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Simon Dale

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Title: Simon Dale

Author: Anthony Hope


        
Release date: January 10, 2007 [eBook #20328]
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Language: English

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SIMON DALE

by

ANTHONY HOPE







T. Nelson & Sons
London and Edinburgh
Paris: 189, rue Saint-Jacques
Leipzig: 35-37 Königstrasse


[Illustration: "It is only that a low laugh echoes distantly in my
ear."]


[Illustration]




CONTENTS

       I. The Child of Prophecy                                   3

      II. The Way of Youth                                       18

     III. The Music of the World                                 33

      IV. Cydaria revealed                                       49

       V. I am forbidden to forget                               65

      VI. An Invitation to Court                                 84

     VII. What came of Honesty                                  103

    VIII. Madness, Magic, and Moonshine                         122

      IX. Of Gems and Pebbles                                   140

       X. Je Viens, Tu Viens, Il Vient                          160

      XI. The Gentleman from Calais                             180

     XII. The Deference of His Grace the Duke                   201

    XIII. The Meed of Curiosity                                 222

     XIV. The King's Cup                                        244

      XV. M. de Perrencourt whispers                            263

     XVI. M. de Perrencourt wonders                             283

    XVII. What befell my Last Guinea                            303

   XVIII. Some Mighty Silly Business                            324

     XIX. A Night on the Road                                   345

      XX. The Vicar's Proposition                               362

     XXI. The Strange Conjuncture of Two Gentlemen              378

    XXII. The Device of Lord Carford                            396

   XXIII. A Pleasant Penitence                                  414

    XXIV. A Comedy before the King                              434

     XXV. The Mind of M. de Fontelles                           451

    XXVI. I come Home                                           468




SIMON DALE




CHAPTER I

THE CHILD OF PROPHECY


One who was in his day a person of great place and consideration, and
has left a name which future generations shall surely repeat so long as
the world may last, found no better rule for a man's life than that he
should incline his mind to move in Charity, rest in Providence, and turn
upon the poles of Truth. This condition, says he, is Heaven upon Earth;
and although what touches truth may better befit the philosopher who
uttered it than the vulgar and unlearned, for whom perhaps it is a
counsel too high and therefore dangerous, what comes before should
surely be graven by each of us on the walls of our hearts. For any man
who lived in the days that I have seen must have found much need of
trust in Providence, and by no whit the less of charity for men. In such
trust and charity I have striven to write: in the like I pray you to
read.

I, Simon Dale, was born on the seventh day of the seventh month in the
year of Our Lord sixteen-hundred-and-forty-seven. The date was good in
that the Divine Number was thrice found in it, but evil in that it fell
on a time of sore trouble both for the nation and for our own house;
when men had begun to go about saying that if the King would not keep
his promises it was likely that he would keep his head as little; when
they who had fought for freedom were suspecting that victory had brought
new tyrants; when the Vicar was put out of his cure; and my father,
having trusted the King first, the Parliament afterwards, and at last
neither the one nor the other, had lost the greater part of his
substance, and fallen from wealth to straitened means: such is the
common reward of an honest patriotism wedded to an open mind. However,
the date, good or bad, was none of my doing, nor indeed, folks
whispered, much of my parents' either, seeing that destiny overruled the
affair, and Betty Nasroth, the wise woman, announced its imminence more
than a year beforehand. For she predicted the birth, on the very day
whereon I came into the world, within a mile of the parish church, of a
male child who--and the utterance certainly had a lofty sound about
it--should love where the King loved, know what the King hid, and drink
of the King's cup. Now, inasmuch as none lived within the limits named
by Betty Nasroth, save on the one side sundry humble labourers, whose
progeny could expect no such fate, and on the other my Lord and Lady
Quinton, who were wedded but a month before my birthday, the prophecy
was fully as pointed as it had any need to be, and caused to my parents
no small questionings. It was the third clause or term of the prediction
that gave most concern alike to my mother and to my father; to my
mother, because, although of discreet mind and a sound Churchwoman, she
was from her earliest years a Rechabite, and had never heard of a King
who drank water; and to my father by reason of his decayed estate, which
made it impossible for him to contrive how properly to fit me for my
predestined company. "A man should not drink the King's wine without
giving the King as good," my father reflected ruefully. Meanwhile I,
troubling not at all about the matter, was content to prove Betty right
in point of the date, and, leaving the rest to the future, achieved this
triumph for her most punctually. Whatsoever may await a man on his way
through the world, he can hardly begin life better than by keeping his
faith with a lady.

She was a strange old woman, this Betty Nasroth, and would likely enough
have fared badly in the time of the King's father. Now there was bigger
game than witches afoot, and nothing worse befell her than the scowls of
her neighbours and the frightened mockery of children. She made free
reply with curses and dark mutterings, but me she loved as being the
child of her vision, and all the more because, encountering her as I
rode in my mother's arms, I did not cry, but held out my hands, crowing
and struggling to get to her; whereat suddenly, and to my mother's great
terror, she exclaimed: "Thou see'st, Satan!" and fell to weeping, a
thing which, as every woman in the parish knew, a person absolutely
possessed by the Evil One can by no means accomplish (unless, indeed, a
bare three drops squeezed from the left eye may usurp the name of
tears). But my mother shrank away from her and would not allow her to
touch me; nor was it until I had grown older and ran about the village
alone that the old woman, having tracked me to a lonely spot, took me in
her arms, mumbled over my head some words I did not understand, and
kissed me. That a mole grows on the spot she kissed is but a fable (for
how do the women know where her kiss fell save by where the mole
grows?--and that is to reason poorly), or at the most the purest chance.
Nay, if it were more, I am content; for the mole does me no harm, and
the kiss, as I hope, did Betty some good; off she went straight to the
Vicar (who was living then in the cottage of my Lord Quinton's gardener
and exercising his sacred functions in a secrecy to which the whole
parish was privy) and prayed him to let her partake of the Lord's
Supper: a request that caused great scandal to the neighbours and sore
embarrassment to the Vicar himself, who, being a learned man and deeply
read in demonology, grieved from his heart that the witch did not play
her part better.

"It is," said he to my father, "a monstrous lapse."

"Nay, it is a sign of grace," urged my mother.

"It is," said my father (and I do not know whether he spoke perversely
or in earnest), "a matter of no moment."

Now, being steadfastly determined that my boyhood shall be less tedious
in the telling than it was in the living--for I always longed to be a
man, and hated my green and petticoat-governed days--I will pass
forthwith to the hour when I reached the age of eighteen years. My dear
father was then in Heaven, and old Betty had found, as was believed,
another billet. But my mother lived, and the Vicar, like the King, had
come to his own again: and I was five feet eleven in my stockings, and
there was urgent need that I should set about pushing my way and putting
money in my purse; for our lands had not returned with the King, and
there was no more incoming than would serve to keep my mother and
sisters in the style of gentlewomen.

"And on that matter," observed the Vicar, stroking his nose with his
forefinger, as his habit was in moments of perplexity, "Betty Nasroth's
prophecy is of small service. For the doings on which she touches are
likely to be occasions of expense rather than sources of gain."

"They would be money wasted," said my mother gently, "one and all of
them."

The Vicar looked a little doubtful.

"I will write a sermon on that theme," said he; for this was with him a
favourite way out of an argument. In truth the Vicar loved the prophecy,
as a quiet student often loves a thing that echoes of the world which he
has shunned.

"You must write down for me what the King says to you, Simon," he told
me once.

"Suppose, sir," I suggested mischievously, "that it should not be fit
for your eye?"

"Then write it, Simon," he answered, pinching my ear, "for my
understanding."

It was well enough for the Vicar's whimsical fancy to busy itself with
Betty Nasroth's prophecy, half-believing, half-mocking, never forgetting
nor disregarding; but I, who am, after all, the most concerned, doubt
whether such a dark utterance be a wholesome thing to hang round a young
man's neck. The dreams of youth grow rank enough without such watering.
The prediction was always in my mind, alluring and tantalising as a
teasing girl who puts her pretty face near yours, safe that you dare not
kiss it. What it said I mused on, what it said not I neglected. I
dedicated my idle hours to it, and, not appeased, it invaded my seasons
of business. Rather than seek my own path, I left myself to its will and
hearkened for its whispered orders.

"It was the same," observed my mother sadly, "with a certain cook-maid
of my sister's. It was foretold that she should marry her master."

"And did she not?" cried the Vicar, with ears all pricked-up.

"She changed her service every year," said my mother, "seeking the
likeliest man, until at last none would hire her."

"She should have stayed in her first service," said the Vicar, shaking
his head.

"But her first master had a wife," retorted my mother triumphantly.

"I had one once myself," said the Vicar.

The argument, with which his widowhood supplied the Vicar, was sound and
unanswerable, and it suited well with my humour to learn from my aunt's
cook-maid, and wait patiently on fate. But what avails an argument, be
it ever so sound, against an empty purse? It was declared that I must
seek my fortune; yet on the method of my search some difference arose.

"You must work, Simon," said my sister Lucy, who was betrothed to
Justice Barnard, a young squire of good family and high repute, but
mighty hard on idle vagrants, and free with the stocks for revellers.

"You must pray for guidance," said my sister Mary, who was to wed a
saintly clergyman, a Prebend, too, of the Cathedral.

"There is," said I stoutly, "nothing of such matters in Betty Nasroth's
prophecy."

"They are taken for granted, dear boy," said my mother gently.

The Vicar rubbed his nose.

Yet not these excellent and zealous counsellors proved right, but the
Vicar and I. For had I gone to London, as they urged, instead of abiding
where I was, agreeably to the Vicar's argument and my own inclination,
it is a great question whether the plague would not have proved too
strong for Betty Nasroth, and her prediction gone to lie with me in a
death-pit. As things befell, I lived, hearing only dimly and, as it
were, from afar-off of that great calamity, and of the horrors that
beset the city. For the disease did not come our way, and we moralised
on the sins of the townsfolk with sound bodies and contented minds. We
were happy in our health and in our virtue, and not disinclined to
applaud God's judgment that smote our erring brethren; for too often the
chastisement of one sinner feeds another's pride. Yet the plague had a
hand, and no small one, in that destiny of mine, although it came not
near me; for it brought fresh tenants to those same rooms in the
gardener's cottage where the Vicar had dwelt till the loyal Parliament's
Act proved too hard for the conscience of our Independent minister, and
the Vicar, nothing loth, moved back to his parsonage.

Now I was walking one day, as I had full licence and leave to walk, in
the avenue of Quinton Manor, when I saw, first, what I had (if I am to
tell the truth) come to see, to wit, the figure of young Mistress
Barbara, daintily arrayed in a white summer gown. Barbara was pleased
to hold herself haughtily towards me, for she was an heiress, and of a
house that had not fallen in the world as mine had. Yet we were friends;
for we sparred and rallied, she giving offence and I taking it, she
pardoning my rudeness and I accepting forgiveness; while my lord and my
lady, perhaps thinking me too low for fear and yet high enough for
favour, showed me much kindness; my lord, indeed, would often jest with
me on the great fate foretold me in Betty Nasroth's prophecy.

"Yet," he would say, with a twinkle in his eye, "the King has strange
secrets, and there is some strange wine in his cup, and to love where he
loves----"; but at this point the Vicar, who chanced to be by, twinkled
also, but shifted the conversation to some theme which did not touch the
King, his secrets, his wine, or where he loved.

Thus then I saw, as I say, the slim tall figure, the dark hair, and the
proud eyes of Barbara Quinton; and the eyes were flashing in anger as
their owner turned away from--what I had not looked to see in Barbara's
company. This was another damsel, of lower stature and plumper figure,
dressed full as prettily as Barbara herself, and laughing with most
merry lips and under eyes that half hid themselves in an eclipse of
mirth. When Barbara saw me, she did not, as her custom was, feign not to
see me till I thrust my presence on her, but ran to me at once, crying
very indignantly, "Simon, who is this girl? She has dared to tell me
that my gown is of country make and hangs like an old smock on a
beanpole."

"Mistress Barbara," I answered, "who heeds the make of the gown when the
wearer is of divine make?" I was young then, and did not know that to
compliment herself at the expense of her apparel is not the best way to
please a woman.

"You are silly," said Barbara. "Who is she?"

"The girl," said I, crestfallen, "is, they tell me, from London, and she
lodges with her mother in your gardener's cottage. But I didn't look to
find her here in the avenue."

"You shall not again if I have my way," said Barbara. Then she added
abruptly and sharply, "Why do you look at her?"

Now, it was true that I was looking at the stranger, and on Barbara's
question I looked the harder.

"She is mighty pretty," said I. "Does she not seem so to you, Mistress
Barbara?" And, simple though I was, I spoke not altogether in
simplicity.

"Pretty?" echoed Barbara. "And pray what do you know of prettiness,
Master Simon?"

"What I have learnt at Quinton Manor," I answered, with a bow.

"That doesn't prove her pretty," retorted the angry lady.

"There's more than one way of it," said I discreetly, and I took a step
towards the visitor, who stood some ten yards from us, laughing still
and plucking a flower to pieces in her fingers.

"She isn't known to you?" asked Barbara, perceiving my movement.

"I can remedy that," said I, smiling.

Never since the world began had youth been a more faithful servant to
maid than I to Barbara Quinton. Yet because, if a man lie down, the best
of girls will set her pretty foot on his neck, and also from my love of
a thing that is new, I was thoroughly resolved to accost the gardener's
guest; and my purpose was not altered by Barbara's scornful toss of her
little head as she turned away.

"It is no more than civility," I protested, "to ask after her health,
for, coming from London, she can but just have escaped the plague."

Barbara tossed her head again, declaring plainly her opinion of my
excuse.

"But if you desire me to walk with you----" I began.

"There is nothing I thought of less," she interrupted. "I came here to
be alone."

"My pleasure lies in obeying you," said I, and I stood bareheaded while
Barbara, without another glance at me, walked off towards the house.
Half penitent, yet wholly obstinate, I watched her go; she did not once
look over her shoulder. Had she--but a truce to that. What passed is
enough; with what might have, my story would stretch to the world's end.
I smothered my remorse, and went up to the stranger, bidding her
good-day in my most polite and courtly manner; she smiled, but at what I
knew not. She seemed little more than a child, sixteen years old or
seventeen at the most, yet there was no confusion in her greeting of me.
Indeed, she was most marvellously at her ease, for, on my salute, she
cried, lifting her hands in feigned amazement,

"A man, by my faith; a man in this place!"

Well pleased to be called a man, I bowed again.

"Or at least," she added, "what will be one, if it please Heaven."

"You may live to see it without growing wrinkled," said I, striving to
conceal my annoyance.

"And one that has repartee in him! Oh, marvellous!"

"We do not all lack wit in the country, madame," said I, simpering as I
supposed the Court gallants to simper, "nor, since the plague came to
London, beauty."

"Indeed, it's wonderful," she cried in mock admiration. "Do they teach
such sayings hereabouts, sir?"

"Even so, madame, and from such books as your eyes furnish." And for all
her air of mockery, I was, as I remember, much pleased with this speech.
It had come from some well-thumbed romance, I doubt not. I was always an
eager reader of such silly things.

She curtseyed low, laughing up at me with roguish eyes and mouth.

"Now, surely, sir," she said, "you must be Simon Dale, of whom my host
the gardener speaks?"

"It is my name, madame, at your service. But the gardener has played me
a trick; for now I have nothing to give in exchange for your name."

"Nay, you have a very pretty nosegay in your hand," said she. "I might
be persuaded to barter my name for it."

The nosegay that was in my hand I had gathered and brought for Barbara
Quinton, and I still meant to use it as a peace-offering. But Barbara
had treated me harshly, and the stranger looked longingly at the
nosegay.

"The gardener is a niggard with his flowers," she said with a coaxing
smile.

"To confess the truth," said I, wavering in my purpose, "the nosegay was
plucked for another."

"It will smell the sweeter," she cried, with a laugh. "Nothing gives
flowers such a perfume." And she held out a wonderfully small hand
towards my nosegay.

"Is that a London lesson?" I asked, holding the flowers away from her
grasp.

"It holds good in the country also, sir; wherever, indeed, there is a
man to gather flowers and more than one lady who loves smelling them."

"Well," said I, "the nosegay is yours at the price," and I held it out
to her.

"The price? What, you desire to know my name?"

"Unless, indeed, I may call you one of my own choosing," said I, with a
glance that should have been irresistible.

"Would you use it in speaking of me to Mistress Barbara there? No, I'll
give you a name to call me by. You may call me Cydaria."

"Cydaria! A fine name!"

"It is," said she carelessly, "as good as any other."

"But is there no other to follow it?"

"When did a poet ask two names to head his sonnet? And surely you wanted
mine for a sonnet?"

"So be it, Cydaria," said I.

"So be it, Simon. And is not Cydaria as pretty as Barbaria?"

"It has a strange sound," said I, "but it's well enough."

"And now--the nosegay!"

"I must pay a reckoning for this," I sighed; but since a bargain is a
bargain I gave her the nosegay.

