I have commonly reckoned it among my lord's greatest misfortunes that
in a crisis of his affairs which demanded all the assistance that
friendship, the closest and most intimate could afford, he had neither
wife nor child to whom he could turn, and from whom, without loss of
dignity, he might receive comfort and support. He was a solitary man;
separated from such near relations as he had, by differences as well
religious as political, and from the world at large by the grandeur of
a position which imposed burdens as onerous as the privileges it
conferred were rare.
To a melancholy habit, which some attributed to the sad circumstances
attendant on his father's death, and others to the change of faith,
which he had been induced to make on reaching manhood, he added a
natural shyness and reserve, qualities which, ordinarily veiled from
observation by manners and an address the most charming and easy in
the world, were none the less obstacles, where friendship was in
question. Not that of friendship there was much among the political
men of that day, the perils and uncertainties of the time inculcated a
distrust, which was only overcome where blood or marriage cemented the
tie--as in the case of Lords Sunderland, Godolphin, and Marlborough,
and again of the Russells and Cavendishes. But, be that as it may, my
lord stood outside these bonds, and enjoyed and rued a splendid
isolation. As if already selected by fortune for that strange
combination of great posts with personal loneliness, which was to be
more strikingly exhibited in the death-chamber of her late Majesty
Queen Anne, he lived, whether in his grand house in St. James's
Square, or at Eyford among the Gloucestershire Wolds, as much apart as
any man in London or in England.
Withal, I know, men called him the King of Hearts. But the popularity,
of which that title seemed the sign and seal, was factitious and
unreal; born, while they talked with him, of his spontaneous kindness
and boundless address; doomed to perish an hour later, of spite and
envy, or of sheer inanition. Since the Duke was sensitive, over-proud
for intimacy, flattered no man, and gave no man confidences.
Such an one bade fair, when in trouble, to eat out his heart. Prone to
fancy all men's hands against him, he doubled the shame and outdid the
most scandalous. So far, indeed, was he from deriving comfort from
things that would have restored such men as my Lord Marlborough to
perfect self-respect and composure, that I believe, and in fine had it
from himself, that the letter which the King wrote to him from Loo
(and which came to his hands through Lord Portland's, three days after
the interview with his Grace of Devonshire) pained him more sensibly
than all that had gone before.
"You may judge of my astonishment," His Majesty wrote, "at his
effrontery in accusing you. You are, I trust, too fully convinced of
the entire confidence which I place in you to think that such stories
can make any impression on me. You will observe this honest man's
sincerity, who only accuses those in my service, and not one of his
own party."
It will be understood that that in His Majesty's letter which touched
my lord home was less the magnanimity displayed in it than the
remembrance that once before the Sovereign had dealt with the subject
in the same spirit, and that now the world must know this. Of the
immediate accusation, with all its details of time and circumstance,
he thought little, believing, not only that the truth must quickly
sweep it away, but that in the meantime few would be found so
credulous as to put faith in it. But he saw with painful clearness
that the charge would rub the old sore and gall the old raw; and he
winced, seated alone in his library in the silence of the house, as if
the iron already seared the living flesh. With throes of shame he
foresaw what staunch Whigs, such as Somers and Wharton, would say of
him; what the _Postboy_ and the _Courant_ would print of him; what the
rank and file of the party--exposed to no danger in the event of a
Restoration, and consequently to few temptations to make their peace
abroad--would think of their trusted leader, when they learned the
truth.
On Marlborough and Russell, Godolphin and Sunderland, the breath of
suspicion had blown: on him never, and he had held his head high. How
could he meet them now? How could he face them? Nay, if that were all,
how, he asked himself, could he face the honest Nonjuror? Or the
honest Jacobite? Or the honest Tory? He, who had taken the oaths to
the new government and broken them, who had set up the new government
and deceived it, who had dubbed himself patriot--_cui bono?_ Presently
brooding over it, he came to think that there was but one man in
England, _turpissimus_; that it would be better in the day of
reckoning for the meanest carted pickpocket, whose sentence came
before him for revision, than for the King's Secretary in his garter
and robes!
Nor, if he had known all that was passing, and all that was being
said, among those with whom his fancy painfully busied itself, would
he have been the happier. For Sir John's statement got abroad with
marvellous quickness. Before Lord Portland arrived from Holland the
details were whispered in every tavern and coffee-house within the
Bills. The Tories and Jacobites, aiming above everything at finding a
counterblast to the Assassination Plot, the discovery of which had so
completely sapped their credit with the nation, pounced on the scandal
with ghoulish avidity, and repeated and exaggerated it on every
occasion. Every Jacobite house of call, from the notorious Dog in
Drury Lane, the haunt of mumpers and foot-pads, to the Chocolate House
in St. James's rang with it. For Sir John, all (they said among
themselves) that they had expected of him was surpassed by this. He
was extolled to the skies alike for what he had done and for what he
had not done; and as much for the wit that had confounded his enemies
as for the courage that had protected his friends. For what Jacobite,
seeing the enemy hoist with his own petard could avoid a snigger? Or
hear the word Informer without swearing that Sir John was the most
honest man who ever signed his name to a deposition.
