Sir John drew himself to his full height, and looked along the table, his gloomy eyes threatening. “And yet that fable I can prove, sir,” he said. “That I can substantiate, sir. To that I have a witness, and a witness above suspicion! If I prove that, sir, shall I have your Majesty’s favour?”
“Perfectly,” said the King, shrugging his shoulders, amid a general thrill and movement; for though rumours had gone abroad, by no means the whole of Sir John’s case was known, even to some at the table. “Prove it! Prove that, sir, and not a hair of your head shall fall. You have my promise.”
However, before Sir John could answer, Mr. Secretary Trumball rose in his place and intervened. “I crave your indulgence, sir,” he said, “while, with your Majesty’s permission, I call in the Duke of Shrewsbury, who is in waiting.”
“In waiting,” said the King, in a voice of surprise; nor was the surprise confined to him. “I thought that he was ill, Mr. Secretary.”
“He is so ill, sir, as to be very unfit to be abroad,” the Secretary answered. “Yet he came to be in readiness, if your Majesty needed him. Sir John Fenwick persisting, I ask your Majesty’s indulgence while I fetch him.”
The King nodded, but with a pinched and dissatisfied face; and Sir William retiring, in a moment returned with the Duke. At his entrance. His Majesty greeted him dryly, and with a hint of displeasure in his manner; thinking probably that this savoured too much of a coup de theater, a thing he hated. But seeing the next instant, and before the Secretary took his seat, how ill the Duke looked, his face betrayed signs of disturbance; after which, his eyelids drooping, it fell into the dull and Sphinx-like mould which it assumed when he did not wish his thoughts to be read by those about him.
That the Duke’s pallor and wretched appearance gave rise to suspicion in other minds is equally certain; the more hardy of those present, such as my Lord Marlborough and the Admiral, being aware that nothing short of guilt, and the immediate prospect of detection, could so change themselves. And while some felt a kind of admiration, as they conned and measured the stupendous edifice of skilful deceit, which my lord had so long and perfectly concealed behind a front of brass, as to take in all the world, others were already busied with the effect it would have on the party, and how this might be softened, and that explained, and in a word another man substituted with as little shock as possible for this man. Nor were these emotions at all weakened when my lord, after saluting the King, took his seat, without speaking or meeting the general gaze.
“Now, sir,” said the King impatiently, when all was quiet again, “the Duke is here. Proceed.”
“I will,” Sir John answered with greater hardiness than he had yet used, “I have simply to repeat to his face what I have said behind his back: that on the 10th of last June, in the evening, he met me at Ashford, in Kent, and gave me a ring and a message, bidding me carry both with me to St. Germain’s.”
My lord looked slowly round the table; then at Sir John. And it startled some to see that he had compassion in his face.
“Sir John,” he said — after, as it seemed, weighing the words he was about to speak, “you are in such a position, it were barbarous to insult you. But you must needs, as you have accused me before His Majesty and these gentlemen, hear me state, also before them, that there is not a word of truth in what you say.”
Sir John stared at him and breathed hard. “Mon dieu!” he exclaimed at length. And his voice sounded sincere.
“I was not at Ashford on the 10th of June,” the Duke continued with dignity, “or on any day in that month. I never saw you there, and I gave you no ring.”
“Mon Dieu!” Sir John muttered again; and, his gaze fallen, he seemed to be unable to take his eyes off the other.
Now it is certain that whatever the majority of those present thought of this — and the demeanour of the two men was so steadfast that even Lord Marlborough’s acumen was at fault — the King’s main anxiety was to be rid of the matter, and with some impatience he tried to put a stop to it at this point. “Is it worth while to carry this farther, my lords?” he said, fretfully. “We know our friends. We know our enemies also. This is a story pour rire, and deserving only of contempt.”
But Sir John at that cried out, protesting bitterly and fiercely, and recalling the King’s promise, and the Duke being no less urgent — though as some thought a little unseasonably for his own interests — that the matter be sifted to the bottom, the King had no option but to let it go on. “Very well,” he said ungraciously, “if he will have his witness let him.” And then, with one of those spirits of peevishness, which stood in strange contrast with his wonted magnanimity, he added, to the Duke of Shrewsbury, “It is your own choice, my lord. Don’t blame me.”
