Then began the trial, with all its quaint and dignified ceremonial; and Robert, Earl of Kingston, pleaded "Not Guilty," and claimed to be tried "by God and my Peers." But the trial, which drew thousands to Westminster, was of short duration. To the demand that "all manner of persons who will give evidence against the accused should come forth," no response was given. Not a solitary witness for the Crown appeared. One by one the Peers pronounced their verdict, "Not Guilty, upon my honour"; the Lord Steward broke his white staff; and amid a crowd of congratulating friends, the Earl walked out a free man.

And what was the fate of Mary King, the cause, however innocent, of all this tragedy? For her own sake, and for obvious reasons, it was important that she should disappear for a time until the scandal had subsided; and with this object she was sent, under an assumed name, to join the family of a Welsh clergyman, not one of whom knew anything of her story. Here, secluded from the world, and in a happy environment, she soon recovered her old health and gaiety. She was young; and youth is quick to find healing and forgetfulness. In the Welsh parsonage she made herself beloved by her amiability and admired for her gifts of mind.

Among the latter was a talent for story-telling, with which she beguiled many a long, winter evening. On one such evening she told the story of her late tragic experiences, disguising it only by giving fictitious names to the characters. And she told the story with such power and pathos that, at its conclusion, her auditors were reduced to tears for the maiden and execrations for her betrayer.

Carried away by the excitement of the moment and the effect she had produced, she exclaimed: "I, myself, am the person for whom you express such sorrow." Then, horrified by her indiscretion, she added: "And now, I suppose, you will drive me from your home." But such was not to be Mary King's fate. The clergyman, who was a widower, had already almost lost his heart to her charms; and her sufferings made his conquest complete. A few weeks later the bells rang merrily out when Mary King became the wife of her kindly host; and for many a long year there was no one more beloved or happy in all Wales than the parson's wife, who had thus romantically come through the storm into a haven of peace.



CHAPTER XI

A SIXTEENTH-CENTURY ELOPEMENT

In the latter days of Queen Elizabeth there was no merchant in England better known or held in higher repute than Sir John Spencer, the Rothschild or Rockefeller of his day, whose shrewdness and industry had raised him to the Chief Magistrateship of the City of London.

From the day on which John Spencer fared from his country home to London in quest of gold, Fortune seems to have smiled sweetly and consistently on him. All his capital was robust health and a determination to succeed; and so profitably did he turn it to account that within a few years of emerging from his 'prentice days he was a master of men, with a business of his own, and striding manfully towards his goal of wealth. Everything he touched seemed to "turn to gold"; before he had reached middle-age he was known far beyond the city-walls as "Rich Spencer"; and by the time his Lord Mayoralty drew near he was able to instal himself in a splendour more befitting a Prince than a citizen, in Crosby Hall, which a century earlier Stow had described as "very large and beautiful, and the highest at that time in London."

Indeed, Crosby Hall, ever since the worthy alderman, whose name it bore, had raised its walls late in the fifteenth century, had been the most stately mansion in the city, and had had a succession of famous tenants. When Sir John Crosby left it for his splendid tomb in the Church of St Helen's, it was for a time the palace of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, in which, to quote Sir Thomas More, "he lodged himself, and little by little all folks drew unto him, so that the Protector's Court was crowded and King Henry's left desolate"; and it was in one of its magnificent rooms that Richard was offered, and was pleased to accept, the Crown of England.

Shakespeare, who lived in St Helen's in 1598, knew Crosby Hall well, and has immortalised it in "Richard III."; Queen Elizabeth was feasted more than once within its hospitable walls, and trod more than one measure there with Raleigh. For seven years it was the home of Sir Thomas More when he was Treasurer of the Exchequer; and, to his friend and successor as tenant, More sent that affecting farewell letter, written in the Tower with a piece of charcoal, the night before his execution. Such was the historic and splendid home in which "Rich Spencer" dispensed hospitality as Lord Mayor of London in the year 1594.

Not content with the lordliest mansion in London Sir John must also have his house in the country, to which he could repair for periods of leisure and rest from his money-making; and this he found in Canonbury Tower, which he purchased, together with the manor, from Lord Wentworth. It is said that Sir John had a bargain in his purchase; but, in the event, he narrowly escaped paying for it with his life. It seems that the news of "Rich Spencer's" wealth had travelled as far as the Continent, and there tempted the cupidity of a notorious Dunkirk pirate, who conceived the bold idea of kidnapping the merchant and holding him to a heavy ransom. How the attempt was made, and how providentially it failed is told by Papillon.

"Rich men," says this chronicler, "are commonly the prey of thieves; for where store of gold and silver is, there spirits never leave haunting, for wheresoever the carcass is, there will eagles be gathered together. In Queen Elizabeth's days, a pirate of Dunkirk laid a plot with twelve of his mates to carry away Sir John Spencer, which, if he had done, L50,000 ransom had not redeemed him. He came over the sea in a shallop with twelve musketeers, and in the night came into Barking Creek, and left the shallop in the custody of six of his men; and with the other six came as far as Islington, and there hid themselves in ditches near the path in which Sir John came always to his house. But by the providence of God—I have this from a private record—Sir John, upon some extraordinary occasion, was forced to stay in London that night; otherwise they had taken him away; and they, fearing they should be discovered, in the night-time came to their shallop, and so came safe to Dunkirk again. This," adds Papillon, "was a desperate attempt."

But proud as Sir John Spencer was of his money-bags, he was prouder still of his only child, Elizabeth, heiress to his vast wealth, who, as she grew to womanhood, developed a beauty of face and figure and graces of mind which pleased the merchant more than all his gold. So fair was she that Queen Elizabeth, on one of her many progressions through the city, attracted by her sparkling eyes and beautiful face at a Cheapside window, stopped her carriage, summoned her to her presence, and, patting her blushing cheeks, vowed that she had "the sweetest face I have seen in my City of London."

That a maiden so dowered with charms and riches should have an army of suitors in her train was inevitable. A lovely wife who would one day inherit nearly a million of money was surely the most covetable prize in England; and, it is said, the bewitching heiress had more than one coronet laid at her feet before she had well left her school-books. But to all these offers, dazzling enough to a merchant's daughter, Elizabeth turned a deaf, if dainty ear. "It is not me they want," she would laughingly say, "but my father's money. I shall live and die, like the good Queen, my namesake, a maid."

And so has many another much-sought maiden said in the pride of an untouched heart; but to them as to her the "Prince Charming," before whom all her defences crumble, comes at last. In Elizabeth Spencer's case, the conquering prince was William, second Lord Compton, one of the handsomest, most accomplished and fascinating young men in London. In person, as in position, he was alike unimpeachable—an ideal suitor to win even the richest heiress in England; and it is little wonder that the heart of the tradesman's daughter began to flutter, and her pretty cheeks to flame when this gallant, whose conquests at the Royal Court itself were notorious, began to pay marked homage to her charms.

That his reputation in the field of love was none of the best, that he was as prodigal as he was poor, mattered little to her—probably such defects made him all the more romantic in her eyes, and his attentions all the more welcome. To Sir John, however, who was even more jealous of his treasure than of all his gold, the young lord's reputation and, above all, his poverty were fatal flaws in any would-be son-in-law of his. As soon as he realised the danger he put every obstacle in the way of his daughter's silly romance, even to the extent, it is said, of locking her in her room, and closing his door in the face of her lover. "If your reputation, my lord, were equal to your rank," he told him in no ambiguous terms; "and if your fortune matched your family, I should have naught to say against your suit. But as it is, I tell you frankly, I would rather see my girl dead than wedded to such as you."

To his daughter's tears and pleading he was equally obdurate. She might ask anything else of him and he would grant it gladly, though it were half his wealth; but he would be unworthy to be her father if he encouraged such folly as this. But Spencer's daughter, when she found conciliatory measures of no avail, proved that she had a will as strong as her father's; she told him to his face that with or without his sanction she meant to be my Lady Compton. "I will marry him," she declared with flushed face and panting breast, "even if you make me a beggar." "And that, madam," the defied and furious father retorted, "I can promise you I will do; for not a shilling of mine shall Lord Compton's wife ever have."

For a time the artful Elizabeth feigned submission to Sir John's anger; and he began to congratulate himself that this trouble at least, whatever others might follow, was at an end. But how little he knew his daughter, or her lover, the sequel proved.

One day, a few weeks after Sir John's fierce ultimatum, a young baker, carrying a large flat-topped basket, called at his house, from which he soon emerged, touching his cap to the merchant as he passed him in the garden, and giving him a respectful "good day." "A civil young man," Sir John said to himself, as he continued his promenade; "his face seems somehow familiar to me." And well might it be familiar; for the baker who gave him such a civil greeting was none other than the scapegrace, Compton; and inside the basket, which he carried so lightly, was the merchant's only daughter and heiress, whom her lover had taken this daring and unconventional way of abducting under the very nose of her parent.