She took it, her face all alight with smiles, and buried her nose in it.
I stood looking at her, caught by her pretty ways and graceful boldness.
Boy though I was, I had been right in telling her that there are many
ways of beauty; here were two to start with, hers and Barbara's. She
looked up and, finding my gaze on her, made a little grimace as though
it were only what she had expected and gave her no more concern than
pleasure. Yet at such a look Barbara would have turned cold and distant
for an hour or more. Cydaria, smiling in scornful indulgence, dropped me
another mocking curtsey, and made as though she would go her way. Yet
she did not go, but stood with her head half-averted, a glance straying
towards me from the corner of her eye, while with her tiny foot she dug
the gravel of the avenue.

"It is a lovely place, this park," said she. "But, indeed, it's often
hard to find the way about it."

I was not backward to take her hint.

"If you had a guide now----" I began.

"Why, yes, if I had a guide, Simon," she whispered gleefully.

"You could find the way, Cydaria, and your guide would be most----"

"Most charitably engaged. But then----" She paused, drooping the corners
of her mouth in sudden despondency.

"But what then?"

"Why then, Mistress Barbara would be alone."

I hesitated. I glanced towards the house. I looked at Cydaria.

"She told me that she wished to be alone," said I.

"No? How did she say it?"

"I will tell you all about that as we go along," said I, and Cydaria
laughed again.




CHAPTER II

THE WAY OF YOUTH


The debate is years old; not indeed quite so old as the world, since
Adam and Eve cannot, for want of opportunity, have fallen out over it,
yet descending to us from unknown antiquity. But it has never been set
at rest by general consent: the quarrel over Passive Obedience is
nothing to it. It seems such a small matter though; for the debate I
mean turns on no greater question than this: may a man who owns
allegiance to one lady justify by any train of reasoning his conduct in
snatching a kiss from another, this other being (for it is important to
have the terms right) not (so far as can be judged) unwilling? I
maintained that he might; to be sure, my position admitted of no other
argument, and, for the most part, it is a man's state which determines
his arguments and not his reasons that induce his state. Barbara
declared that he could not; though, to be sure, it was, as she added
most promptly, no concern of hers; for she cared not whether I were in
love or not, nor how deeply, nor with whom, nor, in a word, anything at
all about the matter. It was an abstract opinion she gave, so far as
love, or what men chose to call such, might be involved; as to
seemliness, she must confess that she had her view, with which, may be,
Mr Dale was not in agreement. The girl at the gardener's cottage must,
she did not doubt, agree wholly with Mr Dale; how otherwise would she
have suffered the kiss in an open space in the park, where anybody might
pass--and where, in fact (by the most perverse chance in the world),
pretty Mistress Barbara herself passed at the moment when the thing
occurred? However, if the matter could ever have had the smallest
interest for her--save in so far as it touched the reputation of the
village and might afford an evil example to the village maidens--it
could have none at all now, seeing that she set out the next day to
London, to take her place as Maid of Honour to Her Royal Highness the
Duchess, and would have as little leisure as inclination to think of Mr
Simon Dale or of how he chose to amuse himself when he believed that
none was watching. Not that she had watched: her presence was the purest
and most unwelcome chance. Yet she could not but be glad to hear that
the girl was soon to go back whence she came, to the great relief (she
was sure) of Madame Dale and of her dear friends Lucy and Mary; to her
love for whom nothing--no, nothing--should make any difference. For the
girl herself she wished no harm, but she conceived that her mother must
be ill at ease concerning her.

It will be allowed that Mistress Barbara had the most of the argument if
not the best. Indeed, I found little to say, except that the village
would be the worse by so much as the Duchess of York was the better for
Mistress Barbara's departure; the civility won me nothing but the
haughtiest curtsey and a taunt.

"Must you rehearse your pretty speeches on me before you venture them on
your friends, sir?" she asked.

"I am at your mercy, Mistress Barbara," I pleaded. "Are we to part
enemies?"

She made me no answer, but I seemed to see a softening in her face as
she turned away towards the window, whence were to be seen the stretch
of the lawn and the park-meadows beyond. I believe that with a little
more coaxing she would have pardoned me, but at the instant, by another
stroke of perversity, a small figure sauntered across the sunny fields.
The fairest sights may sometimes come amiss.

"Cydaria! A fine name!" said Barbara, with curling lip. "I'll wager she
has reasons for giving no other."

"Her mother gives another to the gardener," I reminded her meekly.

"Names are as easy given as--as kisses!" she retorted. "As for Cydaria,
my lord says it is a name out of a play."

All this while we had stood at the window, watching Cydaria's light feet
trip across the meadow, and her bonnet swing wantonly in her hand. But
now Cydaria disappeared among the trunks of the beech trees.

"See, she has gone," said I in a whisper. "She is gone, Mistress
Barbara."

Barbara understood what I would say, but she was resolved to show me no
gentleness. The soft tones of my voice had been for her, but she would
not accept their homage.

"You need not sigh for that before my face," said she. "And yet, sigh if
you will. What is it to me? But she is not gone far, and, doubtless,
will not run too fast when you pursue."

"When you are in London," said I, "you will think with remorse how ill
you used me."

"I shall never think of you at all. Do you forget that there are
gentlemen of wit and breeding at the Court?"

"The devil fly away with every one of them!" cried I suddenly, not
knowing then how well the better part of them would match their escort.

Barbara turned to me; there was a gleam of triumph in the depths of her
dark eyes.

"Perhaps when you hear of me at Court," she cried, "you'll be sorry to
think how----"

But she broke off suddenly, and looked out of the window.

"You'll find a husband there," I suggested bitterly.

"Like enough," said she carelessly.

To be plain, I was in no happy mood. Her going grieved me to the heart,
and that she should go thus incensed stung me yet more. I was jealous of
every man in London town. Had not my argument, then, some reason in it
after all?

"Fare-you-well, madame," said I, with a heavy frown and a sweeping bow.
No player from the Lane could have been more tragic.

"Fare-you-well, sir. I will not detain you, for you have, I know, other
farewells to make."

"Not for a week yet!" I cried, goaded to a show of exultation that
Cydaria stayed so long.

"I don't doubt that you'll make good use of the time," she said, as with
a fine dignity she waved me to the door. Girl as she was, she had caught
or inherited the grand air that great ladies use.

Gloomily I passed out, to fall into the hands of my lord, who was
walking on the terrace. He caught me by the arm, laughing in
good-humoured mockery.

"You've had a touch of sentiment, eh, you rogue?" said he. "Well,
there's little harm in that, since the girl leaves us to-morrow."

"Indeed, my lord, there was little harm," said I, long-faced and rueful.
"As little as my lady herself could wish." (At this he smiled and
nodded.) "Mistress Barbara will hardly so much as look at me."

He grew graver, though the smile still hung about his lips.

"They gossip about you in the village, Simon," said he. "Take a friend's
counsel, and don't be so much with the lady at the cottage. Come, I
don't speak without reason." He nodded at me as a man nods who means
more than he will say. Indeed, not a word more would he say, so that
when I left him I was even more angry than when I parted from his
daughter. And, the nature of man being such as Heaven has made it, what
need to say that I bent my steps to the cottage with all convenient
speed? The only weapon of an ill-used lover (nay, I will not argue the
merits of the case again) was ready to my hand.

Yet my impatience availed little; for there, on the seat that stood by
the door, sat my good friend the Vicar, discoursing in pleasant leisure
with the lady who named herself Cydaria.

"It is true," he was saying. "I fear it is true, though you're over
young to have learnt it."

"There are schools, sir," she returned, with a smile that had (or so it
seemed to me) a touch--no more--of bitterness in it, "where such lessons
are early learnt."

"They are best let alone, those schools," said he.

"And what's the lesson?" I asked, drawing nearer.

Neither answered. The Vicar rested his hands on the ball of his cane,
and suddenly began to relate old Betty Nasroth's prophecy to his
companion. I cannot tell what led his thoughts to it, but it was never
far from his mind when I was by. She listened with attention, smiling
brightly in whimsical amusement when the fateful words, pronounced with
due solemnity, left the Vicar's lips.

"It is a strange saying," he ended, "of which time alone can show the
truth."

She glanced at me with merry eyes, yet with a new air of interest. It is
strange the hold these superstitions have on all of us; though surely
future ages will outgrow such childishness.

"I don't know what the prophecy means," said she; "yet one thing at
least would seem needful for its fulfilment--that Mr Dale should become
acquainted with the King."

"True!" cried the Vicar eagerly. "Everything stands on that, and on that
we stick. For Simon cannot love where the King loves, nor know what the
King hides, nor drink of the King's cup, if he abide all his days here
in Hatchstead. Come, Simon, the plague is gone!"

"Should I then be gone too?" I asked. "But to what end? I have no
friends in London who would bring me to the notice of the King."

The Vicar shook his head sadly. I had no such friends, and the King had
proved before now that he could forget many a better friend to the
throne than my dear father's open mind had made of him.

"We must wait, we must wait still," said the Vicar. "Time will find a
friend."

Cydaria had become pensive for a moment, but she looked up now, smiling
again, and said to me:

"You'll soon have a friend in London."

Thinking of Barbara, I answered gloomily, "She's no friend of mine."

"I did not mean whom you mean," said Cydaria, with twinkling eyes and
not a whit put out. "But I also am going to London."

I smiled, for it did not seem as though she would be a powerful friend,
or able to open any way for me. But she met my smile with another so
full of confidence and challenge that my attention was wholly caught,
and I did not heed the Vicar's farewell as he rose and left us.

"And would you serve me," I asked, "if you had the power?"

"Nay, put the question as you think it," said she. "Would you have the
power to serve me if you had the will? Is not that the doubt in your
mind?"

"And if it were?"

"Then, indeed, I do not know how to answer; but strange things happen
there in London, and it may be that some day even I should have some
power."

"And you would use it for me?"

"Could I do less on behalf of a gentleman who has risked his mistress's
favour for my poor cheek's sake?" And she fell to laughing again, her
mirth growing greater as I turned red in the face. "You mustn't blush
when you come to town," she cried, "or they'll make a ballad on you, and
cry you in the streets for a monster."

"The oftener comes the cause, the rarer shall the effect be," said I.

"The excuse is well put," she conceded. "We should make a wit of you in
town."

"What do you in town?" I asked squarely, looking her full in the eyes.

"Perhaps, sometimes," she laughed, "what I have done once--and to your
good knowledge--since I came to the country."

Thus she would baffle me with jesting answers as often as I sought to
find out who and what she was. Nor had I better fortune with her mother,
for whom I had small liking, and who had, as it seemed, no more for me.
For she was short in her talk, and frowned to see me with her daughter.
Yet she saw me, I must confess, often with Cydaria in the next days, and
I was often with Cydaria when she did not see me. For Barbara was gone,
leaving me both sore and lonely, all in the mood to find comfort where I
could, and to see manliness in desertion; and there was a charm about
the girl that grew on me insensibly and without my will until I came to
love, not her (as I believed, forgetting that Love loves not to mark his
boundaries too strictly) but her merry temper, her wit and cheerfulness.
Moreover, these things were mingled and spiced with others, more
attractive than all to unfledged youth, an air of the world and a
knowledge of life which piqued my curiosity and sat (it seems so even to
my later mind as I look back) with bewitching incongruity on the
laughing child's face and the unripe grace of girlhood. Her moods were
endless, vying with one another in an ever undetermined struggle for the
prize of greatest charm. For the most part she was merry, frank mirth
passing into sly raillery; now and then she would turn sad, sighing,
"Heigho, that I could stay in the sweet innocent country!" Or again she
would show or ape an uneasy conscience, whispering, "Ah, that I were
like your Mistress Barbara!" The next moment she would be laughing and
jesting and mocking, as though life were nought but a great
many-coloured bubble, and she the brightest-tinted gleam on it.

Are women so constant and men so forgetful, that all sympathy must go
from me and all esteem be forfeited because, being of the age of
eighteen years, I vowed to live for one lady only on a Monday and was
ready to die for another on the Saturday? Look back; bow your heads, and
give me your hands, to kiss or to clasp!

    Let not you and I inquire
    What has been our past desire,
    On what shepherds you have smiled,
    Or what nymphs I have beguiled;
    Leave it to the planets too
    What we shall hereafter do;
    For the joys we now may prove,
    Take advice of present love.

Nay, I will not set my name to that in its fulness; Mr Waller is a
little too free for one who has been nicknamed a Puritan to follow him
to the end. Yet there is a truth in it. Deny it, if you will. You are
smiling, madame, while you deny.

It was a golden summer's evening when I, to whom the golden world was
all a hell, came by tryst to the park of Quinton Manor, there to bid
Cydaria farewell. Mother and sisters had looked askance at me, the
village gossiped, even the Vicar shook a kindly head. What cared I? By
Heaven, why was one man a nobleman and rich, while another had no money
in his purse and but one change to his back? Was not love all in all,
and why did Cydaria laugh at a truth so manifest? There she was under
the beech tree, with her sweet face screwed up to a burlesque of grief,
her little hand lying on her hard heart as though it beat for me, and
her eyes the playground of a thousand quick expressions. I strode up to
her, and caught her by the hand, saying no more than just her name,
"Cydaria." It seemed that there was no more to say; yet she cried,
laughing and reproachful, "Have you no vows for me? Must I go without my
tribute?"

I loosed her hand and stood away from her. On my soul, I could not
speak. I was tongue-tied, dumb as a dog.

"When you come courting in London," she said, "you must not come so
empty of lover's baggage. There ladies ask vows, and protestations, and
despair, ay, and poetry, and rhapsodies, and I know not what."

"Of all these I have nothing but despair," said I.

"Then you make a sad lover," she pouted. "And I am glad to be going
where lovers are less woebegone."

"You look for lovers in London?" I cried, I that had cried to
Barbara--well, I have said my say on that.

"If Heaven send them," answered Cydaria.

"And you will forget me?"

"In truth, yes, unless you come yourself to remind me. I have no head
for absent lovers."

"But if I come----" I began in a sudden flush of hope.

She did not (though it was her custom) answer in raillery; she plucked a
leaf from the tree, and tore it with her fingers as she answered with a
curious glance.

"Why, if you come, I think you'll wish that you had not come, unless,
indeed, you've forgotten me before you come."

"Forget you! Never while I live! May I come, Cydaria?"

"Most certainly, sir, so soon as your wardrobe and your purse allow.
Nay, don't be huffed. Come, Simon, sweet Simon, are we not friends, and
may not friends rally one another? No, and if I choose, I will put my
hand through your arm. Indeed, sir, you're the first gentleman that ever
thrust it away. See, it is there now! Doesn't it look well there,
Simon--and feel well there, Simon?" She looked up into my face in
coaxing apology for the hurt she had given me, and yet still with
mockery of my tragic airs. "Yes, you must by all means come to London,"
she went on, patting my arm. "Is not Mistress Barbara in London? And I
think--am I wrong, Simon?--that there is something for which you will
want to ask her pardon."

"If I come to London, it is for you and you only that I shall come," I
cried.

"No, no. You will come to love where the King loves, to know what he
hides, and to drink of his cup. I, sir, cannot interfere with your great
destiny"; she drew away from me, curtseyed low, and stood opposite to
me, smiling.

"For you and for you only," I repeated.

"Then will the King love me?" she asked.

"God forbid," said I fervently.

"Oh, and why, pray, your 'God forbid'? You're very ready with your 'God
forbids.' Am I then to take your love sooner than the King's, Master
Simon?"

"Mine is an honest love," said I soberly.

"Oh, I should doat on the country, if everybody didn't talk of his
honesty there! I have seen the King in London and he is a fine
gentleman."

"And you have seen the Queen also, may be?"

"In truth, yes. Ah, I have shocked you, Simon? Well, I was wrong. Come,
we're in the country; we'll be good. But when we've made a townsman of
you, we'll--we will be what they are in town. Moreover, in ten minutes I
am going home, and it would be hard if I also left you in anger. You
shall have a pleasanter memory of my going than Mistress Barbara's gave
you."

"How shall I find you when I come to town?"

"Why, if you will ask any gentleman you meet whether he chances to
remember Cydaria, you will find me as soon as it is well you should."

I prayed her to tell me more; but she was resolved to tell no more.

"See, it is late. I go," said she. Then suddenly she came near to me.
"Poor Simon," she said softly. "Yet it is good for you, Simon. Some day
you will be amused at this, Simon"; she spoke as though she were fifty
years older than I. My answer lay not in words or arguments. I caught
her in my arms and kissed her. She struggled, yet she laughed. It shot
through my mind then that Barbara would neither have struggled nor
laughed. But Cydaria laughed.

Presently I let her go, and kneeling on my knee kissed her hand very
humbly, as though she had been what Barbara was. If she were not--and I
knew not what she was--yet should my love exalt her and make a throne
whereon she might sit a Queen. My new posture brought a sudden gravity
to her face, and she bent over me with a smile that seemed now tender
and almost sorrowful.

"Poor Simon, poor Simon," she whispered. "Kiss my hand now; kiss it as
though I were fit for worship. It will do you no harm, and--and
perhaps--perhaps I shall like to remember it." She bent down and kissed
my forehead as I knelt before her. "Poor Simon," she whispered, as her
hair brushed mine. Then her hand was gradually and gently withdrawn. I
looked up to see her face; her lips were smiling but there seemed a dew
on her lashes. She laughed, and the laugh ended in a little gasp, as
though a sob had fought with it. And she cried out loud, her voice
ringing clear among the trees in the still evening air.

"That ever I should be so sore a fool!"

