross
it. When he had reached the middle of it, Hendon laid his hand upon
his arm, and said in a low voice:
'Bide a moment, good sir, there is none in hearing, and I would
say a word to thee.'
'My duty forbids it, sir; prithee, hinder me not, the night
comes on.'
'Stay, nevertheless, for the matter concerns thee nearly. Turn thy
back moment and seem not to see; let this poor lad escape.'
'This to me, sir! I arrest thee in-'
'Nay, be not too hasty. See thou be careful and commit no
foolish error'- then he shut his voice down to a whisper, and said
in the man's ear- 'the pig thou hast purchased for eightpence may cost
thee thy neck, man!'
The poor constable, taken by surprise, was speechless at first,
then found his tongue and fell to blustering and threatening; but
Hendon was tranquil, and waited with patience till his breath was
spent; then said:
'I have a liking to thee, friend, and would not willingly see thee
come to harm. Observe, I heard it all- every word. I will prove it
to thee.' Then he repeated the conversation which the officer and
the woman had had together in the hall, word for word, and ended with:
'There- have I set it forth correctly? Should not I be able to set
it forth correctly before the judge, if occasion required?'
The man was dumb with fear and distress for a moment; then he
rallied and said with forced lightness:
''Tis making a mighty matter indeed, out of a jest; I but
plagued the woman for mine amusement.'
'Kept you the woman's pig for amusement?'
The man answered sharply:
'Naught else, good sir- I tell thee 'twas but a jest.'
'I do begin to believe thee,' said Hendon, with a perplexing
mixture of mockery and half-conviction in his tone; 'tarry thou here a
moment whilst I run and ask his worship- for nathless, he being a
man experienced in law, in jests, in-'
He was moving away, still talking; the constable hesitated,
fidgeted, spat an oath or two, then cried out:
'Hold, hold, good sir- prithee, wait a little- the judge! why man,
he hath no more sympathy with a jest than hath a dead corpse!- come,
and we will speak further. Ods body! I seem to be in evil case- and
all for an innocent and thoughtless pleasantry. I am a man of
family; and my wife and little ones- List to reason, good your
worship; what wouldst thou of me?'
'Only that thou be blind and dumb and paralytic whilst one may
count a hundred thousand- counting slowly,' said Hendon, with the
expression of a man who asks but a reasonable favor, and that a very
little one.
'It is my destruction!' said the constable despairingly. 'Ah, be
reasonable, good sir; only look at this matter, on all its sides,
and see how mere a jest it is- how manifestly and how plainly it is
so. And even if one granted it were not a jest, it is a fault so small
that e'en the grimmest penalty it could call forth would be but a
rebuke and warning from the judge's lips.'
Hendon replied with a solemnity which chilled the air about him:
'This jest of thine hath a name in law- wot you what it is?'
'I knew it not! Peradventure I have been unwise. I never dreamed
it had a name- ah, sweet heaven, I thought it was original.'
'Yes, it hath a name. In the law this crime is called Non compos
mentis lex talionis sic transit gloria Mundi.'
'Ah, my God!'
'And the penalty is death!'
'God be merciful to me, a sinner!'
'By advantage taken of one in fault, in dire peril, and at thy
mercy, thou hast seized goods worth above thirteen pence ha'penny,
paying but a trifle for the same; and this, in the eye of the law,
is constructive barratry, misprision of treason, malfeasance in
office, ad hominem expurgatis in statu quo- and the penalty is death
by the halter, without ransom, commutation, or benefit of clergy.'
'Bear me up, bear me up, sweet sir, my legs do fail me! Be thou
merciful- spare me this doom, and I will turn my back and see naught
that shall happen.'
'Good! now thou'rt wise and reasonable. And thou'lt restore the
pig?'
'I will, I will, indeed- nor ever touch another, though heaven
send it and archangel fetch it. Go- I am blind for thy sake- I see
nothing. I will say thou didst break in and wrest the prisoner from my
hands by force. It is but a crazy, ancient door- I will batter it down
myself betwixt midnight and the morning.'
'Do it, good soul, no harm will come of it; the judge hath a
loving charity for this poor lad, and will shed no tears and break
no jailer's bones for his escape.'
CHAPTER_XXV
CHAPTER XXV
Hendon Hall
-
AS soon as Hendon and the king were out of sight of the constable,
his majesty was instructed to hurry to a certain place outside the
town, and wait there, whilst Hendon should go to the inn and settle
his account. Half an hour later the two friends were blithely
jogging eastward on Hendon's sorry steeds. The king was warm and
comfortable now, for he had cast his rags and clothed himself in the
second-hand suit which Hendon had bought on London Bridge.
Hendon wished to guard against over-fatiguing the boy; he judged
that hard journeys, irregular meals, and illiberal measures of sleep
would be bad for his crazed mind, while rest, regularity, and moderate
exercise would be pretty sure to hasten its cure; he longed to see the
stricken intellect made well again and its diseased visions driven out
of the tormented little head; therefore he resolved to move by easy
stages toward the home whence he had so long been banished, instead of
obeying the impulse of his impatience and hurrying along night and
day.
When he and the king had journeyed about ten miles, they reached a
considerable village, and halted there for the night, at a good inn.
The former relations were resumed; Hendon stood behind the king's
chair while he dined, and waited upon him; undressed him when he was
ready for bed; then took the floor for his own quarters, and slept
athwart the door, rolled up in a blanket.