It was not long before Sir John's disillusionment came. His daughter was nowhere to be seen; and none of his domestics knew of her whereabouts. Alarm gave place to suspicion, and suspicion to fury against his child and against the young reprobate who, he felt sure, had outwitted him. Messengers were despatched in all directions in chase of the runaways; but the escapade had been much too cunningly planned to fail in execution. Before Sir John set eyes on his daughter again—now becomingly penitent—she had blossomed into the Baroness Compton, wife of the last man her father would have desired to call his son-in-law.

To "Rich Spencer" the blow was crushing, humiliating. It was bad enough to be defied and outwitted, to be made a fool of by his own daughter; but to know that the treasure he had lost had fallen into such undesirable hands was bitter beyond words. His home and his heart were alike desolate; and, in his despair and wrath, he vowed that he would never own his daughter as his child, and that not one penny of his should ever go into the Compton coffers.

In this mood of sullen, unforgiving anger Sir John remained for a full year; when to his surprise and delight he received a summons to attend, at Whitehall, on the Queen, whose graciousness during his mayoralty he remembered with pleasure and gratitude; and no man in England was prouder or more pleased than he when, at the time appointed, he made his bow to his Sovereign-Lady and kissed her hand.

"I have summoned you, Sir John," Her Majesty said, "to ask a great favour of you. I do not often stoop, as you know, to beg a favour of any man; nor should I now, did I not know that I have no more dutiful subject than yourself, and that to ask of you is to receive. I am interested in two young people who have had the misfortune to marry against the wishes of the lady's father, and who have thus forfeited his favour. And I wish you to give me and the youthful couple pleasure by taking his place and standing sponsor to their first child."

To such a request made by his Sovereign Sir John could but give a delighted consent. He would do much more than this, he vowed, to give her a moment's gratification; and he not only attended the baptismal ceremony, but on the suggestion of the Queen, who was also present, allowed the child to bear his own Christian name. "More than this, your Majesty," he declared, "as I have now no child of my own, I will gladly adopt this infant as my heir."

"Your goodness of heart, Sir John," Her Majesty answered, beaming with pleasure, "shall not go unrewarded; for the child you have now taken to your heart and made inheritor of your wealth is indeed of your own flesh and blood—the first-born son of your daughter, and my friend, Elizabeth Compton."

Such was the dramatic plight into which "Rich Spencer's" loyalty and generosity had led him. He had innocently pledged himself to adopt as his heir, the son of the daughter he had disowned for ever. "And now, Sir John," continued the Queen, "that you have conceded so much to make me happy, will you not go one step farther and take your wilful and penitent daughter to your heart again?" What could the poor merchant do in such a predicament, when his Sovereign stooped to beg as a favour what his lonely heart yearned to grant? Before he was many minutes older he was clasping his child to his breast; and was even shaking hands with her graceless husband.

* * * * *

When, full of years, Sir John died in 1609, his obsequies were worthy of his wealth and fame. He was followed to his grave in St Helen's Church by a thousand mourners, clad in black gowns; and three hundred and twenty poor men, we are told, "had each a basket given them, containing a black gown, four pounds of beef, two loaves of bread, a little bottle of wine, a candlestick, a pound of candles, two saucers, two spoons, a black pudding, a pair of gloves, a dozen points, two red herrings, four white herrings, six sprats and two eggs"—a quaint and lavish symbol of his charity when alive.

So enormous was the fortune he left, that it is said Lord Compton, on hearing its amount (L800,000) "became distracted, and so continued for a considerable length of time, either through the vehement apprehension of joy for such a plentiful succession, or of carefulness how to take up and dispense of it."

That my Lady Compton, who a few years after her father's death blossomed into a Countess, proved a devoted and dutiful wife to her lord there is no reason to doubt; but that she had an adequate idea of her own importance and a determination to have her share of her father's money-bags is shown by the following letter, which is sufficiently remarkable to bear quotation in full.

"My sweet life,—Now that I have declared to you my mind for the settling of your estate, I suppose that it were best for me to bethink what allowance were best for me; for, considering what care I have ever had of your estate, and how respectfully I dealt with those which both by the laws of God, nature, and civil policy, wit, religion, government, and honesty, you, my dear, are bound to, I pray and beseech you to grant to me, your most kind and loving wife, the sum of one thousand pounds per an., quarterly to be paid.

"Also, I would, besides that allowance for my apparel, have six hundred pounds added yearly for the performance of charitable works; these I would not neither be accountable for. Also, I will have three horses for my own saddle, that none shall dare to lend or borrow; none lend but I, none borrow but you. Also, I would have two gentlewomen, lest one should be sick; also, believe that it would be an indecent thing for a gentlewoman to stand mumping alone, when God has blest their Lord and Lady with a great estate. Also, when I ride hunting or hawking, or travel from one house to another, I will have them attending, so for each of those said women I must have a horse. Also, I will have six or eight gentlemen, and will have two coaches; one lined with velvet to myself, with four very fair horses; and a coach for my women lined with sweet cloth, orelaid with gold; the other with scarlet, and laced with watchet lace and silver, with four good horses. Also, I will have two coachmen, one for myself, the other for my women. Also, whenever I travel, I will be allowed not only carroches and spare horses for me and my women, but such carriages as shall be fitting for all, orderly, not pestering my things with my women's, nor theirs with chambermaids, nor theirs with washmaids.

"Also, laundresses, when I travel; I will have them sent away with the carriages to see all safe, and the chambermaids shall go before with the grooms, that the chambers may be ready, sweet, and clean.

"Also, for that it is indecent for me to croud myself with my gentleman-usher in my coach, I will have him have a convenient horse to attend me either in city or country; and I must have four footmen; and my desire is that you will defray the charges for me.

"And for myself, besides my yerely allowance, I would have twenty gowns apparel, six of them excellent good ones, eight of them for the country, and six others of them excellent good ones. Also, I would have to put in my purse two thousand and two hundred pounds, and so you to pay my debts. Also, I would have eight thousand pounds to buy me jewels, and six thousand pounds for a pearl chain.

"Now seeing I have been, and am, so reasonable unto you, I pray you to find my children apparel, and their schooling, and all my servants, men and women, their wages.

"Also, I will have all my houses furnished, and all my lodging-chambers to be suited with all such furniture as is fit, as beds, stools, chairs, cushions, carpets, silver warming-pans, cupboards of plate, fair hangings, etc.; and so for my drawing-chambers in all houses, I will have them delicately furnished with hangings, couch, canopy, cushions, carpets, etc.

"Also, my desire is that you would pay your debts, build up Ashby House and purchase lands and lend no money (as you love God) to the Lord Chamberlain, which would have all, perhaps your life from you; remember his son, my Lord Wildan, what entertainments he gave me when you were at the Tilt-yard. If you were dead, he said, he would be a husband, a father, a brother, and said he would marry me. I protest I grieve to see the poor man have so little wit and honesty to use his friend so vilely; also, he fed me with untruths concerning the Charter-House; but that is the least; he wished me much harm; you know how. God keep you and me from him, and such as he is.

"So now I have declared to you my mind, what I would have, and what I would not have; I pray you, when you be Earl, to allow a thousand pounds more than now I desire and double allowance.—Your loving wife, ELIZABETH COMPTON."



CHAPTER XII

TRAGEDIES OF THE TURF

In the whole drama of the British Peerage there are few figures at once so splendid in promise and opportunities, so pathetic in failure and so tragic in their exit as that of the fourth and last Marquess of Hastings. Seldom has man been born to a greater heritage; scarcely ever has he flung away more prodigally the choicest gifts of fortune.

When Henry Weysford Charles Plantagenet was born one July day in 1842 it was a very fair world on which he opened his eyes, a world in which rank and wealth and exceptional personal gifts should have ensured for him a leading role. He was still in the cradle when his father, the second lord, died; and he was barely nine years old when the death of his elder brother made the school-boy a full-blown Marquess, the inheritor of vast estates and a princely rent-roll.

But Fate, which had showered such gifts on the young lord had, as so often happens, marred them all by the curse of heredity. The taint of gambling was in the boy's blood. His mother had won an unenviable reputation throughout Europe by her passion for gambling; indeed there were few gaming-tables in Europe at which the "jolly fast Marchioness" was not a familiar and notorious figure. And his father, the Marquess, was as devoted to horses and turf-gambling as his wife to her cards and roulette. That the child of such parents should inherit their depraved tastes is not to be marvelled at. And it was not long before they manifested themselves in a dangerous form.

While he was still an undergraduate at Oxford the young Marquess who, from childhood, could not bear the sight of a book when there was a dog or a horse to claim his attention, began that career on the turf which was to be as tragic in its end as it was dazzling in its zenith. He bought from a Mr Henry Padwick for L13,500 a horse called Kangaroo, which was not worth the cost of his keep. What a fraudulent animal he was is proved by the fact that he never won a penny for his purchaser, and ended his career, as he ought to have begun it, between the shafts of a hansom.

