The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “You ought to have invited him to your ball,” said Louise.

  “Most likely he is here now,” observed the king.

  Nothing else was talked of during the remainder of the evening; and the Duke of Buckingham improvised a few more couplets to his ballad, in which he had the impertinence to affirm that all the court dames were dying to dance with the gallant robber, Claude Duval.

  For the three following days, the court was deprived of the agreeable society of the Count de Bellegarde, who, as we have mentioned, was called upon to attend the Duchess of Orleans to Dover.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  KNOLE

  Meanwhile, the king had accepted an invitation from the Earl of Dorset, father of Lord Buckhurst, to pass a few days at his residence, Knole. All the principal personages in the court were included in the invitation. Preparations were made by the earl and his son on a magnificent scale for the reception of their numerous guests.

  It was a delicious morning in June. The sweet-toned bells of Sevenoaks Church were ringing merry peals. The inhabitants of the pleasant little town, in their holiday attire, were all out of doors, and ranged along the street to see the king and his court pass by.

  And a brave sight it was — braver than the oldest of the spectators had ever witnessed, though that time-honored individual had seen bonnie King James ride through the village to Knole House.

  “But there were no such lovely women in King Jamie’s days as now,” he said. “It was a pleasure to gaze at them. How bewitching they looked in their velvet riding-dresses and little plumed hats. How good-humored his majesty appeared. How he nodded to the men, and smiled at the lasses, and even went so far as to compliment some of them. Heaven bless his royal heart!

  “Who could that be, who was riding beside his majesty? Not the queen. No, she was too young and too sprightly. It must be the French beauty, of whom he had heard speak. She might be charming, but she was not half so much to his taste as the fair-haired, blue-eyed nymph who rode behind. Ah! there was a complexion — there was a winning smile!” Need we say that these encomiums were bestowed on Dorinda?

  Charles and his attendants having ridden by, amid the acclamations of the beholders, a long line of richly-gilt carriages followed, each drawn by four horses. In the foremost sat the queen, with three of her ladies; but though her majesty was regarded with much curiosity, she was not half so vociferously cheered as her consort. Charles was extraordinarily popular with all classes of his subjects, except the Puritans, of whom there were none in the loyal town of Sevenoaks.

  Porters and mounted attendants were stationed at the gates to keep out the crowd; but as soon as the royal cortege had passed through, the townsfolk were allowed to enter the park, where they conducted themselves most decorously.

  Between the gates and the mansion lies a deep dell, the slopes of which are covered by splendid beech-trees; and it was while ascending this acclivity, and shaping its course through the grove, that the procession was seen to the greatest advantage. Nothing could be prettier or more picturesque than the sight of that troop of glittering gallants and fair dames.

  From the moment of her entrance into the park, Louise had been in ecstasies with the scene presented to her. Never before had she beheld trees of such enormous size — not even at Fontainebleau. And when at last the gray old monasticlooking pile, with its innumerable gables, its square transom windows, and great gate-house, burst upon her, she was lost in admiration. The immense sycamore in front of the gate-house charmed her as much as the same tree charmed Horace Walpole at a later period.

  On the summit of the lofty embattled gate-house floated a broad banner, embroidered with the royal arms. Smaller flags were hung out from the windows, and as the royal cortége approached, flourishes of trumpets were blown by a band of trumpeters stationed near the archway, while small pieces of ordnance were discharged from the embattled towers, making the woods resound with their roar, and startling the deer in their coverts.

  Amid this joyous bruit the king alighted, and was received by the Earl of Dorset and his son, who were stationed in the outer court. But no one entered the mansion until the arrival of the queen, and by that time the inner quadrangle was almost filled. Never had such a brilliant company been assembled within that court before — not even in the days of good Queen Bess or King Jamie. The old walls resounded with light talk and laughter.

