Chapter X A Legend
When Reginald returned to his mother he found her waiting impatiently for him; indeed, she had done so for the last three days. Her whole time had been spent between prayer and waiting, seated in the window with her hands folded.
In the morning she attended to her household duties—she forgot nothing. It was with difficulty that they could get her to take any food; she seemed to have no need of it. Now, when she saw Reginald coming up the street, she said to Ann:
“He has news—he has found your father.” And she went to the door to meet him.
“Well?” she asked.
“Yes, I have found him,” said Reginald; “but you must not rejoice too soon, Mother, for he is in a terrible condition.”
“Dying?” she asked.
“I cannot say, for I do not know,” answered Reginald. “He is very ill—his sufferings have been great, and he is now delirious. I saw the governor, and he had him removed to a cell by himself. He is in want of everything. There are no rules to prevent our taking anything we choose to him.”
“And I may go to him?” she asked.
“Yes, you may go to him, but Ann must not,” said Reginald; “the place reeks of fever, small-pox, and every other disease. You must be prepared for the worst, Mother.”
“Whatever the Lord orders is for the best,” she answered.
“But what is to become of Ann? She cannot remain in this house alone,” said Reginald.
“Take her to Patience,” said Mistress Newbolt. “She can abide with her all day, and at night when I return you can fetch her—if I do return.”
“At sunset you must leave the prison, Mother; it is the rule.”
“Very well,” said Mistress Newbolt, “I will abide by the rule. Now order a coach; I have everything ready.”
“I am afraid not everything,” said Reginald. “He lacks bedding, sheets, the veriest necessaries. I left him lying on straw in a damp cell. I will order a cart to come round to take the larger luggage, but you must go in a coach.”
“I can walk if necessary,” said Mistress Newbolt; “it is no great distance.”
Two hours were spent putting things together, providing food, broths, and jellies. Ann went about with her mother, thinking of everything. When all was ready and the coach was called, she said to Reginald:
“Shall I not be allowed to go?”
“No, it is not a fit place for you,” said Reginald; “and you would do no good. I don’t know when I shall return myself, therefore you had better get your women to take you to Somerset House. You can tell them how matters stand, and I shall probably fetch you at nightfall, or when my mother comes back.”
Whilst they were still conversing, Mr. Delarry came up. It was by no means the first time he had come to the house—indeed, he and Reginald were very good friends, and he would frequently drop in to supper—but he had been away with the king at Hampton Court, and had only just heard of the colonel’s arrest.
“I am deeply grieved for you,” he said, “and I hastened here to tell you so. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Nothing at present,” said Reginald. “I have been three days finding my father, and now he is sick unto death; I do not know whether he will live. I am taking my mother to him. I have no time to say more, so farewell!”
Mistress Newbolt appeared on the steps, and Reginald hastened to help her into the coach. Many of the servants had followed her, and were weeping. Although she was a stern mistress, she was a just one, and they all respected her.
“Delarry,” said Reginald, before following his mother into the coach, “will you see my sister to Somerset House? She cannot stay here alone, and neither my mother nor myself can be back before nightfall.”
“If she will allow me to do so, I shall esteem it a favour,” said Delarry. “And, Reginald, let me know if I can be of any use to you; I am at your service.”
“Many thanks!” said Reginald. “It is something to feel that one has a friend in these hard times.” The two young men shook hands, Reginald took his place beside his mother, and they drove away. Ann went slowly back to the house, Delarry following her.
“Shall you go at once to Somerset House?” he asked.
“In about an hour,” she answered. “I must put my mother’s room in order, and attend to a few household duties. But do not let me detain you; my own woman will accompany me.”
“You would not grieve me thus?” said Delarry. “I esteem it a high honour to have been asked to take care of you.”
“Very well,” said Ann, “come back in an hour, and I will be ready.”
He did so, and accompanied her the short distance from Drury Lane to Somerset House. They made no haste, for they liked each other’s society.
When they reached Somerset House they found Patience and Agnes on the terrace taking their mid-day airing.
“We did not venture to come to your house,” said Patience, after greeting Ann and her companion, “for fear of disturbing your mother. We felt sure if you had news that you would send us word.”
“We have news,” said Ann, “but it is of such an evil kind that the telling of it is grievous to me.”
“Still we must hear it,” said Patience.
They sat down on the bench facing the river, and there Ann told them all she knew.
“It is a very terrible state of affairs,” said Delarry, looking serious; but he did not venture to say how serious he thought it, for he knew full well that the king was still very bitter against anyone who had had a hand in his father’s murder. Nevertheless he tried to speak cheerfully.
“It will be better,” he said, “for Reginald to go to the king himself. He is rather partial to the young man; indeed, only the other day he asked why he was not in attendance. He then learnt of the arrest of Colonel Newbolt, and expressed his regret that the son should have to suffer for the father.”
Ann coloured. “That means that Reginald will have to resign his commission,” she said.
“I am afraid so,” answered Delarry. “It would hardly do, when his father is imprisoned for connivance with the regicides, for him to remain in the king’s service. But we cannot tell. Charles is a strange character; he may not choose to accept your brother’s resignation.”
“It was not Colonel Newbolt’s fault that he was on duty on that day at that place,” said Agnes.
“No,” said Delarry, “that was a coincidence, but still the fact is there.”
“Don’t let us talk about it,” said Ann; “it will not mend matters.”
“My friend is right,” said Agnes. “We will talk of other things. Is there any news from France, Mr. Delarry?”
