St. George's Cross; Or, England Above All

ACT IV.
The Duel

Tom Elliot was a very bad sample of the cavalier party. Trained in camps, he had learned betimes to seek his happiness in wine, dice, loose speech, and morals to match. As in France, the successors of the Sullys and Du Plessis Mornays had become the coxcombs of the Fronde, and the grandson of Bras-de-Fer was known as Bras-de-Laine, so the character and conduct of men like Hyde, Ormonde, and Falkland furnished no example to such as Villiers and Wilmot, whose only ideal of imitation was scurrilous mimicry. Where the elder cavaliers had been proud to serve their king, the rising generation was content if it could amuse him; and with that Charles was satisfied.

Thus Elliot had learned that for such an escapade as his last he might easily obtain forgiveness. It was not that Charles was, even in youth, a sincere or warm friend. His easy good nature had its root in self-indulgence. Clarendon, who knew him and his family intus et in cute, has pointed this out in one of his best character sentences. "They were too much inclined to love men at first sight," so writes the faithful servant of the Stuarts. "They did not love the conversation of men of more years than themselves. They did not love to deny, … not out of bounty or generosity, which was a flower that did never grow naturally in the heart of either family—that of Stuart or the other of Bourbon—and when they prevailed with themselves to make some pause rather than to deny, importunity removed all resolution." [Continuation of Life, p. 339, fol. ed.]

And there were not wanting particular reasons to dispose Charles to favour and forgiveness in this instance. Though Elliot had concealed the fact at Maufant, he was in fact a married man. His wife was the daughter of the Mrs. Wyndham who had been the king's nurse. To this family connection he owed his first introduction to the royal household, which had been constantly improved by his lawless and pushing nature. A contemporary remarked of Elliot that "he was not one who would receive any injury from his modesty." The late king's grave and virtuous mind had been greatly alienated by these things, and he had once dismissed him from his family. The passionate youth had recovered his position owing to the Wyndham influence, but he came back with illwill in his heart. The memory of the royal martyr inspired him with scant reverence, nor did he feel either respect or compassion for the queen-mother. From these sentiments, however, one advantage flowed. Elliot was bitterly opposed to Jermyn and the French interest, and made use of his opportunities about the king's person to strengthen him in a like opposition. So it came to pass that, after sulking an hour, the facile master not only pardoned the petulant servant, but promoted him to be a groom of the bedchamber; and the return was made in an increased persistence in efforts on Elliot's part to amuse the king and flatter all his propensities, whether political or personal.

The "Indian summer," or été de S. Martin, was at its height in Jersey, when Carteret, obtaining Charles's ready acquiescence, resolved on ordering a general review of the militia. Soon after daybreak on the 30th October the population began streaming in from all parishes, under the mild splendour of a cloudless heaven. The scene was on the sands of S. Aubin's Bay, between the Mont Patibulaire and Millbrook. On the right wing stood two squadrons of mounted infantry, with their standards displayed in the morning breeze. On the left were the parish batteries, with their guns, caissons, and tumbrils. In the centre were the Cornish body guard and the militia infantry in battalion six deep, while the reserve and recruits brought up the rear. All but the last-named carried matches for their firearms, which were loaded with blank cartridge. The supports carried pikes. The drums beat, the colours flew, as Charles and his staff, surrounded by an escort of the mounted infantry, emerging from the south gate of the castle, rode along the low-water causeway.

Mme. de Maufant and her sister, mounted on sober but well-bred nags, and accompanied by some of their farm hands in gala costume, occupied a foremost place among the spectators. But the appearance of the castle cortège threatened their comfort, if not their safety. For the public excitement grew from moment to moment, "and those behind cried forward! and those before cried back!" The younger and more excitable especially, spurred by the fine weather and the novel spectacle, pressed eagerly to the front, mixed with mothers of scrofulous children, desirous of gaining for them the healing virtue of the royal touch. The king's horse, short of work, and participating in the general excitement, reared and curvetted in the crowd, but was reined in by his skillful rider.

Charles was in his purple velvet, with no token of a military purpose. But on his left rode a gigantic guardsman in full panoply, while Elliot came on the right (but with his horse half a length behind) in gorgeous array, though more for show than for service. In his silver helmet fluttered a lissom ostrich plume, his shining cuirass was damascened with gold, which metal also glittered on the hilt of his sword. The tops of his buff boots and gauntlets were fringed with costly Brussels point. As they approached the crushed and alarmed ladies, a militia officer rushing to their aid from his place between the guns and the nearest company of foot, came into involuntary contact with the glistening groom of the chamber. The lace of the later's boot caught in the steel shoulder piece of the infantry officer, and was torn. Irritated and excited Elliot brought down his hand upon the unconscious offender, and dealt him a heavy blow on the side of the face. At this sight—with nerves already overstrung—Marguerite became unable to control her usually placid steed; and Alain le Gallais—for he was the militia officer—was diverted from his instinctive but imprudent impulse of immediate retaliation, by seeing the young lady slip from her saddle into his arms.

