"For what purpose do you seek him?"
"Madame," he answered, "I cannot tell you."
She looked for a moment keenly in his face; her breath came quick and fast, the hue of her cheek flashed from red to white.
"Mr Dale," said she, drawing herself up, "will not fear to meet you."
Again Fontelles bowed, turned, and was gone, swiftly and eagerly striding down the avenue, bent on finding me.
Barbara was left alone with Carford. His heavy frown and surly eyes accused her. She had no mind to accept the part of the guilty.
"Well, my lord," she said, "have you told this M. de Fontelles what honest folk would think of him and his errand?"
"I believe him to be honest," answered Carford.
"You live the quieter for your belief!" she cried contemptuously.
"I live the less quiet for what I have seen just now," he retorted.
There was a silence. Barbara stood with heaving breast, he opposite to her, still and sullen. She looked long at him, but at last seemed not to see him; then she spoke in soft tones, not as though to him, but rather in an answer to her own heart, whose cry could go no more unheeded. Her eyes grew soft and veiled in a mist of tears that did not fall. (So I see it—she told me no more than that she was near crying.)
"I couldn't send for him," she murmured. "I wouldn't send for him. But now he will come, yes, he'll come now."
Carford, driven half-mad by an outburst which his own device had caused, moved by whatever of true love he had for her, and by his great rage and jealousy against me, fairly ran at her and caught her by the wrist.
"Why do you talk of him? Do you love him?" he said from between clenched teeth.
She looked at him, half-angry, half-wondering. Then she said,
"Yes."
"Nell Gwyn's lover?" said Carford.
Her cheek flushed again, and a sob caught her voice as it came.
"Yes," said she. "Nell Gywn's lover."
"You love him?"
"Always, always, always." Then she drew herselfnear to him in a sudden terror. "Not a word, not a word," she cried. "I don't know what you are, I don't trust you; forgive me, forgive me; but whatever you are, for pity's sake, ah, my dear lord, for pity's sake, don't tell him. Not a word!"
"I will not speak of it to M. de Fontelles," said Carford.
An amazed glance was followed by a laugh that seemed half a sob.
"M. de Fontelles! M. de Fontelles! No, no, but don't tell Simon."
Carford's lips bent in a forced smile uglier than a scowl.
"You love this fellow?"
"You have heard."
"And he loves you?"
The sneer was bitter and strong. In it seemed now to lie Carford's only hope. Barbara met his glance an instant, and her answer to him was,
"Go, go."
"He loves you?"
"Leave me. I beg you to leave me. Ah, God, won't you leave me?"
"He loves you?"
Her face went white. For a while she said nothing; then in a calm quiet voice, whence all life and feeling, almost all intelligence, seemed to have gone, she answered,
"I think not, my lord."
He laughed. "Leave me," she said again, andhe, in grace of what manhood there was in him, turned on his heel and went. She stood alone, there on the terrace.
Ah, if God had let me be there! Then she should not have stood desolate, nor flung herself again on the marble seat. Then she should not have wept as though her heart broke, and all the world were empty. If I had been there, not the cold marble should have held her, and for every sweetest tear there should have been a sweeter kiss. Grief should have been drowned in joy, while love leapt to love in the fulness of delight. Alas for pride, breeder of misery! Not life itself is so long as to give atonement to her for that hour; though she has said that one moment, a certain moment, was enough.
There was this great comfort in the Vicar's society that, having once and for all stated the irrefutable proposition which I have recorded, he let the matter alone. Nothing was further from his thoughts than to argue on it, unless it might be to take any action in regard to it. To say the truth, and I mean no unkindness to him in saying it, the affair did not greatly engage his thoughts. Had Betty Nasroth dealt with it, the case would doubtless have been altered, and he would have followed its fortune with a zest as keen as that he had bestowed on my earlier unhappy passion. But the prophecy had stopped short, and all that was of moment for the Vicar in my career, whether in love, war, or State, was finished; I had done and undergone what fate declared and demanded, and must now live in gentle resignation. Indeed I think that in his inmost heart he wondered a little to find me living on at all. This attitude was very well for him, and I found some amusement in it even while I chafed at his composed acquiescence in my misfortunes. But at times I grewimpatient, and would fling myself out of the house, crying "Plague on it, is this old crone not only to drive me into folly, but to forbid me a return to wisdom?"
In such a mood I had left him, to wander by myself about the lanes, while he sat under the porch of his house with a great volume open on his knees. The book treated of Vaticination in all its branches, and the Vicar read diligently, being so absorbed in his study that he did not heed the approach of feet, and looked up at last with a start. M. de Fontelles stood there, sent on from the inn to the parsonage in the progress of his search for me.
"I am called Georges de Fontelles, sir," he began.
"I am the Vicar of this parish, at your service, sir," returned the Vicar courteously.
"I serve the King of France, but have at this time the honour of being employed by his Majesty the King of England."
"I trust, sir," observed the Vicar mildly, "that the employment is an honour."
"Your loyalty should tell you so much."
"We are commanded to honour the King, but I read nowhere that we must honour all that the King does."
"Such distinctions, sir, lead to disaffection and even to rebellion," said Fontelles severely.
"I am very glad of it," remarked the Vicar complacently.
I had told my old friend nothing of what concerned Barbara; the secret was not mine; therefore he had nothing against M. de Fontelles; yet it seemed as though a good quarrel could be found on the score of general principles. It is strange how many men give their heads for them and how few can give a reason; but God provides every man with a head, and since the stock of brains will not supply all, we draw lots for a share in it. Yes, a pretty quarrel promised; but a moment later Fontelles, seeing no prospect of sport in falling out with an old man of sacred profession, and amused, in spite of his principles, by the Vicar's whimsical talk, chose to laugh rather than to storm, and said with a chuckle:
"Well, kings are like other men."
"Very like," agreed the Vicar. "In what can I serve you, sir?"
"I seek Mr Simon Dale," answered Fontelles.
"Ah, Simon! Poor Simon! What would you with the lad, sir?"
"I will tell that to him. Why do you call him poor?"