Then she turned and left me, running swiftly over the grass, with never
a look behind her. I watched till she was out of sight, and then sat
down on the ground; with twitching lips and wide-open dreary eyes.

Ah, for youth's happiness! Alas for its dismal woe! Thus she came into
my life.




CHAPTER III

THE MUSIC OF THE WORLD


If a philosopher, learned in the human mind as Flamsteed in the courses
of the stars or the great Newton in the laws of external nature, were to
take one possessed by a strong passion of love or a bitter grief, or
what overpowering emotion you will, and were to consider impartially and
with cold precision what share of his time was in reality occupied by
the thing which, as we are in the habit of saying, filled his thoughts
or swayed his life or mastered his intellect, the world might well smile
(and to my thinking had better smile than weep) at the issue of the
investigation. When the first brief shock was gone, how few out of the
solid twenty-four would be the hours claimed by the despot, however much
the poets might call him insatiable. There is sleeping, and meat and
drink, the putting on and off of raiment and the buying of it. If a man
be of sound body, there is his sport; if he be sane, there are the
interests of this life and provision for the next. And if he be young,
there is nature's own joy in living, which with a patient scornful smile
sets aside his protest that he is vowed to misery, and makes him,
willy-nilly, laugh and sing. So that, if he do not drown himself in a
week and thereby balk the inquiry, it is odds that he will compose
himself in a month, and by the end of a year will carry no more marks of
his misfortune than (if he be a man of good heart) an added sobriety and
tenderness of spirit. Yet all this does not hinder the thing from
returning, on occasion given.

In my own case--and, if my story be followed to its close, I am
persuaded that I shall not be held to be one who took the disease of
love more lightly than my fellows--this process of convalescence, most
salutary, yet in a sense humiliating, was aided by a train of
circumstances, in which my mother saw the favour of Heaven to our family
and the Vicar the working of Betty Nasroth's prophecy. An uncle of my
mother's had some forty years ago established a manufactory of wool at
Norwich, and having kept always before his eyes the truth that men must
be clothed, howsoever they may think on matters of Church and State, and
that it is a cloth-weaver's business to clothe them and not to think for
them, had lived a quiet life through all the disturbances and had
prospered greatly in his trade. For marriage either time or inclination
had failed him, and, being now an old man, he felt a favourable
disposition towards me, and declared the intention of making me heir to
a considerable portion of his fortune provided that I showed myself
worthy of such kindness. The proof he asked was not beyond reason,
though I found cause for great lamentation in it; for it was that, in
lieu of seeking to get to London, I should go to Norwich and live there
with him, to solace his last years and, although not engaged in his
trade, learn by observation something of the serious occupations of life
and of the condition of my fellow-men, of which things young gentlemen,
said he, were for the most part sadly ignorant. Indeed, they were, and
they thought no better of a companion for being wiser; to do anything or
know anything that might redound to the benefit of man or the honour of
God was not the mode in those days. Nor do I say that the fashion has
changed greatly, no, nor that it will change. Therefore to Norwich I
went, although reluctantly, and there I stayed fully three years,
applying myself to the comforting of my uncle's old age, and consoling
my leisure with the diversions which that great and important city
afforded, and which, indeed, were enough for any rational mind. But
reason and youth are bad bedfellows, and all the while I was like the
Israelites in the wilderness; my thoughts were set upon the Promised
Land and I endured my probation hardly. To this mood I set down the fact
that little of my life at Norwich lives in my memory, and to that little
I seldom recur in thought; the time before it and the time after engross
my backward glances. The end came with my uncle's death, whereat I, the
recipient of great kindness from him, sincerely grieved, and that with
some remorse, since I had caused him sorrow by refusing to take up his
occupation as my own, preferring my liberty and a moderate endowment to
all his fortune saddled with the condition of passing my days as a
cloth-weaver. Had I chosen otherwise, I should have lived a more
peaceful and died a richer man. Yet I do not repent; not riches nor
peace, but the stir of the blood, the work of the hand, and the service
of the brain make a life that a man can look back on without shame and
with delight.

I was nearing my twenty-second birthday when I returned to Hatchstead
with an air and manner, I doubt not, sadly provincial, but with a lining
to my pocket for whose sake many a gallant would have surrendered some
of his plumes and feathers. Three thousand pounds, invested in my
uncle's business and returning good and punctual profit made of Simon
Dale a person of far greater importance in the eyes of his family than
he had been three years ago. It was a competence on which a gentleman
could live with discretion and modesty, it was a step from which his
foot could rise higher on life's ladder. London was in my power, all it
held of promise and possibility was not beyond the flight of my soaring
mind. My sisters exchanged sharp admonitions for admiring deference, and
my mother feared nothing save that the great place to which I was now
surely destined might impair the homely virtues which she had instilled
into me. As for the Vicar, he stroked his nose and glanced at me with
an eye which spoke so plainly of Betty Nasroth that I fell to laughing
heartily.

Thus, being in great danger of self-exaltation, I took the best medicine
that I could--although by no means with intention--in waiting on my lord
Quinton, who was then residing at the Manor. Here my swelled spirit was
smartly pricked, and sank soon to its true proportions. I was no great
man here, and although my lord received me very kindly, he had less to
say on the richness of my fortune than on the faults of my manner and
the rustic air of my attire. Yet he bade me go to London, since there a
man, rubbing shoulders with all the world, learnt to appraise his own
value, and lost the ignorant conceit of himself that a village greatness
is apt to breed. Somewhat crestfallen, I thanked him for his kindness,
and made bold to ask after Mistress Barbara.

"She is well enough," he answered, smiling. "And she is become a great
lady. The wits make epigrams on her, and the fools address verses to
her. But she's a good girl, Simon."

"I'm sure of it, my lord," I cried.

"He's a bold man who would be sure of it concerning anyone nowadays," he
said dryly. "Yet so, thank God, it is. See, here's a copy of the verses
she had lately," and he flung me the paper. I glanced over it and saw
much about "dazzling ice," "unmelting snow," "Venus," "Diana," and so
forth.

"It seems sad stuff, my lord," said I.

"Why, yes," he laughed; "but it is by a gentle man of repute. Take care
you write none worse, Simon."

"Shall I have the honour of waiting on Mistress Barbara, my lord?" I
asked.

"As to that, Simon, we will see when you come. Yes, we must see what
company you keep. For example, on whom else do you think of waiting when
you are set up in London?"

He looked steadily at me, a slight frown on his brow, yet a smile, and
not an unkind one, on his lips. I grew hot, and knew that I grew red
also.

"I am acquainted with few in London, my lord," I stammered, "and with
those not well."

"Those not well, indeed," he echoed, the pucker deepening and the smile
vanishing. Yet the smile came again as he rose and clapped me on the
shoulder.

"You're an honest lad, Simon," he said, "even though it may have pleased
God to make you a silly one. And, by Heaven, who would have all lads
wise? Go to London, learn to know more folk, learn to know better those
whom you know. Bear yourself as a gentleman, and remember, Simon,
whatsoever else the King may be, yet he is the King."

Saying this with much emphasis, he led me gently to the door.

"Why did he say that about the King?" I pondered as I walked homeward
through the park; for although what we all, even in the country, knew of
the King gave warrant enough for the words, my lord had seemed to speak
them to me with some special meaning, and as though they concerned me
more than most men. Yet what, if I left aside Betty's foolish talk, as
my lord surely did, had I to do with the King, or with what he might be
besides the King?

About this time much stir had been aroused in the country by the
dismissal from all his offices of that great Minister and accomplished
writer, the Earl of Clarendon, and by the further measures which his
enemies threatened against him. The village elders were wont to assemble
on the days when the post came in and discuss eagerly the news brought
from London. The affairs of Government troubled my head very little, but
in sheer idleness I used often to join them, wondering to see them so
perturbed at the happening of things which made mighty little difference
in our retired corner. Thus I was in the midst of them, at the King and
Crown Tavern, on the Green, two days after I had talked with my lord
Quinton. I sat with a mug of ale before me, engrossed in my own thoughts
and paying little heed to what passed, when, to my amazement, the
postman, leaping from his horse, came straight across to me, holding out
in his hand a large packet of important appearance. To receive a letter
was a rare event in my life, and a rarer followed, setting the cap on
my surprise. For the man, though he was fully ready to drink my health,
demanded no money for the letter, saying that it came on the service of
His Majesty and was not chargeable. He spoke low enough, and there was a
babble about, but it seemed as though the name of the King made its way
through all the hubbub to the Vicar's ears; for he rose instantly, and,
stepping to my side, sat down by me, crying,

"What said he of the King, Simon?"

"Why, he said," I answered, "that this great letter comes to me on the
King's service, and that I have nothing to pay for it," and I turned it
over and over in my hands. But the inscription was plain enough. "To
Master Simon Dale, Esquire, at Hatchstead, by Hatfield."

By this time half the company was round us, and my Lord Clarendon
well-nigh forgotten. Small things near are greater than great things
afar, and at Hatchstead my affairs were of more moment than the fall of
a Chancellor or the King's choice of new Ministers. A cry arose that I
should open my packet and disclose what it contained.

"Nay," said the Vicar, with an air of importance, "it may be on a
private matter that the King writes."

They would have believed that of my lord at the Manor, they could not of
Simon Dale. The Vicar met their laughter bravely.

"But the King and Simon are to have private matters between them one
day," he cried, shaking his fist at the mockers, himself half in
mockery.

Meanwhile I opened my packet and read. To this day the amazement its
contents bred in me is fresh. For the purport was that the King,
remembering my father's services to the King's father (and forgetting,
as it seemed, those done to General Cromwell), and being informed of my
own loyal disposition, courage, and good parts, had been graciously
pleased to name me to a commission in His Majesty's Regiment of Life
Guards, such commission being post-dated six months from the day of
writing, in order that Mr Dale should have the leisure to inform himself
of his duties and fit himself for his post; to which end it was the
King's further pleasure that Mr Dale should present himself, bringing
this same letter with him, without delay at Whitehall, and there be
instructed in his drill and in all other matters necessary for him to
know. Thus the letter ended, with a commendation of me to the care of
the Almighty.

I sat, gasping; the gossips gaped round me; the Vicar seemed stunned. At
last somebody grumbled,

"I do not love these Guards. What need of guard has the King except in
the love of his subjects?"

"So his father found, did he?" cried the Vicar, an aflame in a moment.

"The Life Guards!" I murmured. "It is the first regiment of all in
honour."

"Ay, my lad," said the Vicar. "It would have been well enough for you to
serve in the ranks of it, but to hold His Majesty's Commission!" Words
failed him, and he flew to the landlord's snuff-box, which that good
man, moved by subtle sympathy, held out, pat to the occasion.

Suddenly those words of my lord's that had at the time of their
utterance caught my attention so strongly flashed into my mind, seeming
now to find their explanation. If there were fault to be found in the
King, it did not lie with his own servants and officers to find it; I
was now of his household; my lord must have known what was on the way to
me from London when he addressed me so pointedly; and he could know only
because he had himself been the mover in the matter. I sprang up and ran
across to the Vicar, crying,

"Why, it is my lord's kindness! He has spoken for me."

"Ay, ay, it is my lord," was grunted and nodded round the circle in the
satisfaction of a discovery obvious so soon as made. The Vicar alone
dissented; he took another pinch and wagged his head petulantly.

"I don't think it's my lord," said he.

"But why not, sir, and who else?" I urged.

"I don't know, but I do not think it is my lord," he persisted.

Then I laughed at him, and he understood well that I mocked his dislike
of a plain-sailing everyday account of anything to which it might be
possible by hook or crook to attach a tag of mystery. He had harped back
to the prophecy, and would not have my lord come between him and his
hobby.

"You may laugh, Simon," said he gravely. "But it will be found to be as
I say."

I paid no more heed to him, but caught up my hat from the bench, crying
that I must run at once and offer thanks to my lord, for he was to set
out for London that day, and would be gone if I did not hasten.

"At least," conceded the Vicar, "you will do no harm by telling him. He
will wonder as much as we."

Laughing again, I ran off and left the company crowding to a man round
the stubborn Vicar. It was well indeed that I did not linger, for,
having come to the Manor at my best speed, I found my lord's coach
already at the door and himself in cloak and hat about to step into it.
But he waited to hear my breathless story, and, when I came to the pith
of it, snatched my letter from my hand and read it eagerly. At first I
thought he was playing a part and meant only to deny his kindness or
delay the confession of it. His manner soon undeceived me; he was in
truth amazed, as the Vicar had predicted, but more than that, he was, if
I read his face aright, sorely displeased also; for a heavy frown
gathered on his brow, and he walked with me in utter silence the better
half of the length of the terrace.

"I have nothing to do with it," he said bitterly. "I and my family have
done the King and his too much service to have the giving away of
favours. Kings do not love their creditors, no, nor pay them."

"But, my lord, I can think of no other friend who would have such
power."

"Can't you?" he asked, stopping and laying his hand on my shoulder. "May
be, Simon, you don't understand how power is come by in these days, nor
what are the titles to the King's confidence."

His words and manner dashed my new pride, and I suppose my face grew
glum, for he went on more gently,

"Nay, lad, since it comes, take it without question. Whatever the source
of it, your own conduct may make it an honour."

But I could not be content with that.

"The letter says," I remarked, "that the King is mindful of my father's
services."

"I had thought that the age of miracles was past," smiled my lord.
"Perhaps it is not, Simon."

"Then if it be not for my father's sake nor for yours, my lord, I am at
a loss," and I stuffed the letter into my pocket very peevishly.

"I must be on my way," said my lord, turning towards the coach. "Let me
hear from you when you come, Simon; and I suppose you will come soon
now. You will find me at my house in Southampton Square, and my lady
will be glad of your company."

I thanked him for his civility, but my face was still clouded. He had
seemed to suspect and hint at some taint in the fountain of honour that
had so unexpectedly flowed forth.

"I can't tell what to make of it," I cried.

He stopped again, as he was about to set his foot on the step of his
coach, and turned, facing me squarely.

"There's no other friend at all in London, Simon?" he asked. Again I
grew red, as he stood watching me. "Is there not one other?"

I collected myself as well as I could and answered,

"One that would give me a commission in the Life Guards, my lord?" And I
laughed in scorn.

My lord shrugged his shoulders and mounted into the coach. I closed the
door behind him, and stood waiting his reply. He leant forward and spoke
across me to the lackey behind, saying, "Go on, go on."

"What do you mean, my lord?" I cried. He smiled, but did not speak. The
coach began to move; I had to walk to keep my place, soon I should have
to run.

"My lord," I cried, "how could she----?"

My lord took out his snuff-box, and opened it.

"Nay, I cannot tell how," said he, as he carried his thumb to his nose.

"My lord," I cried, running now, "do you know who Cydaria is?"

My lord looked at me, as I ran panting. Soon I should have to give in,
for the horses made merry play down the avenue. He seemed to wait for
the last moment of my endurance, before he answered. Then, waving his
hand at the window, he said, "All London knows." And with that he shut
the window, and I fell back breathless, amazed, and miserably chagrined.
For he had told me nothing of all that I desired to know, and what he
had told me did no more than inflame my curiosity most unbearably. Yet,
if it were true, this mysterious lady, known to all London, had
remembered Simon Dale! A man of seventy would have been moved by such a
thing; what wonder that a boy of twenty-two should run half mad with it?

Strange to say, it seemed to the Vicar's mind no more unlikely and
infinitely more pleasant that the King's favour should be bound up with
the lady we had called Cydaria than that it should be the plain fruit of
my lord's friendly offices. Presently his talk infected me with
something of the same spirit, and we fell to speculating on the identity
of this lady, supposing in our innocence that she must be of very
exalted rank and noble station if indeed all London knew her, and she
had a voice in the appointment of gentlemen to bear His Majesty's
Commission. It was but a step farther to discern for me a most notable
career, wherein the prophecy of Betty Nasroth should find fulfilment and
prove the link that bound together a chain of strange fortune and high
achievement. Thus our evening wore away and with it my vexation. Now I
was all eager to be gone, to set my hand to my work, to try Fate's
promises, and to learn that piece of knowledge which all London had--the
true name of her whom we called Cydaria.

"Still," said the Vicar, falling into a sudden pensiveness as I rose to
take my leave, "there are things above fortune's favour, or a King's, or
a great lady's. To those cling, Simon, for your name's sake and for my
credit, who taught you."

"True, sir," said I in perfunctory acknowledgment, but with errant
thoughts. "I trust, sir, that I shall always bear myself as becomes a
gentleman."

"And a Christian," he added mildly.

"Ay, sir, and a Christian," I agreed readily enough.

"Go your way," he said, with a little smile. "I preach to ears that are
full now of other and louder sounds, of strains more attractive and
melodies more alluring. Therefore, now, you cannot listen; nay, I know
that, if you could, you would. Yet it may be that some day--if it be
God's will, soon--the strings that I feebly strike may sound loud and
clear, so that you must hear, however sweetly that other music charms
your senses. And if you hear, Simon, heed; if you hear, heed."

Thus, with his blessing, I left him. He followed me to the door, with a
smile on his lips but anxiety in his eyes. I went on my way, never
looking back. For my ears were indeed filled with that strange and
enchanting music.