The little incident was over in an instant, and the king passed on, but not without taking it all in with the observation natural to him.

"A comely wench, Tom!" he said to his companion, "and one that seemeth to know thee. But it seems that others gather what thou fellest."

"Faith, sir," answered Elliot, smilingly, "I have given him his wage beforehand. It is well that he should do my work."

There was no time for longer or plainer speech. The guns began a royal salute, their muzzles fortunately directed towards the sea—for many of the pieces had been charged for ball practice. This somewhat dangerous demonstration was followed by a dropping fire of blank cartridge from the matchlocks of the foot, and then by general acclamations of "Vive le Roi" from all ranks. Then Philip de Carteret, Seigneur of S. Ouen, being called to the front, received the congratulations of the king on the appearance of the forces, in which, under the lieutenant-governor, his uncle, he held the chief command. He was then bidden to kneel, touched with the royal sword, and told to "Rise, Sir Philip de Carteret." The eighteen stand of colours were displayed on the outer sides of the columns. Again the drums beat, the trumpets blew, and with the same state as that in which he had arrived, the king was escorted back to the castle.

As soon as Charles and his followers had been relieved of their full dress they renewed the conversation in which they had been interrupted on the sands, Elliot first endeavouring to improve the occasion into an argument against the king's remaining in Jersey.

"That malapert bumpkin will be no friend either to me or to your majesty," he said. "At himself I snap my fingers. But it seems to me there are some two thousand of them who cry 'Vive le Roi' for half a pistole, but would cry 'Vivent nous autres' for nothing. If the French land here they will turn against you at once. If the Parliament prevail they will submit, willy nilly. And your majesty may feel no ailment, yet have to be attended by the surgeon who cured your father."

"Whither should I go hence?" asked the other. "The news of Ireland is hardly such as to give colour to Ormonde's invitation."

"I have told you what to do, sir, but got small thanks for my pains. Think on it well. Now, by your leave I must attend to affairs of my own. May I find you in a wiser mood when I return!"

"Farewell, then, Tom," said Charles. "But beware of poaching on a Jersey manor!"

"There are no game laws here, or if there be the keeper is away." With these words Elliot retired with a careless bow, and the king waved his hand gaily as he disappeared.

The forward young man bent his way, as often before, in the direction of Maufant. On entering the garden he saw the lady of the manor—a rose among the roses, as Malherbe might have said. The moment she perceived Elliot she stood sternly, and with dilated eye before the entry of the house, as if to bar the way, the united blazon of her husband's ancestors and her own appearing above her head like a crest of battle.

"Why so stern, fair lady?" demanded the courtier, saluting her, "And why alone?"

"My sister is not here," said Mme. de Maufant, answering but the second of Elliot's questions. "She has spoken with you for the last time, Mr. Elliot. I hope that I too have the same advantage. You should go home, Monsieur, to your wife."

Elliot started, but quickly recovering himself, said, with an insolent smile, "Always thinking of marriage, these dear creatures. Ah, ah! madame, sits the wind in that quarter? You thought the poor Scots gentleman might be caught by the rosy cheeks of a Jersey farm girl. Pas si bête."

Rose pointed to the garden archway. "If you do not relieve me of your presence this very instant," she said, pale and panting, "my farm labourers shall drive you out with cudgels."

"It shall not need, madame, to pay me this last attention, so worthy of your habits. 'Au revoir, madame!'" And with a profound and mocking reverence the wanton cavalier slowly retreated, leaving Rose to sink, half fainting, into a stone seat by the house door.

Elliot strode off, smarting with the sting of his well-merited humiliation. A brief moment of reflection was enough to show its probable origin. It was evident that the secret of his marriage had found its way to the manor, where the court he had been paying to Marguerite had consequently ceased to be regarded as a harmless gallantry, and come to be taken for insult, as indeed it deserved. Nor was it difficult to go on to guess the channel of this information. Le Gallais was Marguerite's acknowledged lover, the person who would benefit by the removal of a fascinating dog like Elliot—a formidable rival, as he flattered himself such as he must be to a bumpkin officer of militia. How Le Gallais could have learned the fact of his having a wife in France might be a harder question, but it was one that was not material. Revenge would be equally sweet, whether that were answered or not.