"He has been deluded by a high-sounding prophecy, and it has come to little." The Vicar shook his head in gentle regret.
"He is no worse off, sir, than a man who marries," said Fontelles with a smile.
"Nor, it may be, than one who is born," said the Vicar, sighing.
"Nor even than one who dies," hazarded the Frenchman.
"Sir, sir, let us not be irreligious," implored the Vicar, smiling.
The quarrel was most certainly over. Fontelles sat down by the Vicar's side.
"Yet, sir," said he, "God made the world."
"It is full as good a world as we deserve," said the Vicar.
"He might well have made us better, sir."
"There are very few of us who truly wish it," the Vicar replied. "A man hugs his sin."
"The embrace, sir, is often delightful."
"I must not understand you," said the Vicar.
Fontelles' business was proceeding but slowly. A man on an errand should not allow himself to talk about the universe. But he was recalled to his task a moment later by the sight of my figure a quarter of a mile away along the road. With an eager exclamation he pointed his finger at me, lifted his hat to the Vicar, and rushed off in pursuit. The Vicar, who had not taken his thumb from his page, opened his book again, observing to himself, "A gentleman of some parts, I think."
His quarrel with the Vicar had evaporated in the mists of speculation; Fontelles had no mind to lose his complaint against me in any such manner, but he was a man of ceremony and must needs begin again with me much as he had with the Vicar. Thusobtaining my opportunity, I cut across his preface, saying brusquely:
"Well, I am glad that it is the King's employment and not M. de Perrencourt's."
He flushed red.
"We know what we know, sir," said he. "If you have anything to say against M. de Perrencourt, consider me as his friend. Did you cry out to me as I rode last night?"
"Why, yes, and I was a fool there. As for M. de Perrencourt——"
"If you speak of him, speak with respect, sir. You know of whom you speak."
"Very well. Yet I have held a pistol to his head," said I, not, I confess, without natural pride.
Fontelles started, then laughed scornfully.
"When he and Mistress Quinton and I were in a boat together," I pursued. "The quarrel then was which of us should escort the lady, he or I, and whether to Calais or to England. And although I should have been her husband had we gone to Calais, yet I brought her here."
"You're pleased to talk in riddles."
"They're no harder to understand than your errand is to me, sir," I retorted.
He mastered his anger with a strong effort, and in a few words told me his errand, adding that by Carford's advice he came to me.
"For I am told, sir, that you have some power with the lady."
I looked full and intently in his face. He met my gaze unflinchingly. There was a green bank by the roadside; I seated myself; he would not sit, but stood opposite to me.
"I will tell you, sir, the nature of the errand on which you come," said I, and started on the task with all the plainness of language that the matter required and my temper enjoyed.
He heard me without a word, with hardly a movement of his body; his eyes never left mine all the while I was speaking. I think there was a sympathy between us, so that soon I knew that he was honest, while he did not doubt my truth. His face grew hard and stern as he listened; he perceived now the part he had been set to play. He asked me but one question when I had ended:
"My Lord Carford knew all this?"
"Yes, all of it," said I. "He was privy to all that passed."
Engaged in talk, we had not noticed the Vicar's approach. He was at my elbow before I saw him; the large book was under his arm. Fontelles turned to him with a bow.
"Sir," said he, "you were right just now."
"Concerning the prophecy, sir?"
"No, concerning the employment of kings," answered M. de Fontelles. Then he said to me, "We will meet again, before I take my leave of your village." With this he set off at a round pace down the road. I did not doubt that he went to seekMistress Barbara and ask her pardon. I let him go; he would not hurt her now. I rose myself from the green bank, for I also had work to do.
"Will you walk with me, Simon?" asked the Vicar.
"Your pardon, sir, but I am occupied."
"Will it not wait?"
"I do not desire that it should."
For now that Fontelles was out of the way, Carford alone remained. Barbara had not sent for me, but still I served her, and to some profit.
It was now afternoon and I set out at once on my way to the Manor. I did not know what had passed between Barbara and Carford, nor how his passion had been stirred by her avowal of love for me, but I conjectured that on learning how his plan of embroiling me with Fontelles had failed, he would lose no time in making another effort.
Fontelles must have walked briskly, for I, although I did not loiter on the road, never came in sight of him, and the long avenue was empty when I passed the gates. It is strange that it did not occur to my mind that the clue to the Frenchman's haste was to be found in his last question; no doubt he would make his excuses to Mistress Quinton in good time, but it was not that intention which lent his feet wings. His errand was the same as my own; he sought Carford, not Barbara, even as I. He found what he sought, I what I did not seek, but what, once found, I could not pass by.
She was walking near the avenue, but on the grass behind the trees. I caught a glimpse of her gown through the leaves and my quick steps were stayed as though by one of the potent spells that the Vicar loved to read about. For a moment or two I stood there motionless; then I turned and walked slowly towards her. She saw me a few yards off, and it seemed as though she would fly. But in the end she faced me proudly; her eyes were very sad and I thought that she had been weeping; as I approached she thrust something—it looked like a letter—into the bosom of her gown, as if in terror lest I should see it. I made her a low bow.
"I trust, madame," said I, "that my lady mends?"
"I thank you, yes, although slowly."
"And that you have taken no harm from your journey?"
"I thank you, none."
It was strange, but there seemed no other topic in earth or heaven; for I looked first at earth and then at heaven, and in neither place found any.
"I am seeking my Lord Carford," I said at last.
I knew my error as soon as I had spoken. She would bid me seek Carford without delay and protest that the last thing in her mind was to detain me. I cursed myself for an awkward fool. But to my amazement she did nothing of what I looked for,but cried out in great agitation and, as it seemed, fear:
"You mustn't see Lord Carford."
"Why not?" I asked. "He won't hurt me." Or at least he should not, if my sword could stop his.
"It is not that. It is—it is not that," she murmured, and flushed red.
"Well, then, I will seek him."
"No, no, no," cried Barbara in a passion that fear—surely it was that and nothing else—made imperious. I could not understand her, for I knew nothing of the confession which she had made, but would not for the world should reach my ears. Yet it was not very likely that Carford would tell me, unless his rage carried him away.