But, so far from being disheartened by this initial experience, Lord Hastings had barely thrown aside his cap and gown before he was owner of half a hundred race-horses, with John Day as trainer; and was fully embarked on his turf-career. From the very first year of his enlarged venture success smiled on him. Ackworth won the Cambridgeshire for him, in 1864; the Duke captured the Goodwood Cup two years later; and the Earl carried off the Grand Prix de Paris. In the four years, 1864 to 1867 the Marquess won over L60,000 in stakes alone, while his winnings in bets were larger still. So excellent a judge of a horse was he that he only spoke the truth when he boasted, "I could easily make L30,000 a year by backing other men's horses." Indeed on one race, Lecturer's Cesarewitch, he cleared L75,000. Such was the brilliant start of a racing-career which was to close so soon in failure and disgrace.

In the world of the Turf the youthful Marquess was hailed as a new deity. At Epsom, Newmarket, and a dozen other race-courses his appearance created as much sensation as that of the Prince of Wales himself; he was greeted everywhere with cheers and a salvo of doffed hats; and the way in which he scattered his smiles and his bets was regal in its prodigality.

"As he canters on to the course," we are told, "he slackens speed as he passes through the line of carriages, from which come shrill, plaintive cries, 'Dear Lord Hastings, do come here for one second,' and others to like purpose. Conveniently deaf to the voice of the charmers, he rides straight into the horseman's circle, and takes up his position on the heavy-betting side. 'They're laying odds on yours, my lord,' exclaims a bookmaker. 'What odds?' blandly asks the owner. 'Well, my lord, I'll take you six monkeys to four!' 'Put it down,' is the brief response. 'And me, three hundred to two—and me—and me!' clamour a score of pencillers, who come clustering up. 'Done with you, and you, and you'—the bets are booked as freely as offered. 'And now, my lord, if you've a mind for a bit more, I'll take you thirty-five hundred to two thousand.' 'And so you shall!' is the cheery answer, as the backer expands under the genial influence of the biggest bet of the day. Then, with their seventies to forties, and seven ponies to four, the smaller fry are duly enregistered, and the Marquess wheels his hack, his escort gathers round him, and away they dash."

Such was the splendid, reckless fashion in which the Marquess would fling about his wagers until he frequently stood to win or lose L50,000 on a single race. If he had always kept his head under the intoxication of this wild gambling he might perhaps have made another fortune equal to that he had inherited. But his wagering was as erratic as himself, and his gains were punctuated by heavy losses which began to make inroads on even his enormous resources.

The first crushing blow fell on that memorable day when Hermit struggled through a blinding snowstorm first past the post in the Derby of 1867, to the open-mouthed amazement of every looker on; for Mr Chaplin's colt had been considered so hopeless that odds of forty to one were freely laid against him.

Hermit's sensational victory was the climax of a singular and romantic story. Three years earlier Lady Florence Paget, daughter of the second Marquess of Anglesey, had been the affianced bride of Mr Henry Chaplin, who was passionately devoted to her, little dreaming that another had stolen her heart from him. One day Lady Florence, with Mr Chaplin for escort, drove to Messrs Swan & Edgar's, ostensibly on shopping bent; but the shopping was merely a cloak to another and treacherous design. She entered the shop, slipped out through the back entrance where Lord Hastings was awaiting her, jumped into his cab, and was whirled away while her fiance patiently and unsuspectingly awaited her return at the opposite side of the building.

When Mr Chaplin realised the dastardly trick that had been played on him, he bore the blow to his pride and affection right bravely. No trace of resentment was ever shown to the world; but he would have been less than a man if he had not cherished thoughts of retaliation. His opportunity came when Hermit was offered for sale by auction, and Lord Hastings was among the keenest bidders for the son of Newminster and Eclipse. At any cost Mr Chaplin determined to baffle his betrayer for once—and he succeeded; for, when the Marquess stopped short at 950 guineas, Mr Chaplin secured the colt by a further bid of 50 guineas.

At the time he little realised—nor did he much care—what a bargain he had got; for Hermit not only sired two Derby winners in Shotover and St Blaise, before he died his sons and daughters had won among them L300,000 in stake-money alone. Not much later came that ill-starred Derby, which none who saw it can ever forget. Lord Hastings, angry at having lost the horse to his rival, laid the long odds against Hermit so recklessly that he stood to lose a large fortune by his success; and Hermit's last few gallant strides cost him over L100,000.

It was a staggering blow, under which the most stoical man with the longest purse might well have reeled; but the Marquess met it with a smile of indifference; and when, a few minutes later, he drove off the course, with his friends, in a barouche and four to dine at Richmond, he seemed the gayest of the company. A few days before his death, recalling this tragic moment in his life, he said proudly, "Hermit fairly broke my heart. But I didn't show it, did I?"

That his smiling face must have masked a very heavy heart, it scarcely needed his own confession to prove. Rich as he still was, the loss of more than L100,000 was a very serious matter. Indeed we know that he was only able to meet his liabilities by parting with his magnificent estate of Loudoun in Scotland, which realised L300,000. When the doors of Tattersall's opened on the morning of settling-day, the first to present themselves were his agents, who handed over L103,000 in settlement of all claims against the Marquess. Mr Chaplin had scored, and scored heavily; but at least it should never be said that his defeated rival had shrunk from paying the last ounce of the penalty the moment it was due.

When next his lordship appeared on a race-course—it was at Ascot, a few months later—he was greeted with thunders of cheers from the bookmakers, a tribute to his pluck and sportsmanship, which must have taken away some of the sting of defeat. But fate which had dealt this merciless blow to the Marquess was in no mood to spare him further disaster. The second stroke fell within five months of the first—at the Newmarket second October Meeting. The favourite for the Middle Park Plate was Lord Hastings' filly, Elizabeth, whose chances he fancied so much that he backed her heavily, confident that he would recover a great part of his Derby losses.

When Elizabeth, instead of running away from her rivals, passed the winning-post a bad fifth, even his iron nerve failed him for once. He uttered no word; but he grew pale as death, and staggered as if about to fall. A moment later, however, he had pulled himself together and was helping Lady Aylesbury to count her small losses. "Tell me how I stand," asked her ladyship, as she placed her betting-book in his hand. The Marquess made the necessary calculation; and with a smile of sympathy, answered: "You have lost L23." And he, who could thus calmly calculate so trifling a loss, was L50,000 poorer by his filly's failure to win the Plate!

He knew well that he was a ruined man—worse than this, unutterably galling to his proud spirit—he knew that he was a disgraced man. His vast fortune had crumbled away until he had not L50,000 in the world to pay this last debt of honour. And yet he continued to smile in the face of ruin, carrying through this crowning disaster the brave heart of an English gentleman and a sportsman.

He sold the last of his remaining acres, his hunters and hounds, and all his personal belongings; and all the money he could raise from the wreckage of his fortune was a pitiful L10,000. His last sovereign was gone, and he was L40,000 in debt, without a hope of paying it. When he next appeared on a race-course the very men who had cheered him to the echo at Ascot greeted him with jeers and angry shouts at Epsom. The hero of the Turf, the idol of the Ring, was that blackest of black sheep, a defaulter!

And not only was he thus branded as a defaulter. Strange stories were being circulated to his further discredit as a sportsman. The running of Lady Elizabeth in one race was, it was said, more than open to suspicion. The Earl, who was considered a certainty for the Derby, was unaccountably scratched on the very evening before the race, though the Marquess stood to win L35,000 by her, and did not hedge the stake-money.

The public indignation at these discreditable incidents found a vent in the columns of the Times; and although Lord Hastings denied that there was "one single circumstance mentioned as regards the two horses, correctly stated," and offered a frank explanation in both cases, the public refused to be appeased, and the stigma remained.

So overwhelmed was he by this combination of assaults on his fortune and his good name that his health—undermined no doubt by excesses—broke down. He spent the summer months of 1868 in his yacht, cruising among the northern seas in search of health; but no sea-breezes could bring back colour to his cheeks or hope to his heart. He was a broken man before he had reached his prime, and he realised that his sun was near its setting. When he returned to England no one who saw him could doubt that the end was at hand. But his ruling passion remained strong to the last. He was advised by his friends to stay away from the Doncaster races; but he would go, though he could only with difficulty hobble on crutches.

The last pathetic glimpse the world caught of this former idol of the Turf was as, from a basket-carriage, with pale, haggard face and straining eyes, he watched Athena, a beautiful mare which had once been his, win a race. As she was being led to the weighing-house he struggled from his carriage, hobbled on his crutches up to the beautiful animal, and lovingly patted her glossy neck.

Such was the last appearance of the ill-fated Marquess on a scene of his former triumphs. For a few months longer he made a gallant fight for life. He even contemplated another voyage, and a winter in Egypt; but, almost before winter had set in, on the 11th November 1868, he gave up the struggle and drew his last breath—"leaving neither heir to his honours nor the smallest vestige of his ruined fortune; but leaving, in spite of his final failure, the memory of a true sportsman, and of a perfect gentleman who was no man's enemy but his own."

