thee the moment I saw thee; and main hard work it was to keep a
stony countenance and seem to see none here but tuppenny knaves
and rubbish o’ the streets. I am old and poor, Sir Miles; but say
the word and I will go forth and proclaim the truth though I be
strangled for it.”
“No,” said Hendon; “thou shalt not. It would ruin thee, and yet
help but little in my cause. But I thank thee, for thou hast
given me back somewhat of my lost faith in my kind.”
The old servant became very valuable to Hendon and the King; for
he dropped in several times a day to ‘abuse’ the former, and
always smuggled in a few delicacies to help out the prison bill of
fare; he also furnished the current news. Hendon reserved the
dainties for the King; without them his Majesty might not have
survived, for he was not able to eat the coarse and wretched food
provided by the jailer. Andrews was obliged to confine himself to
brief visits, in order to avoid suspicion; but he managed to
impart a fair degree of information each time–information
delivered in a low voice, for Hendon’s benefit, and interlarded
with insulting epithets delivered in a louder voice for the
benefit of other hearers.
So, little by little, the story of the family came out. Arthur
had been dead six years. This loss, with the absence of news from
Hendon, impaired the father’s health; he believed he was going to
die, and he wished to see Hugh and Edith settled in life before he
passed away; but Edith begged hard for delay, hoping for Miles’s
return; then the letter came which brought the news of Miles’s
death; the shock prostrated Sir Richard; he believed his end was
very near, and he and Hugh insisted upon the marriage; Edith
begged for and obtained a month’s respite, then another, and
finally a third; the marriage then took place by the death-bed of
Sir Richard. It had not proved a happy one. It was whispered
about the country that shortly after the nuptials the bride found
among her husband’s papers several rough and incomplete drafts of
the fatal letter, and had accused him of precipitating the
marriage–and Sir Richard’s death, too–by a wicked forgery.
Tales of cruelty to the Lady Edith and the servants were to be
heard on all hands; and since the father’s death Sir Hugh had
thrown off all soft disguises and become a pitiless master toward
all who in any way depended upon him and his domains for bread.
There was a bit of Andrew’s gossip which the King listened to with
a lively interest–
“There is rumour that the King is mad. But in charity forbear to
say _I_ mentioned it, for ’tis death to speak of it, they say.”
His Majesty glared at the old man and said–
“The King is NOT mad, good man–and thou’lt find it to thy
advantage to busy thyself with matters that nearer concern thee
than this seditious prattle.”
“What doth the lad mean?” said Andrews, surprised at this brisk
assault from such an unexpected quarter. Hendon gave him a sign,
and he did not pursue his question, but went on with his budget–
“The late King is to be buried at Windsor in a day or two–the
16th of the month–and the new King will be crowned at Westminster
the 20th.”
“Methinks they must needs find him first,” muttered his Majesty;
then added, confidently, “but they will look to that–and so also
shall I.”
“In the name of–”
But the old man got no further–a warning sign from Hendon checked
his remark. He resumed the thread of his gossip–
“Sir Hugh goeth to the coronation–and with grand hopes. He
confidently looketh to come back a peer, for he is high in favour
with the Lord Protector.”
“What Lord Protector?” asked his Majesty.
“His Grace the Duke of Somerset.”
“What Duke of Somerset?”
“Marry, there is but one–Seymour, Earl of Hertford.”
The King asked sharply–
“Since when is HE a duke, and Lord Protector?”
“Since the last day of January.”
“And prithee who made him so?”
“Himself and the Great Council–with help of the King.”