High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect.
--RICHARD III.
Before giving the reader an account of the meeting betwixt Buckingham
and his injured Sovereign, we may mention a trifling circumstance or
two which took place betwixt his Grace and Chiffinch, in the short drive
betwixt York Place and Whitehall.
In the outset, the Duke endeavoured to learn from the courtier the
special cause of his being summoned so hastily to the Court. Chiffinch
answered, cautiously, that he believed there were some gambols going
forward, at which the King desired the Duke’s presence.
This did not quite satisfy Buckingham, for, conscious of his own rash
purpose, he could not but apprehend discovery. After a moment’s silence,
“Chiffinch,” he said abruptly, “did you mention to any one what the King
said to me this morning touching the Lady Anne?”
“My Lord Duke,” said Chiffinch, hesitantly, “surely my duty to the
King--my respect to your Grace----”
“You mentioned it to no one, then?” said the Duke sternly.
“To no one,” replied Chiffinch faintly, for he was intimidated by the
Duke’s increasing severity of manner.
“Ye lie, like a scoundrel!” said the Duke--“You told Christian!”
“Your Grace,” said Chiffinch--“your Grace--your Grace ought to remember
that I told you Christian’s secret; that the Countess of Derby was come
up.”
“And you think the one point of treachery may balance for the other? But
no. I must have a better atonement. Be assured I will blow your brains
out, ere you leave this carriage, unless you tell me the truth of this
message from Court.”
As Chiffinch hesitated what reply to make, a man, who, by the blaze of
the torches, then always borne, as well by the lackeys who hung behind
the carriage, as by the footmen who ran by the side, might easily see
who sat in the coach, approached, and sung in a deep manly voice, the
burden of an old French song on the battle of Marignan, in which is
imitated the German French of the defeated Swiss.
“_Tout est verlore
La tintelore,
Tout est verlore_
Bei Got.”
“I am betrayed,” said the Duke, who instantly conceived that this
chorus, expressing “all is lost,” was sung by one of his faithful
agents, as a hint to him that their machinations were discovered.
He attempted to throw himself from the carriage, but Chiffinch held
him with a firm, though respectful grasp. “Do not destroy yourself,
my lord,” he said, in a tone of deep humility--“there are soldiers
and officers of the peace around the carriage, to enforce your Grace’s
coming to Whitehall, and to prevent your escape. To attempt it would be
to confess guilt; and I advise you strongly against that--the King is
your friend--be your own.”
The Duke, after a moment’s consideration, said sullenly, “I believe you
are right. Why should I fly, when I am guilty of nothing but sending
some fireworks to entertain the Court, instead of a concert of music?”
“And the dwarf, who came so unexpectedly out of the bass-viol----”
“Was a masking device of my own, Chiffinch,” said the Duke, though the
circumstance was then first known to him. “Chiffinch, you will bind me
for ever, if you will permit me to have a minute’s conversation with
Christian.”
“With Christian, my lord?--Where could you find him?--You are aware we
must go straight to the Court.”
“True,” said the Duke, “but I think I cannot miss finding him; and you,
Master Chiffinch, are no officer, and have no warrant either to detain
me prisoner, or prevent my speaking to whom I please.”
Chiffinch replied, “My Lord Duke, your genius is so great, and your
escapes so numerous, that it will be from no wish of my own if I am
forced to hurt a man so skilful and so popular.”
“Nay, then, there is life in it yet,” said the Duke, and whistled;
when, from beside the little cutler’s booth, with which the reader is
acquainted, appeared, suddenly, Master Christian, and was in a moment at
the side of the coach. “_Ganz ist verloren_,” said the Duke.
“I know it,” said Christian; “and all our godly friends are dispersed
upon the news. Luckily the Colonel and these German rascals gave a hint.
All is safe--You go to Court--Hark ye, I will follow.”
“You, Christian? that would be more friendly than wise.”
“Why, what is there against me?” said Christian. “I am innocent as the
child unborn--so is your Grace. There is but one creature who can bear
witness to our guilt; but I trust to bring her on the stage in our
favour--besides, if I were not, I should presently be sent for.”
“The familiar of whom I have heard you speak, I warrant?”
“Hark in your ear again.”
“I understand,” said the Duke, “and will delay Master Chiffinch,--for
he, you must know, is my conductor,--no longer.--Well, Chiffinch, let
them drive on.--_Vogue la Galère!_” he exclaimed, as the carriage went
onward; “I have sailed through worse perils than this yet.”
