When Alfred arrived, Lord Oldborough was engaged with some gentlemen
from the city about a loan. By the length of time which the negotiators
stayed, they tried Alfred’s patience; but the minister sat with
immoveable composure, till they knew their own minds, and till they
departed. Then, the loan at once dismissed from his thoughts, he was
ready for Alfred.
“You have married, I think, Mr. Alfred Percy, since I saw you last--I
congratulate you.”
His lordship was not in the habit of noticing such common events; Alfred
was surprised and obliged by the interest in his private affairs which
this congratulation denoted.
“I congratulate you, sir, because I understand you have married a woman
of sense. To marry a fool--to form or to have any connexion with a
fool,” continued his lordship, his countenance changing remarkably as he
spoke, “I conceive to be the greatest evil, the greatest curse, that can
be inflicted on a man of sense.”
He walked across the room with long, firm, indignant strides--then
stopping short, he exclaimed, “_Lettres de cachet_!--Dangerous
instruments in bad hands!--As what are not?--But one good purpose they
answered--they put it in the power of the head of every noble house to
disown, and to deprive of the liberty to disgrace his family, any member
who should manifest the will to commit desperate crime or desperate
folly.”
Alfred was by no means disposed to join in praise even of this use of a
_lettre de cachet_, but he did not think it a proper time to argue the
point, as he saw Lord Oldborough was under the influence of some strong
passion. He waited in silence till his lordship should explain himself
farther.
His lordship unlocked a desk, and produced a letter.
“Pray, Mr. Percy--Mr. Alfred Percy--have you heard any thing lately of
the Marchioness of Twickenham?”
“No, my lord.”
Alfred, at this instant, recollected the whisper which he had once heard
at chapel, and he added, “Not of late, my lord.”
“There,” said Lord Oldborough, putting a letter into Alfred’s
hands--“there is the sum of what I have heard.”
The letter was from the Duke of Greenwich, informing Lord Oldborough
that an unfortunate discovery had been made of _an affair_ between the
Marchioness of Twickenham and a certain Captain Bellamy, which rendered
an immediate separation necessary.
“So!” thought Alfred, “my brother Godfrey had a fine escape of this fair
lady!”
“I have seen her once since I received that letter, and I never will see
her again,” said Lord Oldborough: “that’s past--all that concerns her
is past and irremediable. Now as to the future, and to what concerns
myself. I have been informed--how truly, I cannot say--that some time
ago a rumour, a suspicion of this intrigue was whispered in what they
call the fashionable world.”
“I believe that your lordship has been truly informed,” said Alfred; and
he then mentioned the whisper he had heard at the chapel.
“Ha!--Farther, it has been asserted to me, that a hint was given to the
Marquis of Twickenham of the danger of suffering that--what is the
man’s name?--Bellamy, to be so near his wife; and that the hint was
disregarded.”
“The marquis did very weakly or very wickedly,” said Alfred.
“All wickedness is weakness, sir, you know: but to our point. I have
been assured that the actual discovery of the intrigue was made to the
marquis some months previously to the birth of his child--and that he
forbore to take any notice of this, lest it might affect the legitimacy
of that child. After the birth of the infant--a boy--subsequent
indiscretions on the part of the marchioness, the marquis would make
it appear, gave rise to his first suspicions. Now, sir, these are the
points, of which, as my friend, and as a professional man, I desire you
to ascertain the truth. If the facts are as I have thus heard, I presume
no divorce can be legally obtained.”
“Certainly not, my lord.”
“Then I will direct you instantly to the proper channels for
information.”
Whilst Lord Oldborough wrote directions, Alfred assured him he would
fulfil his commission with all the discretion and celerity in his power.
“The next step,” continued Lord Oldborough--“for, on such a subject, I
wish to say all that is necessary at once, that it may be banished from
my mind--your next step, supposing the facts to be ascertained, is to go
with this letter--my answer to the Duke of Greenwich. See him--and see
the marquis. In matters of consequence have nothing to do with secondary
people--deal with the principals. Show in the first place, as a lawyer,
that their divorce is unattainable--next, show the marquis that he
destroys his son and heir by attempting it. The duke, I believe, would
be glad of a pretext for dissolving the political connexion between me
and the Greenwich family. He fears me, and he fears the world: he dares
not abandon me without a pretence for the dissolution of friendship. He
is a weak man, and never dares to act without a pretext; but show him
that a divorce is not necessary for his purpose--a separation will do
as well--Or without it, I am ready to break with him at council, in
the House of Lords, on a hundred political points; and let him shield
himself as he may from the reproach of desertion, by leaving the blame
of quarrel on my impracticability, or on what he will, I care not--so
that my family be saved from the ignominy of divorce.”
