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 andin prœterito, butin prœsentiand 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 taletotidem 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.
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, without 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."
Sir John drew himself to his full height, and looked along the table, his gloomy eyes threatening. "And yet that fable I can prove, sir," he said. "That I can substantiate, sir. To that I have a witness, and a witness above suspicion! If I prove that, sir, shall I have your Majesty's favour?"
"Perfectly," said the King, shrugging his shoulders, amid a general thrill and movement; for though rumours had gone abroad, by no means the whole of Sir John's case was known, even to some at the table. "Prove it! Prove that, sir, and not a hair of your head shall fall. You have my promise."
However, before Sir John could answer, Mr. Secretary Trumball rose in his place and intervened. "I crave your indulgence, sir," he said, "while, with your Majesty's permission, I call in the Duke of Shrewsbury, who is in waiting."
"In waiting," said the King, in a voice of surprise; nor was the surprise confined to him. "I thought that he was ill, Mr. Secretary."
"He is so ill, sir, as to be very unfit to be abroad," the Secretary answered. "Yet he came to be in readiness, if your Majesty needed him. Sir John Fenwick persisting, I ask your Majesty's indulgence while I fetch him."
The King nodded, but with a pinched and dissatisfied face; and Sir William retiring, in a moment returned with the Duke. At his entrance. His Majesty greeted him dryly, and with a hint of displeasure in his manner; thinking probably that this savoured too much of acoup de theater, a thing he hated. But seeing the next instant, and before the Secretary took his seat, how ill the Duke looked, his face betrayed signs of disturbance; after which, his eyelids drooping, it fell into the dull and Sphinx-like mould which it assumed when he did not wish his thoughts to be read by those about him.
That the Duke's pallor and wretched appearance gave rise to suspicion in other minds is equally certain; the more hardy of those present, such as my Lord Marlborough and the Admiral, being aware that nothing short of guilt, and the immediate prospect of detection, could so change themselves. And while some felt a kind of admiration, as they conned and measured the stupendous edifice of skilful deceit, which my lord had so long and perfectly concealed behind a front of brass, as to take in all the world, others were already busied with the effect it would have on the party, and how this might be softened, and that explained, and in a word another man substituted with as little shock as possible for this man. Nor were these emotions at all weakened when my lord, after saluting the King, took his seat, without speaking or meeting the general gaze.
"Now, sir," said the King impatiently, when all was quiet again, "the Duke is here. Proceed."
"I will," Sir John answered with greater hardiness than he had yet used, "I have simply to repeat to his face what I have said behind his back: that on the 10th of last June, in the evening, he met me at Ashford, in Kent, and gave me a ring and a message, bidding me carry both with me to St. Germain's."
My lord looked slowly round the table; then at Sir John. And it startled some to see that he had compassion in his face.
"Sir John," he said--after, as it seemed, weighing the words he was about to speak, "you are in such a position, it were barbarous to insult you. But you must needs, as you have accused me before His Majesty and these gentlemen, hear me state, also before them, that there is not a word of truth in what you say."
Sir John stared at him and breathed hard. "Mon dieu!" he exclaimed at length. And his voice sounded sincere.
"I was not at Ashford on the 10th of June," the Duke continued with dignity, "or on any day in that month. I never saw you there, and I gave you no ring."
"Mon Dieu!" Sir John muttered again; and, his gaze fallen, he seemed to be unable to take his eyes off the other.
Now it is certain that whatever the majority of those present thought of this--and the demeanour of the two men was so steadfast that even Lord Marlborough's acumen was at fault--the King's main anxiety was to be rid of the matter, and with some impatience he tried to put a stop to it at this point. "Is it worth while to carry this farther, my lords?" he said, fretfully. "We know our friends. We know our enemies also. This is a storypour rire, and deserving only of contempt."
But Sir John at that cried out, protesting bitterly and fiercely, and recalling the King's promise, and the Duke being no less urgent--though as some thought a little unseasonably for his own interests--that the matter be sifted to the bottom, the King had no option but to let it go on. "Very well," he said ungraciously, "if he will have his witness let him." And then, with one of those spirits of peevishness, which stood in strange contrast with his wonted magnanimity, he added, to the Duke of Shrewsbury, "It is your own choice, my lord. Don't blame me."
