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Books: The King's Highway

G >> G. P. R. James >> The King's Highway




Such had been the state of his mind when Wilton had last seen him in
London, towards the beginning of the year 1695; but the young gentleman
was somewhat surprised, about a month afterwards, to receive a sudden
summons to visit the Earl in town, coupled with information, that it was
his friend's design immediately to proceed to Italy, on account of his
health. The summons was very unexpected, as we have implied; but the
Earl informed him in his letter that he was going without loss of time;
and as the shortest way of reaching him, Wilton determined to mount his
horse at once, and ride part of the way to London that night. Of his
journey, however, and its results, we will speak in another chapter.



CHAPTER VIII.

That there are epochs in the life of every man, when all the concurrent
circumstances of fortune seem to form, as it were, a dam against the
current of his fate, and turn it completely into another direction, when
the trifling accident and the great event work together to produce an
entirely new combination around him, no one who examines his own
history, or marks attentively the history of others, can doubt for a
moment. It is very natural, too, to believe that there are at those
moments indications in our own hearts--from the deep latent sympathies
which exist between every part of nature and the rest--that the changes
which reason and observation do not point out are about to take place in
our destiny: for is it to be supposed, that when the fiat has gone forth
which alters a being's whole course of existence--when the electric
touch has been communicated to one end of the long chain of cause and
effect which forms the fate of every individual being--is it to be
supposed that it will not tremble to its most remote link, especially
towards that point where the greatest action is to take place?

There come upon us, it seems to me, in those times, fits of musing far
deeper and more intense, excitability of feeling--perhaps of imagination
too--more acute than at any other time. Perhaps, also, a determination,
an energy of will is added, necessary to carry us through, with power
and firmness, the struggle, or the change, or the temptation that awaits
us.

When Nelson stood upon the quarter-deck of his ship, but a few minutes
before the last great victory that closed a career of glory, he felt and
expressed a sense that his last hour was come, that the great and final
change of fate was near, and that but a few moments remained for the
accomplishment of his destiny. But the indication was given to a mind
that could employ it nobly; and he to whom the foreshadowing of his fate
had been afforded, even as a boy--when he determined that he would, and
felt that he could, be a hero--in that last moment, when he knew that
the hero's life was done, determined to die as he had lived, and used
the prescience of his coming death but to promote the objects for which
he had existed.

There may be some men who would say these things are not natural; but if
we could see all the fine relationships of one being to another, if the
mortal eye refined could view the unsubstantial as well as the
substantial world, could mark the keen sympathies and near associations,
and all the essences which fill up the apparent gaps between being and
being, we should see, undoubtedly, that these things are most natural,
and wonder at the blindness with which we have walked in darkling
ignorance through the thronged and multitudinous universe.

It was somewhat late in the afternoon when Wilton Brown put his foot in
the stirrup, and set off to ride towards London. He did not hope to
reach the metropolis that night, but he intended to go as far as he
could, so as to insure his arrival before the hour of the Earl's
breakfast on the following morning. He had ridden his horse somewhat
hard during the morning before he had received the summons to town, and
he consequently now set out at a slow pace. Not to weary the noble beast
was, in truth, and in reality, his motive; but there was, at the same
time, in his mind, a temporary inclination to deep and intense thought,
which he could by no means shake off, and which naturally disposed him
to a slow and equable pace.

The sudden announcement of the Earl's determination to go abroad,
without any intimation that the young man whom he had fostered from
youth to manhood was to accompany him, or to follow him to the
continent, might very well set Wilton musing on his circumstances and
his prospects; but that was not the cause of his meditative mood on the
present occasion, though it was the immediate cause of his giving way to
it. In truth, the inclination which he felt to low, desponding, though
deep and clear thought, had pursued him for the last four-and-twenty
hours, and it was to cast it off that he had in fact ridden so hard that
very morning. Now, however, he found it necessary to yield to it; and as
he rode along, he gave up his mind entirely to the consideration of the
past, of the present, and the future.

