Savile House: an historical romance of the time of George the First. By A. H

Chapter I

On the north side of Leicester Square, where Miss Linwood's celebrated needlework was exhibited for so many years, and where " The Mysterious Lady" and " Madame Warton" afterwards perplexed the credulous, or gratified the profligate — where cockney sportsmen resort to become "dead shots," and the dance-loving shopman and milliner, to indulge their tastes in the polka and waltz, stood Savde House, erected by the witty and satirical Baronet of that name, in the reign of Charles the Second. In the year 171 6, it was the town residence ofthe Honourable Frances Fleetwood, daughter of Lord Gerard, of Bromley Hall, in Staffordshire, and widow of the opulent "Thomas Fleetwood, of Martin Sandes, in the County of Chester, Esq." Mrs. Fleetwood had been a widow little more than a twelvemonth. Her family Avas of the Romish faith, and, in common with aU those of that VOL. I. B then unpopular belief, had suffered considerably from the rigorous measures adopted by the government against Roman CathoHcs; but she having married a Protestant, was supposed to have embraced her husband's creed.

In reahty, however, she fol lowed the faith of her fathers; and, as she neither paraded her opinions before the world, nor privately endeavoured to instd them into the minds of those about her, she was left unquestioned and unmolested. To aU observers of externals only, her position was one to be envied. She was rich, amiable, and hospitable, and was courted by a multitude of acquaintances ; but by a smaller circle of friends, among whom were some of the most learned and distinguished men of the day, she was loved and valued; yet she was not happy; one drop of gall mingled with the sweet water of life, and embittered her cup of joy, which had else been full to overflowing. A cloud had darkened the bright autumn of her Hfe, which not even the sunny happiness and affection of a beloved daughter could entirely dispel.

The world said that the melancholy fate of her famdy had bhghted her lUe ; for even whde the passion-flowers of youth were in fuU bloom, she was often sad, whde others of her age and sex were gay and light-hearted. But of late her sorrow had assumed a darker and more settled hue — not that she was always sad ; in the daytime she could be cheerful, and her heart would answer softly as an echo to the joyousness of those around her ; but when the night came, and she was alone, the stream of memory flowed back to the days of old, and the phantoms of heryouth and innocence rose up before her, presenting to her mind's eye a series of "dissolving views," now darkening, now brightening, then melting imperceptibly from one into another, tdl the whole of her Hfe had passed in review before her — the past became present, and, even as she gazed upon it, faded away, and left her nothing but regret.

One evening she sat, dejected and alone, in her chamber, lost in thought. The fire burnt dimly, and threw a subdued shadow upon the surrounding objects; the very pictures on the wall seemed in fluenced by her gloom, and looked with commisera tion upon her who sat so stdl and motionless. At times, a sigh broke from her, and tears roUed sdently down her cheek. She Avas so absorbed by her meditations that she was not aware of the presence of one, who had entered the room without the ceremony of an announcement. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man, some what past the meridian of life. His forehead was high and broad, and his features weU formed, but so prominent as to leave it doubtful whether they could be termed handsome, especially as the prevailing expression of his face was pride and severity.

He stood for some minutes regarding her in silence. He Avas evidently no sympathiring friend, for there Avas much of contempt, and something of wary soli citude in his gaze; it seemed as though he would look into her heart, and see if the chord he was about to strike would vibrate in harmony with, or discord to, his wishes. When Mrs. Fleetwood became conscious of his b presence she started up, and hastdy brushed away her tears. There was a touch of impatience in her tone and manner as she asked, " What had brought him there at that hour, when she was least inclined to brook intrusion?" "Business, madam, not pleasure," he answered, seating himself with perfect nonchalance. " Money, as usual, I presume," she returned. " Well, name the sum, and it shaU be lodged with your agent in the morning."