Full of these thoughts the groom of the chamber stalked on to S. Helier. On reaching the quay, he came to "The White Ship"—a tavern frequented alike by the officers of the garrison and by those of the island militia. The parlour was full of men, some in uniform, some in plain clothes, smoking, drinking, playing cards—a scene of Teniers. One of the first faces on which his eye fell was that of Le Gallais, who sprang from his chair on Elliot's entrance, but was restrained by his neighbours, and sat down watching the intruder's movements with glaring eye. Striding up to the hearth, and standing with his back to it, the cavalier broke into a forced laugh.

"Strange company you keep, gentlemen. I spy one among you whom you had better put forth without delay."

"Whom mean you?" asked the patch-wearing Querto. "'May I not take mine ease in mine inn?' as the fat fellow says in the play. May not a plain soldier choose his own company?"

"A soldier is a gentleman, and should keep company with gentlemen," answered the flushed youth. "Mr. Le Gallais is no mate for cavaliers. I say to his face that he is a cropeared rebel, a busybody, and a pestilent knave."

"I appeal to you, Major Querto," said Le Gallais, roused from his temporary pause, and turning to the major, whom indeed he had brought to the place, and for whose refreshment he was providing.

"Appeal me no appeals," said the Major, with a truculent look. "No man shall appeal to Dick Querto till he is purged of such epitaphs."

Confusion reigned. Le Gallais looked about him for a friendly face, and presently saw sympathy on that of a fellow-countryman and brother officer.

"Captain Bisson," he said, "you will speak to Mr. Elliot's friend."

Elliot flung out of the house, followed by Querto and two or three Royalist officers, Le Gallais, and Bisson in the rear. They walked towards the beach, and on their arriving at the foot of the Gallows Hill—near where the picquet-house now stands—an Irish officer came from Elliot's group and met Bisson, hat in hand.

"Are the gentlemen to fight now?" he asked.

"The sooner the better," answered Bisson.

"Will it be a pas de deux, or will we all join the dance?"

"Surely, a combat of two," gravely replied the islander. "We do not understand Paris fashions here. With you and me, sir, there need be no quarrel."

"Sure, and we could have an elegant fight without quarrelling," muttered the Irishman, with a disappointed frown. "But 'anything for a quiet life' is my motto. This is a mighty fine place, I'm thinking, where two brave fellows can cut each other's throats in peace and without disturbance." Major Querto stood by with the air of an indispensable umpire.

The escrime of those days had not attained its later refinements. The combatants were placed opposite to each other, each flinging a cloak about his left arm, to serve as a shield, and they prepared to encounter in what would seem a fashion of "rough-and-tumble" to our modern masters.

Both were brave men, and in the bloom of manhood. Elliot was the taller, but Le Gallais, some seven or eight years older, far exceeded in strength and weight. After scant ceremony the thrusting began. Feet trampled, steel rang. A furious pass from the Jerseyman was with difficulty caught in Elliot's cloak, and the sword for a moment hampered. Before Le Gallais could extricate it, Elliot, with a savage cry, ran in upon him, drawing back his elbow, so as to stab his adversary with a shortened sword. A scuffle ensued, of which no bystander could follow with his eye the full details, till the Scot's sword was seen to turn upwards, and the point to pierce his own throat. Each combatant fell backwards, Le Gallais bleeding from the left hand, and Elliot spouting black gore from a severed artery.

At that instant cries name from the outside of the ring, "The guard!" On which the spectators hastened to disperse, while the Lieutenant-Governor rode up at the head of a mounted patrol. Elliot was taken from the ground in a dying state, and Le Gallais arrested, and ordered to Mont Orgueil, to await the arrival of the magistrate, who should make the preliminary inquiry.

Left in that irksome durance, but with wound duly cared for, Alain had abundant time to muse over the mistakes and misfortunes of the past. After the inquiry he was necessarily committed for trial at the next criminal session; and fell at first into a semi-mechanical existence. But slowly the twin stars of memory and hope rose out of the dark, while conscious integrity began to clear the moral æther. He tried in vain to cherish remorse, but Elliot's treachery overbore the effort; slowly calm returned.

It was true that the news of Elliot's fraud had been made known to the ladies of Maufant by himself. But as he thought over the matter in the solitude of his chilly cell, he could not see any reason to blame himself on that account. Hearing from Querto—who was connected with the family—that Elliot was unquestionably a married man, he had only done his duty in warning Rose and her sister against the groom of the chamber. He would not admit to himself that jealousy had influenced him in so doing. As Lempriere's agent, as the old friend of the family, he could not have done otherwise. All was over between him and Marguerite, yet he could not forget that, by the wish of the young lady's friends, if not by her own, he had once been her affianced husband. As for the death of the courtier, it was not in itself a subject for much regret; and, further, it had been wholly the consequence of the dead man's own actions, from his deceit towards the ladies to his final ferocity and foul play in an encounter of his own provoking.