“It is not for me to judge,” said Chiffinch; “your Grace is a bold
commander; and Christian hath the cunning of the devil for a pilot;
but----However, I remain your Grace’s poor friend, and will heartily
rejoice in your extrication.”
“Give me a proof of your friendship,” said the Duke. “Tell me what you
know of Christian’s familiar, as he calls her.”
“I believe it to be the same dancing wench who came with Empson to my
house on the morning that Mistress Alice made her escape from us. But
you have seen her, my lord?”
“I?” said the Duke; “when did I see her?”
“She was employed by Christian, I believe, to set his niece at liberty,
when he found himself obliged to gratify his fanatical brother-in-law,
by restoring his child; besides being prompted by a private desire, as I
think, of bantering your Grace.”
“Umph! I suspected so much. I will repay it,” said the Duke. “But first
to get out of this dilemma.--That little Numidian witch, then, was his
familiar; and she joined in the plot to tantalise me?--But here we
reach Whitehall.--Now, Chiffinch, be no worse than thy word, and--now,
Buckingham, be thyself!”
But ere we follow Buckingham into the presence, where he had so
difficult a part to sustain, it may not be amiss to follow Christian
after his brief conversation with him. On re-entering the house, which
he did by a circuitous passage, leading from a distant alley, and
through several courts, Christian hastened to a low matted apartment, in
which Bridgenorth sat alone, reading the Bible by the light of a small
brazen lamp, with the utmost serenity of countenance.
“Have you dismissed the Peverils?” said Christian hastily.
“I have,” said the Major.
“And upon what pledge--that they will not carry information against you
to Whitehall?”
“They gave me their promise voluntarily, when I showed them our armed
friends were dismissed. To-morrow, I believe, it is their purpose to
lodge informations.”
“And why not to-night, I pray you?” said Christian.
“Because they allow us that time for escape.”
“Why, then, do you not avail yourself of it? Wherefore are you here?”
said Christian.
“Nay, rather, why do _you_ not fly?” said Bridgenorth. “Of a surety, you
are as deeply engaged as I.”
“Brother Bridgenorth, I am the fox, who knows a hundred modes of
deceiving the hounds; you are the deer, whose sole resource is in
hasty flight. Therefore lose no time--begone to the country--or rather,
Zedekiah Fish’s vessel, the _Good Hope_, lies in the river, bound for
Massachusetts--take the wings of the morning, and begone--she can fall
down to Gravesend with the tide.”
“And leave to thee, brother Christian,” said Bridgenorth, “the charge of
my fortune and my daughter? No, brother; my opinion of your good faith
must be re-established ere I again trust thee.”
“Go thy ways, then, for a suspicious fool,” said Christian, suppressing
his strong desire to use language more offensive; “or rather stay where
thou art, and take thy chance of the gallows!”
“It is appointed to all men to die once,” said Bridgenorth; “my life
hath been a living death. My fairest boughs have been stripped by the
axe of the forester--that which survives must, if it shall blossom, be
grafted elsewhere, and at a distance from my aged trunk. The sooner,
then, the root feels the axe, the stroke is more welcome. I had been
pleased, indeed, had I been called to bringing yonder licentious Court
to a purer character, and relieving the yoke of the suffering people of
God. That youth too--son to that precious woman, to whom I owe the
last tie that feebly links my wearied spirit to humanity--could I have
travailed with _him_ in the good cause!--But that, with all my other
hopes is broken for ever; and since I am not worthy to be an instrument
in so great a work, I have little desire to abide longer in this vale of
sorrow.”
“Farewell, then, desponding fool!” said Christian, unable, with all
his calmness, any longer to suppress his contempt for the resigned and
hopeless predestinarian. “That fate should have clogged me with such
confederates!” he muttered, as he left the apartment--“this bigoted fool
is now nearly irreclaimable--I must to Zarah; for she, or no one, must
carry us through these straits. If I can but soothe her sullen temper,
and excite her vanity to action,--betwixt her address, the King’s
partiality for the Duke, Buckingham’s matchless effrontery, and my own
hand upon the helm, we may yet weather the tempest that darkens around
us. But what we do must be hastily done.”
