She looked up into my face as though she would read the story of my life therein, and as she did so I was able to see her more plainly than ever it had been my lot to do. I saw now what the man at the inn had meant when he said she was fair to look upon, for she possessed a beauty such as I had never seen before. And yet she was different from the beauties of Charles' Court, concerning whom I had heard my father speak. Hers was the beauty of a woman who was as pure as the angels. Concerning this many may smile, and say that I saw her with the eyes of foolish boyhood. Yet although many years have passed since then, and although many harsh judgments have been formed concerning the deed of which she was accused, I hold fast to what I say. Her eyes had all the innocence of the eyes of a child. Her face was as free from marks of passion and guilt as were the faces of which artists dreamt when they painted pictures of the Mother of Christ. Nevertheless, hers was not the face of a child. It was strong and resolute. There was neither fear nor shrinking in her gaze as she turned her eyes to my face. Wonder there was, even amounting to astonishment, but there was more. I saw that this woman with such a beauteous face was capable of deeds of daring and sacrifice. That Joan of Arc, the story of whose deeds had so inspired my imagination years before, was not capable of greater daring than she, and that this woman would follow the call of God as faithfully as did the Maid of Orleans more than two hundred years before. Moreover, her presence suggested no weakness. I saw that though barely twenty years of age, she was not weak, nor of delicate appearance. The blood of health coursed through her veins. Her hands were firm, the light of her eyes burned steadily. Moreover, she was not cast in a small mould, rather she was taller than most women, and was perfectly proportioned.
All this I saw at a glance even although it has taken me some time to set it down on paper, and if I had ever hesitated in my determination to save her from the doom which awaited her, it had now flown to the winds. For I knew that her life was not worth a silver groat. General Monk had determined on her death, and in spite of all talk about the king's clemency, it was freely said that he would shew no mercy on those who had aught to do with his father's death. Moreover, as it was given out that both Sir Charles Denman and Master Leslie were much implicated in this matter, the woman who was so closely connected with them both could expect no mercy.
"You know the meaning of what I told you when we stood together outside Pycroft Hall," she said quietly. "You know of what I am accused now?"
"Yes."
"And you believe it?"
"I believe nothing unworthy of you."
"But you have heard of the proofs?"
"Ay, I have heard; but I know nought of them. They are nothing to me. I promised to befriend you, and I have come to fulfil my promise."
"But can you?"
"Ay, I can."
I meant what I said, for at that moment all difficulties appeared as nothing.
"You can take me outside these prison walls?"
"Ay."
"And after that?"
"After that I know not. Perhaps you have plans in your own mind, but if you have not I can save you."
Perhaps the confident way in which I spoke gave her courage; moreover, I saw by the flash in her eyes that she comprehended what to many other women would have seemed mysterious. For she was no woman of dull intelligence, but one who thought quickly and to purpose.
"If I can reach my father's house I am safe," she said.
"Your father's house? That surely is the first place men will go when they hear of your escape from here."
"Nay, it is not. They will never believe that I should go thither now. If they do, it will not matter; I shall be safe there, and even my father will not know of my presence."
"You have trusty servants, and there are secret places at Goodlands," I said.
She gave me a glance which made my heart burn, although I knew not why.
"But for an accident I should have taken refuge there," she said. "While I was at Pycroft it was given out that I had been recognized in the neighbourhood, and endeavours were made to capture me. So I made my way to Dorking, where I made myself known to those whose business it was to take me. But I escaped from there, leaving no trace behind, and hoped to reach my father's house."
"But how did you do this?"
"I have many friends."
"But why did you make yourself known at Dorking?"
She looked at me steadily and seemed on the point of speaking; but no word escaped her lips.
"And did Sir Charles Denman accompany you?" I said.
"No," she replied, and there was, as I thought, anger in her tones. "No, he did not."
Why it was I did not know, but I rejoiced at this.
"And you do not know where he is now?"
"No, I do not know," she answered.
She paused a moment, and although it was a joy beyond the telling to be with her and hear her speak, it came to me that not a moment was to be lost if I was to lead her to liberty.