The querulous words bore a meaning which all recognised; and some at the table started, and resumed the calculation how they should trim their sails in a certain event. But nothing ever became the Duke better than the manner in which he received that insinuation. “Be it so, sir,” he said with spirit, “My choice and desire is that Sir John have as full a share of justice as I claim for myself, and as fair a hearing. Less than that were inconsistent with your Majesty’s prerogative, and my honour.”
The King’s only answer was a sulky and careless nod. On which Sir William Trumball, after whispering to the prisoner, went out, and after a brief delay, which seemed to many at the table long enough, returned with Matthew Smith.
CHAPTER XLV
That the villain expected nothing so little as to see the man he was preparing to ruin, I can well believe; and equally that the ordeal, sudden and unforeseen, tried even his iron composure. I have heard that after glancing once at the Duke he averted his eyes; and thenceforth looked and addressed himself entirely to the end of the table where the King stood. But, this apart, it could not be denied that he played his part to a marvel. Known to more than one as a ruffling blade about town, who had grown sober but not less dangerous with age and the change of times, he had still saved some rags and tatters of a gentleman’s reputation; and he dressed himself accordingly, insomuch that, as he stood beside Sir John, his stern set face, and steadfast bearing, made an impression not unfavourable at the set out.
Nor when bidden by the King to speak and say what he knew, did he fall below the expectations which his appearance had created, though this was probably due in some measure to my lord’s self-control, who neither by word nor sign betrayed the astonishment he felt, when a man to whom for years past he had only spoken casually, and once in six months as it were, proceeded to recount with the utmost fullness and particularity every detail of the journey, which, as he said, they two had taken together to Ashford. At what time they started, where they lay, by what road they travelled — at all Smith was pat. Nor did he stop there; but went on to relate with the same ease and exactness the heads of talk that had passed between Sir John and his companion at the inn.
Nor was it possible that a story so told, with minutiæ, with date, and place, and circumstances, should fall on ears totally deaf. The men who listened were statesmen, versed in deceptions and acquainted with affairs — men who knew Gates and had heard Dangerfield; yet, as they listened, they shut their eyes and reopened them, to assure themselves that this was not a dream! Before his appearance, even Lord Portland, whose distrust of English loyalty was notorious, had been inclined to ridicule Sir John’s story as a desperate card played for life; and this, even in teeth of my lord’s disorder, so incredible did it appear that one of the King’s principal Ministers should stoop to a thing so foolish. Now, it was a sign pregnant of meaning that no one looked at his neighbour, but all gazed either at the witness or at the table before them. And some who knew my lord best, and had the most affection for him, felt the air heavy, and the stillness of the room oppressive.
Suddenly the current of the story was broken by the King’s harsh accent, “What was the date?” he asked, “on which you reached Ashford?”
“The 10th of June, sir.”
“Where was the Duke on that day?” William continued; and he turned to the Lord Steward. His tone and question, implying the most perfect contempt for the tale to which he was listening, to an extent broke the spell; and had the reply been satisfactory all would have been over. But the Duke of Devonshire, turning to my lord for the answer, got only that he lay those two nights at his mother’s, in the suburbs; and thereon a blank look fell on more than one face. The King, indeed, sniffed and muttered, “Then twenty witnesses can confute this!” as if the answer satisfied, and was all he had expected; but that others were at gaze, and in doubt, was as noticeable, as that those who looked most solemn and thoughtful, were the three who had themselves stood in danger that day.
At a nod from the King, Smith resumed his tale; but in a moment he was pulled up short by Lord Dorset, who requested His Majesty’s leave to put a question. Having got permission, “How do you say that the Duke — came to take you with him?” the Marquis asked sharply.
“To take me, my lord?”
“Yes.”
“Must I answer that question?”
“Yes,” said Lord Dorset, with grave dignity.
