The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “Proof will be forthcoming, sire,” replied the young man.

  “Till then, be silent,” said the king, with dignity.

  “My accusations are made to his grace’s face, not behind his back!” cried Ossory.

  “I wish to heaven the villains had hanged your father!” said Buckingham, losing all control of himself. “It would have been a good riddance — you may tell him so.”

  “I will not fail to convey to him your grace’s approval of the infamous deed. He will know what to think of it,” rejoined Ossory. “Meantime, I retract nothing, and repeat my warning.”

  And, with a profound reverence to the king, and a scornful and defiant look at Buckingham, he withdrew.

  “I will wash out these insults in his blood!” cried the duke.

  “I forbid you to follow him!” said Charles, authoritatively. “I will send you to the Tower, rather than you shall fight him. A duel with Ossory would not clear you from suspicion. Were he to fall by your hand, people would say you had murdered him.”

  “Does your majesty really believe I have had any hand in this untoward affair?” said the duke, suppressing his rage by a great effort.

  “I don’t know what to think,” rejoined Charles. “Rightly or wrongly, you have got all the opprobrium of the deed. They say you shelter the assassins, and keep them out of the way, lest they should betray you. Have you any idea who was the leader of the attack?”

  “How should I, sire?”

  “I am sure I have seen him,” said Charles.

  And he proceeded co relate to the duke the mysterious incident that had occurred at Knole.

  “I believe my nocturnal visitor to be the man,” he added, in conclusion.

  “Your majesty is right,” cried Buckingham. ““he, beyond a doubt. He has not paid you a second visit, I presume?”

  “No; but I feel certain I shall see him again ere long. He has been here.”

  “At night, sire?”

  “No; in broad daylight. One morning, about three weeks ago, I heard his voice in the ante-chamber. He was conversing with you.”

  “With me, sire?” exclaimed the duke, in some confusion.

  “The door happened to be partly open; you were speaking to some one within; and the voice of your interlocutor was that of my mysterious visitant. I knew it at once.”

  “You say this occurred about three weeks ago, sire. I am surprised you did not mention the circumstance to me at the time.”

  “I should have mentioned it, had you come in. But you left with the person in question.”

  “This is strange!” cried the duke. “Who could it be?”

  “He had a deep voice,” observed the king.

  “That does not help me, sire; deep voices are not uncommon. Did you hear aught that was said?”

  “I only remarked that you spoke impatiently to him.”

  “That’s not singular. I am always impatient when troubled, and I am constantly troubled in the ante-chamber. But your majesty says I left with him?”

  “I thought so,” replied the king. “Come, come! you know more about this mysterious individual than you care to confess. If a secret society really exists — as would appear from what has just happened to Ormond — and if this man is the leader, we ought to be able to lay hands upon him. I myself am not safe. He can as easily penetrate to my chamber at Whitehall as to that at Knole.”

  “I will answer for your majesty’s safety,” replied the duke, “This man shall be found; but I cannot deliver him up to justice. If we crush him, we shall bring the whole hornet’s nest upon us. Better make terms with him; he may prove useful.”

  “You have found him so,” observed the king, drily.

  “And so may your majesty,” rejoined Buckingham. “But let us change the theme. I have just seen the Duchess of Cleveland. Her grace is furious at the honors your majesty has just conferred on Mademoiselle de Quéroualle. At first she refused to believe me, but I told her it was perfectly true, and that her rival had been created by letters patent Baroness of Petersfield, Countess of Farnham, and Duchess of Portsmouth.”

  “You might have added, that equal honors have been conferred upon her by Louis XIV., who has just created her Duchess of Aubigns,” observed Charles, laughing.

  “I did not neglect to mention that fact, sire; and I was malicious enough to add that the Duchess of Portsmouth’s pension will exceed her own. When I told her this, I thought she would have gone mad with rage. There was nothing spiteful that she did not say of your majesty. She vowed she would never see you again, but would leave Whitehall forever.”

