By degrees the seats of the House filled as the Lords arrived. The question was the vote for augmenting, by a hundred thousand pounds sterling, the annual income of George of Denmark, Duke of Cumberland, the queen’s husband. Besides this, it was announced that several bills assented to by her Majesty were to be brought back to the House by the Commissioners of the Crown empowered and charged to sanction them. This raised the sitting to a royal one. The peers all wore their robes over their usual court or ordinary dress. These robes, similar to that which had been thrown over Gwynplaine, were alike for all, excepting that the dukes had five bands of ermine, trimmed with gold; marquises, four; earls and viscounts, three; and barons, two. Most of the lords entered in groups. They had met in the corridors, and were continuing the conversations there begun. A few came in alone. The costumes of all were solemn; but neither their attitudes nor their words corresponded with them. On entering, each one bowed to the throne.
The peers flowed in. The series of great names marched past with scant ceremonial, the public not being present. Leicester entered, and shook Lichfield’s hand; then came Charles Mordaunt, Earl of Peterborough and Monmouth, the friend of Locke, under whose advice he had proposed the recoinage of money; then Charles Campbell, Earl of Loudoun, listening to Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke; then Dorme, Earl of Carnarvon; then Robert Sutton, Baron Lexington, son of that Lexington who recommended Charles II. to banish Gregorio Leti, the historiographer, who was so ill-advised as to try to become a historian; then Thomas Bellasys, Viscount Falconberg, a handsome old man; and the three cousins, Howard, Earl of Bindon, Bowes Howard, Earl of Berkshire, and Stafford Howard, Earl of Stafford--all together; then John Lovelace, Baron Lovelace, which peerage became extinct in 1736, so that Richardson was enabled to introduce Lovelace in his book, and to create a type under the name. All these personages--celebrated each in his own way, either in politics or in war, and of whom many were an honour to England--were laughing and talking.
It was history, as it were, seen in undress.
In less than half an hour the House was nearly full. This was to be expected, as the sitting was a royal one. What was more unusual was the eagerness of the conversations. The House, so sleepy not long before, now hummed like a hive of bees.
The arrival of the peers who had come in late had wakened them up. These lords had brought news. It was strange that the peers who had been there at the opening of the sitting knew nothing of what had occurred, while those who had not been there knew all about it. Several lords had come from Windsor.
For some hours past the adventures of Gwynplaine had been the subject of conversation. A secret is a net; let one mesh drop, and the whole goes to pieces. In the morning, in consequence of the incidents related above, the whole story of a peer found on the stage, and of a mountebank become a lord, had burst forth at Windsor in Royal places. The princes had talked about it, and then the lackeys. From the Court the news soon reached the town. Events have a weight, and the mathematical rule of velocity, increasing in proportion to the squares of the distance, applies to them. They fall upon the public, and work themselves through it with the most astounding rapidity. At seven o’clock no one in London had caught wind of the story; by eight Gwynplaine was the talk of the town. Only the lords who had been so punctual that they were present before the assembling of the House were ignorant of the circumstances, not having been in the town when the matter was talked of by every one, and having been in the House, where nothing had been perceived. Seated quietly on their benches, they were addressed by the eager newcomers.
“Well!” said Francis Brown, Viscount Montacute, to the Marquis of Dorchester.
“What?”
“Is it possible?”
“What?”
“The Laughing Man!”
“Who is the Laughing Man?”
“Don’t you know the Laughing Man?”
“No.”
“He is a clown, a fellow performing at fairs. He has an extraordinary face, which people gave a penny to look at. A mountebank.”
“Well, what then?”
“You have just installed him as a peer of England.”
“You are the laughing man, my Lord Montacute!”
“I am not laughing, my Lord Dorchester.”
Lord Montacute made a sign to the Clerk of the Parliament, who rose from his woolsack, and confirmed to their lordships the fact of the admission of the new peer. Besides, he detailed the circumstances.
“How wonderful!” said Lord Dorchester. “I was talking to the Bishop of Ely all the while.”
The young Earl of Annesley addressed old Lord Eure, who had but two years more to live, as he died in 1707.
“My Lord Eure.”
“My Lord Annesley.”
“Did you know Lord Linnæus Clancharlie?”
“A man of bygone days. Yes I did.”
“He died in Switzerland?”
“Yes; we were relations.”
“He was a republican under Cromwell, and remained a republican under Charles II.?”