The next day, and the next day after, they jogged lazily along
talking over the adventures they had met since their separation, and
mightily enjoying each other's narratives. Hendon detailed all his
wide wanderings in search of the king, and described how the archangel
had led him a fool's journey all over the forest, and taken him back
to the hut finally, when he found he could not get rid of him. Then-
he said- the old man went into the bed-chamber and came staggering
back looking broken-hearted, and saying he had expected to find that
the boy had returned and lain down in there to rest, but it was not
so. Hendon had waited at the hut all day; hope of the king's return
died out then, and he departed upon the quest again.
'And old Sanctum Sanctorum was truly sorry your Highness came
not back,' said Hendon; 'I saw it in his face.'
'Marry, I will never doubt that!' said the king- and then told his
own story; after which Hendon was sorry he had not destroyed the
archangel.
During the last day of the trip, Hendon's spirits were soaring.
His tongue ran constantly. He talked about his old father, and his
brother Arthur, and told of many things which illustrated their high
and generous characters; he went into loving frenzies over his
Edith, and was so glad-hearted that he was even able to say some
gentle and brotherly things about Hugh. He dwelt a deal on the
coming meeting at Hendon Hall; what a surprise it would be to
everybody, and what an outburst of thanksgiving and delight there
would be.
It was a fair region, dotted with cottages and orchards, and the
road led through broad pasture-lands whose receding expanses, marked
with gentle elevations and depressions, suggested the swelling and
subsiding undulations of the sea. In the afternoon the returning
prodigal made constant deflections from his course to see if by
ascending some hillock he might not pierce the distance and catch a
glimpse of his home. At last he was successful, and cried out
excitedly:
'There is the village, my prince, and there is the Hall close
by! You may see the towers from here; and that wood there- that is
my father's park. Ah, now thou'lt know what state and grandeur be! A
house with seventy rooms- think of that!- and seven and twenty
servants! A brave lodging for such as we, is it not so? Come, let us
speed- my impatience will not brook further delay.'
All possible hurry was made; still, it was after three o'clock
before the village was reached. The travelers scampered through it,
Hendon's tongue going all the time. 'Here is the church- covered
with the same ivy- none gone, none added.' 'Yonder is the inn, the old
Red Lion- and yonder is the market-place.' 'Here is the Maypole, and
here the pump- nothing is altered; nothing but the people, at any
rate; ten years make a change in people; some of these I seem to know,
but none know me.' So his chat ran on. The end of the village was soon
reached; then the travelers struck into a crooked, narrow road, walled
in with tall hedges, and hurried briskly along it for a half-mile,
then passed into a vast flower-garden through an imposing gateway
whose huge stone pillars bore sculptured armorial devices. A noble
mansion was before them.
'Welcome to Hendon Hall, my king!' exclaimed Miles. 'Ah, 'tis a
great day! My father and my brother and the Lady Edith will be so
mad with joy that they will have eyes and tongue for none but me in
the first transports of the meeting, and so thou'lt seem but coldly
welcomed- but mind it not; 'twill soon seem otherwise; for when I
say thou art my ward, and tell them how costly is my love for thee,
thou'lt see them take thee to their breasts for Miles Hendon's sake,
and make their house and hearts thy home forever after!'
The next moment Hendon sprang to the ground before the great door,
helped the king down, then took him by the hand and rushed within. A
few steps brought him to a spacious apartment; he entered, seated
the king with more hurry than ceremony, then ran toward a young man
who sat at a writing-table in front of a generous fire of logs.
'Embrace me, Hugh,' he cried, 'and say thou'rt glad I am come
again! and call our father, for home is not home till I shall touch
his hand, and see his face, and hear his voice once more!'
But Hugh only drew back, after betraying a momentary surprise, and
bent a grave stare upon the intruder- a stare which indicated somewhat
of offended dignity at first, then changed, in response to some inward
thought or purpose, to an expression of marveling curiosity, mixed
with a real or assumed compassion. Presently he said, in a mild voice:
'Thy wits seem touched, poor stranger; doubtless thou hast
suffered privations and rude buffetings at the world's hands; thy
looks and dress betoken it. Whom dost thou take me to be?'
'Take thee? Prithee, for whom else than whom thou art? I take thee
to be Hugh Hendon,' said Miles, sharply.
The other continued, in the same soft tone:
'And whom dost thou imagine thyself to be?'
'Imagination hath naught to do with it! Dost thou pretend thou
knowest me not for thy brother Miles Hendon?'
An expression of pleased surprise flitted across Hugh's face,
and he exclaimed:
'What! thou art not jesting! can the dead come to life? God be
praised if it be so! Our poor lost boy restored to our arms after
all these cruel years! Ah, it seems too good to be true, it is too
good to be true- I charge thee, have pity, do not trifle with me!
Quick- come to the light- let me scan thee well!'
He seized Miles by the arm, dragged him to the window, and began
to devour him from head to foot with his eyes, turning him this way
and that, and stepping briskly around him and about him to prove him
from all points of view; whilst the returned prodigal, all aglow
with gladness, smiled, laughed, and kept nodding his head and saying:
'Go on, brother, go on, and fear not; thou'lt find nor limb nor
feature that cannot bide the test. Scour and scan me to thy content,
my dear old Hugh- I am indeed thy old Miles, thy same old Miles, thy
lost brother, is't not so? Ah, 'tis a great day- I said 'twas a
great day! Give me thy hand, give me thy cheek- lord, I am like to die
of very joy!'
He was about to throw himself upon his brother; but Hugh put up
his hand in dissent, then dropped his chin mournfully upon his breast,
saying with emotion:
'Ah, God of his mercy give me strength to bear this grievous
disappointment!'
