The news of the suppression of the conspiracy and the arrest of the
ringleaders caused great excitement over England. Enormous crowds
paraded the streets of London demanding the exile of all persons who had
formerly borne titles. The King was hung in effigy and his lay figure
cremated in the public kiln at Lincoln's Inn Fields. Socialism became
rampant. A rabble of the lowest orders of the people invaded Hyde Park
and the other public gardens, making day and night hideous with their
orgies. The famous Albert memorial statue was blown to shivers by
dynamite at high noon, and unbridled license became the watchword of the
masses. Such anarchy had never been known in England. Even the
government, who at first were inclined to suffer the demonstration
against the Royalists to gather head, grew alarmed. Absolute revolution
was imminent, and resolute measures had to be taken. Nor did the public
temper cool until threescore of the most wretched of those who live in
the foul dens of the great city lay dead along the streets of Kensington
and Belgravia. The military were forced to shoot them down to stem the
tumult.
Comparative quiet was restored at the end of ten days, and then the
government ventured to bring the prisoners to London under a strong
guard and lodge them in the Tower. Twenty thousand people, it is
estimated, dogged the footsteps of the troops who escorted them, and it
was only the points of bayonets and the muskets ready to deal death at a
word that secured their safety. The conspirators marched two and two
with lancers carrying loaded carbines on each flank. There were sixteen
in all. John Dacre and Geoffrey Ripon were side by side. Neither of them
had much hope of escaping the fury of the mob. The Duke of Bayswater and
Colonel Featherstone rode a little in advance. The poor old duke's hat
had fallen off, and his bald head was a shining mark for missiles. An
egg had struck his pate and made an offensive daub.
The streets through which the procession passed were lined with
spectators. From Government House, President Bagshaw and the leading
members of the party in power looked down upon their victims, and the
windows of Whitehall across the way afforded a view to the friends of
the opposition, among whom sat Richard Lincoln and his daughter. The
great commoner would have preferred to avoid the spectacle, but Mary had
expressed a desire to see the prisoners on their way through the
streets. 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. His
brow was anxious. These were troublesome times and a source of concern
to all who loved their country. He knew the government to be composed of
men who thought only of their own interests. This semblance of authority
was the sole bar that prevented the insubordinate masses from overriding
law and decency. How long would President Bagshaw be able to withstand
the popular clamor for a liberty that was akin to pillage? This foolish
conspiracy had biassed thousands of order-loving citizens against
conservative measures. His own party were reduced to a pitiful minority,
and the conduct of the Royalists had caused a reaction which threatened
to engulf the constitution and the laws. And, as if that were not enough
to sadden the soul of an honest man, his only daughter loved the traitor
whose 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 were
black with a sea of heads. The glistening of bayonets, the waving flags,
the uniforms, the mad shouts and derisive groans, and above the tumult
the drums beating in full rhythm, made an exciting scene. But all was
lost upon Mary. Her eye had singled out John Dacre, and she was gazing
down at him in speechless agony. He appeared to her wan and sick. His
clothes 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 for
an instant the situation and the consequences that may accrue to her he
saluted. The glance of the crowd followed his gesture, and many caught
sight of the pale girl and beheld her throw a rose to the handsome
prisoner. It fell wide of him for whom it was meant; indeed, he did not
see the flower fall. It dropped among the crowd, and would have been
trampled in the mud beneath the feet of those who hated her lover had
not Geoffrey Ripon darted from the ranks and snatched it up to his
infinite peril, for the trooper at his side struck him with the butt of
his carbine. "See," he said to Dacre, who was stalking on in unconscious
revery; "see, she has thrown you a rose. Be of good cheer, man." And
Geoffrey could not help thinking that if the one he loved had dropped a
rose 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 the
rose, nor did they now heed the blush which mantled her face as she
looked up at their leader.
"I know it, father; but I love him," she whispered, and she would have
fainted had not Lincoln supported her with his strong arms and led her
from the room.
There was another also who watched the prisoners with eyes of
recognition. Mrs. Oswald Carey had left her lodgings early in the
morning so as to secure a good position from which to view the
procession, and from a coign of vantage close by the houses of
Parliament was feasting her gaze upon the victims of her treachery. A
long cloak covered her figure, and her face was muffled. Only her
beautiful eyes were visible. Owing to the bitter feeling prevalent
against the Royalists, she feared to show herself, for she had been so
intimately associated with the dissipations of the nobility, the people
would have stoned her. She felt proof against discovery in her present
garb, and had waited for hours, hedged about by the rabble, for a
glimpse of Geoffrey Ripon.
