So, at last, we came to Stene, Lord Crewe’s place in Northamptonshire.
Now, while we drew near to the park-gates, and were thinking how best to convey a message to her ladyship, there passed out a gentleman of grave and reverend appearance, in cassock and full wig1, whom I judged might be in the Bishop2’s service. So I stopped him, and asked him civilly if he was perchance his lordship’s chaplain.
‘I am,’ he replied, in some surprise at the question. ‘Why, my good girl?’
‘Tell him, Mr. Hilyard,’ I said. ‘Tell him all.’
‘Sir,’ said Mr. Hilyard, ‘this young lady is not what she seems. She is Miss Dorothy Forster, sister of Mr. Thomas Forster the younger, who lately commanded the rebel army, and niece of Lady Crewe. We are on our way to London; but first she would have speech, if, it may be, with her ladyship.’
‘What!’ cried the clergyman. ‘Have you not heard? Good Heaven! Her ladyship hath been dead these six weeks and more!’
Dead! Lady Crewe was dead! Then was I friendless indeed.
‘She died,’ he went on, ‘of a fit or convulsion, caused, we are assured, by her anxiety on learning that a warrant was out for the apprehension3 of her nephew. She never learned the news of his rising, which was kept from her by order of my lord, for fear of greater anxiety. She died on the 16th day of October.’
‘The stars in their courses fight against us,’ said Mr. Hilyard, in consternation4. ‘Terror ubique tremor5, timor undique et undique terror.’
‘Who are you, sir, pray?’ asked the chaplain, astonished to hear Latin from the mouth of a blacksmith.
‘I was formerly6 Mr. Forster’s tutor, and have since been his steward7. I am in disguise, partly because I also was with the insurgents8, and am not desirous of being taken. But, sir, could we speak with his lordship?’
‘My lord is much broken by the death of her ladyship. Yet, I doubt not that he will receive her niece.’
He took us into the park, and so into the hall of the house (a great and stately house it was, though not so fine as that of Bishop’s Auckland or the Castle of Durham), and begged me to wait a few moments while he sought his lordship.
Lord Crewe was sitting in his library in a high-backed armchair, a book on the table beside him, and a great coal-fire burning.
‘Come, child!’ he said, holding out both hands; ‘come, kiss me for thy dear aunt’s sake! Thou hast heard my irreparable loss.’
‘I have just learned it, my lord, to my infinite sorrow. For, oh! I have lost her to whom I looked for help at this moment, and she is gone; and I may now lose my brother, who is a prisoner, and on his way to London to be tried.’ And so, weeping and sobbing9, I fell at his lordship’s knees.
‘Ay,’ he said, laying his hand upon my head, ‘weep and cry, child! Youth hath tears; age hath none. Life hath nothing left for me: I have lost all, my dear. Thou art strangely like her when she was young. Stay with me a while, and let me comfort myself by merely looking upon thy face. Nay10, I have heard of thy misfortunes. Tom is a prisoner. Fools all! fools all! Yet I warned him; I admonished11 him. This it is not to listen to the counsel of an old man. What would you do for him?’
‘With permission, my lord, we would go to London and try to save him,’ Mr. Hilyard replied.
‘Who are you, sir?’ he asked. ‘Oh, I remember now. It is the Terr? Filius. And how, sir, doth so great and powerful a man as you propose to tear these rebels from the grasp of Justice?’
‘As yet, my lord, we know not; but we hope that a way will be opened. There are, first, the chances in our favour. The Court may take a lenient12 view, seeing that so many are involved; or there is the clemency13 of the King.’
‘Pass on to the next chance,’ said the Bishop. ‘Build not on the clemency of Kings.’
‘Why, my lord, if he is to be tried, there is not much more to be said. But, perhaps he may not be tried at all. A pardon might be procured14 by friends in high place.’
‘In this matter, sir, look not to me for help. I am now old. All my friends, if I have any left, are on the other side.’
‘Then, my lord, saving your presence, there are juries to be influenced ——’
‘They will not be so foolish as to try them by a jury.’
‘Next, there are, my lord, asking your pardon, guards to be corrupted15, as has been done in many famous examples.’
‘Tush —— tush! tell me not of these secrets. You will want money, sir, and much money. Man, let me look at you full in the face. Your eyes seem honest. In these times, and in such a service, the scarcity16 of honest men is lamentably17 felt. Yet you seem honest, and you have proved faithful. Suppose, Dorothy, child, I were to find you the money —— doth Tom trust this man? To be sure, he would trust any man who offered. It is their easy temper, not their ill-fate, which hath ruined the Forsters.’