* * * * *

Before the Marquess of Hastings had mounted his first pony another meteor of the Turf, equally dazzling, had flashed across the sky, and been merged in a darkness even more tragic than his own.

Lord William George Frederick Cavendish Bentinck, commonly known and loved as "Lord George," who was cradled at Welbeck in February 1802, was the second son of the fourth Duke of Portland, a keen sportsman who won the Derby of 1809 with Teresias. The boy thus had the love of sport in his veins; and a passion for racing was the dominant note in his too brief life from the day, in 1833, when he started a small stud of his own, to that fatal day on which, piqued by his repeated failure to win the coveted "blue riband," he sold every horse in his stables at a word, and abandoned the Turf in despair.

"Lord George Bentinck," wrote Thormanby, a few years ago, "was the idol of the sportsmen of his own day. The commanding personality of the man threw a spell over all with whom he was brought into contact; they were half-fascinated, half-awed—judgment and criticism surrendered to admiration. There are still veterans left, like old John Kent, who talk with bated breath of Lord George as a superior being, a god-like man, a king of men."

From the day he joined the Army as a cornet of Hussars in 1819, to the tragic close of his life, Lord George always cut a conspicuous and brilliant figure in the world. He was the spoilt child of Fortune; and, like all such spoilt children, was constantly getting into hot water—and out of it again. As a subaltern, for instance, he showed such little respect for his seniors that, one day on parade, a Captain Kerr exclaimed aloud: "If you don't make this young gentleman behave himself, Colonel, I will." Whereupon the insubordinate sub. retorted: "Captain Kerr ventures to say on parade that which he dares not repeat off."

Such was the youth and such the man—gay, debonair, and popular to the highest degree, but always uncontrollable and reckless. As a sportsman he was the chief of popular heroes, his appearance on a race-course being the invariable signal for an ovation, such as the King might have envied. And, indeed, his Turf transactions were all conducted on a scale of truly regal magnificence. Though he was never by any means rich, he often had as many as sixty horses in training, while his racing stud numbered a hundred. He kept three stud farms going, and his out-of-pocket expenses ran to L50,000 and more a year. To provide the money for such prodigality he wagered enormous sums. For the Derby of 1843, for instance, he stood to win L150,000 on his horse Gaper, and actually pocketed L30,000, though Gaper was not even placed. In 1845 his net winnings on bets reached L100,000; and he thought nothing of staking his entire year's private income on a single race.

One by one all the great prizes of the Turf fell to him—some many times—but the only prize he ever cared a brass farthing for, the Derby, always eluded his grasp, though again and again it seemed a certainty. So deep at last became his disgust and mortification at the unkindness of Fate in withholding the only boon he coveted that, in a moment of pique, he decided to sell his stud and leave the turf for ever.

"I'll sell you the lot," he impulsively said to George Payne at Goodwood, "from Bay Middleton to little Kitchener (his famous jockey), for L100,000. Yes or no?" Payne offered him L300 to have a few hours to think the offer over, and handed the sum over at breakfast the next morning. No sooner had the forfeit been paid than Mr Mostyn, who was sitting at the same table, looked up quietly and said: "I'll take the lot, Bentinck, at L10,000, and will give you a cheque before you go on the course." "If you please," was Lord George's placid answer; and thus ended one of the most brilliant Turf careers on record.

And now for the irony of Fate! Among the stud thus sold, in a fit of pique, for "an old song" was Surplice, the winner of the next year's Derby and St Leger. Lord George had actually had the great prize in his hand and had let it go!

How keenly he felt the blow may be gathered from the following passage in Lord Beaconsfield's biography:

"A few days before—it was the day after the Derby, May 25, 1848—the writer met Lord George Bentinck in the library of the House of Commons. He was standing before the bookshelves with a volume in his hand, and his countenance was greatly disturbed. His resolution in favour of the Colonial interest, after all his labours, had been negatived by the Committee on the 22nd; and on the 24th, his horse, Surplice, whom he had parted with among the rest of the stud, had won that paramount and Olympic stake, to gain which had been the object of his life. He had nothing to console him, and nothing to sustain him, except his pride. Even that deserted him before a heart, which he knew at least could yield him sympathy. He gave a sort of superb groan.

"'All my life I have been trying for this, and for what have I sacrificed it?' he murmured. It was in vain to offer solace.

"'You do not know what the Derby is,' he moaned.

"'Yes, I do; it is the Blue Riband of the Turf.'

"'It is the Blue Riband of the Turf,' he slowly repeated to himself; and, sitting down at a table, buried himself in a folio of statistics."

Just a few months later, on 21st September 1848, his body was found lying, cold and stiff, in a meadow about a mile from Welbeck. That very morning he had risen full of health and spirits, and at four o'clock in the afternoon had set out to walk across country to Thoresby, Lord Manvers' seat, where he was to spend a couple of days. He had sent on his valet by road in advance; but the night fell, and Lord George never made his appearance. A search with lanterns was instituted, and about midnight his body was discovered lying face downwards close to one of the deer-park gates. He had been dead for some hours.

What was the cause of his mysterious death? The coroner's jury appear to have found no difficulty in coming to a decision. Their verdict was, "Died by the visitation of God—to wit, a spasm of the heart." Thus vanished from the world one of its most brilliant and picturesque ornaments, in the very prime of his life and his powers (he was only forty-six), and when he seemed assured of a political future even more dazzling than his Turf fame.

But there were many, among the thousands who deplored the tragic eclipse of such a promising life, who were by no means satisfied with the vague verdict of the inquest. Lord George had always been a man of remarkable vigour and health, and never more so than on the day of his death. Was it at all likely that such a man would drop dead during a quiet and unexciting stroll across country? Later years, however, have brought new facts to light which suggest a very different explanation of this tragedy. "The hand of God" it was, no doubt, which struck the fatal blow—it always must be; but was there no other agency, and that a human one? Could it not be the hand of a brother? Some have said it was; and although the story is involved in obscurity and may be open to grave doubt (indeed it has been more than once flatly contradicted) there can, perhaps, be no harm in including it in this volume. This is the story as it has been told.

Though Lord George Bentinck was the handsomest man, and one of the most eligible partis of his day he never married; yet, no doubt, he had many an "affair of the heart." But not one of all the high-born ladies, who would have turned their backs on coronets to become "Lady George," could in his eyes compare with Annie May Berkelay, a lovely and penniless girl, who could not even boast a "respectable" parentage.

Miss Berkeley was, so it is said, a child of that most romantic union between the Earl of Berkeley and pretty Mary Cole, the butcher's daughter. This girl he professed to have made his countess shortly after in the parish church of Berkeley. That his lordship legally married his low-born bride at Lambeth eleven years later is beyond doubt, but that alleged first secret marriage was more than open to suspicion. There seems little doubt that the entry the in Berkeley church register was a forgery; and that, not until Mary Cole had borne several children to the Earl, did she become legally his wife by the valid knot tied at Lambeth. It was, in fact, decided by the House of Peers that the Berkeley marriage was not proven, and thus seven of the children were illegitimate.

It was one of Lord Berkeley's children thus branded to the world who is said to have won the heart and the homage of Lord George Bentinck. And little wonder; for Annie May Berkeley had inherited more than her mother's beauty of face and of figure, with the patrician air and refinement which came from generations of noble ancestors.

But handsome Lord George was only one of many wooers whom her charms had enslaved. There were others equally ardent, if less favoured; and among them none other than the Marquess of Titchfield, Lord George's elder brother, and the future "eccentric Duke" of Portland, often referred to as "The Wizard of Welbeck." The Marquess and his younger brother had never been on the best of terms. They had little in common; and when they found themselves rival suitors for the smiles of the same maiden this incompatibility gave place to a bitter estrangement.

It was not, however, until Lord George discovered that the Marquess was more intimate with his ladylove than he should be, that their mutual relations became strained to a dangerous degree. It is said that the brothers quarrelled fiercely whenever they met, and that Lord George, whose temper was violent, frequently struck his brother, who was no physical match for him. One day, so the story goes, their constant squabbles reached a climax. After a fiercer quarrel than usual Lord George struck his brother and rival repeatedly, until the latter, roused to fury, struck back and landed a heavy blow on his brother's chest, over the heart. Lord George's heart was diseased, and the blow proved fatal.

This, then, is said to be the true explanation of the tragedy of that September day in 1848; of that "spasm of the heart" which, according to the verdict of the coroner's jury, was the cause of Lord George Bentinck's death. If this story is true, much that has been so long mysterious becomes clear. Lord George's sudden and tragic death is explained; as also the fact that it was from this period that the Duke of Portland's moroseness and shunning of the world became so marked as to be scarcely distinguishable from insanity. If the death of a brother, however provoked and accidental, had been on his conscience, what could be more natural than that the fratricide should thus shut himself from the world in sorrow and remorse?



CHAPTER XIII

THE WICKED BARON

The British Peerage, like most other human flocks, has had many black sheep within its fold; but few of them have been blacker than Charles, fifth Baron Mohun of Okehampton, who shocked the world by his violence and licentiousness a couple of centuries ago.

