Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “God and you know — better than I do!” was the fierce answer. And then, “Williams,” the Countess cried to her major-domo, who, with the lacqueys and grooms, was standing by, enjoying the fall of the favourite— “see that that drab does not cross my threshold again; or you go, do you hear? Ay, mistress, you would poison me if you could!” the old lady went on, gibing, and pointing with her stick at the face, green with venom and spite, that betrayed the baffled woman’s feelings. “Look at her! Look at her! There is Madame Voisin for you! There is Madame Turner! She would poison you all if she could. But you should have done it yesterday, you slut! You will not have the chance now. Put her rags out here — here on the road; and do you, Williams, send her packing, and see she takes naught of mine, not a pinner or a sleeve, or she goes to Paddington fair for it! Ay, you drab,” my lady continued, with cruel exultation, “I’ll see you beat hemp yet! and your shoulders smarting!”

  “May God forgive you!” cried the waiting-woman, fighting with her rage.

  “He may or He may not!” said the dreadful old lady, coolly turning to go in. “Anyway, your score won’t stand for much in the sum, my girl.”

  And not until the Countess had gone in and Madame Monterey saw before her the grinning faces of the servants, as they stood to bar the way, did she thoroughly take in what had happened to her, or the utter ruin of all her prospects which this meant. Then, choking with passion, rage, despair, “Let me pass,” she cried, advancing and trying frantically to push her way through them. “Let me pass, you boobies. Do you hear? How dare — —”

  “Against orders, Madame Voisin!” said the majordomo with a hoarse laugh; and he thrust her back. And when, maddened by the touch, and defeat, she flung herself on him in a frenzy, one of the lacqueys caught her round the waist lifting her off her legs, carried her out screaming and scratching, and set her down in the road amid the laughter of his companions.

  “There,” he said, “and next time better manners, mistress, or I’ll drop you in the horse pond. You are not young enough, nor tender enough for these airs! Ten years ago you might have scratched all you pleased!”

  “Strike you dead!” she cried, “my husband — my husband shall kill you all! Ay, he shall!”

  “When he gets out of the Gatehouse, we will talk, mistress,” the man answered. “But he’s there, and you know it!”

  CHAPTER XLIII

  My lord persisted in his design of retiring to Eyford; nor could all the persuasions of his friends, and of some who were less his friends than their own, induce him to attend either the meeting of the party at Admiral Russell’s, or that which was held in Lincoln’s Inn Fields; a thing which I take to be in itself a refutation of the statement, sometimes heard in his disparagement, that he lacked strength. For it is on record that his Grace of Marlborough, in the great war, where he had in a manner to contend with Emperors and Princes, held all together by his firmness and conduct; yet he failed with my lord, though he tried hard, pleading as some thought in his own cause. To his arguments and those of Admiral Russell and Lord Godolphin, the hearty support of the party was not lacking, if it could have availed. But as a fact, it went into the other scale, since in proportion as his followers proclaimed their faith in my lord’s innocence, and denounced his accusers, he felt shame for the old folly and inconsistency, that known by some, and suspected by more, must now be proclaimed to the world. It was this which for a time paralysed the vigour and intellect that at two great crises saved the Protestant Party; and this, which finally determined him to leave London.

  It was not known, when he started, that horse-patrols had been ordered to the Kent and Essex roads in expectation of His Majesty’s immediate crossing. Nor is it likely that the fact would have swayed him had he known it, since it was not upon His Majesty’s indulgence — of which, indeed, he was assured — or disfavour, that he was depending; my lord being moved rather by considerations in his own mind. But at Maidenhead, where he lay the first night, Mr. Vernon overtook him — coming up with him as he prepared to start in the morning — and gave him news which presently altered his mind. Not only was His Majesty hourly expected at Kensington, where his apartments were being hastily prepared, but he had expressed his intention of seeing Fenwick at once, and sifting him.

  “Nor is that all,” Mr. Vernon continued. “I have reason to think that your Grace is under a complete misapprehension as to the character of the charges that are being made.”

