CHAPTER XII.
IN THE LION'S MOUTH.
The news of the suppression of the conspiracy and the arrest of theringleaders caused great excitement over England. Enormous crowdsparaded the streets of London demanding the exile of all persons who hadformerly borne titles. The King was hung in effigy and his lay figurecremated in the public kiln at Lincoln's Inn Fields. Socialism becamerampant. A rabble of the lowest orders of the people invaded Hyde Parkand the other public gardens, making day and night hideous with theirorgies. The famous Albert memorial statue was blown to shivers bydynamite at high noon, and unbridled license became the watchword of themasses. Such anarchy had never been known in England. Even thegovernment, who at first were inclined to suffer the demonstrationagainst the Royalists to gather head, grew alarmed. Absolute revolutionwas imminent, and resolute measures had to be taken. Nor did the publictemper cool until threescore of the most wretched of those who live inthe foul dens of the great city lay dead along the streets of Kensingtonand Belgravia. The military were forced to shoot them down to stem thetumult.
Comparative quiet was restored at the end of ten days, and then thegovernment ventured to bring the prisoners to London under a strongguard and lodge them in the Tower. Twenty thousand people, it isestimated, dogged the footsteps of the troops who escorted them, and itwas only the points of bayonets and the muskets ready to deal death at aword that secured their safety. The conspirators marched two and twowith lancers carrying loaded carbines on each flank. There were sixteenin all. John Dacre and Geoffrey Ripon were side by side. Neither of themhad much hope of escaping the fury of the mob. The Duke of Bayswater andColonel Featherstone rode a little in advance. The poor old duke's hathad fallen off, and his bald head was a shining mark for missiles. Anegg had struck his pate and made an offensive daub.
The streets through which the procession passed were lined withspectators. From Government House, President Bagshaw and the leadingmembers of the party in power looked down upon their victims, and thewindows of Whitehall across the way afforded a view to the friends ofthe opposition, among whom sat Richard Lincoln and his daughter. Thegreat commoner would have preferred to avoid the spectacle, but Mary hadexpressed a desire to see the prisoners on their way through thestreets. She looked pale and stony-eyed as she sat watching for them,and her father sighed as he observed her, for he knew her secret. Hisbrow was anxious. These were troublesome times and a source of concernto all who loved their country. He knew the government to be composed ofmen who thought only of their own interests. This semblance of authoritywas the sole bar that prevented the insubordinate masses from overridinglaw and decency. How long would President Bagshaw be able to withstandthe popular clamor for a liberty that was akin to pillage? This foolishconspiracy had biassed thousands of order-loving citizens againstconservative measures. His own party were reduced to a pitiful minority,and the conduct of the Royalists had caused a reaction which threatenedto engulf the constitution and the laws. And, as if that were not enoughto sadden the soul of an honest man, his only daughter loved the traitorwhose mad enthusiasm had precipitated these ills upon the country.
It was Mary's voice that interrupted his revery.
"They are coming, father."
Lincoln looked out, and as far as the eye could reach the streets wereblack with a sea of heads. The glistening of bayonets, the waving flags,the uniforms, the mad shouts and derisive groans, and above the tumultthe drums beating in full rhythm, made an exciting scene. But all waslost upon Mary. Her eye had singled out John Dacre, and she was gazingdown at him in speechless agony. He appeared to her wan and sick. Hisclothes were torn and covered with mud. But he bore himself as ever,erect and dignified.
As though by instinct, he looked up to the window, and their eyes met.He raised his hat with the courtly grace of a gentleman, forgetting foran instant the situation and the consequences that may accrue to her hesaluted. The glance of the crowd followed his gesture, and many caughtsight of the pale girl and beheld her throw a rose to the handsomeprisoner. It fell wide of him for whom it was meant; indeed, he did notsee the flower fall. It dropped among the crowd, and would have beentrampled in the mud beneath the feet of those who hated her lover hadnot Geoffrey Ripon darted from the ranks and snatched it up to hisinfinite peril, for the trooper at his side struck him with the butt ofhis carbine. "See," he said to Dacre, who was stalking on in unconsciousrevery; "see, she has thrown you a rose. Be of good cheer, man." AndGeoffrey could not help thinking that if the one he loved had dropped arose at his feet, how slight a thing his present plight would seem.