CHAPTER XVI
THE ESCAPE
"There is no time for further questioning," I said, "even although there are many things I would ask you;" and then in a few words I told her how I had been able to come thither. She said no word while I spoke to her concerning this, not even to ask a question; nevertheless what I said convinced her that never again would she have such a favourable opportunity of escaping, so without any ado we found our way outside the gaol without a single mishap. Indeed, so easy was the escape from Bedford Gaol that I have wondered many times since concerning our good fortune. But as I have said, the coming of the king, and the carousals consequent thereupon, had caused many things to be turned topsy-turvy, so that we got outside the prison gates without so much as a single word spoken to us. For that matter, I believe that no man save Master Sturgeon ever dreamed that I had entered the place, and no man knew when I went out.
Once outside the prison gates she drew a deep breath, and then I saw her lips move as if in prayer. She had brought a cloak with her, which she now threw over her head, and then she hurried rapidly into the street. We were in the very heart of the town, yet saw we no man, for the time was now past midnight, and most of the revellers had gone to sleep.
"Which way would you go?" I asked.
"Along the Woburn Road," she whispered. "But stay, we must not go as though we were followed. May I take your arm, Master Rashcliffe?"
I felt every fibre of my body tingle as her hand rested on my left arm, and I felt that it should go hard with the man who tried to take her from me. I saw to it, therefore, that my sword was loose in its sheath, and that my pistols were easy to command.
"If once we can cross the river we shall be safer, I think," she said. "The town lies this side the river, and once away from the bridge we shall be less likely to meet any who might molest us."
The night was quiet, I remember. Not a breath of wind stirred, and the moon having been hidden by the passing clouds, there was but little light.
We had not gone above twenty paces along the road, which I think the townspeople called the High Street, when we met two men, who, as I judged, were people of authority.
"Who are you and where go you?" one asked.
"Who are you, and where go you?" I retorted quickly.
"Who am I?" he asked. "I am the town clerk. Now tell me who you are."
"Sir William Bilton is the chief man in Bedford," said my companion in a whisper.
I caught her meaning, and spoke as loudly as I dared. "If a guest of Sir William Bilton may not walk through the town to see how it behaves on the day when the king arrives in London without being stopped by the town clerk, it is passing strange," I answered. "Moreover, I will see to it that he knows concerning the matter."
The man's tone changed in a moment. "I hope no offence, young master," he said humbly. "Will you be pleased to pay my humble respects to Sir William, and to tell him that I only seek to do my duty?"
"That is very well," I answered in a tone of offended dignity. "I find no fault with a zealous officer of the town, nevertheless I thought a man in your position could distinguish between a drunken brawler and a man of quality."
"I crave your pardon, worshipful sir," he said, "but I have had much trouble to-night, for nearly every constable and night watchman is drunk. Therefore, although there is much licence at such a time, yet for the good name of the town I must e'en do my duty."
"Ay, I see that, and I will at the first opportunity I have tell Sir William what a faithful town clerk he has. Moreover, you may not take a crown amiss with which to drink the king's health, also that of Sir William."
A moment later we were left alone again, and then we walked slowly down the street. Had I been alone I think I should have hastened, but my companion pressed my arm, and bade me in a whisper to go slowly.
I heard the two men talking together, as though they doubted who we were, but presently they decided to go on their way, and great was my delight as I heard their retreating footsteps.
A minute later we reached the river, which was crossed by means of a roughly built bridge. I noted that the river ran slowly here, and was perchance a little more than forty yards wide. On our left was a dark building, which looked grim and forbidding, standing as it did upon the river bank.
"That is the town gaol," said my companion. "I hoped when I was taken that I should have been imprisoned there. Then would I have escaped two days ago."
"How?" I asked.
"I would have crept out by one of the windows, and swum across the river," she answered.
"But how could you have crept out by the windows?"
"There are those within that gaol who would do aught for me," she answered.
This she said as we crossed the bridge, eagerly looking around her as she spoke.
