Ad Finem Esto Fidelis, and Scaffold or Ferry

Chapter I

" Oh, my dear, my fair-haired youth, Thou yet has hearts of fire and truth. Then up with shout and out with blade, We'll raise once more the white cockade." " A woman's lot is made for her By the love she accepts." " Cousin Betty, which do you like best of them ? " "Of whom, dear?" " Oh, you know ; please don't be tire some." " Well, let me think," smiled the elder lady ; " which of Mistress Eleanor Fenwick's numerous admirers do I think most worthy of claiming her hand ! " B " Now you are joking, Cousin Betty. I want your serious opinion, really I do." " Well, let me think. Mr. Francis Gas coigne is young and handsome — brave and good I believe him to be, and true to the King his father died for. But a young gentleman with only about three hundred a year is hardly a match for the heiress of Fenwick."

" Riches are not everything, Cousin Betty ! " " No, my dear, I did not say they were. Well, to continue, Captain Carpenter is young and good-looking. He will be very wealthy, and you certainly have coquetted with him somewhat, dear." " It is the duty of a Jacobite," cried the girl, gaily, " to play with a Whig's heart ; but to marry one — " " If you like him you had better, child ! " " I, a Fenwick, marry one whose father brought the noble Derwentwater and Ken mure to the block ! Never ! You forgot Captain Daziel when you proposed that, cousin — ah, yes, and Anthony Ashton." Mistress Betty's eyes filled with tears. Had not her betrothed, the Ashton, laid down his life on Tower Hill — faithful to King James — faithful to death ? Her hands clasped, but she said nothing. " I like Mr. Gascoigne," said Eleanor after a while, with a rosy blush.

" My dear, he is a Jacobite gentleman, and far too honourable to propose to a wealthy heiress when he has nothing to offer her." " He has himself," said Eleanor, in low tones. " Eleanor," said Mistress Betty, " when your aunt, Lady Middleton, was staying here last month I fancy she hinted to Mr. Gas coigne that he had better not continue his very frequent visits till he could offer you a fortune equal to your own." " How dare she ! how cruel of her !" " He has not called since." " If that is the case, if her speeches stopped him, he can never have loved me." " If he did not love you, Eleanor, he would not act so." " Well, suppose I propose to him, then ; I love him." Eleanor knelt down, hiding her face in her cousin's lap, who softly stroked her hair, saying — " Well, sweet, you are rich enough to marry who you will, and a truer gentleman than Francis Gascoigne you could not love."

" Dear, dear Cousin Betty," sighed the girl. Then there was silence for some time. It would have been hard to find a fairer girl in Lancastershire than Eleanor Fenwick. Tall, with a slight, willowy figure full of grace, she seemed a living poem. Her rich, dark-brown golden hair, and deep, true eyes gave power to a face that wanted not in beauty. Many thought Francis Gascoigne her twin soul, for he too had those soft eyes and slight, tall figure full of grace and dignity. Eleanor was the daughter of a rich Jacobite squire who, having by a fluke escaped arrest in '15, had died three years after, leaving Eleanor an orphan, and the greatest heiress in Lancastershire. A chaperone was needed for the bright young beauty of seventeen, and found in the person of Mistress Betty Fen wick, a distant cousin, who, though possessed of ample means, left her home and took up her abode with her young cousin, who soon learned to love her dearly.

Three years had passed, and now 1 720 made Eleanor twenty and Mistress Betty fifty-eight. All at once a knock came to the door. The two ladies started, and Eleanor, jumping up, turned to the window. " Come in," said Mistress Betty, slowly. The door opened, and a young man entered. He was tall, strongly built, with rather fine features, and a general air of command about him. He bowed low to Mistress Betty, then crossed over to where Eleanor stood. " I hope I have not displeased you in any way, Mistress Fenwick?" " No ; why, what makes you think so." " You scarcely spoke to me when I met you last week at Madame Howell's. 'Twas cruel." " Indeed ! When do you rejoin your regiment, Captain Carpenter?" " In three weeks. Ah, my life will be miserable when I quit Lancastershire." " They say the air is very fine," said Eleanor, smiling.