"You are not so kind as to shield me from Lord Carford's wrath?" I asked rather scornfully.
"No," she said, persistently refusing to meet my eyes.
"What is he doing here?" I asked.
"He desires to conduct me to my father."
"My God, you won't go with him?"
For the fraction of a moment her dark eyes met mine, then turned away in confusion.
"I mean," said I, "is it wise to go with him?"
"Of course you meant that," murmured Barbara.
"M. de Fontelles will trouble you no more," I remarked, in a tone as calm as though I stated theprice of wheat; indeed much calmer than such a vital matter was wont to command at our village inn.
"What?" she cried. "He will not——?"
"He didn't know the truth. I have told him. He is an honourable gentleman."
"You've done that also, Simon?" She came a step nearer me.
"It was nothing to do," said I. Barbara fell back again.
"Yet I am obliged to you," said she. I bowed with careful courtesy.
Why tell these silly things. Every man has such in his life. Yet each counts his own memory a rare treasure, and it will not be denied utterance.
"I had best seek my Lord Carford," said I, more for lack of another thing to say than because there was need to say that.
"I pray you——" cried Barbara, again in a marked agitation.
It was a fair soft evening; a breeze stirred the tree-tops, and I could scarce tell when the wind whispered and when Barbara spoke, so like were the caressing sounds. She was very different from the lady of our journey, yet like to her who had for a moment spoken to me from her chamber-door at Canterbury.
"You haven't sent for me," I said, in a low voice. "I suppose you have no need of me?"
She made me no answer.
"Why did you fling my guinea in the sea?" I said, and paused.
"Why did you use me so on the way?" I asked.
"Why haven't you sent for me?" I whispered.
She seemed to have no answer for any of these questions. There was nothing in her eyes now save the desire of escape. Yet she did not dismiss me, and without dismissal I would not go. I had forgotten Carford and the angry Frenchman, my quarrel and her peril; the questions I had put to her summed up all life now held.
Suddenly she put her hand to her bosom, and drew out that same piece of paper which I had seen her hide there. Before my eyes she read, or seemed to read, something that was in it; then she shut her hand on it. In a moment I was by her, very close. I looked full in her eyes, and they fled behind covering lids; the little hand, tightly clenched, hung by her side. What had I to lose? Was I not already banned for forwardness? I would be forward still, and justify the sentence by an after-crime. I took the hanging hand in both of mine. She started, and I loosed it; but no rebuke came, and she did not fly. The far-off stir of coming victory moved in my blood; not yet to win, but now to know that win you will sends through a man an exultation, more sweet because it is still timid. I watched her face—it was very pale—and again took her hand. The lids of her eyes rose now an instant, and disclosedentreaty. I was ruthless; our hearts are strange, and cruelty or the desire of mastery mingled with love in my tightened grasp. One by one I bent her fingers back; the crushed paper lay in a palm that was streaked to red and white. With one hand still I held hers, with the other I spread out the paper. "You mustn't read it," she murmured. "Oh, you mustn't read it." I paid no heed, but held it up. A low exclamation of wonder broke from me. The scrawl that I had seen at Canterbury now met me again, plain and unmistakable in its laborious awkwardness. "In pay for your dagger," it had said before. Were five words the bounds of Nell's accomplishment? She had written no more now. Yet before she had seemed to say much in that narrow limit; and much she said now.
There was long silence between us; my eyes were intent on her veiled eyes.
"You needed this to tell you?" I said at last.
"You loved her, Simon."
I would not allow the plea. Shall not a thing that has become out of all reason to a man's own self thereby blazon its absurdity to the whole world?
"So long ago!" I cried scornfully.
"Nay, not so long ago," she murmured, with a note of resentment in her voice.
Even then we might have fallen out; we were in an ace of it, for I most brutally put this question:
"You waited here for me to pass?"
I would have given my ears not to have said it; what availed that? A thing said is a thing done, and stands for ever amid the irrevocable. For an instant her eyes flashed in anger; then she flushed suddenly, her lips trembled, her eyes grew dim, yet through the dimness mirth peeped out.
"I dared not hope you'd pass," she whispered.
"I am the greatest villain in the world!" I cried. "Barbara, you had no thought that I should pass!"
Again came silence. Then I spoke, and softly:
"And you—is it long since you——?"
She held out her hands towards me, and in an instant was in my arms. First she hid her face, but then drew herself back as far as the circle of my arm allowed. Her dark eyes met mine full and direct in a confession that shamed me but shamed her no more; her shame was swallowed in the sweet pride of surrender.
"Always," said she, "always; from the first through all; always, always." It seemed that though she could not speak that word enough.
In truth I could scarcely believe it; save when I looked in her eyes, I could not believe it.
"But I wouldn't tell you," she said. "I swore you should never know. Simon, do you remember how you left me?"
It seemed that I must play penitent now.
"I was too young to know——" I began.
"I was younger and not too young," she cried. "And all through those days at Dover I didn't know. And when we were together I didn't know. Ah, Simon, when I flung your guinea in the sea, you must have known!"
"On my faith, no," I laughed. "I didn't see the love in that, sweetheart."
"I'm glad there was no woman there to tell you what it meant," said Barbara. "And even at Canterbury I didn't know. Simon, what brought you to my door that night?"
I answered her plainly, more plainly than I could at any other time, more plainly, it may be, than even then I should:
"She bade me follow her, and I followed her so far."
"You followed her?"
"Ay. But I heard your voice through the door, and stopped."
"You stopped for my voice; what did I say?"
"You sung how a lover had forsaken his love. And I heard and stayed."
"Ah, why didn't you tell me then?"
"I was afraid, sweetheart."
"Of what? Of what?"
"Why, of you. You had been so cruel."
Barbara's head, still strained far as could be from mine, now drew nearer by an ace, and then she launched at me the charge of most enormity, the indictment that justified all my punishment.
"You had kissed her before my eyes, here, sir, where we are now, in my own Manor Park," said Barbara.