Charles Mohun had in his veins the blood of centuries of gallant men and fair women, from Sir William de Mohun, who fought so bravely for the Conqueror on the field of Hastings, to his father, the fourth Lord of Okehampton, who took to wife a daughter of the first Earl of Anglesey, a man who won fame in his day by his statesmanship and his pen. But there was also in his veins a black strain which branded the Mohun 'scutcheon with the stigma of eternal shame.

From his early youth he exhibited an unbridled temper and a passion for low pursuits. In an age when loose morals and violence were winked at, he soon won an unenviable notoriety by his excesses in both. Wine and women, gambling and duelling, were the breath of life to him, and in each indulgence he was infamously supreme. He was twice arraigned for murder, and in the prime of life he died a murderer.

Such was the fifth Lord Mohun when our story opens, towards the close of his shameless career; and in the first of the disgraceful episodes that marked its close, as in so many others of his career, a beautiful woman figures prominently—none other than the celebrated Mrs Bracegirdle, the most fascinating actress of her day, whose witcheries made a lover of every man who came under the spell of her charms.

Her army of lovers ranged from Congreve and Rowe, who wrote inspired and passionate plays for her, to the Dukes of Dorset and Devonshire and Lord Lovelace (among a hundred other titled gallants), who were ready to shed their last drop of blood in defence of her fair fame; though each sought in vain to besmirch it in his own person. But her virtue was reputed to be "as impregnable as the rock of Gibraltar." Dr Doran describes her as "that Diana of the stage, before whom Congreve and Lord Lovelace, at the head of a troop of bodkined fops, worshipped in vain"; although, with all her unassailable propriety, she did not escape outspoken suspicions of being Congreve's mistress all the time.

Describing her charms, another chronicler says:

"She was of a lovely height, with dark brown hair and eyebrows, black sparkling eyes, and a fresh blushing complexion; and, whenever she exerted herself, had an involuntary flushing in her breast, neck, and face."

Such, in the cold medium of print, was Mrs Bracegirdle when she became the central figure of a great tragedy, the horrors of which have sent a thrill down to our own time.

Among Mrs Bracegirdle's many baffled wooers was Captain Richard Hill, a boon companion of Charles, Lord Mohun, and a man of unrestrained passion. To all the Captain's coarse advances the actress turned a contemptuous shoulder, until in his rage he swore that at any cost she should be his. There was, he was convinced, only one real obstacle to the success of his suit, Jack Montford, the handsomest actor of his day, to whom Mrs Bracegirdle was said to be very kind; and the furious Captain vowed: "I am resolved to have the blood of Montford, and to carry off his charmer by force if need be."

Captain Hill made no concealment of his purpose. He mouthed his threats aloud at his favourite tavern in Covent Garden and elsewhere; and he found a willing helper in Lord Mohun, who was always ripe for any dastardly scheme; and, with Mohun's help, he carefully prepared his plans for both murder and abduction, for on both his heart was set.

By lavish bribes the two conspirators engaged half a dozen soldiers to assist in their scheme; they arranged that a coach with two horses, and four others in reserve, should be in waiting at nine o'clock in Drury Lane, close to the theatre at which Mrs Bracegirdle made her appearance nightly; and, equipped with a formidable armoury of swords, daggers, and pistols, they repaired at the appointed time to the scene of action.

For a full hour they waited, watching with lynx eyes the door from which the fair actress would emerge; but, as luck would have it, she was not playing that night. She was, in fact, at the moment supping at the house of a friend, Mrs Page, in Princes Street, close by; and they were on the point of proceeding there when the lady made her appearance, with her mother as companion and Mr Page and her brother for escort, on her way home to her lodgings in Howard Street across the Strand.

At sight of their fair prey two of the soldiers rushed forward, snatched Mrs Bracegirdle from her mother's arm and dragged her, screaming and resisting, towards the coach in which Lord Mohun was sitting by his cases of pistols, and in which it was intended to carry her off to Totteridge. When her escort rushed to her rescue, Hill struck at the old lady with his sword; but the cries and sounds of scuffling attracted such a crowd that a change of plans became necessary.

With consummate cleverness the adroit Captain now took each of the ladies by the arm and coolly conducted them himself out of the crowd to their lodgings, Mohun and the soldiers following ignominiously behind. Upon reaching Howard Street, the ladies safely indoors, the soldiers were dismissed, and Mohun and his ally, with drawn swords, paced up and down the street, vowing vengeance on the unhappy Montford, whom they considered the cause of all their troubles, and who, sooner or later, must pass through Howard Street on his way to his house in Norfolk Street adjoining.

For two long hours they kept their bloodthirsty vigil, feeding the flames of hate with copious draughts of wine, which they procured from a neighbouring tavern. The lady had escaped them, but they would at least make sure of her lover, the handsome actor, who on the stroke of midnight turned the corner into Howard Street.

Montford had, it appears, already heard of the frustrated attempt to carry off Mrs Bracegirdle, and that Mohun and Hill were keeping watch outside her lodgings; so that he was not unprepared for an unpleasant scene. Picture his amazement then when Lord Mohun advanced smilingly to meet him, and embraced him with a great show of affection. "I am not prepared for such cordiality," the actor said coldly, as he disengaged himself from the unwelcome embrace. "I should prefer to learn how you justify Captain Hill's abominable rudeness to a lady, or keeping company with such a scoundrel."

At this moment the Captain, inflamed with drink, strolled insolently up to the pair, and, giving Montford a resounding box on the ear, exclaimed, "Here I am to justify myself. Draw, fellow!" But before Montford had time to recover from the blow and to unsheath his sword, Hill ran him through the body. Without a groan the wounded man sank to the ground. A cry of "Murder" arose; the watchmen rushed to the scene. But before they arrived Hill had made his escape; while Mohun, who at least had the courage of his race, submitted himself to arrest. His first question to the watchmen was, "Has Hill escaped?" And when he was assured that he had, he added: "I am glad of it! I should not care if I were hanged for him."

Such was the story which sent a thrill of horror through London on the day following the tragedy, and which aroused a fury of anger against the cowardly assassins; for not only was Jack Montford a popular idol who had captured all hearts with his handsome face and figure, his clever acting and his unaffected personal charm, but his wife, who had been thus tragically widowed, was one of the most gifted and delightful women who ever adorned the stage.

It was thus inevitable that Lord Mohun's trial by his Peers, which was opened on the 31st of January 1693, in Westminster Hall, and which was invested with all the pomp and ceremonial befitting such an occasion, should attract crowds of excited spectators, curious to see the principal actors in this sensational drama, and burning to see justice done to the noble instigator of the murder. The pent-up excitement culminated when Mrs Bracegirdle, looking more beautiful than ever in spite of her pallor and evidences of suffering, entered the witness-box; and every word of the story she told was listened to in a silence that was painful in its intensity.

In answer to the Attorney-General's request that she should "give my lord an account of the whole of your knowledge of the attempt that was made upon you in Drury Lane, and what followed upon it," she said:

"'My lord, I was in Prince's Street at supper at Mr Page's, and at ten o'clock at night Mr Page went home with me; and, coming down Drury Lane there stood a coach by my Lord Craven's door, and the hood of the coach was drawn, and a great many men stood by it. Just as I came to the place where the coach stood, two soldiers came and pushed me from Mr Page, and four or five men came up to them, and they knocked my mother down almost, for my mother and my brother were with me.

"'My mother recovered and came and hung about my neck, so that they could not get me into the coach, and Mr Page went to call company to rescue me. Then Mr Hill came with his drawn sword and struck at Mr Page and my mother; and when they could not get me into the coach because company came up, he said he would see me home, and he had me by one hand and my mother by the other. And when we came home he pulled Mr Page by the sleeve and said, "Sir, I would speak with you."'

"ATTORNEY-GENERAL:—'Pray, Mrs Bracegirdle, did you see anybody in the coach when they pulled you to it?'

"MRS BRACEGIRDLE:—'Yes, my Lord Mohun was in the coach; and when they pulled me to the coach I saw my Lord Mohun in it. As they led me along Drury Lane, my Lord Mohun came out of the coach and followed us, and all the soldiers followed them; but they were dismissed, and, as I said, when we came to our lodgings, Mr Hill pulled Mr Page by the sleeve and said he would speak with him. Saith Mr Page, "Mr Hill, another time will do; to-morrow will serve." With that, when I was within doors, Mr Page was pulled into the house, and Mr Hill walked up and down the street with his sword drawn. He had his sword drawn when he came alone with me.'

"ATTORNEY-GENERAL:—'Did you observe him to say anything whilst he was with you?'

"MRS BRACEGIRDLE:—'As I was going down the hill he said, as he held me, that he would be revenged, but he did not say on whom. When I was in the house several persons went to the door, and afterwards Mrs Browne (my landlady), went to the door, and spoke to them, and asked them what they stayed and waited there for. At last they said they stayed to be revenged of Mr Montford; and then Mrs Browne came in to me and told me of it.'

