 
It cannot at this time of day be needful for me to describe in detail the aspect of those features which the action disclosed, since they are as well remembered by many still living as they are faithfully preserved for posterity--lacking some of the glow and passion which then animated them--on the canvas by Sir Peter Lely, which hangs in the Charterhouse. The Duke of Shrewsbury--to set concealment aside--was then in his thirty-sixth year, in the prime and bloom of manhood, of a fair complexion and regular features; over which the habitude of high rank and the possession of unrivalled parts threw a cast of reserve and stateliness, not unbecoming. As he was by nature so sensitive that on this side alone his enemies found him vulnerable, so his face in repose, if it had any blemish at all, had the fault of bordering on the womanish, the lines of his mouth following those of the choicest models of antiquity. But this blemish--if that which bore witness to the most affectionate disposition in the world could be called by that name--was little marked in public life, the awe which his eyes, alike firm and penetrating, inspired in the vulgar, rendering most people blind to it. To sum up, his face gave a just idea of his character; for though indolent, he was of such a temper that the greatest dared take no liberty with him; and though proud he gave the meanest his rights and a place. Such, in fine, was the man who now confronted Ferguson, and with a stern light in his eye bade the schemer stand out. That the latter from the first had intended to declare himself, was as certain as that, now the time had come, he hesitated; awed by the mere power of worth, as I have heard that wicked men calling up spirits from the deep have stood affrighted before the very beings they have summoned. Yet his hesitation was for a moment only; after which, rallying the native audacity of a temperament which rejoiced in these intrigues and dÉnouements, he stepped jauntily forward, and assuming such a parody of dignity as likened his clumsy figure and sneaking face to nothing so much as an ape decked out in man's clothes, he allowed the light to fall on his features. The Duke looked, and even where I stood behind the lath and plaster partition I heard him catch his breath. "You are Robert Ferguson!" he said. "Well guessed!" the plotter answered, with a harsh discordant laugh. "Your Grace has not forgotten '88. Believe me, if the Prince of Orange had kept as good a memory, I should not have been in this garret, nor need I have troubled your lordship to visit me in it." "It would have been better for you, sir, had you still refrained," the Duke answered with severity. "Mr. Ferguson, I tell you at once that I do not bear his Majesty's Commission in vain, and my first proceeding on leaving this house will be to sign a warrant for your apprehension, and direct the officers where it can be executed." "And I, my lord," Ferguson answered with an impudent attempt at pleasantry, "have a very good mind to take you at your word, and let you go to do it. For when your officers arrived they would not find me, while your Grace would go hence to fall into as pretty a trap as was ever laid for a man." "Doubtless, then, of your laying!" my lord cried, with a gesture of contempt. "On the contrary. Until I saw you, I knew of the trap indeed, but not for whom it was intended. Since I have seen you, however--and how greatly you have improved since '88, when we last met"--Ferguson added, impertinently,--"my eyes are opened, and I feel a very sincere pity for your lordship." "I am obliged to you for your warning," the Duke answered, drily, "and will endeavour to take care of myself. If that be all, therefore, that you have to say to me--and I assume that the letter in Lord Middleton's name was no more than a ruse--I will say good-day." "But that is not all, nor a part!" Ferguson replied. "I have a bargain to propose, and information"--this sullenly and with lowered eyes--"to give." "As usual!" my lord answered, shrugging his shoulders, and speaking with the most cutting scorn. "But permit me to say that you have made a mistake, Mr. Ferguson, in sending for me. You should know by this time, being versed in these affairs, that I leave such bargains to underlings." "Nevertheless, to this bargain you must be a party," the other answered violently. "Nay, my lord, I can make you a party, I have only to tell you a thing I know; and whether you will or no, for your own safety you must do what I ask." "For my own safety, Mr. Ferguson, I am not in the habit of doing anything I would not do for other reasons," the Duke answered coldly. "For the rest, if you have anything to tell me that concerns the King's service----" "Which King's?" the plotter cried, with a sneer. "I acknowledge one only--then, I say, I will hear it. But I will neither do nor promise anything in return." "You talk finely," Ferguson cried, "yet you cannot deny that before this I have told things that were worth knowing." "That were worth men's lives!" my lord answered, speaking in a low stern voice, and looking at him with a strange abhorrence. "Yes, Mr. Ferguson, I acknowledge that. That were worth men's lives. And it reminds me that you are growing old, and have blood on your hands; you only and God know how much. But some I know; the proof of it lies in my office. If you will take my advice, therefore, you will think rather of quitting the world and making your peace with heaven--if by any means it can be done--than of digging pits for better men than yourself. Man," he continued, looking fixedly