“Ask what thou wilt, Jerningham, and then begone.”
“Your Grace has determined to give up Christian,” said the attendant. “May I ask what becomes of the kingdom of Man?”
“Forgotten, as I have a Christian soul!” said the Duke; “as much forgotten as if I had never nourished that scheme of royal ambition.—D—n it, we must knit up the ravelled skein of that intrigue.—Yet it is but a miserable rock, not worth the trouble I have been bestowing on it; and for a kingdom—it has a sound indeed; but, in reality, I might as well stick a cock-chicken’s feather into my hat, and call it a plume. Besides, now I think upon it, it would scarce be honourable to sweep that petty royalty out of Derby’s possession. I won a thousand pieces of the young Earl when he was last here, and suffered him to hang about me at Court. I question if the whole revenue of his kingdom is worth twice as much. Easily I could win it of him, were he here, with less trouble than it would cost me to carry on these troublesome intrigues of Christian’s.”
“If I may be permitted to say so, please your Grace,” answered Jerningham, “although your Grace is perhaps somewhat liable to change your mind, no man in England can afford better reasons for doing so.”
“I think so myself, Jerningham,” said the Duke; “and it may be it is one reason for my changing. One likes to vindicate his own conduct, and to find out fine reasons for doing what one has a mind to.—And now, once again, begone. Or, hark ye—hark ye—I shall need some loose gold. You may leave the purse I gave you; and I will give you an order for as much, and two years’ interest, on old Jacob Doublefee.”
“As your Grace pleases,” said Jerningham, his whole stock of complaisance scarcely able to conceal his mortification at exchanging for a distant order, of a kind which of late had not been very regularly honoured, the sunny contents of the purse which had actually been in his pocket. Secretly, but solemnly did he make a vow, that two years’ interest alone should not be the compensation for this involuntary exchange in the form of his remuneration.
As the discontented dependant left the apartment, he met, at the head of the grand staircase, Christian himself, who, exercising the freedom of an ancient friend of the house, was making his way, unannounced, to the Duke’s dressing apartment. Jerningham, conjecturing that his visit at this crisis would be anything but well timed, or well taken, endeavoured to avert his purpose by asserting that the Duke was indisposed, and in his bedchamber; and this he said so loud that his master might hear him, and, if he pleased, realise the apology which he offered in his name, by retreating into the bedroom as his last sanctuary, and drawing the bolt against intrusion.
But, far from adopting a stratagem to which he had had recourse on former occasions, in order to avoid those who came upon him, though at an appointed hour, and upon business of importance, Buckingham called, in a loud voice, from his dressing apartment, commanding his chamberlain instantly to introduce his good friend Master Christian, and censuring him for hesitating for an instant to do so.
“Now,” thought Jerningham within himself, “if Christian knew the Duke as well as I do, he would sooner stand the leap of a lion, like the London ‘prentice bold, than venture on my master at this moment, who is even now in a humour nearly as dangerous as the animal.”
He then ushered Christian into his master’s presence, taking care to post himself within earshot of the door.