As he sealed his letter, Lord Oldborough went on in abrupt sentences.
“I never counted on a weak man’s friendship--I can do without his
grace--Woman! Woman! The same--ever since the beginning of the world!”
Then turning to Alfred to deliver the letter into his hand, “Your
brother, Major Percy, sir--I think I recollect--He was better in the
West Indies.”
“I was just thinking so, my lord,” said Alfred.
“Yes--better encounter the plague than a fool.”
Lord Oldborough had never before distinctly adverted to his knowledge of
his niece’s partiality for Godfrey, but his lordship now added, “Major
Percy’s honourable conduct is not unknown: I trust honourable conduct
never was, and never will be, lost upon me.--This to the Duke of
Greenwich--and this to the marquis.--Since it was to be, I rejoice
that this Captain Bellamy is the gallant.--Had it been your brother,
sir--could there have been any love in the case--not, observe, that I
believe in love, much less am I subject to the weakness of remorse--but
a twinge might have seized my mind--I might possibly have been told that
the marchioness was married against her inclination.--But I am at ease
on that point--my judgment of her was right.--You will let me know,
in one word, the result of your negotiation without entering into
particulars--divorce, or no divorce, is all I wish to hear.”
Alfred did not know all the circumstances of the Marchioness of
Twickenham’s marriage, nor the peremptory manner in which it had been
insisted upon by her uncle, otherwise he would have felt still greater
surprise than that which he now felt, at the stern, unbending character
of the man. Possessed as Lord Oldborough was by the opinion, that he
had at the time judged and acted in the best manner possible, no
after-events could make him doubt the justice of his own decision, or
could at all shake him in his own estimation.
Alfred soon brought his report. “In one word--no divorce, my lord.”
“That’s well--I thank you, sir.”
His lordship made no farther inquiries--not even whether there was to be
a _separation_.
Alfred was commissioned by the Duke of Greenwich to deliver a message,
which, like the messages of the gods in Homer, he delivered verbatim,
and without comment: “His grace of Greenwich trusts Lord Oldborough
will believe, that, notwithstanding the unfortunate circumstances,
which dissolved in some degree the family connexion, it was the
farthest possible from his grace’s wish or thoughts to break with Lord
Oldborough, as long as private feelings, and public principles, could be
rendered by any means compatible.”
Lord Oldborough smiled in scorn--and Alfred could scarcely command his
countenance.
Lord Oldborough prepared to give his grace the opportunity, which
he knew he desired, of differing with him on principle: his lordship
thought his favour and power were now sufficiently established to be
able to do without the Duke of Greenwich, and his pride prompted him to
show this to his grace and to the world. He carried it with a high hand
for a short time; but even whilst he felt most secure, and when
all seemed to bend and bow before his genius and his sway, many
circumstances and many persons were combining to work the downfall of
his power.
One of the first slight circumstances which shook his favour, was a
speech he had made to some gentleman, about the presentation of the
deanery to Buckhurst Falconer. It had been supposed by many, who knew
the court which Commissioner Falconer paid to Lord Oldborough, that it
was through his lordship’s interest, that this preferment was given to
the son; but when some person, taking this for granted, spoke of it to
his lordship, he indignantly disclaimed all part in the transaction, and
it is said that he added, “Sir, I know what is due to private regard
as a man--and as a minister what must be yielded to parliamentary
influence; but I never could have advised the bestowing ecclesiastical
benefice and dignity upon any one whose conduct was not his first
recommendation.”
This speech, made in a moment of proud and perhaps unguarded
indignation, was repeated with additions, suppressions, variations, and
comments. Any thing will at court serve the purpose of those who wish to
injure, and it is inconceivable what mischief was done to the minister
by this slight circumstance. In the first place, the nobleman high
in office, and the family connexions of the nobleman who had made the
exchange of livings, and given the promise of the deanery to Bishop
Clay, were offended beyond redemption--because they were in the wrong.
Then, all who had done, or wished to do wrong, in similar instances,
were displeased by reflection or by anticipation. But Lord Oldborough
chiefly was injured by misrepresentation in the quarter where it was of
most consequence to him to preserve his influence. It was construed
by the highest authority into disrespect, and an imperious desire to
encroach on favour, to control prerogative, and to subdue the mind of
his sovereign. Insidious arts had long been secretly employed to infuse
these ideas; and when once the jealousy of power was excited, every
trifle confirmed the suspicion which Lord Oldborough’s uncourtier-like
character was little calculated to dispel. His popularity now
gave umbrage, and it was hinted that he wished to make himself the
_independent_ minister of the people.