I took my arms from about her, and fell humbly on my knee.
"May I kiss so much as your hand?" said I in utter abasement.
She put it suddenly, eagerly, hurriedly to my lips.
"Why did she write to me?" she whispered.
"Nay, love, I don't know."
"But I know. Simon, she loves you."
"It would afford no reason if she did. And I think——"
"It would and she does. Simon, of course she does."
"I think rather that she was sorry for——"
"Not for me!" cried Barbara with great vehemence. "I will not have her sorry for me!"
"For you!" I exclaimed in ridicule. (It does not matter what I had been about to say before.) "For you! How should she? She wouldn't dare!"
"No," said Barbara. One syllable can hold a world of meaning.
"A thousand times, no!" cried I.
The matter was thus decided. Yet now, in quiet blood and in the secrecy of my own soul, shall I ask wherefore the letter came from Mistress Gwyn, to whom the shortest letter was no light matter,and to let even a humble man go some small sacrifice? And why did it come to Barbara and not to me? And why did it not say "Simon, she loves you," rather than the words that I now read, Barbara permitting me: "Pretty fool, he loves you." Let me not ask; not even now would Barbara bear to think that it was written in pity for her.
"Yes, she pitied you and so she wrote; and she loves you," said Barbara.
I let it pass. Shall a man never learn wisdom?
"Tell me now," said I, "why I may not see Carford?"
Her lips curved in a smile; she held her head high, and her eyes were triumphant.
"You may see Lord Carford as soon as you will, Simon," said she.
"But a few minutes ago——" I began, much puzzled.
"A few minutes!" cried Barbara reproachfully.
"A whole lifetime ago, sweetheart!"
"And shall that make no changes?"
"A whole lifetime ago you were ready to die sooner than let me see him."
"Simon, you're very——He knew, I told him."
"You told him?" I cried. "Before you told me?"
"He asked me before," said Barbara.
I did not grudge her that retort; every jot of her joy was joy to me, and her triumph my delight.
"How did I dare to tell him?" she asked herselfsoftly. "Ah, but how have I contrived not to tell all the world? How wasn't it plain in my face?"
"It was most profoundly hidden," I assured her. Indeed from me it had been; but Barbara's wit had yet another answer.
"You were looking in another face," said she. Then, as the movement of my hands protested, remorse seized on her, and catching my hand she cried impulsively, "I'll never speak of it again, Simon."
Now I was not so much ashamed of the affair as to demand that utter silence on it; in which point lies a difference between men and women. To have wandered troubles our consciences little, when we have come to the right path again; their pride stands so strong in constancy as sometimes (I speak in trembling) even to beget an oblivion of its falterings and make what could not have been as if it had not. But now was not the moment for excuse, and I took my pardon with all gratitude and with full allowance of my offence's enormity.
Then we determined that Carford must immediately be sought, and set out for the house with intent to find him. But our progress was very slow, and the moon rose in the skies before we stepped out on to the avenue and came in sight of the house and the terrace. There was so much to tell, so much that had to slough off its old seeming and take on new and radiant apparel—things that she had understood and not I, that I had caught and she missed, wherein both of us had gone astray most lamentablyand now stood aghast at our own sightlessness. Therefore never were our feet fairly in movement towards the house but a sudden—"Do you remember?" gave them pause again: then came shame that I had forgotten, or indignation that Barbara should be thought to have forgotten, and in both of these cases the need for expiation, and so forth. The moon was high in heaven when we stepped into the avenue and came in sight of the terrace.
On the instant, with a low cry of surprise and alarm, Barbara caught me by the arm, while she pointed to the terrace. The sight might well turn us even from our engrossing interchange of memories. There were four men on the terrace, their figures standing out dense and black against the old grey walls, which seemed white in the moonlight. Two stood impassive and motionless, with hands at their sides; at their feet lay what seemed bundles of clothes. The other two were in their shirts; they were opposite one another, and their swords were in their hands. I could not doubt the meaning; while love held me idle, anger had lent Fontelles speed; while I sought to perfect my joy, he had been hot to avenge his wounded honour. I did not know who were the two that watched unless they were servants; Fontelles' fierce mood would not stand for the niceties of etiquette. Now I could recognise the Frenchman's bearing and even see Carford's face, although distance hid its expression. I was amazed and at a loss what to do. How could Istop them and by what right? But then Barbara gave a little sob and whispered:
"My mother lies sick in the house."
It was enough to loose my bound limbs. I sprang forward and set out at a run. I had not far to go and lost no time; but I would not cry out lest I might put one off his guard and yet not arrest the other's stroke. For the steel flashed, and they fought, under the eyes of the quiet servants. I was near to them now and already wondering how best to interpose, when, in an instant, the Frenchman lunged, Carford cried out, his sword dropped from his hand, and he fell heavily on the gravel of the terrace. The servants rushed forward and knelt down beside him. M. de Fontelles did not leave his place, but stood, with the point of his naked sword on the ground, looking at the man who had put an affront on him and whom he had now chastised. The sudden change that took me from love's pastimes to a scene so stern deprived me of speech for a moment. I ran to Fontelles and faced him, panting but saying nothing. He turned his eyes on me: they were calm, but shone still with the heat of contest and the sternness of resentment. He raised his sword and pointed with it towards where Carford lay.
"My lord there," said he, "knew a thing that hurt my honour, and did not warn me of it. He knew that I was made a tool and did not tell me. He knew that I was used for base purposes andsought to use me for his own also. He has his recompense."
Then he stepped across to where the green bank sloped down to the terrace and, falling on one knee, wiped his blade on the grass.