" Money ! no," he replied, laconically ; " this time I have come, not to take, but to give." " Indeed !" she answered ; " your gift must have poison at its root, else it would never come from your hand to mine." " You are unusually caustic to-night, and I un usuaUy placid," he answered. " However, if you knew the pleasant tidings I have brought, you would give me a pleasanter reception. I have just come from the palace, where I heard the king declare his intention to restore the Gerard estates, which have been so long sequestered, to the nearest relative of your late brother." " Is it possible ?" she exclaimed, in unfeigned amazement. " What can have worked this sudden revolution in our favour ?" " Fortune and my importunities." "You importune the king in my behalf!" " I did not say I had," he answered, curtly.

" For whom, then ?" " For your niece." " The Duchess of Hamdton ?" " No ; her grace is too pert and self-sufficient to attract my sympathies." " Well, but I have no other niece." " You have, and I have employed my influence in her behalf. I speak of your orphan-niece — your brother Phdip's child." " My brother Philip's child !" exclaimed Mrs. Fleetwood, "he had no chdd — you know he had not." " I thought I knew so once ; nevertheless, what I now assert is true. I do not wonder that you look incredulous, nor do I ask you to rely upon my words ; but before long, I tell you, she will be acknowledged as the rightful heiress of Philip Gerard." Mrs. Fleetwood's face brightened as it had not brightened for many a day, for she knew that the situation of her sister-in-law, on leaving England, was such as allowed the possibility of its truth.

" Are you sure you do not jest," she said, eagerly. " I am not given to jesting," he answered ; "realities are the wares in which I deal." " True ; but as you never come unless to torture, it seems impossible that you can be the bearer of joyful news. My brother Philip's chdd ! Strange if your news be true ; there must be much to tell, but I am so bewildered, that I scarcely know what to ask you first. When and where vvas she born ? Phdip's chdd ! and his poor wffe ! — yes, she followed him into exile, and rumour reached us that she died upon her journey." " Rumour in this instance was right," replied Lord AHngton ; for such was his name and quality. " It is true that she died, but not until she had given birth to a child ; that chdd stiU lives." " Are you sure of that ?" said Mrs. Fleetwood, anxiously grasping his hand.

" So sure, that in another month at most she wiU be in stdl possession of her late father's estates, which have been so long forfeited to the crown, for his Majesty has been graciously pleased to instruct the Essex House Commissioners to restore them to her upon her making out her title thereto, and it was I who preferred her case to his Majesty, immediately I became cognizant of her existence." " Why did you not bring me this news before ?" " Because, as I have already told you, his Majesty did not, untd to-night, decide upon restoring the CSl£IT.6S> " Estates ." echoed Mrs. Fleetwood, impatiently ; " I did not think of them, I thought only of my brother's daughter. Poor PhiHp, how I long to em brace your chdd ! Where is she, HUdebrand ? How has she been nurtured, and by whom? and why is she not here now, to claim a mother's love from me f ' " Had I a hundred [tongues, I might reply, simul taneously, to aU your questions ; as it is, you must be content to have them answered one by one.

She is at present in Lancashire, under the fosterage of a pious and charitable clergyman, to whom she was con fided by her dying mother. He has spared neither pains nor money to make her worthy of the station to which she is entitled, and which he always hoped she would one day fill " Mrs. Fleetwood interrupted him, warmly. " But why, since he knew her birth and quality, was /, her nearest relative, kept in ignorance of her existence — I so able and so willing to protect her — and she my favourite brother's chdd, bred in obscurity, and fed by the charity of strangers ?' " That you hadbetter inquire of him ; but remember I have already said that he is a Protestant clergy man, and as such, it was his duty to sa-ve the child from the heretical influence of its famdy." Mrs. Fleetwood was silenced upon that point, and only said, " But how did you become aware of these things?

