The years went by again. At last all was changed in England. The
monarchy was restored, and the land was smiling and content. One day
there was a private reading in the Queen’s chamber of the palace. The
voice of the reader moved in pleasant yet vibrant modulations:
“The King was now come to a time when his enemies wickedly began to
plot against him secretly and to oppose him in his purposes; which,
in his own mind, were beneficent and magnanimous. From the shire
where his labours had been most unselfish came the first malignant
insult to his person and the first peril to his life, prefiguring
the hellish plots and violence which drove him to his august
martyrdom--”
The King had entered quietly as the lady-in-waiting read this passage to
the Queen, and, attracted by her voice, continued to listen, signifying
to the Queen, by a gesture, that she and her ladies were not to rise.
This was in the time when Charles was yet devoted to his Princess of
Portugal, and while she was yet happy and undisturbed by rumours--or
assurances--of her Lord’s wandering affections.
“And what shire was that?” asked the King at that point where the
chronicler spoke of his royal father’s “august martyrdom.”
“The shire of Lincoln, your Majesty,” said the young lady who read,
flushing. Then she rose from her footstool at the Queen’s feet, and made
the King an elaborate courtesy.
Charles waved a gentle and playful gesture of dissent from her extreme
formality, and, with a look of admiration, continued:
“My Lord Rippingdale should know somewhat of that ‘first violence’ of
which you have read, Mistress Falkingham. He is of Lincolnshire.”
“He knows all, your Majesty; he was present at that ‘first violence.’”
“It would be amusing for Rippingdale to hear these records--my Lord
Clarendon’s, are they not? Ah--not in the formal copy of his work?
And by order of my Lord Rippingdale? Indeed! And wherefore, my Lord
Rippingdale?”
“Shall I read on, your Majesty?” asked the young lady, with heightened
colour, and a look of adventure and purpose in her eyes. Perhaps, too,
there was a look of anger in them--not against the King, for there was
a sort of eagerness or appealing in the glance she cast towards his
Majesty.
The Queen lifted her eyes to the King half doubtfully, for the question
seemed to her perilous, Charles being little inclined, as a rule, to
listen to serious reading, though he was ever gay in conversation,
and alert for witty badinage. His Majesty, however, seemed more than
complaisant; he was even boyishly eager.
The young lady had been but a short time in the household, having come
over with the Queen from Portugal, where she had been brought to
the notice of the then Princess by her great coolness and bravery in
rescuing a young lady of Lisbon from grave peril. She had told the
Princess then that she was the daughter of an exiled English gentleman,
and was in the care of her aunt, one Mistress Falkingham, while her
father was gone on an expedition to Italy. The Princess, eager to
learn English, engaged her, and she had remained in the palace till the
Princess left for England. A year passed, and then the Queen of England
sent for her, and she had been brought close to the person of her
Majesty.
At a motion from Charles, who sat upon a couch, idly tapping the buckles
on his shoes with a gold-handled staff, the young lady placed herself
again at the Queen’s feet and continued reading:
“It was when the King was come to Boston town upon the business of
the Fens and to confer sundry honours and inquire into the taxes,
and for further purpose of visiting a good subject at Louth, who
knew of the secret plans of Pym and Hampden, that this shameful
violence befel our pious and illustrious prince. With him was my
Lord Rippingdale and--”
“Ah, ah, my Lord Rippingdale!” said Charles, half aloud, “so this is
where my lord and secret history meet--my dear, dumb lord.”
Continuing, the young lady read a fair and just account of the
King’s meeting with John Enderby, of Enderby’s refusal to accept the
knighthood, and of his rescue of the King at Sutterby.
“Enderby? Enderby?” interjected the King, “that was not one Sir Garrett
Enderby who was with the Scottish army at Dunbar?”
“No, your Majesty,” said the young lady, scarcely looking up from the
page she held, “Sir Garrett Enderby died in Portugal, where he fled,
having escaped from prison and Cromwell’s vengeance.”
“What Enderby did this fine thing then? My faith, my martyred father had
staunch men--even in Lincolnshire.”
“The father of Sir Garrett Enderby it was, your Majesty.”
“How came the son by the knighthood? ‘S’death, it seems to me I have a
memory of this thing somewhere, if I could but find it!”
“His gracious Majesty of sacred memory gave him his knighthood.”
“Let me hear the whole story. Is it all there, Mistress Falkingham?”
said the King, nodding towards the pages she held.
“It is not all here, your Majesty; but I can tell what so many in
England know, and something of what no one in England knows.”