The affairs of the country prospered, however, under his administration;
there was trouble, there was hazard in change. It was argued, that it
was best to wait at least for some reverse of fortune in war, or some
symptom of domestic discontent, before an attempt should be made to
displace this minister, formidable by his talents, and by the awe his
commanding character inspired.
The habit of confidence and deference for his genius and integrity
remained, and to him no difference for some time appeared, in
consequence of the secret decay of favour.
Commissioner Falconer, timid, anxious, restless, was disposed by
circumstances and by nature, or by second nature, to the vigilance of a
dependent’s life; accustomed to watch and consult daily the barometer
of court favour, he soon felt the coming storm; and the moment he saw
prognostics of the change, he trembled, and considered how he should
best provide for his own safety before the hour of danger arrived.
Numerous libels against the minister appeared, which Lord Oldborough
never read, but the commissioner, with his best spectacles, read them
all; for he well knew and believed what the sage Selden saith, that
“though some make slight of libels, yet you may see by them how the wind
sets.”
After determining by the throwing up of these straws which way the wind
set, the commissioner began with all possible skill and dexterity to
trim his boat. But dexterous trimmer though he was, and “prescient of
change,” he did yet not foresee from what quarter the storm would come.
Count Altenberg’s letters had unveiled completely the envoy Cunningham
Falconer’s treachery, as far as it related to his intrigues abroad, and
other friends detected some of his manoeuvres with politicians at home,
to whom he had endeavoured to pay court, by betraying confidence reposed
in him respecting the Tourville papers. Much of the mischief Cunningham
had done this great minister still operated, unknown to his unsuspicious
mind: but sufficient was revealed to determine Lord Oldborough to
dismiss him from all future hopes of his favour.
“Mr. Commissioner Falconer,” he began one morning, the moment the
commissioner entered his cabinet, “Mr. Commissioner Falconer,” in a tone
which instantly dispelled the smile at entrance from the commissioner’s
countenance, and in the same moment changed his whole configurature.
“My confidence is withdrawn from your son, Mr. Cunningham Falconer--for
ever--and not without good reason--as you may--if you are not aware of
it already--see, by those papers.”
Lord Oldborough turned away, and asked his secretaries for his red box,
as he was going to council.
Just as he left his cabinet, he looked back, and said, “Mr. Falconer,
you should know, if you be not already apprised of it, that your son
Cunningham is on his road to Denmark. You should be aware that the
journey is not made by my desire, or by his majesty’s order, or by
any official authority; consequently he is travelling to the court of
Denmark at his own expense or yours--unless he can prevail upon his
Grace of Greenwich to defray his ambassadorial travelling charges, or
can afford to wait for them till a total change of administration--of
which, sir, if I see any symptoms to-day in council,” added his
lordship, in the tone of bitter irony; “I will give you fair notice--for
fair dealing is what I practise.”
This said, the minister left the commissioner to digest his speech as he
might, and repaired to council, where he found every thing apparently
as smooth as usual, and where he was received by all, especially by the
highest, with perfect consideration.
Meantime Commissioner Falconer was wretched beyond expression--wretched
in the certainty that his son, that he himself, had probably lost,
irrecoverably, one excellent patron, before they had secured, even
in case of change, another. This premature discovery of Cunningham’s
intrigues totally disconcerted and overwhelmed him; and, in the
bitterness of his heart, he cursed the duplicity which he had taught
and encouraged, still more by example, than by precept. But Cunningham’s
duplicity had more and closer folds than his own. Cunningham, conceited
of his diplomatic genius, and fearful of the cautious timidity of his
father, did not trust that father with the knowledge of all he did,
or half of what he intended; so that the commissioner, who had thought
himself at the bottom of every thing, now found that he, too, had been
cheated by his son with false confidences; and was involved by him in
the consequences of a scheme, of which he had never been the adviser.
Commissioner Falconer knew too well, by the experience of Cumberland
and others, the fate of those who suffer themselves to be lured on
by second-hand promises; and who venture, without being publicly
acknowledged by their employers, to undertake any diplomatic mission.
Nor would Cunningham, whose natural disposition to distrust was greater
than his father’s, have sold himself to any political tempter, without
first signing and sealing the compact, had he been in possession of
his cool judgment, and had he been in any other than the desperate
circumstances in which he was placed. His secret conscience whispered
that his recall was in consequence of the detection of some of his
intrigues, and he dreaded to appear before the haughty, irritated
minister. Deceived also by news from England that Lord Oldborough’s
dismission or resignation could not be distant, Cunningham had ventured
upon this bold stroke for an embassy.