The Whigs on the other hand, exasperated by an attack as subtle as it
was unforeseen, denied the charges with a passion and fury that of
themselves betrayed apprehension. Here, they said, was another Taafe;
suborned by the same gang and the same vile machinations that had
brought about the Lancashire failure, and hounded Trenchard to his
death. Not content with threatening Sir John with the last penalties
of treason and felony, and filling the Rose Tavern with protestations,
which admitted the weight while they denied the truth of the charges
brought against their leaders, the party called aloud for meetings,
enquiries, and prosecutions; to which the leaders soon found
themselves pledged, whether they would or no.
My lord out of sensitiveness, or that over-appreciation of what was
due to himself and others which in a degree unfitted him for public
life, had a week before this, pleading indisposition, begun to keep
the house; and to all requests proffered by his colleagues that he
would take part in their deliberations, returned a steadfast negative.
This notwithstanding, everything that was done was communicated to
him; and announcements of the meetings, which it was now proposed to
hold--one at Lord Somers' in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and the other at
Admiral Russell's--would doubtless have been made to him within the
hour. As it chanced, however, he received the news from another
source. On the day of the decision, as he sat alone, dwelling gloomily
on the past, the Square was roused at the quietest time of the
forenoon by an arrival. With a huge chitter, the Countess's glass
chariot, with its outriders, running footmen, and lolling
waiting-women, rolled up to the door; and in a moment my lady was
announced.
It is probable that there was no one whom he had less wish to see. But
he could not deny himself to her; and he rose with an involuntary
groan. The Countess on her side was in no better temper, as her first
words indicated. "My life, my lord, what is this I hear," she cried
roundly, as soon as the door closed upon her. "That you are lying down
to be trodden on! And cannot do this, and will not do that, but pule
and cry at home while they spin a rope for you! Sakes, man, play the
one side, play the other side--which you please! But play it! play
it!"
My lord, chagrined as much by the intrusion as by the reproach,
answered her with more spirit than he was wont to use to her. "I
thought, Madam," he answered sharply, "that the one thing you desired
was my withdrawal from public life?"
"Ay, but not after this fashion!" she retorted, striking her ebony
cane on the floor and staring at him, her reddled face and huge curled
wig trembling. "If all I hear be true--and I hear that they are going
to hold two inquests on you--and you continue to sit here, it will be
a fine withdrawal! You will be doomed by James and blocked by William,
and that d----d rogue John Churchill will wear your clothes!
Withdrawal say you? No, if you had withdrawn six months ago when I
bade you, you would have gone and been thanked. But now, the fat is in
the fire, and, wanting courage, you'll frizzle, my lad."
"And whom have I to thank for that, Madam?" he asked, with bitterness.
"Why, yourself, booby!" she cried.
"No, Madam, your friends!" he replied--which was so true and hit the
mark so exactly that my lady looked rather foolish for a moment.
Without noticing the change, however, "Your friends. Madam," he
continued, "Lord Middleton and Sir John Fenwick, and Montgomery, and
the rest, whom you have never ceased pressing me to join! Who unable
to win me will now ruin me. But you are right, Madam. I see, for
myself now, that it is not possible to play against them with clean
hands, and therefore I leave the game to them."
"Pack of rubbish!" she cried.
"It is not rubbish. Madam, as you will find," he answered coldly. "You
say they will hold two inquests on me? There will be no need. Within
the week my resignation of all my posts will be in the King's hands."
"And you?"
"And I, Madam, shall be on my way to Eyford."
Now there is nothing more certain than that for a year past the
Countess had strained every nerve to detach the Duke from the
Government, with a view to his reconciliation with King James and St.
Germain's. But, having her full share of a mother's pride, she was as
far from wishing to see him retire after this fashion as if she had
never conceived the notion. And to this the asperity of her answer
bore witness. "To Eyford?" she cried, shrilly. "More like to Tower
Hill! Or the Three Trees and a thirteenha'penny fee--for that is your
measure! God, my lad, you make me sick! You make me sick!" she
continued, her wrinkled old face distorted by the violence of her
rage, and her cane going tap-a-tap in her half-palsied hand. "That a
son of mine should lack the spirit to turn on these pettifoggers!"