But Richard Lincoln saw her action, and, with a start of anger, he said,"That man is a traitor, Mary. And yet you are my daughter."
Those of his friends standing near had failed to notice her throw therose, nor did they now heed the blush which mantled her face as shelooked up at their leader.
"I know it, father; but I love him," she whispered, and she would havefainted had not Lincoln supported her with his strong arms and led herfrom the room.
There was another also who watched the prisoners with eyes ofrecognition. Mrs. Oswald Carey had left her lodgings early in themorning so as to secure a good position from which to view theprocession, and from a coign of vantage close by the houses ofParliament was feasting her gaze upon the victims of her treachery. Along cloak covered her figure, and her face was muffled. Only herbeautiful eyes were visible. Owing to the bitter feeling prevalentagainst the Royalists, she feared to show herself, for she had been sointimately associated with the dissipations of the nobility, the peoplewould have stoned her. She felt proof against discovery in her presentgarb, and had waited for hours, hedged about by the rabble, for aglimpse of Geoffrey Ripon.
Her revenge had been swift and equal to her expectation. Its sequel wasyet to follow. As she gazed at the face of the young man, whichexposure had rather ennobled and made more handsome, strange feelingswere awakened within her. She scarcely knew whether she were sorry tosee him there in peril of his life, or that she would be pleased to knowthat he had paid the penalty of treason with his head. Her love and hatewere so intermingled that she could not distinguish which had the upperhand. He passed close to where she was standing. But even had he beenable to recognize her, he could not have suspected that her perfidy wasthe occasion of his misfortune. She had guarded her secret carefully.President Bagshaw had been true to his word. No rumor of the means bywhich the conspiracy was unearthed had reached the public ear.
As she made her way home through the crowded street after the processionhad passed, reflection as to what would be Geoffrey's fate absorbed herthoughts. In the present state of the public temper it was not likelythat he would escape death. To be shot for high treason seemed thelogical sequel to his escapade. Well, if it must be so, she preferred tosee him on the scaffold rather than in the arms of another. She wouldwait until all was over, and then find in America solace for herdisappointment. She had played her cards well. The King was madly inlove with her, and she had no fear of his sailing away without her. Ifso, there was Jawkins still. She had lulled the manager into such afeeling of security that he had run up to Scotland to undertake animportant contract. An American billionaire, having rented the Trossachsfor the season, had engaged him to superintend his arrangements. Titledpeople were at a premium since the discovery of the conspiracy, andJawkins could command his own prices. His reply to this patron, "I willprovide you with a pair of peers if I have to filch them from prison,but they come high," was illustrative alike of the energy and thebusiness sagacity of the man. The poor old Archbishop of Canterbury, whohad escaped from Aldershot scot free, was being hurried from one cornerof England to the other to supply dinner requirements. Jawkins hadcaused her some trouble at first, it is true. Upon the receipt of hertelegram at Ripon House he had hurried up to London, and ferreting outher lodgings accused her of wishing to give him the slip. She hadassuaged his feelings by lunching with him at a public restaurant andpermitting him to engage their passages to America for a fort
nightlater. Had it not been for the King's arrival she would have kept faithwith him.
The trial of the prisoners was set down for one week after theirconsignment to the Tower. It was to take place in the House ofParliament, and the indictment against all was for high treason. Theattorney-general, James McPherson, was to conduct the case for thegovernment, and the accused retained the services of Calhoun Benjamin, agreat-grandson of the Benjamin for some time a famous lawyer in thereign of Victoria. It was not permissible for any member of either houseto appear as counsel. The constitution required that the joint bodiesshould adjudge the cause. Still, after the formal arguments any memberwas at liberty to rise to a question of privilege and address theassembly. Such was indeed the usual custom.
Mary Lincoln doubtless had this in mind when she whispered to her fatherthe evening before the trial, "You will speak for him, will you not,father?"
"I cannot tell," said Richard Lincoln. "Why should I, Mary? His desertis death, and I should not know what to say in his behalf."
"But if all of us were treated according to our deserts, how few of uswould escape scathing. Only you, father; I know of no one beside."
The patriot looked down at the pale girl sitting at his feet and strokedher hair. Her eyes were filled with tears, and she gazed at himimploringly. He knew her secret to the uttermost now. She had told him,all the evening of that dreadful day when London saw her throw down arose to her country's traitor. Still, if it were to do again, would shenot do it? Her love was stronger than her sense of shame.