  At last the queen’s carriage came up, and while the Earl of Dorset was bending before her majesty, assisting her to alight, and ceremoniously conducting her into the house, Lord Buckhurst, like a true courtier, was paying assiduous attentions to Mademoiselle de Quéroualle, and telling her how much enchanted and honored he felt by her visit to Knole.

  Ere long, the courts were emptied, and the brilliant company was wandering about those long corridors and galleries that form the charm of the ancient mansion.

  Almost immediately after the arrival of the royal party, a splendid collation was served in the great banqueting-hall, and after partaking of it, the king, who was in high good humor, repaired to the bowling-green, where he remained at play with the Duke of Buckingham, Lord Buckhurst, Sedley, Etherege, and several others, during the whole of that summer afternoon.

  That bowling-green, with the gay groups upon it, and the antique mansion near it, formed a lovely picture. What jests were uttered by the merry crew! Etiquette was banished for the time. The king was merely a boon companion.

  Some of the dames and gallants remained within the gardens, where plenty of delights were to be found, but others strayed forth into the park and sat down beneath the trees. Amongst the latter were Talbot and Dorinda. The young man had recovered the use of his arm, though his wound was not quite healed. He had not yet obtained Dorinda’s entire forgiveness for the unlucky jest he had practised upon her; but his penitence being sincere, there seemed little doubt of his speedy restoration to favor. Indeed, it may be fairly assumed that she would not have strolled forth with him into the park if her displeasure had been very great.

  “Am I forgiven?” he asked, as they sat down on the roots of an enormous oak.

  “Not yet,” she replied. “Unless you are severely punished, you may repeat the offence.”

  “Will no expression of regret satisfy you?”

  “No; I still feel very angry. Sir Charles Sedley has made me the subject of some satirical verses. But I will not have you quarrel with him on that account. You made me ridiculous enough by your duel with Bellegarde. Do you know that I begin to like the count, and find him very amusing. I am quite sorry he is not here now. I hope we shall soon have him back.”

  “I shall be obliged to fight another duel with him if you praise him so much.”

  “Then you will forever forfeit my regard. Apropos of the count, I have been longing to ask you a few questions about that lovely country damsel, whose portrait Sir Peter Lely ought to have painted.”

  “The only information I can give you respecting her is that she has disappeared altogether.”

  “You had seen her before that morning?”

  “Certainly; at her father’s house. His majesty was there at the time.”

  “The Count de Bellegarde seemed to be acquainted with her. I noticed a look that passed between them. I cannot divest myself of the idea that she is something better than a farmer’s daughter. Surely, you must have remarked the refinement of her manner? Have you ever spoken to the count about her?”

  “I feel no interest in her, and am surprised you should take so much.”

  “If you wish to oblige me — if you desire to regain my favor — you will find out who she is.”

  “There is really no mystery in the matter,” rejoined Talbot. “You have endowed her with gifts she does not possess. Believe me, she is not a princess in disguise.”

  “She is not a peasant — of that I am certain. Ah, what do I see? Look at those two persons coming towards us.”

  Talbot sprang to his feet.

  “One of them is Farmer Oldacre
, undoubtedly,” he exclaimed; “and the other must be his daughter.”

  ““she!” cried Dorinda, rising in her turn.

  We have said that a great number of the townspeople of Sevenoaks had been admitted to the park. They were now scattered about in groups under the trees, and some of the more curious amongst them had ventured to approach the house, in order to stare at the great folks in the gardens and on the bowling-green.

  There was nothing very surprising, therefore, in the appearance of Oldacre and his daughter. They were marching along rather quickly, and it was evident that their course would bring them near the tree beneath which the youthful pair had been sitting.

  But when the farmer recognized Talbot, he stopped, and seemed about to turn back. But his daughter detained him, as she saw Dorinda tripping towards her.

  “I am so glad to see you again,” cried the latter, as she came up. “Perhaps you have forgotten me?”

  “Oh, no! I have not,” replied Violet, smiling. “I could not easily forget Miss Neville.”