The querulous words bore a meaning which all recognised; and some at the table started, and resumed the calculation how they should trim their sails in a certain event. But nothing ever became the Duke better than the manner in which he received that insinuation. "Be it so, sir," he said with spirit, "My choice and desire is that Sir John have as full a share of justice as I claim for myself, and as fair a hearing. Less than that were inconsistent with your Majesty's prerogative, and my honour."
The King's only answer was a sulky and careless nod. On which Sir William Trumball, after whispering to the prisoner, went out, and after a brief delay, which seemed to many at the table long enough, returned with Matthew Smith.
That the villain expected nothing so little as to see the man he was preparing to ruin, I can well believe; and equally that the ordeal, sudden and unforeseen, tried even his iron composure. I have heard that after glancing once at the Duke he averted his eyes; and thenceforth looked and addressed himself entirely to the end of the table where the King stood. But, this apart, it could not be denied that he played his part to a marvel. Known to more than one as a ruffling blade about town, who had grown sober but not less dangerous with age and the change of times, he had still saved some rags and tatters of a gentleman's reputation; and he dressed himself accordingly, insomuch that, as he stood beside Sir John, his stern set face, and steadfast bearing, made an impression not unfavourable at the set out.
Nor when bidden by the King to speak and say what he knew, did he fall below the expectations which his appearance had created, though this was probably due in some measure to my lord's self-control, who neither by word nor sign betrayed the astonishment he felt, when a man to whom for years past he had only spoken casually, and once in six months as it were, proceeded to recount with the utmost fullness and particularity every detail of the journey, which, as he said, they two had taken together to Ashford. At what time they started, where they lay, by what road they travelled--at all Smith was pat. Nor did he stop there; but went on to relate with the same ease and exactness the heads of talk that had passed between Sir John and his companion at the inn.
Nor was it possible that a story so told, with minutiæ, with date, and place, and circumstances, should fall on ears totally deaf. The men who listened were statesmen, versed in deceptions and acquainted with affairs--men who knew Gates and had heard Dangerfield; yet, as they listened, they shut their eyes and reopened them, to assure themselves that this was not a dream! Before his appearance, even Lord Portland, whose distrust of English loyalty was notorious, had been inclined to ridicule Sir John's story as a desperate card played for life; and this, even in teeth of my lord's disorder, so incredible did it appear that one of the King's principal Ministers should stoop to a thing so foolish. Now, it was a sign pregnant of meaning that no one looked at his neighbour, but all gazed either at the witness or at the table before them. And some who knew my lord best, and had the most affection for him, felt the air heavy, and the stillness of the room oppressive.
Suddenly the current of the story was broken by the King's harsh accent, "What was the date?" he asked, "on which you reached Ashford?"
"The 10th of June, sir."
"Where was the Duke on that day?" William continued; and he turned to the Lord Steward. His tone and question, implying the most perfect contempt for the tale to which he was listening, to an extent broke the spell; and had the reply been satisfactory all would have been over. But the Duke of Devonshire, turning to my lord for the answer, got only that he lay those two nights at his mother's, in the suburbs; and thereon a blank look fell on more than one face. The King, indeed, sniffed and muttered, "Then twenty witnesses can confute this!" as if the answer satisfied, and was all he had expected; but that others were at gaze, and in doubt, was as noticeable, as that those who looked most solemn and thoughtful, were the three who had themselves stood in danger that day.
At a nod from the King, Smith resumed his tale; but in a moment he was pulled up short by Lord Dorset, who requested His Majesty's leave to put a question. Having got permission, "How do you say that the Duke--came to takeyouwith him?" the Marquis asked sharply.
"To take me, my lord?"
"Yes."
"Must I answer that question?"
"Yes," said Lord Dorset, with grave dignity.
"Well, simply because I had been the medium of communication between his Grace and Sir John," Smith answered, dryly. "Even as on former occasions I had acted as agent between his Grace and Lord Middleton."
My lord started violently and half rose.
Then, as he fell back into his seat, "That, sir, is the first word of truth this person has spoken," he said, with dignity. "It is a fact that in the year '92 he twice brought me a note from Lord Middleton and arranged a meeting between us."
"Precisely," Smith answered with effrontery, "as I arranged this meeting."