  “What matter what the charges are?” my lord replied wearily, leaning back in his coach. For he had insisted on starting.

  “It does matter very much — saving your presence, Duke,” Mr. Vernon answered bluntly; a sober and downright gentleman, whose after-succession to the Seals, though thought at the time to be an excessive elevation, and of the most sudden, was fully justified by his honourable career. “Pardon me, I must speak, I have been swayed too long by your Grace’s extreme dislike of the topic.”

  “Which continues,” my lord said drily.

  “I care not a jot if it does!” Mr. Vernon cried impetuously, and then met the Duke’s look of surprise and anger with, “Your Grace forgets that it is treason is in question! High Treason, not in the clouds and in prœterito, but in prœsenti and in Kent! High Treason in aiding and abetting Sir John Fenwick, an outlawed traitor, and by his mouth and hand communicating with and encouraging the King’s enemies.”

  “You are beside the mark, sir,” my lord answered, in a tone of freezing displeasure. “That has nothing to do with it. It is a foolish tale which will not stand a minute. No man believes it.”

  “May be! But by G —— d! two men will prove it.”

  “Two men?” quoth my lord, his ear caught by that.

  “Ay, two men! And two men are enough, in treason.”

  My lord stared hard before him. “Who is the second?” he said at last.

  “A dubious fellow, yet good enough for the purpose,” the Under-Secretary answered, overjoyed that he had at last got a hearing. “A man named Matthew Smith, long suspected of Jacobite practices, and arrested with the others at the time of the late conspiracy, but released, as he says — —”

  “Well?”

  “Corruptly,” quoth the Under-Secretary coolly, and laid his hand on the check-string.

  My lord sprang in his seat. “What?” he cried; and uttered an oath, a thing to which he rarely condescended. Then, “It is true I know the man — —”

  “He is in the Countess’s service.”

  “In her husband’s. And he was brought before me. But the warrant was against one John Smith — or William Smith, I forget which — and I knew this man to be Matthew Smith; and the messenger himself avowing a mistake, I released the man.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Vernon, nodding impatiently. “Of course, but that, your Grace, is not the gravamen. It is a more serious matter that he alleges that he accompanied you to Ashford, that you there in his presence saw Sir John Fenwick, that you gave Sir John a ring — and, in a word, he confirms Sir John’s statement in all points. And there being now two witnesses, the matter becomes grave. Shall I stop the coach?” And he made again as if he would twitch the cord.

  The Duke, wearing a very sober face — yet one wherein the light of conflict began to flicker — drummed softly on the glass with his fingers. “How do you come by his evidence?” he said at last. “Has Sir John approved against him?”

  “No, but Sir John sent for him the morning he saw Devonshire for the second time, and I suppose threatened him, for the fellow went to Trumball and said that he had evidence to give touching Sir John, if he could have His Majesty’s word he should not suffer. It was given him, more or less; and he confirmed Sir John’s tale totidem verbis. They have had him in the Gatehouse these ten days, it seems, on Trumball’s warrant.”

  The Duke drew a deep breath. “Mr. Vernon, I am much obliged to you,” he said. “You have played the friend in my teeth. I see that I have treated this matter too lightly. Sir John, unhappy as he is in
some of his notions, is a gentleman, and I was wrong to think that he would accuse me out of pure malice and without grounds. There is some ill practice here.”

  “Devilish ill,” Mr. Vernon answered, scarce able to conceal his delight.

  “Some plot.”

  “Ay, plot within plot!” cried the Under-Secretary, chuckling. “Shall I pull the string?”

  The Duke hesitated, his face plainly showing the conflict that was passing in his mind. Then, “If you please,” he said.

  And so there the coach came to a standstill, as I have often heard, on an old brick bridge short of Nettlebed, near the coming into the village from Maidenhead. One of the outriders, spurring to the carriage window for orders, my lord cried “Turn! Maidenhead!”

  “No, London,” said Mr. Vernon firmly. “And one of you,” he continued, “gallop forward, and have horses ready at the first change house. And so to the next.”