  “Would to heaven she would keep her word!” exclaimed the king.

  “I applauded her resolution,” said the duke. “But she then changed her note, and declared she would stay to plague you and her rival.”

  “I thought she would not be got rid of so easily,” observed the king. “Well, let her stay: her malice is impotent.”

  “Not so impotent as your majesty imagines. A woman can always make mischief.”

  “Oddsfish! that’s true enough,” said the king. “I have had some experience of the dear duchess’s talent in that line. But there is no State Council to-day. Come with me to the Duchess of Portsmouth’s apartments. You shall see how she bears her new honors.”

  “I was about to solicit permission to attend your majesty,” rejoined the duke. “I am eager to pay my devoirs to her grace.”

  With this, they quitted the cabinet by a private door, and proceeded along a narrow passage, used only by the king, to the Stone Gallery.

  CHAPTER IV

  WHITEHALL

  The Palace of Whitehall, in the time of Charles the Second, though not very magnificent, was of immense extent. Having no pretensions to uniformity of design, it looked like a collection of buildings of various sizes, rather than a single edifice; and such, indeed, would be the most correct description that could be given of it.

  Portions had been rebuilt, and constant additions made, without reference to any particular plan. In spite of all this, it was one of those old, rambling, extraordinary piles, that are infinitely more agreeable to inhabit than a palace designed according to the strictest rule of art, and reared on the grandest scale, like Versailles.

  Vast as it was, and containing endless apartments, Whitehall in the days of the Merry Monarch, whose aim was to have the gayest court in Europe, was very much overcrowded.

  Everybody connected with the court, from the highest officers to those of the most inferior grade, had lodgings in the palace. The lord chamberlain, the vice-chamberlain, the master of the horse, the gentlemen ushers, the grooms of the privy chamber, pages, purveyors, clerks, yeomen of the guard, the watermen belonging to the royal barges, footmen that might be counted by the hundred, — all were housed there.

  Her majesty the queen had separate rooms, and a separate establishment of her own, religious as well as civil — the former comprising a grand almoner, three almoners, her confessor, two Portuguese preachers, six Benedictines, eleven Franciscan friars, and the musicians belonging to her chapel.

  All these, as well as her numerous household, inhabited the palace. The ladies of the bedchamber and the maids of honor likewise had rooms there.

  Separated from the main body of the palace by a large court, though connected with it by a line of buildings, was the great banqueting-house, built by Inigo Jones, from a window of which the ill-fated Charles the First went forth to die. Hereabouts, was the Privy Garden, which was charmingly laid out in trim parterres in the French taste, and adorned with numerous statues in bronze and marble. In the midst was a curious dial.

  Divided from the garden by a shady walk was the bowling-green, where Charles recreated himself daily. A private passage, contrived within one of the gate-ways, built by Holbein, in the time of Henry VIII., communicated with the tennis-court and royal cockpit.

  In our hasty survey of the palace, we have said nothing of the domestic offices. As will easily be imagined, with such an enorm
ous establishment to provide for, these were immense.

  Where feasting was going on continually, many kitchens and many cooks were needed. There were flesh larders and fish larders, a great buttery, a confectionery, wine-cellars and beer-cellars, coach-houses, and stables that held five score horses. Imagine the din and confusion occasioned by such a host of servants.

  Many of the saloons and halls within the palace were sumptuously furnished; but the king’s apartments were less splendid than those of his favorites. A great patron of the arts, as is well known, Charles the First had made an admirable collection of pictures; and though some of these were lost, the chief part had been recovered, and now adorned the walls of the great gallery.

  Viewed from the river, whence it was seen to the greatest advantage, Whitehall, from its irregularity of outline, presented a very picturesque appearance. Though wanting in elevation, and having many architectural defects, unquestionably it was the pleasantest of royal residences, as its master, who knew better than any other monarch how to enjoy himself, perfectly understood.

  The Stone Gallery, which the king and Buckingham had just entered, was of great length, and ran along the whole north side of the palace. It overlooked the Privy Gardens, the two splendid Holbein Gates, and the Horse Guards.

