High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect.

RICHARD III.

Before giving the reader an account of the meeting betwixt Buckingham and his injured Sovereign, we may mention a trifling circumstance or two which took place betwixt his Grace and Chiffinch, in the short drive betwixt York Place and Whitehall.

In the outset, the Duke endeavoured to learn from the courtier the special cause of his being summoned so hastily to the Court. Chiffinch answered, cautiously, that he believed there were some gambols going forward, at which the King desired the Duke’s presence.

This did not quite satisfy Buckingham, for, conscious of his own rash purpose, he could not but apprehend discovery. After a moment’s silence, “Chiffinch,” he said abruptly, “did you mention to any one what the King said to me this morning touching the Lady Anne?”

“My Lord Duke,” said Chiffinch, hesitantly, “surely my duty to the King — my respect to your Grace ——”

“You mentioned it to no one, then?” said the Duke sternly.

“To no one,” replied Chiffinch faintly, for he was intimidated by the Duke’s increasing severity of manner.

“Ye lie, like a scoundrel!” said the Duke —“You told Christian!”

“Your Grace,” said Chiffinch —“your Grace — your Grace ought to remember that I told you Christian’s secret; that the Countess of Derby was come up.”

“And you think the one point of treachery may balance for the other? But no. I must have a better atonement. Be assured I will blow your brains out, ere you leave this carriage, unless you tell me the truth of this message from Court.”

As Chiffinch hesitated what reply to make, a man, who, by the blaze of the torches, then always borne, as well by the lackeys who hung behind the carriage, as by the footmen who ran by the side, might easily see who sat in the coach, approached, and sung in a deep manly voice, the burden of an old French song on the battle of Marignan, in which is imitated the German French of the defeated Swiss.

“Tout est verlore

La tintelore,

Tout est verlore

Bei Got.”

“I am betrayed,” said the Duke, who instantly conceived that this chorus, expressing “all is lost,” was sung by one of his faithful agents, as a hint to him that their machinations were discovered.

He attempted to throw himself from the carriage, but Chiffinch held him with a firm, though respectful grasp. “Do not destroy yourself, my lord,” he said, in a tone of deep humility —“there are soldiers and officers of the peace around the carriage, to enforce your Grace’s coming to Whitehall, and to prevent your escape. To attempt it would be to confess guilt; and I advise you strongly against that — the King is your friend — be your own.”

The Duke, after a moment’s consideration, said sullenly, “I believe you are right. Why should I fly, when I am guilty of nothing but sending some fireworks to entertain the Court, instead of a concert of music?”

“And the dwarf, who came so unexpectedly out of the bass-viol ——”

“Was a masking device of my own, Chiffinch,” said the Duke, though the circumstance was then first known to him. “Chiffinch, you will bind me for ever, if you will permit me to have a minute’s conversation with Christian.”

“With Christian, my lord? — Where could you find him? — You are aware we must go straight to the Court.”

“True,” said the Duke, “but I think I cannot miss finding him; and you, Master Chiffinch, are no officer, and have no warrant either to detain me prisoner, or prevent my speaking to whom I please.”

Chiffinch replied, “My Lord Duke, your genius is so great, and your escapes so numerous, that it will be from no wish of my own if I am forced to hurt a man so skilful and so popular.”

“Nay, then, there is life in it yet,” said the Duke, and whistled; when, from beside the little cutler’s booth, with which the reader is acquainted, appeared, suddenly, Master Christian, and was in a moment at the side of the coach. “Ganz ist verloren,” said the Duke.

“I know it,” said Christian; “and all our godly friends are dispersed upon the news. Luckily the Colonel and these German rascals gave a hint. All is safe — You go to Court — Hark ye, I will follow.”

“You, Christian? that would be more friendly than wise.”

“Why, what is there against me?” said Christian. “I am innocent as the child unborn — so is your Grace. There is but one creature who can bear witness to our guilt; but I trust to bring her on the stage in our favour — besides, if I were not, I should presently be sent for.”

“The familiar of whom I have heard you speak, I warrant?”

“Hark in your ear again.”

“I understand,” said the Duke, “and will delay Master Chiffinch — for he, you must know, is my conductor — no longer. — Well, Chiffinch, let them drive on. — Vogue la Galère!” he exclaimed, as the carriage went onward; “I have sailed through worse perils than this yet.”

“It is not for me to judge,” said Chiffinch; “your Grace is a bold commander; and Christian hath the cunning of the devil for a pilot; but —— However, I remain your Grace’s poor friend, and will heartily rejoice in your extrication.”

“Give me a proof of your friendship,” said the Duke. “Tell me what you know of Christian’s familiar, as he calls her.”

“I believe it to be the same dancing wench who came with Empson to my house on the morning that Mistress Alice made her escape from us. But you have seen her, my lord?”

“I?” said the Duke; “when did I see her?”

“She was employed by Christian, I believe, to set his niece at liberty, when he found himself obliged to gratify his fanatical brother-inlaw, by restoring his child; besides being prompted by a private desire, as I think, of bantering your Grace.”