Miles, amazed, could not speak for a moment; then he found his
tongue, and cried out:
'What disappointment? Am I not thy brother?'
Hugh shook his head sadly, and said:
'I pray heaven it may prove so, and that other eyes may find the
resemblances that are hid from mine. Alack, I fear me the letter spoke
but too truly.'
'What letter?'
'One that came from oversea, some six or seven years ago. It
said my brother died in battle.'
'It was a lie! Call thy father- he will know me.'
'One may not call the dead.'
'Dead?' Miles's voice was subdued, and his lips trembled. 'My
father dead!- oh, this is heavy news. Half my new joy is withered now.
Prithee, let me see my brother Arthur- he will know me; he will know
me and console me.'
'He, also, is dead.'
'God be merciful to me, a stricken man! Gone- both gone- the
worthy taken and the worthless spared in me! Ah! I crave your
mercy!- do not say the Lady Edith-'
'Is dead? No, she lives.'
'Then God be praised, my joy is whole again! Speed thee,
brother- let her come to me! An she say I am not myself- but she
will not; no, no, she will know me, I were a fool to doubt it. Bring
her- bring the old servants; they, too, will know me.'
'All are gone but five- Peter, Halsey, David, Bernard, and
Margaret.'
So saying, Hugh left the room. Miles stood musing awhile, then
began to walk the floor, muttering:
'The five arch villains have survived the two-and-twenty leal
and honest- 'tis an odd thing.'
He continued walking back and forth, muttering to himself; he
had forgotten the king entirely. By and by his majesty said gravely,
and with a touch of genuine compassion, though the words themselves
were capable of being interpreted ironically:
'Mind not thy mischance, good man; there be others in the world
whose identity is denied, and whose claims are derided. Thou hast
company.'
'Ah, my king,' cried Hendon, coloring slightly, 'do not thou
condemn me- wait, and thou shalt see. I am no impostor- she will say
it; you shall hear it from the sweetest lips in England. I an
impostor? Why I know this old hall, these pictures of my ancestors,
and all these things that are about us, as a child knoweth its own
nursery. Here was I born and bred, my lord; I speak the truth; I would
not deceive thee; and should none else believe, I pray thee do not
thou doubt me- I could not bear it.'
'I do not doubt thee,' said the king, with a childlike
simplicity and faith.
'I thank thee out of my heart!' exclaimed Hendon, with a
fervency which showed that he was touched. The king added, with the
same gentle simplicity:
'Dost thou doubt me?'
A guilty confusion seized upon Hendon, and he was grateful that
the door opened to admit Hugh, at that moment, and saved him the
necessity of replying.
A beautiful lady, richly clothed, followed Hugh, and after her
came several liveried servants. The lady walked slowly, with her
head bowed and her eyes fixed upon the floor. The face was unspeakably
sad. Miles Hendon sprang forward, crying out:
'Oh, my Edith, my darling-'
But Hugh waved him back, gravely, and said to the lady:
'Look upon him. Do you know him?'
At the sound of Miles's voice the woman had started slightly,
and her cheeks had flushed; she was trembling now. She stood still,
during an impressive pause of several moments; then slowly lifted up
her head and looked into Hendon's eyes with a stony and frightened
gaze; the blood sank out of her face, drop by drop, till nothing
remained but the gray pallor of death; then she said, in a voice as
dead as the face, 'I know him not!' and turned, with a moan and
stifled sob, and tottered out of the room.
Miles Hendon sank into a chair and covered his face with his
hands. After a pause, his brother said to the servants:
'You have observed him. Do you know him?'
They shook their heads; then the master said:
'The servants know you not, sir. I fear there is some mistake. You
have seen that my wife knew you not.'
'Thy wife!' In an instant Hugh was pinned to the wall, with an
iron grip about his throat. 'Oh, thou fox-hearted slave, I see it all!
Thou'st writ the lying letter thyself, and my stolen bride and goods
are its fruit. There- now get thee gone, lest I shame mine honorable
soldiership with the slaying of so pitiful a manikin!'
Hugh, red-faced and almost suffocated, reeled to the nearest
chair, and commanded the servants to seize and bind the murderous
stranger. They hesitated, and one of them said:
'He is armed, Sir Hugh, and we are weaponless.'
'Armed? What of it, and ye so many? Upon him, I say!'
But Miles warned them to be careful what they did, and added:
'Ye know me of old- I have not changed; come oh, an it like you.'
This reminder did not hearten the servants much; they still held
back.
'Then go, ye paltry cowards, and arm yourselves and guard the
doors, while I send one to fetch the watch,' said Hugh. He turned,
at the threshold, and said to Miles, 'You'll find it to your advantage
to offend not with useless endeavours at escape.'
'Escape? Spare thyself discomfort, an that is all that troubles
thee. For Miles Hendon is master of Hendon Hall and all its
belongings. He will remain- doubt it not.'
CHAPTER_XXVI
CHAPTER XXVI
Disowned
-
THE king sat musing a few moments, then looked up and said:
''Tis strange- most strange. I cannot account for it.'
'No, it is not strange, my liege. I know him, and this conduct
is but natural. He was a rascal from his birth.'
'Oh, I spake not of him, Sir Miles.'
'Not of him? Then of what? What is it that is strange?'
'That the king is not missed.'
'How? Which? I doubt I do not understand.'
'Indeed! Doth it not strike you as being passing strange that
the land is not filled with couriers and proclamations describing my
person and making search for me? Is it no matter for commotion and
distress that the head of the state is gone?- that I am vanished
away and lost?'
