And so it befel that two nights thereafter we were installed—Goring and I—in a cheerful room on the first floor of the hostelry of the Rose. With us came his grace of Buckingham and a party of gentlemen who sat down to lansquenet in the adjoining room, and besides these there was the unavoidable Sir John.
He played not at lansquenet, but stood at Goring’s elbow—like Satan, methought, watching a tempted victim. Truth to tell, I had conceived the notion that Sir John was plotting something against either Goring or myself, and I had a monstrous inclination that night to pick a quarrel with him. I had thereafter cause to repent that I obeyed not that prompting.
The mischief chanced upon the following night. Again Buckingham and his friends were in the adjoining chamber, the door of which stood open, so that from where we sat we could see them by the mere raising of our eyes. Sir John lolled in a chair beside us watching Lord Goring lose, and wearing a sardonic grin upon his lean, saturnine countenance.
The hour waxed late; the candles were burning low, and my wits grew dull with the vapors of the sack I had drunk; but for that circumstance mayhap I had coped better with that which followed.
Of a sudden, Goring flung the box down with an oath, and sprang to his feet so violent and clumsily as to overset his chair, which fell with a crash behind him. Through the open door I saw Buckingham turn his head, and I heard his laugh and his words:
“’Tis but Faversham’s luck, gentlemen.”
’Twas the first time Goring had been betrayed into so unseemly a display of temper, and it surprised me all the more considering that his losses that night did not amount to fifty crowns, while at other times he had risen with a smile from a table at which he had payed me hundreds.
“In the future, Master Faversham, you may play with the devil,” said he.
Now, in my cups I am the sweetest-tempered fellow living, and but for the bottles of sack that I had emptied I should have been sorely put to it to have slit his lordship’s nose for those words. As it was I did but laugh, and then before I had recovered—for sack maketh a man’s laugh long-drawn—Sir John stood up, and:
“Will you throw a main at passage with me, Mr. Faversham?” said he. “I am curious to break a lance with this wondrous luck of yours.”
“My lord here proposes I should play the devil,” I answered, with a hiccough. “Well, I take it the devil is much the same as a Presbyterian, so come on, Sir John.”
He darted a venomous glance at me, and drew up his chair. It never occurred to me how strange a thing it was that this pillar of the sober, virtuous Kirk should play at passage, and for that thoughtlessness again I blame the sack.
Goring set his elbows on the table, and with his chin in his hands he watched us.
Sir John gathered the dice into the box, and handed it to me. I threw; he threw; I threw again, I passed, and won the five gold caroluses he had staked. We began again, and ended in like fashion.
“Come now, Sir John,” I cried, “confess ’tis more diverting than a sermon. It thrills you more, doth it not, Sir Jack? Aye, rat me, it—”
I checked myself suddenly, and gazed in fascination at his forefinger and thumb, ’twixt which he was balancing one of the dice that I had just thrown. For a second he held it steady; then slowly, but surely and fatally it turned. My first thought was that the sack had made me dizzy and a prey to illusions; but Goring’s words, hissed into my ear, told me otherwise.
“You blackguard!” he said, and what with the wine and my bewilderment I had not the wit to strike him down, but sat, with mouth agape, staring at Gillespie. At length the Scotchman spoke.
“So! we have discovered the secret of your good fortune, Master Faversham,” and with a gesture of ineffable disgust, he flung the loaded cube onto the board. At that I found my voice.
“The secret, Sir John!” I cried struggling to rise. But he pushed me back into my chair.
“Hush, sir,” he answered, “or those others will hear you. I do not seek your disgrace.”
“Disgrace!” I echoed. “Damn me, Sir Jack—Sir Jack Presbyter—you shall answer to me—”
“Be silent,” he commanded, so sharply that despite myself I obeyed him. “Attend to me, sir. I shall answer to you for nothing. My sword is for men of honor—not for discovered cheats, men who play with loaded dice. Nay, keep your hands still! If you so much as draw an inch of your sword, I’ll call my Lord Buckingham and those other gentleman, and show them these dice. Lord Goring can bear witness to the service they have been put to.”