The Earl had announced to him at once in his letter, that he was about
to leave England, but he had made no reference whatsoever to the future
fate of him whom he had hitherto protected and supported. Was that
protection and support still to continue? Wilton asked himself. His
friend had told him that he was to win his way in the world, and was the
struggle now to begin? The next question that came was, naturally, Who
and what am I, then? and his thoughts plunged at once into a gulf where
they had often lost themselves before.

His boyhood had passed away unheeding, and he had attached no importance
to his previous fate, nor made any effort to impress upon his own
recollection the circumstances which preceded the period of his
reception into the Earl's house. Indeed, he had never thought much upon
the matter, till at length, when he had reached the age of fifteen, the
Earl had kindly and judiciously spoken with him upon his future
prospects; and in order to stimulate him to exertion, had pointed out to
him that his fortunes depended on himself. He had then, for the first
time, asked himself, "Who and what am I?" and had striven to recollect
as much as possible of the past, in order to gather thence some
knowledge of the present. His efforts had not been very successful.

Time, the great destroyer, envies even memory the power of preserving
images of the things that he has done away or altered; and he is sure,
if possible, to deface the pictures altogether, or to leave the lines
less clear. With Wilton he had done much to blot out and to confuse. At
first, memory seemed all a blank beyond the period of his schoolboy
days; but gradually one image after another rose out of the void, and
one called up another as they came. Still they were clouded and
indistinct, like the vague phantoms of a dream. It was with great
difficulty that he recollected any names, and could not at all tell in
what land it was, that some of the brightest of his memories lay. It was
all unconnected, too, with the present, and from it Wilton could derive
no clue in regard to the great change that was coming. Between him and
the future there appeared to hang a dark pall, which his eye could not
penetrate, but behind which was Fate. He tried to combat such feelings:
he tried long, as he rode, to conquer them; to put them down by the
power of a vigorous mind; to overthrow sensation by thought.

When, however, he found that he could not succeed, when, after many
efforts, the oppression--for I will not call it despondency--remained
still as powerful as ever, he mentally turned, as if to face an enemy
that pursued him, and to gaze full upon the inevitable power itself; all
the more awful as it was, in the misty grandeur which shrouded the
frowning features from his view. He nerved his heart, too, and resolved,
whatever it might be that was in store for him, whatever might be the
change, the loss, the adversity, which all his sensations seemed to
prophesy, that he would bear it with unshrinking courage, with resolute
determination; nay, with what was still more with one of his
disposition, with unmurmuring patience.

In the meanwhile, however, he strove, as he went along, to persuade
himself that the presentiment was but the work of fancy; that there was
nothing real in it; that he had excited himself to fears and
apprehensions that were groundless; that the expedition of the Earl to
Italy was but a temporary undertaking, and that it would most probably
make no change in his situation, no alteration in his fortunes.

Thus thought he, as he rode slowly onward, when, at the distance of
about a quarter of a mile, he perceived another horseman, proceeding at
a pace perhaps still slower than his own. The aspect of the country
between Oxford and London was as different in that day from that which
it is at present as it is possible to conceive. There is nothing in all
England--with all the changes which have taken place, in manners,
morals, feelings, arts, sciences, produce, manufactures, and
government--which has undergone so great a change, as the high roads of
the empire during the last hundred and fifty years. No one can now tell,
where the roads which lay between this place and that then ran. They
have been dug into, ploughed up, turned hither and thither, changed into
canals, or swallowed up in railroads. The face of the country, too, has
been altered, by many a village built, and many an old mansion pulled
down, long tracts of country brought into cultivation, and deep
plantations of old trees shadowing that ground which in those days was
unwholesome marsh, or barren moor. Even Hounslow Heath, beloved by many
of the frequenters of the King's Highway, has disappeared under the
spirit of cultivation, and left no trace of places where many a daring
deed was clone.

However that may be, the road which the young traveller was following,
lay not at all in the direction taken by either of the present roads to
Oxford; but at a short distance from High Wycombe turned off to the
right--that is, supposing the traveller to be going towards London--and
approached the banks of the Thames not far from Marlow. In so doing, it
passed over a long range of high hills, and a wide extent of flat,
common ground upon the top, which was precisely the point whereat Wilton
Brown had arrived, at the very moment we began this digression upon the
state of the King's Highways in those times.