We still kept straight on, perhaps a hundred yards or more, when she suddenly took a turning to the right.
"And where go we now – Lady Denman?" I asked.
She gave a start, and then stood still as I mentioned her name.
"Nay, not that," she said almost hoarsely.
"It is not easy to speak to you unless I call you by your name," I said.
"Nay, but call me not by his name. He hath been the cause of all our troubles!"
She said these words with such bitterness of voice that she might not have been the same woman who had been speaking a few moments before.
"But he is your husband," I said almost brutally.
She hesitated a few seconds, and then, still holding my arm, she walked by my side along the road.
"There be many reasons which lead a woman to call a man husband," she said. "Not every woman loves the man whose name she bears, and – " here she stopped again like one who seemed to fear she had said too much. "Besides," she went on, "certain subjects are painful. I can go faster if you wish."
"I am sorry if I have said aught to make you angry with me, Lady – "
"Constance," she said; "call me Mistress Constance. Nay, you have done nought to make me angry. Hark! what is that?"
We were now outside the town, and houses were not so plentiful; nevertheless, here and there cottages were scattered, and from some of the windows I saw flickering lights. What we heard was the sound of footsteps and the shout of men's voices.
"They come towards us, not after us," I heard her murmur.
"Perchance there is an alehouse on the road," I suggested, "and these are men who have been drinking there."
"There is an alehouse; but listen – "
We stopped and listened, and I felt sure I was right in my conjecture.
"Am I a constable," I heard one say, "and shall I see such goings on? I tell you, you are drunk!"
"Ay, I am, and so are you, Master Blewitt. The man who is not drunk to-day is not worthy to be called an Englishman. It is only Puritans and women who are not drunk. Ah, we had not been so drunk if Master Leslie's daughter had not been safely in gaol. Had Master Leslie been able to hold up his head he would have done much to keep the town sober, king or no king."
"Ay, that is the worst of these Puritans, and that is why I am glad the king hath come back. There will be no sin in getting drunk now, nay, nor no sin in kissing a pretty girl. Down with the Puritans, I say, and to the gallows with Master Leslie's pretty daughter."
"Nay, 'twould be a pity to put a piece of rope around such a pretty neck."
"What, man! You never saw her neck."
"Ay, but I did, and her face too. I never saw it till she was brought to the river's bank. But I saw it then, and I shall never forget it. Ay, I would know it among ten thousand."
I felt Mistress Constance grasp my arm more tightly with her right hand, while with her left she drew her mantle more closely around her face.
"Shall we go back?" she asked.
"What, towards the prison?"
"Oh no – let us go on."
Indeed we could do nought else, for the men had caught sight of us by this time, and I heard one man exclaim, "Ay, here is a man and a wench coming!"
"Do not fear," I whispered: "there be but three, and they are wellnigh drunk. If the worst comes to the worst I will fight them all – and meanwhile you can escape."
I felt her shiver, even while her fingers gripped my arm still more tightly. Brave as she was, she was still a woman, who shrank from being brought into contact with brutal and profane men.
"Do not leave me if you can help it," she whispered, and then she seemed to master herself, and we walked boldly towards them.
"Good morrow," said one of the men.
"Good morrow," I replied.
"And whither go you?"
"That is my business."
"Ay, and mine too. Know you I am a constable and carry a truncheon? Come, tell me who you are."
"Ay, and let the wench show us her face," said another.
"Ay, and let her give us a kiss," said the third.
My anger was getting the better of me now, for not only did they say what I have written down, but much more, which must have been sorely distasteful to Mistress Constance's ears.
Without any more ado, therefore, I drew my sword.
"The man who approaches a step nearer will have to swallow six inches of steel," I said.
Drunk as they were they started back. One, however, who did not seem quite as drunk as the others, eyed us closely.
"Now, then, Peter Blewitt," he said, "you boast that you are a brave man, and you carry a truncheon. At him! At him!"
But Peter Blewitt did not move.