I sat back in my chair, and the sweat came out upon my brow while my wine-clogged brain strove vainly to unriddle me this desperate situation.
“Lord Goring,” quoth Sir John, pointing to a side table, “will you favor me with that inkhorn and pen?”
His lordship brought him the things, whereupon having found a strip of paper, Sir John set himself to write, while I watched him like one in dream.
“What is it you do?” I asked at length, and in answer he set before me the paper, whereon I read, with some difficulty and no little horror, the following:
I, Lionel Faversham, do hereby confess and declare that on the evening of the tenth of September, of the year of our Lord l650, while playing at hazard and passage with my Lord Goring and Sir John Gillespie, at the hostelry of the Rose in the High Street, Perth, did with the nefarious intent to plunder the said gentlemen, make use of loaded dice, at which foul practice I was discovered by Sir John Gillespie in the presence of my Lord Goring. In witness whereof I do hereunto set my hand.
“Sign,” commanded Sir John, in answer to my glance of inquiry; and he offered me the pen.
“Sign!” I echoed, aghast. “Are you mad, Sir John?”
“Sign!” he repeated.
Ah, ’tis easy to say now what I should have done. I should have upset the table and kicked Sir John downstairs. But so befuddled was I ’twixt sack and the dread of public dishonor that I did neither of these things.
“Sir John,” I protested, “I swear ’tis a lie—a vile, monstrous lie. If the dice be clogged indeed, then we have both used them so; how they came here I know not. But we have both used them, I say.”
He laughed harshly and pointed to the pile of gold at my elbow sixty or seventy crowns, there may have been.
“Yet you alone contrived to win,” he sneered. “You, who in the past week have won thousands from Lord Goring. Come, Master Faversham, sign.”
“Not I,” I answered, stubbornly.
Sir John stood up.
“I fear, Mr. Faversham, you do not realize the gravity of your position. Unless you forthwith sign that paper, I shall be compelled to call hither his grace of Buckingham, and those with him, and make this matter public. There lie the dice, there the money you have won, and here my Lord Goring, a witness. Perchance, you can picture what must follow.”
I could indeed! And I grew cold at the contemplation of it. In my imagination I beheld myself already disgraced, dismissed from court, and—worse than all—dishonored for life.
“If I sign,” I inquired, huskily, “what use will you make of it?”
“None, given that you comply with my demands, and that they have also Lord Goring’s approval.”
“They are?”
“That you never again touch either dice box or cards, and that you return to Lord Goring the moneys you have won from him during the past week. On such conditions I am content to keep the matter secret. Are you agreed, my lord?”
His lordship nodded.
“But, gentlemen,” I protested, “I swear by honor—”
“The honor of a man who uses loaded dice,” sneered Gillespie. “Have done, sir, and sign.”
In despair, I snatched up the pen, and set my name to that bond of infamy. No sooner was it done than, quickly, as though fearing I might repent of it, Gillespie seized the paper and signed to Lord Goring to collect the crowns that I had won from him as honestly as ever crowns were won at play.
* * *
I aw
akened next morning with a dull, aching head, sorely harassed moreover by that which had befallen at the Rose. At first I was beset by rage that I had allowed myself to sign so damnable a document. But anon, when I gave more sober thought to it, I realized indeed that no alternative had been left me. My character itself was one that could not have borne so heinous a charge. I was known—among other attributes—for a desperate gamester, and one indeed who well-nigh lived upon his wits at play. For saving the pittance which His Majesty allowed me, I was as penniless a fortune hunter as any of his followers—the Parliament having stripped my father of his last acre of land. Further, my fortune at play—wedded to my skill—had of late bordered upon the miraculous, all of which would give vraisemblance to Gillespie’s accusation.
I had taken a morning draught of muscadine and eggs when some one tapped at my chamber door, and Giles—my body servant—admitted Sir John Gillespie. I sent Giles on an errand that was like to keep him absent for an hour or so, then turned to my visitor.
“Are we alone?” asked Gillespie.