CHAPTER IV

CYDARIA REVEALED


There, mounted on the coach at Hertford (for at last I am fairly on my
way, and may boast that I have made short work of my farewells), a
gentleman apparently about thirty years of age, tall, well-proportioned,
and with a thin face, clean-cut and high-featured. He was attended by a
servant whom he called Robert, a stout ruddy fellow, who was very jovial
with every post-boy and ostler on the road. The gentleman, being placed
next to me by the chance of our billets, lost no time in opening the
conversation, a step which my rustic backwardness would long have
delayed. He invited my confidence by a free display of his own,
informing me that he was attached to the household of Lord Arlington,
and was returning to London on his lordship's summons. For since his
patron had been called to the place of Secretary of State, he, Mr
Christopher Darrell (such was his name), was likely to be employed by
him in matters of trust, and thus fill a position which I must perceive
to be of some importance. All this was poured forth with wonderful
candour and geniality, and I, in response, opened to him my fortunes and
prospects, keeping back nothing save the mention of Cydaria. Mr Darrell
was, or affected to be, astonished to learn that I was a stranger to
London--my air smacked of the Mall and of no other spot in the world, he
swore most politely--but made haste to offer me his services, proposing
that, since Lord Arlington did not look for him that night, and he had
abandoned his former lodging, we should lodge together at an inn he
named in Covent Garden, when he could introduce me to some pleasant
company. I accepted his offer most eagerly. Then he fell to talking of
the Court, of the households of the King and the Duke, of Madame the
Duchess of Orleans, who was soon to come to England, they said (on what
business he did not know); next he spoke, although now with caution, of
persons no less well known but of less high reputation, referring
lightly to Lady Castlemaine and Eleanor Gwyn and others, while I
listened, half-scandalised, half-pleased. But I called him back by
asking whether he were acquainted with one of the Duchess's ladies named
Mistress Barbara Quinton.

"Surely," he said. "There is no fairer lady at Court, and very few so
honest."

I hurried to let him know that Mistress Barbara and I were old friends.
He laughed as he answered,

"If you'd be more you must lose no time. It is impossible that she
should refuse many more suitors, and a nobleman of great estate is now
sighing for her so loudly as to be audible from Whitehall to Temple
Bar."

I heard the news with interest, with pride, and with a touch of
jealousy; but at this time my own fortunes so engrossed me that soon I
harked back to them, and, taking my courage in both hands, was about to
ask my companion if he had chanced ever to hear of Cydaria, when he gave
a new turn to the talk, by asking carelessly,

"You are a Churchman, sir, I suppose?"

"Why, yes," I answered, with a smile, and perhaps a bit of a stare.
"What did you conceive me to be, sir?--a Ranter, or a Papist?"

"Pardon, pardon, if you find offence in my question," he answered,
laughing. "There are many men who are one or the other, you know."

"The country has learnt that to its sorrow," said I sturdily.

"Ay," he said, in a dreamy way, "and maybe will learn it again." And
without more he fell to describing the famous regiment to which I was to
belong, adding at the end:

"And if you like a brawl, the 'prentices in the City will always find
one for a gentleman of the King's Guards. Take a companion or two with
you when you walk east of Temple Bar. By the way, sir, if the question
may be pardoned, how came you by your commission? For we know that
merit, standing alone, stands generally naked also."

I was much inclined to tell him all the story, but a shamefacedness came
over me. I did not know then how many owed all their advancement to a
woman's influence, and my manly pride disdained to own the obligation. I
put him off by a story of a friend who wished to remain unnamed, and,
after the feint of some indifferent talk, seized the chance of a short
silence to ask him my great question.

"Pray, sir, have you ever heard of a lady who goes sometimes by the name
of Cydaria?" said I. I fear my cheek flushed a little, do what I could
to check such an exhibition of rawness.

"Cydaria? Where have I heard that name? No, I know nobody--and yet----"
He paused; then, clapping his hand on his thigh, cried, "By my faith,
yes; I was sure I had heard it. It is a name from a play; from--from the
'Indian Emperor.' I think your lady must have been masquerading."

"I thought as much," I nodded, concealing my disappointment.

He looked at me a moment with some curiosity, but did not press me
further; and, since we had begun to draw near London, I soon had my mind
too full to allow me to think even of Cydaria. There is small profit in
describing what every man can remember for himself--his first sight of
the greatest city in the world, with its endless houses and swarming
people. It made me still and silent as we clattered along, and I forgot
my companion until I chanced to look towards him, and found an amused
glance fixed on my face. But, as we reached the City, he began to point
out where the fire had been, and how the task of rebuilding progressed.
Again wonder and anticipation grew on me.

"Yes," said he, "it's a fine treasure-house for a man who can get the
key to it."

Yet, amazed as I was, I would not have it supposed that I was altogether
an unlicked cub. My stay in Norwich, if it had not made me a Londoner,
had rubbed off some of the plough-mud from me, and I believe that my new
friend was not speaking wholly in idle compliment when he assured me
that I should hold my own very well. The first lesson I learnt was not
to show any wonder that I might feel, but to receive all that chanced as
though it were the most ordinary thing in the world; for this, beyond
all, is the hall-mark of your quality. Indeed, it was well that I was so
far fit to show my face, since I was to be plunged into the midst of the
stream with a suddenness which startled, although it could not displease
me. For the first beginning I was indebted to Mr Darrell, for what
followed to myself alone and a temper that has never been of the most
patient.

We had reached our inn and refreshed ourselves, and I was standing
looking out on the evening and wondering at what time it was proper for
me to seek my bed when my friend entered with an eager air, and advanced
towards me, crying,

"Dear sir, I hope your wardrobe is in order, for I am resolved to redeem
my word forthwith, and to-night to carry you with me to an
entertainment for which I have received an invitation. I am most anxious
for you to accompany me, as we shall meet many whom you should know."

I was, of course, full of excuses, but he would admit of one only; and
that one I could not or would not make. For I had provided myself with a
neat and proper suit, of which I was very far from ashamed, and which,
when assumed by me and set off with a new cloak to match it, was
declared by Mr Darrell to be most apt for the occasion.

"You lack nothing but a handsome cane," said he, "and that I can myself
provide. Come, let us call chairs and be gone, for it grows late
already."

Our host that evening was Mr Jermyn, a gentleman in great repute at
Court, and he entertained us most handsomely at the New Spring Garden,
according to me a welcome of especial courtesy, that I might be at my
ease and feel no stranger among the company. He placed me on his left
hand, Darrell being on my other side, while opposite to me sat my lord
the Earl of Carford, a fine-looking man of thirty or a year or two
above. Among the guests Mr Darrell indicated several whose names were
known to me, such as the witty Lord Rochester and the French Ambassador,
M. de Cominges, a very stately gentleman. These, however, being at the
other end of the table, I made no acquaintance with them, and contented
myself with listening to the conversation of my neighbours, putting in a
word where I seemed able with propriety and without displaying an
ignorance of which I was very sensible. It seemed to me that Lord
Carford, to whom I had not been formally presented (indeed, all talked
to one another without ceremony) received what I said with more than
sufficient haughtiness and distance; but on Darrell whispering
humorously that he was a great lord, and held himself even greater than
he was, I made little of it, thinking my best revenge would be to give
him a lesson in courtesy. Thus all went well till we had finished eating
and sat sipping our wine. Then my Lord Carford, being a little
overheated with what he had drunk, began suddenly to inveigh against the
King with remarkable warmth and freedom, so that it seemed evident that
he smarted under some recent grievance. The raillery of our host, not
too nice or delicate, soon spurred him to a discovery of his complaint.
He asked nothing better than to be urged to a disclosure.

"Neither rank, nor friendship, nor service," he said, smiting the table,
"are enough to gain the smallest favour from the King. All goes to the
women; they have but to ask to have. I prayed the King to give me for a
cousin of mine a place in the Life Guards that was to be vacant, and
he--by Heaven, he promised! Then comes Nell, and Nell wants it for a
friend--and Nell has it for a friend--and I go empty!"

I had started when he spoke of the Life Guards, and sat now in a state
of great disturbance. Darrell also, as I perceived, was very uneasy, and
made a hasty effort to alter the course of the conversation; but Mr
Jermyn would not have it.

"Who is the happy--the new happy man, that is Mistress Nell's friend?"
he asked, smiling.

"Some clod from the country," returned the Earl; "his name, they say, is
Dale."

I felt my heart beating, but I trust that I looked cool enough as I
leant across and said,

"Your lordship is misinformed. I have the best of reasons for saying
so."

"The reasons may be good, sir," he retorted with a stare, "but they are
not evident."

"I am myself just named to a commission in the King's Life Guards, and
my name is Dale," said I, restraining myself to a show of composure, for
I felt Darrell's hand on my arm.

"By my faith, then, you're the happy man," sneered Carford. "I
congratulate you on your----"

"Stay, stay, Carford," interposed Mr Jermyn.

"On your--godmother," said Carford.

"You're misinformed, my lord," I repeated fiercely, although by now a
great fear had come upon me. I knew whom they meant by "Nell."

"By God, sir, I'm not misinformed," said he.

"By God, my lord," said I--though I had not been wont to swear--"By God,
my lord, you are."

Our voices had risen in anger; a silence fell on the party, all turning
from their talk to listen to us. Carford's face went red when I gave him
the lie so directly and the more fiercely because, to my shame and
wonder, I had begun to suspect that what he said was no lie. But I
followed up the attack briskly.

"Therefore, my lord," I said, "I will beg of you to confess your error,
and withdraw what you have said."

He burst into a laugh.

"If I weren't ashamed to take a favour from such a hand, I wouldn't be
ashamed to own it," said he.

I rose from my seat and bowed to him gravely. All understood my meaning;
but he, choosing to treat me with insolence, did not rise nor return my
salute, but sat where he was, smiling scornfully.

"You don't understand me, it seems, my lord," said I. "May be this will
quicken your wits," and I flung the napkin which had been brought to me
after meat lightly in his face. He sprang up quickly enough then, and so
did all the company. Darrell caught me by the arm and held me fast.
Jermyn was by Carford's side. I hardly knew what passed, being much
upset by the sudden quarrel, and yet more by the idea, that Carford's
words had put in my head. I saw Jermyn come forward, and Darrell,
loosing my arm, went and spoke to him. Lord Carford resumed his seat; I
leant against the back of my chair and waited. Darrell was not long in
returning to me.

"You'd best go home," he said, in a low voice. "I'll arrange
everything. You must meet to-morrow morning."

I nodded my head; I had grown cool and collected now. Bowing slightly to
Carford, and low to my host and the company, I turned to the door. As I
passed through it, I heard the talk break out again behind me. I got
into my chair, which was waiting, and was carried back to my inn in a
half-amazed state. I gave little thought to the quarrel or to the
meeting that awaited me. My mind was engrossed with the revelation to
which I had listened. I doubted it still; nay, I would not believe it.
Yet whence came the story unless it were true? And it seemed to fit most
aptly and most lamentably with what had befallen me, and to throw light
on what had been a puzzle. It was hard on four years since I had parted
from Cydaria; but that night I felt that, if the thing were true, I
should receive Carford's point in my heart without a pang.

Being, as may be supposed, little inclined for sleep, I turned into the
public room of the inn and called for a bottle of wine. The room was
empty save for a lanky fellow, very plainly dressed, who sat at the
table reading a book. He was drinking nothing, and when--my wine having
been brought--I called in courtesy for a second glass and invited him to
join me, he shook his head sourly. Yet presently he closed his book,
which I now perceived to be a Bible, and fixed an earnest gaze on me. He
was a strange-looking fellow; his face was very thin and long, and his
hair (for he wore his own and no wig) hung straight from the crown of
his head in stiff wisps. I set him down as a Ranter, and was in no way
surprised when he began to inveigh against the evils of the times, and
to prophesy the judgment of God on the sins of the city.

"Pestilence hath come and fire hath come," he cried. "Yet wickedness is
not put away, and lewdness vaunteth herself, and the long-suffering of
God is abused."

All this seeming to me very tedious, I sipped my wine and made no
answer. I had enough to think of, and was content to let the sins of the
city alone.

"The foul superstition of Papacy raises its head again," he went on,
"and godly men are persecuted."

"Those same godly men," said I, "have had their turn before now, sir. To
many it seems as if they were only receiving what they gave." For the
fellow had roused me to some little temper by his wearisome cursing.

"But the Time of the Lord is at hand," he pursued, "and all men shall
see the working of His wrath. Ay, it shall be seen even in palaces."

"If I were you, sir," said I dryly, "I would not talk thus before
strangers. There might be danger in it."

He scanned my face closely for a few moments; then, leaning across
towards me, he said earnestly:

"You are young, and you look honest. Be warned in time; fight on the
Lord's side, and not among His enemies. Verily the time cometh."

I had met many of these mad fellows, for the country was full of them,
some being disbanded soldiers of the Commonwealth, some ministers who
had lost their benefices; but this fellow seemed more crazy than any I
had seen: though, indeed, I must confess there was a full measure of
truth, if not of charity, in the description of the King's Court on
which he presently launched himself with great vigour of declamation and
an intense, although ridiculous, exhibition of piety.

"You may be very right, sir----"

"My name is Phineas Tate."

"You may be very right, friend Phineas," said I, yawning; "but I can't
alter all this. Go and preach to the King."

"The King shall be preached to in words that he must hear," he retorted
with a frown, "but the time is not yet."

"The time now is to seek our beds," said I, smiling. "Do you lodge
here?"

"For this night I lie here. To-morrow I preach to this city."

"Then I fear you are likely to lie in a less comfortable place
to-morrow." And bidding him good-night, I turned to go. But he sprang
after me, crying, "Remember, the time is short"; and I doubt whether I
should have got rid of him had not Darrell at that moment entered the
room. To my surprise, the two seemed to know one another, for Darrell
broke into a scornful laugh, exclaiming:

"Again, Master Tate! What, haven't you left this accursed city to its
fate yet?"

"It awaits its fate," answered the Ranter sternly, "even as those of
your superstition wait theirs."

"My superstition must look out for itself," said Darrell, with a shrug;
and, seeing that I was puzzled, he added, "Mr Tate is not pleased with
me because I am of the old religion."

"Indeed?" I cried. "I didn't know you were a--of the old church." For I
remembered with confusion a careless remark that I had let fall as we
journeyed together.

"Yes," said he simply.

"Yes!" cried Tate. "You--and your master also, is he not?"

Darrell's face grew stern and cold.

"I would have you careful, sir, when you touch on my Lord Arlington's
name," he said. "You know well that he is not of the Roman faith, but is
a convinced adherent of the Church of this country."

"Is he so?" asked Tate, with an undisguised sneer.

"Come, enough!" cried Darrell in sudden anger. "I have much to say to my
friend, and shall be glad to be left alone with him."

Tate made no objection to leaving us, and, gathering up his Bible, went
out scowling.

"A pestilent fellow," said Darrell. "He'll find himself laid by the
heels before long. Well, I have settled your affair with my Lord
Carford."

But my affair with Carford was not what I wanted to hear about. I came
to him as he sat down at the table, and, laying my hand on his shoulder,
asked simply,

"Is it true?"

He looked up at me with great kindness, and answered gently,

"It is true. I guessed it as soon as you spoke of Cydaria. For Cydaria
was the part in which she first gained the favour of the town, and that,
taken with your description of her, gave me no room for doubt. Yet I
hoped that it might not be as I feared, or, at least, that the thing
could be hidden. It seems, though, that the saucy wench has made no
secret of it. Thus you are landed in this quarrel, and with a good
swordsman."

"I care nothing for the quarrel----" I began.

"Nay, but it is worse than you think. For Lord Carford is the gentleman
of whom I spoke, when I told you that Mistress Quinton had a noble
suitor. And he is high in her favour and higher yet in her father's. A
quarrel with him, and on such a cause, will do you no good in Lord
Quinton's eyes."

Indeed, it seemed as though all the furies had combined to vex me. Yet
still my desire was to learn of Cydaria, for even now I could hardly
believe what Darrell told me. Sitting down by him, I listened while he
related to me what he knew of her; it was little more than the
mentioning of her true name told me--a name familiar, alas, through all
the country, sung in ballads, bandied to and fro in talk, dragged even
into high disputes that touched the nation's fortunes; for in those
strange days, when the world seemed a very devil's comedy, great
countries, ay, and Holy Churches, fought behind the mask of an actress's
face or chose a fair lady for their champion. I hope, indeed, that the
end sanctified the means; they had great need of that final
justification. Castlemaine and Nell Gwyn--had we not all read and heard
and gossiped of them? Our own Vicar had spoken to me of Nell, and would
not speak too harshly, for Nell was Protestant. Yes, Nell, so please
you, was Protestant. And other grave divines forgave her half her sins
because she flouted most openly and with pert wit the other lady, who
was suspected of an inclination towards Rome and an intention to charm
the King into the true Church's bosom. I also could have forgiven her
much; for, saving my good Darrell's presence, I hated a Papist worse
than any man, saving a Ranter. Yes, I would have forgiven her all, and
applauded her pretty face and laughed at her pretty ways. I had looked
to do as much when I came to town, being, I must confess, as little
straightlaced as most young men. But I had not known that the thing was
to touch me close. Could I forgive her my angry humiliation and my sore
heart, bruised love and burning ridicule? I could forgive her for being
all she now was. How could I forgive her for having been once my
Cydaria?

"Well, you must fight," said Darrell, "although it is not a good
quarrel," and he shook my hand very kindly with a sigh of friendship.