"And you say you are never frightened!" sneered the other. "You say that you will take me to the lock-up. You! you haven't the courage of a bantam cock!"
This seemed to sting the drunken constable, for he made as though he would come towards me, and throwing off Mistress Constance's hand, I seized a pistol, and held it towards them.
"Unless you go your way I shoot," I cried.
"Now then, Peter Blewitt, surely you are not afraid of a boy's popgun? At him, man! at him!"
With drunken gravity the constable drew his truncheon and came towards me. I was loth, great as the danger was, to use my weapons, for though I had been trained to the use of both, I had never had occasion to defend myself by them before. In this case my hesitation almost led to my undoing, for the feel of the truncheon having evidently given the constable fresh courage, he rushed upon me suddenly, and struck at me with all his might. He did not miss me by more than six inches, and had I not slipped aside, I should have been completely at his mercy, for he was a strong man. As it was, however, he missed me completely, and not only that, but wellnigh fell down at my feet. Peter Blewitt's action, however, proved an example for the others.
"I'll see who the wench is, pistol or no pistol," I heard one say, and I saw him seize Mistress Constance's cloak, and try to pull it aside.
At this I hesitated no longer, but struck at him with my sword. Whether the blade cut its way through the man's thick clothes I know not, but he dropped his arm in a moment, and then, carried away by my desire to be rid of them, I lifted my left arm and fired. I have been told since that the bullet only grazed the man's shoulder, but he cried out like one in the death agony. "I'm killed, I'm killed! Help!" he cried.
At this he took to his heels, and flew as though the furies were at his heels, while the others, apparently frightened at the report of the pistol, followed him howling at the top of their voices.
"Are you hurt?" asked Mistress Constance.
"No; and you are safe!"
"Yes. The man did not see my face. Come, let us go."
We hurried along the road for it may be five minutes; then she stopped.
"There is a stile here somewhere," she said. "I am sure we have not passed it. Ah, there it is."
She leaped lightly over it, and then followed the windings of a footpath. Through two fields we passed together without speaking, then she turned on me suddenly.
"Thank you, Master Rashcliffe," she said; "you are a brave man."
"What do you mean?" I stammered.
"I am safe now. You need not fear for me any more. I thank you from the depths of my heart."
"But you are not arrived at your destination yet."
"No, but I shall be there soon. You see those trees? Once behind them I am safe."
"But – "
"It will not be well for you to come farther, Master Rashcliffe. You need not fear for me. Forgive me if I desire to be alone. It is not because I am not grateful. You have saved me from death, a terrible death. Good-bye. We shall never meet again."
My heart grew cold within me. "You have told me nothing," I stammered. "That is, the time may come when I can be of – that is, I desire to be your friend, even as I told you more than a week ago at – that is, on the night I saw you first."
"No, no. I had better tell you nothing. If I am not taken prisoner again – which I shall not be; no, I will die first! – you will never see me more. But I will pray for you, pray that God will preserve you and give you happiness. But tell me," she cried, and it seemed as though she had remembered something else, "can you get away in safety? You must have had difficulty in coming to me."
"There is no need to fear for me, Mistress Constance," I said, fearing to give her pain on my account, and thus saying words which I was far from being sure of. "I will get away from Bedford without any man being the wiser, and you need not fear that I will ever tell any man that I have seen you. But I thought not to part from you so soon. There are many things I would ask of you. Much hath happened since I saw you last, and perchance you can give me an explanation."
"I can tell you nothing, nothing."
"But you spoke to that old man. You knew him, I saw him also. I had speech with him, and I would know who he was. The knowledge would advantage me much."
"No, no, I must not, I dare not. Good-bye. I thank you beyond words for what you have done, and you need not fear for me. I am safe now. I can hide while search is being made. After that I shall find a home in another land."
"Another land?"
"Ay. There can be no longer a home in England for such as I. Good-bye."
Again she held out her hand, and in so doing she allowed her cloak to drop, so that I saw her face again, and again my heart grew warm as I saw it.
"I cannot let you go like this," I said. "Perchance you will need help again. If you do, then I desire to be at your side to render such service as may lie in my power."