  The Duke, his head in a whirl with what he had heard, pushed resistance no farther, but letting the reins fall from his hands, consented to be led by his companion. In deference to his wishes, however — not less than to his health, which the events of the last few weeks had seriously shaken — it was determined to conceal his return to town; the rather as the report of his absence might encourage his opponents, and lead them to show their hands more clearly. Hence, in the common histories of the day, and even in works so learned and generally well-informed as the Bishop of Salisbury’s and Mr. — — ‘s, it is said and asserted that the Duke of Shrewsbury retired to his seat in Gloucestershire before the King’s return, and remained there in seclusion until his final resignation of the Seals. It is probable that by using Mr. Vernon’s house in place of his own, and by his extreme avoidance of publicity while he lay in town, my lord had himself to thank for this statement; but that in making it these writers, including the learned Bishop, are wanting in accuracy, the details I am to present will clearly show.

  Suffice it that entering London late that night, my lord drove to Mr. Vernon’s, who, going next morning to the office, presently returned with the news that the King had ridden in from Margate after dining at Sittingbourne, and would give an audience to Sir John on the following day. But, as these tidings did no more than fulfil the expectation, and scarcely accounted for the air of briskness and satisfaction which marked the burly and honest gentleman, it is to be supposed that he did not tell the Duke all he had learned. And, indeed, I know this to be so.

  CHAPTER XLIV

  About ten on the morning of the 3rd of November of that year eight gentlemen of the first rank in England were assembled in the gallery at Kensington, awaiting a summons to the King’s closet. With the exception of Lord Godolphin, who had resigned his office three days earlier, all belonged to the party in power, notwithstanding which, a curious observer might have detected in their manner and intercourse an air of reserve and constraint, unusual among men at once so highly placed, and of the same opinions. A little thought, however, and a knowledge of the business which brought them together, would have explained the cause of this.

  While the Duke of Devonshire, the Marquis of Dorset, and Lord Portland formed a group apart, it was to be noticed that Lords Marlborough and Godolphin and Admiral Russell, who seemed to fall naturally into a second group — and though the movements of the company constantly left them together — never suffered this arrangement to last; but either effected a temporary change, by accosting the Lord Keeper or Mr. Secretary Trumball, or through the medium of Sir Edward Russell’s loud voice and boisterous manners, wrought a momentary fusion of the company.

  “By the Eternal, I am the most unlucky fellow,” the Admiral cried, addressing the whole company, on one of these occasions. “If Sir John had lied about me only, I should have given it him back in his teeth, and so fair and square; it is a poor cook does not know his own batch. But because he drags in the Duke, and the Duke chooses to get the fantods, and shirks him, I stand the worse!”

  “Sir Edward,” said Lord Dorset, speaking gravely and in a tone of rebuke, “No one supposes that the Duke of Shrewsbury is aught but ill. And, allow me to say that under the circumstances you are unwise to put it on him.”

  “But d —— n me, he has no right to be ill!” cried the seaman, whose turbulent spirit was not easily put down. “If he were here, I would say the same to his face. And that is flat!”

  He was proceeding with more, but at that moment the door of the Royal closet was thrown open, and a gentleman usher appeared, inviting them to enter. “My lords and gentlemen,” he said, “His Majesty desires you to be seated, as at the Council. He will be presently here.”

  The movement into the next room being made, the conversation took a lower tone, each speaking only to his neighbour; one, discussing the King’s crossing and the speed of his new yacht, another the excellent health and spirits in which His Majesty had returned; until a door at the lower end of the room being opened, a murmur of voices, and stir of feet were heard, and after a moment’s delay. Sir John Fenwick entered, a prisoner, and with a somewhat dazed air advanced to the foot of the table.

  The Lord Steward rose and gravely bowed to him; and this courtesy, in which he was followed by all except the Admiral, was returned by the prisoner.

  “Sir John,” said the Duke of Devonshire, “the King will be presently here.”

  “I am obliged to your Grace,” Fenwick answered, and stood waiting.