  “I have just been speaking of you to Mr. Talbot Harland,” said Dorinda. “Do not suppose that I am influenced by any idle curiosity if I inquire whether you are staying in Sevenoaks?”

  Oldacre plucked his daughter’s sleeve, to prevent her from answering.

  “You need have no concealment from me,” observed Dorinda, noticing the gesture.

  “I am sure not,” replied the other, disregarding her father’s looks. “I have been here for a few days.”

  “But she won’t remain here many hours longer,” remarked Oldacre, gruffly.

  “Wherefore not?” cried Dorinda. “I have just said that she has nothing to fear from me.”

  “Or from me,” added Talbot, who had now come up. “But if your object is concealment,” he observed to Violet, “is it prudent to walk abroad thus? Others may see you, and mention the circumstance. It happens that his majesty is on the bowling-green; but he might have been in the park.”

  “You hear what he says, Violet,” remarked Oldacre.

  “I thank you for your good counsel,” he added, to the young man.

  “Stay; I have something more to say to you,” cried Dorinda, taking Violet aside.

  As soon as they were out of hearing, she continued, “If you remain here, as I think you will, I hope you will find some means of communicating with me. I will not ask you to come to the house; but here, in the park, we might meet.”

  “As you appear to take an interest in me, I will trust you with a secret. After what my father has just said, it will surprise you to learn that I shall be at the revel to-night.”

  “Pray do nothing so rash,” cried Dorinda. “You are certain to be discovered.”

  “Have no fear for me,” rejoined the other. “I have friends in the house. There is to be a character dance, and I shall figure in it. My disguise will protect me, and I know I can confide in you. Perhaps I may find an opportunity of speaking to you then. But I must now go. Adieu. My father is growing impatient. Besides, two court ladies are coming this way. To-night!”

  “To-night!” echoed Dorinda. “Rely on me.”

  Violet then rejoined her father, who had kept sullenly aloof from Talbot. Scarcely troubling himself to salute Dorinda, the cross-grained farmer hurried his daughter away in the direction of the park gates.

  It was time he was gone; for the two court dames alluded to by Violet, proved to be the Duchess of Cleveland and Lady Muskerry.

  CHAPTER XIX

  THE SPANISH DANCER

  A loud blowing of horns, that roused all the echoes of the ancient mansion, summoned the guests to a magnificent banquet, which was served in the great hall. Minstrels, placed in the music-gallery, enlivened the company with their strains.

  With its richly-carved screen; its long tables, covered with massive plate and glittering crystal; its dais, at which sat their majesties and the most important of the guests; with the crowd of attendants, in gorgeous liveries, ministering to the wants of the dames and gallants seated at the board, — the banqueting-hall presented a splendid sight.

  The male portion of the guests sat long at table, and continued their carouse till it was almost time for the evening revelry to commence.

  The company re-assembled in the Brown Gallery, which, from its great length, was admirably adapted for a country-dance. Here they danced the brawl, and the cushion-dance, and a jig, and we know not how many merry dances besides; and the gallants being excited by the wine they had quaffed, footed it with unusual animation.

  Somewhat fatigued by his exertions, the king sat down with Louise, when the major-domo approached, and informed him that a Spanish dance was about to be performed.

  Charles expressed his satisfaction, and a space was immediately cleared in front of his majesty for the dancers.

  The queen was in a large room opening out of the gallery, with the Earl of Dorset and the graver portion of the courtiers in attendance upon her. Lord Buckhurst devoted himself to Mademoiselle de Quéroualle.

  Presently, the inspiriting rattle of castanets was heard, and three dancers in Spanish costume broke through the circle formed in front of the king, and made a reverence to his majesty. Two of them were handsome young men, of slight and graceful figure: but it was evident that their dark hue was the result of art.

  All eyes, however, were fixed upon the donzella by whom they were accompanied. Her picturesque dress suited her admirably, and her short basquina displayed her finely turned limbs and small feet to perfection. Her features were concealed by an envious mask, but her throat was exquisitely moulded, and her tresses black as jet.