‘We have trusted him, my lord, for fifteen years.’
‘Look ye, sirrah!’ his lordship shook his long and lean forefinger18 in the face of Mr. Hilyard. ‘Look ye, if you now betray the trust, the malediction19 of the Church itself shall follow you to your death —— and after,’ he added solemnly. Then he paused. ‘To do these things,’ he presently went on, ‘may require much money. He must be defended if he be brought to trial: if he never come to trial —— How much money have you?’
We had twenty-four guineas when we left Blanchland. We have spent six on the road. There are eighteen guineas left. It is all our stock.’
‘Eighteen guineas!’ my lord laughed. ‘It is a goodly stock. Now, sir, I will give you a letter to my agent and factor in London. He will provide you with all you want —— understand, all! Do not be afraid to ask. My wife, the most beautiful and the most faithful woman in the world, is dead: alas20! I, too, shall follow soon; my days will be few and full of sorrow. I am old —— I am eighty-two years of age —— my work is done —— I have now nothing left but meditation21 and prayer.’ He went on in this way so that I thought his mind was wandering with age and trouble; but he did not forget what he designed to say. ‘Therefore, because she would have wished it, her nephew, who hath proved a fool and a companion of fools, shall not suffer, if I can help it, the just consequence of his folly22. Go then, to this man of business, and let him know who thou art; give him my letter, and, when the time comes, ask boldly for as much as will be wanted —— nay, if it cost ten or twenty thousand pounds he will give it thee.’
‘Oh, my lord!’ Mr. Hilyard fairly burst into tears. ‘This is princely generosity23. I hoped for nothing more than a help to maintain my mistress in London. Why, with such help as this, his honour is as good as free already.’ He knelt and kissed his lordship’s hand.
‘Go, fellow,’ said the Bishop, not unmoved. ‘But remember lest they say, as was said to Peter, “Thou also art one of them.” Keep thine own neck out of the halter, if thou wouldst save Tom Forster’s. And, as regards the money, waste not: yet spare not. Enough said. And now, Dorothy, if thou wilt24 stay a while in my poor house, let me have thee clad in habits more suitable than these ——’
‘I thank you, my lord, for all your kindness; but I cannot rest day or night until I am in London.’
So we took our letter, with a full purse of money besides, and receiving the Bishop’s blessing25, went on our way. My aunt was dead; but her affection for her own family survived in the remembrance of her husband.
I never saw so great a change in any man as was wrought26 in Mr. Hilyard by the prospect27 of this money. He capered28 and leaped, he danced and sang upon the heavy road.
‘Why,’ he said, ‘we are made men now! Let us rejoice. Let us concert our plans.’
He devised a thousand plans, but none of them suited, and he began again every hour with a new one. Most, indeed, seemed to me as unreal and improbable as the intrigue29 of a comedy or the plot of a tragedy. He seemed to multiply difficulties in order to get rid of them by sudden surprises. Nevertheless it pleased him, and it beguiled30 the journey, which continued as cold as before, but was not so miserable31, because we now had money and could dwell upon the future with a little hope. Indeed, it passed all understanding to think that I started on this long and costly33 journey with such an end in view, and no more in money than twenty-four guineas! But then I only knew, concerning money, that, in Northumberland, with a guinea one can keep a household for nigh upon a month. As for money of my own, I never had any.
‘With money,’ went on Mr. Hilyard, ‘dungeons are opened, prison-bars removed, and captives set free. With money, justice may be bought, as well as injustice34. With money, good may be accomplished35 as well as evil. Why, the history of the world is the history of bribing36. I could narrate37 endless examples ——’
He did; and during several days he instructed me in the part which bribes38 had played in the progress of the world. So that in the end it seemed to me as if nothing, good or bad, had ever been accomplished without a bribe39 and a pretence40. But such knowledge doth not tend to edification.
It was on the 9th day of December that we drew near to London. Now, as we walked along the road we became aware of a great stir and bustle41, many men and women hastening southward, the same way as we were going, as if impelled42 by desire to see some wonderful show. The road was also covered with waggons43, carts, and horsemen.
‘This,’ said Mr. Hilyard, with pride, ‘is what happeneth daily in the great roads which lead to London.’
‘Yes.’ I said. ‘But why do all the people wear favours?’