While Alain Le Gallais thus sought comfort by the road of reason and of conscience, his heart continued very sore. But on the morrow of his commitment an event occurred which changed his cheer, and made his prison for an instant more lovely than a palace. All the Jerseymen were acquainted with each other, and the prison warder, though fully meaning to keep his captive, did not by any means understand his duty to extend to making such detention a punishment to a man whom he liked, and who had not yet been condemned. So when Mme. de Maufant and her sister presented themselves at the gate, seeking admission to Alain's cell, the worthy jailor unhesitatingly showed them into his own parlour, and fetched Alain to them, only taking the precaution of turning the door key upon the outside as he left them alone with the priser, on the understanding that they should call him from the window when they wished to leave.

Pale as death, her lovely eyes ringed with dark shades, poor Marguerite fell upon Alain's breast, without pretence of coyness.

"Alain, mon ami!" she cooed in her soft rich voice, "can you give me your pardon?"

How far Alain believed this sudden revelation cannot certainly be told. All that he felt able to do was to strain the girl to his heart and be silent. Rose stood discreetly at the window; but finding that the lovers had no more to say to each other, she by and by broke silence.

"We shall not leave you to suffer for us," she said. "Carteret is without scruple and without mercy. As a friend of Michael's, he will seek every loophole for your ruin. I have already seen the Advocate Falle. He says that you will be tried for murder next week, and that if Carteret presides you are no better than a dead man."

"To die for you and Marguerite is not so hard," said the young man, with a smile.

"You shall do nothing of the sort," cried Rose, warmly, "listen to me. The day is setting in for rain and storm. At five in the afternoon it will be dark. Then one of us will come back with John Le Vesconte, of La Rosière, who is your match in stature, and who will be admitted on account of his being of kin to us. He will change clothes with you, and will remain in your stead while you come out of prison in his. He is in favour with Carteret, and will be quit for a fine, which I will gladly pay."

As she stood, warm and bright with zeal, and intellect flushing in her eye, Alain thought that, with all his troubles, her exiled lord was a happy man. But he had to think of his own case. Placing the broken form of Marguerite tenderly in a chair, he stood up and looked full in Rose's face, his hands joined, almost in an attitude of prayer.

"Do not tempt me," he said, in a low, but determined voice. "I will not put another in my place to save my life, nor even to please Michael Lempriere's wife. Moreover, John Valpy, the jailor here—who is somewhat of my family, too, for our fathers married cousins—has dealt tenderly with me, and I will not do what would bring ruin upon him. Tempt me no more," he repeated hastily, seeing Rose about to interrupt him. "My mind is fully made up."

"But for her sake," pleaded Mme. de Maufant, eyeing the almost senseless girl with yearning pity. "Think of her young life, bound up with yours."

"Alas!" answered he, "who knows what maidens mean? She has been excited by all that has befallen, and will doubtless be sorry for me, and remember me. But her life can never be bound but by herself. Briefly, I will not be saved on the terms you offer. Existence for me is without value, honour is not."

After this speech, delivered in a tone of conviction, Rose could say no more. For her part, Marguerite was helpless. Her nerves had broken in the excitement of the whole scene, and by the time that Alain had done speaking, she was on the edge of a fit of violent hysterics. When her sister had succeeded, by the aid of the jailor's wife, hastily summoned, in restoring a little calm, Marguerite insisted upon being taken away. Alain was left unshaken in his resolve, and Rose, weary of the unsuccessful interview, removed her sister to their temporary lodgings in the town. Leaving her there in the careful hands of the woman of the place—an old acquaintance—she hurried off to Hill-street, where she had another consultation with the Advocate Falle.

The result was soon apparent. To whatever motive Carteret may have yielded, he did not preside at the trial of Le Gallais, leaving the task—as indeed he usually did—to the Lieutenant-Bailiff. The record of the trial has perished, along with many public papers of those troublous times. But thus much we know, that Alain Le Gallais was tried before the Lieutenant-Bailiff and six jurats, and, in spite of a strenuous defence by Advocate Falle, was found guilty and sentenced to death.

It would be impossible to describe the anguish of the ladies of Maufant, who had remained in town during these proceedings. Rose had already spent in the conduct of the case money that she could ill afford. But she knew that her husband would never forgive her if she neglected any means of delivering their champion. Nor was she in any way disposed to do so. Secret service money was laid out to the full extent of Mme. de Maufant's powers of borrowing.