"Yes, I must fight," said I, "and after that--if there be an after--I
must go to Whitehall."

"To take up your commission?" he asked.

"To lay it down, Mr Darrell," said I with a touch of haughtiness. "You
don't think that I could bear it, since it comes from such a source?"

He pressed my hand, saying with a smile that seemed tender,

"You're from the country. Not one in ten would quarrel with that here."

"Yes, I'm from the country," said I. "It was in the country that I knew
Cydaria."




CHAPTER V

I AM FORBIDDEN TO FORGET


It must be allowed that by no possible union of unlucky chances could I,
desiring to appear as a staid, sober gentleman, and not as a ruffler or
debauched gallant, have had a worse introduction to my new life. To
start with a duel would have hurt me little, but a duel on such a cause
and on behalf of such a lady (for I should seem to be fighting the
battle of one whose name was past defending) would make my reputation
ridiculous to the gay, and offensive to all the more decent people of
the town. I thought enough on this sad side of the matter that night at
the inn, and despair would have made a prey of me had I not hoped to
clear myself in some degree by the step on which I had determined. For I
was resolved to abandon the aid in my career that the King's unexpected
favour had offered, and start afresh for myself, free from the illicit
advantage of a place gained undeservedly. Yet, amid my chagrin, and in
spite of my virtuous intentions, I found myself wondering that Cydaria
had remembered; I will not protest that I found no pleasure in the
thought; a young man whose pride was not touched by it would have
reached a higher summit of severity or a lower depth of insensibility
than was mine. Yet here also I made vows of renunciation, concerning
which there is nought to say but that, while very noble, they were in
all likelihood most uncalled for. What would or could Cydaria be to me
now? She flew at bigger game. She had flung me a kindly crumb of
remembrance; she would think that we were well quit; nay, that I was
overpaid for my bruised heart and dissipated illusion.

It was a fine fresh morning when Mr Darrell and I set out for the place
of meeting, he carrying a pair of swords. Mr Jermyn had agreed to
support my opponent; and I was glad to learn that the meeting was to be
restricted to the principals, and not, as too often occurred, to embroil
the seconds also in a senseless quarrel. We walked briskly; and crossing
the Oxford Road at Holborn, struck into the fields beyond Montague
House. We were first at the rendezvous, but had not to wait long before
three chairs appeared, containing Lord Carford, his second, and a
surgeon. The chairmen, having set down their burdens, withdrew some way
off, and we, being left to ourselves, made our preparations as quickly
as we could; Darrell, especially, urging speed; for it seemed that a
rumour of the affair had got about the town, and he had no desire for
spectators.

Although I desire to write without malice and to render fullest justice
to those whom I have least cause to love, I am bound to say that my Lord
Carford seemed to be most bitterly incensed against me, whereas I was in
no way incensed against him. In the first instance, he had offended
without premeditation, for he had not known who I was; his subsequent
insolence might find excuse in the peremptory phrasing of my demand for
apology, too curt, perhaps, for a young and untried man. Honour forced
me to fight, but nothing forced me to hate, and I asked no better than
that we should both escape with as little hurt as the laws of the game
allowed. His mood was different; he had been bearded, and was in a mind
to give my beard a pull--I speak in a metaphor, for beard had I
none--and possessing some reputation as a swordsman, he could not well
afford to let me go untouched. An old sergeant of General Cromwell's,
resident at Norwich, had instructed me in the use of the foils, but I
was not my lord's equal, and I set it down to my good luck and his fury
that I came off no worse than the event proved. For he made at me with
great impetuosity, and from beginning to end of the affair I was wholly
concerned in defending myself; this much I achieved successfully for
some moments, and I heard Mr Jermyn say, "But he stands his ground
well"; then came a cunning feint followed by a fierce attack and a sharp
pang in my left arm near the shoulder, while the sleeve of my shirt
went red in a moment. The seconds darted in between us, and Darrell
caught me round the waist.

"I'm glad it was no worse," I whispered to him with a smile; then I
turned very sick, and the meadow started to go round and round me. For
some minutes I knew nothing more, but when I revived, the surgeon was
busy in binding up my arm, while the three gentlemen stood together in a
group a little way apart. My legs shook under me, and doubtless I was as
white as my mother's best linen, but I was well content, feeling that my
honour was safe, and that I had been as it were baptised of the company
of gentlemen. So Mr Jermyn seemed to think; for when my arm was dressed,
and I had got my clothes on again with some pain, and a silken sling
under my elbow, he came and craved the surgeon's leave to carry me off
to breakfast. The request was granted, on a promise that I would abstain
from inflaming food and from all strong liquors. Accordingly we set out,
I dissembling a certain surprise inspired in my countryman's mind by the
discovery that my late enemy proposed to be of the party. Having come to
a tavern in Drury Lane, we were regaled very pleasantly; Mr Jermyn, who
(although a small man, and not in my opinion well-shaped) might be seen
to hold himself in good esteem, recounting to us his adventures in love
and his exploits on the field of honour. Meanwhile, Lord Carford
treated me with distinguished courtesy, and I was at a loss to
understand his changed humour until it appeared that Darrell had
acquainted him with my resolution to surrender the commission that the
King had bestowed on me. As we grew more free with one another, his
lordship referred plainly to the matter, declaring that my conduct
showed the nicest honour, and praying me to allow his own surgeon to
visit me every day until my wound should be fully cured. His marked
politeness, and the friendliness of the others, put me in better humour
than I had been since the discovery of the evening before, and when our
meal was ended, about eleven o'clock, I was well-nigh reconciled to life
again. Yet it was not long before Carford and I were again good enemies,
and crossed swords with no less zest, although on a different field.

I had been advised by Darrell to return at once to my inn, and there
rest quietly until evening, leaving my journey to Whitehall for the next
day, lest too much exertion should induce a fever in me; and in
obedience to his counsel I began to walk gently along Drury Lane on my
way back to Covent Garden. My Lord Carford and Mr Jermyn had gone off to
a cock-fight, where the King was to be, while Darrell had to wait upon
the Secretary at his offices; therefore I was alone, and, going easily,
found fully enough to occupy my attention in the business and incredible
stir of the town. I thought then, and think still, that nowhere in the
world is there such a place for an idle man as London; where else has he
spread for him so continual a banquet of contemplation, where else are
such comedies played every hour for his eyes' delight? It is well enough
to look at a running river, or to gaze at such mighty mountains as I saw
when I journeyed many years later into Italy; but the mountain moves
not, and the stream runs always with the same motion and in its wonted
channel. Give me these for my age, but to a young man a great city is
queen of all.

So I was thinking as I walked along; or so I think now that I must have
thought; for in writing of his youth it is hard for a man to be sure
that he does not transfer to that golden page some of the paler
characters which later years print on his mind. Perhaps I thought of
nothing at all, save that this man here was a fine fellow, that girl
there a pretty wench, that my coat became me well, and my wounded arm
gave me an interesting air. Be my meditations what they might, they were
suddenly interrupted by the sight of a crowd in the Lane near to the
Cock and Pie tavern. Here fifty or sixty men and women, decent folk
some, others porters, flower-girls, and such like, were gathered in a
circle round a man who was pouring out an oration or sermon with great
zeal and vehemence. Having drawn nearer, I paused out of a curiosity
which turned to amusement when I discovered in the preacher my good
friend Phineas Tate, with whom I had talked the evening before. It
seemed that he had set about his task without delay, and if London were
still unmindful of its sins, the fault was not to lie at Mr Tate's door.
On he plunged, sparing neither great nor small; if the Court were
sinful, so was Drury Lane; if Castlemaine (he dealt freely in names, and
most sparingly in titles of courtesy) were what he roundly said she was,
which of the women about him was not the same? How did they differ from
their betters, unless it were that their price was not so high, and in
what, save audacity, were they behind Eleanor Gwyn? He hurled this last
name forth as though it marked a climax of iniquity, and a start ran
through me as I heard it thus treated. Strange to say, something of the
same effect seemed to be produced on his other hearers. Hitherto they
had listened with good-natured tolerance, winking at one another,
laughing when the preacher's finger pointed at a neighbour, shrugging
comfortable shoulders when it turned against themselves. They are
long-suffering under abuse, the folk of London; you may say much what
you will, provided you allow them to do what they will, and they support
the imputation of unrighteousness with marvellous composure, as long as
no man takes it in hand to force them to righteousness. As they are now,
they were then, though many changes have passed over the country and
the times; so will they be, although more transformations come.

But, as I say, this last name stirred the group to a new mood. Friend
Phineas perceived the effect that he had made, but set a wrong meaning
on it. Taking it as a ground for encouragement, he loosed his tongue yet
more outrageously, and so battered the unhappy subject of his censures
that my ears tingled, and suddenly I strode quickly up to the group,
intent on silencing him; but a great brawny porter, with a dirty red
face, was beforehand with me. Elbowing his way irresistibly through the
ranks, he set himself squarely before Phineas, and, wagging his head
significantly enough, growled out:

"Say what you will of Castlemaine and the rest, Master Ranter, but keep
your tongue off Nelly."

A murmur of applause ran round. They knew Nelly: here in the Lane was
her kingdom.

"Let Nelly alone," said the porter, "if you value whole bones, master."

Phineas was no coward, and threats served only to fan the flame of his
zeal. I had started to stop his mouth; it seemed likely that I must
employ myself in saving his head. His lean frame would crack and break
in the grasp of his mighty assailant, and I was loth that the fool
should come to harm; so I began to push my way through towards the pair,
and arrived just as Phineas, having shot a most pointed dart, was about
to pay for his too great skill with a blow from the porter's
mutton-fist. I caught the fellow's arm as he raised it, and he turned
fiercely on me, growling, "Are you his friend, then?"

"Not I," I answered. "But you'd kill him, man."

"Let him heed what he says, then. Kill him! Ay, and spare him readily!"

The affair looked awkward enough, for the feeling was all one way, and I
could do little to hinder any violence. A girl in the crowd reminded me
of my helplessness, touching my wounded arm lightly, and saying, "Are
you hungry for more fighting, sir?"

"He's a madman," said I. "Let him alone; who heeds what he says?"

Friend Phineas did not take my defence in good part.

"Mad, am I?" he roared, beating with his fist on his Bible. "You'll know
who was mad when you lie howling in hell fire. And with you that----"
And on he went again at poor Nell.

The great porter could endure no more. With a seemingly gentle motion of
his hand he thrust me aside, pushing me on to the bosom of a buxom
flower-girl who, laughing boisterously, wound a pair of sturdy red arms
round me. Then he stepped forward, and seizing Phineas by the scruff of
the neck shook him as a dog shakes a rat. To what more violence he would
have proceeded I do not know; for suddenly from above us, out of a
window of the Cock and Pie, came a voice which sent a stir through my
veins.

"Good people, good people," said the voice, "what with preaching and
brawling, a body can get no sleep in the Lane. Pray go and work, or if
you've no work, go and drink. Here are the means." And a shower of small
coins came flying down on our heads, causing an immediate wild scramble.
My flower-girl loosed me that she might take her part in this fray; the
porter stood motionless, still holding poor Phineas, limp and lank, in
his hand; and I turned my eyes upwards to the window of the Cock and
Pie.

I looked up, and I saw her. Her sunny brown hair was about her
shoulders, her knuckles rubbed her sleepy eyes to brightness, and a
loose white bodice, none too high nor too carefully buttoned about the
neck, showed that her dressing was not done. Indeed, she made a pretty
picture, as she leant out, laughing softly, and now shading her face
from the sun with one hand, while she raised the other in mocking
reproof of the preacher.

"Fie, sir, fie," she said. "Why fall on a poor girl who earns an honest
living, gives to the needy, and is withal a good Protestant?" Then she
called to the porter, "Let him go with what life you've left in him. Let
him go."

"You heard what he said of you----" began the fellow sullenly.

"Ay, I hear what everybody says of me," she answered carelessly. "Let
him go."

The porter sulkily released his prey, and Phineas, set free, began to
gasp and shake himself. Another coin whistled down to the porter, who,
picking it up, shambled off with a last oath of warning to his enemy.
Then, and then only, did she look at me, who had never ceased to look at
her. When she saw me, her smile grew broader, and her eyes twinkled in
surprise and delight.

"A happy morning!" she said, clasping her little hands. "Ah, a happy
morning! Why, 'tis Simon, my Simon, my little Simon from the country.
Come up to me, Simon. No, no, your pardon; I'll come down to you, Simon.
In the parlour, in the parlour. Quick! I'll be down in an instant."

The vision vanished, but my gaze dwelt on the window where it had been,
and I needed Phineas Tate's harsh voice to rouse me from my stupor.

"Who is the woman?" he demanded.

"Why--why--Mistress Gwyn herself," I stammered.

"Herself--the woman, herself?" he asked eagerly. Then he suddenly drew
himself up and, baring his head, said solemnly, "Thanks be to God,
thanks be to God, for it may be His will that this brand should be
plucked from the burning." And before I could speak or attempt to hinder
him he stepped swiftly across the pathway and entered the tavern. I,
seeing nothing else that I could do, followed him straightway and as
fast as I could.

I was in a maze of feeling. The night before I had reasoned with myself
and schooled my wayward passion to a resolve neither to see nor to speak
with her. Resentment at the shame she had brought on me aided my
stubbornness, and helped me to forget that I had been shamed because she
had remembered me. But now I followed Phineas Tate. For be memory ever
so keen and clear, yes, though it seem able to bring every feature,
every shade, and every pose before a man's eyes in absolute fidelity,
yet how poor and weak a thing it is beside the vivid sight of bodily
eyes; that paints the faded picture all afresh in hot and glowing
colours, and the man who bade defiance to the persuasions of his
recollection falls beaten down by the fierce force of a present vision.
I followed Phineas Tate, perhaps using some excuse with myself--indeed,
I feared that he would attack her rudely and be cruelly plain with
her--yet knowing in my heart that I went because I could do nothing
else, and that when she called, every atom of life in me answered to her
summons. So in I went, to find Phineas standing bolt upright in the
parlour of the tavern, turning the leaves of his book with eager
fingers, as though he sought some text that was in his mind. I passed by
him and leant against the wall by the window; so we awaited her, each
of us eager, but with passions most unlike.

She came, daintily dressed now, although still negligently. She put her
head round the corner of the door, radiant with smiles, and with no more
shame or embarrassment than if our meeting in this way were the most
ordinary thing. Then she caught sight of Phineas Tate and cried,
pouting, "But I wanted to be alone with my Simon, my dear Simon."

Phineas caught the clue her words gave him with perverse readiness.

"Alone with him, yes!" he cried. "But what of the time when you must be
alone with God?"

"Alas," said she, coming in, and seating herself at the table, "is there
more still? Indeed, I thought you had said all your say outside. I am
very wicked; let that end it."

He advanced to the table and stood directly opposite to her, stretching
his arm towards her, while she sat with her chin on her hands, watching
him with eyes half-amused, half-apprehensive.

"You who live in open sin----" he began; before he could say more I was
by his elbow.

"Hold your tongue," I said. "What is it to you?"

"Let him go on, Simon," said she.

And go on he did, telling all--as I prayed, more than all--the truth,
while she heard him patiently. Yet now and then she gave herself a
little shake, as though to get rid of something that threatened to
stick. Then he fell on his knees and prayed fervently, she still sitting
quiet and I standing awkwardly near. He finished his prayer, and, rising
again, looked earnestly at her. Her eyes met his in good nature, almost
in friendliness. He stretched out his hand to her again, saying,

"Child, cannot you understand? Alas, your heart is hardened! I pray
Christ our Lord to open your eyes and change your heart, that at the
last your soul may be saved."

Nelly examined the pink nails of her right hand with curious attention.

"I don't know that I'm more of a sinner than many others," said she. "Go
to Court and preach, sir."

A sudden fury seemed to come over him, and he lost the gentleness with
which he had last addressed her.

"The Word shall be heard at the Court," he cried, "in louder accents
than mine. Their cup is full, the measure of their iniquity is pressed
down and running over. All who live shall see."

"Like enough," said Nell, as though the matter were grown very tedious,
and she yawned just a little; but, as she glanced at me, a merry light
gleamed in her eyes. "And what is to befall Simon here?" she asked.

He turned on me with a start, seeming to have forgotten my presence.

"This young man?" he asked, looking full in my face. "Why, his face is
honest; if he choose his friends well, he may do well."

"I am of his friends," said Nell, and I defy any man on earth to have
given the lie to such a claim so made.

"And for you, may the Lord soften your heart," said Phineas to her.

"Some say it's too soft already," said Nell.

"You will see me again," said he to her, and moved towards the door. But
once more he faced me before he went, and looked very intently at me.
Then he passed out, leaving us alone.

At his going Nell sighed for relief, stretched out her arms, and let
them fall on the table in front of her; then she sprang up and ran to
me, catching hold of my hands.

"And how goes all at pretty Hatchstead?" she asked.

I drew back, releasing my hands from hers, and I spoke to her stiffly.

"Madame," said I, "this is not Hatchstead, nor do you seem the lady whom
I knew at Hatchstead."

"Indeed, you seem very like the gentleman I knew, and knew well, there,"
she retorted.

"And you, very unlike the lady."

"Nay, not so unlike as you think. But are you also going to preach to
me?"

