Over the Border. Robert Barr
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came forward.
“Be not troubled, Madam,” he said. “While they cry ‘To the block’ it shows they have not possession of his lordship’s person, but hope to stir up rancour to his disfavour. While they shout for process of law, his lordship is safe, for the law is in his hands and in those of the King, whose behests he carries out.”
This seemed a reasonable deduction, and it calmed the inquirer, although there remained to her disquietude the accent of triumph in the voice of the mob.
“Death to Strafford!” was the burden of the acclaim; but now one shouted, “Justice on Strafford!”—though his meaning was clearly the same as the others. There was no dissenting outcry, and this unanimous hatred so vehemently expressed terrified at least one listener. Why was her father so universally detested? What had he done? Stern he was, undoubtedly; but just, as his reception of herself had shown, and courteous to all to whom she heard him speak; yet the memory of that phrase “Strike through!” uttered with such ruthless coldness, haunted her memory, and she heard again the shrieks of those trampled under foot. It was an indication that what he had to do he did with all his might, reckless of consequence. If any occupied his path, the obstructor had to stand aside or go down, and such a course does not make for popularity.
The windows being now shuttered and barred securely, and the tumult muffled into indistinct murmur, lights were brought in. Mrs. Jarrett urged the girl to partake of some refreshment, but Frances insisted on waiting for her father. The secretary, seeing her anxiety, said:
“Mr. Vollins went out some two hours ago to learn what was taking place, and I am sure if anything serious had happened he would have been here before now with tidings.”
“Who is Mr. Vollins?”
“His lordship’s treasurer, Madam.”
As the words were uttered, the door opened, disclosing John Vollins, the expression of whose serious, clean-shaven face gave little promise of encouragement.
“What news, Mr. Vollins? The mob seems rampant again,” spoke up the secretary.
“Disquieting news, or I am misled. The rumour is everywhere believed that his lordship was arrested in Parliament this afternoon, and is now in prison.”
“Impossible! ’T would be a breach of privilege. In Parliament! It cannot be. Did you visit the precincts of Parliament?”
“No man can get within a mile of it, the mass of people is so great. It seems as if all London were concentrated there, and one is swept hither and thither in the crush like a straw on the billows of the sea. Progress is out of the question except in whatever direction impulse sways the mob. There are so many versions of what is supposed to have happened that none can sift the truth. It is said that Parliament, behind closed doors, impeached his lordship, and that when he demanded entrance to his place he was arrested by order of the two Houses acting conjointly.”
“But even if that were true—and it seems incredible—the King can liberate him at a word.”
“They say even the King and Court have fled, and that hereafter Parliament will be supreme; but one cannot believe a tithe of what is flying through the streets this night. The people are mad—stark mad.” Mrs. Jarrett hovered about the young lady in case an announcement so fraught with dread to all of them should prove too much for her; but Frances was the most collected of any there. “If that is all,” she said calmly, “ ’T will be but a temporary inconvenience to my father which he will make little of. He has committed no crime, and may face with fortitude the judgment of his peers, certain of triumphant acquittal. He is in London by command of the King, his master, and his Majesty will see to it, should all else fail, that he suffers not for his obedience.”
This conclusion was so reasonable that it had the effect of soothing the apprehensions of all who heard it, and, young as she was, Frances seemed to assume a place of authority in the estimation of those present, which was to stand her in good stead later in the evening.
The headless household, barricaded in, with frequent testimony of public execration in the ominous impact of missiles flung against doors and shutters outside, went about its accustomed way in an anxious, halfhearted manner, continually on the qui vive. As the girl wandered aimlessly about the large house, nothing gave her so vivid a sense of insecurity as the dim figure of the secretary seated in the ill-lighted hall, with his cheek against the front door, listening for any hint of his master’s approach, ready to undo bar and bolt with all speed and admit him at the first sign of necessity; ready, also, to defend the portal should the door be broken in by the populace, a disaster which the blows rained against it sometimes seemed to predict, followed by breathless periods of nonmolestation. The secretary’s sword lay across his knee, and, like a phantom army, backs against the wall, stood in silence, similarly armed, the menservants of the household. The one scant twinkling light had been placed on a table, and a man sat beside it, his pale face more strongly illumined than any other of that ghostly company, radiant against a background of darkness. He was prepared to cover the light instantly, or to blow it out, at a signal from his leader the secretary, seated in the chair by the strong oaken door.
It was after nine o’clock, during a lull in the tempest, that there was a rap at the door.
“Who is there?” asked the secretary through the grating.
“A messenger from the Court,” was the reply. Frances had come up the hall on hearing the challenge.
“What name?” demanded the secretary.
“De Courcy. Open quickly, I beg of you. The mob has surged down the street, but it may return at any moment.”
“Open,” said Frances with decision, and the secretary obeyed.
De Courcy came in, unrecognizable at first because of the cloak that enveloped him. The door was secured behind him, and he flung his cloak to one of the men standing there. His gay plumage was somewhat ruffled, and the girl never thought she would be so heartily glad to see him.
“Is it true that my father is sent to the Tower?” were her first words.
“No, Mademoiselle; but he is in custody, arrested by order of Parliament, and at this moment detained in the house of James Maxwell, Keeper of the Black Rod, who took his sword from him and is responsible for his safety. ’T is said he will be taken to the Tower to-morrow; but they reckon not on the good will of some of us who are his friends, and they forget the power of the King. Mon Dieu! What a night, and what a people! One walks the streets at the risk of life and garments. I was never so mauled about, and despaired of reaching this door. I’ve been an hour outside screeching ‘Death to Strafford!’ with the rest of them, else I were torn limb from limb.”
Frances frowned, but said:
“What were the circumstances of my father’s arrest? What do they charge against him?”
“God knows what the indictment is; chiefly that he is Strafford, I think. He entered the House of Lords this afternoon, and walked with customary dignity to his place, but was curtly ordered to withdraw until he was sent for, as the Commons were at that moment enunciating their formula against him. He withdrew in the face of this loud protest, and at last, being recalled, stood before them; was commanded to kneel, which with some hesitation he did, while the articles to his disparagement were read from the Woolsack. He was then dismissed, and, once in the outer room again, the Black Rod demanded his sword, and so conducted him, under restraint, to a carriage; no man of all then present capping to him, although they had been obsequious enough when he entered. A scurvy lot!”
“Were you among them?”
“Not I; I give you the account as ’t was told to me, but had I been in that contemptible company, my hat would have gone lower than ever before.”
“You have not seen my father, then; he has sent no message by you?”
“I have not seen him, but I come to crave a few words with you in private.”
“Sir, you must