THE DEPARTURE
That evening Jack received a brief note from Preston. It said:
"I learn that young Clarke is very ill. I think you would better get
out of England for fear of what may come. A trial would be apt to
cause embarrassment in high places. Can I give you assistance?"
Jack returned this note by the same messenger:
"Thanks, good friend, I shall go as soon as my business is finished,
which I hope may be to-morrow."
Just before the young man went to bed a brief note arrived from
Margaret. It read;
"DEAREST JACK. My father has learned of our meeting yesterday and of
how it came about. He is angry. He forbids another meeting. I shall
not submit to his tyranny. We must assert our rights like good
Americans. I have a plan. You will learn of it when we meet to-morrow
at eleven. Do not send an answer. Lovingly, MARGARET."
He slept little, and in the morning awaited with keen impatience the
hour of his appointment.
On his way to the place he heard a newsboy shouting the words "duel"
and "Yankee," followed by the suggestive statement: "Bloody murder in
high life."
Evidently Lionel Clarke had died of his wound. He saw people standing
in groups and reading the paper. He began to share the nervousness of
Preston and the wise, far-seeing Franklin. He jumped into a cab and
was at the corner some minutes ahead of time. Precisely at eleven he
saw the coach draw near. He hurried to its side. The footman
dismounted and opened the door. Inside he saw, not Margaret, but the
lady of the hidden face.
"You are to get in, sir, and make a little journey with the madame,"
said the footman.
Jack got into the coach. Its door closed, the horses started with a
jump and he was on his way whither he knew not. Nor did he know the
reason for the rapid pace at which the horses had begun to travel.
"If you do not mind, sir, we will not lift the shades," said the veiled
lady, as the coach started. "We shall see Margaret soon, I hope."
She had a colorless, cold voice and what was then known in London as
the "patrician manner." Her tone and silence seemed to say: "Please
remember this is all a matter of business and not a highly agreeable
business to me."
"Where is Margaret?" he asked.
"A long way from here. We shall meet her at The Ship and Anchor in
Gravesend. She will be making the journey by another road."
She had answered in a voice as cold as the day and in the manner of one
who had said quite enough.
"Where is Gravesend?"
"On the Thames near the sea," she answered briskly, as if in pity of
his ignorance.
He saw the plan now--an admirable plan. They were to meet near the
port of sailing and be married and go aboard the ship and away. It was
the plan of Margaret and much better than any he could have made, for
he knew little of London and its ports.
"Should I not take my baggage with me?"
"There is not time for that," the veiled lady answered. "We must make
haste. I have some clothes for you in a bag."
She pointed to a leathern case under the front seat.
He sat thinking of the cleverness of Margaret as they left the edge of
the city and hurried away on the east turnpike. A mist was coming up
from the sea. The air ahead had the color of a wool stack. They
stopped at an inn to feed and water the horses and went on in a dense
fog, which covered the hedge rows on either side and lay thick on the
earth so that the horses seemed to be wading in it. Their pace slowed
to a walk. From that time on, the road was like a long ford over which
they proceeded with caution, the driver now and then winding a horn.
Each sat quietly in a corner of the seat with a wall of cold fog
between them. The young man liked it better than the wall of mystery
through which he had been able to see the silent, veiled form beside
him.
"Do you have much weather like this?" he ventured to inquire by and by.
This answer came out of the bank of fog: "Yes," as if she would have
him understand that she was not being paid for conversation.
From that time forward they rode in a silence broken only by the
creaking of the coach and the sound of the horses' hoofs. Darkness had
fallen when they reached the little city of Gravesend. The Ship and
Anchor stood by the water's edge.
"You will please wait here," said the stern lady in a milder voice than
she had used before, as the coach drew up at the inn door, "I shall see
if she has come."
His strange companion entered the inn and returned presently, saying:
"She has not yet arrived. Delayed by the fog. We will have our
dinner, if you please."
Jack had not broken his fast since nine and felt keenly the need of
refreshment, but he answered:
"I think that I would better wait for Margaret."
