 | CHAPTER II. Ingleborough Hall, and Lord of the manor |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
It often happens that, in places far removed
each from the other, events are occurring
to different individuals, almost at
the same moment, which are destined to
produce the most serious results to other
persons, who are equally ignorant of the
present action, and unsuspicious of the
future consequence. So intricately and
inextricably blended are the threads of
mortal life, and so wonderfully linked are
those chains of cause and effect, in which
even unborn generations are not unfrequently
involved, by that vast and all comprehensive
Providence which mortals in
their blindness are wont to call chance.
Especially was this the case with Sir Edward
Hale, at the present moment of my
tale; though he would have laughed very
heartily had any one told him that the
whole happiness of his future life was
brought into jeopardy, while he was thinking
only of the pleasures of the hour, by
the intrigues of men in London, some of
whom he had never seen, and scarcely
even heard of; yet such unquestionably
was the case.
It was about seven o'clock on the same
morning that a plain dark carriage, containing
a tall, thin, grave looking gentleman,
with a peculiarly sardonic smile,
drove rapidly from the door of the Secretary
of State, at whose house an extraordinary
cabinet council had been just held,
through Charing Cross, where the magnificent
statue of King Charles the First, by
Hubert le Sœur, had resumed its position,
and passed the stately front of Northumberland
House, towards Spring Gardens.
Here it paused, before the portico of a
stately mansion; and the footman springing
down from the board behind the chariot,
notwithstanding the earliness of the
hour, raised such a noisy snmmons as soon
brought a servant to the door, when the
name of the untimely visitor procured his
admittance without delay, although the
man appeared somewhat reluctant—saying
that the Earl was not yet awake, and
had left word that he should not be disturbed,
as it was very late when he retired.
“I know it, my good friend,” replied the
visitor—“I know that it was very late;
but it was later by two hours before I was
abed, and I have been up, I assure you,
since four o'clock this morning. But,
leaving this aside, which is no matter, I
will be your security that you will do no
wrong in awakening my lord, seeing that
I have news for him about which he is
very anxious; and it is, moreover, on business
of his majesty that I must see him.”
This, of course, put an end, on the instant,
to all discussion or remonstrance on
the subject, the man showing him immediately
into a handsome library, containing
several thousand volumes, and decorated
with many busts, and two or three
fine antique statues.
Begging the visitor, with whom he appeared
to be well acquainted, to take a
seat while he apprised the Earl of his arrival,
he then withdrew, but returned in a
few minutes, saying, “My lord, Sir Henry,
will be down in a quarter of an hour,
at the furthest, and begs that you will
wait for him. He desired me to ask if you
would take some chocolate, Sir Henry!”
“Yes, bring me some, Anderson, if it be
ready; and, hark ye, tell my fellows to go
home with the chariot; I will walk, when I
go hence.”
As soon as the man had left the room,
the other arose from his chair and walked
towards one of the tall book-cases, as if to
seek a volume wherewith to while away
the time; but, after he had opened the
glass doors, and suffered his eyes to run
over a shelf or two, he either changed his
mind or fell into a different train of
thought, and forgot it; for he turned round
abruptly, and walked across the room with
his hands clasped behind his back.
“It must be done! it must,” he muttered
to himself; “we must have his vote, or
the whole thing is at an end, and we may
just as well give up the campaign at once!
But this will do it; I think, I dare swear it
will! and, if not—if not—we must give
him more; though, hang me! if I know
what there is that we can give him that he
is fit for! The garter! aye, the garter—a
rare successor he to the great champions
of the order!” And he smiled, with the
bitter, sneering, caustic expression that has
been mentioned as peculiar to him.