“Umph! I suspected so much. I will repay it,” said the Duke. “But first to get out of this dilemma. — That little Numidian witch, then, was his familiar; and she joined in the plot to tantalise me? — But here we reach Whitehall. — Now, Chiffinch, be no worse than thy word, and — now, Buckingham, be thyself!”

But ere we follow Buckingham into the presence, where he had so difficult a part to sustain, it may not be amiss to follow Christian after his brief conversation with him. On re-entering the house, which he did by a circuitous passage, leading from a distant alley, and through several courts, Christian hastened to a low matted apartment, in which Bridgenorth sat alone, reading the Bible by the light of a small brazen lamp, with the utmost serenity of countenance.

“Have you dismissed the Peverils?” said Christian hastily.

“I have,” said the Major.

“And upon what pledge — that they will not carry information against you to Whitehall?”

“They gave me their promise voluntarily, when I showed them our armed friends were dismissed. To-morrow, I believe, it is their purpose to lodge informations.”

“And why not to-night, I pray you?” said Christian.

“Because they allow us that time for escape.”

“Why, then, do you not avail yourself of it? Wherefore are you here?” said Christian.

“Nay, rather, why do you not fly?” said Bridgenorth. “Of a surety, you are as deeply engaged as I.”

“Brother Bridgenorth, I am the fox, who knows a hundred modes of deceiving the hounds; you are the deer, whose sole resource is in hasty flight. Therefore lose no time — begone to the country — or rather, Zedekiah Fish’s vessel, the Good Hope, lies in the river, bound for Massachusetts — take the wings of the morning, and begone — she can fall down to Gravesend with the tide.”

“And leave to thee, brother Christian,” said Bridgenorth, “the charge of my fortune and my daughter? No, brother; my opinion of your good faith must be re-established ere I again trust thee.”

“Go thy ways, then, for a suspicious fool,” said Christian, suppressing his strong desire to use language more offensive; “or rather stay where thou art, and take thy chance of the gallows!”

“It is appointed to all men to die once,” said Bridgenorth; “my life hath been a living death. My fairest boughs have been stripped by the axe of the forester — that which survives must, if it shall blossom, be grafted elsewhere, and at a distance from my aged trunk. The sooner, then, the root feels the axe, the stroke is more welcome. I had been pleased, indeed, had I been called to bringing yonder licentious Court to a purer character, and relieving the yoke of the suffering people of God. That youth too — son to that precious woman, to whom I owe the last tie that feebly links my wearied spirit to humanity — could I have travailed with him in the good cause! — But that, with all my other hopes is broken for ever; and since I am not worthy to be an instrument in so great a work, I have little desire to abide longer in this vale of sorrow.”

“Farewell, then, desponding fool!” said Christian, unable, with all his calmness, any longer to suppress his contempt for the resigned and hopeless predestinarian. “That fate should have clogged me with such confederates!” he muttered, as he left the apartment —“this bigoted fool is now nearly irreclaimable — I must to Zarah; for she, or no one, must carry us through these straits. If I can but soothe her sullen temper, and excite her vanity to action — betwixt her address, the King’s partiality for the Duke, Buckingham’s matchless effrontery, and my own hand upon the helm, we may yet weather the tempest that darkens around us. But what we do must be hastily done.”

In another apartment he found the person he sought — the same who visited the Duke of Buckingham’s harem, and, having relieved Alice Bridgenorth from her confinement there, had occupied her place as has been already narrated, or rather intimated. She was now much more plainly attired than when she had tantalised the Duke with her presence; but her dress had still something of the Oriental character, which corresponded with the dark complexion and quick eye of the wearer. She had the kerchief at her eyes as Christian entered the apartment, but suddenly withdrew it, and, flashing on him a glance of scorn and indignation, asked him what he meant by intruding where his company was alike unsought for and undesired.

“A proper question,” said Christian, “from a slave to her master!”

“Rather, say, a proper question, and of all questions the most proper, from a mistress to her slave! Know you not, that from the hour in which you discovered your ineffable baseness, you have made me mistress of your lot? While you seemed but a demon of vengeance, you commanded terror, and to good purpose; but such a foul fiend as thou hast of late shown thyself — such a very worthless, base trickster of the devil — such a sordid grovelling imp of perdition, can gain nothing but scorn from a soul like mine.”

“Gallantly mouthed,” said Christian, “and with good emphasis.”

“Yes,” answered Zarah, “I can speak — sometimes — I can also be mute; and that no one knows better than thou.”

“Thou art a spoiled child, Zarah, and dost but abuse the indulgence I entertain for your freakish humour,” replied Christian; “thy wits have been disturbed since ever you landed in England, and all for the sake of one who cares for thee no more than for the most worthless object who walks the streets, amongst whom he left you to engage in a brawl for one he loved better.”

“It is no matter,” said Zarah, obviously repressing very bitter emotion; “it signifies not that he loves another better; there is none — no, none — that ever did, or can, love him so well.”

“I pity you, Zarah!” said Christian, with some scorn.

“I deserve your pity,” she replied, “were your pity worth my accepting. Whom have I to thank for my wretchedness but you? — You bred me up in thirst of vengeance, ere I knew that good and evil were anything better than names; — to gain your applause, and to gratify the vanity you had excited, I have for years undergone a penance, from which a thousand would have shrunk.”

“A thou............