it.”
“Nothing! Would you acquiesce in slights and sneers about base birth, rather than stir to prove your rights? Would you, born to be a king, and kingly all over, sit in the shade, and bask in the sun here, by a woman’s side, in the very crisis of Europe, and let Orange and Louis struggle for your own England? Would you look another way while they decide whether the destiny of Christendom is turned back or carried forward?”
“I would. Nay, do not look away from me,” he continued, embracing her head, and compelling her to look up into his eyes. “Remember what reason I have to desire no further change in my life. I have striven to obtain my due position, and found myself disgraced and exiled. I have hoped to conquer my birthright by patience and policy; and death has cut short my scheme, and the world sees in me a disappointed man. At this very hour I find myself happy for the first time in all my days; and I take this as an admonition to be content. Not seeing me, the world will soon forget me; and then, Henrietta, we shall have nothing left to wish. I owe nothing to Turk or Emperor which should come between us and our natural delights and holy quiet.”
The page approached, evidently to announce further interruption of this holy tranquillity. He presented letters, and said that three gentlemen had arrived on business with his grace. He was dismissed, but desired to remain within call; and then the letters were opened. Monmouth’s hand trembled so that he could not read the first he opened. Unable to hide his agitation, he said:
“You know what it is that, in the sight of English letters, agitates me beyond control.”
“Yes, I know. Any news of her? I dare say not.”
There was nothing about the Duchess of Monmouth, and the Duke sighed.
“Why think of her at all?” the Lady Henrietta asked.
“You have said that before: but how is it possible not to think what news might possibly arrive——”
“O, hush!” said Henrietta, raising her hand in admonition. “If we think at all, we shall find ourselves some day wishing for an innocent young creature’s death. Let us look away from that side altogether. Let us wish her no ill, and forget her. I am sure I pity her; and I try to forget her.”
“I do not strive, one way or another,” said Monmouth, now satisfied that his letters contained nothing about his deserted wife. “My nerves may, like those of an injured man, be shaken at times by a sudden start, but my mind is at ease. You are my wife, Henrietta. Heaven has wedded us, and no power on earth can put us asunder. Others are answerable for the ruin of Ann Scott’s life. They married us when we were children, and then they parted us by my exile; and now they may take charge of her, and leave me to the wife and home that God has been pleased to give me.”
“Is this the purport of those letters?”
“I know not what is to follow from them. The bearers are to tell me that; but I do not want to hear it. I will send a message to them that I have wholly withdrawn from public affairs. Yes, I will,” he repeated, laughing, in reply to Henrietta’s look of remonstrance. He changed his mind, however, when he saw the eagerness with which the attendant lady spoke to Henrietta about the personages who were now in the house.
These personages were presently conversing with Monmouth on the yew-seat,—the ladies having withdrawn. On the lawn there could be no eavesdropping; and the conversation was so long that it must needs be important. After an hour’s suspense, Henrietta was informed that the three gentlemen from England would remain to supper.
The party sat late at table; and the Lady Henrietta and her attendant did not think of withdrawing. Mrs. Katherine Johnston was of remote kin to Henrietta, and had so devoted herself to a mistress who had forfeited honour, that she was naturally treated with confidence, and encouraged to bestow her sympathies. She therefore remained this night at table, hearing with as much excitement as her mistress, the tales that the guests had to tell of the desire of the kingdom for Monmouth to appear. M. Florien could tell of the eagerness of the Nonconformists in the Southern counties for a Protestant king. His particular errand was between him and the Duke; but he was full of strange tales of the superstitions of the country people, and the fanatical devotion of his sect, which captivated the imaginations of the ladies,—if not of Monmouth himself. Lord Grey of Wark related that the Whigs were everywhere ready to rise on the first news of Monmouth’s having left the foreign shores: and he appeared to be charged with so many anecdotes, if not messages, in regard to the hatred of both Church and aristocracy towards King James, that it really seemed as if a Protestant Pretender had only to appear to put down the Catholics for ever.
The third delegate, Ayloffe, the lawyer, was less liked by Henrietta; for she observed that in proportion as he spoke, Monmouth’s ordinary mood of caution and indolence returned. Ayloffe said too much, the ladies afterwards agreed, about the stiffnecked and arrogant character of the Scotch, who would yet be the main prop of the enterprise; and of the haughty joy of the English Catholics, who trampled all Protestant interests under foot, secure in the King’s countenance, and armed with the repute of his cruelty, in the prospect of which the boldest might quail. Ayloffe had heard what all the world knew, of Monmouth’s valour in war; and he supposed himself to be rousing the Protestant leader to enterprise by his disclosure of wrongs and troubles. Henrietta knew him better; and she led the conversation back to the friendly population who might be expected to greet a deliverer,—and especially the most popular of Pretenders. By degrees Monmouth admitted the intoxication of his imagination and his heart. He remembered the hurras of the soldiers whenever he appeared; and Lord Grey told him that the regiments in and about London would pass over to him as soon as his standard was raised. He remembered how the people in the city ranged themselves on the footways, and looked out from their windows to do him homage. He remembered how the women were devoted to him everywhere, and how the children set up a shout of transport as he turned any corner in his rides. He remembered how, when he crossed country in sporting, or rode from one to another of his now forfeited seats, the people came thronging from remote farmsteads across the fields, and gathered in the lanes, ready to worship him if he would accept green boughs for his horse’s head, or a cup of milk for himself. He seemed to have a keener sense than ever of the pleasure of being so beloved, now that he was assured that the same love, intensified by disappointment and trouble, was still ready for him. When he asked for definite descriptions and for evidence, he was told that four counties were completely prepared to receive him; that the City of London was his own; and that all the counties, from faithful Hampshire to the Wye, and down to the Land’s End, only needed an appeal from himself. Part proof of this should be supplied in the morning; and the rest would await him at Amsterdam.
When the guests were gone, it was plain that the mention of Amsterdam had damped Monmouth’s satisfaction. Mrs. Johnston ventured to suppose his Grace might please himself about going there or anywhere else; but No! it was necessary, if anything was to be done, to meet the Scotch leaders and the English exiles at Amsterdam. Then Mrs. Johnston fell into her lady’s method, and blessed the people of England for their loyalty to their own gallant prince, and longed for the day when she might see and hear the welcome they would give him.
“What shall we call him, Kate?” asked her mistress. “It must not be James. Pity his name is James!”
“It must not be James,” Mrs. Johnston agreed. There would be—at least, there might be—difficulty about whether it should be James the Second or Third. But there would not really be any difficulty. If the people could find themselves a glorious king, they would find some glorious title for him. No doubt they had settled all such matters already.
“It is all very fine,” said the Duke; “but do not be beguiled by a dream. To go to Amsterdam is——is impossible to me; and, if it were not, there are a thousand obstacles. The Scots—these Scotch leaders—are insufferable to me; and Argyle is impracticable.
