MY LORD OF DEVONSHIRE
LADY BETTY’S weakness passed. She was too strong, too loving, and too
determined by nature, to give way to the tears and sighs of a whining
woman. So stern was her face and so resolute that even Alice, with all
the old claims of faithful service and affection, dared not offer her
any consolation save to kiss her hand humbly and sadly.
“Ah, Alice,” she said, “I cannot talk to you. When I was happy I
chattered like a magpie; but now that I feel so much I am tongue-tied;
yet I understand, my girl, I understand.”
“I wish I could help you,” Alice said, in tears, “I wish I could do
something for you both!”
Betty shook her head sadly. “There is no one but the king. Ah, Alice,
in my careless days I have mocked his Dutch accent and his Dutch
ways—but now—I go to him as my one hope under heaven! How foolish I
have been, how heartless!”
She would not stay in Leicester House; she only lingered long enough
to select her plainest gown and a cloak and hood, and to take such
jewels and money as belonged to her individually, before she and Alice
set out, attended by the tireless Sir Edward. Not this time to the
Tower, however, but to a mediator who might approach the king with
more likelihood of success than any one; the widow of the martyred
Lord Russell. From Sir Edward Mackie, Lady Russell learned that
morning the whole story, and her heart was touched by the despair
of the young countess, suffering as she had suffered. Though of all
women Lady Russell was the last one to sympathize with a Jacobite, yet
her compassion moved her to forgive her enemies, and from her Lady
Clancarty might look for more help than from any one, for she was an
honored and revered friend of King William’s.
So to Lady Russell’s house in Bloomsbury the young Countess of
Clancarty directed her steps, and it was on the way thither that they
met the coach of my Lord of Devonshire. The great emblazoned coach
drawn by four stout Flanders mares, with outriders in crimson and gold
lace, came clattering and rumbling along the street, the men cursing
and shouting at the other vehicles that threatened to stop his grace’s
way. Betty and her escort stood back to escape the mud from the kennel
as it passed.
The news of Spencer’s despicable act and of Clancarty’s arrest had been
spread over the town by the young men at Secretary Vernon’s dinner.
When his grace saw Lady Clancarty afoot at that early hour, therefore,
he ordered his coach to stop and descended with great dignity.
She did not wait for him to speak, running up to him with an eager face.
“My lord, my lord,” she cried, “I claim your promise at Newmarket. You
will help me save my Lord Clancarty.”
Devonshire gracefully kissed her hand.
“Dear Lady Clancarty,” he replied, “I would hesitate only at John the
Baptist’s head upon a charger! I shall keep my promise. Indeed, ’tis
partly kept already, for I have just arranged with my Lords of Ormond
and Bedford to go with me to Kensington for your sake. But,” the great
man paused, glancing at the beautiful face, “my dear child, you would
be the best suppliant,” he added.
“I will go,” Betty answered, “though, indeed, my lord, I do not know
how the king will receive me—he is so cold! And my father—” her voice
broke at the word; “Lord Sunderland will not help me. Sir Edward has
suggested Lady Russell as an intercessor.”
An expression of surprise passed over Devonshire’s face, but it
brightened.
“I know of no one better,” he said gravely; “nay, dear Lady Clancarty,
take heart of grace; your cold king is a merciful one.”
Betty drew a sharp breath.
“My Lord Clancarty is out of his clemency,” she said faintly; “the
Habeas Corpus Act—” she could say no more.
Devonshire looked grave and his eyes met Mackie’s significantly, but he
took her hand.
“My child,” he said kindly, “you will go in my carriage to Lady
Russell’s and then I will go to Kensington; we will not surrender until
we are beaten. You are not wont to be faint hearted.”
“I am changed,” she replied; “the old Betty is quite dead, I think, my
lord; now I am only the shadow of Clancarty; as he suffers so also do
I. If I could but see him!”
“I have sent to the Tower,” said the duke reassuringly, “and I think I
may get a letter for you. Would a word be any comfort?”
“Ah, my lord!” she exclaimed, and kissed his hand impulsively.