It seems strange that you, of all men, should be made the repository of such important facts, whde I, so much concerned, should be kept in ignorance." " I am indebted for my knowledge to the merest chance," he answered. " Whde travelling in Lan cashire, a short, time back, I stayed at Garstang a few days, and fell in accidentally with the rector of the parish, in whom I recognised an old and intimate acquaintance. He invited me to his house, and our friendship, which in our younger days was of the closest kind, was soon renewed ; he recounted to me the principal incidents of his eventful life, and I thus became the depositary of the secret I have communi cated to you ; and I have no doubt whatever that the young lady, my friend's adopted daughter, is the chdd of your brother PhUip. The time of her birth corresponds to a nicety with that of your sister-in-law's death.

I saw jewels bearing your brother's arms ; read letters from him to his wife, the authenticity of which is beyond suspicion ; I saw miniatures of both in my friend's possession ; and — but I wdl not now plague you with a detail of all the coincidences which stamped conviction on my mind — I have laid the case before the king, who, as you know, is in some measure bound to me: I asked it as a personal favour to myself, that his Majesty would be graciously pleased to make such inquiries as he should think necessary, and if satisfied, reverse the attainder of Phdip Gerard : his Majesty, with his usual bene volence, has been pleased to forget the father's treason to his predecessor, and give orders that the case shaU be referred to the Essex House Commis sioners, and U just, the estates restored to MadeHne Gerard."

" I care not whether the estates are restored or not, she shaU never want them ; thank Heaven, I am rich ; but tell me, HUdebrand, who is this generous being who has done so much for my niece; I long to see and bless him." " His name is Richard Hitchmough." " Hitchmough ?" she repeated, and the grateful glow faded from her face ; " what, Richard Hitch mough, the apostate, the persecutor of those whose faith he deserted, and whose Hves he bartered for the love of gold ?" " Pshaw ! he was only zealous in the service of his God." " Do not blaspheme ; his god is mammon — ' " Who is the god of aU," interrupted Alington ; " but be that as it may, it is to him your niece is indebted for her daily bread." "For which I wdl repay him to the uttermost farthing," said Mrs. Fleetwood, warmly. It never shall be said that a Gerard was an apostate's debtor."

" If this be gratitude," said Alington, " thank Heaven, the virtue is none of mine. It has been said, that great obligations are repaid by great ingratitude, but I did not expect to find the old saw verified in one so seeming pious. Does your religion, madam, teach you to despise your benefactors 1" " No !" interrupted Mrs. Fleetwood ; " but it teaches me to scorn the hypocrite, who, whde he prates of heaven, does deeds to gladden fiends, pre tending zeal to that God who is the Father of us all, and who in every creed is called the just and merciful." " His zeal, I admit," returned Alington, " may have amounted to fanaticism. He may have played the viper where he should have acted the leech, and wounded bodies instead of curing souls ; but what of that ? bad liquor may be distilled from wholesome grain, and so may the best intentions give birth to condemnable acts ; charity, however, covers a multitude of sins, and that virtue, at least, he has exer cised ; but for his benevolence your niece might have begged her bread, and yet you would dare to brand him, to whom you owe so much, with infamy ; and why?

Because, forsooth, he has changed his faith, and no longer clings to the flimsy tenets of your own romantic creed." " Not that, Hddebrand ; you know I am not so bigoted ; I would contemn no man for kneeling at a different shrine, if conscience led him there ; but gold was the price of this man's perversion, and he who SAATLE HOUSE seUs his conscience and deserts his God, is tainted to the heart's core. Mr. Hitchmough has done this, and more. He has bhnded the eyes of his dearest friends, who were true where he was false, and led them to the block ; I can scarcely think that such a wretch — an apostate to his God, traitor to his fellow man — could exercise a single human virtue." " Whatever he has done he did in the service of the State," answered Alington ; " and what signifies the individual suffering of a few papists, when the whole realm is benefited by their death ; but be that as it may, to you he has done signal service, and it would be no great stretch of generosity for you to give him credit for it."