  This magnificent gallery, as we have incidentally remarked, was hung with fine pictures, and embellished with bronzes and statues.

  On the left were several doors, communicating with various apartments; and on this side, also, was a smaller gallery, leading to the rooms appropriated to the maids of honor. At the entrance to the lesser gallery, two grooms of the chamber and an usher were stationed.

  The grand gallery was thronged at the time with gaily attired courtiers, all of whom were amusing themselves in different ways: some were collected around a basset table, on which a great heap of gold was piled; others were playing at cards; some were recounting their amorous adventures; while others were confiding billets-doux to the pages to deliver to their mistresses.

  Jests and laughter resounded on all sides; nor did the merry groups become silent, or the gamesters disturb themselves from their play, on the appearance of the king and Buckingham. They knew the easy nature of the monarch too well, and presumed upon it.

  Those, however, near whom the king passed, or whom his eye alighted upon, bowed reverently.

  While the king was glancing around, his attention was attracted to a young gallant, who was talking to a page, and giving him a billet. This gallant turned away quickly, but not so quickly as to prevent Charles from discovering that it was Talbot Harland, whose sentence of banishment from court he had not yet remitted.

  His majesty did not appear to notice the offender, but calling the page to him, took the note, and, finding it addressed to Miss Neville, went on.

  Arrived at the corridor leading, as we have said, to the apartments of the maids of honor, Charles and the duke entered it, and had not gone far when the king stopped, and tapped at a door, which was instantly opened by a chambermaid.

  “Tell Miss Neville that Old Rowley has brought a note for her,” said Charles.

  On hearing his majesty’s voice, Dorinda, who was in an inner room, immediately came forth. Her confusion was very great when she received the note, and saw from whom it came.

  “Read it!” cried the king, feigning displeasure; “and tell me what it contains.”

  Dorinda was so agitated that she could not make out a word.

  “Give it me,” said Charles.

  “Oh, no, no, sire!” she cried, with increased alarm. “Mr. Harland entreats me to obtain for him your majesty’s forgiveness, that is all. Pray pardon him, sire. The fault was mine, not his.”

  “I cannot pardon him, without pardoning Bellegarde,” said the king.

  “Then pardon both, sire,” she cried.

  “Hum!” exclaimed Charles; “you know how to communicate with your lover, I am sure. I left him in the Stone Gallery. Send him presently to the Duchess of Portsmouth’s apartments, whither I am going. I will then hear what he has to say, and — decide.”

  “I thank your majesty in advance,” cried Dorinda, with a look of profound gratitude.

  CHAPTER V

  THE DUCHESS OF PORTSMOUTH’S BOUDOIR

  The Duchess of Portsmouth’s apartments were situated at the end of the gallery, and the windows looked upon the Thames.

  They were the most charming rooms in the palace, and had been recently fitted up in a superb manner by the king. In the ante-chamber were Chiffinch and three or four pages.

  As Charles and Buckingham entered, the tinkling of a guitar from within caught their ears, while a very agreeable voice began to sing a French love-ditty.

  “Who is with the duchess?” inquired the king, of Chiffinch.

  “A French minstrel, sire,” was the discreet valet’s reply.

  ““Bellegarde, I’ll be sworn,” cried Buckingham.

  “Oddsfish! it sounds like his voice,” observed the king. “We will see.”

  And preventing Chiffinch from announcing him, he softly opened the door, and, raising the tapestry that masked it, looked in, while Buckingham peered over his shoulder.

  A very charming picture was offered to their gaze.

  The boudoir was most exquisitely furnished, and in the French style. Everything within it came from Paris, and many of the choicest articles, such as the massive silver sconces and braseras, the superb pendules, and the rich ornaments upon the chimney-piece, were presents from Louis XIV.

  The walls were hung with Gobelin tapestry of marvellous beauty, representing hunting-scenes and views of Versailles and St. Germains. This tapestry was likewise the gift of the Grand Monarque.