On Lord Oldborough’s return from council, the commissioner, finding,
from his secret informants, that every thing had gone on smoothly, and
being over-awed by the confident security of the minister, began to
doubt his former belief; and, in spite of all the symptoms of change,
was now inclined to think that none would take place. The sorrow and
contrition with which he next appeared before Lord Oldborough were,
therefore, truly sincere; and when he found himself alone once more with
his lordship, earnest was the vehemence with which he disclaimed his
unworthy son, and disavowed all knowledge of the transaction.
“If I had seen cause to believe that you had any part in this
transaction, sir, you would not be here at this moment: therefore
your protestations are superfluous--none would be accepted if any were
necessary.”
The very circumstance of the son’s not having trusted the father
completely, saved the commissioner, for this time, from utter ruin: he
took breath; and presently--oh, weak man! doomed never to know how to
deal with a strong character--fancying that his intercession might avail
for his son, and that the pride of Lord Oldborough might be appeased,
and might be suddenly wrought to forgiveness, by that tone and posture
of submission and supplication used only by the subject to offended
majesty, he actually threw himself at the feet of the minister.
“My gracious lord--a pardon for my son!”
“I beseech you, sir!” cried Lord Oldborough, endeavouring to stop him
from kneeling--the commissioner sunk instantly on his knee.
“Never will the unhappy father rise till his son be restored to your
favour, my lord.”
“Sir,” said Lord Oldborough, “I have no favour for those who have no
sense of honour: rise, Mr. Falconer, and let not the father degrade
himself for the son--_unavailingly_.”
The accent and look were decisive--the commissioner rose. Instead of
being gratified, his patron seemed shocked, if not disgusted: far from
being propitiated by this sacrifice of dignity, it rendered him still
more averse; and no consolatory omen appearing, the commissioner
withdrew in silence, repenting that he had abased himself. After
this, some days and nights passed with him in all the horrors of
indecision--Could the minister weather the storm or not?--should Mr.
Falconer endeavour to reinstate himself with Lord Oldborough, or secure
in time favour with the Duke of Greenwich?--Mrs. Falconer, to whom
her husband’s groans in the middle of the night at last betrayed the
sufferings of his mind, drew from him the secret of his fears and
meditations. She advised strongly the going over, decidedly, and in
time, but secretly, to the Greenwich faction.
The commissioner knew that this could not be done secretly. The
attention of the minister was now awake to all his motions, and the
smallest movement towards his grace of Greenwich must be observed and
understood. On the other hand, to abide by a falling minister was folly,
especially when he had positively withdrawn his favour from Cunningham,
who had the most to expect from his patronage. Between these opposite
difficulties, notwithstanding the urgent excitations of Mrs. Falconer,
the poor commissioner could not bring himself to decide, till the time
for action was past.
Another blow came upon him for which he was wholly unprepared--there
arrived from abroad accounts of the failure of a secret expedition; and
the general in his despatches named Colonel John Falconer as the officer
to whose neglect of orders he principally attributed the disappointment.
It appeared that orders had been sent to have his regiment at a certain
place at a given hour. At the moment these orders came, Colonel John
Falconer was out on a shooting party without leave. The troops, of
course, on which the general had relied, did not arrive in time, and
all his other combinations failed from this neglect of discipline and
disobedience of orders. Colonel Falconer was sent home to be tried by a
court-martial.
“I pity you, sir,” said Lord Oldborough, as Commissioner Falconer, white
as ashes, read in his presence these despatches--“I pity you, sir, from
my soul: here is no fault of yours--the fault is mine.”
It was one of the few faults of this nature which Lord Oldborough had
ever committed. Except in the instance of the Falconer family, none
could name any whom his lordship had placed in situations, for which
they were inadequate or unfit. Of this single error he had not foreseen
the consequences; they were more important, more injurious to him and to
the public, than he could have calculated or conceived. It appeared now
as if the Falconer family were doomed to be his ruin. That the public
knew, in general, that John Falconer had been promoted by ministerial
favour, Lord Oldborough was aware; but he imagined that the peculiar
circumstances of that affair were known only to himself and to
Commissioner Falconer’s family. To his astonishment he found, at this
critical moment, that the whole transaction had reached the ear of
majesty, and that it was soon publicly known. The commissioner, with
protestations and oaths, declared that the secret had never, by his
means, transpired--it had been divulged by the baseness of his son
Cunningham, who betrayed it to the Greenwich faction. They, skilled in
all the arts of undermining a rival, employed the means that were thus
put into their power with great diligence and effect.
