In the Days of Poor Richard

  CHAPTER XI

  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 getout of England for fear of what may come. A trial would be apt tocause 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 fromMargaret. It read;

  "DEAREST JACK. My father has learned of our meeting yesterday and ofhow it came about. He is angry. He forbids another meeting. I shallnot submit to his tyranny. We must assert our rights like goodAmericans. I have a plan. You will learn of it when we meet to-morrowat eleven. Do not send an answer. Lovingly, MARGARET."

  He slept little, and in the morning awaited with keen impatience thehour 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 inhigh life."

  Evidently Lionel Clarke had died of his wound. He saw people standingin groups and reading the paper. He began to share the nervousness ofPreston and the wise, far-seeing Franklin. He jumped into a cab andwas at the corner some minutes ahead of time. Precisely at eleven hesaw the coach draw near. He hurried to its side. The footmandismounted and opened the door. Inside he saw, not Margaret, but thelady 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 ajump and he was on his way whither he knew not. Nor did he know thereason 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 veiledlady, as the coach started. "We shall see Margaret soon, I hope."

  She had a colorless, cold voice and what was then known in London asthe "patrician manner." Her tone and silence seemed to say: "Pleaseremember this is all a matter of business and not a highly agreeablebusiness to me."

  "Where is Margaret?" he asked.

  "A long way from here. We shall meet her at The Ship and Anchor inGravesend. 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 onewho had said quite enough.

  "Where is Gravesend?"

  "On the Thames near the sea," she answered briskly, as if in pity ofhis ignorance.

  He saw the plan now--an admirable plan. They were to meet near theport of sailing and be married and go aboard the ship and away. It wasthe plan of Margaret and much better than any he could have made, forhe 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 makehaste. 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 ofthe city and hurried away on the east turnpike. A mist was coming upfrom the sea. The air ahead had the color of a wool stack. Theystopped at an inn to feed and water the horses and went on in a densefog, which covered the hedge rows on either side and lay thick on theearth so that the horses seemed to be wading in it. Their pace slowedto a walk. From that time on, the road was like a long ford over whichthey 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 fogbetween them. The young man liked it better than the wall of mysterythrough which he had been able to see the silent, veiled form besidehim.

  "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 havehim understand that she was not being paid for conversation.

  From that time forward they rode in a silence broken only by thecreaking of the coach and the sound of the horses' hoofs. Darkness hadfallen when they reached the little city of Gravesend. The Ship andAnchor stood by the water's edge.

  "You will please wait here," said the stern lady in a milder voice thanshe had used before, as the coach drew up at the inn door, "I shall seeif 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 ourdinner, if you please."

  Jack had not broken his fast since nine and felt keenly the need ofrefreshment, but he answered:

  "I think that I would better wait for Margaret."

  "No, she will have dined at Tillbury," said the masterful lady. "Itwill 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 candleswhere an open fire was burning cheerfully.

  A handsomely dressed man waited by them for orders and retired with thelandlady when they were given.

  From this point the scene at the inn is described in the diary of theAmerican.

  "She drew off her hat and veil and a young woman about twenty-eightyears of age and of astonishing beauty stood before me."

  "'There, now, I am out of business,' she remarked in a pleasant voiceas she sat down at the table which, had been spread before thefireplace. 'I will do my best to be a companion to you until Margaretarrives.'

  "She looked into my eyes and smiled. Her sheath of ice had fallen fromher.

  "'You will please forgive my impertinence,' said she. 'I earn myliving by it. In a world of sentiment and passion I must be as coldand bloodless as a stone, but in fact, I am very--very human.'

  "The waiter came with a tray containing soup, glasses and a bottle ofsherry. We sat down at the table and our waiter filled two glasseswith the sherry.

  "'Thank you, but self-denial is another duty of mine,' she remarkedwhen I offered her a glass of the wine. 'I live in a tipsy world anddrink--water. I live in a merry world and keep a stern face. It is avile world and yet I am unpolluted.'

  "I drank my glass of wine and had begun to eat my soup when a strangefeeling came over me. My plate seemed to be sinking through the table.The wall and fireplace were receding into dim distance. I knew thenthat I had tasted the cup of Circe. My hands fell through my lap andsuddenly the day ended. It was like sawing off a board. The end hadfallen. There is nothing more to be said of it because my brain hadceased to receive and record impressions. I was as totally out ofbusiness as a man in his grave. When I came to, I was in a berth onthe ship _King William_ bound for New York. As soon as I knewanything, I knew that I had been tricked. My clothes had been removedand were lying on a chair near me. My watch and money wereundisturbed. I had a severe pain in my head. I dressed and went up ondeck. The Captain was there.

  "'You must have had a night of it in Gravesend,' he said. 'You werelike 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 farehas been paid in full. I saw them put a letter in your pocket. Haveyou read it?'"

  Jack found the letter and read:

  "DEAR SIR--When you see this you will be well out of danger and, it ishoped, none the worse for your dissipation. This from one who admiresyour skill and courage and who advises you to keep out of England forat least a year.

  "A WELL WISHER."

  He looked back over the stern of the ship. The shore had fallen out ofsight. The sky was clear. The sun shining. The wind was blowing fromthe 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 meand 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 noopportunity 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, andperhaps it had kept him out of worse trouble than he was now in. Butwhat had happened to Margaret?

  He reread her note.

  "My father has learned of our meeting and of how it came about," hequoted.

  "More bribery," he thought. "The intrigante naturally sold herservices to the highest bidder."

  He recalled the violent haste with which the coach had rolled away fromthe place of meeting. Had that been due to a fear that Margaret woulddefeat their plans?

  All these speculations and regrets were soon put away. But for a longtime one cause of worry was barking at his heels. It slept beside himand often touched and awoke him at night. He had been responsible forthe death of a human being. What an unlucky hour he had had at SirJohn Pringle's! Yet he found a degree of comfort in the hope thatthose proud men might now have a better thought of the Yankees.