Having now run on for some time, following almost entirely the course
and history of one individual, painting none but the characters with
whom he was brought into immediate contact, and making him, as it
were, a lantern in the midst of our dark story, all the characters
appearing in bright light as long as they were near him, and sinking
back into darkness as soon as they were removed from him, we must
follow our old wayward and wandering habits; and just at the moment
when we have contrived to create the first little gleam of interest
in the reader's breast, must leave our hero entirely to his fate,
open out new scenes, introduce new personages, and devote a
considerable space to matters which have APPARENTLY not the slightest
connexion whatsoever with that which went before.
About thirty miles from London, towards the sea-coast, there then
stood a small ancient house, built strongly of brick. It was not
exactly castellated in its appearance, but yet in the days of
Cromwell it had endured a short siege by a small body of the
parliamentary troops, and had afforded time, by the resistance which
it offered, for a small body of noblemen and gentlemen attached to
the cause of King Charles to make their escape from a superior party
of pursuers. It was built upon the edge of a very steep slope, so
that on one side it was very much taller than the other. It was
surrounded by thick trees also; and though by no means large, it had
contrived to get into a small space as many odd corners as a Chinese
puzzle. The walls were very thick, the windows few and small, the
chimneys numerous, and the angles innumerable.
Into one of the small rooms of this house, at about eleven o'clock at
night, I must now introduce the reader.
In that chamber, with her head resting on her hand, her eyes fixed
upon a wood-fire that was burning before her, one small and beautiful
foot stretched out towards it, while the other was concealed by the
drapery of her long robe; and with the whole graceful line of her
figure thrown back in the large arm-chair which she occupied--except,
indeed, the head, which was bent slightly forward--sat a very lovely
young woman, perhaps of two or three and twenty years of age, in
meditations evidently of a somewhat melancholy cast. The hand on
which her head leaned, and which was very soft, round, and fair, was
covered with rings, while the other was quite free from such
ornaments, with the exception of one small ring of gold upon the
slender third finger. In that hand she had been holding an open
letter; but, buried in meditation, she had suffered the paper to drop
from her hold, and it had fallen upon the ground beside her.
We had said that she was very beautiful, but her beauty was of a
different sort and character altogether from that of the lady whom we
have described under the name of Lady Laura Gaveston. Her hair was of
the richest, brightest, glossy black, as fine as silk, yet bending,
wherever it escaped, into rich and massy curls. There was one of
these which fell upon the back of her fair neck, and another upon
either temple. Upon the forehead, as was then customary, the hair was
divided into smaller curls, and cut much shorter, which fashion was a
great disfigurement to beauty, and certainly left her less handsome
than she otherwise would have appeared. Still, however, she was very,
very lovely; and the fine lines of her features, the clear rich brown
of her complexion, the glorious light of her large dark eyes,
softened by the long thick lashes that overshadowed them, the full
and rounded beauty of every limb, left it impossible even for human
heart to do away what nature's cunning hand had done.
There are certainly moments in which, as every one must have
remarked, a beautiful human countenance is more beautiful than at any
other period, when it acquires, from some accidental circumstance, a
temporary and extraordinary degree of loveliness. Sometimes it is the
mere disposition of light and shade that produces this effect--the
background behind it, the objects that surround it. Sometimes it is
that the tone of the mind at the moment gives the peculiar expression
which harmonizes best with the lines of the features and the
colouring of the complexion, and which is in perfect accord with all
those expectations which fine, indistinct, but sweet associations
produce in our mind from every particular style of beauty that we
see. Associations are, in fact, the bees of the imagination, and,
wandering through all nature, may be said to distil honey from every
fair object on which they light. Why does a rich and warm complexion,
and a glowing cheek, call up instantly in our mind the idea of joyous
health and pleasant-heartedness? Less because we have been
accustomed to see that complexion attended by such qualities than
because it connects itself with the idea of summer, gay summer and
all its fruits and flowers, and merry sports and light amusements,
and a thousand memories of happy days, and thousands upon thousands
still of other things of which we have no consciousness, but which are
present to sensation though not to thought, all the while that we are
gazing upon a ruddy cheek, and thinking that the pleasure is derived
from the white and red alone.