At this moment the servant returned,
bearing a silver salver, with a tall chocolate
pot of the same metal, richly embossed,
and a couple of superb French-china
cups. Scarcely, however, had he
frothed and poured out the rich beverage,
which had but lately been introduced into
England, and was still a rarity, before his
master entered the library, in some small
anxiety. He was a tall and powerfully
made man, of some fifty-seven or fifty-eight
years, with features that would have
been positively handsome had there been
a solitary gleam of intelligence—a single
trace expressing anything of character in
their symmerrical outlines and harmonioas
coloring. He was magnificently,
though not completely, attired in the costume
of the day; wearing a dressing gown
of splendid brocade in place of the embroidered
coat, and a cap of green velvet,
with a gold band and tassel, in lien of the
huge periwig, which was then an essential
part of a gentleman's full dress.
“Give you good day, Sir Henry,” he
said as he entered, with a bland smile upon
his face, which did not, however, conceal
a nervousness of manner that told something
of eager and fretful expectation.
“You come so early that, as you see, I
make no ceremony with you; I have not
even tarried to finish dressing, as I presumed
you were in a hurry.”
“I thank you much, my lord,” returned
the other, sipping his chocolate, “both
for what you have done, and what you
have left undone; for, indeed, I have something
to say to you of moment.” Then,
seeing that he did not take the hint, as
he expected he would do, and dismiss
the valet, who stood with both his ears
wide open, ready to drink in every word,
he said carelessly, “Excellent chocolate,
this, my lord, but I do not think it has ever
paid any duty.”
“No, no! not it, not it! Sir Henry,” answered
the penderous earl, making precisely
the reply for which his guest was
looking. “I had it in a present from my
good friend the French Ambassador.”
“Ah! ah!” answered Sir Henry Davenant,
as if thoughtfully, “and upropos of
French, had you Anderson, here, with you
when you were at Paris last?”
“No; he came to me after my return,”
said the obtuse earl, not yet perceiving
that the drift of Sir Henry's question was
to call his attention to the presence of the
man. After a few minutes, however, during
which he appeared to ruminate very
sagely, he lifted up his head with what he
intended for a very knowing smile, and
told his valet that he need not wait.
“Very deep of you—very deep, that,
Sir Henry. Almost too deep! for, drown
me for a witch if I caught your meaning
at first!”
“But why in Heaven's name, my dear
lord, do you keep such a long-eared knave
as that about you? Why, curiosity is
written as plainly as the name of a book
on its title-page, in every feature of his
face; the very owning such a fellow is
enough almost to destroy one's reputation
for diplomacy. It is true that the Earl of
Asterly has less need to regard such things
than we beginners; but, nevertheless,
even with your finesse, I would hardly desire
to risk it!”
“Ha! ha! you are flattering me—you
are flattering me, I am afraid, Sir Henry;
though you have not very much the character
of saying pretty things, even to the
ladies, bless their souls!” And, while he
spoke, it was as evident as the sun in heaven,
that he had swallowed the dose, palpable
as it was, without wincing, or suspecting
that it was, even as he said, a
mixture of the grossest adulation with the
most barefaced ridicule “But, come,”
he added, after another pause of hesitation,
“unbuckle your budget, my good
sir; what can you possibly have to say to
me so early this morning?”
“Why, the fact is, my lord,” answered
Davenant, who filled at that time the very
useful post, in reference to the then ministry,
which is now known as that of
Whipper-in to the House of Commons,
“that, as I told you would be the case,
when I had the honor of speaking with
you last night, there has been a meeting
of the cabinet at Mr. Secretary's house,
this morning.”
And the wily baronet paused at this
piece of information, partly to give his
heavy auditor time to take in its whole
meaning, and partly because he wished
to see exactly what was the amount of
his dupe's anxiety on the subject.
“Indeed, indeed?” the earl replied, in
the tone of one inquiring further; “you
are well informed always, Sir Henry; and
what then? What was the result of their
conference, my dear sir?—that is to say,
if it may be spoken.”
“Oh, yes, my lord, it may be spoken.
If that were not the case, you would not
have seen me here this morning, for my
object in coming was purely to give you
the information; which I have leave to do
from Mr. Secretary, and a message from
him, likewise, that is to say, if the government
may rely, as they presume they can,
on the continued support of the Earl of
Asterly. If not, why, I must keep my
budget closed; which I should be the
more sorry to do, because, if opened, it
contains news that I think would give
you pleasure.”