"Madame," said I in cold courtesy, "I have to thank you for a good
remembrance of me, and for your kindness in doing me a service; I assure
you I prize it none the less, because I may not accept it."

"You may not accept it?" she cried. "What? You may not accept the
commission?"

"No, madame," said I, bowing low.

Her face was like a pretty child's in disappointment.

"And your arm? How come you to be wounded? Have you been quarrelling
already?"

"Already, madame."

"But with whom, and why?"

"With my Lord Carford. The reason I need not weary you with."

"But I desire to know it."

"Because my lord said that Mistress Gwyn had obtained me my commission."

"But it was true."

"Doubtless; yet I fought."

"Why, if it were true?"

I made her no answer. She went and seated herself again at the table,
looking up at me with eyes in which I seemed to read pain and puzzle.

"I thought it would please you, Simon," she said, with a coaxing glance
that at least feigned timidity.

"Never have I been so proud as on the day I received it," said I; "and
never, I think, so happy, unless, may be, when you and I walked in the
Manor park."

"Nay, Simon, but you will be glad to have it, even though I obtained it
for you."

"I shall not have it. I go to Whitehall to-morrow to surrender it."

She sprang up in wonder, and anger also showed in her eyes.

"To surrender it? You mean in truth to surrender it? And because it came
from me?"

Again I could do nothing but bow. That I did with the best air I could
muster, although I had no love for my part in this scene. Alas for a man
who, being with her, must spend his time in chiding!

"Well, I wish I hadn't remembered you," she said resentfully.

"Indeed, madame, I also wish that I had forgotten."

"You have, or you would never use me so."

"It is my memory that makes me rough, madame. Indeed, how should I have
forgotten?"

"You hadn't?" she asked, advancing nearer to me. "No, in truth I believe
you hadn't! And, Simon, listen!" Now she stood with her face but a yard
from mine, and again her lips were curved with mirth and malice.
"Listen, Simon," she said, "you had not forgotten; and you shall not
forget."

"It is very likely," said I simply; and I took up my hat from the table.

"How fares Mistress Barbara?" asked Nell suddenly.

"I have not waited on her," I answered.

"Then indeed I am honoured, although our meeting was somewhat by chance.
Ah, Simon, I want to be so angry with you. But how can I be angry? I can
never be angry. Why" (and here she came even a little closer, and now
she was smiling most damnably--nay, I mean most delightfully; but it is
often much the same), "I was not very angry even when you kissed me,
Simon."

It is not for me to say what answer to that speech she looked to
receive. Mine was no more than a repetition of my bow.

"You'll keep the commission, Simon?" she whispered, standing on tiptoe,
as though she would reach my ear.

"I can't," said I, bowing no more, and losing, I fear, the air of grave
composure that I had striven to maintain. I saw what seemed a light of
triumph in her eyes. Yet that mood passed quickly from her. She grew
pensive and drew away from me. I stepped towards the door, but a hand
laid on my arm arrested me.

"Simon," she asked, "have you sweet memories of Hatchstead?"

"God forgive me," said I confusedly, "sweeter than my hopes of heaven."

She looked at me gravely for an instant. Then, sighing, she said,

"Then I wish you had not come to town, but stayed there with your
memories. They were of me?"

"Of Cydaria."

"Ah, of Cydaria," she echoed, with a little smile.

But a moment later the full merriment of laughter broke out again on her
face, and, drawing her hand away, she let me go, crying after me,

"But you shall not forget, Simon. No, you shall not forget."

There I left her, standing in the doorway of the inn, daring me to
forget. And my brain seemed all whirling and swirling as I walked down
the Lane.




CHAPTER VI

AN INVITATION TO COURT


I spent the rest of that day in my inn, agreeably to the advice of the
surgeon, and the next morning, finding my wound healing well, and my
body free from fever, I removed to Mr Darrell's new lodging by the
Temple, where he had most civilly placed two rooms at my disposal. Here
also I provided myself with a servant, a fellow named Jonah Wall, and
prepared to go to Whitehall as the King's letter commanded me. Of Mr
Darrell I saw nothing; he went off before I came, having left for me
with Robert, his servant, a message that he was much engaged with the
Secretary's business, and prayed to be excused from affording me his
company. Yet I was saved from making my journey alone--a thing that
would have occasioned me much trepidation--by the arrival of my Lord
Quinton. The reverence of our tender years is hard to break down, and I
received my visitor with an uneasiness which was not decreased by the
severity of his questions concerning my doings. I made haste to tell him
that I had determined to resign the commission bestowed on me. These
tidings so transformed his temper that he passed from cold reproof to an
excess of cordiality, being pleased to praise highly a scruple as
honourable as (he added with a shrug) it was rare, and he began to laugh
at himself as he recounted humorously how his wrath against me had grown
higher and higher with each thing that had come to his ears. Eager now
to make amends, he offered to go with me to Whitehall, proposing that we
should ride in his coach to the Mall, and walk thence together. I
accepted his company most gratefully, since it would save me from
betraying an ignorance of which I was ashamed, and strengthen my courage
for the task before me. Accordingly we set out, and as we went my lord
took occasion to refer to my acquaintance with Mistress Nell, suggesting
plainly enough, although not directly, that I should be wise to abandon
her society at the same time that I laid down the commission she had
obtained for me. I did not question his judgment, but avoided giving any
promise to be guided by it. Perceiving that I was not willing to be
pressed, he passed from the topic with a sigh, and began to discourse on
the state of the kingdom. Had I paid more heed to what he said I might
have avoided certain troubles into which I fell afterwards, but, busy
staring about me, I gave him only such attention as courtesy required,
and not enough for a proper understanding of his uneasiness at the
dealings of our Court with the French King and the visit of the King's
sister, Madame d'Orléans, of which the town was full. For my lord,
although a most loyal gentleman, hated both the French and the Papists,
and was much grieved at the King's apparent inclination in their favour.
So he talked, I nodding and assenting to all, but wondering when he
would bid me wait on my lady, and whether Mistress Barbara was glad that
my Lord Carford's sword had passed through my arm only and done no
greater hurt.

Thus we came to the Mall, and having left the coach, set out to walk
slowly, my lord having his arm through mine. I was very glad to be seen
thus in his company, for, although not so great a man here as at
Hatchstead, he had no small reputation, and carried himself with a noble
air. When we had gone some little way, being very comfortable with one
another, and speaking now of lighter matters, I perceived at some
distance a party of gentlemen, three in number; they were accompanied by
a little boy very richly dressed, and were followed at a short interval
by five or six more gentlemen, among whom I recognised immediately my
friend Darrell. It seemed then that the Secretary's business could be
transacted in leisurely fashion! As the first group passed along, I
observed that the bystanders uncovered, but I had hardly needed this
sign to tell me that the King was of the party. I was familiar with his
features, but he seemed to me even a more swarthy man than all the
descriptions of his blackness had led me to expect. He bore himself
with a very easy air, yet was not wanting in dignity, and being
attracted by him I fell to studying his appearance with such interest
that I came near to forgetting to remove my hat. Presently he seemed to
observe us; he smiled, and beckoned with his hand to my lord, who went
forward alone, leaving me still watching the King and his companions.

I had little difficulty in recognising the name of one; the fine figure,
haughty manner, and magnificent attire showed him to be the famous Duke
of Buckingham, whose pride lay in seeming more of a King than the King
himself. While my lord spoke with the King, this nobleman jested with
the little boy, who answered with readiness and vivacity. As to the last
member of the group (whom the Duke seemed to treat with some neglect) I
was at a loss. His features were not distinguished except by a perfect
composure and self-possession, but his bearing was very courtly and
graceful. He wore a slight, pleasant, yet rather rigid smile, and his
attitude was as though he listened to what his master said with even
excessive deference and urbanity. His face was marked, and to my
thinking much disfigured, by a patch or plaster worn across the nose, as
though to hide some wound or scar.

After a few minutes, during which I waited very uneasily, my lord turned
and signed to me to approach. I obeyed, hat in hand, and in a condition
of great apprehension. To be presented to the King was an honour
disquieting enough; what if my lord had told His Majesty that I declined
to bear his commission through a disapproval of his reasons for granting
me the favour? But when I came near I fell into the liveliest fear that
my lord had done this very thing; for the King was smiling
contemptuously, Buckingham laughing openly, and the gentleman with the
plaster regarding me with a great and very apparent curiosity. My lord,
meanwhile, wore a propitiatory but doubtful air, as though he prayed but
hardly hoped a gracious reception for me. Thus we all stood a moment in
complete silence, I invoking an earthquake or any convulsion of nature
that should rescue me from my embarrassment. Certainly the King did not
hasten to do me this kindly service. He grew grave and seemed
displeased, nay, he frowned most distinctly, but then he smiled, yet
more as though he must than because he would. I do not know how the
thing would have ended if the Duke of Buckingham had not burst out
laughing again, at which the King could not restrain himself, but began
to laugh also, although still not as though he found the jest altogether
to his liking.

"So, sir," said the King, composing his features as he addressed me,
"you are not desirous of bearing my commission and fighting my enemies
for me?"

"I would fight for your Majesty to the death," said I timidly, but with
fervour.

"Yet you are on the way to ask leave to resign your commission. Why,
sir?"

I could not answer; it was impossible to state my reason to him.

"The utility of a woman's help," observed the King, "was apparent very
early in the world's history. Even Adam was glad of it."

"She was his wife, Sir," interposed the Duke.

"I have never read of the ceremony," said the King. "But if she were,
what difference?"

"Why, it makes a great deal of difference in many ways, Sir," laughed
Buckingham, and he glanced with a significance which I did not
understand at the boy who was waiting near with a weary look on his
pretty face.

The King laughed carelessly and called, "Charles, come hither."

Then I knew that the boy must be the King's son, afterwards known as
Earl of Plymouth, and found the meaning of the Duke's glance.

"Charles, what think you of women?" the King asked.

The pretty child thought for a moment, then answered, looking up,

"They are very tiresome creatures, Sir."

"Why, so they are, Charles," said the King gravely.

"They will never let a thing alone, Sir."

"No, they won't, Charles, nor a man either."

"It's first this, Sir, then that--a string, or a garter, or a bow."

"Yes, Charles; or a title, or a purse, or a commission," said the King.
"Shall we have no more to do with them?"

"I would desire no more at all, Sir," cried the boy.

"It appears, Mr Dale," said the King, turning to me, "that Charles here,
and you, and I, are all of one mind on the matter of women. Had Heaven
been on our side, there would have been none of them in the world."

He seemed to be examining me now with some degree of attention, although
I made, I fear, a very poor figure. Lord Quinton came to my rescue, and
began to enlarge on my devotion to His Majesty's person and my eagerness
to serve him in any way I might, apart from the scruple which he had
ventured to disclose to the King.

"Mr Dale says none of these fine things for himself," remarked the King.

"It is not always those that say most who do most, Sir," pleaded my
lord.

"Therefore this young gentleman who says nothing will do everything?"
The King turned to his companion who wore the plaster, and had as yet
not spoken at all. "My Lord Arlington," said he, "it seems that I must
release Mr Dale."

"I think so, Sir," answered Arlington, on whom I looked with much
curiosity, since he was Darrell's patron.

"I cannot have servants who do not love me," pursued the King.

"Nor subjects," added Buckingham, with a malicious smile.

"Although I am not, unhappily, so free in the choice of my Ministers,"
said the King. Then he faced round on me and addressed me in a cold
tone:

"I am reluctant, sir, to set down your conduct to any want of affection
or loyalty towards me. I shall be glad if you can show me that my
forbearance is right." With this he bent his head slightly, and moved
on. I bowed very low, shame and confusion so choking me that I had not a
word to say. Indeed, I seemed damned beyond redemption, so far as my
fortunes depended on obtaining the King's favour.

Again I was left to myself, for the King, anxious, as I took it, to show
that his displeasure extended to me only, had stopped again to speak
with my lord. But in a moment, to my surprise, Arlington was at my side.

"Come, sir," said he very genially, "there's no need of despair. The
King is a little vexed, but his resentment is not obstinate; and let me
tell you that he has been very anxious to see you."

"The King anxious to see me?" I cried.

"Why, yes. He has heard much of you." His lips twitched as he glanced at
me. I had the discretion to ask no further explanation, and in a moment
he grew grave again, continuing, "I also am glad to meet with you, for
my good friend Darrell has sounded your praises to me. Sir, there are
many ways of serving the King."

"I should rejoice with all my heart to find one of them, my lord," I
answered.

"I may find you one, if you are willing to take it."

"I should be your lordship's most humble and grateful servant."

"Tut, if I gave, I should ask in return," said he. And he added
suddenly, "You're a good Churchman, I suppose, Mr Dale?"

"Why, yes, my lord; I and all my family."

"Good, good. In these days our Church has many enemies. It is threatened
on more than one side."

I contented myself with bowing; when the Secretary spoke to me on such
high matters, it was for me to listen, and not to bandy opinions with
him.

"Yes, we are much threatened," said he. "Well, Mr Dale, I shall trust
that we may have other meetings. You are to be found at Mr Darrell's
lodging? You may look to hear from me, sir." He moved away, cutting
short my thanks with a polite wave of his hand.

Suddenly to my amazement the King turned round and called to me:

"Mr Dale, there is a play to be acted at my house to-morrow evening.
Pray give me the pleasure of your company."

I bowed almost to the ground, scarcely able to believe my ears.

"And we'll try," said the King, raising his voice so that not only we
who were close to him but the gentlemen behind also must hear, "to find
an ugly woman and an honest man, between whom we may place you. The
first should not be difficult to come on, but the second, I fear, is
well-nigh impossible, unless another stranger should come to Court.
Good-day to you, Mr Dale." And away he went, smiling very happily and
holding the boy's hand in his.

The King's immediate party was no sooner gone than Darrell ran up to me
eagerly, and before my lord could rejoin me, crying:

"What did he say to you?"

"The King? Why, he said----"

"No, no. What did my lord say?" He pointed to Arlington, who was walking
off with the King.

"He asked whether I were a good Churchman, and told me that I should
hear from him. But if he is so solicitous about the Church, how does he
endure your religion?"

Darrell had no time to answer, for Lord Quinton's grave voice struck in.

"He is a wise man who can answer a question touching my Lord Arlington's
opinion of the Church," said he.

Darrell flushed red, and turned angrily on the interrupter.

"You have no cause, my lord," he cried, "to attack the Secretary's
churchmanship."

"Then you have no cause, sir," retorted Quinton, "to defend it with so
much temper. Come, let me be. I have said as much to the Secretary's
face, and he bore it with more patience than you can muster on his
behalf."

By this time I was in some distress to see my old friend and my new at
such variance, and the more as I could not understand the ground of
their difference; the Secretary's suspected leaning towards the Popish
religion had not reached our ears in the country. But Darrell, as though
he did not wish to dispute further with a man his superior in rank and
age, drew off with a bow to my lord and a kindly nod to me, and rejoined
the other gentlemen in attendance on the King and his party.

"You came off well with the King, Simon," said my lord, taking my arm
again. "You made him laugh, and he counts no man his enemy who will do
him that service. But what did Arlington say to you?"

When I repeated the Secretary's words, he grew grave, but he patted my
arm in a friendly fashion, saying,

"You've shown wisdom and honour in this first matter, lad. I must trust
you in others. Yet there are many who have no faith in my Lord
Arlington, as Englishman or Churchman either."

"But," cried I, "does not Lord Arlington do as the King bids him?"

My lord looked full in my face, and answered steadily,

"I think he does, Simon." But then, as though he had said enough, or
even too much, he went on: "Come, you needn't grow too old or too
prudent all at once. Since you have seen the King, your business at
Whitehall will wait. Let us turn back to the coach and be driven to my
house, for, besides my lady, Barbara is there to-day on leave from her
attendance, and she will be glad to renew her acquaintance with you."

It was my experience as a young man, and, perchance, other young men may
have found the like, that whatsoever apprehensions or embarrassments
might be entailed by meeting a comely damsel, and however greatly her
displeasure and scorn were to be dreaded, yet the meeting was not
forgone, all perils being taken rather than that certain calamity.
Therefore I went with my lord to his handsome house in Southampton
Square, and found myself kissing my lady's hand before I was resolved on
how I should treat Mistress Barbara, or on the more weighty question of
how I might look to be treated by her.

I had not to wait long for the test. After a few moments of my lady's
amiable and kindly conversation, Barbara entered from the room behind,
and with her Lord Carford. He wore a disturbed air, which his affected
composure could not wholly conceal; her cheek was flushed, and she
seemed vexed; but I did not notice these things so much as the change
which had been wrought in her by the last four years. She had become a
very beautiful woman, ornamented with a high-bred grace and exquisite
haughtiness, tall and slim, carrying herself with a delicate dignity.
She gave me her hand to kiss, carelessly enough, and rather as though
she acknowledged an old acquaintance than found any pleasure in its
renewal. But she was gentle to me, and I detected in her manner a subtle
indication that, although she knew all, yet she pitied rather than
blamed; was not Simon very young and ignorant, and did not all the world
know how easily even honest young men might be beguiled by cunning
women? An old friend must not turn her back on account of a folly,
distasteful as it might be to her to be reminded of such matters.