On that for the first time my lord's self-control abandoned him. He started to his feet. "You lie!" he cried, vehemently. "You lie in your teeth, you scoundrel! Sir--pardon me, but this is--this is too much! I cannot sit by and hear it!"
By a gesture not lacking in kindness, the King bade him resume his seat. Then, "Peste!" he said, taking snuff with a droll expression of chagrin. "Will anyone else ask a question. My Lord Dorset has not been fortunate. As theAdvocatus Diaboli, perhaps, he may one day shine."
"If your Majesty pleases," Lord Marlborough said, "I will ask one. But I will put it to Sir John, and he can answer it or not as he likes. How did you know. Sir John, that it was the Duke of Shrewsbury who met you at Ashford, and conferred with you there?"
"I knew the Duke," Sir John answered clearly. "I had seen him often, and spoken with him occasionally."
"How often had you spoken to him before this meeting?"
"Possibly on a dozen occasions."
"You had not had any long conversation with him?"
"No; but I could not be mistaken. I know him," Sir John added, with a flash of bitter meaning, "as well as I know you, Lord Marlborough!"
"He gave his title?"
"No, he did not," Sir John answered. "He gave the name of Colonel Talbot."
Someone at the table--it was Lord Portland--drew his breath sharply through his teeth; nor could the impression made by a statement that at first blush seemed harmless, and even favourable to the Duke, be ignored or mistaken. Three out of four who sat there were aware that my lord had used that name in his wild and boyish days, when he would beincognito; and, moreover, the use of even that flimsy disguise cast a sort of decent probability over a story, which at its barest seemed credible. For the first time the balance of credit and probability swung against my lord; a fact subtly indicated by the silence which followed the statement and lasted a brief while; no one at the table speaking or volunteering a farther question. For the time Matthew Smith was forgotten--or the gleam of insolent triumph in his eye might have said somewhat. For the time Sir John took a lower seat. Men's minds were busy with the Duke, and the Duke only; busy with what the result would be to him, and to the party, were this proved; while most, perceiving dully and by instinct that they touched upon a great tragedy, shrank from thedénouement.
At last, in the silence, the Duke rose; and swaying blindly on his feet, caught at the table to steady himself. For two nights he had not slept.
"Duke," said the King suddenly, "you had better speak sitting."
The words were meant in kindness, but they indicated a subtle change of attitude--they indicated that even the King now felt the need of explanation and a defence; and my lord, seeing this, and acknowledging the invitation to be seated only by a slight reverence, continued to stand, though the effort made his weakness evident. Yet when he had cleared his throat and spoke, his voice had the old ring of authority--with a touch of pathos added, as of a dying King from whose hand the sceptre was passing.
"Sir," he said, "the sins of Colonel Talbot were not few. But this, to which this fellow speaks, is not of the number. Nor have you, or my lords, to do with them. Doubtless, with my fellows, I shall have to give an account of them one day. But as to the present, and the Duke of Shrewsbury--with whom alone you have to deal--I will make a plain tale. This man has said that in '93 he was a go-between, for me and Lord Middleton. It is true; as you, sir, know, and my lords if they know it not already, must now know, to my shame. For the fact, Lord Middleton and I were relations, we met more than once at that time, we supped together before he went to France. I promised on my part to take care of his interests here, he in return offered to do me good offices there. As to the latter I told him I had offended too deeply to be forgiven; yet tacitly I left him to make my peace with the late King if he could. It was a folly and a poltroonery," the Duke continued, holding out his hands with a pathetic gesture. "It was, my lords, to take a lower place than the meanest Nonjuror who honourably gives up his cure. I see that, my lords; and have known it, and it has weighed on me for years. And now I pay for it. But for this"--and with the word my lord's voice grew full and round and he stood erect, one hand among the lace of his steinkirk tie and his eyes turned steadfastly on his accuser--"for this which that man, presuming on an old fault and using his knowledge of it, would foist on me, I know nothing of it! I know nothing of it. It is some base and damnable practice. At this moment and here I cannot refute it; but at the proper time and in another place I shall refute it. And now and here I say that as to it, I am not guilty--on my honour!"