When the expression is perfectly suited to the style of beauty, it is
natural to suppose that it will add to the charm; but there is a case
where the cause of the increase is not so easily discovered--I mean
when the mind gives to the countenance a temporary-expression totally
opposed to the style of beauty itself. Yet this is sometimes the
case: for how often do we see high and majestic features soften into
playful smiles, and seem to gain another grace. In the lady we have
mentioned, the whole style of the countenance and of the form gave
the idea of joyous gaiety, of happy, nay, exuberant life and
cheerfulness; but the expression was now all sad; and from the
contrast--which produced deeper associations than perfect harmony
would have called forth--her beauty itself was heightened. It was
like some gay and splendid scene by moonlight.
She had remained in this meditating attitude for some time, when the
door quietly opened, and a personage entered the room, of whom we
must say a few words, though he is not destined to play any very
prominent part in our tale. Monsieur Plessis was a Frenchman, a
soi-disant Protestant. One thing, at all events, is certain, that
his father had been so, and had been expelled from France many years
before by persecution. The gentleman before us exercised many trades,
by which, perhaps, he had not acquired so much wealth as his father
had by one. His father's calling had been that of cook and major domo
to a fat, rich, gluttonous, careless English peer; and as he employed
his leisure time in distilling various simples, he had classed his
noble patron under that head, and distilled from him what he himself
would jocosely have called "Golden Water."
Amongst the various trades which, as we have said, were carried on by
the son, was smuggling, under which were included the conveyance of
contraband men, women, and children, as well as other sorts of
merchandise; swindling a little, when occasion presented itself;
clipping the golden coin of the kingdom, which at that time was a
great resource to unfortunate gentlemen; not exactly forging
exchequer tallies, and other securities of the same kind, but aiding
by a certain dexterity of engraving in the forging, which he did not
choose actually to commit; and over and above all these several
occupations, callings, and employments, he was one of the best
reputed spies which the French court had in England, as well as the
most industrious agent which England had in obtaining intelligence
from France. In fact, he sold each country to the other with the
greatest possible complaisance. The great staple of the intelligence
that he gave to both was false; but he took care to mingle a
sufficient portion of truth with what he told, to acquire a
considerable degree of reputation. He was, indeed, much too well
versed in the practices of coiners, not to know that a bad piece of
money is best passed off between two good ones; and though he was a
sort of bonding warehouse, where an immense quantity of manufactured
intelligence lay till it was wanted, yet he had means of obtaining
better information, which he did not fail to make use of when he
judged it needful.
Strange, however, are the perversities of human character: this
practical betrayer of trust was not without certain good points in
his character. The cheating a king or a statesman had a touch of
grandeur in it, which suited his magnificent ideas; a little robbery
on the King's Highway seemed to him somewhat chivalrous; and he could
admire those who did it, though he did not meddle with the business
himself: but there was a certain class of persons whom he would as
soon have cheated, betrayed, or deceived, even to keep himself in
practice, which he considered one of the most legitimate excuses for
anything he liked to do, as he would have cut his hand off. These
were the poor French emigrants in England, and the unfortunate
adherents of the House of Stuart in France.
As is now well known, though it was only suspected at the time,
thousands of these men were daily coming and going between France and
Britain, in the very midst of the war; and they were always sure to
find at the house of Plessis kind and civil treatment, perfect
security, and the most accurate intelligence which could be procured
of all that was taking place.
In cases of danger he had a thousand ways of secreting them or
favouring their escape. If ever, as was frequently the case, they
wished to communicate with some kind friend, who was willing to
relieve them, or to frighten some timid enemy upon whom they had some
hold, Plessis could generally find them the means; and in cases where
some one in danger required to be brought off speedily and secretly,
Plessis had often been known to spend very large sums, and risk even
life itself, rather than suffer an enterprise to fail in which he had
taken a part.
The Duke of Shrewsbury and Trumbull, while they were secretaries of
state, employed Plessis actively, and overlooked not a few little
peccadilloes for the sake of the intelligence they obtained; and
Torcy, though he had been known to vow more than once that he would
hang him if he set his foot in France, held two or three long
conferences with him at Versailles, and dismissed him with a present
of several thousand livres.