It was observed at the levee, that the sovereign looked coldly upon
the minister. Every courtier whispered that Lord Oldborough had been
certainly much to blame. Disdainful of their opinions, Lord Oldborough
was sensibly affected by the altered eye of his sovereign.
“What! After all my services!--At the first change of fortune!”
This sentiment swelled in his breast; but his countenance was rigidly
calm, his demeanour towards the courtiers and towards his colleagues
more than usually firm, if not haughty.
After the levee, he demanded a private audience.
Alone with the king, the habitual influence of this great minister’s
superior genius operated. The cold manner was changed, or rather, it was
changed involuntarily. From one “not used to the language of apology,”
the frank avowal of a fault has a striking effect. Lord Oldborough
took upon himself the whole blame of the disaster that had ensued, in
consequence of his error, an error frequent in other ministers, in him,
almost unprecedented.
He was answered with a smile of royal raillery, that the peculiar family
circumstances which had determined his lordship so rapidly to promote
that officer, must, to all fathers of families and heads of houses, if
not to statesmen and generals, be a sufficient and home apology.
Considering the peculiar talent which his sovereign possessed, and in
which he gloried, that of knowing the connexions and domestic affairs,
not only of the nobility near his person, but of private individuals
remote from his court, Lord Oldborough had little cause to be surprised
that this secret transaction should be known to his majesty. Something
of this his lordship, with all due respect, hinted in reply. At the
termination of this audience, he was soothed by the condescending
assurance, that whilst the circumstances of the late unfortunate reverse
naturally created regret and mortification, no dissatisfaction with his
ministerial conduct mixed with these feelings; on the contrary, he was
assured that fear of the effect a disappointment might have on the mind
of the public, in diminishing confidence in his lordship’s efforts for
the good of the country, was the sentiment which had lowered the spirits
and clouded the brow of majesty.
His lordship returned thanks for the gracious demonstration of these
sentiments--and, bowing respectfully, withdrew. In the faces and
behaviour of the courtiers, as in a glass, he saw reflected the truth.
They all pretended to be in the utmost consternation; and he heard
of nothing but “apprehensions for the effect on the public mind,” and
“fears for his lordship’s popularity.” His secretary, Mr. Temple, heard,
indeed, more of this than could reach his lordship’s ear directly; for,
even now, when they thought they foresaw his fall, few had sufficient
courage to hazard the tone of condolence with Lord Oldborough, or to
expose the face of hypocrisy to the severity of his penetrating eye.
In secret, every means had been taken to propagate in the city, the
knowledge of all the circumstances that were unfavourable to the
minister, and to increase the dissatisfaction which any check in the
success of our armies naturally produces. The tide of popularity, which
had hitherto supported the minister, suddenly ebbed; and he fell,
in public opinion, with astonishing rapidity. For the moment all was
forgotten, but that he was the person who had promoted John Falconer to
be a colonel, against whom the cry of the populace was raised with all
the clamour of national indignation. The Greenwich faction knew how to
take advantage of this disposition. It happened to be some festival,
some holiday, when the common people, having nothing to do, are more
disposed than at any other time to intoxication and disorder. The
emissaries of designing partisans mixed with the populace, and a mob
gathered round the minister’s carriage, as he was returning home late
one day--the same carriage, and the same man, whom, but a few short
weeks before, this populace had drawn with loud huzzas, and almost with
tears of affection. Unmoved of mind, as he had been when he heard their
huzzas, Lord Oldborough now listened to their execrations, till from
abuse they began to proceed to outrage. Stones were thrown at his
carriage. One of his servants narrowly escaped being struck. Lord
Oldborough was alone--he threw open his carriage-door, and sprang out on
the step.
“Whose life is it you seek?” cried he, in a voice which obtained instant
silence. “Lord Oldborough’s? Lord Oldborough stands before you. Take his
life who dares--a life spent in your service. Strike! but strike openly.
You are Englishmen, not assassins.”
Then, turning to his servants, he added, in a calm voice, “Home--slowly.
Not a man here will touch you. Keep your master in sight. If I fall,
mark by what hand.”
Then stepping down into the midst of the people, he crossed the street
to the flagged pathway, the crowd opening to make way for him. He walked
on with a deliberate firm step; the mob moving along with him, sometimes
huzzaing, sometimes uttering horrid execrations in horrid tones. Lord
Oldborough, preserving absolute silence, still walked on, never turned
his head, or quickened his pace, till he reached his own house. Then,
facing the mob, as he stood waiting till the door should be opened, the
people, struck with his intrepidity, with one accord joined in a shout
of applause.