" Life is not worth living when absent from you." " You will turn my cousin's head with your compliments," said Mistress Betty, laughing. " I wish I could persuade her to turn her glance in this direction," retorted Captain Carpenter, " instead of looking out of the window. Or is she still determined to quarrel with her devoted slave ? " "Nay," answered Eleanor, "let us make friends before we part." Then dropping her light tone she added, " If only you were true to King James." " Oh, Eleanor," cried the young man, "whether you own a Pretender for King or not, I do not mind. I love you ; will you not be my wife, my sweet, my beloved ? " Certainly not. How could you expect a Jacobite's daughter to marry you ? Remem ber your father's conduct at Preston," cried Eleanor, drawing herself to her full height.

" Bother politics," cried her suitor. " If we love each other, who cares whether James or George be King ? " " Who cares ? What ! Marry a man who calls mv King ' Pretender ! ' No, thank you, sir." " Nonsense, Eleanor ; we shall be very happy. I admire and love you to distraction." " Would you turn Jacobite for my sake? " she cried, eagerly. " That is not the question. Only say yes,' and make me the happiest of men. Dearest, speak ! " " Say 'yes' to a Whig, a traitor? Never ! " " Very well. So you refuse me because I object to fight for a Pretender — a Popish princeling ? " " You had better take care what you call King James in this house. Go, sir, this very instant ! " " Good-bye, madam. Thank you for drawing me on to make a fool of me in this way." " How dare you insult my cousin so, sir!

" cried Mistress Betty. " Any other man would never have forced his company on ladies in the manner you have. We have suffered too much from your Elector and Orangemen to care to entertain any partisans of theirs." The old lady sat down, colouring with indignation, Eleanor looking on with silent disdain. With a muttered exclamation Captain Carpenter caught Eleanor's hand in his and kissed it fervently. " Believe me, I love you, coquette, good bye." He left the room hastily. The two ladies looked at each other for a moment in silence; then Eleanor burst out laughing merrily. Later on in the afternoon Eleanor walked down the park out into the high road. "Just a little breeze," she said to herself ; " I am sick of walking in the park. If Mr. Gascoigne really cared for me he would come here. Oh, dear me, I wish he would."

The clear autumn air gave a bright colour to her cheek, and she found the brisk, solitary walk delightful. After a time she looked at her watch. " Half-past four ! I must hurry back, or Cousin Betty will die of fright." Just as she was about to retrace her steps she heard the sound of horse's hoofs in the distance. In a few moments a rider came into view. " 'Tis him ! 'Tis Francis ! " Then, as the horseman came nearer, she cried, with a frightened start, " Good gracious, he is wounded ! " And, truly enough, his left arm hung nerveless by the young man's side, and red stains were on his coat. Mr. Gascoigne pulled up his horse. " Eleanor — Mistress Fenwick," he said, flushing, " I little expected to meet you here." Ignoring his remark Eleanor pointed to his arm. " You have been fighting a duel."

" Captain Carpenter insulted me ; I met him riding home." " Have you wounded him ? " " No, alas ! I did not touch him. He has only pinked my arm, however ; it will be all right in a day or two." " Was it," whispered the girl, with a lovely blush, " was it about me you fought ? " With one bound he was on the ground by her side, wounded arm all forgotten. " My darling — my dearest," he cried, " give me the right to protect you always ; be my wife." " I will," she answered, softly He started and coloured. " Oh, dearest, I had no right to ask you ; I have nothing to offer you." " Give me your name ; a martyr has crowned it. What care I for riches." " Eleanor, my Eleanor, I have loved you all my life. Oh, that I was more worthy of you!" " Francis," cried the girl, " tell me, have you done a single deed of which you are ashamed ?"