"Why should you?" she asked. "I am a stranger to you. Our pathways have strangely crossed each other, and you have been kind to me. For this I thank you, oh, so much! but we can never meet again. Our paths lie apart. I dare not show my face to my country people. I am a Dissenter. My father is hated of the new king, while I" – here her voice grew hoarse and harsh – "I attempted to kill the man whose actions brought him back. Do you realize that, Master Rashcliffe? Since that day I have been hunted as though I were a mad dog. Since that day I have had to adopt all sorts of disguises. I have had to hide in secret places, sometimes alone, sometimes in the company of a man who – who made me do his will, even when my heart grew sick at the thought of it."
"Then you need a friend all the more. I know nothing of the history of your marriage with Sir Charles Denman, and – "
"Do not seek to know it," she cried passionately. "I shall escape now. Since God hath led you to deliver me from Bedford Gaol, even when hope had died within my heart, will He forsake me now?"
"No, but if you need me?" I cried. "Will you not promise to send for me if you need me?"
"Is that your desire? Knowing what you know of me, do you wish to endanger yourself for me?"
"Does not my presence in Bedford to-night prove it?"
"But how may that be? Where can I send?"
"There is a man near St. Paul's Cross who keeps an inn called the Virgin Queen," I made answer. "He was once a servant of my father's. His name is Caleb Bullen. I will speak to him directly I return to London, and if you send a letter to me in care of him it will surely reach me."
I saw that she looked steadily towards me as I spoke, and I thought she hesitated.
"When I need help I will send to you. But stay! I may need protection from my – husband. Will you shield me from him?"
She said this bitterly, and as she spoke my heart became hard. Why should I seek to befriend the wife of another man? Was not her place at his side? Then I remembered the way he spoke to her in the inn at Folkestone, and while I pitied the woman, I felt like hating the man.
"I will help you against all who would harm you," I said.
She grasped my hand convulsively.
"God protect you and preserve you," she said; and then before I realized what she had done, I saw her speeding swiftly across the meadows towards the trees she had spoken of.
I started to follow her, but deemed such an action to be unwise; therefore I stopped and listened. Full five minutes did I wait, but not a sound did I hear. She had disappeared from my view as though she were a shadow of the night. For a time she seemed but the creature of one's dreams, and the events of the night only the imaginings of a disordered mind. Yet I knew it was not so.
Presently, drawn by a curiosity which I was unable to overcome, I went towards the group of trees I have spoken of, and presently I saw a large house wellnigh hidden by much foliage. After that I stayed not a minute, but hurried back with all speed towards Bedford.
The reason for this will be plain. While I was with Mistress Constance, my one thought was to ensure her safety, but directly I was convinced that she had found a refuge, I realized my own danger. It came upon me with great suddenness that I must leave the town within an hour. I knew that the woman's flight from the gaol might be discovered any moment, and thus I should, if I were not careful, be drawn into a net of difficulties. It would be easy to raise the hue and cry, and then I should nowhere find rest for the sole of my foot. I realized that the carousals consequent upon the coming of the king had allowed me to effect her escape. At no other time would it have been possible to have done such a thing. But vigilance had been suspended, and every turnkey had deemed it his duty to become drunk in the king's honour. In this also lay my hope for escape from Bedford that night.
My work, therefore, was to get into the town with all speed, to saddle Black Ben in secret, and to ride away before any man should become aware of my whereabouts. If Master Sturgeon were still asleep this might be easy, for I had taken care to examine the exits from the stable at the time when I had taken up my quarters at The Bull. Moreover, Black Ben, although I wished he had many more hours' rest, had been well fed, and would by this time be ready for a gallop. It is true I had ridden him sixty miles, but his staying power was wonderful, and I knew he would go till he dropped.
It did not take me long to reach The Bull, where I found the carousers still lingering. It struck me, however, that something of importance had happened. The drinkers were not singing and shouting, but talking eagerly.
"You say she hath escaped?" I heard some one say.
