The Lions Whelp 46

The Lions Whelp 46

But it was dawn before she could sleep. She lay calculating the time

that it would take to get fresh warrants, and her conclusion was, "If

Stephen have the least bit of good fortune, he will be out of danger,

before they know in London that their lying warrants are beyond looking

after. And I am glad I have done Mason and Blythe a good turn. At dawn

I will send them a message they will understand. Oh, indeed, Mr.

Cromwell, if you can spy, others can spy also!" She was a little

troubled when she thought of her aunt and Anthony Lynn. "But, Lord!"

she said audibly, "it is not time yet to face the question; I shall be

ready for it when it comes."

 

She did not anticipate this trial for some days. "They will begin to

wonder in two days what the sheriff has done in the matter; in three

days they may write to ask; about the fifth day he may let them know he

never got the warrants; then there will be new warrants to make out, and

to send, and all this net spread in the sight of the birds, and the

birds flown. In all conscience, I may take my ease for one clear

week—then—perhaps I may be in London. I will consider of it."

 

Her plan had, however, been too hastily formed and carried out to admit

of a thorough consideration, and in her hurry of rifling the mail, it

had not occurred to her that one of those small, unimportant-looking

letters might also be for the sheriff. This in fact was the case. When

daylight brought rescue to the bound carrier, the rejected letters were

gathered up, and one of them was a letter of instructions regarding the

three warrants to be served. It directed the sheriff to take Mason and

Blythe to Ely for trial, but to bring Stephen de Wick to the Tower of

London.

 

Now the overtopping desire and ambition of Sheriff Brownley’s heart was

to visit London officially; and this shameful theft had at least put a

stay on the golden opportunity of going there with a prisoner of such

high rank and high crimes as Stephen de Wick. He was in a passion of

disappointment, and hastily securing a warrant to arrest Stephen de Wick

for mail robbery, he went to de Wick to serve it.

 

For no one had a doubt as to the culprit. The mail-rider swore

positively that it was Stephen de Wick. "He minced and mouthed his

words," he said, "but I knew his face and figure, and also the scarlet

beaver with the white plumes with which he joys to affront the decent

men and women of Ely; yes, and his doublet, I saw its white slashings

and white cords and tassels. Till I die, I will swear it was Stephen de

Wick; he, and no other, except Yupon Slade, or I am not knowing Slade’s

way with horses. He whispered a word to my beast, and the creature

planted his forefeet like a rock; no one but Yupon or his gypsy kin can

do that. And Slade has been seen often with de Wick; moreover, he has

work in Anthony Lynn’s stables—and as for Anthony Lynn God only knows

the colour of his thoughts."

 

It was Delia who, about the noon hour, came flying into her lady’s

presence with the news that the sheriff was in the stables talking to

Yupon Slade, and that he had two constables with him.

 

"What do they want, Delia? I suppose I must say whom do they want? Is

it Mr. Lynn, or Lady Jevery, or myself?"

 

"I think it will be Earl de Wick they are after, my lady."

 

"’Tis most likely. Bid them to come in and find Earl de Wick. Give me

my blue velvet gown, Delia, the one with the silver trimmings."

Silently she assumed this splendid garment, and then descended to the

main salon of the house. Her great beauty, her majestic presence, her

royal clothing produced an instant impression. The sheriff—hatted

before Anthony Lynn—bared his head as she approached. He explained to

her his visit, the robbery committed, the certainty that Stephen de Wick

was the criminal, and the necessity he was under to make a search of the

house for him. She listened with disdainful apathy. "Mr. Lynn," she

said, tenderly placing her hand on his shoulder; "let the men search

your house. Let them search even my private rooms. They will find

nothing worse than themselves anywhere. As for Earl de Wick, he is not

in England at all."

 

The old man gave a gasp of relief and remained silent. It was evident

that he was suffering, and Matilda felt a great resentment towards the

intruders. "Why do you not go about your business?" she asked

scornfully. "Under the King, an Englishman’s house was his castle; but

now—now, no one is safe whom you choose to accuse. Go!" she said with an

imperious movement, "but Mr. Lynn’s steward must go with you. You may

be officers of the law—who knows?—and you may be thieves."

 

"Anthony Lynn knows who we be," answered the sheriff angrily. "We be

here on our duty—honest men all of us; say so, Anthony."

 

"You say it," replied Lynn feebly.

 

"And the lady must say it."

 

"Go about your business," interrupted Matilda loftily. "It is not your

business to browbeat Mr. Lynn and myself."

 

"Thieves, indeed! Stephen de Wick is the thief. He robbed the mail at

nine o’clock, last night."

 

"You lie! You lie damnably!" answered Matilda. "Earl de Wick was miles

and miles away from de Wick at nine o’clock last night." Then she bent

over Anthony Lynn, and with an intolerable scorn was deaf and dumb and

blind to the sheriff and his companions. Only when the steward entered,

did she appear to be aware of their presence. "Benson," she said, "you

will permit these men to search every room and closet, and pantry and

mouse hole for the Earl. And you will see that they touch neither gold

nor silver, pottery nor picture, or anything whatever—but Earl de Wick.