" I wUl render to him all that is his due," returned Mrs. Fleetwood ; " and, if I judge rightly, gold wiU requite him, — that he shaU have ; but gratitude I cannot give him. There are some men to whom it is a degradation to be obliged ; he is one. I could sacrifice all I have to free myseU from such an odious obligation ; and until I have canceUed it, I feel I am abased. To-morrow I wiU go and release him from his guardianship." " You would put yourself to unnecessary trouble," replied Alington. "Next week she wUl be in town, then you must receive her." " Must !" echoed Mrs. Fleetwood ; ■ I will joyfuUy.'' " Her foster-father," continued Lord Alington, " to whom she is gratefully attached, wUl accompany her." " Not to my house !" she said, indignantly. " Yes, to yours !" he answered, curtly ; " and, moreover, you will do weU to make it agreeable to SAVTLE HOUSE 11 him ; for, though tame and pleasant enough as a friend, make him a foe, and his sting is deadly."

Mrs. Fleetwood's cheek turned pale when she observed the dark and significant look of her com panion ; there was also a peculiar tone in his voice that made her tremble. " His coming strikes upon my heart Hke an omen of evil," she said, falteringly. " Can he find no home elsewhere ?" " None that woidd convenience me so weU." " You !" " Yes, me !" " Ah ! then if he come by your desire, he comes for some vde purpose." " Perhaps so." " Then, I tell you, Hildebrand, he shall not enter within my doors." " Pshaw ! shall not; those words in your lips are Hke giant clubs in pigmy hands. I teU you, that during his stay in London, his home must be here. If you act wisely you have nothing to fear from him. I have told you he is my friend." " But he is not the less a vdlain 1" she answered, bitterly. " That's as you may please to think ; but enough of this.

In your conduct to him you wiU be guided by me ; it is necessary you should be friends." " Friends !" she echoed, shudderingly. " WeU, well," returned Alington, impatiently, " we wiU not quarrel about terms; I have expressed my wishes, and I am sure you have too much worldly sense to rebel against them. I have told you that your niece wdl be in town on Thursday week," he added ; " and, as I doubt not, will create some little sensation in the world ; so I advise you to guard her well, for she is a prize Avorth winning, and a world of fortune-hunting knaves will be quickly on her track." " It shall be my care," she answered, " to guard her from their rapacity." " Let it be so," said Alington, with a complacent smde ; " for as soon as this affair is settled, she will become my wife." " Your wife !" exclaimed Mrs. Fleetwood, amazed and indignant.

" Ay," he replied, sharply ; " you took a second husband at your pleasure, why not I a second wife at mine?" " No, Hddebrand ; bad as you are, you dare not do this wicked deed." "Dare not!" he answered, with a sardonic burst of laughter; "and why?" Mrs. Fleetwood's lip quivered as she rose up from her seat, and whispered something in his ear. " You dare not speak that word," he returned, contemptuously. " I can and will," she replied, " let the consequence be what it may." " Is that a defiance, madam ?" he said, coolly. " It is," she answered, with a burst of indignation. "I have sinned enough already — I go no further True, I am at your mercy ; yet, I repeat, let the con sequence be what it may, I wiU not see the child of my dead brother sacrificed to you. " No," she added, shuddering, "I would sooner consign her to the grave. ' " Go on, madam," said Alington, with a cynical smde ; " your language, from its novelty, amuses me, especially as, in the end, you must succumb to my wiU, be that will what it may."

" Never, in this," she answered. " I have submit ted too often to your cruel exactions. Remember, there are bounds to human endurance ; and I have lately suffered so much, that I am becoming reckless. "Urge me in this matter, Hildebrand, and I will speak out, though by my own breath I am blasted." " Be it so," returned Alington. " Think, however, before you act ; one moment's rashness is sometimes expiated by a life of misery ; but it will be no fault of mine — I have spared you long enough." " Spared me," said Mrs. Fleetwood, bitterly, " from what?" " From infamy and pubhc shame." " Yes, you spared me from public shame, to inflict upon me private torture. The world would be more merciful to me than you have been." " Try it. Go forth with to-morrow's light and pro claim your secret, and scorn and contempt wdl follow, whichever way you turn.