As the last word rang through the room he sat down, looking round him with a kind of vague defiance. There was a silence, broken presently by the Lord Steward, who rose, his voice and manner betraying no little emotion. "His Grace is right, sir, I think," he said. "I believe with him that this is some evil practice; but it is plain that it has gone so far that it cannot stop here. I would suggest therefore that if your Majesty sees fit----"
A knock at the door interrupted him, and he turned that way impatiently, and paused. The King, too, glanced round with a gesture of annoyance. "See what it is," he said.
Sir William Trumball rose and went; and after a brief conference, during which the lords at the table continued to cast impatient glances towards the door, he returned. "If it please you, sir," he said, "a witness desires to be heard." And with that his face expressed so much surprise that the King stared at him in wonder.
"A witness?" said the King, and pished and fidgeted in his chair. Then, "This is not a Court of Justice," he continued, peevishly. "We shall have all the world here presently. But--well, let him in."
Sir William obeyed, and went and returned under the eyes of the Council; nor will the reader who has perused with attention the earlier part of this history be greatly surprised to hear that when he returned, I, Richard Price, was with him.
I am not going to dwell on the misery through which I had gone in anticipation of that appearance; the fears which I had been forced to combat, or the night watches, through which I had lain, sweating and awake. Suffice it that I stood there at last, seeing in a kind of maze the sober lights and dark rich colours of the room, and the faces at the table all turned towards me; and stood there, not in the humble guise befitting my station, but in velvet and ruffles, sword and peruke, the very double, as the mirror before which I had dressed had assured me, of my noble patron. This, at Mr. Vernon's suggestion and by his contrivance.
p397... I STOOD THERE AT LAST ... THE FACES AT THE TABLE ALL TURNED TOWARDS ME....
While I had lived in my lord's house, and moved to and fro soberly garbed, in a big wig or my own hair, the likeness had been no more than ground for a nudge and a joke among the servants. Now, dressed once more, as Smith had dressed me, in a suit of the Duke's clothes, and one of his perukes, and trimmed and combed by one who knew him, the resemblance I presented was so remarkable that none of the lords at the table could be blind to it. One or two, in sheer wonder, exclaimed on it; while Sir John, who, poor gentleman, was more concerned than any, fairly gasped with dismay.
It was left to the Duke of Devonshire to break the spell. "What is this? Who is this?" he said, in the utmost astonishment. "What does it mean?"
The King, who had noted on an occasion that very likeness, which all now saw, and was the first to read the riddle, laughed dryly. "Two very common things, my lord," he said, "a rogue and a fool. Speak, man," he continued, addressing me. "You were in the Duke's household awhile ago?n'est-ce pas ça?I saw you here?"
"Yes, your Majesty," I said, hardly keeping my fears within bounds.
"And you have been playing his part, I suppose? Eh? At--how do you call the place--Ashford?"
"Yes, your Majesty--under compulsion," I said, trembling.
"Ay! Compulsion of that good gentleman at the foot of the table, I suppose?"
The words of assent were on my lips, when a cry, and an exceeding bitter cry, stayed their utterance. It came from Sir John. Dumbfounded for a time, between astonishment and suspicion, between wonder what this travesty was and wonder why it was assumed, he had at length discerned its full scope and meaning, and where it touched him. With a cry of rage he threw up his hands in protest against the fraud; then in a flash he turned on the villain by his side. "You d----d scoundrel!" he cried. "You have destroyed me! You have murdered me!"
Before he could be held off, his fingers were in Smith's neckcloth, and clutching his throat; and so staunch was his hold that Admiral Russell and Sir William Trumball had to rise and drag him away by force. "Easy, easy, Sir John," said the Admiral with rough sympathy. "Be satisfied. He will get his deserts. Please God, if I had him on my ship an hour his back should be worse than Oates's ever was!"
Sir John's rage and disappointment were painful to witness, and trying even to men of the world. But what shall I say of the fury of the man at bay, who denounced and convicted in his moment of triumph saw, white-faced, his long-spun web swept easily aside? Doubtless he knew, as soon as he saw me, that the game was lost, and could have slain me with a look. And most men would without more ado have been on their knees. But he possessed, God knows, a courage as rare and perfect as the cause in which he displayed it was vile and abominable; and in a twinkling he recovered himself, and was Matthew Smith once more. While the room rang with congratulations, questions, answers and exclamations, and I had much ado to answer one half of the noble lords who would examine me, his voice, raised and strident, was heard above the tumult.