"ATTORNEY-GENERAL:—'Were my Lord Mohun and Mr Hill both together when that was said, that they stayed to be revenged of Mr Montford?'

"MRS BRACEGIRDLE:—'Yes, they were. And when Mrs Browne came in and told me, I sent my brother and my maid and all the people we could out of the house to Mrs Montford to desire her to send, if she knew where her husband was, to tell him of it; and she did. And when they came indoors again I went to the door, and the doors were shut, and I listened to hear if they were there still; and my Lord Mohun and Mr Hill were walking up and down the street. By-and-bye the watch came up to them, and when the watch came they said, "Gentlemen, why do you walk with your swords drawn?" Says my Lord Mohun, "I am a peer of England—touch me if you dare!" Then the watch left them, and they went away; and a little after there was a cry of "murder." And that is all I know, my lord.'

When at the close of the case Lord Mohun was asked if he had anything to say in his defence, he answered:

"My lords, I hope it will be no disadvantage to me my not summing up my evidence like a lawyer. I think I have made it plainly appear that there never was any formal quarrel or malice between Mr Montford and me. I have also made appear the reason why we stayed so long in the street, which was for Mr Hill to speak with Mrs Bracegirdle and ask her pardon, and I stayed with him as my friend. So plainly appeareth I had no hand in killing Mr Montford, and upon the confidence of my own innocency I surrendered myself to this honourable house, where I know I shall have all the justice in the world."

The trial, which lasted five days, resulted in a verdict of acquittal—sixty-nine peers voting Lord Mohun "Not Guilty," and fourteen finding him "Guilty."

One would have thought that such a severe lesson and narrow escape would have given Mohun pause in his career of vice and crime. On the contrary, it seems merely to have whetted his appetite for similar adventures. He plunged into still deeper dissipation; one mad revel succeeded another; duel followed duel, all without provocation on any part but his own. He killed in cold blood two more men who had innocently provoked his enmity, "as if increase of appetite did grow by that it fed on," until he rightly became the most dreaded and hated man in all England, a man to whom a glance, a gesture, or a harmless word might mean death.

But his evil days were drawing to their end; and appropriately he died in a welter of innocent blood. When the Duke of Hamilton was appointed Ambassador to the French Court, the Whigs were so alarmed by his known partiality for the Pretender that the more unscrupulous of them decided that, at any cost, he must be got rid of. What simpler plan could there be than by provoking him to a duel; what fitter tool than the fire-eating, bloodthirsty Mohun, the most skilled swordsman of his day?

Mohun jumped at the vile suggestion, and lost no time in seeking the Duke and insulting him in public. His Grace, however, who knew the man's reputation only too well, treated the insult with the silence and contempt it deserved; whereupon Mohun, roused to fury by this studied slight, changed his role to that of challenger. Thrice he sent his second, one Major-General Macartney, almost as big a scoundrel as himself, to the Duke's house in St James's Square; the fourth time a meeting was arranged for the following morning at the Ring, in Hyde Park, a favourite duelling-ground of the time. The intervening night hours Mohun and his satellite spent in debauchery in a low house of pleasure.

In the cold, grey dawn of the following morning—the morning of 15th November 1712—the principals and seconds appeared almost simultaneously at the Ring—in the daytime the haunt of beauty and fashion, in the early morning hours a desolate part of the Park—and the preliminaries were quickly arranged. Turning to Macartney, the Duke said: "I am well assured, sir, that all this is by your contrivance, and therefore you shall have your share in the dance; my friend here, Colonel Hamilton, will entertain you." "I wish for no better partner," Macartney replied; "the Colonel may command me."

A few moments later the double fight began with infinite fury. Swords flashed and clattered; lunge and parry, parry and lunge followed in lightning succession; the laboured breaths went up in gusts of steam on the morning air. There was murder in two pairs of eyes, a resolve as grim as death itself in the stern set faces of their opponents. Soon the blood began to spurt and ooze from a dozen wounds; the Duke was wounded in both legs; his adversary in the groin and arm. Faces, swords, the very ground, became crimson. Colonel Hamilton had at last disarmed his opponent, but the others fought on—gasping, reeling, lunging, feinting, the strength ebbing with each thrust.

At last each made a desperate lunge at the other; the Duke's sword passed clean through his adversary up to the very hilt; Mohun, reeling forward, with a last effort shortened his sword and plunged it deep into the Duke's breast. Colonel Hamilton rushed to his friend and raised him in his arms, when Macartney, snatching up his fallen sword, drove it into the dying man's heart, then took to his heels and made his way as fast as horse and boat could carry him to Holland.

Before the Duke could be raised from the ground to which he had fallen, he had drawn his last breath. A few moments later Mohun, too, succumbed to his wounds—the "Dog Mohun," as Swift called him, lying in death but a few yards from his victim.

"I am infinitely concerned," Swift wrote the same day, "for the poor Duke, who was an honest, good-natured man. I loved him very well, and I think he loved me better."

Thus, steeped in innocent blood, perished Charles Lord Mohun, who well earned his unenviable title, "The wicked Baron."



CHAPTER XIV

A FAIR INTRIGANTE

The face of a baby, the heart of a courtesan, and the brain of a diplomatist. Such was Louise de Querouaille who, two centuries and a half ago, came to England to barter her charms for a King's dishonour, and, incidentally, to found a ducal house as a memorial to her allurements and her shame.

If she had been taken at her own estimate Louise was at least the equal in lineage of any of the proud beauties whose claim she thus challenged to Charles II.'s favour. She had behind her, she said, centuries of noble ancestors, among the greatest in France; and she was kin, near or remote, to every great name in the land of her birth. All, however, that is known of this Queen of intrigantes is that she had for father a worthy, unassuming Breton merchant, who had made a sufficient fortune in the wool-trade to take his ease, as a country gentleman, for the latter part of his days, and whose only ambition was to bring up his son and two daughters respectably, and to dispense a modest hospitality among his neighbours. It was at Brest that Evelyn enjoyed this hospitality for a brief period; and the diarist has nothing but what is good to say of the retired tradesman.

But the worthy merchant had his hands full with one at least of his two daughters, who was developing dangerous fascinations, and with them a precocious knowledge of how to turn them to account. He was thankful to pack Louise off to a boarding-school, where she seems to have led her teachers such a dance that it became necessary to place her in stronger hands; and with this view the foolish father sent her to Paris, the last place in the world for such a charming and designing minx, and to the custody of a weak-willed aunt.

Nothing could have suited Louise better than this change of arena for the exercise of her wilfulness and witchery. Before she had been many days in the French capital she was able to twist her aunt round her little finger—indeed her power of captivating was, to the end of her life, her chief dower—and to obtain all the freedom she wanted. And it was not long before her allurements won the admiration of the dissolute Duc de Beaufort, High Admiral of France, a man skilled in all the arts of love. The girl's bourgeois head was completely turned by the splendour of her first captive; and, to make him secure, she counted no sacrifice too great. Not, indeed, that she ever regarded her virtue as anything but the principal piece she intended to play on the chessboard of life.

For a few years Louise revelled in the new life which the amorous Duc opened to her, and which only came to an end when the Admiral was despatched, in command of a fleet, against the Turks, an expedition from which he was fated never to return. Before he said good-bye, however, Louise took care to make the next step on her ladder of world-conquest secure. Through the Duc's influence she was appointed maid-of-honour to Madame, sister-in-law to Louis XIV., and sister to the second Charles of England, now restored to the throne of his fathers.

We can well imagine that the wool merchant's daughter wasted no sighs on the lover she had lost. She had now a much wider and more splendid field at the Court of France, for the exploiting of her dangerous gifts and the indulgence of her ambition. That the new maid had no lack of lovers we may be sure; for though she was not richly dowered with beauty she always seems to have had a magnetic power over the hearts of men. We know, too, that she singled out for special favour, the Comte de Sault, the handsomest noble in France, a man skilled above all his fellows in the then moribund knightly exercises; and that her liaison with the Comte, in a court where such intimacies were the fashion, added to, rather than detracted from, her social prestige.

Such was the life of Louise de Querouaille up to the time when she made her first acquaintance with the land in which she was destined to crown her adventurous career, and to make herself at once the most dazzling and the most hated figure in England. At this time Louis' designs on Spain and Holland had received a rude check by the signing of an alliance between England, Sweden, and the United Provinces; and it became a matter of vital importance to detach England from a combination so fatal to his schemes. With this object he decided to send Henrietta, Duchess of Orleans, on a visit, ostensibly of affection, to her brother Charles II., charged with a secret mission to induce him by every artifice in her power to withdraw from the alliance.

How Henrietta returned flushed with triumph from this iniquitous embassy, after ten days of high revelry at Dover, is well-known history. Charles, in response to his favourite sister's pleading and bribes, not only consented to desert his allies, but, as soon as he decently could, to follow in the steps of his brother, the Duke of York, to Rome; and in return for these evidences of friendship, Louis was gracious enough to promise him substantial aid and protection; and, further, to grant him a subsidy of L1,000,000 a year if he would take up arms with France against Holland.