And your daughter — your beautiful child, stripped of her rank, her station, and her very name, will learn that her mother, that mother she so honours, is a " " Hush ! hush !" burst from Mrs. Fleetwood, in a voice of uncontrollable anguish. " Well, your fate is in your own hands. But come, come, no more heroics — they have no effect on me. You know I am not used to be thwarted, nor, by Heaven," he added, in a voice of thunder, " wdl I be thwarted now 1 Do you understand ? It is useless for you to struggle against me — you but weaken your own power, without diminishing my strength." She was too much depressed to answer him, except by faint monosyllables. Nor did he seem inclined to lengthen the conference : he had communicated to her as much as he intended, and he knew that he should have many scruples to combat with before she would be reconcUed to his maniage with her niece ; but he also knew, or thought he knew, that they would ulti mately be overcome.

His power over her was great. She was bound to him by an indissoluble tie, which she beheved known only to themselves and One above. At sixteen, by some fatal chance, she became acquainted with Mr. Alington, a young and fascinating man of two-and-twenty. Their acquaintance termi nated in a clandestine marriage abroad, where she was then receiving her education. Shortly after the ceremony had been performed, the settlement of urgent affairs required his presence in Ireland, and he left his young bride, with the pro mise that, on the completion of his business, he would return, to take her home to England, and announce their marriage to their mutual friends ; but weeks and months roUed on, still he did not come ; nor, from the day of thenparting untd within a year of the commencement of this story, did they ever meet again.

At twenty-three she had been induced, by the importunities of her family, to give her hand to Mr. Fleetwood (for she had been withheld, by shame and fear, from communicating to them the fact of her early imprudence), and she accompanied him to the altar, in the full belief that death had released her from her former marriage. That she had calculated falsely, the sequel proved. Alington, who had succeeded to an Irish barony without the means to maintain it, learning that Mr. Fleetwood was dead, and had left her wealthy and rich in the world's opinion, and being himself both poor and unprincipled, took advantage of her position. She, dreading an expose that would not only stigma tize herseU, but bastardize her chdd, almost entirely to his dominion. Mrs. Fleetwood listened to Lord Alington's retreat ing footsteps with a beating heart ; then, burying her face in her hands, she leant back on her couch, and muttered some broken words, in a tone so low, that they died upon her lips ; the tears trickled slowly through her fingers, and she sobbed bitterly.

It seemed as though her heart would break. She drew a smaU golden crucifix from her breast, and kneeling humbly on the ground, sighed forth her foUies one by one, and, Hke another Magdalen, bathed the Saviour's image with her tears. As she rose from her knees, a low sweet strain stole cently on her ear, Hke a voice from heaven, answer ing her prayer ; it was that of her child, pouring forth her youthful spirit in a vesper hymn. The mother's heart beat high, and drying her tears, she entered her daughter's chamber with a serener mind.

Chapter II

Towards the dusk of the evening, a few days after the interview between Mrs. Fleetwood and Lord Alington, narrated in the last chapter, an old man was seen pacing impatiently up and down the court yard in front of a mansion, once of considerable pre tensions, in the suburbs of Garstang. It vvas a dreary and desolate-looking place, almost monastic in its silence and sohtude. The greater portion had fallen into decay, and even the part which was inhabited seemed ready to share the ruin of the rest, but the ivy had crept up and wrapped its green arms around the mouldering walls, as if to protect them a Httle longer from the raA-ages of time. The surrounding grounds, too, had been suffered to run to waste ; and stately walks and avenues, where man's art and ingenuity had once been exerted, were now choked up with briers and brambles.

It was indeed a sluggard's garden, from which all traces of industry had long since disappeared. The dreariness aDd gloom of the place seemed akin to the spirit of its owner. His figure Avas taU, though slightly bent, either by age or the habit of a cring ing servility which he had acquired during his inter course with the world. His small grey eyes were lighted with the spirit of artifice and subtilty ; whde his projecting mouth told of a power to conceive an evil, and a will to execute his determination when once he had formed it. Time and thought had ploughed deep furrows on his brow, and bleached the small portion of his hair which remained. There was a pinched look in his face, without any of the ripe ness or charms of age ; indeed, there was nothing in his appearance that makes age venerable and pleasant to behold ; on the contrary, he looked Hke a man whose very nature is foreign to truth and generosity.

