"You do not, then, keep your prisoner bound by other fetters after he escapes from Newgate?"
"I do nothing unwomanly, and I do nothing, I trust, ign.o.ble. I go to meet the Knollys fate, whatever it may be."
"Lady Catharine," cried Pembroke, pa.s.sionately, "I have said I loved you. Never in my life did I love you as I do now!"
"I like to hear your words," said the girl, frankly. "There shall always be your corner in my heart--"
"Yet you will do this thing?"
"I will do this thing. I shall not whimper nor repine. I am sending him away forever, but "tis needful for his sake. I shall be ready for whatever fate hath for me."
"Tell me, then," said Pembroke, his face haggard and unhappy, "how am I to serve you in this matter."
"In this way: To-morrow night call here with your coach. My household, if they note it, may take your coach for my own, and may perhaps understand that I go to the rout of my Lady Swearingsham. We shall go, instead, to Newgate. For the night, Sir Arthur Pembroke shall serve as coachman. You must drive the carriage to Newgate jail."
"And "tis there," said Pembroke, slowly, "that the Lady Catharine Knollys, the dearest woman of all England, would take the man who honorably loves her--to Newgate, to feloniously set free a felon? Is it there, then, Lady Catharine, you would go to meet your lover?"
The tall figure of the girl straightened up to its full height. A shade of color came to her cheeks, but her voice was firm, though tears came to her eyes as she answered:
"Aye, sir, I would go to Newgate if there were need!"
CHAPTER XVI
THE ESCAPE
On a certain morning a messenger rode in hot haste up to the prison gate. He bore the livery of Montague. Turnkey after turnkey admitted him, until finally he stood before the cell of John Law and delivered into his hand, as he had been commanded, the message that he bore. That afternoon this same messenger paused at the gate of the house of Knollys. Here, too, he was admitted promptly. He delivered into the hands of the Lady Catharine Knollys a certain message. This was of a Wednesday. On the following Friday it was decreed that the gallows should do its work. Two more days and there would be an end of "Jessamy"
Law.
That Wednesday night a covered carriage came to the door of the house of Knollys. Its driver was m.u.f.fled in such fashion that he could hardly have been known. There stepped from the house the cloaked figure of a woman, who entered the carriage and herself pulled shut the door. The vehicle was soon lost among the darkling streets.
Catharine Knollys had heard the summons of her fate. She now sat trembling in the carriage.
When finally the vehicle stopped at the curb of the walk which led to the prison gate, a second carriage, as mysterious as the first, came down the street and stopped at a little distance, but close to the curb on the side nearest to the gate. The driver of the first carriage, evidently not liking the close neighborhood at the time, edged a trifle farther down the way. The second carriage thereupon drew up into the spot just vacated, and the two, not easily distinguishable at the hour and in the dark and unlighted street, stood so, each apparently watchful of the other, each seemingly without an occupant.
Lady Catharine had left her carriage before this interchange, and had pa.s.sed the prison gate alone. Her steps faltered. It was hardly consciously that she finally found her way into the court, through the gate, down the evil-smelling corridors, past the sodden and leering constables, up to the last gate which separated her from him whom she had come to see.
She had been admitted without demur as far as this point, and even now her coming seemed not altogether a matter of surprise. The burly turnkey at the last door stood ready to meet her. With loud commands, he drove out of the corridor the crowd of prison attendants. He approached Lady Catharine, hat in hand and bowing deeply.
"I presume you are the man whom I would see," said she, faintly, almost unequal to the task imposed upon her.
"Aye, Madam, I doubt not, with my best worship for you."
"I was to come"--said Lady Catharine. "I was to speak to you--"
"Aye," replied the turnkey. "You were to come, and you were to speak.
And now, what were you to say to me? Was there no given word?"
"There was such a word," she said. "You will understand. It is in the matter of Mr. Law."
"True," said the turnkey. "But I must have the countersign. There are heads to lose in this, yours and mine, if there be mistake."
Lady Catharine raised her head proudly. "It was for Faith," said she, "for Love, and for Hope! These were the words."
Saying which, as though she had called to her aid the last atom of her strength, she staggered back and half fell against the wall near the inner gate. The rude jailer sprang forward to steady her.
"Yes, yes," he whispered, eagerly. ""Tis all proper. Those be the words. Pray you, have courage, lady."
There came into the corridor a murmur of voices, and there was audible also the sound of a man"s footfalls approaching along the flags.
Catharine Knollys looked through the bars of the gate which the turnkey was already beginning to throw open for her. She looked, and there appeared upon her vision, a sight which caused her heart to stop, which confounded all her reason. From a side door there advanced John Law, magnificently clad, walking now as though he trod the floor of some great hall or banquet room.
The woman waiting without the gate reached out her arms. She would have cried aloud. Then she fell back against the wall, whereat had she not grasped she must have sunk down to the floor.
Upon the arm of John Law, and looking up to him as she walked, there hung the clinging figure of a woman, half-hidden by the flickering shadows of the torches. A deep cloak fell back from her shoulders. It might have been the light fabric of the aborigine. Upon the foot of Mary Connynge, twinkling in and out as she walked, showed the crudely garnished little shoe of the Indian princess over seas, dainty, bizarre, singular, covering the smallest foot in all London town.
"By all the saints!" Law was saying, "you might be the very maker of this little slipper yourself. I have won the forty crowns, I swear!
Perforce, I"ll leave them to you in my will."
The shock of the light speech made even Mary Connynge wince. For the moment she averted her eyes from the handsome face above her. She looked, and saw what gave her greater shock. Law, too, stared, as her own startled gaze grew fixed. He advanced close to the gate, only to start back in a horror of surprise which racked even his steeled composure.
"Madam!" he cried; and then, "Catharine!"
Catharine Knollys made no answer to him, though she looked straight and calmly into his face, seeming not in the least to see the woman near him. Her eyes were wide and shining. "Sir," said she, "keep fast to Hope! This was for Faith, and for Love!"
The jailer with one quick gesture swung wide the gate. "Haste, haste!"
he cried. "Quick and begone! This night may mean my ruin! Get ye gone, all of ye, and give me time to think. Out with ye all, for I must lock the gate!"
John Law pa.s.sed as one stupefied, the slender form of Mary Connynge still upon his arm. Hands of men hurried them. "Quick! Into the carriage!" one cried.
And now the sounds of feet and voices approaching along the corridor were heard. The jailer swiftly swung the heavy gate to and locked it.
Catharine Knollys caught his last gesture, which bade her begone as fast as might be. Her feet were strangely heavy, in spite of her. She reached the curb in time to hear only the whir of wheels as a carriage sped away over the stones of the street. She stood alone, irresolute for half an instant as the crunch of wheels spun up to the curb again. A hand reached out and beckoned; involuntarily she obeyed the summons. Her wrist was seized, and she was half pulled through the door of the carriage.
"What!" cried a voice. "You, Lady Catharine! Why, how is this?"
It was the voice of Will Law, whom she knew, but who certainly was not the one who had brought her hither. The Lady Catharine accepted this last situation as one no longer able to reason. She sank down in the carriage seat, shivering.
"Is all well?" asked Will Law, eagerly.
"He is safe," said Lady Catharine Knollys. "It is done. It is finished."
"What does this mean?" exclaimed Will.
"His carriage--there it is. It goes to the ship--to the Pool. He and Mary Connynge are only just ahead of us. You may hear the wheels. Do you not hear them?" She spoke with leaden voice, and her head sank heavily.
"What! My brother--Mary Connynge--in that carriage--what can you mean?