This common ground of which we speak was as bleak as well might be, for
the winds of heaven had certainly room to visit it as roughly as they
chose; it was also uncultivated, and yet it cannot be said to have been
unproductive; for, probably, there never was a space of ground of equal
size, unless it were Maidenhead Thicket, which could show so rich and
luxuriant a crop of gorse, heath, and fern. For a shelter to the latter,
appeared scattered at unequal distances over the ground a few stunted
trees--hawthorns, beeches, and oaks. The beech, however, predominated,
in honour of the county in which the common was situated; for though,
probably, if we knew the origin of the name bestowed on each county in
England, we should find them all significant, yet none, I believe, would
be found more picturesque or appropriate than that given by our good
Saxon ancestors to the county in question--being Buchen-heim, or
Buckingham: the home or land of the beeches.

The gorse, fern, and heath, besides a small quantity of not very rich
grass, and a few wild flowers, were the only produce of the ground,
except the trees that I have mentioned; and the only tenants of the
place were a few sheep, by far too lean to need any one to look after
them. On the edges of the common, indeed, might be found an occasional
goose or two, but they were like the white settlers on the coast of
Africa: venturing rarely and timidly into the interior. A high road went
across this track, as I have shown; but it being necessary, from time to
time, that farmers' carts, and other conveyances, horses, waggons,
tinkers' asses, and flocks of sheep, should cross it in different
directions, and as each of these travelling bodies, in common with the
world in general, liked to have a way of its own, the furze and fern had
been cut down in many long straight lines; and paths for horse and foot,
as well as long tracks of wheels, and deep ruts, crossed and recrossed
each other all over the common. To have seen it--nay, to see it now, for
it exists very nearly in its primeval state--one would suppose, from all
the various tracks, that it was a place of great thoroughfare, when, to
say truth, though I have crossed it some twenty times or more, I never
saw any travelling thing upon it but a solitary tax-cart and a gipsy's
van.

It was just about the middle of this common, then, that Wilton Brown, as
I have said, perceived another horseman riding along at the same slow
pace as himself. Their faces were both turned one way, with a few
hundred yards between them; and it appeared to the young gentleman, that
the other personage whom we have mentioned was coming in an oblique line
towards the high road to which he himself was journeying. This
supposition proved to be correct, as the stranger, riding along the path
that he was following, came abreast of Wilton Brown upon the high road,
just at the spot where a comfortable direction-post pointed with the
forefinger of a rude hand carved in the wood, along a path to the left,
bearing inscribed, in large letters, "To Woburn."

The young traveller examined the other with a hasty but marking glance,
and perceived thereby, that he was a stout man of the middle age,
between the unpleasant ages of forty and fifty, but without any loss of
power or activity. He was mounted on a strong black horse, had a quick
and eager eye, and altogether possessed a fine countenance, but there
was some degree of shy suspicion in his look, which did not seem to
indicate any very great energy or force of determination.

It now wanted not more than a quarter of an hour to sunset, and there
was a bright rich yellow light in the western sky, which gave each
traveller a fair excuse for staring into the face of the other, as if
their eyes were dazzled by the beams of the declining sun.

When he had satisfied himself, Wilton Brown turned away his eyes, and
rode on, gazing quietly over the wide extent of bleak common, which, to
say sooth, offered a picturesque scene enough, with its scrubby trees,
and its large masses of tall gorse, lying in the calm evening air; while
deep blue shadows, and clear lights resting here and there in the
hollows and upon the swells, marked them out distinctly to the view.

In a moment after, however, Wilton's ears were saluted by the stranger's
voice, saying, "Give you good evening, young gentleman--it has been a
fine afternoon."