On the night in question, his face betrayed unusual anxiety and expectation. He osten paused in his walk, and gazed expectingly down the road that skirted his dwelling. Then he paced on again, acce lerating his speed almost to a run, as if his movements were in unison with his thoughts. Again he stopped short, looked at his watch, and gazed down the road again. He grew more and more restless every minute. The evening was rapidly closing in, and was already too dark to distinguish clearly any object, so he had recourse to listening : the distant hum of voices, softened almost to an echo, floated on his ear, min gling with the rustling of the trees, and the hoarser murmuring of the wind ; he seemed irritated and annoyed by every sound he heard — even the far off baying of the trusty hound jarred upon his impatient spirit — a slight smile once curled his lips, as he heard the distant tramp of a horse.

VOL I. C "He has come at last," muttered Hitchmough, as he hastdy returned into the house, instead of advancing to meet the visitor whose appearance he had seemed to await with such anxiety. He ordered his servant to usher his guest into his study, and thither he went himself. The flush of expectation faded from his face, and was succeeded by a grim smUe of satisfaction as he drew a large leathern chair to the fire, and sat down endeavouring to assume an indifferent manner, but he faded in his attempt, for his restless eye betrayed his excitement and anxiety. He had scarcely settled himself before the horse man entered, wrapped in a heavy roquelaure of un shorn Witney broadcloth. Their hands met, but their greeting was brief and cold. " WeU, how have you succeeded _" were Hitch mough's first words.

" Give me some refreshment," said his guest, impatiently, " I have ridden hard, and am dyin°- of hunger." " But the king f urged Hitchmough. " My cravings must be satisfied before your curiosity. Thus much I'll tell you — in a few hours you must be on your road to London" " To London ?" " Yes, to London ; but come, stir yourseU, I'm hungry." Hitchmough looked inquiringly, but did not press for an explanation. He knew that his companion would neither brook questioning, nor speak unless it pleased him. He therefore busied himself about the room, stirred the fire into a blaze, drew the windowr curtains closer, lighted the candles, opened a liqueur stand, and took out his spiritual comfort, the only one he ever administered to himself. By this time the servant entered with a tray laden with substantial provisions.

His guest, without ceremony, drew his chair to the table, and helped himself abundantly of that which was nearest to him. " Your fare is solid, if not delicate," he said, help ing himself a third time ; " but a long ride, and a keen wind in your face, wiU provoke an appetite when the art of a French cook would fail." " If hunger always flavoured the dish, cooks and doctors would starve by their calling," said Hitch mough, doggedly ; " but be quick and satisfy your appetite, and then satisfy mine ; I shaU devour your news as greedily as you have done my viands." Lord Alington (whom the reader has doubtlessly recognised), without deigning to reply, fiUed two glasses of rare cognac, one of which he swallowed at a gulp, and pushed the other towards his host, who sat by the fireside resting his elbows on his knees, with his head between his hands, watching every movement of his guest with evident impatience.

" I have drunk worse stuff than this," said AHng ton, warmed by the first glass, and supplying himself with a second. " It makes one feel content with oneself, and contempt for the world around us." " It unlocks the jaws of some," returned Hitch mough. " And filches many a secret from the heart that c the head would fain conceal," said Alington, taking him up. " In truth it'6 the very devil, and plays more tricks with man than the arch-spirit itseU, carrying him to Paradise at night, and to Newgate in the morning, as many find out to their cost now-a days. No one should drink unless he can bridle his tongue." " A lesson your lordship has learnt — " " And know how to practise, you may safely add," interrupted Alington, amused at the increasing irri tabdity of his companion, Avhose patience was eva porating fast.