Richard Lincoln sat and gazed into the fire. These were indeedtroublesome times, but a light seemed breaking just below where theclouds lowered darkest. A week had seen a great change in publicsentiment. Debate in Parliament had been fierce and bitter. At the headof his party he had striven to show that those who held the reins ofpower abused and deceived the masses, and that true liberty lay not inignorant usurpation of right, but intelligent recognition of a lawfullyconstituted authority which regarded all alike. At first his purpose hadbeen misinterpreted, but as by degrees the true significance of hiswords were grasped by the popular mind, groans gave place to silence,and sullenness to cheers. He had not hesitated to wield the axe ofreform with a yeoman's hand, and the flying chips told of the havoc hewas making among the dead wood of ignorance and craft. It was his aim todemonstrate that a demagogue in the seat of power is no less a menace tothe happiness of the people than an aristocrat.
Yet in the face of his triumph arose the shadow of this strange,unnatural love; for it seemed unnatural to him that his only childshould have given her heart to one whose ambition it was to destroy thatwhich he had helped to establish and bring back the frippery of anunhallowed past. He had found it difficult at first to conceive it aspossible, but her confession, and more eloquently still her pallidcheeks, left no room to question the truth of this misfortune. Andto-morrow he would be called upon to doom to the scaffold the man whosebeing had become so much a part of hers as to have led her to play thetraitor also. As thus he pondered the breaking light seemed to fade fromthe sky, and the clouds lowered gloomy and impenetrable.
"Father," said Mary again, "I am sure you can save him."
Lincoln shook his head. "Not even if I would, girl," he replied,sternly.
"You, too, desert me," she murmured. She covered her face with her handsfor a moment, then with a sudden impulse she stood, tall and resolute.Her eyes flashed fire. "If it is wrong to love a traitor, let it be so.I cannot help loving John Dacre, and I should like to die with him."
Richard Lincoln gazed at her in amazement. There was pride, too, in hisglance. He saw in her transfigured face a repetition of his own youthwhen the spirit soared impatient of restraint and knew not yet the curbsthat check the extravagance oL ardent natures. In those early days hehad struck out for the ideal right, even as her heart in the fulness ofits love poured out its tide of passion. He held out his hands to her,and his lips trembled.
"My child, my child! would to God I could save your lover. You aredearer to me than all the world beside. Do not spurn your father's arms.His breast is your rightful place for comfort now."
She suffered him to clasp her in his embrace. "I will be brave," shewhispered, looking up into his eyes. "Kiss me; I will be brave, and--andwhen he dies let me die, too."
"My child!" murmured Lincoln again, and there was terror as well as pityin his tone. He held her close, and her head rested on his shoulder."All may yet be well, my dear one," he said tenderly.
Before daybreak the next morning a stream of people was pouring up fromthe city and winding its way through Cheapside and Fleet Street and theStrand to the judgment hall in the Houses of Parliament. By the time theguard from the Tower reached Westminster, vast multitudes lined thesidewalks and formed so dense a mass in the square in front of the gatesthat progress was well-nigh impossible. The populace was orderly,however, and fell back before the horses of a troop of cavalry, with nofurther demonstration than a sullen murmur.
The prisoners were brought before the bar of the Commons, and the UpperHouse entered immediately after to take their seats. It was animpressive scene. One might have heard a pin drop as the officer of theCrown rose to read the indictment, and again when, as he sat down, thehoarse voice of the clerk called out the names of the accused, shorn ofall titles, to rise and answer to the charge of high treason against theRepublic of Great Britain and Ireland.
"What say you, John Dacre--guilty or not guilty?"
"Not guilty."
Dacre's glance moved gravely around the vast hall and met the gaze of athousand eyes without flinching. Fate willed that it should distinguisha pale, lovely face amid the press that lined the galleries, and lingerthereon a moment as though loath to turn aside; but even while he gazed,the drapery and shoulder of another woman were interposed between hissight and the delicate features of Mary Lincoln, and shut her from hisview. "What say you, Geoffrey Ripon? Are you guilty or not guilty?"