In another apartment he found the person he sought--the same who visited
the Duke of Buckingham’s harem, and, having relieved Alice Bridgenorth
from her confinement there, had occupied her place as has been already
narrated, or rather intimated. She was now much more plainly attired
than when she had tantalised the Duke with her presence; but her dress
had still something of the Oriental character, which corresponded with
the dark complexion and quick eye of the wearer. She had the kerchief at
her eyes as Christian entered the apartment, but suddenly withdrew it,
and, flashing on him a glance of scorn and indignation, asked him what
he meant by intruding where his company was alike unsought for and
undesired.
“A proper question,” said Christian, “from a slave to her master!”
“Rather, say, a proper question, and of all questions the most proper,
from a mistress to her slave! Know you not, that from the hour in which
you discovered your ineffable baseness, you have made me mistress of
your lot? While you seemed but a demon of vengeance, you commanded
terror, and to good purpose; but such a foul fiend as thou hast of late
shown thyself--such a very worthless, base trickster of the devil--such
a sordid grovelling imp of perdition, can gain nothing but scorn from a
soul like mine.”
“Gallantly mouthed,” said Christian, “and with good emphasis.”
“Yes,” answered Zarah, “I can speak--sometimes--I can also be mute; and
that no one knows better than thou.”
“Thou art a spoiled child, Zarah, and dost but abuse the indulgence I
entertain for your freakish humour,” replied Christian; “thy wits have
been disturbed since ever you landed in England, and all for the sake
of one who cares for thee no more than for the most worthless object who
walks the streets, amongst whom he left you to engage in a brawl for one
he loved better.”
“It is no matter,” said Zarah, obviously repressing very bitter emotion;
“it signifies not that he loves another better; there is none--no,
none--that ever did, or can, love him so well.”
“I pity you, Zarah!” said Christian, with some scorn.
“I deserve your pity,” she replied, “were your pity worth my accepting.
Whom have I to thank for my wretchedness but you?--You bred me up in
thirst of vengeance, ere I knew that good and evil were anything better
than names;--to gain your applause, and to gratify the vanity you had
excited, I have for years undergone a penance, from which a thousand
would have shrunk.”
“A thousand, Zarah!” answered Christian; “ay, a hundred thousand, and a
million to boot; the creature is not on earth, being mere mortal woman,
that would have undergone the thirtieth part of thy self-denial.”
“I believe it,” said Zarah, drawing up her slight but elegant figure;
“I believe it--I have gone through a trial that few indeed could have
sustained. I have renounced the dear intercourse of my kind; compelled
my tongue only to utter, like that of a spy, the knowledge which my
ear had only collected as a base eavesdropper. This I have done for
years--for years--and all for the sake of your private applause--and
the hope of vengeance on a woman, who, if she did ill in murdering my
father, has been bitterly repaid by nourishing a serpent in her bosom,
that had the tooth, but not the deafened ear, of the adder.”
“Well--well--well,” reiterated Christian; “and had you not your
reward in my approbation--in the consequences of your own unequalled
dexterity--by which, superior to anything of thy sex that history has
ever known, you endured what woman never before endured, insolence
without notice, admiration without answer, and sarcasm without reply?”
“Not without reply!” said Zarah fiercely. “Gave not Nature to my
feelings a course of expression more impressive than words? and did not
those tremble at my shrieks, who would have little minded my entreaties
or my complaints? And my proud lady, who sauced her charities with the
taunts she thought I heard not--she was justly paid by the passing her
dearest and most secret concerns into the hands of her mortal enemy;
and the vain Earl--yet he was a thing as insignificant as the plume that
nodded in his cap;--and the maidens and ladies who taunted me--I had, or
can easily have, my revenge upon them. But there is _one_,” she added,
looking upward, “who never taunted me; one whose generous feelings could
treat the poor dumb girl even as his sister; who never spoke word of her
but was to excuse or defend--and you tell me I must not love him, and
that it is madness to love him!--I _will_ be mad then, for I will love
till the latest breath of my life!”
“Think but an instant, silly girl--silly but in one respect, since
in all others thou mayest brave the world of women. Think what I have
proposed to thee, for the loss of this hopeless affection, a career so
brilliant!--Think only that it rests with thyself to be the wife--the
wedded wife--of the princely Buckingham! With my talents--with thy wit
and beauty--with his passionate love of these attributes--a short space
might rank you among England’s princesses.--Be but guided by me--he
is now at deadly pass--needs every assistance to retrieve his
fortunes--above all, that which we alone can render him. Put yourself
under my conduct, and not fate itself shall prevent your wearing a
Duchess’s coronet.”