'Most true, my king, I had forgot.' Then Hendon sighed, and
muttered to himself. 'Poor ruined mind- still busy with its pathetic
dream.'
'But I have a plan that shall right us both. I will write a paper,
in three tongues- Latin, Greek, and English- and thou shall haste away
with it to London in the morning. Give it to none but my uncle, the
Lord Hertford; when he shall see it, he will know and say I wrote
it. Then he will send for me.'
'Might it not be best, my prince, that we wait here until I
prove myself and make my rights secure to my domains? I should be so
much the better able then to-'
The king interrupted him imperiously:
'Peace! What are thy paltry domains, thy trivial interests,
contrasted with matters which concern the weal of a nation and the
integrity of a throne!' Then he added, in a gentle voice, as if he
were sorry for his severity, 'Obey and have no fear; I will right
thee, I will make thee whole- yes, more than whole. I shall
remember, and requite.'
So saying, he took the pen, and set himself to work. Hendon
contemplated him lovingly awhile, then said to himself:
'An it were dark, I should think it was a king that spoke; there's
no denying it, when the humor's upon him he doth thunder and lighten
like your true king- now where got he that trick? See him scribble and
scratch away contentedly at his meaningless pot-hooks, fancying them
to be Latin and Greek- and except my wit shall serve me with a lucky
device for diverting him from his purpose, I shall be forced to
pretend to post away to-morrow on this wild errand which he hath
invented for me.'
The next moment Sir Miles's thoughts had gone back to the recent
episode. So absorbed was he in his musings, that when the king
presently handed him the paper which he had been writing, he
received it and pocketed it without being conscious of the act. 'How
marvelous strange she acted,' he muttered. 'I think she knew me- and I
think she did not know me. These opinions do conflict, I perceive it
plainly; I cannot reconcile them, neither can I, by argument,
dismiss either of the two, or even persuade one to outweigh the other.
The matter standeth simply thus: she must have known my face, my
figure, my voice, for how could it be otherwise? yet she said she knew
me not, and that is proof perfect, for she cannot lie. But stop- I
think I begin to see. Peradventure he hath influenced her- commanded
her-compelled her to lie. That is the solution! The riddle is
unriddled. She seemed dead with fear- yes, she was under his
compulsion. I will seek her; I will find her; now that he is away, she
will speak her true mind. She will remember the old times when we were
little playfellows together, and this will soften her heart, and she
will no more betray me, but will confess me. There is no treacherous
blood in her- no, she was always honest and true. She has loved me
in those old days- this is my security; for whom one has loved, one
cannot betray.'
He stepped eagerly toward the door; at that moment it opened,
and the Lady Edith entered. She was very pale, but she walked with a
firm step, and her carriage was full of grace and gentle dignity.
Her face was as sad as before.
Miles sprang forward, with a happy confidence, to meet her, but
she checked him with a hardly perceptible gesture, and he stopped
where he was. She seated herself, and asked him to do likewise. Thus
simply did she take the sense of old-comradeship out of him, and
transform him into a stranger and a guest. The surprise of it, the
bewildering unexpectedness of it, made him begin to question, for a
moment, if he was the person he was pretending to be, after all. The
Lady Edith said:
'Sir, I have come to warn you. The mad cannot be persuaded out
of their delusions, perchance; but doubtless they may be persuaded
to avoid perils. I think this dream of yours hath the seeming of
honest truth to you, and therefore is not criminal- but do not tarry
here with it; for here it is dangerous.' She looked steadily into
Miles's face a moment, then added, impressively, 'It is the more
dangerous for that you are much like what our lost lad must have grown
to be, if he had lived.'
'Heavens, madam, but I am he!'
'I truly think you think it, sir. I question not your honesty in
that- I but warn you, that is all. My husband is master in this
region; his power hath hardly any limit; the people prosper or starve,
as he wills. If you resembled not the man whom you profess to be, my
husband might bid you pleasure yourself with your dream in peace;
but trust me, I know him well, I know what he will do; he will say
to all that you are but a mad impostor, and straightway all will
echo him.' She bent upon Miles that same steady look once more, and
added: 'If you were Miles Hendon, and he knew it and all the region
knew it- consider what I am saying, weigh it well- you would stand
in the same peril, your punishment would be no less sure; he would
deny you and denounce you, and none would be bold enough to give you
countenance.'
'Most truly I believe it,' said Miles, bitterly. 'The power that
can command one lifelong friend to betray and disown another, and be
obeyed, may well look to be obeyed in quarters where bread and life
are on the stake and no cobweb ties of loyalty and honor are
concerned.'
A faint tinge appeared for a moment in the lady's cheek, and she
dropped her eyes to the floor; but her voice betrayed no emotion
when she proceeded:
'I have warned you, I must still warn you, to go hence. This man
will destroy you else. He is a tyrant who knows no pity. I, who am his
fettered slave, know this. Poor Miles, and Arthur, and my dear
guardian, Sir Richard, are free of him, and at rest- better that you
were with them than that you bide here in the clutches of this
miscreant. Your pretensions are a menace to his title and possessions;
you have assaulted him in his own house- you are ruined if you stay.
Go- do not hesitate. If you lack money, take this purse, I beg of you,
and bribe the servants to let you pass. Oh, be warned, poor soul,
and escape while you may.'
Miles declined the purse with a gesture, and rose up and stood
before her.
'Grant me one thing,' he said. 'Let your eyes rest upon mine, so
that I may see if they be steady. There- now answer me. Am I Miles
Hendon?'
'No. I know you not.'
'Swear it!'