“Oh! yes, Sir Henry,” replied the peer,
immediately. “His majesty's government
may certainly count on my support
in all matters consistent with the Protest—”
But before he could get out the whole
word and commit himself to any measure,
Davenant interrupted him.
“Oh! my dear lord, of course, the cabinet
will not attempt to carry any measure
out, which shall not have received, previously,
your distinguished approbation.
But your lordship is too good a politician,
not to feel that no ministry would be justified
in submitting a plan of its campaign,
and perhaps offering honors, to any gentleman
or nobleman, how sure soever
they might feel of his support, without
something more definite, in the shape of
a pledge—”
“Ah!” said the earl, affecting to ponder
on what he had heard, but in reality endeavoring
to outwit the keen clear-sighted
diplomatist, who could read every
thought in his bosom, almost before it was
formed. “Ah! that makes all the difference!—”
“That is to say,” thought Davenant in
his own heart, “the hope of office, or additional
rank, makes all the difference.
Showing your hand, rather too openly, my
good lord!”
“That makes all the difference, Sir
Henry,” he resumed, “for, as you say, the
fact of the ministry being desirous of consulting
me on their measures, or indeed of
their asking for my support at all, is as I
think a sufficient guarantee of their intentions.
For it is evident that they could
not imagine it possible that I should lend
my countenance to measures—”
“Of which your lordship's well known
capacity and foresight should not induce
you cordially to approve. You take the
same views of the matter which I do myself,
my lord. The noble lords, now at
the head of his majesty's government,
doubtless would not expect anything incompatible
with Lord Asterly's known
character for political consistency and
personal integrity. Nevertheless, it is
their resolution in the present unsettled
state of parties, and I think your lordship
will admit it to be a necessary and a wise
one, to associate no person, however
great his merits, with themselves, unless
it be upon an unconditional pledge.”
“Well, sir, I cannot blame them, upon
my word, Sir Henry, I cannot. For there
is now-a-days so much political tergiversation,
even in the highest quarters, that
no one can be absolutely above suspicion!”—and,
at the very moment he said
this, despite all his dullness, he clearly
understood what was expected of him;
and, having fully made up his mind to
desert his party for a consideration, was
only now endeavoring to conceal his pre
meditated baseness from Sir Henry; which
he had about as much chance of doing,
as the ostrich, when it buries its hend in
the sand of the desert, has of keeping its
body hidden from the lynx-eyed Arabian
hunter.
“Then I am to understand, my lord,
that you do not object to give such a
pledge to the Secretary—a written pledge,
my lord?”
“Why—no—no!” said Lord Asterly, in
a sort of half-doubtful tone, “not absolutely—no!
I should not absolutely
object—but I should like to know something
a little more definite about the
nature of the measures!”
“Well, then, my lord,” returned Sir
Henry Davenant,” since your lordship is
so scrupulous, for which I confess I honor
you so much the more, I will venture to
give you a few hints. In the first place,
the captured French colonies will not be
given up under any circumstances!” This
piece of information, by the way, was the
more valuable, because it was the first
any one had ever received concerning the
question of their cession; which had
never once been mooted. But notwithstanding
this, the earl expressed his grave
satisfaction at the firmness of the noble
lords.
“In the next place, his grace of B—
will have the vice-royalty of Ireland. The
earl of F— goes as ambassador to
France, and your humble servant, I believe,
to the Hague—but that is not quite
certain yet!”—the other two appointments
having been known to all the quidnuncs of
the town for a week past, the earl learned
little by this last sentence, and that little,
utterly of no account; but he replied—
“Excellent—excellent—Sir Henry, no
better men for the offices, than they. I
will say that it does honor to Mr. Secretary's
discernment. For I presume he had
a word to say in the appointments.”