“A republican? Not at all! He was sulking. He had a personal quarrel with the king. I know from good authority that Lord Clancharlie would have returned to his allegiance, if they had given him the office of Chancellor, which Lord Hyde held.”
“You astonish me, Lord Eure. I had heard that Lord Clancharlie was an honest politician.”
“An honest politician! does such a thing exist? Young man, there is no such thing.”
“And Cato?”
“Oh, you believe in Cato, do you?”
“And Aristides?”
“They did well to exile him.”
“And Thomas More?”
“They did well to cut off his head.”
“And in your opinion Lord Clancharlie was a man as you describe. As for a man remaining in exile, why, it is simply ridiculous.”
“He died there.”
“An ambitious man disappointed?”
“You ask if I knew him? I should think so indeed. I was his dearest friend.”
“Do you know, Lord Eure, that he married when in Switzerland?”
“I am pretty sure of it.”
“And that he had a lawful heir by that marriage?”
“Yes; who is dead.”
“Who is living.”
“Living?”
“Living.”
“Impossible!”
“It is a fact--proved, authenticated, confirmed, registered.”
“Then that son will inherit the Clancharlie peerage?”
“He is not going to inherit it.”
“Why?”
“Because he has inherited it. It is done.”
“Done?”
“Turn your head, Lord Eure; he is sitting behind you, on the barons’ benches.”
Lord Eure turned, but Gwynplaine’s face was concealed under his forest of hair.
“So,” said the old man, who could see nothing but his hair, “he has already adopted the new fashion. He does not wear a wig.”
Grantham accosted Colepepper.
“Some one is finely sold.”
“Who is that?”
“David Dirry-Moir.”
“How is that?”
“He is no longer a peer.”
“How can that be?”
And Henry Auverquerque, Earl of Grantham, told John Baron Colepepper the whole anecdote--how the waif-flask had been carried to the Admiralty, about the parchment of the Comprachicos, the jussu regis, countersigned Jeffreys, and the confrontation in the torture-cell at Southwark, the proof of all the facts acknowledged by the Lord Chancellor and by the Queen; the taking the test under the nave, and finally the admission of Lord Fermain Clancharlie at the commencement of the sitting. Both the lords endeavoured to distinguish his face as he sat between Lord Fitzwalter and Lord Arundel, but with no better success than Lord Eure and Lord Annesley.
Gwynplaine, either by chance or by the arrangement of his sponsors, forewarned by the Lord Chancellor, was so placed in shadow as to escape their curiosity.
“Who is it? Where is he?”
Such was the exclamation of all the new-comers, but no one succeeded in making him out distinctly. Some, who had seen Gwynplaine in the Green Box, were exceedingly curious, but lost their labour: as it sometimes happens that a young lady is entrenched within a troop of dowagers, Gwynplaine was, as it were, enveloped in several layers of lords, old, infirm, and indifferent. Good livers, with the gout, are marvellously indifferent to stories about their neighbours.
There passed from hand to hand copies of a letter three lines in length, written, it was said, by the Duchess Josiana to the queen, her sister, in answer to the injunction made by her Majesty, that she should espouse the new peer, the lawful heir of the Clancharlies, Lord Fermain. This letter was couched in the following terms:--
“MADAM,--The arrangement will suit me just as well. I can have Lord David for my lover.--(Signed) JOSIANA.”
This note, whether a true copy or a forgery, was received by all with the greatest enthusiasm. A young lord, Charles Okehampton, Baron Mohun, who belonged to the wigless faction, read and re-read it with delight. Lewis de Duras, Earl of Faversham, an Englishman with a Frenchman’s wit, looked at Mohun and smiled.
“That is a woman I should like to marry!” exclaimed Lord Mohun.
The lords around them overheard the following dialogue between Duras and Mohun:--
“Marry the Duchess Josiana, Lord Mohun!”
“Why not?”
“Plague take it.”
“She would make one very happy.”
“She would make many very happy.”
“But is it not always a question of many?”
“Lord Mohun, you are right. With regard to women, we have always the leavings of others. Has any one ever had a beginning?”
“Adam, perhaps.”
“Not he.”
“Then Satan.”
“My dear lord,” concluded Lewis de Duras, “Adam only lent his name. Poor dupe! He endorsed the human race. Man was begotten on the woman by the devil.”
Hugh Cholmondeley, Earl of Cholmondeley, strong in points of law, was asked from the bishops’ benches by Nathaniel Crew, who was doubly a peer, being a temporal peer, as Baron Crew, and a spiritual peer, as Bishop of Durham.