“Quite,” I answered.
“Mr. Faversham,” said he. “You no doubt are harassed by the recollection of the paper you signed last night?”
“Need you ask, sir?”
“And were the opportunity afforded you of regaining possession of that scrap of paper, you would eagerly avail yourself of it, eh?”
“Again, need you ask?”
“Well, Mr. Faversham, I am come to bargain with you. There is something that you can obtain for me, and in exchange for that something you shall have your document.”
“Name it,” I cried, eagerly. “What is this something?”
“The King,” he answered, coolly.
“The King?” I echoed. “I don’t understand.”
“The King. Charles Stuart. Let me explain, Mr. Faversham. You were present some nights ago when this misguided young malignant protested that he was glad the Scotch were destroyed at Dunbar. Well, sir, those words have rankled; not with me alone, but with other eminent members of the state. On the same night a letter from Charles Stuart to the Duke of Hamilton was intercepted, wherein there were such things as no covenanter could suffer even from a king. ’Tis to him, this accursed prince, to his debaucheries and those of the blasphemous libertines about him that we assign our destruction. ’Tis his godless, malignant ways that have drawn the wrath of the Lord upon our heads.”
“Forbear, Sir John!” I thundered, unable to brook more of this. “You are a traitor.”
“Better to be a traitor to an evil King of earth than a traitor to the King of Heaven,” answered the fanatic, rising. “Hear me out, Mr. Faversham. We are resolved—I and some other humble instruments of the Lord—to rid Scotland of this impious prince. The sectary Cromwell clamors for him; on his head, then, be the boy’s blood. To Cromwell we shall deliver him. But the majority in Kirk and the Parliament, I grieve to say, are averse to this, and so strategy is needed. The Lord hath set a weapon in my hand; that fool of a lordling whose money you have won was in despair at his losses and his debts. Cromwell offers no less than three thousand pounds for the worthless person of Charles Stuart; with, those three thousand pounds I have bribed Lord Goring. I paid him that sum of money yesterday, in advance, for his help to fuddle you with sack, and to bear witness that you had played with the loaded dice which I, myself, set upon the table.”
“’Slife!” I cried, beside myself with rage. “Call you such lying, deceitful knavery consistent with your religion—you instrument of the Lord!”
Sir John smiled coldly.
“The end justified the means.”
“And, by God, the end shall justify me for slitting your throat!” I sprang toward my sword as I spoke, but ere I could reach it Sir John had leveled a pistol at me.
“Sit down, you fool,” he snarled, “or I’ll blow your brains about the chamber.”
I resumed my seat. What alternative had I?
“Now, sir,” he proceeded, “I duped you because I have need of you. You are intimate with Charles Stuart. More than once have you been his companion upon some escapade of infamy; his mentor upon some debauched enterprise. You must be so again to-morrow night. Lure him from the castle—I care not upon what plea or pretext. But see that by ten o’clock you have him at the corner of the High Street and Maiden Lane.”
Loud and long and derisively did I laugh when he had done.
“Out of my sight, you cur, you son of a race of curs!” I cried at last. “You do well to hold a pistol in front of you while you come upon this Judas errand.”
He rose calm and unruffled.
“I am going,” he said, coolly, “to lay the paper you signed last night before the King. Thereafter I shall lay it before the Kirk Commission, together with certain knowledge that I have of your late connection with James Graham, Earl of Montrose. Ah! you change color, eh? By Heaven, ’tis not without cause, for methinks I have conjured up for you an unpleasant picture—first dishonor, then the hangman. I have you in the hollow of my hand, Mr. Faversham. If I but tighten my grip I crush you, and tighten my grip I will unless you obey me.”
Of what avail to detail further this painful scene of a man thus tortured by fears—not of death alone, but of dishonor? I still resisted, but more and more feebly, until in the end—shame on me that I must write it!—I agreed to do his bidding.
I was to bring the King in a chair. In the High Street at the corner of Maiden Lane, Sir John would meet me, and after assuring himself that ’twas indeed the King whom I had brought he would hand me the paper.