" No," he answered, proudly ; " my father's name I have kept white and clear as I received it. I have done nothing my wife could blush for." " Then," she cried, " who dares to say my knight, ' sans peur et sans reproche,' is not worthy of me?" Francis Gascoigne rode home that night wrapt in a glorified dream. Eleanor, the idol of his thoughts, had promised to be his, and Mistress Betty had given a smiling welcome to the betrothed. His arm had been bandaged by the one he loved best on earth, and the touch of her fingers still seemed to linger there, casting ever and anon a thrill through him. Just twenty-five — his father had died when he was three years old, died on the scaffold for King James, as his father had before him for King Charles the Martyr, leaving his lands in Lancastershire to his only son, but William of Orange ordered otherwise, so the attainted property was given by him to some German or Orange favourite and young Francis left penniless.

At that juncture an unknown friend appeared, and, buying some of the Gascoigne property that was then for sale, handed it over to Francis's guardian in trust for the boy. The property only consisted of the old hall and grounds, both dearly valued by Francis, but the broad lands that should have been his, alas ! were lost for ever. His guardian, a cousin .of Mr. Gascoigne's, had had the boy sent to the house of a Jacobite gentleman who taught the sons of Jacobites. There Francis's life had been very happy. Being a Roman Catholic, of course, no profession was open to him, so, on completing his education, he had returned to his cousin's house, who, dying shortly after, had bequeathed him a sum of money sufficient to provide him with an income of about three hundred a year. Gascoigne Hall was a bleak, neglected place, the grounds wild and uncultivated, with a general air of neglect about them.

Only a small portion of the house was in habited, and the large State rooms, unfur nished and unused, gave it a most melancholy appearance. Francis contrasted his dismal mansion with the residence of his beautiful betrothed. " How dared I propose to a wealthy heiress?" he thought. " But Eleanor is my own now, heiress or no heiress — my own, my darling." Three servants comprised all his modest retinue. As he handed his horse's rein to one the man said — " Two gentlemen have arrived to see you, sir." " Yes," interrupted the old housekeeper, who had been Francis's nurse, " be sure they have come to give you back the confiscated estates, sir, so noble they look." " Where have you shown them ? " asked Francis, eagerly. " In the large dining-hall," answered the housekeeper. " That damp room, that has not been used for years," cried the boy.

" You might have known better." " Master Francis," replied she, with dignity, " for generations your ancestors have received their guests there, as you do now." The young man hurried down the bare, cold hall, and, opening a heavy, creaking door, entered an immense room. It was hung around with moth-eaten tapestry, two or three chairs its only furniture. The heavy air almost took away his breath, and it was so dark, being only lit with one solitary lamp, that it was a moment or two before he per ceived his guests. He now found himself face to face with two gentlemen, both dressed in rich and costly materials. One was a little older than himself, the other verging on sixty. " Allow me to conduct you to a more cheerful room," said Francis. " I am so sorry you have been shown into this damp place."

" Yet I remember the time," said the elder man, pensively, "when this dark room was lit in a blaze of light, and the scene of a magni ficent banquet. Well, let us go." Rather mystified Francis led his guests to the most cheerful room in the house, formerly the library. Here a bright fire was burning, its red light gleaming on the portraits of his father and mother that hung on the wall." On entering the room the elder gentleman, advancing to where the portrait of Mr. Gas coigne hung, gazed earnestly at it with deep emotion. The younger man advanced, saying— " I am Christopher Layer, a great friend of your cousin, Sir John Wedderburn." Francis bowed, then looked at the other gentleman, who returned his gaze, but said nothing. Mr. Layer smiled, and continued speaking. " Your cousin has told me that you are ready to follow your father's footsteps."