The next instant, and before the door was opened, they cried, “Hat
off!--Hat off!”
Lord Oldborough’s hat never stirred. A man took up a stone.
“Mark that man!” cried Lord Oldborough.
The door opened. “Return to your homes, my countrymen, and bless God
that you have not any of you to answer this night for murder!”
Then entering his house, he took off his hat, and gave it to one of
his attendants. His secretary, Temple, had run down stairs to meet him,
inquiring what was the cause of the disturbance.
“Only,” said Lord Oldborough, “that I have served the people, but never
bent to them.”
“Curse them! they are not worth serving. Oh! I thought they’d have taken
my lord’s life that minute,” cried his faithful servant Rodney. “The
sight left my eyes. I thought he was gone for ever. Thank God! he’s
safe. Take off my lord’s coat--I can’t--for the soul of me. Curse those
ungrateful people!”
“Do not curse them, my good Rodney,” said Lord Oldborough, smiling.
“Poor people, they are not ungrateful, only mistaken. Those who mislead
them are to blame. The English are a fine people. Even an English mob,
you see, is generous, and just, as far as it knows.”
Lord Oldborough was sound asleep this night, before any other individual
in the house had finished talking of the dangers he had escaped.
The civil and military courage shown by the minister in the sudden
attack upon his character and person were such as to raise him again at
once to his former height in public esteem. His enemies were obliged
to affect admiration. The Greenwich party, foiled in this attempt,
now disavowed it. News of a victory effaced the memory of the late
disappointment. Stocks rose--addresses for a change of ministry
were quashed--addresses of thanks and congratulation poured in--Lord
Oldborough gave them to Mr. Temple to answer, and kept the strength of
his attention fixed upon the great objects which were essential to the
nation and the sovereign he served.
Mr. Falconer saw that the storm had blown over, the darkness was
past--Lord Oldborough, firm and superior, stood bright in power, and
before him the commissioner bent more obsequious, more anxious than
ever. Anxious he might well be--unhappy father! the life, perhaps,
of one of his sons, his honour, certainly, at stake--the fortune of
another--his existence ruined! And what hopes of propitiating him,
who had so suffered by the favour he had already shown, who had
been betrayed by one of the family and disgraced by another. The
commissioner’s only hope was in the recollection of the words, “I pity
you from my soul, sir,” which burst from Lord Oldborough even at the
moment when he had most reason to be enraged against Colonel Falconer.
Following up this idea, and working on the generous compassion, of
which, but for this indication, he should not have supposed the stern
Lord Oldborough to be susceptible, the commissioner appeared before
him every day the image of a broken-hearted father. In silence Lord
Oldborough from time to time looked at him; and by these looks, more
than by all the promises of all the great men who had ever spoken to
him, Mr. Falconer was reassured; and, as he told Mrs. Falconer, who at
this time was in dreadful anxiety, he felt certain that Lord Oldborough
would not punish him for the faults of his sons--he was satisfied that
his place and his pension would not be taken from him--and that, at
least in fortune, they should not be utterly ruined. In this security
the commissioner showed rather more than his customary degree of
strength of mind, and more knowledge of Lord Oldborough’s character than
he had upon most other occasions evinced.
Things were in this state, when, one morning, after the minister had
given orders that no one should be admitted, as he was dictating some
public papers of consequence to Mr. Temple, the Duke of Greenwich was
announced. His grace sent in a note to signify that he waited upon Lord
Oldborough by order of his majesty; and that, if this hour were not
convenient, he begged to have the hour named at which his grace could be
admitted. His grace was admitted instantly. Mr. Temple retired--for it
was evident this was to be a secret conference. His grace of Greenwich
entered with the most important solemnity--infinitely more ceremonious
than usual; he was at last seated, and, after heavy and audible sighs,
still hesitated to open his business. Through the affected gloom and
dejection of his countenance Lord Oldborough saw a malicious pleasure
lurking, whilst, in a studied exordium, he spoke of the infinite
reluctance with which he had been compelled, by his majesty’s express
orders, to wait upon his lordship on a business the most painful to his
feelings. As being a public colleague--as a near and dear connexion--as
a friend in long habits of intimacy with his lordship, he had prayed his
majesty to be excused; but it was his majesty’s pleasure: he had only
now to beg his lordship to believe that it was with infinite concern,
&c. Lord Oldborough, though suffering under this circumlocution, never
condescended to show any symptom of impatience; but allowing his grace
to run the changes on the words and forms of apology, when these were
exhausted, his lordship simply said, that “his majesty’s pleasure of
course precluded all necessity for apology.”