“A coronet of thistle-down, entwined with thistle-leaves,” said
Zarah.--“I know not a slighter thing than your Buckingham! I saw him
at your request--saw him when, as a man, he should have shown himself
generous and noble--I stood the proof at your desire, for I laugh at
those dangers from which the poor blushing wailers of my sex shrink
and withdraw themselves. What did I find him?--a poor wavering
voluptuary--his nearest attempt to passion like the fire on a wretched
stubble-field, that may singe, indeed, or smoke, but can neither warm
nor devour. Christian! were his coronet at my feet this moment, I would
sooner take up a crown of gilded gingerbread, than extend my hand to
raise it.”
“You are mad, Zarah--with all your taste and talent, you are utterly
mad! But let Buckingham pass--Do you owe _me_ nothing on this
emergency?--Nothing to one who rescued you from the cruelty of your
owner, the posture-master, to place you in ease and affluence?”
“Christian,” she replied, “I owe you much. Had I not felt I did so, I
would, as I have been often tempted to do, have denounced thee to the
fierce Countess, who would have gibbeted you on her feudal walls of
Castle Rushin, and bid your family seek redress from the eagles, that
would long since have thatched their nest with your hair, and fed their
young ospreys with your flesh.”
“I am truly glad you have had so much forbearance for me,” answered
Christian.
“I have it, in truth and in sincerity,” replied Zarah--“Not for your
benefits to me--such as they were, they were every one interested, and
conferred from the most selfish considerations. I have overpaid them a
thousand times by the devotion to your will, which I have displayed at
the greatest personal risk. But till of late I respected your powers of
mind--your inimitable command of passion--the force of intellect which I
have ever seen you exercise over all others, from the bigot Bridgenorth
to the debauched Buckingham--in that, indeed, I have recognised my
master.”
“And those powers,” said Christian, “are unlimited as ever; and with thy
assistance, thou shalt see the strongest meshes that the laws of civil
society ever wove to limit the natural dignity of man, broke asunder
like a spider’s web.”
She paused and answered, “While a noble motive fired thee--ay, a noble
motive, though irregular--for I was born to gaze on the sun which the
pale daughters of Europe shrink from--I could serve thee--I could
have followed, while revenge or ambition had guided thee--but love of
_wealth_, and by what means acquired!--What sympathy can I hold with
that?--Wouldst thou not have pandered to the lust of the King, though
the object was thine own orphan niece?--You smile?--Smile again when I
ask you whether you meant not my own prostitution, when you charged
me to remain in the house of that wretched Buckingham?--Smile at that
question, and by Heaven, I stab you to the heart!” And she thrust her
hand into her bosom, and partly showed the hilt of a small poniard.
“And if I smile,” said Christian, “it is but in scorn of so odious an
accusation. Girl, I will not tell thee the reason, but there exists
not on earth the living thing over whose safety and honour I would
keep watch as over thine. Buckingham’s wife, indeed, I wished thee; and
through thy own beauty and thy wit, I doubted not to bring the match to
pass.”
“Vain flatterer,” said Zarah, yet seeming soothed even by the flattery
which she scoffed at, “you would persuade me that it was honourable love
which you expected the Duke was to have offered me. How durst you urge
a gross a deception, to which time, place, and circumstance gave the
lie?--How dare you now again mention it, when you well know, that at the
time you mention, the Duchess was still in life?”
“In life, but on her deathbed,” said Christian; “and for time, place,
and circumstance, had your virtue, my Zarah, depended on these, how
couldst thou have been the creature thou art? I knew thee all-sufficient
to bid him defiance--else--for thou art dearer to me than thou
thinkest--I had not risked thee to win the Duke of Buckingham; ay, and
the kingdom of England to boot. So now, wilt thou be ruled and go on
with me?”