" Ah, yes," cried the young man, impul sively, " I would die for King James." " Well and good," said the elder man, in low tones ; " but would you sign a paper stating as much." " Yes, when I have actual proof who you are," answered Francis, thoughtfully. " Do you know your cousin's handwriting well ? " asked the unknown. " Yes, indeed ; we were brought up to gether." " Read this, then," he said, taking from the breast of his coat a bundle of papers, and placing a letter in Francis's hand that ran thus — " Dear Francis, " The friends who bring you this note are true to " the King.' Trust them. " Your cousin, "John Wedderburn." " I am ready to sign," said Francis, handing back the note, " this very instant, if you will." " Layer," said the unknown, " give Francis Gascoigne the paper. I will witness his signature."

" What, you ? " said the gentleman, looking surprised. " Very well." He handed Francis a printed paper statino that the undersigned promised to draw sword for King James, and otherwise to yield him service when called upon. With proud feelings Francis signed his name, then handed the paper on to the gentleman who had offered to be his witness, looking curiously to see what name he would write. 'Twas with a start he read the famous name — " Francis Atterbury." " What, you my Lord Bishop of Roches ter ? " he cried. " Yes, young Gascoigne, I am your witness. Be true to your oath and your King," said the Bishop. " Now to serious business. Another Jacobite plot is brewing in London and the North ; are you prepared to endanger your life in working for it ? " " Yes, my lord, I am." " Very good. Can we claim your hospi tality for the night, dear Francis ?

" " I shall be greatly honoured," answered the young man. " I will give orders for your entertainment at once. I pray you to excuse a very simple — " " Make no excuses ; I am used to a bachelor's household." Francis left the room, and young Layer turned to the Bishop. " He seems a true Jacobite, does he not ? " "Ah, yes, Christopher. Well, he will soon be tried. " You mean when you show him the hidden — " " No, no, Christopher. I meant perchance by Tower and axe." " Good gracious, that's a cheerful remark. Hush, he returns." Francis entered, followed by a servant carrying refreshments. The Bishop, how ever dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and motioned to Christopher Layer to do like wise, then said in low tones — " Francis Gascoigne, before three months are over, God willing, James the Third will sit on the throne of his fathers.

Start not, but listen. Fifty thousand gentlemen have sworn to march to London on the tenth of June. The Horse Guards will rise at a given signal by Captain Parker, and surround St. James's Palace. Christopher Layer, who sits here, selecting fifty bold fellows, will enter the Palace, arrest the Elector, and place him on board a ship belonging to a friend of ours that will sail with him quickly to Hanover. Lord Selkirk and Lord Murray will proclaim the King in Scotland. Philip Wharton, Lord Orrery, Lord Bolingbroke, and Lord Errol, and the Duke of Norfolk will proclaim him in England. There, that is the outline of our plot." " Tell me how can I aid it ? " " More than any other man in England ; but come to the garden." " What ! to the garden, my lord ! " " Yes, if your father stood here he could guide you to the spot we shall walk to to night."

" What spot ? I fear I am very dense." " Not so, my dear Francis. Now, do you remember that when the forfeited estates were sold, this small property was bought and given back to you by an unknown friend?" " I do ; oh, that I could thank him ! " " There, I was the donor." " You! oh, Bishop Atterbury, let me tell you my gratitude ! " " 'Twas not for your sake so much as for the cause." " For the cause ! What do you mean ? " " You will soon see. Come, Christopher ; nay, Francis, we shall need no light, I know my way." Completely mystified Francis followed the C Bishop out into the garden. He walked straight down the path till he reached a small summer-house ; entering it he lit a match, and beckoned to Christopher Layer, who, for his part, produced a dark lantern which the Bishop lighted, all keeping strict silence.

The Bishop then knelt down and touched a dark spot on one of the boards. After a little pressure part of the wood flooring turned, seemingly on a pivot, revealing a dark underground passage. "Follow me," said Bishop Atterbury, descending. After closing the spring the two young men followed him, Francis still lost in astonishment. After they had walked some way in silence, the passage grew wider and loftier. " Hold up the light, Christopher," said the Bishop. " Now, Francis Gascoigne, look ! " Francis looked. On each side of the passage were heavy cases, barrels, and small wooden tubs. The Bishop advanced, and, wrenching the top off one of the tubs, revealed to Francis's astonished gaze the golden Louis d'or with which it was filled to the brim. " Money will be needed to pay the soldiers," said Bishop Atterbury.

