“By all that is sacred,” said the Duke, still kneeling, “had I not been involved to the extent of life and fortune with the villain Christian——”
“Nay, if you bring Christian on the stage again,” said the King, smiling, “it is time for me to withdraw. Come, Villiers, rise—I forgive thee, and only recommend one act of penance—the curse you yourself bestowed on the dog who bit you—marriage, and retirement to your country-seat.”
The Duke rose abashed, and followed the King into the circle, which Charles entered, leaning on the shoulder of his repentant peer; to whom he showed so much countenance, as led the most acute observers present, to doubt the possibility of there existing any real cause for the surmises to the Duke’s prejudice.
The Countess of Derby had in the meanwhile consulted with the Duke of Ormond, with the Peverils, and with her other friends; and, by their unanimous advice, though with considerable difficulty, became satisfied, that to have thus shown herself at Court, was sufficient to vindicate the honour of her house; and that it was her wisest course, after having done so, to retire to her insular dominions, without farther provoking the resentment of a powerful faction. She took farewell of the King in form, and demanded his permission to carry back with her the helpless creature who had so strangely escaped from her protection, into a world where her condition rendered her so subject to every species of misfortune.
“Will your ladyship forgive me?” said Charles. “I have studied your sex long—I am mistaken if your little maiden is not as capable of caring for herself as any of us.”
“Impossible!” said the Countess.
“Possible, and most true,” whispered the King. “I will instantly convince you of the fact, though the experiment is too delicate to be made by any but your ladyship. Yonder she stands, looking as if she heard no more than the marble pillar against which she leans. Now, if Lady Derby will contrive either to place her hand near the region of the damsel’s heart, or at least on her arm, so that she can feel the sensation of the blood when the pulse increases, then do you, my Lord of Ormond, beckon Julian Peveril out of sight—I will show you in a moment that it can stir at sounds spoken.”
The Countess, much surprised, afraid of some embarrassing pleasantry on the part of Charles, yet unable to repress her curiosity, placed herself near Fenella, as she called her little mute; and, while making signs to her, contrived to place her hand on her wrist.
At this moment the King, passing near them, said, “This is a horrid deed—the villain Christian has stabbed young Peveril!”
The mute evidence of the pulse, which bounded as if a cannon had been discharged close by the poor girl’s ear, was accompanied by such a loud scream of agony, as distressed, while it startled, the good-natured monarch himself. “I did but jest,” he said; “Julian is well, my pretty maiden. I only used the wand of a certain blind deity, called Cupid, to bring a deaf and dumb vassal of his to the exercise of her faculties.”