Zarah, or Fenella, for our readers must have been long aware of the
identity of these two personages, cast down her eyes, and was silent for
a long time. “Christian,” she said at last, in a solemn voice, “if my
ideas of right and of wrong be wild and incoherent, I owe it, first, to
the wild fever which my native sun communicated to my veins; next, to my
childhood, trained amidst the shifts, tricks, and feats of jugglers and
mountebanks; and then, to a youth of fraud and deception, through
the course thou didst prescribe me, in which I might, indeed, hear
everything, but communicate with no one. The last cause of my wild
errors, if such they are, originates, O Christian, with you alone; by
whose intrigues I was placed with yonder lady, and who taught me, that
to revenge my father’s death, was my first great duty on earth, and
that I was bound by nature to hate and injure her by whom I was fed and
fostered, though as she would have fed and caressed a dog, or any other
mute animal. I also think--for I will deal fairly with you--that you had
not so easily detected your niece, in the child whose surprising agility
was making yonder brutal mountebank’s fortune; nor so readily induced
him to part with his bond-slave, had you not, for your own purposes,
placed me under his charge, and reserved the privilege of claiming me
when you pleased. I could not, under any other tuition, have identified
myself with the personage of a mute, which it has been your desire that
I should perform through life.”
“You do me injustice, Zarah,” said Christian--“I found you capable
of the avenging of your father’s death--I consecrated you to it, as I
consecrated my own life and hopes; and you held the duty sacred, till
these mad feeling towards a youth who loves your cousin----”
“Who--loves--my--cousin,” repeated Zarah (for we will continue to call
her by her real name) slowly, and as if the words dropped unconsciously
from her lips. “Well--be it so!--Man of many wiles, I will follow thy
course for a little, a very little farther; but take heed--tease me not
with remonstrances against the treasure of my secret thoughts--I mean
my most hopeless affection to Julian Peveril--and bring me not as an
assistant to any snare which you may design to cast around him. You and
your Duke shall rue the hour most bitterly, in which you provoke me. You
may suppose you have me in your power; but remember, the snakes of my
burning climate are never so fatal as when you grasp them.”
“I care not for these Peverils,” said Christian--“I care not for their
fate a poor straw, unless where it bears on that of the destined woman,
whose hands are red in your father’s blood. Believe me, I can divide
her fate and theirs. I will explain to you how. And for the Duke, he may
pass among men of the town for wit, and among soldiers for valour, among
courtiers for manners and for form; and why, with his high rank and
immense fortune, you should throw away an opportunity, which, as I could
now improve it----”
“Speak not of it,” said Zarah, “if thou wouldst have our truce--remember
it is no peace--if, I say, thou wouldst have our truce grow to be an
hour old!”
“This, then,” said Christian, with a last effort to work upon the vanity
of this singular being, “is she who pretended such superiority to human
passion, that she could walk indifferently and unmoved through the halls
of the prosperous, and the prison cells of the captive, unknowing and
unknown, sympathising neither with the pleasures of the one, nor the
woes of the other, but advancing with sure, though silent steps, her own
plans, in despite and regardless of either!”
“My own plans!” said Zarah--“_Thy_ plans, Christian--thy plans of
extorting from the surprised prisoners, means whereby to convict
them--thine own plans, formed with those more powerful than thyself, to
sound men’s secrets, and, by using them as a matter of accusation, to
keep up the great delusion of the nation.”
“Such access was indeed given you as my agent,” said Christian, “and for
advancing a great national change. But how did you use it?--to advance
your insane passion.”
“Insane!” said Zarah--“Had he been less than insane whom I addressed, he
and I had ere now been far from the toils which you have pitched for us
both. I had means prepared for everything; and ere this, the shores of
Britain had been lost to our sight for ever.”
“The dwarf, too,” said Christian--“Was it worthy of you to delude that
poor creature with flattering visions--lull him asleep with drugs! Was
_that_ my doing?”
“He was my destined tool,” said Zarah haughtily. “I remembered your
lessons too well not to use him as such. Yet scorn him not too much.
I tell you, that yon very miserable dwarf, whom I made my sport in the
prison--yon wretched abortion of nature, I would select for a husband,
ere I would marry your Buckingham;--the vain and imbecile pigmy has yet
the warm heart and noble feelings, that a man should hold his highest
honour.”
“In God’s name, then, take your own way,” said Christian; “and, for my
sake, let never man hereafter limit a woman in the use of her tongue,
since he must make it amply up to her, in allowing her the privilege of
her own will. Who would have thought it? But the colt has slipped the
bridle, and I must needs follow, since I cannot guide her.”
Our narrative returns to the Court of King Charles at Whitehall.