The answer was low, but distinct:
'I swear.'
'Oh, this passes belief!'
'Fly! Why will you waste the precious time? Fly and save
yourself.'
At that moment the officers burst into the room and a violent
struggle began; but Hendon was soon overpowered and dragged away.
The king was taken also, and both were bound and led to prison.
CHAPTER_XXVII
CHAPTER XXVII
In Prison
-
THE cells were all crowded; so the two friends were chained in a
large room where persons charged with trifling offenses were
commonly kept. They had company, for there were some twenty manacled
or fettered prisoners here, of both sexes and of varying ages- an
obscene and noisy gang. The king chafed bitterly over the stupendous
indignity thus put upon his royalty, but Hendon was moody and
taciturn. He was pretty thoroughly bewildered. He had come home, a
jubilant prodigal, expecting to find everybody wild with joy over
his return; and instead had got the cold shoulder and a jail. The
promise and the fulfilment differed so widely, that the effect was
stunning; he could not decide whether it was most tragic or most
grotesque. He felt much as a man might who had danced blithely out
to enjoy a rainbow, and got struck by lightning.
But gradually his confused and tormenting thoughts settled down
into some sort of order, and then his mind centered itself upon Edith.
He turned her conduct over, and examined it in all lights, but he
could not make anything satisfactory out of it. Did she know him?-
or didn't she know him? It was a perplexing puzzle, and occupied him a
long time; but he ended, finally, with the conviction that she did
know him, and had repudiated him for interested reasons. He wanted
to load her name with curses now; but this name had so long been
sacred to him that he found he could not bring his tongue to profane
it.
Wrapped in prison blankets of a soiled and tattered condition,
Hendon and the king passed a troubled night. For a bribe the jailer
had furnished liquor to some of the prisoners; singing of ribald
songs, fighting, shouting, and carousing, was the natural consequence.
At last, awhile after midnight, a man attacked a woman and nearly
killed her by beating her over the head with his manacles before the
jailer could come to the rescue. The jailer restored peace by giving
the man a sound clubbing about the head and shoulders- then the
carousing ceased; and after that, all had an opportunity to sleep
who did not mind the annoyance of the moanings and groanings of the
two wounded people.
During the ensuing week, the days and nights were of a
monotonous sameness, as to events; men whose faces Hendon remembered
more or less distinctly came, by day, to gaze at the 'impostor' and
repudiate and insult him; and by night the carousing and brawling went
on, with symmetrical regularity. However, there was a change of
incident at last. The jailer brought in an old man, and said to him:
'The villain is in this room- cast thy old eyes about and see if
thou canst say which is he.'
Hendon glanced up, and experienced a pleasant sensation for the
first time since he had been in the jail. He said to himself, 'This is
Blake Andrews, a servant all his life in my father's family- a good
honest soul, with a right heart in his breast. That is, formerly.
But none are true now; all are liars. This man will know me- and
will deny me, too, like the rest.'
The old man gazed around the room, glanced at each face in turn,
and finally said:
'I see none here but paltry knaves, scum o' the streets. Which
is he?'
The jailer laughed.
'Here,' he said; 'scan this big animal, and grant me an opinion.'
The old man approached, and looked Hendon over, long and
earnestly, then shook his head and said:
'Marry, this is no Hendon- nor ever was!'
'Right! Thy old eyes are sound yet. An I were Sir Hugh, I would
take the shabby carle and-'
The jailer finished by lifting himself a-tiptoe with an
imaginary halter, at the same time making a gurgling noise in his
throat suggestive of suffocation. The old man said, vindictively:
'Let him bless God an he fare no worse. An I had the handling o'
the villain, he should roast, or I am no true man!'
The jailer laughed a pleasant hyena laugh, and said:
'Give him a piece of thy mind, old man- they all do it. Thou'lt
find it good diversion.'
Then he sauntered toward his anteroom and disappeared. The old man
dropped upon his knees and whispered:
'God be thanked, thou'rt come again, my master! I believed thou
wert dead these seven years, and lo, here thou art alive! I knew
thee the moment I saw thee; and main hard work it was to keep a
stony countenance and seem to see none here but tuppenny knaves and
rubbish o' the streets. I am old and poor, Sir Miles; but say the word
and I will go forth and proclaim the truth though I be strangled for
it.'
'No,' said Hendon, 'thou shalt not. It would ruin thee, and yet
help but little in my cause. But I thank thee; for thou hast given
me back somewhat of my lost faith in my kind.'
The old servant became very valuable to Hendon and the king; for
he dropped in several times a day to 'abuse' the former, and always
smuggled in a few delicacies to help out the prison bill of fare; he
also furnished the current news. Hendon reserved the dainties for
the king; without them his majesty might not have survived, for he was
not able to eat the coarse and wretched food provided by the jailer.
Andrews was obliged to confine himself to brief visits, in order to
avoid suspicion; but he managed to impart a fair degree of information
each time- information delivered in a low voice, for Hendon's benefit,
and interlarded with insulting epithets delivered in a louder voice,
for the benefit of other hearers.
So, little by little, the story of the family came out. Arthur had
been dead six years. This loss, with the absence of news from
Hendon, impaired his father's health; he believed he was going to die,
and he wished to see Hugh and Edith settled in life before he passed
away; but Edith begged hard for delay, hoping for Miles's return; then
the letter came which brought the news of Miles's death; the shock
prostrated Sir Richard; he believed his end was very near, and he
and Hugh insisted upon the marriage; Edith begged for and obtained a
month's respite; then another, and finally a third; the marriage
then took place, by the death-bed of Sir Richard. It had not proved
a happy one. It was whispered about the country that shortly after the
nuptials the bride found among her husband's papers several rough
and incomplete drafts of the fatal letter, and had accused him of
precipitating the marriage- and Sir Richard's death, too- by a
wicked forgery. Tales of cruelty to the Lady Edith and the servants
were to be heard on all hands; and since the father's death Sir Hugh
had thrown off all soft disguises and become a pitiless master
toward all who in any way depended upon him and his domains for bread.