"Your friends, Madam," he said remorselessly.
"These perts and start-ups! But you are mad, man! You are mad," she
continued. "Mad as King Jamie was when he fled the country--and who
more glad than the Dutchman! And as it was with him so it will be with
you. They will strip you, Charles. They will strip you bare as you
were born! And the end will be, you'll lie with Ailesbury in the
Tower, or bed with Tony Hamilton in a garret--_la bas!_"
"Which is precisely the course to which you have been pressing me," he
replied with something of a sneer.
"Ay, with a full purse!" she screamed. "With a full purse, fool! With
Eyford and fifty thousand guineas, my lad! But go, a beggar, as you'll
go, and it is welcome you'll be--to the doorkey and the kennel, or
like enough to King Louis' Bastile! Tell me, man, that this is all
nonsense! That you'll show your face to your enemies, go abroad and be
King again!"
My lord answered gravely that his mind was quite made up.
"To go?" she gasped. "To go to Eyford?" And raising her stick in her
shaking hand, she made a gesture so menacing that, fearing she would
strike him, my lord stepped back.
Nevertheless, he answered her firmly. "Yes, to Eyford. My letter to
the King is already written."
"Then that for you, and your King!" she shrieked; and in an excess of
uncontrolled passion, she whirled her stick round and brought it down
on a stand of priceless Venice crystal which stood beside her; being
the same that Seigniors Soranzo and Venier had presented to the Duke
in requital of the noble entertainment which my lord had given to the
Venetian Ambassadors, the April preceding. The blow shivered the
vases, which fell in a score of fragments to the floor; but not
content with the ruin she had accomplished, the Countess struck
fiercely again and again. "There's for you, you poor speechless fool!"
she continued. "That a son of mine should lie down to his enemies!
There was never Brudenel did it. But your father, he too was a----"
"Madam!" he said, taking her up grimly. "I will not hear you on that!"
"Ay, but you shall hear me!" she screamed, and yet more soberly. "He,
too, was a----"
"Silence!" he said; and this time, low as his voice rang, ay, and
though it trembled, it stilled her. "Silence, Madam," he repeated, "or
you do that, which neither the wrong you wrought so many years ago to
him you miscall, nor those things common fame still tells of you, nor
differences of creed, nor differences of party, have prevailed to
effect. Say more of him," he continued, "and we do not meet again, my
lady. For I have this at least from you--that I do not easily
forgive."
She glared at him a moment, rage, alarm, and vexation, all distorting
her face. Then, "The door!" she hissed. "The door, boor! You are still
my son, and if you will not obey me, shall respect me. Take me out,
and if ever I enter your house again----"
She did not complete the sentence, but lapsed into noddings and
mowings and mutterings, her fierce black eyes flickering vengeance to
come. However, my lord paid no heed to that, but glad, doubtless, to
be rid of her visit even at the cost of his Venetian, offered her his
arm in silence and led her into the hall and to her chariot.
She could not avenge herself on him; and it might be, she would not if
she could. But there was one on whom her passion alighted, who with
all her cunning little expected the impending storm. The most astute
are sometimes found napping. And the smoothest pad-nag will plunge.
Whether the favourite waiting-woman had overstepped her authority of
late, presuming on a senility, which existed indeed, but neither
absolutely blinded my lady nor was to be depended on in face of gusts
of passion such as this; whether this was the case, I say, or
Monterey, rendered incautious by success, was unfortunate enough to
betray her triumph, by some look of spite and malice during the drive
home, it is certain that at the door the storm broke. Without the
least warning the Countess, after using her arm to descend, turned on
her, a very Bess of Bedlam.
"And you, you grinning ape!" she cried, "you come no farther! This is
no home of yours; begone, or I will have you whipped! You don't go
into my house again!"
The astonished woman, taken utterly aback, and not in the least
understanding, began to remonstrate. Her first thought was that the
Countess was ill. "Your ladyship--is not well?" she cried, with
solicitude veiling her alarm. "You cannot mean----"
"Ay, but I can! I can!" the old lady answered, mocking her. "You have
done mischief enow, and do no more here! Where is that man of yours,
who went, and never came back, and nought but excuses? And now this."
"Oh, my lady, what ails you?" the waiting-woman cried. "What does this
mean?"
"You know!" said my lady with an oath. "So begone about your business,
and don't let me see your face again or it will be the worse for you."
Disarmed of her usual address by the suddenness of the attack, the
Monterey began to whimper; and again asked how she had offended her
and what she had done to deserve this. "I, who have served you so
long, and so faithfully?" she cried. "What have I done to earn this?"
"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!"