“For the rest,” quoth he, “you will yourself see the futility of playing me any tricks. Warn the King, or denounce me to the Parliament, and I have but to produce this document to prove that you sought by a lie to destroy a man who holds such a piece of evidence against you. And see that you come alone, for I shall take precautions, and if in any way you play me false you yourself will be the only sufferer.”
“What of Goring?” I inquired.
“He has no knowledge of what is afoot. The fool was desperate with his losses, but even should he repent him of what befel last night, he dare say nothing for his own sake. Good-day to you, Mr. Faversham; see that you do not fail me.”
And so it came to pass that during the day I found myself at the King’s side, and I proposed to afford him right merry entertainment if on the following night he would go with me to the Watergate. His Majesty, ever ready for a frolic that would relieve the dullness of his Scotch kingship, assented eagerly. And thus the thing was done, and I was left a prey to the tortures of my conscience for the foul work whereon I was embarked.
On the following day Charles, who was in the best of humors, mentioned it in open court that he and I were bent that night upon an adventure to the Watergate. Sir John Gillespie, who was present, approached me a moment later to whisper in my ear:
“You have chosen wisely, Mr. Faversham,” whereunto I returned no answer.
Goring was not there; indeed, I had not seen him since the affair at the Rose. But towards seven o’clock that evening while I sat in my chamber a prey to misery untold, he suddenly burst in upon me. He was pale, his eyes bloodshot, and his looks disordered. He closed the door and coming forward he drew from beneath his cloak two leathern bags that looked monstrous heavy, and which, as he set them down upon the table, gave forth the chink of gold.
Deeply marveling, yet saying naught, I watched him.
“Mr. Faversham” he began, speaking hoarsely and with averted eyes, “I am come to very humbly make what reparation is in my power. There are in these bags some three thousand pounds that I received from John Gillespie to aid him dupe you the night before last at the Rose. For duped you were, Mr. Faversham—the cogged dice came out of Gillespie’s pocket. The money, sir, is more yours than mine; at least, I will have none of it; dispose of it as you think fit. Your pardon, Mr. Faversham, I dare not crave. My offense is too hideous. But should you demand satisfaction I shall be happy to render it.
”
I sat in my chair and eyed the broken fool. Calmly and coldly I eyed him. Oddslife! Here was something the cunning Sir John had not reckoned with.
“Are you prepared, my lord,” I inquired, sternly, at length, “to come with me to the King and make a full confession?”
He shrank back, turning a shade paler.
“No, no!” he cried. “I dare not. It means disgrace and dishonor.”
“Doth the paper in Ruthven’s possession mean less to me?” I demanded, coldly. “You spoke of rendering me satisfaction.”
“The satisfaction of arms, I meant,” he explained, timidly.
“Think you ’twill avail my honor aught to kill you?” I asked, with a contemptuous laugh. Matters, it seemed, were not mended after all. Then in a flash there came to me, I know not whence, an inspiration.
“How came you hither?” I inquired, abruptly.
“How? By the south gallery.”
“Did you meet no one?”
“None but the guard at the castle gate. Why do you ask?”
“Why? Because I would not have it known,” I cried, facing him with arms akimbo, “that I have been closeted with a man charged with high treason, and for whose arrest there is a warrant.”
“My God! What do you mean?” he gasped, in pitiful affright.
“Mean, you fool? That next time you link yourself with a knave of Gillespie’s kidney and enter with him upon a villainous enterprise, you first ascertain what be the real business that is afoot. Pah! my lord, you have set a noose about your handsome neck.”
“Mr. Faversham,” he wailed, “I beseech you to explain.”
And explain I did, but with many reservations and modifications that rendered my meaning at times obscure, how the money that Gillespie had paid him was from Cromwell for the person of the King. I showed him how he had made himself a party to a betrayal that fortunately was discovered, and for which Gillespie lay already under arrest. So full of terror did I strike him with the picture I drew of the disgrace and ignominious death that awaited him, that in the end he groveled before me, clasped my knees, and besought me to save him by bearing witness to the truth.