  Besides these, there were exquisite groups of figures, dainty baskets of the rarest porcelain, caskets encrusted with pearls, paintings by famous French artists, Japan cabinets, and screens.

  Rose-colored curtains subdued the light, while the atmosphere was redolent of perfume. The furniture consisted of small tables, causeuses, and fauteuils of the most graceful shape. Nothing, in short, was wanting that could add to the luxury of the room.

  The beautiful duchess, it appeared, had not quite completed her toilet.

  Enveloped in a loose robe of sky-blue satin, embroidered with lace, which, while it concealed her figure, displayed the loveliest neck in the world, she was reclining in a fauteuil, with her feet — and what charming little feet they were! — upon a velvet tabouret.

  Two French tirewomen, both young, pretty, and coquettish-looking, were employed in combing out her magnificent black tresses. Ever and anon she cast a glance at a small mirror, encircled by feathers, to see that they performed their task satisfactorily.

  Two persons, besides her attendants, were with the duchess at the time. One of these was Sir Peter Lely, who was seated near a little table, with a portfolio before him, in which he was sketching the charming group.

  The other was rather a singular figure, and seemed fresh from a masquerade, for he was wrapped in a black domino, and his features were concealed by a mask. This masquerader it was who was playing upon the guitar, and singing the French love-song to the duchess; and so captivating were his strains, that the susceptible tirewomen almost neglected their task to listen to him.

  The spectators of this charming scene might have remained undiscovered for a few minutes, if two little long-eared spaniels had not leaped up from a cushion, and betrayed them by their bark.

  As the king and Buckingham appeared, the masquerader immediately ceased his song, and rising from the sofa on which he was seated, retired behind one of the screens.

  Charles took no notice of the movement; but addressing the duchess, said, “I have brought the Duke of Buckingham to pay his devoirs to you.”

  “Charmed to see your grace,” she replied, extending her fair hand to the duke, who pressed it very gallantly to his lips, and proceeded to congratulate her in the warmest terms on her newly-acquired dignity.

  “His maje
sty will tell you how delighted I am,” he said. “You are now on a par with the envious Duchess of Cleveland, if you cannot take precedence of her.”

  The duchess tossed her head with so much disdain, that she pulled the comb from the hands of one of the tirewomen.

  “I will take precedence of her!” she exclaimed. “She has tried to humiliate me; now I will humiliate her.”

  This explosion called back the king, who was talking to Lely, and admiring his sketch.

  “I must tell you how I am obeyed,” he said, anxious to turn the conversation. “While passing through the Stone Gallery just now, I perceived Talbot Harland. Yes, he was there in defiance of my orders. How ought I to punish his disobedience?”

  “I think he has been punished quite sufficiently,” replied the duchess. “Let me make his peace. I want to have poor Bellegarde back at court. He is in despair at his long banishment, and will certainly return to France unless your majesty relents. He is very much missed.”

  “By whom?” observed the king. “I have heard no one regret his absence. Have you?” he added, to Buckingham.

  “Not I, sire,” replied the duke, taking the hint. “No one wants Bellegarde back. He was always winning our money, and not always winning it fairly; always getting into scrapes, and never getting creditably out of them; always boasting of his amours, though rarely successful; always relating tiresome stories, and never perceiving they were tiresome. I cannot deny that the fellow has some agreeable qualities; but, on the whole, we are better without him. I cannot vote for his recall.”

  “I should like to know what he has been doing during his exile?” remarked Charles.

  “He has been following Rochester’s example — amusing himself among the citizens, eating their dinners, and making love to their wives,” replied the duke. “Moreover, I hear he has been acting at the fairs as a saltimbanque and a charlatan, and I think it likely enough, for he has plenty of buffoonery.”

  “If I have not been misinformed, your grace excelled in both characters, and made a vast deal of money by acting as a Jack-Pudding, and vending quack medicines,” observed the Duchess of Portsmouth, rather sharply.