"See here, these barrels are full of gunpowder, shot, etc. These cases are full of weapons. Now in two months you must give ten of the tubs of gold to Christopher Layer, who will come disguised as a miller — the money will be needed for the cause. A fortnight after five thousand North Countrymen will stand at your gates wearing the white cockade — these you must arm from the store here — then march at their head to London to fight for the King." " All this will I do," said the young man, quietly, "and if I die — I die." " King James," said the Bishop, after a solemn pause, " sends this paper to his true friend." He placed in Francis's hands a parchment paper. It was a patent of nobility, making young Gascoigne a baronet, and giving him a fair landed estate. "Ah ! I can give Eleanor something now," murmured the boy, forgetting the stranger's presence.

" Eleanor ? " asked the Bishop, surprised. "Ah! who is she?" Young Layer advanced, smiling. " Come, answer, Francis, if the lady is a Jacobite." " I am betrothed," answered Francis, " to Mistress Eleanor Fenwick." The Bishop started. " To the great heiress ? Ah ! I remember little Mistress Eleanor. You have done well, young sir, for she comes of a loyal race. Take me to see her ; I would fain see a Fen wick again. I knew and loved her father well. Now tell me, will you be ready and true to the King ? " " Yes— till death." " You are sealed to us," said the Bishop, " by your oath and your father's martyrdom — it is well."

Chapter II

" Gird on your broad swords, Far watch up the glen ; Fight, fight, as wild wolves do, And die as true men ! " " Dearest to dearest can only say — My heart, I'd follow thee all the way." Next morning Eleanor walked out, to dream a sweet love dream in the garden. All at once she heard the sounds of horses' hoofs down the Park, and in a few moments a little group approached her. Mistress Betty, walking with a stately gentleman, came first ; then Francis and a young man a few years older than himself. " Eleanor, dearest," said Mistress Betty, " Bishop Atterbury." Eleanor dropped a stately curtsey to the Bishop, who gravely took her hand in his. " Child, dear child," he asked, " are you true to the Stuart's cause ? " Half proudly, half frightened, she an swered — " Ah, yes ! indeed I am." " Would you grudge giving up your lover for your King ?

Would you arm him to fight could you see him die — martyred ? " Strangely awed, Eleanor murmured — "Yes." She looked up with a vivid blush to meet her lover's glance ; there was a strange wist fulness in his eyes that touched her to the soul. " Francis," she cried, " tell me, am I wrong to say so? " " No, dearest," he answered, taking her hand ; " love must bow to loyalty." The Bishop approached the two lovers, his hands extended as though in blessing. They sank on their knees before him, and he placed his hands on the two bowed heads, saying — " Oh, God ! I pray Thee bless these two young hearts, whose loyalty is strong as their love. Thus do I betroth them in Thy sight. Grant to them many years of happy wedded life, but — " (and here his voice faltered) " if another martyred soul is required — oh ! grant to him the power to suffer and to die, and to her to part.

Ye will meet above." The benediction over, pale as death, Eleanor sank into her lover's arms. " Francis, Francis ! it cannot be — we must not part ! Oh, my lord ! release him from his oath — I cannot let him risk his life — not even for the King ! " " Eleanor Fenwick," said the Bishop, sternly, " would you have your betrothed a perjured traitor? " " Oh, no, no ! " she wept ; " forget what I said, Francis. I was dreaming — I was mad." " And when the cause has triumphed," said young Layer, gaily, " and the Rose enjoys his own again, Francis Gascoigne will thank the noble girl who has taught him duty before love." " You say well," said Mistress Betty, ad vancing, hot tears streaming down her cheek; " but, Eleanor, my child, remember — if we fail, sorrow never mourns a martyr. 'Tis but for our lonely selves we weep — as I have felt, dear, I speak."