“Is it possible?” said Crew.
“Is it regular?” said Cholmondeley.
“The investiture of this peer was made outside the House,” replied the bishop; “but it is stated that there are precedents for it.”
“Yes. Lord Beauchamp, under Richard II.; Lord Chenay, under Elizabeth: and Lord Broghill, under Cromwell.”
“Cromwell goes for nothing.”
“What do you think of it all?”
“Many different things.”
“My Lord Cholmondeley, what will be the rank of this young Lord Clancharlie in the House?”
“My Lord Bishop, the interruption of the Republic having displaced ancient rights of precedence, Clancharlie now ranks in the peerage between Barnard and Somers, so that should each be called upon to speak in turn, Lord Clancharlie would be the eighth in rotation.”
“Really! he--a mountebank from a public show!”
“The act, per se, does not astonish me, my Lord Bishop. We meet with such things. Still more wonderful circumstances occur. Was not the War of the Roses predicted by the sudden drying up of the river Ouse, in Bedfordshire, on January 1st, 1399. Now, if a river dries up, a peer may, quite as naturally, fall into a servile condition. Ulysses, King of Ithaca, played all kinds of different parts. Fermain Clancharlie remained a lord under his player’s garb. Sordid garments touch not the soul’s nobility. But taking the test and the investiture outside the sitting, though strictly legal, might give rise to objections. I am of opinion that it will be necessary to look into the matter, to see if there be any ground to question the Lord Chancellor in Privy Council later on. We shall see in a week or two what is best to be done.”
And the Bishop added,--
“All the same. It is an adventure such as has not occurred since Earl Gesbodus’s time.”
Gwynplaine, the Laughing Man; the Tadcaster Inn; the Green Box; “Chaos Vanquished;” Switzerland; Chillon; the Comprachicos; exile; mutilation; the Republic; Jeffreys; James II.; the jussu regis; the bottle opened at the Admiralty; the father, Lord Linnæus; the legitimate son, Lord Fermain; the bastard son, Lord David; the probable lawsuits; the Duchess Josiana; the Lord Chancellor; the Queen;--all these subjects of conversation ran from bench to bench.
Whispering is like a train of gunpowder.
They seized on every incident. All the details of the occurrence caused an immense murmur through the House. Gwynplaine, wandering in the depths of his reverie, heard the buzzing, without knowing that he was the cause of it. He was strangely attentive to the depths, not to the surface. Excess of attention becomes isolation.
The buzz of conversation in the House impedes its usual business no more than the dust raised by a troop impedes its march. The judges--who in the Upper House were mere assistants, without the privilege of speaking, except when questioned--had taken their places on the second woolsack; and the three Secretaries of State theirs on the third.
The heirs to peerages flowed into their compartment, at once without and within the House, at the back of the throne.
The peers in their minority were on their own benches. In 1705 the number of these little lords amounted to no less than a dozen--Huntingdon, Lincoln, Dorset, Warwick, Bath, Barlington, Derwentwater--destined to a tragical death--Longueville, Lonsdale, Dudley, Ward, and Carteret: a troop of brats made up of eight earls, two viscounts, and two barons.
In the centre, on the three stages of benches, each lord had taken his seat. Almost all the bishops were there. The dukes mustered strong, beginning with Charles Seymour, Duke of Somerset; and ending with George Augustus, Elector of Hanover, and Duke of Cambridge, junior in date of creation, and consequently junior in rank. All were in order, according to right of precedence: Cavendish, Duke of Devonshire, whose grandfather had sheltered Hobbes, at Hardwicke, when he was ninety-two; Lennox, Duke of Richmond; the three Fitzroys, the Duke of Southampton, the Duke of Grafton, and the Duke of Northumberland; Butler, Duke of Ormond; Somerset, Duke of Beaufort; Beauclerk, Duke of St. Albans; Paulet, Duke of Bolton; Osborne, Duke of Leeds; Wrottesley Russell, Duke of Bedford, whose motto and device was Che sarà sarà, which expresses a determination to take things as they come; Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham; Manners, Duke of Rutland; and others. Neither Howard, Duke of Norfolk, nor Talbot, Duke of Shrewsbury, was present, being Catholics; nor Churchill, Duke of Marlborough, the French Malbrouck, who was at that time fighting the French and beating them. There were no Scotch dukes then--Queensberry, Montrose, and Roxburgh not being admitted till 1707.