His apparel was very peculiar, as he generally wore above his
ordinary dress a large long waisted red coat, hooked round his neck
at the collar, somewhat in the manner of a cloak, without his arms
being thrust into the sleeves; his shoes were very high in the
instep, and buckled with a small buckle over the front; but as he was
a little man, and of a somewhat aspiring disposition, the heels of
those shoes were enormously high, sufficient to raise him nearly two
inches from the ground, and make his foot in external appearance very
like that of a calf or a Chinese lady. Indeed, in body and in mind
likewise, he was upon tiptoes the whole day long.
His entrance into the room where the lady was, roused her at once
from the reverie into which she had fallen; and taking up the letter
from the ground, she turned to see who it was that came in.
"Madam," he said, speaking in French, which, be it remarked, was the
language used between them during the whole conversation, "were it
not better for you to retire to rest? You spoil your complexion, you
impair your beauty, by these long vigils."
"Beauty!" she said, with something of a scoff. "But why should I
retire, as you call it, to rest, Plessis? You mean to say, retire to
think more deeply still, in darkness as well as in solitude."
"Madam," replied Plessis, "you take these things too heavily. But the
truth is, I have a fair company coming here, by whom you might not
well like to be seen. Far be it from me, if you think otherwise, to
disturb you in possession of the apartments. But they come here at
midnight to consult, it would seem, upon business of importance;
whereof I know nothing, indeed, but which I know requires secrecy and
care."
"Business of importance!" said the lady, somewhat scornfully--"to seat
a bigoted dotard on the throne of England! That is what they come to
consult about. Are they not some of those whom I saw yesterday
morning from the window? that dark Sir George Barkley, who used to
walk through the halls of St. Germain's, in gloomy silence, till the
profane courtiers called him the shadow of the cloud? and that
sanguinary Charnock, whom I once heard conferring with the banished
queen, and vowing that there was no way but one of dealing with
usurpers, and that was by the dagger? If these are your guests,
Plessis, I know the business that they come for full well."
"I neither know, beautiful lady," replied Plessis, "nor do I seek to
know. So pray tell me nothing thereof. Many a grown man in his day
has been hanged for knowing too much, and nobody but a schoolboy was
ever punished for knowing too little. These gentlemen come about
their own business. I meddle not with it; and I must not shame my
hospitality so much as to say, 'Good gentlemen, you shall not meet at
my house!'"
"You are a wise and prudent man, Plessis," replied the lady: "bid the
girl take a light to my chamber; I will go there and muse--not that I
fear their seeing me; but the Lady Helen, perhaps, might wish it
otherwise."
With a bow down to the very ground, Plessis retired, and the lady
paused for a minute or two longer, leaning upon a small table in the
middle of the room, and apparently thinking over what had passed.
"It is a strange thing," she said to herself, after a moment, "a most
strange thing, that the customs of the world, and what we call
honour, so often requires us to do those things that every principle
of right and justice, truth and religion, commands us not to do.
God's word tells us not to murder, yet men daily do it, and women
think them all the nobler for trading in blood. If we violate the
law, and do what is really wicked, we risk punishment on earth, and
incur punishment hereafter; yet if we do strictly what honesty and
justice tells us, in all cases, how many instances would be found,
where men would shun us, and where our own hearts would condemn us
also. Here I have it in my power to stop the effusion of much blood,
to prevent the commission of many crimes, to strangle, perhaps, a
civil war in its birth, merely by discovering the presence of these
men in a land from which they are exiled--I have it in my power
thereby to spare even themselves from evil acts and certain
punishment: and yet my lips must be sealed, lest men should say I
dealt treacherously with them. 'Tis a hard-dealing world, and I have
suffered too much already by despising it, to despise it any more."
As she thus came to the conclusion, which every woman, perhaps, will
come to sooner or later, she turned and left the room; and while her
foot was still upon the staircase, there came a sound of many horses'
feet from the small paved esplanade in front of the house.
"Ay, there they are," murmured the lady in a low voice--"the men who
would use any treacherous art whatever to accomplish their own
purpose, and who would yet call any one traitor who divulged their
schemes. Would to God that Helen would come back! I am weary of all
this, and sick at heart, as well I may be."
A sound in the hall below made her quicken her footsteps; and in two
or three minutes more the room she had just quitted was occupied by
five or six tenants of a very different character and appearance from
herself.