There was a bit of Andrews's gossip which the king listened to
with a lively interest:
'There is rumor that the king is mad. But in charity forbear to
say I mentioned it, for 'tis death to speak of it, they say.'
His majesty glared at the old man and said:
'The king is not mad, good man- and thou'lt find it to thy
advantage to busy thyself with matters that nearer concern thee than
this seditious prattle.'
'What doth the lad mean?' said Andrews, surprised at this brisk
assault from such an unexpected quarter. Hendon gave him a sign, and
he did not pursue his question, but went on with his budget:
'The late king is to be buried at Windsor in a day or two- the
sixteenth of the month- and the new king will be crowned at
Westminster the twentieth.'
'Methinks they must needs find him first,' muttered his majesty;
then added, confidently, 'but they will look to that- and so also
shall I.'
'In the name of-'
But the old man got no further- a warning sign from Hendon checked
his remark. He resumed the thread of his gossip.
'Sir Hugh goeth to the coronation- and with grand hopes. He
confidently looketh to come back a peer, for he is high in favor
with the Lord Protector.'
'What Lord Protector?' asked his majesty.
'His grace the Duke of Somerset.'
'What Duke of Somerset?'
'Marry, there is but one- Seymour, Earl of Hertford.'
The king asked sharply:
'Since when is he a duke, and Lord Protector?'
'Since the last day of January.'
'And, prithee, who made him so?'
'Himself and the Great Council- with the help of the king.'
His majesty started violently. 'The king!' he cried. 'What king,
good sir?'
'What king, indeed! (God-a-mercy, what aileth the boy?) Sith we
have but one, 'tis not difficult to answer- his most sacred majesty
King Edward the Sixth- whom God preserve! Yea, and a dear and gracious
little urchin is he, too; and whether he be mad or no- and they say he
mendeth daily- his praises are on all men's lips; and all bless him
likewise, and offer prayers that he may be spared to reign long in
England; for he began humanely, with saving the old Duke of
Norfolk's life, and now is he bent on destroying the cruelest of the
laws that harry and oppress the people.'
This news struck his majesty dumb with amazement, and plunged
him into so deep and dismal a reverie that he heard no more of the old
man's gossip. He wondered if the 'little urchin' was the beggar-boy
whom he left dressed in his own garments in the palace. It did not
seem possible that this could be, for surely his manners and speech
would betray him if he pretended to be the Prince of Wales- then he
would be driven out, and search made for the true prince. Could it
be that the court had set up some sprig of the nobility in his
place? No, for his uncle would not allow that- he was all-powerful and
could and would crush such a movement, of course. The boy's musings
profited him nothing; the more he tried to unriddle the mystery the
more perplexed he became, the more his head ached, and the worse he
slept. His impatience to get to London grew hourly, and his
captivity became almost unendurable.
Hendon's arts all failed with the king- he could not be comforted,
but a couple of women who were chained near him, succeeded better.
Under their gentle ministrations he found peace and learned a degree
of patience. He was very grateful, and came to love them dearly and to
delight in the sweet and soothing influence of their presence. He
asked them why they were in prison, and when they said they were
Baptists, he smiled, and inquired:
'Is that a crime to be shut up for in a prison? Now I grieve,
for I shall lose ye- they will not keep ye long for such a little
thing.'
They did not answer; and something in their faces made him uneasy.
He said, eagerly:
'You do not speak- be good to me, and tell me- there will be no
other punishment? Prithee, tell me there is no fear of that.'
They tried to change the topic, but his fears were aroused, and he
pursued it:
'Will they scourge thee? No, no, they would not be so cruel! Say
they would not. Come, they will not, will they?'
The women betrayed confusion and distress, but there was no
avoiding an answer, so one of them said, in a voice choked with
emotion:
'Oh, thou'lt break our hearts, thou gentle spirit! God will help
us to bear our-'
'It is a confession!' the king broke in. 'Then they will scourge
thee, the stony-hearted wretches! But oh, thou must not weep, I cannot
bear it. Keep up thy courage- I shall come to my own in time to save
thee from this bitter thing, and I will do it!'
When the king awoke in the morning, the women were gone.
'They are saved!' he said, joyfully; then added, despondently,
'but woe is me!- for they were my comforters.'
Each of them had left a shred of ribbon pinned to his clothing, in
token of remembrance. He said he would keep these things always; and
that soon he would seek out these dear good friends of his and take
them under his protection.
Just then the jailer came in with some subordinates and
commanded that the prisoners be conducted to the jail-yard. The king
was overjoyed- it would be a blessed thing to see the blue sky and
breathe the fresh air once more. He fretted and chafed at the slowness
of the officers, but his turn came at last and he was released from
his staple and ordered to follow the other prisoners, with Hendon.
The court, or quadrangle, was stone-paved, and open to the sky.
The prisoners entered it through a massive archway of masonry, and
were placed in file, standing, with their backs against the wall. A
rope was stretched in front of them, and they were also guarded by
their officers. It was a chill and lowering morning, and a light
snow which had fallen during the night whitened the great empty
space and added to the general dismalness of its aspect. Now and
then a wintry wind shivered through the place and sent the snow
eddying hither and thither.