  His gaunt form, clothed in black, his face always stern and now haggard, his eyes — in which pride and fanaticism, at one moment overcame and at another gave place to the look of a hunted beast — these things would have made him a pathetic figure at any time and under any circumstances. How much more when those who gazed on him knew that he stood on the brink of death! and knew, too, that within a few moments he must meet the prince who for years he had insulted and defied, and in whose hands his fate now lay!

  That some, less interested in the matter than others, harboured such thoughts, the looks of grave compassion which Lords Devonshire and Dorset cast on him seemed to prove. But their reflections — which, doubtless, carried them back to a time when the most brilliant and cynical of courtiers played the foremost part in the Whitehall of the Restoration — these, no less than the mutterings and restless movements of Russell, who, in his enemy’s presence, could scarcely control himself, were cut short by the King’s entrance.

  He came in unannounced, and very quietly, at a door behind the Lord Steward; and all rising to their feet, he bade them in a foreign accent, “Good-day,” adding immediately, “Be seated, my lords. My Lord Steward, we will proceed.”

  His entrance and words, abrupt, if not awkward, lacked alike the grace which all remembered in Charles, and the gloomy majesty which the second James had at his command. And men felt the lack. Yet, as he took his stand, one hand lightly resting on the back of the Lord Steward’s chair, the stooping sombre figure and sallow, withered face staring out of its great peruque, had a dignity of their own. For it could not be forgotten that he was that which no Stuart King of England had ever been — a soldier and a commander from boyhood, at home in all the camps of Flanders and the Rhine, familiar with every peril of battle and breach; at his ease anywhere, where other men blenched and drew back. And the knowledge that this was so invested him with a certain awe and grandeur even in the eyes of courtiers. On this day he wore a black suit, relieved only by the ribbon of the Garter; and as he stood he let his chin sink so low on his breast, that his eyes, which could on occasion shine with a keen and almost baleful light, were hidden.

  The Lord Steward, in obedience to his command, was about to address Sir John, when the King, with a brusqueness characteristic of him, intervened. “Sir John,” he said, in a harsh, dry voice, and speaking partly in French, partly in English, “your papers are altogether unsatisfactory. Instead of giving us an account of the plots formed by you and your accomplices, plots of which all the details must be exactly known to you, you tell us stories without authority, with
out date, without place, about noblemen and gentlemen, with whom you do not pretend to have had any intercourse. In short, your confession appears to be a contrivance, intended to screen those who are really engaged in designs against us, and to make me suspect and discard those in whom I have good reason to place confidence. If you look for any favour from me, therefore, you will give me this moment, and on this spot, a full and straightforward account of what you know of your own knowledge. And — but do you tell him the rest, my lord.”

  “Sir John,” said the Lord Steward in a tone serious and compassionate, “His Majesty invites your confidence, and will for good reasons show you his favour. But you must deserve it. And it is his particular desire that you conclude nothing from the fact that you are admitted to see him.”

  “On the contrary,” said the King, dryly, “I see you, sir, for the sake of my friends. If, therefore, you can substantiate the charges you have made, it behoves you to do it. Otherwise, to make a full and free confession of what you do know.”

  “Sir,” said Sir John hoarsely, speaking for the first time, “I stand here worse placed than any man ever was. For I am tried by those whom I accuse.”

  The King slightly shrugged his shoulders. “Fallait penser là, when you accused them,” he muttered.

  Sir John cast a fierce despairing glance along the table, and seemed to control himself with difficulty. At length, “I can substantiate nothing against three of those persons,” he said; whereon some of those who listened breathed more freely.

  “And that is all, sir, that you have to say?” said the King, ungraciously; and as if he desired only to cut short the scene.

  “All,” said Sir John firmly, “against those three persons. But as to the fourth, the Duke of Shrewsbury, who is not here — —”

  The King could not suppress an exclamation of contempt. “You may spare us that fable, sir,” he said. “It would not deceive a child, much less one who holds the Duke high in his esteem.”