It was these words that had caused the stranger to lean forward andcrane her neck--a beautiful neck that, muffled as she was, did notwholly escape the admiration of her neighbors. Her eyes sparkled with alight cold and malicious as the gleam which emanates from a blade ofsteel. As the lips of young Geoffrey Ripon flung back a clear denial ofthe charge, a hope was in his heart that the sweet maiden of his fancymight be among the hundreds looking down. She was not there, but herrival, Mrs. Oswald Carey, sat and watched each shade of his expression.
And now the witnesses were summoned and confronted the prisoners. Theproofs were ample and overwhelming. It almost seemed mistrusting theintelligence of the judges to dwell upon the evidence, to quote theopening words of the attorney-general, and as a consequence the argumentof that official was a model of conciseness. Then the time was come forthe defendants' counsel. Mr. Benjamin arose and spoke for an hour. Hisspeech was painstaking, but not particularly impressive. In conclusionhe said that rebellion had often been punished before without theshedding of blood. He instanced Jefferson Davis, the great Secessionist,and the clemency of the American people. Mr. McPherson in reply adducedthe Irish rebels executed by the government of Victoria, and thereat ashout arose which shook the walls of Parliament and was echoed by thecrowd outside. Even the prisoners glanced at each other with downcastlooks. The perspiration stood out in beads on the bald head of the Dukeof Bayswater.
"It is all up with us," whispered Ripon to Dacre.
"My God and my King! It is a noble cause to die for," answered thecavalier, and his proud face looked beatified.
There was a dread and awful silence as the attorney-general finished hislast words. The hour for judgment had arrived, unless it were that somesenator or commoner wished to speak for or against the prisoners. Abitter and illiterate friend of the government saw fit to spring to hisfeet and enter upon a violent harangue. Clemency would be misplaced inthe present juncture, he said. Death for one and all was the propermeasure to be meted out to Royalists and traitors. His truculent wordsseemed to please the a
udience, and he sat down amid a tempest ofapplause. For an instant there was no movement on either side of thehouse, and then Richard Lincoln, the leader of the opposition, arose andstepped out into the aisle, so as to command his hearers. A flutter ofexpectation, a murmur of surprise, spread through the assembly, and ashe opened his mouth to speak, every ear was alert to catch his words.
"I rise," he said, "to speak for the people, the great, true-souledpeople. They have, it seems to me, no representative here, or I havefailed to interpret aright the language of my predecessor. Are thepeople merciless? Have they no heart? I know that the contrary is true.It is no argument with them that others have preferred cruelty to mercy,and vengeance to justice. I stand here to-day, for the people and forjustice."
He paused, and as no sound expressed one way or the other the feelingsof his auditors, he spoke once more:
"Let these men live. Fine or imprisonment will accomplish all that youdesire, save the satisfaction of revenge. Capital punishment in this ageof the world is an ugly smear upon the escutcheon of constitutionalliberty. Let these men live, and your children's children will write youdown in their books as worthy of remembrance. They are guilty, but bloodwill not atone for wrong-doing. Let them live, I say, in the name ofjustice and the people."
He finished and sat down. Not much of a speech in the way of argument,some will say. It is the manner more than the matter of words that swaysmen's hearts. No cheers were heard, it is true, but his hearers sat uponthe benches thoughtful and silent. The Speaker of the House glancedabout him, but no one rose to contradict the testimony that had fallenfrom the lips of Richard Lincoln.
And now the judges arose and left the hall. For four hours the assemblyand the crowds in the streets waited in patience. Before the fifth hadelapsed the usher's rod announced that a verdict had been reached. Thesilence was breathless. The Speaker took the scroll from the hands ofWilliam Peters, the leader of the House, and read aloud that John Dacre,as the master spirit of the late rebellion at Aldershot, was sentencedto be shot to death at noon of the next day, and that all the otherleaders were to be imprisoned for the term of fifteen years.
There was a roar and a rush as the people rose to escape from thegalleries, and few observed a slender girl slip from her seat to thefloor. A woman with beautiful eyes, whose face was otherwise veiled fromview, stooped to her succor, then gave a shrill cry. Mary Lincoln laylifeless. Mrs. Oswald Carey, whose shriek it was that made this known,was not one to believe that a woman can die of a broken heart. But ifeven such a result of her treachery had been foreshadowed to her, shewould not have faltered.