In the center of the court stood two women, chained to posts. A
glance showed the king that these were his good friends. He shuddered,
and said to himself, 'Alack, they are not gone free, as I had thought.
To think that such as these should know the lash!- in England! Ay,
there's the shame of it- not in Heathenesse, but Christian England!
They will be scourged; and I, whom they have comforted and kindly
entreated, must look on and see the great wrong done; it is strange,
so strange! that I, the very source of power in this broad realm, am
helpless to protect them. But let these miscreants look well to
themselves, for there is a day coming when I will require of them a
heavy reckoning for this work. For every blow they strike now they
shall feel a hundred then.'
A great gate swung open and a crowd of citizens poured in. They
flocked around the two women, and hid them from the king's view. A
clergyman entered and passed through the crowd, and he also was
hidden. The king now heard talking, back and forth, as if questions
were being asked and answered, but he could not make out what was
said. Next there was a deal of bustle and preparation, and much
passing and repassing of officials through that part of the crowd that
stood on the further side of the women; and while this proceeded a
deep hush gradually fell upon the people.
Now, by command, the masses parted and fell aside, and the king
saw a spectacle that froze the marrow in his bones. Fagots had been
piled about the two women, and a kneeling man was lighting them!
The women bowed their heads, and covered their faces with their
hands; the yellow flames began to climb upward among the snapping
and crackling fagots, and wreaths of blue smoke to stream away on
the wind; the clergyman lifted his hands and began a prayer- just then
two young girls came flying through the great gate, uttering
piercing screams, and threw themselves upon the women at the stake.
Instantly they were torn away by the officers, and one of them was
kept in a tight grip, but the other broke loose, saying she would
die with her mother; and before she could be stopped she had flung her
arms about her mother's neck again. She was torn away once more, and
with her gown on fire.
Two or three men held her, and the burning portion of her gown was
snatched off and thrown flaming aside, she struggling all the while to
free herself, and saying she would be alone in the world now, and
begging to be allowed to die with her mother. Both the girls
screamed continually, and fought for freedom; but suddenly this tumult
was drowned under a volley of heart-piercing shrieks of mortal
agony. The king glanced from the frantic girls to the stake, then
turned away and leaned his ashen face against the wall, and looked
no more. He said, 'That which I have seen, in that one little
moment, will never go out from my memory, but will abide there; and
I shall see it all the days, and dream of it all the nights, till I
die. Would God I had been blind!'
Hendon was watching the king. He said to himself, with
satisfaction, 'His disorder mendeth; he hath changed, and groweth
gentler. If he had followed his wont, he would have stormed at these
varlets, and said he was king, and commanded that the women be
turned loose unscathed. Soon his delusion will pass away and be
forgotten, and his poor mind will be whole again. God speed the day!'
That same day several prisoners were brought in to remain
overnight, who were being conveyed, under guard, to various places
in the kingdom, to undergo punishment for crimes committed. The king
conversed with these- he had made it a point, from the beginning, to
instruct himself for the kingly office by questioning prisoners
whenever the opportunity offered- and the tale of their woes wrung his
heart. One of them was a poor half-witted woman who had stolen a
yard or two of cloth from a weaver- she was to be hanged for it.
Another was a man who had been accused of stealing a horse; he said
the proof had failed, and he had imagined that he was safe from the
halter; but no- he was hardly free before he was arraigned for killing
a deer in the king's park; this was proved against him, and now he was
on his way to the gallows. There was a tradesman's apprentice whose
case particularly distressed the king; this youth said he found a hawk
one evening that had escaped from its owner, and he took it home
with him, imagining himself entitled to it; but the court convicted
him of stealing it, and sentenced him to death.
The king was furious over these inhumanities, and wanted Hendon to
break jail and fly with him to Westminster, so that he could mount his
throne and hold out his scepter in mercy over these unfortunate people
and save their lives. 'Poor child,' sighed Hendon, 'these woeful tales
have brought his malady upon him again- alack, but for this evil
hap, he would have been well in a little time.'
Among these prisoners was an old lawyer- a man with a strong
face and a dauntless mien, Three years past, he had written a pamphlet
against the Lord Chancellor, accusing him of injustice, and had been
punished for it by the loss of his ears in the pillory and degradation
from the bar, and in addition had been fined L3,000 and sentenced to
imprisonment for life. Lately he had repeated his offense; and in
consequence was now under sentence to lose what remained of his
ears, pay a fine of L5,000, be branded on both cheeks, and remain in
prison for life.
'These be honorable scars,' he said, and turned back his gray hair
and showed the mutilated stubs of what had once been his ears.
The king's eye burned with passion. He said:
'None believe in me- neither wilt thou. But no matter- within
the compass of a month thou shalt be free; and more, the laws that
have dishonored thee, and shamed the English name, shall be swept from
the statute-books. The world is made wrong, kings should go to
school to their own laws at times, and so learn mercy.'*(20)
CHAPTER_XXVIII
CHAPTER XXVIII
The Sacrifice
-
MEANTIME Miles was growing sufficiently tired of confinment and
inaction. But now his trial came on, to his great gratification, and
he thought he could welcome any sentence provided a further
imprisonment should not be a part of it. But he was mistaken about
that. He was in a fine fury when he found himself described as a
'sturdy vagabond' and sentenced to sit two hours in the pillory for
bearing that character and for assaulting the master of Hendon Hall.