“Surely, my lord, surely. His word,
I may say, is almost omnipotent with their
lordships; and that, I fancy, is one reason
why he is so desirous of attaching you,
my lord, with some others of his friends,
to the party; while he is himself in
power.”
The Earl of Asterly noted and treasured
up the words, but pretending not to have
given them much attention, he added—
“But have you nothing more to tell
me?”
“Faith! very little more, my lord, there
will be several new additions to the peerage—two
or three ancient titles to be
raised to a higher grade; and then, there
are, you know, the two vacant garters—
off suddenly, “this is scarce fair of your
lordship; here, you have pumped me of
almost all my secrets, and given me nothing
satisfactory after all. But I trust
your lordship will deal kindly with me,
this would go far to ruin me with the
great man, if it got wind.”
“Why! ha! ha!” responded the earl,
langhing very knowingly, “I think I have
been a little hard on you, Sir Henry, a
little too hard—I believe! But, ha! ha!
ha! you young fellows ought not to fancy
that you can hood-wink us old boys!—
well—well—well!—but, as you say, I
must make it up with you. See here, I
will write a word or two; pray you,
excuse me.”
Could the dull nobleman have marked
the cold, calm, cutting smile, ineffably
contemptuous and full of loathing, with
which the politician surveyed him, while
he penned his memorandum, well cased
as he was in complete panoply of self-conceit,
and gross, complacent stolidity,
he must have been cut to the quick; but
he did not raise his head till he had
finished writing, and when he did so,
Davenant's eyes were fixed on the ground
in quiet and apparently conscious humility.
The earl pushed the sheet of paper, on
which he had written a few lines with his
signature appended to them, across the
table to Sir Henry, saying—
“There, my good friend; see if that will
meet Mr. Secretary's views!”
It was a full and formal promise to support,
with all his personal and political
influence, the present cabinet in all its
measures whatsoever.
“I presume,” he added, “that of course
it will not be shown.”
“Of course not, my lord,” Sir Henry
answered, as he took it; and then, after
casting his eyes slightly over the document,
“Perfectly—perfectly satisfactory,”
he added; “nothing can be more honorable,
open, or above board. And now,
my lord, allow me to congratulate you—”
“To congratulate me, Sir Henry! upon
what?” said Lord Asterly, with a pleasant
and conscious smile, which be endeavored
vainly to dissemble.
“There is a dormant marquisate in your
lordship's family, I believe. Beverley, is it
not? which your lordship claimed from
the last ministry.”
“And was refused!” replied the earl,
hanghtily, “owing to the opposition, I
think, of my Lord Calverly, who lays claim
to it likewise, though he has no more plea
of right, than he has to the dukedom of
Northumberland! I never cared much
about it myself, Sir Henry; but it was an
old hobby of my father's; and in respect
to his memory, it was, that I revived the
claim.”
“And gross injustice was done to you
in the refusal. Well, my lord, in consideration
of this, his majesty has been pleased
of his own accord, quite unsolicited, to
creare you Marquis of Beverley, and I am
happy to be the first person to salute you
by the ancient title of your family.”
“Indeed! Sir Henry, indeed!” exclaimed
the new marquis, exceedingly gratified;
“this is indeed very flattering. His majesty
is very gracious—the rather, as you
say, that it is quite unsolicited; and that
no one can say that it is a reward of any
party services!”
Old hand as he was at intrigue, and an
adept at concealing every emotion, Davenant
could hardly refrain from laughing
aloud at the impudent self-complacency of
this speech, when he thought of the precious
document which he had just pocketed;
but he did refrain, and answered quietly,
and as a matter of course.
“Yes! marquis, it must be very gratifying.
But now et us speak of business.
The Irish Bill, comes on, you know next
Tuesday se'nnight, and by it the ministry
have determined that they will stand or
fall.”
“The Irish Bill! indeed! the Irish Bill!”
said the marquis, as he must now be called,
“I did not look for that! you should have
told me of that, Sir Henry.”