Now this might appear somewhat singular in the present day--when human
beings have adopted a particular sort of mysterious ordinance, by which
alone they can become thoroughly known and acquainted with each
other--and when no man, upon any pretence or consideration whatsoever,
dare speak to a fellow-creature, until some one known to both of them
has whispered some cabalistic words between them, which, in general,
neither of them hear distinctly. At the time I speak of, however,
acquaintance was much more easily made, so far, at least, as common
civility and the ordinary charities of life went. A man might speak to
another at that time, if any accidental circumstances threw them close
together, without any risk of being taken for a fool, a swindler, or a
brute; and there was, in short, a good-humoured frankness and simplicity
in those days, which formed, to say the truth, the best part about them;
for the good old times, as they are called, were certainly desperately
coarse, and a trifle more vicious than the present.

Such being the case then, Wilton Brown was not in the least surprised at
the address of the stranger, but turned, and replied civilly; and being,
indeed, somewhat dissatisfied with the companionship of his own
thoughts, he suffered his horse to jog on side by side with the beast of
the stranger, and entered into conversation with him willingly enough.
He found him an intelligent and clever man, with a tone and manner
superior, in many points, to his dress and equipage. He seemed to speak
with authority, and was conversant with the great world of London, with
the court, and the camp. He knew something also of France, and its
self-called great monarch. He spoke with a shrug of the shoulder and an
Alas! of the court of Saint Germain, and the exiled royal family of
England; but he said nothing that could commit him to either one party
or the other; and though he certainly left room for Wilton to express
his own sentiments, if he chose to do so, he did not absolutely strive
to lead him to any political subject, which formed in those days a more
dangerous ground than at present.

Wilton, however, had not the slightest inclination to discuss politics
with a stranger. Brought up by a Whig minister, educated in the
Protestant religion, and fond of liberty upon principle, it may easily
be imagined, that he not only looked upon those who now swayed, and were
destined to sway, the British sceptre as the lawful and rightful
possessors of power in the country, but he regarded the actual sovereign
himself--though he might not love him in his private character, or
admire him in those acts, where the man and the monarch were too
inseparably blended to be considered apart--as a great deliverer of this
country, from a tyranny which had been twice tried and twice repudiated.
At the same time, however, he felt for the exiled monarch. But he felt
still more for his noble wife, and for his unhappy son. His own heart
told him that those two had been unjustly dealt with, the one
calumniated, the other punished without a fault. Nor did he blame the
true and faithful servants whom adversity could not shake, and who were
only loyal to a crime, who still adhered to their old allegiance, loved
still the sovereign, who had never ill-treated them, and were ready
again to shed their blood for the house in whose service so much noble
blood had already flowed. He did not--he did not in his own heart--blame
them, and he loved not to consider what necessity there might be for
putting down with the strong and unsparing hand of law the frequent
renewal of those claims which had been decided upon by the awful
sentence of a mighty nation.

But upon none of these subjects spoke he with the stranger. He refrained
from all such topics, though they were with some skill thrown in his
way; and thus the journey passed pleasantly enough for about half an
hour. By that time the sun had gone down; but it was a clear, bright
evening with a long twilight; and the evening rays, like gay children
unwilling to go to sleep, lingered long in rosy sport with the light
clouds before they would sink to rest beneath the western sky. The
twilight was becoming grey, however, and the light falling short, when,
at about the distance of half a mile before they reached the spot where
the common terminated, the two travellers approached a rise and fall in
the ground, beyond which ran a little stream with a small old bridge of
one arch, not in the best repair, carrying the highway over the water
with a sharp and sudden turn. Scattered about in the neighbourhood of
the bridge, and on the slope that led down to it, perched upon sundry
knolls and banks, and pieces of broken ground, were a number of old
beeches, mostly hollowed out by time, but still flourishing green in
their decay. These trees, together with the twilight, prevented the
bridge itself from being seen by the travellers; but as they came near,
they heard a sudden cry, as if called forth by either terror or
surprise, and Wilton instantly checked his horse to listen.

"Did you not hear a scream?" he said, addressing his companion in a low
voice.

"Yes," answered the other, "I thought I did: let us ride on and see."

Wilton's spurs instantly touched his horse's side, and he rode quickly
down the slope towards the bridge, which he well remembered, when a
scene was suddenly presented to his view, which for a moment puzzled and
confounded him.