On the next day but one M. de Fontelles and I took the road for London together. Carford lay between life and death (for the point had pierced his lung) at the inn to which we had carried him; he could do no more harm and occasion us no uneasiness. On the other hand, M. de Fontelles was anxious to seek out the French Ambassador, with whom he was on friendly terms, and enlist his interest, first to excuse the abandonment of his mission, and in the second place to explain the circumstances of his duel with Carford. In this latter task he asked my aid since I alone, saving the servants, had been a witness of the encounter, and Fontelles, recognising (now that his rage was past) that he had been wrong to force his opponent to a meeting under such conditions, prayed my testimony to vindicate his reputation. I could not deny him, and moreover, though it grieved me to be absent from Quinton Manor, I felt that Barbara's interests and my own might be well served by a journey to London. No news had come frommy lord, and I was eager to see him and bring him over to my side; the disposition of the King was also a matter of moment and of uncertainty; would he still seek to gain for M. de Perrencourt what that exacting gentleman required, or would he now abandon the struggle in which his instruments had twice failed him? His Majesty should now be returning from Dover, and I made up my mind to go to Court and learn from him the worst and the best of what I might look for. Nay, I will not say that the pure desire to see him face to face had not weight with me; for I believed that he had a liking for me, and that I should obtain from him better terms in my own person than if my cause were left in the hands of those who surrounded him.
When we were come to London (and I pray that it be observed and set down to my credit that, thinking there was enough of love-making in this history, I have spared any narrative of my farewell to Barbara, although on my soul it was most moving) M. de Fontelles at once sought the Ambassador's, taking my promise to come there as soon as his summons called, while I betook myself to the lodging which I had shared with Darrell before we went to Dover. I hoped to find him there and renew our friendship; my grudge was for his masters, and I am not for making an enemy of a man who does what his service demands of him. I was not disappointed; Robert opened the door to me, and Darrell himself sprang to his feet in amazement atthe sound of my name. I laughed heartily and flung myself into a chair, saying:
"How goes the Treaty of Dover?"
He ran to the door and tried it; it was close-shut.
"The less you say of that, the safer you'll be," said he.
"Oho," thought I, "then I'm not going to market empty-handed! If I want to buy, it seems that I have something to sell." And smiling very good-humouredly I said:
"What, is there a secret in it?"
Darrell came up to me and held out his hand.
"On my life," said he, "I didn't know you were interested in the lady, Simon, or I wouldn't have taken a hand in the affair."
"On my life," said I, "I'm obliged to you. What of Mlle. de Quérouaille?"
"She has returned with Madame."
"But will return without Madame?"
"Who knows?" he asked with a smile that he could not smother.
"God and the King," said I. "What of M. de Perrencourt?"
"Your tongue's hung so loose, Simon, that one day it'll hang you tight."
"Enough, enough. What then of Phineas Tate?"
"He is on board ship on his way to the plantations. He'll find plenty to preach to there."
"What? Why, there's never a Papist sent now! He'll mope to death. What of the Duke of Monmouth?"
"He has found out Carford."
"He has? Then he has found out the Secretary also?"
"There is indeed a distance between his Grace and my lord," Darrell admitted.
"When rogues fall out! A fine saying that, Darrell. And what of the King?"
"My lord tells me that the King swears he won't sleep o' nights till he has laid a certain troublesome fellow by the heels."
"And where is that same troublesome fellow?"
"So near me that, did I serve the King as I ought, Robert would now be on his way with news for my Lord Arlington."
"Then His Majesty's sentiments are mighty unkind towards me? Be at peace, Darrell. I am come to London to seek him."
"To seek him? Are you mad? You'll follow Phineas Tate!"
"But I have a boon to ask of the King. I desire him to use his good offices with my Lord Quinton. For I am hardly a fit match for my lord's daughter, and yet I would make her my wife."
"I wonder," observed Darrell, "that you, Simon, who, being a heretic, must go to hell when you die, are not more careful of your life."
Then we both fell to laughing.
"Another thing brings me to London," I pursued. "I must see Mistress Gwyn."
He raised his hands over his head.
"Fill up the measure," said he. "The King knows you came to London with her and is more enraged at that than all the rest."
"Does he know what happened on the journey?"
"Why, no, Simon," smiled Darrell. "The matter is just that. The King does not know what happened on the journey."
"He must learn it," I declared. "To-morrow I'll seek Mistress Gwyn. You shall send Robert to take her pleasure as to the hour when I shall wait on her."
"She's in a fury with the King, as he with her."
"On what account?"
"Already, friend Simon, you're too wise."
"By Heaven, I know! It's because Mlle. de Quérouaille is so good a Catholic?"
Darrell had no denial ready. He shrugged his shoulders and sat silent.
Now although I had told Barbara that it was my intention to ask an audience from the King, I had not disclosed my purpose of seeing Mistress Nell. Yet it was firm in my mind—for courtesy's sake. Of a truth she had done me great service. Was I to take it as though it were my right, with never a word of thanks? Curiosity also drew me, and that attraction which she never lost for me, nor, as I believe, forany man whose path she crossed. I was sure of myself, and did not fear to go. Yet memory was not dead in me, and I went in a species of excitement, the ghost of old feelings dead but not forgotten. When a man has loved, and sees her whom he loves no more, he will not be indifferent; angry he may be, or scornful, amused he may be, and he should be tender; but it will not be as though he had not loved. Yet I had put a terrible affront on her, and it might be that she would not receive me.
As I live, I believe that but for one thing she would not. That turned her, by its appeal to her humour. When I came to the house in Chelsea, I was conducted into a small ante-chamber, and there waited long. There were voices speaking in the next room, but I could not hear their speech. Yet I knew Nell's voice; it had for me always—ay, still—echoes of the past. But now there was something which barred its way to my heart.
The door in front of me opened, and she was in the room with me. There she was, curtseying low in mock obeisance and smiling whimsically.
"A bold man!" she cried. "What brings you here? Art not afraid?"
"Afraid that I am not welcome, yet not afraid to come."
"A taunt wrapped in civility! I do not love it."
"Mistress Nell, I came to thank you for the greatest kindness——"
"If it be kindness to help you to a fool!" said Mistress Nell. "What, besides your thanks to me, brings you to town?"
I must forgive her the style in which she spoke of Barbara. I answered with a smile:
"I must see the King. I don't know his purposes about me. Besides, I desire that he should help me to my—fool."
"If you're wise you'll keep out of his sight." Then she began to laugh. "Nay, but I don't know," said she. Then with a swift movement she was by me, catching at my coat and turning up to me a face full of merriment. "Shall we play a comedy?" she asked.