“Why, marquis,” answered Davenant,
as if surprised, “I took it for granted that
you must see that. It followed as a natural
consequence, from his Grace's nomination
to the vice-royalty.”
“And so it did—and so it did—upon my
word!” replied the other, quite as much
relieved by the futile explanation, as if it
were a satisfactory excuse for his adopting
the measures to-day, which yesterday
he had repudiated; “I never thought of
that before.”
“I felt quite certain that you would view
it in that light, when you came to reflect,”
answered Davenant.
“Certainly—certainly—I could not do
otherwise,” said the marquis; “but what
was it you said about the garter? who did
you say were to succeed to the two vacant
stalls?”
“I did not say, marquis, for I don't
know; and I don't know, simply because
it has not yet been determined by their
lordships.”
“Not yet determined! Is not that very
strange? a matter, tob, of so great and
paramount importance.”
“Doubtless there are strong reasons for
delay, marquis. In the first place, notwithstanding
the accession of strength to
the government from the complete over-throw
of the Duke of Monmouth's people
at Sedgemoor, and the final close of all
that infamous affair, you are aware that
there is still a very strong opposition—
and on this Irish question—by the way,
how many votes do you carry with you,
marquis?”
“Five in the Lower House, and in the
Peers, my son-in-law Helvelyn's, in addition
to my own.”
“Oh! in the Peers we are safe enough;
but, to be frank with you, marquis, there is
a good deal to fear in the Commons—at
the best, we can only count a tie, reckoning
all your votes—and, I fancy, though I
do not know it for certain, that any one
who could bring over one or two votes so
as to make sure of a majority, might reckon
pretsy certainly on the garter.”
“Aye! aye!” responded the marquis,
falling into a deep fit of cogitation, from
which he presently aroused himself to inquire
who were the members that remained
at all doubtful.
“Why, by my honor!” answered Davenant,
“there are but three whom we dare
even to count doubtful—and they are at
the present dead against us—the only reason
why I call them doubtful, is that they
are against us from whim only, or what
they call principle, and not from any
pledge, or any great interest that they
have in the matter.”
“And who are they?”
“First of all, Captain Trevor—”
“Why don't you give him a regiment?”
“It would not do—he is not at all that
sort of man—besides, it is hardly worth
the while to try him; he has a grudge of
some kind, I believe, against Berkley, and
we may set him down against us without
more ado. The next is Frampton of
Frampton, and as there is not a newly imported
Arab stallion, or an invincible gamecock
of extraordinary lineage, to be got
for love or money in the kingdom, we have
no means of bribing him. As for offering
him rank, that is useless to a man who
thinks that to be Frampton of Frampton
is a far finer thing than to be premier peer
of England, if we could make him that,
which we can't. Money—worse yet, to a
fellow who complains that he cannot for
his life get through a third of his rent roll;
though I believe he feeds half the East
Riding with beef and beer the year round.
Ashley did speak of sending to the Dey of
Algiers for a barh; but there is not time
enough. So he is a lost vote, too! The
third and last is Lord Henry St. Maur.”
“Ah! St. Maur—St. Maur! is he inclined
against you?”
“Not inclined merely. He has declared
himself opposed to all our measures; and
he is too young, too full of generous and
high fantasies to be approachable.”
“And yet I think I could approach him
on the subject,” said the marquis.
“You, my lord, you! Impossible!” cried
Davenant, the whole aim and object of
whose mission was simply to procure the
influence of his man on young St. Maur.
“Impossible! we were not aware even
that you knew him.”
“I do, but very slightly,” answered
Beverley; “and yet I think he can he won.
Nay! I almost think I can promise you
his vote. Do you know where he is, Sir
Henry?”
“By accident, I do; for I called at his
father's yesterday. He is on a visit to some
young country bumpkin of a baronet or
other, at Arrington, in Hampshire—the
post town is Stow-cum-Barnesley.”
“Indeed, at Sir Edward Hale's—is he?”
“Hale—Hale! By George! I believe
Hale was the name. Upon my word, marquis,
you seem to know all the world.”
