“My dear papa,” says I, “your years sit so neatly on you that it is the height of affectation for you to claim the least infirmity. Now I will see that you retire at nine o’clock this evening; I will have your man prepare your baggage, and see that he puts a water-bottle in the chaise. Leave everything to me, my dear papa, and depend upon it you shall start for town at twenty after six to-morrow, as blithely as you did upon your wedding morning. But, sir, there is one thing that you must promise me: not a word to my most admirable aunt. A long course of theology and smelling salts hath perverted the original poetry of her soul.”
His lordship promised gallantly, but quite as much, I think, from a fear of Lady Caroline as from his natural disposition to oblige me. Having once wrung a kind of tottering consent from the old, reluctant gentleman, I was at great pains to keep him to his word. I planned everything relating to his journey with the greatest perspicacity and promptitude, nor did I omit to advise his lordship of the fact. But I had to confess to my private mind that my faith was not too great in my ambassador, who, from age and his habit of indolence, might not conduct my cause with a liveliness that would readily sway his Majesty. Therefore I took a piece of paper and drew up the heads of what I considered his behaviour ought to be in the presence of the King, and hoped that as they were so explicitly recorded he would duly follow them. The paper ran, I think, somewhat to this tenour: Obtain audience after his Majesty hath dined, for the sake of his temper’s condition—inquire after his health with concern—if it be strong let your solicitude be quite visible; if it be weak tell him in a hearty voice that you never saw him looking better in his life, and that you never knew a doctor yet who was not a fool providing he was not a rogue. Casually introduce the beauty and the amiability of his children; if his Majesty attempt a jest laugh heartily, if he undertake a story, do not by any chance have heard it previously, and encourage him with your applause long before it culminates; if he adventure a pun, flick forth your handkerchief to take away appreciative tears; if he be glum, avoid theology and politics; if he offer snuff, accept the most moderate of pinches (he is a Guelph, you know), and be horribly careful that you do not drop a grain on the carpet or his breeches; be charmed with the rarity and the beauty of the box, and if it prove a present from the Queen comment on the chastity of her taste—if you carry a better in your fob do not exhibit it; tell him casually that your daughter Bab is devoted to him, and contrive to let him know what the poets think about her (even kings cannot withstand the devotion of fair women)—tell him that she has five pictures of him to adorn her chamber, then pave the way with compliments and caution for the business of your visit.
I insisted on his lordship’s retiring that evening very early, and after a pretty moderate potation. Having bribed his man to have his master wound up and set in motion at an hour that astonished him, I retired also. The following morning at the stroke of five I was in the hands of Emblem, and a little later was personally superintending the departure of my emissary. Long before my aunt appeared at eight o’clock I had got my lord upon his journey.
You may divine with what impatience I awaited his return. I might be distrustful of his years, but regarding the considerable figure that he made at Court, and the power he wielded, I never entertained a doubt. Besides, he had a tact quite wonderful in a man, and a power of soft persuasion that was irresistible as a music. And I knew the dear good soul to be devoted to me, and incapable of thwarting my most unreasonable whims.
An intolerable fortnight passed before my lord was back again. He had hardly time to doff his travelling suit ere I was besieging him with my anxious questions. But it was very sad news he brought me.
“My dear child,” he told me, tenderly, “I wish to spare you all pain that is unnecessary, but I regret to say that there is really nothing to be done. His Majesty refused to see me.”
“His Majesty refused to see you!” I cried out. His words had put a pitiful commotion in my heart.
“Unhappily,” he says, “these Yorkshire irregularities of ours have by some means become the property of the town, and the whole family is in terrible disgrace; and, I might add, would have been in some degree of peril but for the merciful recovery of the rebel.”
“Indeed,” says I, inconsequently, and then observed a miserable silence for a while.
“You see, my poor dear child,” the old worldling said, “one cannot hope to plunge one’s finger in the smoking pie of politics without getting that finger burned. I am very sorry for you, child, but I can no more save your friend than I can sway the eternal forces.”