This he did not know; but he asked one, and presently came back to me with perturbed44 countenance45. ‘Miss Dorothy,’ he whispered, ‘we are none too soon. This day the prisoners will be marched into London.
It was the very day when the procession of prisoners arrived. We were to see them pass, willy-nilly; for there was no turning back without exciting distrust, and the people were very fierce and angry. Mr. Hilyard even bought a favour for himself and another for me, to avert46 suspicion. Thus decorated, we followed with the stream of country people who flocked along the road. They were all going, we learned, to a place called Highgate, where there is a lofty hill from which London may be viewed (they say Whittington, while sitting here upon the grass, heard the bells of Bow calling him back); and they were flocking to see the most wonderful show for many a long year, namely, three hundred English gentlemen led in triumph along the way for the mob to jeer47 at and insult. Truly a magnanimous thing for a victor and a Christian48 King to command!
If the country people came to Highgate in their smocks, the town people came out in their greasy49 coats; there were thousands on the hill and on the slopes; where the road sloped downward through hedges and trees, now white and heavy with snow, we saw the mighty50 multitude rolling to and fro like waves near the shore, and heard them roaring like the waves that beat upon the rocks. Some standing32 near us said aloud that the prisoners would never reach the town, but be torn to pieces upon the road.
‘Take courage,’ said Mr. Hilyard. ‘Look! there is a detachment of Guards to convoy51 them safe, let the mob roar as loud as they please.’
Presently I perceived the melancholy52 procession slowly coming towards us. Alas! alas! Was this the end? Was it for this that my lady flung down her fan, and I with joyful53 heart applauded and approved the deed? They defiled54 slowly past us, riding two abreast55, and divided into four detachments or companies. The arms of every man were pinioned56 behind him; his horse was led by a foot soldier carrying a musket57 with fixed58 bayonet; each division was preceded by a troop of horse with drawn59 swords, their drums insulting the unhappy prisoners by beating a triumphal march in derision.
As this miserable procession marched past the people crowded in on every side, crying out the most frightful60 imprecations, of which ‘Papists! Bloody61 Catholics and murderers!’ were the least injurious. Most of the gentlemen thus insulted rode by proudly with head erect62, as if they were in a triumphal procession. Was it possible, I asked myself, that Englishmen could thus come out to insult the fallen?
In the last division rode the English noblemen, and with them my unhappy brother. He sat with hanging head, his hands tied behind him, his cheek pale. Alas! poor Tom! What were his thoughts? ‘He knows not,’ whispered Mr. Hilyard, ‘of the letter in my pocket.’ Beside him rode Mr. Patten, his chaplain. He, for his part, seemed proud of his position; he looked about him cheerfully, and nodded his head to the crowd, which assailed63 him with the vilest64 language. ‘He is a brave man,’ said Mr. Hilyard. ‘It repents65 me that I called him Creeping Bob. I have forgiven him his Oxford66 business.’ As for Lord Derwentwater, he sat upright —— his eyes bright, his cheek flushed, looking neither to the right nor to the left.
‘Draw your hood67 closer,’ Mr. Hilyard whispered; ‘this rabble68 must not see your tears.’
When the last of the Dragoons who brought up the rear had gone, the mob crowded in and ran along the road behind. There were left only the decent sort. One of those, dressed soberly in a brown coat, said to me, gravely:
‘Young woman, this is a sorry sight, but yet a joyful for honest folk. Remember that these men are the enemies of freedom. I desire not the blood of any man; but I pray above all things for continuance of liberty, especially of conscience and opinion. Keep thy tears, then, for a better cause.’
‘Alas! sir!’ I could not refrain from saying. ‘What if a woman have friends —— a brother, even —— among them?’
‘Madam’—— he took off his hat ——‘I ask your pardon, and I pray for a happy deliverance for your friend —— or brother.’
He went away, but this imprudence frightened Mr. Hilyard mightily69, and he hastened to push on down the hill.
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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insurgents
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| n.起义，暴动，造反( insurgent的名词复数 ) | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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clemency
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| n.温和，仁慈，宽厚 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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lamentably
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| adv.哀伤地，拙劣地 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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malediction
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| n.诅咒 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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capered
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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30
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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bribing
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| 贿赂 | |
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narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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bribes
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| n.贿赂( bribe的名词复数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂v.贿赂( bribe的第三人称单数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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51
convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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54
defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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pinioned
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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repents
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的第三人称单数 ) | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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67
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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