"No, she will have dined at Tillbury," said the masterful lady. "It
will save time. Please come and have dinner, sir."
He followed her into the inn. The landlady, a stout, obsequious woman,
led them to a small dining-room above stairs lighted by many candles
where an open fire was burning cheerfully.
A handsomely dressed man waited by them for orders and retired with the
landlady when they were given.
From this point the scene at the inn is described in the diary of the
American.
"She drew off her hat and veil and a young woman about twenty-eight
years of age and of astonishing beauty stood before me."
"'There, now, I am out of business,' she remarked in a pleasant voice
as she sat down at the table which, had been spread before the
fireplace. 'I will do my best to be a companion to you until Margaret
arrives.'
"She looked into my eyes and smiled. Her sheath of ice had fallen from
her.
"'You will please forgive my impertinence,' said she. 'I earn my
living by it. In a world of sentiment and passion I must be as cold
and bloodless as a stone, but in fact, I am very--very human.'
"The waiter came with a tray containing soup, glasses and a bottle of
sherry. We sat down at the table and our waiter filled two glasses
with the sherry.
"'Thank you, but self-denial is another duty of mine,' she remarked
when I offered her a glass of the wine. 'I live in a tipsy world and
drink--water. I live in a merry world and keep a stern face. It is a
vile world and yet I am unpolluted.'
"I drank my glass of wine and had begun to eat my soup when a strange
feeling came over me. My plate seemed to be sinking through the table.
The wall and fireplace were receding into dim distance. I knew then
that I had tasted the cup of Circe. My hands fell through my lap and
suddenly the day ended. It was like sawing off a board. The end had
fallen. There is nothing more to be said of it because my brain had
ceased to receive and record impressions. I was as totally out of
business as a man in his grave. When I came to, I was in a berth on
the ship _King William_ bound for New York. As soon as I knew
anything, I knew that I had been tricked. My clothes had been removed
and were lying on a chair near me. My watch and money were
undisturbed. I had a severe pain in my head. I dressed and went up on
deck. The Captain was there.
"'You must have had a night of it in Gravesend,' he said. 'You were
like a dead man when they brought you aboard.'
"'Where am I going?' I asked.
"'To New York,' he answered with a laugh. 'You must have had a time!'
"How much is the fare?"
"'Young man, that need not concern you,' said the Captain. 'Your fare
has been paid in full. I saw them put a letter in your pocket. Have
you read it?'"
Jack found the letter and read:
"DEAR SIR--When you see this you will be well out of danger and, it is
hoped, none the worse for your dissipation. This from one who admires
your skill and courage and who advises you to keep out of England for
at least a year.
"A WELL WISHER."
He looked back over the stern of the ship. The shore had fallen out of
sight. The sky was clear. The sun shining. The wind was blowing from
the east.
He stood for a long time looking toward the land he had left.
"Oh, ye wings of the wind! take my love to her and give her news of me
and bid her to be steadfast in her faith and hope," he whispered.
He leaned against the bulwark and tried to think.
"Sir Benjamin has seen to it," he said to himself. "I shall have no
opportunity to meet her again."
He reviewed the events of the day and their under-current of intrigue.
The King himself might have been concerned in that and Preston also.
It had been on the whole a rather decent performance, he mused, and
perhaps it had kept him out of worse trouble than he was now in. But
what had happened to Margaret?
He reread her note.
"My father has learned of our meeting and of how it came about," he
quoted.
"More bribery," he thought. "The intrigante naturally sold her
services to the highest bidder."
He recalled the violent haste with which the coach had rolled away from
the place of meeting. Had that been due to a fear that Margaret would
defeat their plans?
All these speculations and regrets were soon put away. But for a long
time one cause of worry was barking at his heels. It slept beside him
and often touched and awoke him at night. He had been responsible for
the death of a human being. What an unlucky hour he had had at Sir
John Pringle's! Yet he found a degree of comfort in the hope that
those proud men might now have a better thought of the Yankees.