were scornfully repeated. The Lord’s people had been accustomed to spend many of their nights in worship, and had thought it no hardship, but an honour and a blessing. They had increased their fasts also, in proportion to the increase of wickedness in the land. They now saw what they had done in committing the cause of the Lord and his people more or less into the hands of a leader who mourned for the fleshpots and the melons and cucumbers of Egypt, and shrank from watching and prayer, while charged with leading up the children of the Covenant out of their bondage.
These, however, were not the words which dwelt on Monmouth’s ear and sank into his heart.
“The suspense over!” he repeated, wistfully looking into Grey’s composed countenance.
“Surely your Grace can have no doubt of that!” said Lord Grey, returning the gaze. “What room can there be for doubt?”
Monmouth started up and paced the room, wringing his hands.
“I will write to the King,” he exclaimed. “He is my uncle. He cannot refuse me safety, if I pledge myself to go abroad, never to return. He cannot refuse me, when he knows all.”
“What remains for him to learn?” said Lord Grey.
“I will tell him how I have been tempted—how I have been urged—how I have been betrayed—how I have repented a thousand times.”
“How has your Grace been betrayed, may I ask?”
“Never was man so betrayed! You assured me, Lord Grey, that the whole Whig gentry waited only for me,—waited to rise as soon as I should land; and they have avoided me,—to a man! I have found none but ploughmen and miners and tradesmen, a mere rabble; and I am to suffer for them!”
“And I too, your Grace must remember. My head is the pledge of my sincerity.”
“You are my murderer—you, my Lord!” cried Monmouth, struggling with his tears. “When I might have escaped, might have been at home at Brussels by this time, you would not let me go.”
Lord Grey turned away with a shake of the head, which Monmouth understood. He was silent while Lord Grey called for paper and ink, and arranged the writing-materials on the table.
“Write to the King,” he said, placing a chair. “Cast what blame on me you will. Save yourself if you can. If any use of my name can save you, use it. Nay, you owe me no thanks for saying this. My doom is sure; and I shall not gainsay anything your Grace may allege.”
“Without implicating you, my Lord, I can plead many things. Many things I could say, when I can compose myself to write,” said Monmouth, throwing down the pen which his trembling hand could not guide, and bursting into tears.
At the moment the door opened, and one of his guards announced that a lady had arrived who desired to see him, and would not be put off from entering instantly. Monmouth dashed away his tears; and his flush and smile made him look like himself again, in spite of his sordid dress and his grey hair.
“I knew she would come!” he exclaimed. “I was not allowed to go to her; but I knew she would come to me! But stay!” he exclaimed, detaining the guard. “My Lord, this will not put her in danger, will it? If I thought it would—”
And again he looked wistfully at his fellow-prisoner; and now Lord Grey returned the gaze more kindly, as he said:
“Surely not! There can be no proof against Lady Henrietta, except” (and here he lowered his voice to a whisper) “in your Grace’s own breast.”
“Do you believe that I could say a word? No, you cannot think it!”
“I do not,” Lord Grey replied. Before he could say more the door opened, and Monmouth rushed forward with open arms as a lady entered. Her veil was down, but he hesitated; for the lady was short of stature, and her air was not that which he knew so well.
“I am your wife, Monmouth,” said she, throwing herself on his neck. “I have trusted that you would return to me, but O! not in such an extremity as this! Do not throw me off now,” she exclaimed. “I am your wife—I have a right to be with you; the King has said it—the King enjoined me to come.”
“The King!” said Monmouth. “Why—why did he send you? Is it a sign? Is it a promise of favour?”
Lord Grey had dismissed the guard and closed the door; and as he could not leave the room, be sat down with his back to the pair, and seemed occupied in writing. But he could not avoid hearing all that was said. Monmouth did not disguise his desire to use his wife’s influence to save his life; but he said no word that Lady Henrietta herself could have complained of as infidelity. The poor wife felt this at her heart’s core. She did not remind him by the remotest hint that to her he owed fortune, title, and position; and she made no reference to the woman who had supplanted her. It was evident that she clung to the hope of recovering her husband’s affection by saving him from his apparent doom. She spoke of his gallantry in the field with pride. She mourned over the uncertainty about his birth, which had so naturally led him to claim the throne. She thought no human heart could resist such claims for mercy as he could urge; and she would urge them day and night till he should arrive in London to petition the King himself.
“Will the King see me?” cried Monmouth, eagerly.
“He must, he shall see you!” she replied. “I will not leave him till I have his promise.”
“I will do anything, I will go anywhere,” protested Monmouth, in a voice growing hoarser every moment. “I will be the most loyal of all his subjects, and I could tell him now many things—”
Lord Grey turned in his seat. Monmouth heard it, though he did not see; and he stopped, covering his face with his hands.
“We must go far away,” said the Duchess of Monmouth. “We must bury ourselves in some country where we shall never be heard of more. But we may be happy yet, Monmouth; we may forget the wretched past. You would, would you