"I acknowledge one only--then, I say, I will hear it. But I will neither do nor promise anything in return."
"You talk finely," Ferguson cried, "yet you cannot deny that before this I have told things that were worth knowing."
"That were worth men's lives!" my lord answered, speaking in a low stern voice, and looking at him with a strange abhorrence. "Yes, Mr. Ferguson, I acknowledge that. That were worth men's lives. And it reminds me that you are growing old, and have blood on your hands; you only and God know how much. But some I know; the proof of it lies in my office. If you will take my advice, therefore, you will think rather of quitting the world and making your peace with heaven--if by any means it can be done--than of digging pits for better men than yourself. Man," he continued, looking fixedly at him, "do you never think of Ayloffe and Sidney? And Russell? And Monmouth? And Cornish? Of the men you have egged on to death, and the men you have--sold! God forgive you! God forgive you, for man never will!"
I should fail, and lamentably, were I to try to describe either the stern feeling with which my lord uttered this solemn address--the more solemn as it came from a young man to an old one--or the horrid passion born of rage, fear, and remorse commingled, with which the intriguer received it. When my lord had ceased to speak, Ferguson broke into the most fearful imprecations; calling down vengeance not only on others for wrongs done to him, but on his own head if he had ever done aught but what was right; and this rant he so sprinkled with texts of scripture and scraps of the old Covenanters' language that for profanity and blasphemy I never heard the like. The Duke, after watching the exhibition for a time with eyes of pity and reprobation, ended by setting on his hat and turning to the door. This sufficed--as nothing else would have--to bring the conspirator to his senses. With a hideous chuckle, which brought his tirade to a fitting conclusion, "Not so fast, my lord! Not so fast," he cried, slapping his pocket. "The key is here. I have something to say before you go."
"In God's name say it then!" the Duke cried, his face sick with disgust.
"I will!" Ferguson answered hoarsely, leaning on the table which stood between them and thrusting forward his chin, his face still suffused with rage. "And see you how I will confound you! The Duke of Berwick is in England. The Duke of Berwick is in London. And what is worse for you, my lord, he lies to-night at Dr. Lloyd's in Hogsden Gardens. So take that information to yourself, my Lord Secretary, and make what you can of it--not forgetting the King's interest! Ha! ha! I have you tight there, I think."
His triumph, extreme and offensive as it was, seemed to be justified by the consternation--I can call it by no other name--which darkened the Duke's countenance as he listened, and held him a moment speechless and motionless, glaring at the other. At last, "And you sent to me to tell me this?" he cried.
"I did! I did! There is no other living man would have thought of it or done it. And why? Because there is no man can play my cards but myself."
"You devil!" my lord cried; and was silent.
Seeing that I knew little more of this of which they spoke than that the Duke of Berwick was King James' natural son and favourite, I was at a loss to comprehend, either the Duke's chagrin or Ferguson's very evident triumph. The latter's next words, however, went far towards explaining his jubilation; and if they did not perfectly clear up my lord's position--fully to enter into which required a nobility of sentiment and a nicety of honour on a par with his own--they enabled me to guess where the shoe pinched.