Meanwhile the political horizon grew darker day by day. Charles fretted and yawned; but he continued to attend Divine service in the town church. He also dined in public, "touched" for the king's evil, and exercised such functions of royalty (as understood in that period of transition) as the conditions of the place permitted. Just before the end of the Stuart dynasty kingship in England was in much the same condition among the English as it is now among the German nations. The monarch was still regarded as the head of the feudal State, while a number of the leading men were beginning to perceive more or less clearly that society had passed out of a condition in which it could be deeply or permanently swayed by the absolute will of one individual, however highly placed by what one called the Divine pleasure, and another the accident of birth. Among the personal prerogatives of the Crown was the pardon of persons condemned to death.

On the morning of the day when Mr. Secretary Nicholas was ordered to bring up the papers in the case of Rex v. Le Gallais, the Lieutenant-Governor of the small territory to which Charles's sway was for the present restricted had a long audience. The king had, in his light way, lamented the loss of his petulant favourite. But Carteret had, with less pains than he had looked for, succeeded in convincing the facile and intelligent sovereign that for both the quarrel and its result Tom Elliot had been alone answerable. Probability leads us to suspect that Charles had his own reasons for the readiness with which he accepted the governor's arguments. Among all the young king's heavy faults, vindictiveness was not, at that time, in the faintest degree traceable; but, besides that, he had learned, in the intercourse of the last day or two before the fatal encounter, too much of Elliot's nefarious designs upon Marguerite de St. Martin to suppose that he would with decency punish the conduct of her defender. Nor need we wonder if a bag of Rose Lempriere's pistoles lent weight, even to royal scruples.

"Odsfish, Sir George," he said, finally, "I believe that you must e'en take the pardon of your choleric countryman."

"Your majesty is ever gracious," answered Carteret, with his best quarter-deck reverence, "though under your pardon my countrymen are in no respect to be taxed with ready choler. They are ever courteous and patient. Only steadfast malice is what they cannot abide."

"I dare be bold to say that human nature hath its operation amongst them," answered Charles, with his languid smile. "Give them what they want and their temper is easy. But enough of this, Nicholas will draw the pardon, and it shall be signed and sealed anon. But, further, take order that there be no more duelling. And now, as touching another of your prisoners, Major Querto?"

"The major was arrested among those present at the duel, in which it hath been shown that he was not a participator," said Sir George; "but letters have been found in his possession which hinder his release without further inquiry."

"I can be the major's warrant," answered Charles. "He was a trooper in Goring's horse, and rose by reason of his wife being chosen to nurse my mother's last-born infant at Exeter. When her majesty retired into France, Querto, raised to be a commissioned officer, remained in Exeter. When that city was taken he followed his wife to France, from whence he is now come, bringing letters from her majesty to me."

"By your leave, sir," answered Carteret, "your information lacks completeness. Querto by no means repaired from Exeter to France. We have searched his valise, and have taken therefrom a packet of papers, from which it plainly appears that he is a false knave, who hath bubbled both sides. There is among these papers a letter from Sir John Grenville, to the effect that this fellow was to obtain money from the Parliament on a false pretence of delivering Scilly into their hands. There is another from Bulstrode Whitelock, in which the matter assumes a different and a more heinous aspect. According to that paper, Querto had been to London, and there undertaken, on the receipt of two thousand pounds, to aid in the betrayal, not merely of Scilly, but of Jersey. He had taken handsell of his price, and went to France, either to complete the bargain or else to trade with Mazarin. I leave to your majesty to determine which."

The king moved uneasily in his chair. He shunned the governor's searching eye, and affected to be watching a ship in the offing, of which a view was commanded by his casement.

"That vessel appears to interest your majesty," said Carteret, "she flies St. Andrew's Cross."

"I opine that it is the vessel of the Scots Commissioners," answered Charles. "An it be so, we will receive them in council. Matters of great moment may be awaiting their arrival. For the present, Sir George, I bid you farewell."

It was now December. The "St. Martin's summer" of the Channel Islands was almost over. The trees were losing their leaves. The last roses lingered still only in sheltered nooks, rich as the Maufant garden. The sky was, however, serene, and the sea calm, as the Scottish ship sailed into the harbour. She had come over from Holland with a favouring wind, bringing the Chief Commissioner of the Parliament and clergy of Scotland, together with other gentlemen and officers, and an emissary from the Duke of Lorraine. The result of their arrival demands another chapter, for it seriously affected the fortunes of several persons concerned in the events which our history relates. Our scene changes to the ancient monastic chapel of the castle, in which the commissioners were brought before the king in council.