The Queen put out her hand as if to stay the telling, for she saw what
an impression her fair reader had made upon the King. But the young lady
saw no one save Charles--she did not note the entrance of two gentle
men, one of whom looked at her in surprise. This was Sir Richard Mowbray
of Leicester. The other was Lord Rippingdale (now lord chamberlain), who
had brought Sir Richard thither at the request of the King. Sir Richard
had been momentarily expected on his return from a mission to Spain, and
my Lord had orders to bring him to the King on the very instant of his
arrival.
The King waved his hand when Lord Rippingdale would have come forward,
and the young lady continued with the history of John Enderby. She
forgot her surroundings. It seemed as though she were giving vent to
the suppressed feelings, imaginations, sufferings and wrongs of years.
Respectfully, but sadly, when speaking of the dead King; eloquently,
tenderly, when speaking of her father; bitterly, when speaking of Oliver
Cromwell, she told the story with a point, a force and a passionate
intelligence, which brought to the face of Charles a look of serious
admiration. He straightened himself where he sat, and did not let his
eyes wander from the young lady’s face. As she spoke of Sir Garrett
Enderby and his acts--his desertion when Lord Rippingdale laid siege
to the house, his quarrel with his father, the trial of the son, the
father’s refusal to testify against him, and the second outlawing
by Cromwell--her voice faltered, but she told the tale bravely and
determinedly; for she now saw Lord Rippingdale in the chamber. Whenever
she had mentioned his name in the narrative, it was with a slight
inflection of scorn, which caused the King to smile; and when she spoke
of the ruin of Enderby House, her brother’s death and her father’s years
of exile, tears came into the Queen’s eyes, and the King nodded his head
in sympathy.
Sir Richard Mowbray, with face aflame, watched her closely. As she
finished her story he drew aside to where she could not see him without
turning round. But Lord Rippingdale she saw with ease, and she met his
eyes firmly, and one should say, with some malicious triumph, were she
not a woman.
“My lord Rippingdale,” said the King, slowly and bitingly, “what shall
be done to the man whom the King delighteth to honour?”
“Were I Mordecai I could better answer that question, Sir,” was my
Lord’s reply.
“Perhaps my Lord Rippingdale could answer for Haman, then,” returned his
Majesty.
“My imagination is good, but not fifty cubits high, Sir.”
The answer pleased the King. For he ever turned life into jest--his
sorrows and his joys. He rose motioning towards the door, and Lord
Rippingdale passed out just behind him, followed by Sir Richard Mowbray,
who stole a glance at the young chronicler as he went. She saw him, then
recognised him, and flushed scarlet.
She did not dare, however, to let him come to her. He understood, and he
went his way after the King and Lord Rippingdale.
In all the years that had passed since the night he had helped her
father and herself to escape from Enderby House; since he aided them
to leave their hiding-place on the coast and escape to Holland, she had
never forgotten his last words to her, the laughing look of his eyes,
the pressure of his hand. Many a time since she had in her own mind
thought of him as she had heard her father call him, even as “Happy Dick
Mowbray!” and the remembrance of his joyous face had been a help to her
in all her sufferings. His brown hair was now streaked with grey, but
the light in the face was the same; there was the same alertness and
buoyant health in the figure and the same row of laughing white teeth.
As she stood watching the departing figure, she scarcely knew that the
Queen was preparing to go to her bed-chamber. She became aware of it
definitely by the voice of her Majesty, now somewhat petulant.
Two hours later she was walking alone in one of the galleries when,
hearing a gentle step behind her, she turned and saw the King. She made
an obeisance and was about to move on, when he stopped her, speaking
kindly to her, and thanking her for the great pleasure she had given him
that afternoon.
“What should be done for this quasi knight of Enderby?” asked the King.
“He saved the life of the King,” she said; then boldly, confidently,
“your Majesty, for conscience sake he lost all--what can repay him for
his dishonoured years and his ruined home!”
“What think you, Mistress, should be done with him? Speak freely of the
man whom the King delighteth to honour.”
She felt the sincerity under the indolent courtesy, and spoke as only a
woman can speak for those she loves. “Your Majesty, he should have the
earldom promised his ancestor by Wolsey, and his estates restored to him
as he left them.”
The King laughed dryly.
“He might refuse the large earldom, as he scorned the little
knighthood.”
“If your Majesty secured him estates suitable to his rank he could have
no reason to refuse. He was solicitous and firm then for his son--but
now!”
Her reply was as diplomatic and suggestive as it was sincere, and
Charles loved such talents.
“Upon my soul, dear Mistress Falkingham, I love your cleverness,” said
the King, “and I will go further, I--” He stooped and whispered in her
ear, but she drew back in affright and anxiety.