"Your Majesty is easily deceived!" he cried, his very tone flouting the presence in which he stood; yet partly out of curiosity, partly in sheer astonishment at his audacity, they turned to listen. "Do you think it is for nothing his Grace keeps a double in his house? Or that it boots much whether he or his Secretary went to meet Sir John? But enough! I have here! here," he continued, tapping his breast and throwing back his head, "that, that shall out-face him; be he never so clever! Does his double write his hand too? Read that, sir. Read that, my lords, and say what you think of your Whig leader!"
And with a reckless gesture, he flung a letter on the table. But the action and words were so lacking in respect for royal chambers that for a moment no one took it up, the English lords who sat within reach disdaining to touch it. Then Lord Portland made a long arm, and taking the paper with Dutch phlegm and deliberation opened it.
"Have I your Majesty's leave?" he said; and the King nodding peevishly, "This is not his Grace's handwriting," the Dutch lord continued, pursing up his lips, and looking dubiously at the script before him.
"No, but it is his signature!" Smith retorted, fiercely. And so set was he on this last card he was playing, that his eyes started from his head, and the veins rose thick on his hands where they clutched the table before him. "It is his hand at foot. That I swear!"
"Truly, my man, I think it is," Lord Portland answered, coolly. "Shall I read the letter, sir?"
"What is it?" asked the King, with irritation.
"It appears to be a letter to the Duke of Berwick, at the late Bishop of Chester's house in Hogsden Gardens, bidding him look to himself, as his lodging was known," Lord Portland answered, leisurely running his eye down the lines as he spoke.
It was wonderful to see what a sudden gravity fell on the faces at the table. This touched some home. This was a hundred times more likely as a charge than that which had fallen through. Could it be that after all the man had his Grace on the hip? Lord Marlborough showed his emotion by a face more than commonly serene; Admiral Russell by a sudden flush; Godolphin by the attention he paid to the table before him. Nor was Smith behindhand in noting the effect produced. For an instant he towered high, his stern face gleaming with malevolent triumph. He thought that the tables were turned.
Then, "In whose hand is the body of the paper?" the King asked.
"Your Majesty's," Lord Portland answered, with a grim chuckle, and after a pause long enough to accentuate the answer.
"I thought so," said the King. "It was the Friday the plot was discovered. I remember it. I am afraid that if you impeach the Duke, you must impeach me with him."
At that there was a great roar of laughter, which had not worn itself out before one and another began to press their congratulations on the Duke. He for his part sat as if stunned; answering with a forced smile where it was necessary, more often keeping silence. He had escaped the pit digged for him, and the net so skilfully laid. But his face betrayed no triumph.
Matthew Smith, on the other hand, brought up short by that answer, could not believe it. He stood awhile, like a man in a fit; then, the sweat standing on his brow, he cried that they were all leagued against him; that it was a plot; that it was not His Majesty's hand! and so on, and so on; with oaths and curses, and other things very unfit for His Majesty's ears, or the place in which he stood.
Under these circumstances, for a minute no one knew what to do, each looking at his neighbour, until the Lord Steward, rising from his chair, cried in a voice of thunder, "Take that man away, Mr. Secretary, this is your business! Out with him, sir!" On which Sir William called in the messengers, and they laid hands on him. By that time, however, he had recovered the will and grim composure which were the man's best characteristics; and with a last malign and despairing look at my lord, he suffered them to lead him out.
That was a great day for my lord, but it was also, I truly believe, one of the saddest of a not unhappy life. He had gained the battle, but at a cost known only to himself, though guessed by some. The story of the old weakness had been told, as he had foreseen it must be told; and even while his friends pressed round him and crying,Salve Imperator!rejoiced in the fall he had given his foes, he was aware of the wound bleeding inwardly, and in his mind was already borne out of the battle.