They may take the Earl—if they can find him."

 

The men were about an hour making their search, and during this interval

Lady Jevery had been summoned, and Anthony had received the stimulating

drug on which he relied. But he was very ill; and Lady Jevery, who

adored her nephew, was weeping and full of anxious terror. Matilda

vainly assured her Stephen was safe. She insisted on doubting this

statement.

 

"You thought he went north at four o’clock, but I feel sure he only went

as far as Blythe. No one but Stephen would have dared to commit such a

crime as was committed at nine o’clock. But ’tis most like him and

Frederick Blythe; and they will be caught, I feel sure they will."

 

"They will not be caught, aunt. And if it were Stephen and Blythe, they

did right. Who would not steal a warrant for his own beheading, if he

could? I sent a message to Blythe and Mason at dawn this morning, and

they are far away by this time."

 

At this point the sheriff reentered the room. He was in a vile temper,

and did not scruple to exercise it. "The man has gone," he said to

Anthony Lynn; "and I believe you know all about the affair."

 

"About what affair? The mail robbery?"

 

"Just that. What are you doing with profane and wicked malignants in

your house? I would like to know that, Anthony Lynn."

 

"To the bottomless pit with your liking," answered Anthony shaking from

head to feet with passion. "What have you to do with me and my friends?

This is my house, not yours."

 

"You are none of Cromwell’s friend. Many people beside me say that of

you."

 

"I am glad they do me so much honour. Cromwell! Who is Cromwell? A man

to joy the devil. No, I am not his friend!" and with a radiant smile—"I

thank my Maker for it."

 

He spoke with increasing difficulty, scarcely above a whisper, though he

had risen to his feet, and believed himself to have the strong,

resounding voice of his healthy manhood. The sheriff turned to his

attendants—

 

"You hear the traitor!" he cried. "You heard Anthony Lynn turn his back

on himself! I knew him always for a black heart and a double tongue.

We must have a warrant for him, and that at once."

 

"Fool!" said the trembling, tottering old man, with a superhuman scorn,

as his clay-like face suddenly flamed into its last colour. "Warrant!

warrant! Oliver Cromwell has no warrant to fit my name. I go now on

the warrant of the King of kings. Put me in the deepest dungeon, His

_habeas corpus_ sets me free of you. Matilda! Stephen! I am going to

my dear lord—to my dear King—to my dear God!" and as a strong man shakes

off a useless garment, so Anthony Lynn dropped his body, and in that

moment his spirit flew away further than thought could follow it.

 

"What a villain!" cried the sheriff.

 

"Villain, in your face," answered Matilda passionately. "Out of the

presence of holy death! You are not fit to stand by his dead body! Go,

on this instant! Sure, if you do not, there are those who will make

you!"

 

With these words she cried out for her servants in a voice full of

horror and grief, and the first person to answer her cry was Cymlin

Swaffham. He came in like some angry young god, his ruddy face and

blazing eyes breathing vengeful inquiry. Matilda went to his side,

clung to his arm, pointed to the dead man on the hearth and the

domineering figure of the sheriff above it, and cried, "Cymlin, Cymlin,

send him away! Oh, ’twas most unmercifully done!"

 

"Sir," said Cymlin, "you exceed your warrant. Have you arrested Stephen

de Wick?"

 

"The man has run, Mr. Swaffham, and madame there knows it."

 

"You have nothing to do with Lady Matilda. If the house has been

searched, your business here is finished. You can go."

 

"Mr. Swaffham, if you don’t know, you ought to be told, that Anthony

Lynn—just dead and gone—was a double-dyed Royalist scoundrel; and I and

my men here will swear to it. He confessed it, joyed himself in the

death struggle against the Lord Protector; we all heard the man’s own

words;" and the sheriff touched with the point of his boot, the lifeless

body of Anthony Lynn.

 

"Touch off!" cried Matilda. "How dare you boot the dead? You infinite

scoundrel!"

 

"Sheriff, your duty is done. It were well you left here, and permitted

the dead to have his rights."

 

"He is a traitor! A King’s man! A lying Puritan!"

 

"He is nothing at all to us, or to the world, now. To his Master above

he will stand or fall; not to you or me, or even to the law of England."

 

Then he turned to Matilda and led her to a sofa, and comforted her; and

the men-servants came and took away the dead body and laid it, as

Anthony wished, on his old master’s bed. Lady Jevery went weeping to

her room, and the sound of lamentation and of sorrow passed up and down

the fine stairway, and filled the handsome rooms. But the dead man lay

at peace, a smile of gratified honour on his placid face, as if he yet

remembered that he had, at the last moment, justified himself to his conscience and his King.