“Oh, your Majesty, your Majesty,” she said, “I had not thought--”
She moved on distractedly, but he put out his hand and stayed her.
“Ah, a moment, sweetheart,” he urged.
“I must go to the Queen,” she answered hurriedly. “Oh, your Majesty,
your Majesty,” she repeated, “would you ruin me?” Her eyes filled with
tears. “Until the Queen welcomed me here I have had nothing but sorrow.
I am friendless and alone.”
“No, no,” said Charles, kindly, “not alone while Charles is King in
England.”
“I am little more than an orphan here,” she said, “for my father is now
only a common soldier, your Majesty, and--”
“A common soldier!” repeated Charles a little stiffly; “they told me he
was a gentleman of England doing service in Italy.”
“My father is in your Majesty’s household guard,” she answered. “He was
John Enderby--alas! none would recognise him now as such.”
The King stared at her a moment. “You--you--Mistress--you are John
Enderby’s daughter?”
Her reply was scarce above a whisper. “His only child, Sir.”
“Upon my soul! Upon my soul!” was all Charles said for a moment, and
then he added: “Why did you not speak before?”
“My father would not permit me, your Majesty. He is only returned to
England these few months.”
“He is here to--?”
“To be near to myself, Sir.”
The King bowed low over her hand.
“Mistress Enderby,” said he, frankly, “we are honoured by your presence
in this place. To-morrow morning at eleven your father shall come to us.
You are still but a child in face,” he said; “and yet--eh?”
“I am twenty-seven years old,” she answered frankly.
“Quite old enough to be a countess,” he said charmingly, “and young
enough to enjoy the honours thereof.” So saying he bowed again, and with
a gracious smile dismissed her. She went so quickly that she did not see
two gentlemen almost at her elbow as she left the gallery. One of them
was Lord Rippingdale.
“Ha,” said my lord, with a wicked smile, “a new violet in the King’s
garden!”
His companion turned on him swiftly.
“My lord,” said he, “this is the second time to-day you have slandered
this lady.”
The other lifted his eyebrows.
“Is it a slander to say that the King finds a lady charming at any hour
o’ the clock?” he rejoined.
Sir Richard slapped him across the cheek with his glove.
“I take a pleasant duty from John Enderby’s shoulders, my lord. I will
meet you at your pleasure.”
The next morning at sunrise Lord Rippingdale declared with his last
breath that he did not know the lady was John Enderby’s daughter, and he
begged Sir Richard to carry to Enderby his regret for all past wrongs.
Sir Richard came in upon the King at the moment that his Majesty was
receiving John Enderby--a whiteheaded old man, yet hale and strong, and
wearing the uniform of the King’s Guard. The fire of Enderby’s eye was
not quenched. The King advanced towards him, and said:
“You are welcome to our Court, Squire Enderby. You have been absent too
long. You will honour us by accepting a tardy justice--without a price,”
he added, in a low tone.
“Your Majesty,” said Enderby, “for me justice comes too late, but for my
child--”
“An earldom can never come too late--eh?” asked the King, smiling gaily.
“For me, your Majesty, all comes too late except--” his voice shook a
little--“except the house where I was born.”
Charles looked at him gravely.
“Upon my soul, Enderby,” said he, “you are a man to be envied. We will
not rob you of your good revenge on our house or of your independence.
But still we must have our way. Your daughter,”--he turned lightly
towards Felicity,--“if she will not refuse me, and she cannot upon the
ground that you refused my father--she shall be Countess of Enderby in
her own right; with estates in keeping.”
Womanlike, Mistress Felicity had no logical argument against an honour
so munificently ordained. “And now for your estates--who holds them?”
asked the King.
“Lord Rippingdale, your Majesty,” answered Enderby.
“Yes, yes, my lord Haman! We have already sent for him. It is long past
the time.” His brow darkened.
Sir Richard Mowbray stepped forward and said: “Your Majesty, Lord
Rippingdale is beyond obedience or reparation;” and then he gave the
message of the dead man to John Enderby.
A month later Mowbray was permitted to return to Court, and with him
came John Enderby and the Countess of Enderby. When Charles was told
how matters had gone between the younger two, he gave vent to a mock
indignation; and in consequence he made Sir Richard Mowbray an earl
also, that, as he said, they might both be at the same nearness to him;
for etiquette was tyrannical, and yet he did not know which of them he
loved better!
As for the man so long dishonoured, Charles swore that since John
Enderby came not to the King at Court, the King would go to him at
Enderby. And go he did in good temper and in great friendship for many a
year.