Yet in that room was one sadder. Sir John, remaining at the foot of the table, frowned along it, gloomy and downcast; too proud to ask or earn the King's favour, yet shaken by the knowledge that now--now was the time; that in a little while the door would close on him, and with it the chance of life--life with its sunshine and air, and freedom, its whirligigs and revenges. Some thought that in consideration of the trick which had been played upon him, the King might properly view him with indulgence; and were encouraged in this by the character for clemency which even his enemies allowed that Sovereign. But William had other views on this occasion; and when the hubbub which Smith's removal had caused had completely died away, he addressed Sir John, advising him to depend rather on deserving his favour by a frank and full discovery, than on such ingenious contrivances as that which had just been exposed.
"I was no party to it," the unhappy gentleman answered.
"Therefore it shall tell neither for nor against you," the King retorted. "Have you anything more to say."
"I throw myself on your Majesty's clemency."
"That will not do. Sir John," the King answered. "You must speak, or--the alternative does not lie with me. But you know it."
"And I choose it," Sir John cried, recovering his spirit and courage.
"So be it," said His Majesty slowly and solemnly. "I will not say that I expected anything less from you. My lords, let him be removed."
And with that the messengers came in and Sir John bowed and went with them. It may have been fancy, but I thought that as he turned from the table a haggard shade fell on his face, and a soul in mortal anguish looked an instant from his eyes. But the next moment he was gone.
I never saw him again. That night the news was everywhere that Goodman, one of the two witnesses against him, had fled the country; and for a time it was believed that Sir John would escape. How, in face of that difficulty those who were determined on his death, effected it; how he was attainted, and how he suffered on Tower Hill with all the forms and privileges of a peer--on the 28th of January of the succeeding year--is a story too trite and familiar to call for repetition.
On his departure the Council broke up. His Majesty retiring. Before he went, a word was said about me, and some who had greater regard for thepost factumthan thepœnitentiawere for sending me to the Compter, and leaving the Law Officers to deal with me. But my lord, rousing himself, interposed roundly, spoke for me and would have given bail had they persisted. Seeing, however, how gravely he took it, and being inclined to please him, they desisted, and I was allowed to go, on the simple condition that the Duke kept me under his own eye. This he very gladly consented to do.
Nor was it the only kindness he did me, or the greatest; for having heard from me at length and in detail all the circumstances leading up to my timely intervention, he sent for me a few days later, and placing a paper in my hands bade me read the gist of it. I did so, and found it to be a free pardon passed under the Great Seal, and granted to Richard Price and Mary Price his wife for acts and things done by them jointly or separately against the King's Most Excellent Majesty, within or without the realm.
It was at Eyford he handed me this; in the oak parlour looking upon the bowling-green; where I had already begun to wait upon him on one morning in the week, to check the steward's accounts and tallies. The year was nearly spent, but that autumn was fine, and the sunlight which lay on the smooth turf blended with the russet splendour of the beech trees that rise beyond. I had been thinking of Mary and the quiet courtyard at the Hospital, which the bowling-green somewhat resembled, being open to the park on one side only; and when perusing the paper, my lord smiling at me, I came to her name--or rather to the name that was hers and yet mine--I felt such a flow of love and gratitude and remembrance overcome me as left me speechless; and this directed, not only to him but to her--seeing that it was her advice and her management that had brought me against my will to this haven and safety.
The Duke saw my emotion and read my silence aright. "Well," he said. "Are you satisfied?"
I told him that if I were not I must be the veriest ingrate living.
"And you have nothing more to ask?" he continued, still smiling.
"Nothing," I said. "Except--except that which it is not in your lordship's power to grant."
"How?" said he, with a show of surprise and resentment. "Not satisfied yet? What is it?"
"If she were here!" I said. "If she were here, my lord! But Dunquerque----"
"Is a far cry, eh! And the roads are bad. And the seas----"
"Are worse," I said gloomily, looking at the paper as Tantalus looked at the water. "And to get word to her is not of the easiest."
p406SHE WAS MAKING MARKS ON THE TURF WITH A STICK
"No," the Duke said. "Say you so? Then what do you make of this, faint-heart?" And he pointed through the open window.
I looked, and on the seat--which a moment before had been vacant--the seat under the right-hand yew-hedge where my lord sometimes smoked his pipe--I saw a girl seated with her shoulder and the nape of her neck turned to us. She was making marks on the turf with a stick she held, and poring over them when made, as if the world held nothing else, so that I had not so much as a glimpse of her face. But I knew that it was Mary.