The old face was lit up with a rare beauty as she said the words ; a soft, rich colour came to the faded cheeks, and her eyes shone with the wonderful light of undying love. After a moment's silence Francis said — " I am ready to die for my dear King, but hope to live and be worthy of my dearest love. Now, let us say no more." Mistress Betty turned to Christopher Layer. " And are you also betrothed, sir ? The young man smiled. " I have been married four years, madam. My wife," he added, turning to Eleanor, "is as great a Jacobite as yourself, fair lady." At that moment a stir was heard in the shrubs, and to the horror and astonishment of all present Captain Carpenter stepped for ward. " I have heard all," he said. " It is best not to talk treason in a garden." Eleanor advanced. " By all that is sacred, surely you will not betray my friends."

" No, Eleanor ; I will not," he answered, gruffly. " I told you I cared for you, thus I prove it. I came here this morning to beg forgiveness for my rudeness yesterday and to say good-bye." Eleanor held out her hands. " Oh ! true, dear friend, God bless and thank you." " Sir," said Bishop Atterbury, " you have, indeed, behaved nobly ; I thank you." " I did it for her sake," he answered, stoutly. " And Eleanor thanks you," cried the girl. " See here, this was my father's ring, take and wear it with my devoted thanks." " Oh ! " cried Layer, advancing, " sir, I know not who you are, but by your deed to day surely you are worthy of wearing the white cockade. Pray join our cause. You do not consider, I hope," he added, with a smile, " the King we serve a Pretender." Young Carpenter coloured and hesitated.

Eleanor bent forward and placed her hand in his, saying — " Oh ! Captain Carpenter, be true to King James. His grandfather, King Charles, died for England. Oh ! fight for him, our King, our beloved." " My father is General Carpenter," said the young man. " You all know his senti ments, I believe." A smile went round the group, and he con tinued speaking. " He cannot altogether disinherit me if I displease him, for the lands are entailed, but every penny of his private fortune he can will away from me. I am ready at this moment to vow allegiance to King James, to join every Jacobite plot, to fight in every rising if, Eleanor, you will place your hand in mine and, giving up Francis Gascoigne, promise to be my wife. What say you ? " A breathless silence followed this speech. Francis started forward with hand on sword, then drew back ; could he — oh, could he — give up his darling for the King's sake ?

Eleanor crimsoned and, tearful, stood silent ; her woman's heart told her that not even for the cause she loved so well should she sell her heart, and yet — Councillor Layer, who knew well what powerful aid young Carpenter could bring to the Jacobite cause, watched with deep anxiety. Poor Mistress Betty knew not what to say or do. Bishop Atterbury advanced and said — " Your King would be the last to claim such unlawful sacrifice as this — to sell a living heart." Young Carpenter stepped forward wildly. " Speak, Eleanor ; answer me." " I will," she replied, taking Francis's arm. " This is the man I love, and whose wife I have promised to be." " Then," cried the young man, savagely, " from this hour I devote myself to King George and the Government. Not a spark of pity for a Jacobite shall ever wring my heart.

I will hunt them like Campbell of Glencoe, and hate them like William of Orange. Fear not, gentlemen, I am no traitor, so I will not betray what I have heard to-day, but from henceforth every Jacobite in England shall I hate, nor rest till he lies dead on the scaffold." " Hush, hush, do not, pray do not say that," cried Eleanor, with a sob. "Oh! it breaks my heart." " Eleanor, oh ! Eleanor, I am so miserable," the poor young fellow sobbed out, trying to check his emotion. " Oh ! for my sake be merciful." " Eleanor, take this ring of mine. Now, if ever I can help you, dear, in any way, treason or not, come to me with it. But for the rest of the Jacobites — may they all be hung." Deeply touched, she placed her hand in his. He raised it to his lips with a strange reverent tenderness, then hastily walked down the garden path, and was soon lost to sight.