“Yes, the king heard from her majesty the queen no later than yesterday. The marriage of the duke and the princess is to be the occasion of great festivities; it is to be conducted with royal state. The King of France is making much of the bride.”
“I wish I were in Paris,” said Agnes; “I know just how it will all be. I think I like Paris better than London.”
“Oh no, you don’t!” said Ann. “You must not. You are an English girl, and must love your own country best.”
“So she will in years to come,” said Patience. “There is so much in habit. She has always lived in France. The sun shines more brightly there, and the days are longer.”
“And people are less stiff, and they are kinder and more courteous,” said Agnes. “You English are so cold! I have lived a long time here now, and I have only one friend—that is you, Ann.”
“And is it not a grand thing to have one friend?” said Mr. Delarry. “We may have many acquaintances, little lady, but a friend is a rare gem.”
Having said this, Mr. Delarry rose and took his leave.
Patience and the two girls went up to their own apartment, and occupied themselves at that fine tapestry work at which Agnes, like all French ladies, was an adept. Ann was not so clever with her needle, but she loved to watch her friend, whose proficiency was astonishing; the flowers, the birds, the figures, seemed to grow under her fingers.
“I wish I could work as you do,” she said.
“I love it,” answered Agnes; “it makes me forget. When I have any trouble or any vexation I come to my framework and create a bird, or a flower. Sometimes I dream dreams. It does not matter what I do, but I grow quieter and happier.”
“You are a town girl, and I am a country girl,” said Ann. “I have lived all my life in the open, in the midst of the flowers and the birds, with my dogs and horses, riding and hunting with Reginald and my father over miles of moorland. Oh, it is glorious! Would you not love it?”
Agnes looked up. “Love it? Indeed I am sure I should!” she answered. “Patience said just now we grow accustomed to things; that is true. I was accustomed to the great dark rooms at the Louvre, and the long dull days; but sometimes, I remember, I used to feel suffocated, as if I were a bird beating against the bars of the cage. I used to look up through the windows at the sky, and long—oh, how I used to long!—to have wings to fly away.”
“And yet you say you like France better than England,” said Ann.
“I knew of nothing better,” said Agnes. “I loved the queen and I loved Henrietta, but still I have always known that it was not my own life, that there must be something better! We used to go to Fontainebleau sometimes, but we children never went beyond the edge of the wood. We were allowed to wander in the great gardens, which were very beautiful, with long avenues of trees and a big pond full of tame carp, which came when we called them, and which we used to feed. It was a great pleasure, but still it was not liberty. I longed for liberty, to ride, to walk, as the desire might come to me. Ah, you are very happy!” she said to Ann. “Tell me about that place up north of which you speak so often.”
“Newbolt Manor?” answered Ann. “It is the most beautiful place in the world. Long, long ago it was a monastery, and belonged to a religious order. There are the ruins of the most lovely chapel you ever saw; and although the house has been restored and rebuilt, there are still parts of it which belong to the old days—the great hall, the refectory, and the library. They are very beautiful, with much carved oak and many stained-glass windows.”
“And it belonged to the De Lisles!” said Agnes thoughtfully.
“Yes,” answered her companion, “and there is a long picture-gallery containing portraits of the family of De Lisles; and now I come to think of it, Agnes, there is one picture of a child who lived a long time ago—oh! a hundred years ago, perhaps. You are exactly like her; is it not strange?”
“Very,” said Agnes. “Go on and tell me more.”
“Well,” said Ann, “the story is that when the monks were driven out, King Henry VIII gave it to a certain Reginald De Lisle.”
“How did that old man at Greenwich know anything; about them, I wonder?” said Agnes. “How did he know the De Lisles?”
“That I cannot tell,” said Ann. “He may have been an old servant, and have known the legend that the De Lisles, being possessed of church lands, would be driven out.”
“It has come true,” said Agnes.
“Only to a certain extent,” said Ann. “They were not driven out, they died out; the race is extinct.”
“How then can they come back again?” asked Agnes. “You know he said they would.”
“Ah! that I cannot tell,” answered Ann. “If he were an old servant of the De Lisles, the wish might very possibly be father to the thought.”
“But,” said Agnes thoughtfully, “supposing it were a mistake, and that one day a De Lisle should turn up and claim his own?”
“I do not suppose it would make much difference now,” said Ann. “The land is ours as far as lawyers and parchment can make it so.”
“You would be sorry to lose it,” said Agnes.
“Yes, I should,” answered Ann. “I love the place, and I would like to think that Reginald would have it one day, and that he would marry and have children; and so it would go down from generation to generation, a fair heritage.”
“As it was with the De Lisles,” said Agnes thoughtfully. “Ah well!” she added, “it does not much matter; the world passeth away, and the glory of it.”
Instinctively the words had come to her lips—how they did so she knew not—it was the inspiration of a moment. She had dropped her needle whilst listening to Ann, and there was a strange, dreamy look in the great dark eyes as she gazed through the window up to the sky which overhung the river. The summer day had come to a close; she could no longer see to put her stitches into the canvas. A sense of unreality crept over her, a sort of feeling as if she had lived in another world once upon a time—she was, and she was not—a spell seemed laid upon her. Would she awake and find her present life only a dream?
Patience’s voice roused her.
“Ann Newbolt,” she said, “a messenger has come from your brother. Neither he nor your mother can return to-night. He requests me to keep you with us.”
“My father is dying, then?” said Ann.
“The messenger does not say so,” answered Patience, “merely that they cannot leave the prison.”