Her revenge had been swift and equal to her expectation. Its sequel was
yet to follow. As she gazed at the face of the young man, which
exposure had rather ennobled and made more handsome, strange feelings
were awakened within her. She scarcely knew whether she were sorry to
see him there in peril of his life, or that she would be pleased to know
that he had paid the penalty of treason with his head. Her love and hate
were so intermingled that she could not distinguish which had the upper
hand. He passed close to where she was standing. But even had he been
able to recognize her, he could not have suspected that her perfidy was
the occasion of his misfortune. She had guarded her secret carefully.
President Bagshaw had been true to his word. No rumor of the means by
which the conspiracy was unearthed had reached the public ear.
As she made her way home through the crowded street after the procession
had passed, reflection as to what would be Geoffrey's fate absorbed her
thoughts. In the present state of the public temper it was not likely
that he would escape death. To be shot for high treason seemed the
logical sequel to his escapade. Well, if it must be so, she preferred to
see him on the scaffold rather than in the arms of another. She would
wait until all was over, and then find in America solace for her
disappointment. She had played her cards well. The King was madly in
love with her, and she had no fear of his sailing away without her. If
so, there was Jawkins still. She had lulled the manager into such a
feeling of security that he had run up to Scotland to undertake an
important contract. An American billionaire, having rented the Trossachs
for the season, had engaged him to superintend his arrangements. Titled
people were at a premium since the discovery of the conspiracy, and
Jawkins could command his own prices. His reply to this patron, "I will
provide 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 the
business sagacity of the man. The poor old Archbishop of Canterbury, who
had escaped from Aldershot scot free, was being hurried from one corner
of England to the other to supply dinner requirements. Jawkins had
caused her some trouble at first, it is true. Upon the receipt of her
telegram at Ripon House he had hurried up to London, and ferreting out
her lodgings accused her of wishing to give him the slip. She had
assuaged his feelings by lunching with him at a public restaurant and
permitting him to engage their passages to America for a fortnight
later. Had it not been for the King's arrival she would have kept faith
with him.
The trial of the prisoners was set down for one week after their
consignment to the Tower. It was to take place in the House of
Parliament, and the indictment against all was for high treason. The
attorney-general, James McPherson, was to conduct the case for the
government, and the accused retained the services of Calhoun Benjamin, a
great-grandson of the Benjamin for some time a famous lawyer in the
reign of Victoria. It was not permissible for any member of either house
to appear as counsel. The constitution required that the joint bodies
should adjudge the cause. Still, after the formal arguments any member
was at liberty to rise to a question of privilege and address the
assembly. Such was indeed the usual custom.
Mary Lincoln doubtless had this in mind when she whispered to her father
the evening before the trial, "You will speak for him, will you not,
father?"
"I cannot tell," said Richard Lincoln. "Why should I, Mary? His desert
is 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 us
would escape scathing. Only you, father; I know of no one beside."
The patriot looked down at the pale girl sitting at his feet and stroked
her hair. Her eyes were filled with tears, and she gazed at him
imploringly. 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 a
rose to her country's traitor. Still, if it were to do again, would she
not do it? Her love was stronger than her sense of shame.
Richard Lincoln sat and gazed into the fire. These were indeed
troublesome times, but a light seemed breaking just below where the
clouds lowered darkest. A week had seen a great change in public
sentiment. Debate in Parliament had been fierce and bitter. At the head
of his party he had striven to show that those who held the reins of
power abused and deceived the masses, and that true liberty lay not in
ignorant usurpation of right, but intelligent recognition of a lawfully
constituted authority which regarded all alike. At first his purpose had
been misinterpreted, but as by degrees the true significance of his
words were grasped by the popular mind, groans gave place to silence,
and sullenness to cheers. He had not hesitated to wield the axe of
reform with a yeoman's hand, and the flying chips told of the havoc he
was making among the dead wood of ignorance and craft. It was his aim to
demonstrate that a demagogue in the seat of power is no less a menace to
the 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 child
should have given her heart to one whose ambition it was to destroy that
which he had helped to establish and bring back the frippery of an
unhallowed past. He had found it difficult at first to conceive it as
possible, but her confession, and more eloquently still her pallid
cheeks, left no room to question the truth of this misfortune. And
to-morrow he would be called upon to doom to the scaffold the man whose
being had become so much a part of hers as to have led her to play the
traitor also. As thus he pondered the breaking light seemed to fade from
the 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 hands
for 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 his
glance. He saw in her transfigured face a repetition of his own youth
when the spirit soared impatient of restraint and knew not yet the curbs
that check the extravagance of ardent natures. In those early days he
had struck out for the ideal right, even as her heart in the fulness of
its 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 are
dearer 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," she
whispered, looking up into his eyes. "Kiss me; I will be brave, and—and
when he dies let me die, too."