"As you will. What shall be my part?"
"I'll give you a pretty part, Simon. Your face is very smooth; nay, do not fear, I remember so well that I needn't try again. You shall be this French lady of whom they speak."
"I the French lady! God forbid!"
"Nay, but you shall, Simon. And I'll be the King. Nay, I say, don't be afraid. I swear you tried to run away then!"
"Is it not prescribed as the best cure for temptation?"
"Alas, you're not tempted!" she said with a pout. "But there's another part in the comedy."
"Besides the King and Mademoiselle?"
"Why, yes—and a great part."
"Myself by chance?"
"You! No! What should you do in the play? It is I—I myself."
"True, true. I forgot you, Mistress Nell."
"You did forget me, Simon. But I must spare you, for you will have heard that same charge of fickleness from Mistress Quinton, and it is hard to hear it from two at once. But who shall play my part?"
"Indeed I can think of none equal to it."
"The King shall play it!" she cried with a triumphant laugh, and stood opposite to me, the embodiment of merry triumph. "Do you catch the plot of my piece, Simon?"
"I am very dull," I confessed.
"It's your condition, not your nature, Simon," Nell was so good as to say. "A man in love is always dull, save to one woman, and she's stark-mad. Come, can you feign an inclination for me, or have you forgot the trick?"
At the moment she spoke the handle of the door turned. Again it turned and was rattled.
"I locked it," whispered Nell, her eyes full of mischief.
Again, and most impatiently, the handle was twisted to and fro.
"Pat, pat, how pat he comes!" she whispered.
A last loud rattle followed, then a voice cried in anger, "Open it, I bid you open it."
"God help us!" I exclaimed in sad perplexity. "It's the King?"
"Yes, it's the King, and, Simon, the piece begins. Look as terrified as you can. It's the King."
"Open, I say, open!" cried the King, with a thundering knock.
I understood now that he had been in the other room, and that she had left his society to come to me; but I understood only dimly why she had locked the door, and why she now was so slow in opening it. Yet I set my wits to work, and for further aid watched her closely. She was worth the watching. Without aid of paints or powders, of scene or theatre, she transformed her air, her manner, ay, her face also. Alarm and terror showed in her eyes as she stole in fearful fashion across the room, unlocked the door, and drew it open, herself standing by it, stiff and rigid, in what seemed shame or consternation. The agitation she feigned found some reality in me. I was not ready for the thing, although I had been warned by the voice outside. When the King stood in the doorway, I wished myself a thousand miles away.
The King was silent for several moments; he seemed to me to repress a passion which, let loose, might hurry him to violence. When he spoke, he was smiling ironically, and his voice was calm.
"How comes this gentleman here?" he asked.
The terror that Nell had so artfully assumed she appeared now, with equal art, to defy or conquer. She answered him with angry composure.
"Why shouldn't Mr. Dale be here, Sir?" sheasked. "Am I to see no friends? Am I to live all alone?"
"Mr Dale is no friend of mine——"
"Sir——" I began, but his raised hand stayed me.
"And you have no need of friends when I am here."
"Your Majesty," said she, "came to say farewell; Mr Dale was but half an hour too soon."
This answer showed me the game. If he had come to bid her farewell—why, I understood now the parts in the comedy. If he left her for the Frenchwoman, why should she not turn to Simon Dale? The King bit his lip. He also understood her answer.
"You lose no time, mistress," he said, with an uneasy laugh.
"I've lost too much already," she flashed back.
"With me?" he asked, and was answered by a sweeping curtsey and a scornful smile.
"You're a bold man, Mr Dale," said he. "I knew it before, and am now most convinced of it."
"I didn't expect to meet your Majesty here," said I sincerely.
"I don't mean that. You're bold to come here at all."
"Mistress Gwyn is very kind to me," said I. I would play my part and would not fail her, and I directed a timid yet amorous glance at Nell. Theglance reached Nell, but on its way it struck the King. He was patient of rivals, they said, but he frowned now and muttered an oath. Nell broke into sudden laughter. It sounded forced and unreal. It was meant so to sound.
"We're old friends," said she, "Simon and I. We were friends before I was what I am. We're still friends, now that I am what I am. Mr Dale escorted me from Dover to London."
"He is an attentive squire," sneered the King.
"He hardly left my side," said Nell.
"You were hampered with a companion?"
"Of a truth I hardly noticed it," cried Nelly with magnificent falsehood. I seconded her efforts with a shrug and a cunning smile.
"I begin to understand," said the King. "And when my farewell has been said, what then?"
"I thought that it had been said half an hour ago," she exclaimed. "Wasn't it?"
"You were anxious to hear it, and so seemed to hear it," said he uneasily.
She turned to me with a grave face and tender eyes.
"Didn't I tell you here, just now, how the King parted from me?"
I was to take the stage now, it seemed.
"Ay, you told me," said I, playing the agitated lover as best I could. "You told me that—that—but I cannot speak before His Majesty." And I ended in a most rare confusion.
"Speak, sir," he commanded harshly and curtly.
"You told me," said I in low tones, "that the King left you. And I said I was no King, but that you need not be left alone." My eyes fell to the ground in pretended fear.
The swiftest glance from Nell applauded me. I would have been sorry for him and ashamed for myself, had I not remembered M. de Perrencourt and our voyage to Calais. In that thought I steeled myself to hardness and bade conscience be still.
A long silence followed. Then the King drew near to Nell. With a rare stroke of skill she seemed to shrink away from him and edged towards me, as though she would take refuge in my arms from his anger or his coldness.
"Come, I've never hurt you, Nelly!" said he.
Alas, that art should outstrip nature! Never have I seen portrayed so finely the resentment of a love that, however greatly wounded, is still love, that even in turning away longs to turn back, that calls even in forbidding, and in refusing breathes the longing to assent. Her feet still came towards me, but her eyes were on the King.
"You sent me away," she whispered as she moved towards me and looked where the King was.
"I was in a temper," said he. Then he turned to me, saying "Pray leave us, sir."