His grace was vexed to find Lord Oldborough still unmoved--he was sure
this tranquillity could not long endure: he continued, “A sad business,
my lord--a terrible discovery--I really can hardly bring myself to
speak--”
Lord Oldborough gave his grace no assistance.
“My private regard,” he repeated.
A smile of contempt on Lord Oldborough’s countenance.
“Your lordship’s hitherto invulnerable public integrity--”
A glance of indignation from Lord Oldborough.
“_Hitherto_ invulnerable!--your grace will explain.”
“Let these--these fatal notes--letters--unfortunately got into the hands
of a leading, impracticable member of opposition, and by him laid--Would
that I had been apprised, or could have conceived it possible, time
enough to prevent that step; but it was done before I had the slightest
intimation--laid before his majesty--”
Lord Oldborough calmly received the letters from his grace.
“My own handwriting, and private seal, I perceive.”
The duke sighed--and whilst Lord Oldborough drew out, opened, and read
the first letter in the parcel, his grace went on--“This affair has
thrown us all into the greatest consternation. It is to be brought
before parliament immediately--unless a resignation should take
place--which we should all deplore. The impudence, the inveteracy of
that fellow, is astonishing--no silencing him. We might hush up the
affair if his majesty had not been apprised; but where the interest of
the service is concerned, his majesty is warm.”
“His majesty!” cried Lord Oldborough: “His majesty could not, I trust,
for a moment imagine these letters to be I mine?”
“But for the hand and seal which I understood your lordship to
acknowledge, I am persuaded his majesty could not have believed it.”
“Believed! My king! did he believe it?” cried Lord Oldborough. His
agitation was for a moment excessive, uncontrollable. “No! that I
will never credit, till I have it from his own lips.” Then commanding
himself, “Your grace will have the goodness to leave these letters with
me till to-morrow.”
His grace, with infinite politeness and regret, was under the necessity
of refusing this request. His orders were only to show the letters to
his lordship, and then to restore them to the hands of the member of
opposition who had laid them before his majesty.
Lord Oldborough took off the cover of one of the letters, on which was
merely the address and seal. The address was written also at the bottom
of the letter enclosed, therefore the cover could not be of the least
importance. The duke could not, Lord Oldborough said, refuse to leave
this with him.
To this his grace agreed--protesting that he was far from wishing to
make difficulties. If there were any thing else he could do--any thing
his lordship would wish to have privately insinuated or publicly said--
His lordship, with proud thanks, assured the duke he did not wish to
have any thing privately insinuated; and whatever it was necessary to
say or do publicly, he should do himself, or give orders to have done.
His lordship entered into no farther explanation. The duke at last
was obliged to take his leave, earnestly hoping and trusting that this
business would terminate to his lordship’s entire satisfaction.
No sooner was the duke gone than Lord Oldborough rang for his carriage.
“Immediately--and Mr. Temple, instantly.”
Whilst his carriage was coming to the door, in the shortest manner
possible Lord Oldborough stated the facts to his secretary, that letters
had been forged in his lordship’s name, promising to certain persons
promotion in the army--and navy--gratification--and pensions. Some were
addressed to persons who had actually obtained promotion, shortly after
the time of these letters; others contained reproaches for having been
ill-used. Even from the rapid glance Lord Oldborough had taken of these
papers, he had retained the names of several of the persons to whom
they were addressed--and the nature of the promotion obtained. They
were persons who could have had no claim upon an honest minister. His
lordship left a list of them with Mr. Temple--also the cover of the
letter, on which was a specimen of the forged writing and the private
seal.
“I am going to the king. In my absence, Mr. Temple, think for me--I know
you feel for me. The object is to discover the authors of this forgery.”
“My lord, may I consult with Mr. Alfred Percy?”
“Yes--with no other person.”
It was not Lord Oldborough’s day for doing business with the king.
He was late--the king was going out to ride. His majesty received
the minister as usual; but notwithstanding the condescension of
his majesty’s words and manner, it was evident to Lord Oldborough’s
penetration, that there was a coldness and formality in the king’s
countenance.
“I beg I may not detain your majesty--I see I am late,” said Lord
Oldborough.
“Is the business urgent, my lord?”
“No, sir; for it concerns principally myself: it can, therefore, wait
your majesty’s leisure at any hour your majesty may appoint.”
The king dismounted instantly.
“This moment, my lord, I am at leisure for any business that concerns
your lordship.”
The king returned to the palace--Lord Oldborough followed, and all the
spectators on foot and horseback were left full of curiosity.