“My place is near Oxford, you know,
Sir Henry, and this young fellow was at
Christ Church, with my son, who brought
him to Asterley last year in the long vacation.
But he is not at all a bumpkin.”
“I dare say not, indeed—for I know nothing
about it—only Fred Jermyn, of the
Life Guards, was laughing at him for a
quiz the other night, at the Nag's Head,”
replied Davenant, who never said a word
without its object, and who had now his
own peculiar reason for doing the young
baronet an ill office with the marquis.
“I will write to St. Maur to-day,” said
the marquis, after a moment's thought, “I
am nearly sure that I can secure you his
vote.”
“I do not think it is possible,” said Davenant,
knowing all the time that it was
pretty certain, if the old peer only chose to
exert himself on the right track. “It
would require immense influence—immense
influence!”
“I flatter myself I have a good deal of
influence over him,” answered the marquis,
knowingly.
“I thought you said, but now, that you
only knew him slightly?”
“I do only know him slightly.”
“Then how, in the devil's name,” Sir
when the peer interrupted him—
“Ask me no questions—it is a secret—
but I tell you, that Mr. Secretary may
make himself tolerably easy on the matter.
I will write to him this very day,
and I shall have an answer by to-morrow
night, for I will send one of my fellows
post.”
“You are an extraordinary man, marquis;
but, if you accomplish this, I shall
set you down as a second Mazarin. Well!
well! you are a fortunate man, too; for I
see that you will be the wearer of this
garter, which his grace of Lauderdale, they
say, is looking after.”
“Fie! fie! Sir Henry—fie! Do you
suppose that a thought of that kind ever
occurred to me? Oh no—fie! fie! but,
on my word, I believe I can do it.”
“I trust that you may not be disappointed.
But, in the meantime, I will take my
leave; for I can hear the marchioness',
and the pretty Lady Fanny's voices in the
breakfast parlor. Besides which, I must
make haste with this good news to master
Secretary.”
Then, with the courtly ceremonial of
the day, he took his leave; but as he
crossed the threshold, he muttered to himself—
“Cursed old hypocrite and knave! and
idiot, worse than either, for daring to
imagine that he could hoodwink me.
Well! never mind, St. Maur will get Lady
Fan's pretty hand, and we shall get his
vote; and Beverley his garter; and, what is
worth all the rest, I shall go to the Hague!
the Hague—and then—and then!' and he
walked rapidly away, in the direction of
Whitehall, with his whole brain boiling
with ambition, and his whole heart elated
and self-confident.
As soon as he had left the room, the
new-ereated marquis rang his bell, and
when his valet entered—
“Anderson,” he said, “let Perkins take
the green chariot, that has the coronet
only and the cipher on the panels, in embossed
work, down to the coachmaker's,
and have them altered instantly for a coronet
and the letter B—the silver-mounted
harness must be all changed likewise, in
the same manner. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And let him tell Mr. Ryckman that all
must be ready by two hours after noon—
that it must be ready. I shall require it to
go to St. Stephen's. My Lady's chairs must
be remounted also, and the coach newly
painted—and do you see that the liveries
are correct—”
“Correct, my lord?”
“Yes! correct, you blockhead—correct!
The Marquis of Beverley's—do you understand,
you stupid fellow?”
“Yes, my lord marquis,” replied the
man, with an obeisance almost oriental in
its depth and duration—“your orders
shall be performed instantly, my lord
marquis.”
“Now, then, follow me to the dressing
room, I want my coat, and periwig, and
sword. Has the marchioness come down
stairs yet?”
“Yes, my lord marquis.”
And strutting away like a peacock, with
his head half a foot higher than when he
had come down stairs, as yet an honest
man, he conceived that he had made a
capital bargain in swopping a way his own
conseience, and the happiness of two or
three human beings, one of them his own
daughter, for an empty title, and a yard of
satin ribbon!
| CHAPTER II. Ingleborough Hall, and Lord of the manor | |