"Come," said my lord, pleasantly. "We will go to her. It may be, she will not have the pardon--after all. Seeing that there is a condition to it."
"A condition?" I cried, a little troubled.
"To be sure, blockhead," he answered, in high good humour. "In whose name is it?"
Then I saw what he meant and laughed, foolishly. But the event came nearer to proving him true than he then expected. For when she saw the paper she stepped back and put her hands behind her, and would not touch or take it; while her small face cried pale mutiny. "But I'll not tell!" she cried. "I'll not tell! I'll not have it. Blood-money does not thrive. If that is the price----"
"My good girl," said my lord, cutting her short, yet without impatience. "That is not the price. This is the Price. And the pardon goes with him."
* * * * *
I believe that I have now told enough to discharge myself of that which I set out to do: I mean the clearing my lord in the eyes of all judicious persons of those imputations which a certain faction have never ceased to heap on him; and this with the greater assiduity and spite, since he by his single conduct at the time of the late Queen's death was the means under Providence of preserving the Protestant Succession and liberties in these islands.
That during the long interval of seventeen years that separated the memorable meeting at Kensington, which I have ventured to describe, from the still more famous scene in the Queen's death-chamber, he took no part in public life has seemed to some a crime or the tacit avowal of one. How far these err, and how ill-qualified they are to follow the workings of that noble mind, will appear in the pages I have written; which show with clearness that the retirement on which so much stress has been laid, was due not to guilt, but to an appreciation of honour so delicate that a spot invisible to the common eye seemed to him a stainnon subito delanda. After the avowal made before his colleagues--of the communications, I mean, with Lord Middleton--nothing would do but he must leave London at once and seek in the shades and retirement of Eyford that peace of mind and ease of body which had for the moment abandoned him.
He went: and for a time still retained office. Later, notwithstanding the most urgent and flattering instances on the King's part--which yet exist, honourable alike to the writer and the recipient--he persisted in his resolution to retire; and on the 12th of December, 1698, being at that time in very poor health, the consequence of a fall while hunting, he returned the Seals to the King, In the autumn of the following year he went abroad; but though he found in a private life--so far as the life of a man of his princely station could be called private--a happiness often denied to place men and favourites, he was not to be diverted when the time came from the post of danger. Were I writing an eulogium merely, I should here enumerate those great posts and offices which he so worthily filled at the time of Queen Anne's death, when as Lord Treasurer of England, Lord Chamberlain, and Lord Lieutenant of Ireland--an aggregation of honours I believe without precedent--he performed services and controlled events on the importance of which his enemies no less than his friends are agreed. But I forbear: and I leave the task to a worthier hand.
This being so, it remains only to speak of Matthew Smith and his accomplice. Had my lord chosen to move in the matter, there can be no doubt that Smith would have been whipped and pilloried, and in this way would have come by a short road to his deserts. But the Duke held himself too high, and the men who had injured him too low, for revenge; and Smith, after lying some months in prison, gave useful information, and was released without prosecution. He then tried to raise a fresh charge against the Duke, but gained no credence; and rapidly sinking lower and lower, was to be seen two years later skulking in rags in the darkest part of the old Savoy. In London I must have walked in hourly dread of him; at Eyford I was safe; and after the winter of '99, in which year he came to my lord's house to beg, looking broken and diseased, I never saw him.
I was told that he expected to receive a rich reward in the event of the Duke's disgrace, and on this account was indifferent to the loss of his situation in my lady's family. It seems probable, however, that he still hoped to retain his influence in that quarter by means of his wife, and thwarted in this by that evil woman's dismissal, was no better disposed to her than she was to him. They separated; but before he went the ruffian revenged himself by beating her so severely that she long lay ill in her apartments, was robbed by her landlady, and finally was put to the door penniless, and with no trace of the beauty which had once chained my heart. In this plight, reduced to be the drudge of a tradesman's wife, and sunk to the very position in which I had found her at Mr. D----'s, she made a last desperate appeal to the Duke for assistance.
He answered by the grant of a pension, small but sufficient, on which she might have ended her days in a degree of comfort. But, having acquired in her former circumstances an unfortunate craving for drink, which she had now the power to gratify, she lived but a little while, and that in great squalor and misery, dying, if I remember rightly, in a public-house in Spitalfields in the year 1703.