MR. SECRETARY VERNON
AT the door of Leicester House Lady Clancarty’s coach stood waiting
to take her to the ball at my Lord Bridgewater’s, and she had quite
forgotten both the ball—which was a grand affair—and the coach. So
it was that Lord Spencer found it waiting his convenience for a very
different purpose. He entered it at once and directed the coachman to
go to Westminster to the house of the Under Secretary of State, and
away the great, rumbling, emblazoned coach rolled on its deadly errand,
not freighted with the charming and vivacious countess but with a young
nobleman, whose heart swelled with passion and another emotion, which
his lordship mistook for virtue—the virtue of the Roman who slew his
daughter.
As he rode through the dark streets of London that night, a link-boy
running at the horses’ heads, a tumult of strange feelings struggled
in his bosom. Passion ran high then, and party hatreds led men to
the dagger and the sword. The very fact that his father’s political
roguery was a byword made the young man more zealous for his own
reputation. He burned to be a Whig of the Whigs, a shining example as
a party leader, a distinguished patriot, and now he found sedition in
his own household, a viper in his bosom. His hatred of his Jacobite
brother-in-law ran so entirely in accord with his political creed and
his ideas of patriotism, that he mistook it for a virtuous indignation.
He moved, therefore, with an air of righteous displeasure, of calm
dignity, when he descended from the coach at the secretary’s door.
He was received with obsequious respect by the servants and ushered up
the stairs to the private office. Mr. Secretary Vernon had entertained
friends at supper and was playing shovel-board with his guests at the
time. He came in, therefore, in a genial mood, to urge Lord Spencer to
join them. He had every reason to propitiate the young Whig, to soothe
and flatter a man who had already gained some weight in Parliament. But
Lord Spencer cut short his civilities.
“I come on pressing business, Mr. Secretary,” he said gravely, with
a dejected air; “a young girl’s folly can, perhaps, be excused, yet
’tis hard to tell you that my sister—from compassion—has received a
traitor into my father’s house;” he paused, looking solemnly at the
secretary.
Vernon pricked up his ears. The assassination plot of Barclay and
Bernardi and the little band of conspirators which had thought to cut
off King William, was not yet old enough to have lost its terrors, and
the Blue Posts Tavern was known to swarm with Jacobites, made bold—as
most Whigs believed—by William’s lenity.
“Your lordship distresses me,” he said politely, as Spencer seemed to
wait for him; “may I hear more?”
“You know the story,” his lordship said regretfully, “the foolish
marriage between my sister and the Earl of Clancarty?”
Vernon nodded, a sudden change coming over his face.
“Clancarty is in London,” said Spencer, “and my sister has received
him. You can picture my despair at such folly! Mr. Secretary, I must
have a warrant, at once, and a guard to send the villain to the Tower.”
Secretary Vernon shot a look at him that a wiser man would have called
disdainful, but Spencer was too self-absorbed to see it.
“I remember that Clancarty is excepted from the king’s amnesty,” said
the secretary thoughtfully, “he falls under the penalties of the last
Treason Act—but your sister—can’t we manage this more adroitly, my
lord?”
Lord Spencer looked at him with sternly virtuous anger. “Sir,” he
replied, “I put my duty before all else—I desire his immediate arrest.
Delay may mean his ultimate escape.”
Vernon bowed. “My lord,” he said, and his lip curled scornfully, “you
have truly Roman virtue. I will fill out the warrant at once and place
it at your disposal. You desire a guard from the Tower?” he added, as
he went to his table and began to write.
“I do, and speedily,” replied the young nobleman, with a sort of savage
eagerness.
“Your lordship shall be accommodated,” Vernon said, and touched the
bell which summoned his clerk, and to him the secretary gave a few
sharp orders. Then he turned to Lord Spencer.
“This young man will accompany you, my lord,” he said blandly, “and
will give this warrant into the hands of the proper officer, who will
go with you also, taking a sufficient guard to effect the capture.”
Spencer thanked him. “Your zeal is commendable, Mr. Secretary,” he said
proudly, “’tis an hour of peril to the state, and believe me, sir, when
I serve my country thus, I sacrifice my dearest feelings at its altar.”
Vernon bowed profoundly.
“My lord,” he responded, “you deserve the plaudits of a grateful
people. The misfortunes of civil war and civil dissensions have divided
many a house against itself in this kingdom.”
But after Spencer left, the secretary walked back into the room where
a party of young men were playing shovel-board, and he told the story
with a shrug.
“I thought of offering him thirty pieces of silver,” he remarked, “for
his sister’s husband.”
“Zounds!” exclaimed one young gallant, “my Lady Clancarty will be a
widow—’tis an ill wind that blows nobody good.”
But another guest cursed Lord Spencer as a cowardly villain. It was Sir
Edward Mackie.
“There’s a story that it was Clancarty who fought the duel with Lord
Savile at Newmarket,” said another; “what say you to that, Mackie?”
But he was gone.
“Jove!” exclaimed one of the secretary’s guests, “I’ll wager ten pounds
he’s gone to warn them!”
And Vernon only smiled.