at him, "do you never think of Ayloffe and Sidney? And Russell? And Monmouth? And Cornish? Of the men you have egged on to death, and the men you have--sold! God forgive you! God forgive you, for man never will!" I should fail, and lamentably, were I to try to describe either the stern feeling with which my lord uttered this solemn address--the more solemn as it came from a young man to an old one--or the horrid passion born of rage, fear, and remorse commingled, with which the intriguer received it. When my lord had ceased to speak, Ferguson broke into the most fearful imprecations; calling down vengeance not only on others for wrongs done to him, but on his own head if he had ever done aught but what was right; and this rant he so sprinkled with texts of scripture and scraps of the old Covenanters' language that for profanity and blasphemy I never heard the like. The Duke, after watching the exhibition for a time with eyes of pity and reprobation, ended by setting on his hat and turning to the door. This sufficed--as nothing else would have--to bring the conspirator to his senses. With a hideous chuckle, which brought his tirade to a fitting conclusion, "Not so fast, my lord! Not so fast," he cried, slapping his pocket. "The key is here. I have something to say before you go." "In God's name say it then!" the Duke cried, his face sick with disgust. "I will!" Ferguson answered hoarsely, leaning on the table which stood between them and thrusting forward his chin, his face still suffused with rage. "And see you how I will confound you! The Duke of Berwick is in England. The Duke of Berwick is in London. And what is worse for you, my lord, he lies to-night at Dr. Lloyd's in Hogsden Gardens. So take that information to yourself, my Lord Secretary, and make what you can of it--not forgetting the King's interest! Ha! ha! I have you tight there, I think." His triumph, extreme and offensive as it was, seemed to be justified by the consternation--I can call it by no other name--which darkened the Duke's countenance as he listened, and held him a moment speechless and motionless, glaring at the other. At last, "And you sent to me to tell me this?" he cried. "I did! I did! There is no other living man would have thought of it or done it. And why? Because there is no man can play my cards but myself." "You devil!" my lord cried; and was silent. Seeing that I knew little more of this of which they spoke than that the Duke of Berwick was King James' natural son and favourite, I was at a loss to comprehend, either the Duke's chagrin or Ferguson's very evident triumph. The latter's next words, however, went far towards explaining his jubilation; and if they did not perfectly clear up my lord's position--fully to enter into which required a nobility of sentiment and a nicety of honour on a par with his own--they enabled me to guess where the shoe pinched. "D'ye take me now, my lord?" the plotter cried, with a savage grimace. "That concerns the King's service I think; and yet--I dare you to make use of it. Ay, my Lord Secretary, I dare you to make use of it!" he repeated, his unwholesome face deep red with excitement. "For why? Because you know that there will be a day of reckoning presently--and sooner, mayhap, than some think. You know that. Sooner or later it will come--it will come, and then 'Touch not mine anointed!' Or rather, touch but a hair of his Jamie's head, and his Majesty'll no forgive! He'll no forgive! There will be mercy for my Lord Devonshire, and my Lord Admiral, ay, and for that incarnate liar and devil, John Churchill! Ay, even for him, for he has made all safe both sides and so have the others. But do you touch the King's blood, though it be bastard--do you send to-night to the Bishop's and take him, and go on to what follows--and you may kneel like Monmouth, and plead like my Lady Russell, and you'll to the axe and the sawdust, when the time comes! Ay, you will! you will! you will!" Though his harsh voice rose almost to a shriek with the last words, and the room rang with them, the Duke stood mutely regarding him, and made no answer. After an interval, Ferguson himself went on, but in a lower tone. "That is the one course you may take, my lord," he said, "and the result of it! If you follow my advice, however, you will not adopt that course. Instead you will let FitzJames be. You will act as if you had not seen me to-day, nor heard that he was in London. You'll wipe this meeting from your memory and live as if it had not been. And so, at the Restoration, you will have nothing to fear on that head. But--but in the meantime," Ferguson continued with an ugly grin, "it may be the worse for your Grace if the truth, and your knowledge of the truth, come to the Prince's ears, whose Minister you are; and worse again if it comes to Bentinck's, who, I am told, is some trouble to your Grace already." The Duke's face was a picture. "You villain!" he said again. "What do you want?" "For my silence?" "For your silence? No. What is your aim? What is your object? You betray one and the other. The son of your King to prison and death. Me, if you can, to ruin and shame. And why? Why, man? What do you?" "What do I gain? What shall I gain, you mean," Ferguson answered, smiling cunningly. "Only your Grace's signature to a scrap of paper--give me that, and I am mum, and neither Berwick nor you will be a penny the worse." "What, money?" cried my lord, surprised, I think. "Oh, no, not money," said the plotter coolly. "And yet--it may be money's worth to me over there." |
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