Notwithstanding the condescension of his majesty’s words and manner,
and the polite promptitude to attend to any business that concerned his
lordship, it was evident to Lord Oldborough’s penetration that there
was an unusual coldness and formality in the king’s countenance and
deportment, unlike the graciousness of his reception when satisfied and
pleased. As soon as the business of the day had been gone through, Lord
Oldborough said he must now beg his majesty’s attention on a subject
which principally concerned himself. The king looked as one prepared to
hear, but determined to say as little as possible.
Lord Oldborough placed himself so as to give the king the advantage of
the light, which he did not fear to have full on his own countenance.
“Sir, certain letters, signed with my name, and sealed with my seal,
have, I am informed, been laid before your majesty.”
“Your lordship has been rightly informed.”
“I trust--I hope that your majesty--”
At the firm assertion, in the tone with which Lord Oldborough
pronounced, I _trust_--his majesty’s eye changed--and moved away from
Lord Oldborough’s, when he, with respectful interrogation of tone,
added, “I _hope_ your majesty could not believe those letters to be
mine.”
“Frankly, my lord,” said the king, “the assertions, the insinuations of
no man, or set of men, of any rank or weight in my dominions, could by
any imaginable means have induced me to conceive it possible that such
letters had been written by your lordship. Not for one moment could
my belief have been compelled by any evidence less strong than your
lordship’s handwriting and seal. I own, I thought I knew your lordship’s
seal and writing; but I now see that I have been deceived, and I rejoice
to see it.”
“I thank your majesty. I cannot feel surprise that a forgery and a
counterfeit which, at first view, compelled my own belief of their being
genuine, should, for a moment, have deceived you, sir; but, I own, I
had flattered myself that my sovereign knew my heart and character, yet
better than my seal and signature.”
“Undoubtedly, my lord.”
“And I should have hoped that, if your majesty had perused those
letters, no assertions could have been necessary, on my part, to
convince you, sir, that they could not be mine. I have now only to
rejoice that your majesty is undeceived; and that I have not intruded
unnecessarily with this explanation. I am fully sensible, sir, of your
goodness, in having thus permitted me to make, as early as possible,
this assertion of my innocence. For the proofs of it, and for the
detection of the guilty, I am preparing; and I hope to make these as
clear to you, sir, as your majesty’s assurance of the pleasure you feel
in being undeceived is satisfactory--consolatory to me,” concluded Lord
Oldborough, with a bow of profound yet proud respect.
“My lord,” said the king, “I have no doubt that this affair will redound
to your honour, and _terminate to your lordship’s entire satisfaction_.”
The very phrase used by the Duke of Greenwich.
“As to myself, your lordship can have no farther anxiety; but I wish
your lordship’s endeavours to detect and bring proofs home to the guilty
may be promptly successful--for the gratification of your own feelings,
and the satisfaction of the public mind, before the matter should be
brought forward in parliament.”
His majesty bowed, and as Lord Oldborough retired, he added some
gracious phrases, expressive of the high esteem he felt for the
minister, and the interest he had always, and should always take,
in whatever could contribute to his public and
private--_satisfaction_--(again).
To an eye and ear less practised in courts than this minister’s,
all that had been said would have been really satisfactory: but Lord
Oldborough discerned a secret embarrassment in the smile, a constraint
in the manner, a care, an effort to be gracious in the language, a
caution, a rounding of the periods, a recurrence to technical phrases of
compliment and amity, a want of the free fluent language of the heart;
language which, as it flows, whether from sovereign or subject, leaves
a trace that the art of courtier or of monarch cannot imitate. In all
attempts at such imitation, there is a want, of which vanity and even
interest is not always sensible, but which feeling perceives instantly.
Lord Oldborough felt it--and twice, during this audience, he was on the
point of offering his resignation, and twice, exerting strong power over
himself, he refrained.
He saw plainly that he was not where he had been in the king’s
confidence; that his enemies had been at work, and, in some measure, had
succeeded; that suspicions had been infused into the king’s mind. That
his king had doubted him, his majesty had confessed--and Lord Oldborough
discerned that there was no genuine joy at the moment his majesty
was undeceived, no real anxiety for his honour, only the ostensible
manifestation suitable to the occasion--repeatable--or recordable.
Still there was nothing of which he could complain; every expression,
if written down or repeated, must have appeared proper and gracious from
the sovereign to his minister; and for that minister to resign at such
a moment, from pride or pique, would have been fatal to the dignity,
perhaps to the integrity, of his character.
Lord Oldborough reasoned thus as he stood in the presence of the king,
and compelled himself, during the whole audience, and to the last
parting moment, to preserve an air and tone of calm, respectful
self-possession.