My lord, I think, read his daughter very well, and, being determined to
afford me an opportunity to make my peace, engaged Lord Carford in
conversation, and bade her lead me into the room behind to see the
picture that Lely had lately painted of her. She obeyed; and, having
brought me to where it hung, listened patiently to my remarks on it,
which I tried to shape into compliments that should be pleasing and yet
not gross. Then, taking courage, I ventured to assure her that I fell
out with Lord Carford in sheer ignorance that he was a friend of her
family, and would have borne anything at his hands had I known it. She
smiled, answering,

"But you did him no harm," and she glanced at my arm in its sling.

She had not troubled herself to ask how it did, and I, a little nettled
at her neglect, said:

"Nay, all ended well. I alone was hurt, and the great lord came off
safe."

"Since the great lord was in the right," said she, "we should all
rejoice at that. Are you satisfied with your examination of the picture,
Mr Dale?"

I was not to be turned aside so easily.

"If you hold me to have been wrong, then I have done what I could to put
myself in the right since," said I, not doubting that she knew of my
surrender of the commission.

"I don't understand," said she, with a quick glance. "What have you
done?"

In wonder that she had not been informed, I cried,

"I have obtained the King's leave to decline his favour."

The colour which had been on her cheeks when she first entered had gone
before now, but at my words it returned a little.

"Didn't my lord tell you?" I asked.

"I haven't seen him alone this week past," she answered.

But she had seen Carford alone, and that in the last hour past. It was
strange that he, who had known my intention and commended it so highly,
should not have touched on it. I looked in her eyes; I think she
followed my thoughts, for she glanced aside, and said in visible
embarrassment,

"Shall we return?"

"You haven't spoken on the matter with my Lord Carford, then?" I asked.

She hesitated a moment, then answered as though she did not love the
truth but must tell it,

"Yes; but he said nothing of this. Tell me of it."

So I told her in simple and few words what I had done.

"Lord Carford said nothing of it," she said, when I ended. Then she
added, "But although you will not accept the favour, you have rendered
thanks for it?"

"I couldn't find my tongue when I was with the King," I answered with a
shamefaced laugh.

"I didn't mean to the King," said Barbara.

It was my turn to colour now; I had not been long enough in town to lose
the trick.

"I have seen her," I murmured.

Barbara suddenly made me a curtsey, saying bitterly,

"I wish you joy, sir, of your acquaintance."

When a man is alone with a beautiful lady, he is apt not to love an
intruder; yet on my soul I was glad to see Carford in the doorway. He
came towards us, but before he could speak Barbara cried to him,

"My lord, Mr Dale tells me news that will interest you."

"Indeed, madame, and what?"

"Why, that he has begged the King's leave to resign his commission.
Doesn't it surprise you?"

He looked at her, at me, and again at her. He was caught, for I knew
that he had been fully acquainted with my purpose. He gathered himself
together to answer her.

"Nay, I knew," he said, "and had ventured to applaud Mr Dale's
resolution. But it did not come into my mind to speak of it."

"Strange," said she, "when we were deploring that Mr Dale should obtain
his commission by such means!"

She rested her eyes on him steadily, while her lips were set in a
scornful smile. A pause followed her words.

"I daresay I should have mentioned it, had we not passed to another
topic," said he at last and sullenly enough. Then, attempting a change
in tone, he added, "Won't you rejoin us?"

"I am very well here," she said.

He waited a moment, then bowed, and left us. He was frowning heavily,
and, as I judged, would have greeted another quarrel with me very
gladly, had I been minded to give him an opportunity; but thinking it
fair that I should be cured from the first encounter before I faced a
second, I held my peace till he was gone; then I said to Barbara,

"I wonder he didn't tell you."

Alas for my presumption! The anger that had been diverted on to
Carford's head swept back to mine.

"Indeed, why should he?" she cried. "All the world can't be always
thinking of you and your affairs, Mr Dale."

"Yet you were vexed because he hadn't."

"I vexed! Not I!" said Barbara haughtily.

I could not make that out; she had seemed angry with him. But because I
spoke of her anger, she was angry now with me. Indeed I began to think
that little Charles, the King, and I had been right in that opinion in
which the King found us so much of a mind. Suddenly Barbara spoke.

"Tell me what she is like, this friend of yours," she said. "I have
never seen her."

It leapt to my lips to cry, "Ay, you have seen her!" but I did not give
utterance to the words. Barbara had seen her in the park at Hatchstead,
seen her more than once, and more than once found sore offence in what
she saw. There is wisdom in silence; I was learning that safety might
lie in deceit. The anger under which I had suffered would be doubled if
she knew that Cydaria was Nell and Nell Cydaria. Why should she know?
Why should my own mouth betray me and add my bygone sins to the offences
of to-day? My lord had not told her that Nell was Cydaria. Should I
speak where my lord was silent? Neither would I tell her of Cydaria.

"You haven't seen her?" I asked.

"No; and I would learn what she is like."

It was a strange thing to command me, yet Barbara's desire joined with
my own thoughts to urge me to it. I began tamely enough, with a stiff
list of features and catalogue of colours. But as I talked recollection
warmed my voice; and when Barbara's lips curled scornfully, as though
she would say, "What is there in this to make men fools? There is
nothing in all this," I grew more vehement and painted the picture with
all my skill. What malice began, my ardour perfected, until, engrossed
in my fancy, I came near to forgetting that I had a listener, and ended
with a start as I found Barbara's eyes fixed on mine, while she stood
motionless before me. My exultation vanished, and confusion drove away
my passion.

"You bade me describe her," said I lamely. "I do not know whether others
see as I do, but such is she to my eyes."

A silence followed. Barbara's face was not flushed now, but rather
seemed paler than it was wont to be. I could not tell how it was, but I
knew that I had wounded her. Is not beauty jealous, and who but a clod
will lavish praise on one fair face while another is before him? I
should have done better to play the hypocrite and swear that my folly,
not Nell's features, was to blame. But now I was stubborn and would
recall not a word of all my raptures. Yet I was glad that I had not told
her who Cydaria was.

The silence was short. In an instant Barbara gave a little laugh,
saying,

"Small wonder you were caught, poor Simon! Yes, the creature must be
handsome enough. Shall we return to my mother?"

On that day she spoke no more with me.




CHAPTER VII

WHAT CAME OF HONESTY


I should sin against the truth and thereby rob this my story of its
solitary virtue were I to pretend that my troubles and perplexities,
severe as they seemed, outweighed the pleasure and new excitement of my
life. Ambition was in my head, youth in my veins, my eyes looked out on
a gay world with a regard none too austere. Against these things even
love's might can wage but an equal battle. For the moment, I must
confess, my going to Court, with the prospect it opened and the chances
it held, dominated my mind, and Jonah Wall, my servant, was kept busy in
preparing me for the great event. I had made a discovery concerning this
fellow which afforded me much amusement: coming on him suddenly, I found
him deeply engaged on a Puritan Psalm-book, sighing and casting up his
eyes to heaven in a ludicrous excess of glum-faced piety. I pressed him
hard and merrily, when it appeared that he was as thorough a Ranter as
my friend Phineas himself, and held the Court and all in it to be
utterly given over to Satan, an opinion not without some warrant, had
he observed any moderation in advancing it. Not wishing to harm him, I
kept my knowledge to myself, but found a malicious sport in setting him
to supply me with all the varieties of raiment, perfumes, and other
gauds--that last was his word, not mine--which he abhorred, but which Mr
Simon Dale's new-born desire for fashion made imperative, however little
Mr Simon Dale's purse could properly afford the expense of them. The
truth is that Mistress Barbara's behaviour spurred me on. I had no mind
to be set down a rustic; I could stomach disapproval and endure
severity; pitied for a misguided be-fooled clod I would not be; and the
best way to avoid such a fate seemed to lie in showing myself as
reckless a gallant and as fine a roisterer as any at Whitehall. So I
dipped freely and deep into my purse, till Jonah groaned as woefully for
my extravagance as for my frivolity. All day he was in great fear lest I
should take him with me to Court to the extreme peril of his soul; but
prudence at last stepped in and bade me spare myself the cost of a rich
livery by leaving him behind.

Now Heaven forbid that I should imitate my servant's sour folly (for, if
a man must be a fool, I would have him a cheerful fool) or find anything
to blame in the pomp and seemly splendour of a Royal Court; yet the
profusion that met my eyes amazed me. It was the King's whim that on
this night himself, his friends, and principal gentlemen should, for no
reason whatsoever except the quicker disbursing of their money, assume
Persian attire, and they were one and all decked out in richest Oriental
garments, in many cases lavishly embroidered with precious stones. The
Duke of Buckingham seemed all ablaze, and the other courtiers and wits
were little less magnificent, foremost among them being the young Duke
of Monmouth, whom I now saw for the first time and thought as handsome a
youth as I had set eyes on. The ladies did not enjoy the licence offered
by this new fashion, but they contrived to hold their own in the French
mode, and I, who had heard much of the poverty of the nation, the
necessities of the fleet, and the straits in which the King found
himself for money, was left gaping in sheer wonder whence came all the
wealth that was displayed before my eyes. My own poor preparations lost
all their charm, and I had not been above half an hour in the place
before I was seeking a quiet corner in which to hide the poverty of my
coat and the plainness of my cloak. But the desire for privacy thus bred
in me was not to find satisfaction. Darrell, whom I had not met all day,
now pounced on me and carried me off, declaring that he was charged to
present me to the Duke of York. Trembling between fear and exultation, I
walked with him across the floor, threading my way through the dazzling
throng that covered the space in front of His Majesty's dais. But before
we came to the Duke, a gentleman caught my companion by the arm and
asked him how he did in a hearty, cheerful, and rather loud voice.
Darrell's answer was to pull me forward and present me, saying that Sir
Thomas Clifford desired my acquaintance, and adding much that erred
through kindness of my parts and disposition.

"Nay, if he's your friend, it's enough for me, Darrell," answered
Clifford, and putting his mouth to Darrell's ear he whispered. Darrell
shook his head, and I thought that the Treasurer seemed disappointed.
However, he bade me farewell with cordiality.

"What did he ask you?" said I, when we started on our way again.

"Only whether you shared my superstition," answered Darrell with a
laugh.

"They're all mighty anxious about my religion," thought I. "It would do
no harm if they bestowed more attention on their own."

Suddenly turning a corner, we came on a group in a recess hung on three
sides with curtains and furnished with low couches in the manner of an
Oriental divan. The Duke of York, who seemed to me a handsome courtly
prince, was sitting, and by him Lord Arlington. Opposite to them stood a
gentleman to whom the Duke, when I had made my bow, presented me,
bidding me know Mr Hudleston, the Queen's Chaplain. I was familiar with
his name, having often, heard of the Romish priest who befriended the
King in his flight from Worcester. I was examining his features with the
interest that an unknown face belonging to a well-known name has for us,
when the Duke addressed me with a suave and lofty graciousness, his
manner being in a marked degree more ceremonious than the King's.

"My Lord Arlington," said he, "has commended you, sir, as a young
gentleman of most loyal sentiments. My brother and we who love him have
great need of the services of all such."

I stammered out an assurance of devotion. Arlington rose and took me by
the arm, whispering that I had no need to be embarrassed. But Mr
Hudleston turned a keen and searching glance on me, as though he would
read my thoughts.

"I'm sure," said Arlington, "that Mr Dale is most solicitous to serve
His Majesty in all things."

I bowed, saying to the Duke,

"Indeed I am, sir. I ask nothing but an opportunity."

"In all things?" asked Hudleston abruptly. "In all things, sir?" He
fixed his keen eyes on my face.

Arlington pressed my arm and smiled pleasantly; he knew that kindness
binds more sheaves than severity.

"Come, Mr Dale says in all things," he observed. "Do we need more,
sir?"

But the Duke was rather of the priest's temper than of the Minister's.

"Why, my lord," he answered, "I have never known Mr Hudleston ask a
question without a reason for it."

"By serving the King in all things, some mean in all things in which
they may be pleased to serve the King," said Hudleston gravely. "Is Mr
Dale one of these? Is it the King's pleasure or his own that sets the
limit to his duty and his services?"

They were all looking at me now, and it seemed as though we had passed
from courtly phrases, such as fall readily but with little import from a
man's lips, and had come to a graver matter. They were asking some
pledge of me, or their looks belied them. Why or to what end they
desired it, I could not tell; but Darrell, who stood behind the priest,
nodded his head to me with an anxious frown.

"I will obey the King in all things," I began.

"Well said, well said," murmured Arlington.

"Saving," I proceeded, thinking it my duty to make this addition, and
not conceiving that there could be harm in it, "the liberties of the
Kingdom and the safety of the Reformed Religion."

I felt Arlington's hand drawn half-away, but in an instant it was back,
and he smiled no less pleasantly than before. But the Duke, less able or
less careful to conceal his mood, frowned heavily, while Hudleston cried
impatiently,

"Reservations! Kings are not served with reservations, sir."

He made me angry. Had the Duke said what he did, I would have taken it
with a dutiful bow and a silent tongue. But who was this priest to rate
me in such a style? My temper banished my prudence, and, bending my head
towards him, I answered:

"Yet the Crown itself is worn with these reservations, sir, and the King
himself allows them."

For a moment nobody spoke. Then Arlington said,

"I fear, sir, Mr Dale is as yet less a courtier than an honest
gentleman."

The Duke rose to his feet.

"I have found no fault with Mr Dale," said he haughtily and coldly, and,
taking no more heed of me, he walked away, while Hudleston, having
bestowed on me an angry glance, followed him.

"Mr Dale, Mr Dale!" whispered Arlington, and with no more than that,
although still with a smile, he slipped his arm out of mine and left me,
beckoning Darrell to go with him. Darrell obeyed with a shrug of
despair. I was alone--and, as it seemed, ruined. Alas, why must I blurt
out my old lessons as though I had been standing again at my father's
knee and not in the presence of the Duke of York? Yes, my race was run
before it was begun. The Court was not the place for me. In great
bitterness I flung myself down on the cushions and sat there, out of
heart and very dismal. A moment passed; then the curtain behind me was
drawn aside, and an amused laugh sounded in my ear as I turned. A young
man leapt over the couch and threw himself down beside me, laughing
heartily and crying,

"Well done, well done! I'd have given a thousand crowns to see their
faces!"

I sprang to my feet in amazement and confusion, bowing low, for the
young man by me was the Duke of Monmouth.

"Sit, man," said he, pulling me down again. "I was behind the curtain,
and heard it all. Thank God, I held my laughter in till they were gone.
The liberties of the Kingdom and the safety of the Reformed Religion!
Here's a story for the King!" He lay back, seeming to enjoy the jest
most hugely.

"For the love of heaven, sir," I cried, "don't tell the King! I'm
already ruined."

"Why, so you are, with my good uncle," said he. "You're new to Court, Mr
Dale?"

"Most sadly new," I answered in a rueful tone, which set him laughing
again.

"You hadn't heard the scandalous stories that accuse the Duke of loving
the Reformed Religion no better than the liberties of the Kingdom?"

"Indeed, no, sir."

"And my Lord Arlington? I know him! He held your arm, to the last, and
he smiled to the last?"

"Indeed, sir, my lord was most gentle to me."

"Aye, I know his way. Mr Dale, for this entertainment let me call you
friend. Come then, we'll go to the King with it." And, rising, he seized
me by the arm and began to drag me off.

"Indeed your Grace must pardon me----" I began.

"But indeed I will not," he persisted. Then he suddenly grew grave as he
said, "I am for the liberties of the Kingdom and the safety of the
Reformed Religion. Aren't we friends, then?"

"Your Grace does me infinite honour."

"And am I no good friend? Is there no value in the friendship of the
King's son--the King's eldest son?" He drew himself up with a grace and
a dignity which became him wonderfully. Often in these later days I see
him as he was then, and think of him with tenderness. Say what you will,
he made many love him even to death, who would not have lifted a finger
for his father or the Duke of York.

Yet in an instant--such slaves are we of our moods--I was more than half
in a rage with him. For as we went we encountered Mistress Barbara on
Lord Carford's arm. The quarrel between them seemed past and they were
talking merrily together. On the sight of her the Duke left me and ran
forward. By an adroit movement he thrust Carford aside and began to ply
the lady with most extravagant and high-flown compliments, displaying
an excess of devotion which witnessed more admiration than respect. She
had treated me as a boy, but she did not tell him that he was a boy,
although he was younger than I; she listened with heightened colour and
sparkling eyes. I glanced at Carford and found, to my surprise, no signs
of annoyance at his unceremonious deposition. He was watching the pair
with a shrewd smile and seemed to mark with pleasure the girl's pride
and the young Duke's evident passion. Yet I, who heard something of what
passed, had much ado not to step in and bid her pay no heed to homage
that was empty if not dishonouring.

Suddenly the Duke turned round and called to me.

"Mr Dale," he cried, "there needed but one thing to bind us closer, and
here it is! For you are, I learn, the friend of Mistress Quinton, and I
am the humblest of her slaves, who serve all her friends for her sake."

"Why, what would your Grace do for my sake?" asked Barbara.

"What wouldn't I?" he cried, as if transported. Then he added rather
low, "Though I fear you're too cruel to do anything for mine."

"I am listening to the most ridiculous speeches in the world for your
Grace's sake," said Barbara with a pretty curtsey and a coquettish
smile.

"Is love ridiculous?" he asked. "Is passion a thing to smile at? Cruel
Mistress Barbara!"

"Won't your Grace set it in verse?" said she.