It is more to our purpose to know that among the gay galaxy of courtiers who accompanied Madame to England was Louise de Querouaille, who thus first set eyes on the King, in whose life-drama she was to play so brilliant and baleful a role; and that before Charles, with streaming eyes, said "good-bye" to his scheming sister, she had made excellent use of her opportunities to enslave this English "King of Hearts." So much at least was reported to Louis on the return of the embassy, when he was assured by Madame that, of all the beautiful women in her train, the only one to make any impression on her Royal brother was Louise de Querouaille.

This information, no doubt, was in Louis' mind when, later, it became necessary to cement Charles's allegiance to his compact. Gold was always a potent lure to the "Merrie Monarch," whose purse was never deep enough for the demands made on it by his extravagance; but a still more seductive bait was a beautiful woman to add to his seraglio. The Duchess of Cleveland had now lost her youth and good looks; the incomparable Stuart's beauty had been fatally marred by small-pox. Of all the fair and frail women who had held Charles in thrall there was none left to dispute the palm with the French maid-of-honour except Nell Gwynn, the Drury Lane orange-girl, whose sauciness and vulgarity gave to the jaded Sybarite a piquant relish to her charms.

Here was a splendid opportunity for Louis to complete the conquest of his vacillating cousin whose allegiance was so vital to his plans of aggrandisement. Louise should go to Whitehall to play the part of beautiful spy on Charles, and, by her favours, to make him a pliant tool in the hand of "le Roi Soleil."

Charles, who was by no means loth to renew his Dover acquaintance with the bewitching maid-of-honour, sent a yacht to Dieppe to bring her to England, and charged no less a personage than the Duke of Buckingham to be her escort to Whitehall. The Duke, however, who was probably too much occupied with his own affairs of the heart, "totally forgot both the lady and his promise; and, leaving the disconsolate nymph at Dieppe, to manage as best she could, passed over to England by way of Calais,"—a slight which the indignant Louise never forgave.

Thus it was that the new favourite of the King made her journey across the Channel under the escort of the English Ambassador, and was given by him into the charge of Buckingham's political rival, Lord Arlington. "The Duke of Buckingham thus," to quote Bishop Burnet, "lost all merit he might have pretended to, and brought over a mistress whom his strange conduct threw into the hands of his enemies."

The arrival of the "French spy," whose mission was well understood, was hailed by the English nation with execration, modified only by a few stilted lines of greeting from Dryden, as laureate, and some indecent verses by St Evremond—efforts which the new beauty equally rewarded with gracious smiles and thanks. That the English frankly hated her without having even seen her was a matter of small concern—she was prepared for it. All she cared for was that Charles should give her a cordial welcome; and this he did with effusiveness and open arms. Apart from her character as ambassadress to his "dear brother" of France, she was a new and piquant stimulus to his sated appetite—a "dainty dish to set before a King."

She was installed at Whitehall to the flourish of trumpets; was appointed maid-of-honour to the Queen, who frankly disliked and dreaded this new rival in her husband's accommodating affection; and at once assumed her position as chief of those women the King delighted to honour. And with such restraint and discretion did she conduct herself during these early days at Whitehall that she disarmed the jealousy of the Court ladies, while receiving the homage of their gallants.

To Charles she was coyness itself—virtue personified. While smiling graciously on him she kept him at arm's length, thus adding to her attractions the allurement of an unexpected virtue. So jealously did she guard her favours that the French Ambassador began to show alarm.

"I believe," he wrote at this time, "that she has so got round King Charles as to be of the greatest service to our Sovereign lord and master, if she only does her duty."

That Louise was fully conscious of her duty and meant to do it, was never really in question—but the time to unbend was not yet. It was no part of her clever strategy to drop like a ripe plum into Charles's mouth. Il faut reculer pour mieux sauter. She would be accounted all the greater prize for proving difficult to win.

The psychical moment, she decided, had come when Lord Arlington invited Charles and his Court to his palatial country-seat, Euston, where, removed from censorious eyes and in the abandon of country-house freedom, she could exhibit her true colours to full advantage. Over the revels of which Euston was 183 the scene during a few intoxicating weeks, it is but decent to draw the curtain. With such guests as the merry and dissolute Charles, his boon-companions, experts in gallantry, and his ladies, with most of whom an acquaintance with virtue was but a faded memory, it is no difficult matter to raise a corner of the curtain in imagination. One typical scene Forneron records thus:

"Lady Arlington, under the pretext of killing the tedium of October evenings in a country-house, got up a burlesque wedding, in which Louise de Querouaille was the bride and the King the bridegroom, with all the immodest ceremonies which marked, in the good old times, the retirement of the former into the nuptial chamber."

It was precisely such a ceremony in which, a few years earlier, Charles had figured with La belle Stuart, while Lady Castlemaine looked on with laughter and applause.



Such was the revolution that resulted from this country visit that Louise de Querouaille returned to Whitehall, the avowed maitresse en titre to the King. The French maid-of-honour had justified the confidence Louis reposed in her; and as reward she was appointed Lady of the Bedchamber to Catherine, and wore a coronet as Duchess of Portsmouth. More than this, the delighted Louis raised the wool merchant's daughter to the proud rank of Duchesse d'Aubigny, in exchange for which dignity she pledged herself to induce Charles to go to war with Holland; to avow himself a Catholic; and to persuade his brother and successor, the Duke of York, to take to wife a Princess of France.

Louise de Querouaille had now reached a dizzier height than, in the wildest dreams of her girlhood, she had ever hoped to climb. She was a double-Duchess, of England and of France, the mistress and counsellor of a puppet-King, and an arbiter of the destinies of nations. Well might her humble father, when he paid his Duchess-daughter a visit in London, throw up his hands in amazement at the splendours with which his "petite Louise" had surrounded herself! So high had she climbed that it seemed at one time that even the Crown of England was within her reach; for when Catherine was brought to the verge of death the Duchess was probably not alone in thinking that she might be her successor on the throne.

"She has got the notion," wrote the French Ambassador, "that it is possible she may yet be Queen of England. She talks from morning till night of the Queen's ailments as if they were mortal."

But at least, if the crown was not to be hers, there was as much gold to be had as she cared to garner. Not content with her allowance, which, nominally L10,000 a year, in one year reached the enormous sum of L136,000, she heaped fortune on fortune by trafficking in a wide range of commodities, from peerages and Court appointments to Royal pardons and slaves. A few years of such rich harvesting made her incomparably the richest woman in England, although she squandered her ill-gotten gold with a prodigal hand. Her apartments at Whitehall were crowded with the costliest furnishings and objects of art that money could buy. When Evelyn paid a visit to the Court he records:

"But that which engaged my curiosity was the rich and splendid furniture of this woman's apartment, now twice or thrice pulled down to satisfy her prodigality and expensive pleasures; while her Majesty's does not exceed some gentlemen's wives in furniture and accommodation.

"Here I saw the new fabrics of French tapestry, for design, tenderness of work and incomparable imitation of the best paintings, beyond anything I ever beheld. Some pieces had Versailles, St Germain's, and other palaces of the French King, with huntings, figures, and landscapes, exotic flowers and all to the life, rarely done. Then for Japan cabinets, screens, pendule clocks, great vases of wrought plate, table-stands, sconces, branches, braseras, etc., all of massive silver and out of number, besides some of his Majesty's best paintings!"

Probably at this time of her illicit queendom the only thorn in Louise de Querouaille's bed of roses was that vulgar, "gutter-rival" of hers, Nell Gwynn, with whom she suffered the indignity of sharing Charles's affection. To the high-born, blue-blooded daughter of centuries of French nobles (of whom her tradesman-father always affected a disconcerting ignorance) the very sight of her saucy and successful rival, the ex-orange-wench, was a contamination. She pretended to stifle in breathing the same air, and with high-tossed head sailed past Madame Nell (the mother of a duke), in the Court salons and corridors, as if she were carrion.

And to all these grand, disdainful airs Madame Nell only retorted with a Drury Lane peal of silvery laughter. She, who was accustomed to "chuck Charles's royal chin," and to call him her "Charles the third," in unflattering reference to his two predecessors of the name in her favour, could afford to snap her fingers at the French madame who, after all, was no better than herself.

"The Duchess," she would say, "pretends to be a person of quality. She says she is related to the best families in France; and when any great person dies she puts herself in mourning. If she be a lady of such quality, why does she demean herself to be what she is? As for me, it's my profession; I don't profess to be anything better. And the King is just as fond of me as he is of his French miss."