I take it that I must have obeyed, but Nell sprangsuddenly forward, caught my hand, and holding it faced the King.
"He shan't go; or, if you send him away, I'll go with him."
The King frowned heavily, but did not speak. She went on, choking down a sob—ay, a true sob; the part she played moved her, and beneath her acting there was a reality. She fought for her power over him and now was the test of it.
"Will you take my friendships from me as well as my——? Oh, I won't endure it!"
She had given him his hint in the midst of what seemed her greatest wrath. His frown persisted, but a smile bent his lips again.
"Mr Dale," said he, "it is hard to reason with a lady before another gentleman. I was wrong to bid you go. But will you suffer me to retire to that room again?"
I bowed low.
"And," he went on, "will you excuse our hostess' presence for awhile?"
I bowed again.
"No, I won't go with you," cried Nell.
"Nay, but, Nelly, you will," said he, smiling now. "Come, I'm old and mighty ugly, and Mr Dale is a strapping fellow. You must be kind to the unfortunate, Nelly."
She was holding my hand still. The King took hers. Very slowly and reluctantly she let him draw her away. I did what seemed best to do; I sighedvery heavily and plaintively, and bowed in sad submission.
"Wait till we return," said the King, and his tone was kind.
They passed out together, and I, laughing yet ashamed to laugh, flung myself in a chair. She would not keep him for herself alone; nay, as all the world knows, she made but a drawn battle of it with the Frenchwoman; but the disaster and utter defeat which had threatened her she had averted, jealousy had achieved what love could not, he would not let her go now, when another's arms seemed open for her. To this success I had helped her. On my life I was glad to have helped her. But I did not yet see how I had helped my own cause.
I was long in the room alone, and though the King had bidden me await his return, he did not come again. Nell came alone, laughing, radiant and triumphant; she caught me by both hands, and swiftly, suddenly, before I knew, kissed me on the cheek. Nay, come, let me be honest; I knew a short moment before, but on my honour I could not avoid it courteously.
"We've won," she cried. "I have what I desire, and you, Simon, are to seek him at Whitehall. He has forgiven you all your sins and—yes, he'll give you what favour you ask. He has pledged his word to me."
"Does he know what I shall ask?"
"No, no, not yet. Oh, that I could see his face!Don't spare him, Simon. Tell him—why, tell him all the truth—every word of it, the stark bare truth."
"How shall I say it?"
"Why, that you love, and have ever loved, and will ever love Mistress Barbara Quinton, and that you love not, and will never love, and have never loved, no, nor cared the price of a straw for Eleanor Gwyn."
"Is that the whole truth?" said I.
She was holding my hands still; she pressed them now and sighed lightly.
"Why, yes, it's the whole truth. Let it be the whole truth, Simon. What matters that a man once lived when he's dead, or once loved when he loves no more?"
"Yet I won't tell him more than is true," said I.
"You'll be ashamed to say anything else?" she whispered, looking up into my face.
"Now, by Heaven, I'm not ashamed," said I, and I kissed her hand.
"You're not?"
"No, not a whit. I think I should be ashamed, had my heart never strayed to you."
"Ah, but you say 'strayed'!"
I made her no answer, but asked forgiveness with a smile. She drew her hand sharply away, crying,
"Go your ways, Simon Dale, go your ways; go to your Barbara, and your Hatchstead, and your dulness, and your righteousness."
"We part in kindness?" I urged.
For a moment I thought she would answer peevishly, but the mood passed, and she smiled sincerely on me as she replied:
"Ay, in all loving-kindness, Simon; and when you hear the sour gird at me, say—why, say, Simon, that even a severe gentleman, such as you are, once found some good in Nelly. Will you say that for me?"
"With all my heart."
"Nay, I care not what you say," she burst out, laughing again. "Begone, begone! I swore to the King that I would speak but a dozen words to you. Begone!"
I bowed and turned towards the door. She flew to me suddenly, as if to speak, but hesitated. I waited for her; at last she spoke, with eyes averted and an unusual embarrassment in her air.
"If—if you're not ashamed to speak my name to Mistress Barbara, tell her I wish her well, and pray her to think as kindly of me as she can."
"She has much cause to think kindly," said I.
"And will therefore think unkindly! Simon, I bid you begone."
She held out her hand to me, and I kissed it again.
"This time we part for good and all," said she. "I've loved you, and I've hated you, and I have nearly loved you. But it is nothing to be loved by me, who love all the world."
"Nay, it's something," said I. "Fare you well."
I passed out, but turned to find her eyes on me. She was laughing and nodding her head, swaying to and fro on her feet as her manner was. She blew me a kiss from her lips. So I went, and my life knew her no more.
But when the strict rail on sinners, I guard my tongue for the sake of Nelly and the last kiss she gave me on my cheek.
As I made my way through the Court nothing seemed changed; all was as I had seen it when I came to lay down the commission that Mistress Gwyn had got me. They were as careless, as merry, as shameless as before; the talk then had been of Madame's coming, now it was of her going; they talked of Dover and what had passed there, but the treaty was dismissed with a shrug, and the one theme of interest, and the one subject of wagers, was whether or how soon Mlle. de Quérouaille would return to the shores and the monarch she had left. In me distaste now killed curiosity; I pushed along as fast as the throng allowed me, anxious to perform my task and be quit of them all as soon as I could. My part there was behind me; the prophecy was fulfilled, and my ambitions quenched. Yet I had a pleasure in the remaining scene of the comedy which I was to play with the King; I was amused also to see how those whom I knew to be in the confidence of the Duke of York and of Arlington eyed me with mingled fear and wariness, and hid distrust under a most deferentialcivility. They knew, it seemed, that I had guessed their secrets. But I was not afraid of them, for I was no more their rival in the field of intrigue or in their assault upon the King's favour. I longed to say to them, "Be at peace. In an hour from now you will see my face no more."