“Well, simply because I had been the medium of communication between his Grace and Sir John,” Smith answered, dryly. “Even as on former occasions I had acted as agent between his Grace and Lord Middleton.”
My lord started violently and half rose.
Then, as he fell back into his seat, “That, sir, is the first word of truth this person has spoken,” he said, with dignity. “It is a fact that in the year ‘92 he twice brought me a note from Lord Middleton and arranged a meeting between us.”
“Precisely,” Smith answered with effrontery, “as I arranged this meeting.”
On that for the first time my lord’s self-control abandoned him. He started to his feet. “You lie!” he cried, vehemently. “You lie in your teeth, you scoundrel! Sir — pardon me, but this is — this is too much! I cannot sit by and hear it!”
By a gesture not lacking in kindness, the King bade him resume his seat. Then, “Peste!” he said, taking snuff with a droll expression of chagrin. “Will anyone else ask a question. My Lord Dorset has not been fortunate. As the Advocatus Diaboli, perhaps, he may one day shine.”
“If your Majesty pleases,” Lord Marlborough said, “I will ask one. But I will put it to Sir John, and he can answer it or not as he likes. How did you know. Sir John, that it was the Duke of Shrewsbury who met you at Ashford, and conferred with you there?”
“I knew the Duke,” Sir John answered clearly. “I had seen him often, and spoken with him occasionally.”
“How often had you spoken to him before this meeting?”
“Possibly on a dozen occasions.”
“You had not had any long conversation with him?”
“No; but I could not be mistaken. I know him,” Sir John added, with a flash of bitter meaning, “as well as I know you, Lord Marlborough!”
“He gave his title?”
“No, he did not,” Sir John answered. “He gave the name of Colonel Talbot.”
Someone at the table — it was Lord Portland — drew his breath sharply through his teeth; nor could the impression made by a statement that at first blush seemed harmless, and even favourable to the Duke, be ignored or mistaken. Three out of four who sat there were aware that my lord had used that name in his wild and boyish days, when he would be incognito; and, moreover, the use of even that flimsy disguise cast a sort of decent probability over a story, which at its barest seemed credible. For the first time the balance of credit and probability swung against my lord; a fact subtly indicated by the silence which followed the statement and lasted a brief while; no one at the table speaking or volunteering a farther question. For the time Matthew Smith was forgotten — or the gleam of insolent triumph in his eye might have said somewhat. For the time Sir John took a lower seat. Men’s minds were busy with the Duke, and the Duke only; busy with what the result would be to him, and to the party, were this proved; while most, perceiving dully and by instinct that they touched upon a great tragedy, shrank from the dénouement.
At last, in the silence, the Duke rose; and swaying blindly on his feet, caught at the table to steady himself. For two nights he had not slept.
“Duke,” said the King suddenly, “you had better speak sitting.”
The words were meant in kindness, but they indicated a subtle change of attitude — they indicated that even the King now felt the need of explanation and a defence; and my lord, seeing this, and acknowledging the invitation to be seated only by a slight reverence, continued to stand, though the effort made his weakness evident. Yet when he had cleared his throat and spoke, his voice had the old ring of authority — with a touch of pathos added, as of a dying King from whose hand the sceptre was passing.
“Sir,” he said, “the sins of Colonel Talbot were not few. But this, to which this fellow speaks, is not of the number. Nor have you, or my lords, to do with them. Doubtless, with my fellows, I shall have to give an account of them one day. But as to the present, and the Duke of Shrewsbury — with whom alone you have to deal — I will make a plain tale. This man has said that in ‘93 he was a go-between, for me and Lord Middleton. It is true; as you, sir, know, and my lords if they know it not already, must now know, to my shame. For the fact, Lord Middleton and I were relations, we met more than once at that time, we supped together before he went to France. I promised on my part to take care of his interests here, he in return offered to do me good offices there. As to the latter I told him I had offended too deeply to be forgiven; yet tacitly I left him to make my peace with the late King if he could. It was a folly and a poltroonery,” the Duke continued, holding out his hands with a pathetic gesture. “It was, my lords, to take a lower place than the meanest Nonjuror who honourably gives up his cure. I see that, my lords; and have known it, and it has weighed on me for years. And now I pay for it. But for this” — and with the word my lord’s voice grew full and round and he stood erect, one hand among the lace of his steinkirk tie and his eyes turned steadfastly on his accuser— “for this which that man, presuming on an old fault and using his knowledge of it, would foist on me, I know nothing of it! I know nothing of it. It is some base and damnable practice. At this moment and here I cannot refute it; but at the proper time and in another place I shall refute it. And now and here I say that as to it, I am not guilty — on my honour!”
