CHAPTER 8.
MICHING MALLECHO.
Sir Rowland, meantime, paced his chamber with a quick and agitated step. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. Not conceiving that his sister — feeble as she was, and yielding as she had ever shown herself to his wishes, whether expressed or implied — would depart without consulting him, he was equally surprised and enraged to hear the servants busied in transporting her to the carriage. His pride, however, would not suffer him to interfere with their proceedings; much less could he bring himself to acknowledge that he had been in the wrong, and entreat Lady Trafford to remain, though he was well aware that her life might be endangered if she travelled by night. But, when the sound of the carriage-wheels died away, and he felt that she was actually gone, his resolution failed him, and he rang the bell violently.
“My horses, Charcam,” he said, as a servant appeared.
The man lingered.
“‘Sdeath! why am I not obeyed?” exclaimed the knight, angrily. “I wish to overtake Lady Trafford. Use despatch!”
“Her ladyship will not travel beyond Saint Alban’s to-night, Sir Rowland, so Mrs. Norris informed me,” returned Charcam, respectfully; “and there’s a person without, anxious for an audience, whom, with submission, I think your honour would desire to see.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Sir Rowland, glancing significantly at Charcam, who was a confidant in his Jacobite schemes; “is it the messenger from Orchard-Windham, from Sir William?”
“No, Sir Rowland.”
“From Mr. Corbet Kynaston, then? Sir John Packington’s courier was here yesterday.”
“No, Sir Rowland.”
“Perhaps he is from Lord Derwentwater, or Mr. Forster? News is expected from Northumberland.”
“I can’t exactly say, Sir Rowland. The gentleman didn’t communicate his business to me. But I’m sure it’s important.”
Charcam said this, not because he knew anything about the matter; but, having received a couple of guineas to deliver the message, he, naturally enough, estimated its importance by the amount of the gratuity.
“Well, I will see him,” replied the knight, after a moment’s pause; “he may be from the Earl of Mar. But let the horses be in readiness. I shall ride to St. Alban’s to-night.”
So saying, he threw himself into a chair. And Charcam, fearful of another charge in his master’s present uncertain mood, disappeared.
The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light — for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery — to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. He was plainly attired in a riding-dress and boots of the period, and wore a hanger by his side.
“Your servant, Sir Rowland,” said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced.
“Your business, Sir?” returned the other, stiffly.
The new-comer looked at Charcam. Sir Rowland waved his hand, and the attendant withdrew.
“You don’t recollect me, I presume?” premised the stranger, taking a seat.
The knight, who could ill brook this familiarity, instantly arose.
“Don’t disturb yourself,” continued the other, nowise disconcerted by the rebuke. “I never stand upon ceremony where I know I shall be welcome. We have met before.”
“Indeed!” rejoined Sir Rowland, haughtily; “perhaps, you will refresh my memory as to the time, and place.”
“Let me see. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. I have a good memory, you perceive, Sir Rowland.”
The knight staggered as if struck by a mortal wound. Speedily recovering himself, however, he rejoined, with forced calmness, “You are mistaken, Sir. I was in Lancashire, at our family seat, at the time you mention.”
The stranger smiled incredulously.
“Well, Sir Rowland,” he said, after a brief pause, during which the knight regarded him with a searching glance, as if endeavouring to recall his features, “I will not gainsay your words. You are in the right to be cautious, till you know with whom you have to deal; and, even then, you can’t be too wary. ‘Avow nothing, believe nothing, give nothing for nothing,’ is my own motto. And it’s a maxim of universal application: or, at least, of universal practice. I am not come here to play the part of your father-confessor. I am come to serve you.”
“In what way, Sir?” demanded Trenchard, in astonishment.
“You will learn anon. You refuse me your confidence. I applaud your prudence: it is, however, needless. Your history, your actions, nay, your very thoughts are better known to me than to your spiritual adviser.”
“Make good your assertions,” cried Trenchard, furiously, “or ——”
“To the proof,” interrupted the stranger, calmly. “You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Sir Montacute had three children — two daughters and yourself. The eldest, Constance, was lost, by the carelessness of a servant, during her infancy, and has never since been heard of: the youngest, Aliva, is the present Lady Trafford. I merely mention these circumstances to show the accuracy of my information.”
“If this is the extent of it, Sir,” returned the knight, ironically, “you may spare yourself further trouble. These particulars are familiar to all, who have any title to the knowledge.”
“Perhaps so,” rejoined the stranger; “but I have others in reserve, not so generally known. With your permission, I will go on in my own way. Where I am in error, you can set me right. — Your father, Sir Montacute Trenchard, who had been a loyal subject of King James the Second, and borne arms in his service, on the abdication of that monarch, turned his back upon the Stuarts, and would never afterwards recognise their claims to the crown. It was said, that he received an affront from James, in the shape of a public reprimand, which his pride could not forgive. Be this as it may, though a Catholic, he died a friend to the Protestant succession.”
“So far you are correct,” observed Trenchard; “still, this is no secret.”
“Suffer me to proceed,” replied the stranger. “The opinions, entertained by the old knight, naturally induced him to view with displeasure the conduct of his son, who warmly espoused the cause he had deserted. Finding remonstrances of no avail, he had recourse to threats; and when threats failed, he adopted more decided measures.”
“Ha!” ejaculated Trenchard.
“As yet,” pursued the stranger, “Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his son’s expenditure. He did not quarrel with Rowland’s profusion, for his own revenues were ample; but he did object to the large sums lavished by him in the service of a faction he was resolved not to support. Accordingly, the old knight reduced his son’s allowance to a third of its previous amount; and, upon further provocation, he even went so far as to alter his will in favour of his daughter, Aliva, who was then betrothed to her cousin, Sir Cecil Trafford.”
“Proceed, Sir,” said Trenchard, breathing hard.
“Under these circumstances, Rowland did what any other sensible person would do. Aware of his father’s inflexibility of purpose, he set his wits to work to defeat the design. He contrived to break off his sister’s match; and this he accomplished