But while Her Grace of Portsmouth was revelling in her splendour and her gold, her mission as Louis's Ambassadress was making unsatisfactory progress. However disposed Charles may have been to change his faith to the advantage of his pocket, he was not prepared to risk his crown, possibly his head, for any Pope who ever lived; nor did the project of providing a French bride for his successor, the Duke of York, promise much better. Louis proposed the Duchess of Guise, his own cousin; but James had heard too much of this unamiable and unattractive Princess from his sister, Henrietta, to relish the venture. The Duchess herself suggested a Princess of Lorraine, as a suitable bride, but Louis, who had no love for the d'Elboeuf ladies, nipped this project in the bud.

After a long resistance, however, she had induced her Royal lover to declare war on Holland; and Louis professed himself so pleased with this concession to his schemes, that he dazzled her eyes with splendid promises if she would but carry out his programme to the full. It had become her crowning ambition to win the right to a tabouret at the Court of Versailles—the highest privilege accorded to the old noblesse, that of sitting on a stool in the presence of the King; and this proud distinction, which would raise her to the highest pinnacle in France, inferior only to the crown itself, could be hers if Louis would but grant her the d'Aubigny lands to accompany her title, for the tabouret went with the Duchy domains. Even this most coveted of all the gifts in his power Louis promised to the little adventuress if she would but carry out, not only all she had undertaken, but any future commands he might lay upon her.

His immediate object now was to take advantage of the distraction caused by the war between England and Holland to annex the Palatinate and the Franche Comte, on which he had long set covetous eyes; but he quickly discovered that for once his vaulting ambition had overleaped itself. The whole of Europe took alarm; England to a man rose in angry protest, sworn enemies joining hands to resist such an outrageous aggression; and Charles, in a frenzy of fear for his crown, dismissed his hireling army paid with Louis's gold. The proud edifice which the Duchess of Portsmouth had so carefully reared was threatened with a cataclysm of popular rage against the "painted French spy" who was regarded, and perhaps rightly, as a prime instigator of the mischief, and the worst enemy of the country that had given her such generous hospitality.

To add to the danger of her position she became seriously ill; sustained heavy money losses; and even her supremacy with the King was gravely imperilled by the arrival at Court of Mazarin's loveliest niece, Hortense de Mancini, with whom Charles had flirted in the days of his exile, and who now came to England in the full bloom of her peerless beauty to complete her conquest of the amorous Sovereign—"the last conquest of her conquering eyes," as Waller wrote in his fulsome greeting of the new divinity of the Whitehall seraglio.

For once Louise's indomitable courage showed signs of yielding. The whole armoury of fate seemed arrayed against her at this crisis in her life; even Louis, for whom she had striven so hard, began to distrust her powers and to show indifference to her. When Forneron paid her a visit at this time he found her in tears. "She opened her heart to him, in the presence of her two French maids, who stood by with downcast eyes. Tears rained down her cheeks; and her speech was broken with sobs and sighs." Never had this designing beauty been so near the verge of absolute ruin.

It is not necessary perhaps to follow the Duchess through the period of her eclipse; to watch the weak-kneed Charles sink deeper and deeper into the morass of his disloyalty until, in return for a subsidy of L4,000,000, he offered to dissolve parliament and to make England the bond-slave of Louis's designs on Europe; or to see Louise, the chief instrument of all this ignominy, reach the climax of her disgrace and her peril when mobs besieged Whitehall, and clamoured that the "Jezebel" should be sent to the scaffold.

It is sufficient for our purpose to know that through all this terrible time she steered her way with almost superhuman skill back to the sunshine of success and favour. Her life-long ambition was crowned when Louis gave her the d'Aubigny lands and, with them, the tabouret which had so long dazzled her eyes and eluded her grasp. When the sky in England had at last cleared she paid a visit to her native land. For four ecstatic months the wool merchant's daughter made a triumphant progress through France, acclaimed and feted as a Queen. At her castle of d'Aubigny she held a splendid court and dispensed a regal hospitality to the greatest in the land, who had scarcely deigned to notice her in her days as maid-of-honour. When, according to St Simon, she paid a visit to the Capucines in Paris her approach was heralded by a procession of monks, scattering incense and bearing aloft the holy cross. "She was received," we are told, "as if she were a Queen, which quite overwhelmed her, as she was not prepared for such an honour." To such a pitch indeed did this popular idolatry reach that she was actually painted as a Madonna to grace the altar of the richest convent in France.

On her return to England from this tour of conquest she found a reception almost equally regal awaiting her. She was reinstated as chief favourite of the King, all his other mistresses—even the Queen herself being relegated to the background; and high statesmen and Ambassadors did their homage to her before they sought audience with Charles himself. She was, in fact, as Louis's deputy, Vice-Queen of England—plus roi que le Roi.

Thus secure of her power the Duchess was not unwilling to indulge once more her old propensity for flirtation (to give it its mildest name). The handsome and graceless Duke of Monmonth, Charles's favourite son, Danby and many another gallant, succeeded one another in her favours, which she dispensed without any care for concealment. But the only one of her lovers of this time who made any real impression on such heart as she had was the rakish Philippe de Vendome, grandson of Henri IV. and nephew of her first lover, the Admiral, Duc de Beaufort, who, as we have seen, gave her the first start on her career of infamy and conquest. She seems to have conducted an open and shameless intrigue with De Vendome—a man who, according to St Simon, had never gone sober to bed for a generation, who was a swindler, liar, and thief, and the most despicable and dangerous man living. When the Duchess, realising that her intrigue with this handsome scoundrel was going too far, sought to withdraw, he threatened to show certain incriminating letters she had written to him, to the King; and it was only when Louis intervened and, by bribes and commands, induced her lover to return to France, that she was able to breathe again.

Not content with setting such a shameless example to the Court, she was the arch-priestess of the gaming-tables at which Charles and his courtiers spent their nights to the chink of glasses and gold. She made light, we learn, of losing 5,000 guineas at a sitting. No wonder Pepys was shocked at such scenes.

"I was told to-night," he writes, "that my Lady Castlemaine is so great a gamester as to have won L15,400 in one night, and lost L25,000 in another night at play, and has played L1000 and L1500 at a cast."

The Duchesse de Mazarin, he tells us,

"won at basset, of Nell Gwynne 1400 guineas in one night, and of the Duchess of Portsmouth above L8000, in doing which she exerted her utmost cunning and had the greatest satisfaction, because they were rivals in the Royal favour."

But the end of these saturnalia was at hand. The last glimpse we have of them was on the night of 1st February 1685—the last Sunday Charles was permitted to spend on earth.

"The great courtiers," says Evelyn, "and other dissolute persons were playing at basset round a large table, with a bank of at least L2000 before them. The King, though not engaged in the game, was to the full as scandalously occupied, sitting in open dalliance with three of the shameless women of the Court, the Duchesses of Portsmouth, Morland, and Mazarin, and others of the same stamp, while a French boy was singing love-songs in that glorious gallery. Six days after," he adds, "all was in the dust."

As the end of that wasted Royal life drew near the Duchess's chief concern—for it was her last opportunity of redeeming one of her pledges to Louis, her paymaster—was that Charles should at least die an avowed Catholic.

"I found her," Barillon wrote to Louis, "overcome with grief. But, instead of bewailing her own unhappy and changed condition, she led me into an adjoining chamber and said: 'M. l'Ambassadeur, I want to confide a secret to you, although if it were publicly known my head would pay the forfeit. The King is a Catholic at heart, and yet there he lies surrounded by Protestant bishops. I dare not enter the room, and there is no one to talk to him of his end and of God. The Duke of York is too much occupied with his own affairs to trouble about his brother's conscience. Pray go to him and tell him that the end is near, and that it is his duty to lose no time in saving his brother's soul.'"

The remainder of the Duchess's life-story is soon told. The days of her queendom and glory were at an end. She was glad to escape to France before James's tempestuous reign ended in tragedy. Here trouble and loss were largely her portion. She lost favour with Louis to such an extent that, at one time, he seriously thought of exiling her; her son deserted and disgraced her; her ill-gotten riches took wings, until only a pension of L800, wrung from Louis, saved her from absolute destitution. True, she was still able to claim her tabouret at the Court of Versailles, and, for a few hours occasionally, to revive the glories of the past; but apart from these ironical spasms of splendour she spent her last years in loneliness and sadness, turning to a tardy piety as a refuge from the coldness of the world, and as a solace for its lost vanities. She saw all the great figures, among whom she had moved, pass one by one behind the veil before she died, a wrinkled hag of eighty-five, shorn of the last vestige of the charms which had wrought such havoc in the world.



CHAPTER XV

THE MERRY DUCHESS

When Elizabeth Chudleigh first opened her eyes on the world, nearly two centuries ago, at the Royal Hospital, Chelsea, of which her father was Deputy-Governor, we may be sure that her parents little anticipated the romantic and adventurous role Fate had assigned to her on the stage of life. A member of an ancient family, whose women had ever been distinguished for their virtue as its men for their valour, the Chelsea infant was destined to shock Society by the laxity of her morals as she dazzled it by her beauty and charm, and to make herself conspicuous, in an age none too strait-laced, as an adventuress of rare skill and daring, and as a profligate in petticoats.