"My child!" murmured Lincoln again, and there was terror as well as pity
in 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 from
the city and winding its way through Cheapside and Fleet Street and the
Strand to the judgment hall in the Houses of Parliament. By the time the
guard from the Tower reached Westminster, vast multitudes lined the
sidewalks and formed so dense a mass in the square in front of the gates
that progress was well-nigh impossible. The populace was orderly,
however, and fell back before the horses of a troop of cavalry, with no
further demonstration than a sullen murmur.
The prisoners were brought before the bar of the Commons, and the Upper
House entered immediately after to take their seats. It was an
impressive scene. One might have heard a pin drop as the officer of the
Crown rose to read the indictment, and again when, as he sat down, the
hoarse voice of the clerk called out the names of the accused, shorn of
all titles, to rise and answer to the charge of high treason against the
Republic 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 a
thousand eyes without flinching. Fate willed that it should distinguish
a pale, lovely face amid the press that lined the galleries, and linger
thereon a moment as though loath to turn aside; but even while he gazed,
the drapery and shoulder of another woman were interposed between his
sight and the delicate features of Mary Lincoln, and shut her from his
view. "What say you, Geoffrey Ripon? Are you guilty or not guilty?"
It was these words that had caused the stranger to lean forward and
crane her neck—a beautiful neck that, muffled as she was, did not
wholly escape the admiration of her neighbors. Her eyes sparkled with a
light cold and malicious as the gleam which emanates from a blade of
steel. As the lips of young Geoffrey Ripon flung back a clear denial of
the charge, a hope was in his heart that the sweet maiden of his fancy
might be among the hundreds looking down. She was not there, but her
rival, Mrs. Oswald Carey, sat and watched each shade of his expression.
And now the witnesses were summoned and confronted the prisoners. The
proofs were ample and overwhelming. It almost seemed mistrusting the
intelligence of the judges to dwell upon the evidence, to quote the
opening words of the attorney-general, and as a consequence the argument
of that official was a model of conciseness. Then the time was come for
the defendants' counsel. Mr. Benjamin arose and spoke for an hour. His
speech was painstaking, but not particularly impressive. In conclusion
he said that rebellion had often been punished before without the
shedding of blood. He instanced Jefferson Davis, the great Secessionist,
and the clemency of the American people. Mr. McPherson in reply adduced
the Irish rebels executed by the government of Victoria, and thereat a
shout arose which shook the walls of Parliament and was echoed by the
crowd outside. Even the prisoners glanced at each other with downcast
looks. The perspiration stood out in beads on the bald head of the Duke
of 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 the
cavalier, and his proud face looked beatified.
There was a dread and awful silence as the attorney-general finished his
last words. The hour for judgment had arrived, unless it were that some
senator or commoner wished to speak for or against the prisoners. A
bitter and illiterate friend of the government saw fit to spring to his
feet and enter upon a violent harangue. Clemency would be misplaced in
the present juncture, he said. Death for one and all was the proper
measure to be meted out to Royalists and traitors. His truculent words
seemed to please the audience, and he sat down amid a tempest of
applause. For an instant there was no movement on either side of the
house, and then Richard Lincoln, the leader of the opposition, arose and
stepped out into the aisle, so as to command his hearers. A flutter of
expectation, a murmur of surprise, spread through the assembly, and as
he 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-souled
people. They have, it seems to me, no representative here, or I have
failed to interpret aright the language of my predecessor. Are the
people 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 for
justice."
He paused, and as no sound expressed one way or the other the feelings
of his auditors, he spoke once more:
"Let these men live. Fine or imprisonment will accomplish all that you
desire, save the satisfaction of revenge. Capital punishment in this age
of the world is an ugly smear upon the escutcheon of constitutional
liberty. Let these men live, and your children's children will write you
down in their books as worthy of remembrance. They are guilty, but blood
will not atone for wrong-doing. Let them live, I say, in the name of
justice 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 sways
men's hearts. No cheers were heard, it is true, but his hearers sat upon
the benches thoughtful and silent. The Speaker of the House glanced
about him, but no one rose to contradict the testimony that had fallen
from the lips of Richard Lincoln.
And now the judges arose and left the hall. For four hours the assembly
and the crowds in the streets waited in patience. Before the fifth had
elapsed the usher's rod announced that a verdict had been reached. The
silence was breathless. The Speaker took the scroll from the hands of
William Peters, the leader of the House, and read aloud that John Dacre,
as the master spirit of the late rebellion at Aldershot, was sentenced
to be shot to death at noon of the next day, and that all the other
leaders were to be imprisoned for the term of fifteen years.
There was a roar and a rush as the people rose to escape from the
galleries, and few observed a slender girl slip from her seat to the
floor. A woman with beautiful eyes, whose face was otherwise veiled from
view, stooped to her succor, then gave a shrill cry. Mary Lincoln lay
lifeless. 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 if
even such a result of her treachery had been foreshadowed to her, she
would not have faltered.