  With what wonderful spirit she danced the bolero! How rapid were her movements! how charming her postures! With what captivating coquetry she managed her fan! Charles was enraptured.

  The fandango followed; and this vivacious and characteristic dance was better calculated than the first to call forth all the remarkable graces of her figure. Irrepressible murmurs of delight burst from the admiring assemblage.

  Sir Peter Lely, who was standing behind the king’s chair, asked his majesty if he had ever seen her before.

  “Never!” cried Charles, rapturously. “But I hope to see her often again. She is charming.”

  “Look at her closely, sire,” said Sir Peter. “lam very much mistaken if it is not—”

  Here a glance from Louise checked him.

  The king’s curiosity was aroused.

  “Who is she?” he said, to Lord Buckhurst.

  “She was engaged by my major-domo; that is all I know about her, sire,” was the reply.

  “A ballet-dancer, no doubt,” observed Louise, contemptuously.

  “We’ll have a glimpse of her face anon,” said Charles.

  “Sorry to disappoint your majesty,” replied Lord Buckhurst. “But she expressly stipulated that she should not be obliged to unmask.”

  “Oddsfish! that’s strange,” exclaimed the king.

  In another moment the fandango ended, and amidst the plaudits of the assemblage, the dancers advanced to make their reverences to the king.

  In spite of what had been said to him, Charles was on the point of bidding the donzella unmask, when Lady Muskerry stepped forward, and volunteered to dance the saraband with one of the Spaniards.

  The absurd request could not be refused; and the donzella took advantage of her ladyship’s interposition to retire.

  As she passed the spot where Dorinda was standing, she inadvertently touched her while agitating her fan, and then apologized for her carelessness.

  Dorinda smiled.

  “I wish you would give me your fan in exchange for mine,” she said.

  “De buena gana, senorita,” replied the Spanish damsel, complying.

  And with a graceful curtsey, she went on.

  The king was forced to witness Lady Muskerry’s performance, which appeared doubly absurd from its contrast with the charming dances that had preceded it. However, her ladyship swallowed all the ironical complime
nts paid her by his majesty.

  Nothing more was seen of the fascinating Spanish dancer. She could not be prevailed upon to appear again — so the major-domo declared.

  CHAPTER XX

  A MYSTERIOUS NOCTURNAL VISITOR

  After supper, the queen retired; but it was not until a later hour that Charles was conducted to his chamber by his noble host. Thanking the earl for his hospitality, the king graciously dismissed him, and placed himself in the hands of Chiffinch.

  The bed-chamber assigned to his majesty had been fitted up for his grandsire, James the First. The superb state bed, with its hangings of gold and silver tissue, its fringed borders of the same material, and splendidly decorated canopy, surmounted with great plumes, cost an incredible sum. The walls were hung with priceless tapestry, representing the story of Nebuchadnezzar.

  On the silver toilet-table was a magnificent Venetian mirror, with an appropriate service in silver. A velvet table, richly embroidered with gold, a few high-backed chairs, and a large arm-chair, placed near the bed, completed the furniture of the room.

  While Chiffinch was disrobing the king, he informed his majesty that the room was said to be haunted by the ghost of the first monarch who had slept within it. Charles laughed, and said he didn’t think his grandsire would trouble his repose.

  A couch had been prepared for Chiffinch in the ante-chamber, and when he retired, the king bade him close the door of communication between the rooms.

  Charles soon fell fast asleep, but was awakened by an oppressive sensation, like that caused by nightmare.

  On opening his eyes, he became aware of a dark figure seated in the arm-chair, and looking towards the bed.

  The figure was perfectly motionless, and its presence at first inspired the king with superstitious terror; but he soon became aware that a living being was beside him.

  A light set upon a stand near the bed, and placed behind the mysterious intruder, threw his countenance into shade, and his features were further concealed by a flowing black peruke; but the king remarked that he was broad-shouldered and strongly built.