Just at the turn of the bridge lay overturned upon the road one of the
large, heavy, wide-topped vehicles, called a coach in those days, while
round about it appeared a group of persons whose situation, for a
moment, seemed to him dubious, but which soon became more plain. A
gentleman, somewhat advanced in life--perhaps about fifty-eight or
fifty-nine, if not more--stood by the door of the carriage, from which
he had recently emerged, and with him two women, one of whom was a young
lady, apparently of about seventeen years of age, and the other her
maid. Three men--servants stood about their master; but they had not the
slightest appearance of any intention of giving aid to any one; for,
though sundry were the situations and attitudes in which they stood,
each of those attitudes betokened, in a greater or a less degree, the
uncomfortable sensation of fear. One of them, indeed, had a brace of
pistols in his two hands, but those hands dropped, as it were, powerless
by his side, and his knees were bent into a crooked line, which
certainly indicated no great firmness of heart.

To account for the trepidation displayed by several of the persons
present, it may be necessary to state that round the overthrown vehicle
stood five personages, each of whom held a cocked pistol in his hand,
and, in two instances, the hands that held those pistols were raised in
an attitude of menace not to be mistaken. In one instance, the weapon of
offence was pointed towards the gentleman who appeared to be the owner
of the carriage; in the other, it was directed towards the head of the
poor girl, his daughter, who seemed to have not the slightest intention
of resisting.

This formidable gesture was accompanied by words, which were spoken loud
enough for Wilton to hear, as he pushed his horse down the hill; and
those words were, "Come, madam! your ear-rings, quick: do not keep us
all night with your hands shaking. By the Lord, I will get them out in a
quicker fashion, if you do not mind."

Before we can proceed to describe what occurred next, it may be
necessary to state one feature in the case, which was very
peculiar--this was, that at about forty yards from the spot where the
robbery was taking place, upon the top of a small bank, with his horse
grazing near, and his arms crossed upon his chest, stood a man of
gentlemanly appearance and powerful frame, taking no part whatsoever in
the affray; not opposing the proceedings of the plunderers, indeed, but
gnawing his nether lip, as if anything rather than well contented. He
fixed a keen, even a fierce eye upon Wilton as he rode down; but neither
the young gentleman himself, nor the other traveller, who followed him
at full speed, took any notice of him, but coming on with their pistols
drawn from their holsters, they were soon in the midst of the group
round the carriage.

Wilton, unaccustomed to such encounters, was not very willing to shed
blood, and therefore--the chivalrous spirit in his heart leading him at
once towards one particular spot in the circle--he struck the man who
was brutally pointing his pistol at the girl, a blow of his clenched
fist, which hitting him just under the ear, as he turned at the sound of
the horse's feet, laid him in a moment motionless and stunned upon the
ground.

The young gentleman, by the same impulse, and almost at the same
instant, sprang from his horse, and cast himself between the lady and
the assailants; but at that moment the voice of his travelling companion
met his ear, exclaiming, in a thundering tone, "That is right! that is
right! Now stand upon the defensive till my men come up!"

Wilton did not at all understand what this might mean; but turning to
the servants already on the spot, he exclaimed, in a sharp tone, "Stand
forward like men, you scoundrels!" and they, seeing some help at hand,
advanced a little with a show of courage.

The gentlemen of the King's Highway, however, had heard the words which
Wilton's companion had shouted to him; and seeing themselves somewhat
overmatched in point of numbers already, they did not appear to approve
of more men coming up on the other side, before they had taken their
departure. There was, consequently, much hurrying to horse. The man who
had been knocked down by Wilton was dragged away by the heels, from the
spot where he lay somewhat too near to the other party; and the sharp
application of the gravel to his face, as one of his companions pulled
him along by the legs, proved sufficiently reviving to make him start
up, and nearly knock his rescuer down.

Wilton--not moved by the spirit of an ancient Greek--felt no
inclination to fight for the dead or the living body of his foe; and the
whole party of plunderers were speedily in the saddle and on the
retreat, with the exception of the more sedate personage on the bank.
He, indeed, was more slow to mount, calling the man who had been knocked
down "The Knight of the Bloody Nose" as he passed him; and then with a
light laugh springing into the saddle, he followed the rest at an easy
canter.