As the last word rang through the room he sat down, looking round him with a kind of vague defiance. There was a silence, broken presently by the Lord Steward, who rose, his voice and manner betraying no little emotion. “His Grace is right, sir, I think,” he said. “I believe with him that this is some evil practice; but it is plain that it has gone so far that it cannot stop here. I would suggest therefore that if your Majesty sees fit — —”
A knock at the door interrupted him, and he turned that way impatiently, and paused. The King, too, glanced round with a gesture of annoyance. “See what it is,” he said.
Sir William Trumball rose and went; and after a brief conference, during which the lords at the table continued to cast impatient glances towards the door, he returned. “If it please you, sir,” he said, “a witness desires to be heard.” And with that his face expressed so much surprise that the King stared at him in wonder.
“A witness?” said the King, and pished and fidgeted in his chair. Then, “This is not a Court of Justice,” he continued, peevishly. “We shall have all the world here presently. But — well, let him in.”
Sir William obeyed, and went and returned under the eyes of the Council; nor will the reader who has perused with attention the earlier part of this history be greatly surprised to hear that when he returned, I, Richard Price, was with him.
I am not going to dwell on the misery through which I had gone in anticipation of that appearance; the fears which I had been forced to combat, or the night watches, through which I had lain, sweating and awake. Suffice it that I stood there at l
ast, seeing in a kind of maze the sober lights and dark rich colours of the room, and the faces at the table all turned towards me; and stood there, not in the humble guise befitting my station, but in velvet and ruffles, sword and peruke, the very double, as the mirror before which I had dressed had assured me, of my noble patron. This, at Mr. Vernon’s suggestion and by his contrivance.
... I STOOD THERE AT LAST ... THE FACES AT THE TABLE ALL TURNED TOWARDS ME....
While I had lived in my lord’s house, and moved to and fro soberly garbed, in a big wig or my own hair, the likeness had been no more than ground for a nudge and a joke among the servants. Now, dressed once more, as Smith had dressed me, in a suit of the Duke’s clothes, and one of his perukes, and trimmed and combed by one who knew him, the resemblance I presented was so remarkable that none of the lords at the table could be blind to it. One or two, in sheer wonder, exclaimed on it; while Sir John, who, poor gentleman, was more concerned than any, fairly gasped with dismay.
It was left to the Duke of Devonshire to break the spell. “What is this? Who is this?” he said, in the utmost astonishment. “What does it mean?”
The King, who had noted on an occasion that very likeness, which all now saw, and was the first to read the riddle, laughed dryly. “Two very common things, my lord,” he said, “a rogue and a fool. Speak, man,” he continued, addressing me. “You were in the Duke’s household awhile ago? n’est-ce pas ça? I saw you here?”
“Yes, your Majesty,” I said, hardly keeping my fears within bounds.
“And you have been playing his part, I suppose? Eh? At — how do you call the place — Ashford?”
“Yes, your Majesty — under compulsion,” I said, trembling.
“Ay! Compulsion of that good gentleman at the foot of the table, I suppose?”
The words of assent were on my lips, when a cry, and an exceeding bitter cry, stayed their utterance. It came from Sir John. Dumbfounded for a time, between astonishment and suspicion, between wonder what this travesty was and wonder why it was assumed, he had at length discerned its full scope and meaning, and where it touched him. With a cry of rage he threw up his hands in protest against the fraud; then in a flash he turned on the villain by his side. “You d —— d scoundrel!” he cried. “You have destroyed me! You have murdered me!”
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 292