Once in the coach they travelled rapidly; the duke talking of other
things, seeing well enough that her strength was overtaxed. He was
still talking when the carriage turned from Little Queen Street and
stopped in Bloomsbury Square. He led her by the hand into the presence
of Rachel, Lady Russell, his kinswoman by marriage, and Lady Betty
never forgot the benevolence of the great man’s face, the kindly
pressure of his hand, the fatherly interest of his glance, as he walked
beside her in the splendid dress he had assumed to go to court. Nor did
she forget the sad, sweet dignity of the widow who rose to meet them
and came forward with such reserve of manner until she saw Lady Betty’s
face, then she held out both hands, tears glistening in her eyes; she
scarcely courtesied to the duke.
“My child!” she exclaimed, “my poor child, I too have suffered so. Ah,
my lord, when will the Traitor’s Gate close, save on a woman’s bleeding
heart?” and she kissed the young countess on brow and cheek.
“My husband,” faltered Betty, “you know, dear madam, that he is a
Jacobite?”
“I know it,” Lady Russell answered sadly; “but he is also a brave man
and, as I know, the idol of one woman’s heart. Alas, my lord,” she
added gravely to Devonshire, “do you love us well enough to make amends
for the broken hearts—the faithful broken hearts?”
His Grace of Devonshire only bowed his head while the elder sufferer
clasped the younger in her arms and caressed her, speaking kind and
soothing words, like a mother to the daughter of her heart. A moment
later, when she glanced an inquiry at him over Betty’s head, he shook
his gravely, framing “no” with his lips, for he had no hope, or next to
none. So he told young Mackie as they left the house together.
“Poor young creature,” said his grace gravely, “she shall command my
utmost endeavors; Spencer is a cold-hearted rogue—and her father!” the
duke shrugged his shoulders; “as for Clancarty, he’s more likely to be
made an example than an exception.”
“He’s a brave man, your grace,” said Mackie generously, “and there are
many of his persuasion.”
“A poor philosophy, my boy,” replied the duke; “this fellow is
notorious, besides. Do you know his history?”
“No,” said Mackie sadly, “I see only her agony.”
“It was Ormond who introduced him to her at Newmarket, and I suspect
that his grace knew who ‘Mr. Trevor’ really was, though he doesn’t
admit it. But I believe she divined it at once. Clancarty has a
history,” his grace went on; “he was bred a Protestant, but when
he went back to Ireland, in the late king’s time, he fell in with
Papist kinsfolk and it served his turn at court to be a Papist, so my
young lord turned his coat; a wild rogue, sir, let me tell you, yet
this young girl loves him! He sat in the Celtic Parliament at King’s
Inns,—a very pretty recommendation to King William,—he commanded
a regiment in King James’s army and was taken by Marlborough, but
succeeded in getting off. The estates of Clancarty—they are held to
be worth ten thousand a year—are confiscated, and you know who has
the greater share?” added the duke significantly, “my Lord Woodstock.
William will not despoil his Dutch favorites for a Jacobite.”
Young Mackie’s face was grave.
“She asks only for his life,” he said, “and she pleads so eloquently
that I think no man but one of stone can refuse her.”
Devonshire smiled broadly.
“Not you, at least, my dear sir,” he replied, “if my eyes mistake not.”
The young man turned crimson.
“Your grace,” he said, “I do confess it; but I have seen her so like an
angel in her devotion, so forgetful of all but him, that, loving her, I
would risk my life to give him back to her.”
The duke took a pinch of snuff and stood tapping the jewelled lid of
the box thoughtfully.
“A very pretty sentiment, Sir Edward,” he said genially, “and I honor
you for it. By my faith, I would not risk my own heart against her
tears, or her smiles, either,” he added smiling, “though you need not
mention it. But I have small hope, sir, small hope; the king has been,
as we know, over merciful and fostered rebellion at his very door. What
is it the great bard says?
“‘What doth cherish weeds but gentle air?
And what make robbers bold but too much lenity?’
And at this time, after the recent troubles, his majesty is not like
to be advised to mercy,” and his grace shook his head; “there is but
little hope!”