The King sat in his chair, alone save for one gentleman who stood beside him. I knew the Earl of Rochester well by repute, and had been before now in the same company, although, as it chanced, I had never yet spoken with him. I looked for the King's brother and for Monmouth, but neither was to be seen. Having procured a gentleman to advise the King of my presence, I was rewarded by being beckoned to approach immediately. But when he had brought me there, he gave me no more than a smile, and, motioning me to stand by him, continued his conversation with my Lord Rochester and his caresses of the little dog on his lap.
"In defining it as the device by which the weak intimidate the strong," observed Rochester, "the philosopher declared the purpose of virtue rather than its effect. For the strong are not intimidated, while the weak, falling slaves to their own puppet, grow more helpless still."
"It's a just retribution on them," said the King, "for having invented a thing so tiresome."
"In truth, Sir, all these things that make virtue are given a man for his profit, and that he may not go empty-handed into the mart of the world. He hasstuff for barter; he can give honour for pleasure, morality for money, religion for power."
The King raised his brows and smiled again, but made no remark. Rochester bowed courteously to me, as he added:
"Is it not as I say, sir?" and awaited my reply.
"It's better still, my lord," I answered. "For he can make these bargains you speak of, and, by not keeping them, have his basket still full for another deal."
Again the King smiled as he patted his dog.
"Very just, sir, very just," nodded Rochester. "Thus by breaking a villainous bargain he is twice a villain, and preserves his reputation to aid him in the more effectual cheating of his neighbour."
"And the damning of his own soul," said the King softly.
"Your Majesty is Defender of the Faith. I will not meddle with your high office," said Rochester with a laugh. "For my own part I suffer from a hurtful sincerity; being known for a rogue by all the town, I am become the most harmless fellow in your Majesty's dominions. As Mr Dale here says—I have the honour of being acquainted with your name, sir—my basket is empty and no man will deal with me."
"There are women left you," said the King.
"It is more expense than profit," sighed the Earl. "Although indeed the kind creatures will most readily give for nothing what is worth as much."
"So that the sum of the matter," said the King, "is that he who refuses no bargain however iniquitous and performs none however binding——"
"Is a king among men, Sir," interposed Rochester with a low bow, "even as your Majesty is here in Whitehall."
"And by the same title?"
"Ay, the same Right Divine. What think you of my reasoning, Mr Dale?"
"I do not know, my lord, whence you came by it, unless the Devil has published a tract on the matter."
"Nay, he has but circulated it among his friends," laughed Rochester. "For he is in no need of money from the booksellers since he has a grant from God of the customs of the world for his support."
"The King must have the Customs," smiled Charles. "I have them here in England. But the smugglers cheat me."
"And the penitents him, Sir. Faith, these Holy Churches run queer cargoes past his officers—or so they say;" and with another bow to the King, and one of equal courtesy to me, he turned away and mingled in the crowd that walked to and fro.
The King sat some while silent, lazily pulling the dog's coat with his fingers. Then he looked up at me.
"Wild talk, Mr Dale," said he, "yet perhaps not all without a meaning."
"There's meaning enough, Sir. It's not that I miss."
"No, but perhaps you do. I have made many bargains; you don't praise all of them?"
"It's not for me to judge the King's actions."
"I wish every man were as charitable, or as dutiful. But—shall I empty my basket? You know of some of my bargains. The basket is not emptied yet."
I looked full in his face; he did not avoid my regard, but sat there smiling in a bitter amusement.
"You are the man of reservations," said he. "I remember them. Be at peace and hold your place. For listen to me, Mr Dale."
"I am listening to your Majesty's words."
"It will be time enough for you to open your mouth when I empty my basket."
His words, and even more the tone in which he spoke and the significant glance of his eyes, declared his meaning. The bargain that I knew of I need not betray nor denounce till he fulfilled it. When would he fulfil it? He would not empty his basket, but still have something to give when he dealt with the King of France. I wondered that he should speak to me so openly; he knew that I wondered, yet, though his smile was bitter, he smiled still.
I bowed to him and answered:
"I am no talker, Sir, of matters too great for me."
"That's well. I know you for a gentleman of greatdiscretion, and I desire to serve you. You have something to ask of me, Mr Dale?"
"The smallest thing in the world for your Majesty, and the greatest for me."
"A pattern then that I wish all requests might follow. Let me hear it."
"It is no more than your Majesty's favour for my efforts to win the woman whom I love."
He started a little, and for the first time in all the conversation ceased to fondle the little dog.
"The woman whom you love? Well, sir, and does she love you?"
"She has told me so, Sir."
"Then at least she wished you to believe it. Do I know this lady?"
"Very well, sir," I answered in a very significant tone.
He was visibly perturbed. A man come to his years will see a ready rival in every youth, however little other attraction there may be. But perhaps I had treated him too freely already; and now he used me well. I would keep up the jest no longer.
"Once, Sir," I said, "for a while I loved where the King loved, even as I drank of his cup."
"I know, Mr Dale. But you say 'once.'"
"It is gone by, Sir."
"But, yesterday?" he exclaimed abruptly.
"She is a great comedian, Sir; but I fear I seconded her efforts badly."
He did not answer for a moment, but began againto play with the dog. Then raising his eyes to mine he said:
"You were well enough; she played divinely, Mr Dale."
"She played for life, Sir."
"Ay, poor Nelly loves me," said he softly. "I had been cruel to her. But I won't weary you with my affairs. What would you?"
"Mistress Gwyn, Sir, has been very kind to me."
"So I believe," remarked the King.
"But my heart, Sir, is now and has been for long irrevocably set on another."
"On my faith, Mr Dale, and speaking as one man to another, I'm glad to hear it. Was it so at Canterbury?"
"More than ever before, Sir. For she was there and——"
"I know she was there."
"Nay, Sir, I mean the other, her whom I love, her whom I now woo. I mean Mistress Barbara Quinton, Sir."
The King looked down and frowned; he patted his dog, he looked up again, frowning still. Then a queer smile bent his lips and he said in a voice which was most grave, for all his smile,
"You remember M. de Perrencourt?"
"I remember M. de Perrencourt very well, Sir."
"It was by his choice, not mine, Mr Dale, that you set out for Calais."
"So I understood at the time, Sir."