His pretensions as to brothership with his prosecutor, and rightful
heirship to the Hendon honors and estates, were left contemptuously
unnoticed, as being not even worth examination.
He raged and threatened on his way to punishment, but it did no
good; he was snatched roughly along by the officers, and got an
occasional cuff, besides, for his unreverent conduct.
The king could not pierce through the rabble that swarmed
behind; so he was obliged to follow in the rear, remote from his
good friend and servant. The king had been nearly condemned to the
stocks himself, for being in such bad company, but had been let off
with a lecture and a warning, in consideration of his youth. When
the crowd at last halted, he flitted feverishly from point to point
around its outer rim, hunting a place to get through; and at last,
after a deal of difficulty and delay, succeeded. There sat his poor
henchman in the degrading stocks, the sport and butt of a dirty mob-
he, the body servant of the king of England! Edward had heard the
sentence pronounced, but he had not realized the half that it meant.
His anger began to rise as the sense of this new indignity which had
been put upon him sank home; it jumped to summer heat the next moment,
when he saw an egg sail through the air and crush itself against
Hendon's cheek, and heard the crowd roar its enjoyment of the episode.
He sprang across the open circle and confronted the officer in charge,
crying:
'For shame! This is my servant- set him free! I am the-'
'Oh, peace!' exclaimed Hendon, in a panic, 'thou'lt destroy
thyself. Mind him not, officer, he is mad.'
'Give thyself no trouble as to the matter of minding him, good
man, I have small mind to mind him; but as to teaching him somewhat,
to that I am well inclined.' He turned to a subordinate and said,
'Give the little fool a taste or two of the lash, to mend his
manners.'
'Half a dozen will better serve his turn,' suggested Sir Hugh, who
had ridden up a moment before to take a passing glance at the
proceedings.
The king was seized. He did not even struggle, so paralyzed was he
with the mere thought of the monstrous outrage that was proposed to be
inflicted upon his sacred person. History was already defiled with the
record of the scourging of an English king with whips- it was an
intolerable reflection that he must furnish a duplicate of that
shameful page. He was in the toils, there was no help for him; he must
either take this punishment or beg for its remission. Hard conditions;
he would take the stripes- a king might do that, but a king could
not beg.
But meantime, Miles Hendon was resolving the difficulty. 'Let
the child go,' said he; 'ye heartless dogs, do ye not see how young
and frail he is? Let him go- I will take his lashes.'
'Marry, a good thought- and thanks for it,' said Sir Hugh, his
face lighting with a sardonic satisfaction. 'Let the little beggar go,
and give this fellow a dozen in his place- an honest dozen, well
laid on.' The king was in the act of entering a fierce protest, but
Sir Hugh silenced him with the potent remark, 'Yes, speak up, do,
and free thy mind- only, mark ye, that for each word you utter he
shall get six strokes the more.'
Hendon was removed from the stocks, and his back laid bare; and
while the lash was applied the poor little king turned away his face
and allowed unroyal tears to channel his cheeks unchecked. 'Ah,
brave good heart,' he said to himself, 'this loyal deed shall never
perish out of my memory. I will not forget it- and neither shall
they!' he added, with passion. While he mused, his appreciation of
Hendon's magnanimous conduct grew to greater and still greater
dimensions in his mind, and so also did his gratefulness for it.
Presently he said to himself, 'Who saves his prince from wounds and
possible death- and this he did for me- performs high service; but
it is little- it is nothing! -oh, less than nothing!- when 'tis
weighed against the act of him who saves his prince from SHAME!'
Hendon made no outcry under the scourge, but bore the heavy
blows with soldierly fortitude. This, together with his redeeming
the boy by taking his stripes for him, compelled the respect of even
that forlorn and degraded mob that was gathered there; and its gibes
and hootings died away, and no sound remained but the sound of the
falling blows. The stillness that pervaded the place when Hendon found
himself once more in the stocks, was in strong contrast with the
insulting clamour which had prevailed there so little a while before.
The king came softly to Hendon's side, and whispered in his ear:
'Kings cannot ennoble thee, thou good, great soul, for One who
is higher than kings hath done that for thee; but a king can confirm
thy nobility to men.' He picked up the scourge from the ground,
touched Hendon's bleeding shoulders lightly with it, and whispered,
'Edward of England dubs thee earl!'
Hendon was touched. The water welled to his eyes, yet at the
same time the grisly humor of the situation and circumstances so
undermined his gravity that it was all he could do to keep some sign
of his inward mirth from showing outside. To be suddenly hoisted,
naked and gory, from the common stocks to the Alpine altitude and
splendor of an earldom, seemed to him the last possibility in the line
of the grotesque. He said to himself, 'Now am I finely tinseled,
indeed! The specter-knight of the Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows is
become a specter-earl!- a dizzy flight for a callow wing! An this go
on, I shall presently be hung like a very May-pole with fantastic
gauds and make-believe honors. But I shall value them, all valueless
as they are, for the love that doth bestow them. Better these poor
mock dignities of mine, that come unasked from a clean hand and a
right spirit, than real ones bought by servility from grudging and
interested power.'
The dreaded Sir Hugh wheeled his horse about, and, as he spurred
away, the living wall divided silently to let him pass, and as
silently closed together again. And so remained; nobody went so far as
to venture a remark in favor of the prisoner, or in compliment to him;
but no matter, the absence of abuse was a sufficient homage in itself.
A late comer who was not posted as to the present circumstances, and
who delivered a sneer at the 'impostor' and was in the act of
following it with a dead cat, was promptly knocked down and kicked
out, without any words, and then the deep quiet resumed sway once
more.
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