"Your grace writes it in verse on my heart," said he.

Then Barbara looked across at me, it might be accidentally, yet it did
not appear so, and she laughed merrily. It needed no skill to measure
the meaning of her laugh, and I did not blame her for it. She had waited
for years to avenge the kiss that I gave Cydaria in the Manor Park at
Hatchstead; but was it not well avenged when I stood humbly, in
deferential silence, at the back while his Grace the Duke sued for her
favour, and half the Court looked on? I will not set myself down a churl
where nature has not made me one; I said in my heart, and I tried to say
to her with my eyes, "Laugh, sweet mistress, laugh!" For I love a girl
who will laugh at you when the game runs in her favour.

The Duke fell to his protestations again, and Carford still listened
with an acquiescence that seemed strange in a suitor for the lady's
hand. But now Barbara's modesty took alarm; the signal of confusion flew
in her cheeks, and she looked round, distressed to see how many watched
them. Monmouth cared not a jot. I made bold to slip across to Carford,
and said to him in a low tone,

"My lord, his Grace makes Mistress Barbara too much marked. Can't you
contrive to interrupt him?"

He stared at me with a smile of wonder. But something in my look
banished his smile and set a frown in its place.

"Must I have more lessons in manners from you, sir?" he asked. "And do
you include a discourse on the interrupting of princes?"

"Princes?" said I.

"The Duke of Monmouth is----"

"The King's son, my lord," I interposed, and, carrying my hat in my
hand, I walked up to Barbara and the Duke. She looked at me as I came,
but not now mockingly; there was rather an appeal in her eyes.

"Your Grace will not let me lose my audience with the King?" said I.

He started, looked at me, frowned, looked at Barbara, frowned deeper
still. I remained quiet, in an attitude of great deference. Puzzled to
know whether I had spoken in sheer simplicity and ignorance, or with a
meaning which seemed too bold to believe in, he broke into a doubtful
laugh. In an instant Barbara drew away with a curtsey. He did not pursue
her, but caught my arm, and looked hard and straight in my face. I am
happily somewhat wooden of feature, and a man could not make me colour
now, although a woman could. He took nothing by his examination.

"You interrupted me," he said.

"Alas, your Grace knows how poor a courtier I am, and how ignorant----"

"Ignorant!" he cried; "yes, you're mighty ignorant, no doubt; but I
begin to think you know a pretty face when you see it, Master Simon
Dale. Well, I'll not quarrel. Isn't she the most admirable creature
alive?"

"I had supposed Lord Carford thought so, sir."

"Oh! And yet Lord Carford did not hurry me off to find the King! But
you? What say you to the question?"

"I'm so dazzled, sir, by all the beautiful ladies of His Majesty's Court
that I can hardly perceive individual charms."

He laughed again, and pinched my arm, saying,

"We all love what we have not. The Duke of York is in love with truth,
the King with chastity, Buckingham with modesty of demeanour, Rochester
with seemliness, Arlington with sincerity, and I, Simon--I do fairly
worship discretion!"

"Indeed I fear I can boast of little, sir."

"You shall boast of none, and thereby show the more, Simon. Come,
there's the King." And he darted on, in equal good humour, as it seemed,
with himself and me. Moreover, he lost no time on his errand; for when I
reached his side (since they who made way for him afforded me no such
civility) he had not only reached the King's chair, but was half-way
through his story of my answer to the Duke of York; all chance of
stopping him was gone.

"Now I'm damned indeed," thought I; but I set my teeth, and listened
with unmoved face.

At this moment the King was alone, save for ourselves and a little
long-eared dog which lay on his lap and was incessantly caressed with
his hand. He heard his son's story with a face as impassive as I strove
to render mine. At the end he looked up at me, asking,

"What are these liberties which are so dear to you, sir?"

My tongue had got me into trouble enough for one day, so I set its music
to a softer tune.

"Those which I see preserved and honoured by your Majesty," said I,
bowing.

Monmouth laughed, and clapped me on the back; but the King proceeded
gravely:

"And this Reformed Religion that you set above my orders?"

"The Faith, Sir, of which you are Defender."

"Come, Mr Dale," said he, rather surly, "if you had spoken to my brother
as skilfully as you fence with me, he would not have been angry."

I do not know what came over me. I said it in all honest simplicity,
meaning only to excuse myself for the disrespect I had shown to the
Duke; but I phrased the sentence most vilely, for I said:

"When His Royal Highness questioned me, Sir, I had to speak the truth."

Monmouth burst into a roar, and a moment later the King followed with a
more subdued but not less thorough merriment. When his mirth subsided he
said,

"True, Mr Dale. I am a King, and no man is bound to speak truth to me.
Nor, by heaven--and there's a compensation--I to any man!"

"Nor woman," said Monmouth, looking at the ceiling in apparent absence
of mind.

"Nor even boy," added the King, with an amused glance at his son. "Well,
Mr Dale, can you serve me and this conscience of yours also?"

"Indeed I cannot doubt it, Sir," said I.

"A man's king should be his conscience," said the King.

"And what should be conscience to the King, Sir?" asked Monmouth.

"Why, James, a recognition of what evil things he may bring into the
world, if he doesn't mind his ways."

Monmouth saw the hit, and took it with pretty grace, bending and kissing
the King's hand.

"It is difficult, Mr Dale, to serve two masters," said the King, turning
again to me.

"Your Majesty is my only master," I began; but the King interrupted me,
going on with some amusement:

"Yet I should like to have seen my brother."

"Let him serve me, Sir," cried Monmouth. "For I am firm in my love of
these liberties, aye, and of the Reformed Religion."

"I know, James, I know," nodded the King. "It is grievous and strange,
however, that you should speak as though my brother were not." He
smiled very maliciously at the young Duke, who flushed red. The King
suddenly laughed, and fell to fondling the little dog again.

"Then, Sir," said Monmouth, "Mr Dale may come with me to Dover?"

My heart leapt, for all the talk now was of Dover, of the gaiety that
would be there, and the corresponding dulness in London, when the King
and the Duke were gone to meet Madame d'Orléans. I longed to go, and the
little hope I had cherished that Darrell's good offices with the
Secretary of State would serve me to that end had vanished. Now I was
full of joy, although I watched the King's face anxiously.

For some reason the suggestion seemed to occasion him amusement; yet,
although for the most part he laughed openly without respect of matter
or person, he now bent over his little dog, as though he sought to hide
the smile, and when he looked up again it hung about his lips like the
mere ghost of mirth.

"Why not?" said he. "To Dover, by all means. Mr Dale can serve you, and
me, and his principles, as well at Dover as in London."

I bent on one knee and kissed his hand for the favour. When I sought to
do the like to Monmouth he was very ready, and received my homage most
regally. As I rose, the King was smiling at the pair of us in a
whimsical melancholy way.

"Be off with you, boys," said he, as though we were a pair of lads from
the grammar school. "Ye are both fools; and James there is but
indifferently honest. But every hour's a chance, and every wench an
angel to you. Do what you will, and God forgive your sins." And he lay
back in his great chair with a good-humoured, lazy, weary smile, as he
idly patted the little dog. In spite of all that all men knew of him, I
felt my heart warm to him, and I knelt on my knee again, saying:

"God save your Majesty."

"God is omnipotent," said the King gravely. "I thank you, Mr Dale."

Thus dismissed, we walked off together, and I was awaiting the Duke's
pleasure to relieve him also of my company, when he turned to me with a
smile, his white teeth gleaming:

"The Queen sends a maid of honour to wait on Madame," said he.

"Indeed, sir; it is very fitting."

"And the Duchess sends one also. If you could choose from among the
Duchess's--for I swear no man in his senses would choose any of Her
Majesty's--whom would you choose, Mr. Dale?"

"It is not for me to say, your Grace," I answered.

"Well," said he, regarding me drolly, "I would choose Mistress Barbara
Quinton." And with a last laugh he ran off in hot pursuit of a lady who
passed at that moment and cast a very kindly glance at him.

Left alone, but in a good humour that the Duke's last jest could not
embitter, I stood watching the scene. The play had begun now on a stage
at the end of the hall, but nobody seemed to heed it. They walked to and
fro, talking always, ogling, quarrelling, love-making, and intriguing. I
caught sight here of great ladies, there of beauties whose faces were
their fortune--or their ruin, which you will. Buckingham went by, fine
as a galley in full sail. The Duke of York passed with Mr Hudleston; my
salute went unacknowledged. Clifford came soon after; he bowed slightly
when I bowed to him, but his heartiness was gone. A moment later Darrell
was by my side; his ill-humour was over, but he lifted his hands in
comical despair.

"Simon, Simon, you're hard to help," said he. "Alas, I must go to Dover
without you, my friend! Couldn't you restrain your tongue?"

"My tongue has done me no great harm," said I, "and you needn't go to
Dover alone."

"What?" he cried, amazed.

"Unless the Duke of Monmouth and my Lord Arlington travel apart."

"The Duke of Monmouth? What have you to do with him?"

"I am to enter his service," I answered proudly; "and, moreover, I'm to
go with him to Dover to meet Madame d'Orléans."

"Why, why? How comes this? How were you brought to his notice?"

I looked at him, wondering at his eagerness. Then I took him by the
arm, and I said laughingly:

"Come, I am teachable, and I have learnt my lesson."

"What lesson do you mean?"

"To restrain my tongue," said I. "Let those who are curious as to the
Duke of Monmouth's reasons for his favour to me, ask the Duke."

He laughed, but I caught vexation in his laugh.

"True, you're teachable, Simon," said he.




CHAPTER VIII

MADNESS, MAGIC, AND MOONSHINE


When the curtain had fallen on the little-heeded play and the gay crowd
began to disperse, I, perceiving that no more was to be seen or learnt,
went home to my lodging alone. After our conversation Darrell had left
me abruptly, and I saw him no more. But my own thoughts gave me
occupation enough; for even to a dull mind, and one unversed in Court
intrigues, it seemed plain that more hung on this expedition to Dover
than the meeting of the King's sister with her brother. So far all men
were of the same opinion; beyond, their variance began. I had not
thought to trouble my head about it, but, not having learnt yet that a
small man lives most comfortably with the great by opening his eyes and
ears only when bidden and keeping them tight locked for the rest, I was
inspired with eagerness to know the full meaning of the scene in which I
was now to play a part, however humble. Of one thing at least I was
glad--here I touched on a matter more suitable to my condition--and
this was that since Barbara Quinton was to go to Dover, I was to go
also. But, alas, neither here did perplexity lag far behind! It is easy
to know that you are glad to be with a lady; your very blood tells you;
but to say why is often difficult. I told myself that my sole cause for
pleasure lay in the services I might be able to render to my old
friend's daughter; she would want me to run her errands and do her
bidding; an attentive cavalier, however lowly, seldom comes amiss; these
pleas I muttered to myself, but swelling pride refused them, and for
once reason came as pride's ally, urging that in such company as would
assemble at Dover a girl might well need protection, no less than
compliments. It was true; my new master's bearing to her shewed how
true. And Carford was not, it seemed, a jealous lover. I was no
lover--my life was vowed to another most unhappy love--but I was a
gentleman, and (sweet thought!) the hour might come when the face which
had looked so mockingly at me to-night should turn again in appeal to
the wit and arm of Simon Dale. I grew taller as I thought of that, and,
coming just then to my own door, rapped with my cane as loudly and
defiantly as though I had been the Duke of Monmouth himself, and not a
gentleman in his suite.

Loud as my rapping was, it brought no immediate answer. Again I knocked;
then feet came shuffling along the passage. I had aroused my sleepy
wretch; doubtless he would come groaning (for Jonah might not curse save
in the way of religion), and rubbing his eyes, to let me in. The door
opened and Jonah appeared; his eyes were not dull with sleep but seemed
to blaze with some strong excitement; he had not been to his bed, for
his dress was not disordered, and a light burnt bright in my parlour. To
crown all, from the same parlour came the sound of a psalm most shrilly
and villainously chanted through the nose in a voice familiar to my
ears. I, unlike my servant, had not bound myself against an oath where
the case called, and with a round one that sent Jonah's eyes in agony up
to the ceiling I pushed by him and ran into the parlour. A sonorous
"Amen" came pat with my entrance; Phineas Tate stood before me, lean and
pale, but calm and placid.

"What in the devil's name brings you here?" I cried.

"The service of God," he answered solemnly.

"What, does it forbid sleep at nights?"

"Have you been sleeping, young man?" he asked, pertinently enough, as I
must allow.

"I have been paying my respects to His Majesty," said I.

"God forgive him and you," was the retort.

"Perhaps, sir, perhaps not," I replied, for I was growing angry. "But I
have asked your intercession no more than has the King. If Jonah brought
you here, it was without my leave; I beg you to take your
departure.--Jonah, hold the door there for Mr Tate."

The man raised his hand impressively.

"Hear my message first," he said. "I am sent unto you, that you may turn
from sin. For the Lord has appointed you to be his instrument. Even now
the plot is laid, even now men conspire to bring this kingdom again into
the bondage of Rome. Have you no ears, have you no eyes, are you blind
and deaf? Turn to me, and I will make you see and hear. For it is given
to me to show you the way."

I was utterly weary of the fellow, and, in despair of getting quit of
him, flung myself into a chair. But his next words caught my attention.

"The man who lives here with you--what of him? Is he not an enemy of
God?"

"Mr Darrell is of the Romish faith," said I, smiling in spite of myself,
for a kinder soul than Darrell I had never met.

Phineas came close to me, leaning over me with an admonishing forefinger
and a mysterious air.

"What did he want with you?" he asked. "Yet cleave to him. Be where he
is, go where he goes."

"If it comforts you, I am going where he goes," said I, yawning. "For we
are both going to Dover when the King goes."

"It is God's finger and God's will!" cried Phineas, catching me by the
shoulder.

"Enough!" I shouted, leaping up. "Keep your hands off me, man, if you
can't keep your tongue. What is it to you that we go to Dover?"

"Aye, what?" came suddenly in Darrell's voice. He stood in the doorway
with a fierce and angry frown on his face. A moment later he was across
the room and laid his hand on Phineas. "Do you want another cropping of
your ears?" he asked.

"Do your will on me," cried the fanatic. And sweeping away his lanky
hair he showed his ears; to my horror they had been cropped level across
their tops by the shears. "Do your will," he shrieked, "I am ready. But
your hour comes also, yea, your cup shall soon be full."

Darrell spoke to him in low stern tones.

"It may be more than ears, if you will not bridle your tongue. It's not
for you to question why the King comes or goes."

I saw Jonah's face at the door, pale with fright as he looked at the two
men. The interest of the scene grew on me; the talk of Dover seemed to
pursue me strangely.

"But this young man," pursued Phineas, utterly unmoved by Darrell's
threat, "is not of you; he shall be snatched from the burning, and by
his hand the Lord will work a great deliverance."

Darrell turned to me and said stiffly:

"This room is yours, sir, not mine. Do you suffer the presence of this
mischievous knave?"

"I suffer what I can't help," I answered. "Mr Tate doesn't ask my
pleasure in his coming and going any more than the King asks Mr Tate's
in his."

"It would do you no good, sir, to have it known that he was here,"
Darrell reminded me with a significant nod of his head.

Darrell had been a good friend to me and had won my regard, but, from an
infirmity of temper that I have touched on before, his present tone set
me against him. I take reproof badly, and age has hardly tamed me to it.

"No good with whom?" I asked, smiling. "The Duke of York? My Lord
Arlington? Or do you mean the Duke of Monmouth? It is he whom I have to
please now."

"None of them love Ranters," answered Darrell, keeping his face stiff
and inscrutable.

"But one of them may prefer a Ranter to a Papist," laughed I.

The thrust told, Darrell grew red. To myself I seemed to have hit
suddenly on the key of a mystery. Was I then a pawn in the great game of
the Churches, and Darrell another, and (to speak it with all due
respect), these grand dukes little better? Had Phineas Tate also his
place on the board where souls made the stakes? In such a game none is
too low for value, none too high for use. Surely my finger was on the
spring! At least I had confounded Darrell; his enemy, taking my help
readily enough, glared on him in most unchristian exultation, and then,
turning to me, cried in a species of fierce ecstasy,

"Think not that because you are unworthy you shall not serve God. The
work sanctifies the instrument, yea, it makes clean that which is foul.
Verily, at His hour, God may work through a woman of sin." And he fixed
his eyes intently on me.

I read a special meaning in his words; my thoughts flew readily to the
Cock and Pie in Drury Lane.

"Yea, through a woman of sin," he repeated slowly and solemnly; then he
faced round, swift as the wind, on Darrell, and, minding my friend's
sullen scowl not a whit, cried to him, "Repent, repent, vengeance is
near!" and so at last was out of the room before either of us could
hinder him, had we wished, or could question him further. I heard the
house-door shut behind him, and I rose, looking at Darrell with an easy
smile.

"Madness and moonshine, good friend," said I. "Don't let it disturb you.
If Jonah admits the fellow again he shall answer for it."

"Indeed, Mr Dale, when I prayed you to share my lodging, I did not
foresee the nature of your company."

"Fate more than choice makes a man's company," said I. "Now it's you,
now Phineas, now my lord the Secretary, and now his Grace the Duke.
Indeed, seeing how destiny--or, if you will, chance--rules, a man may
well be thought a fool who makes a plan or chooses a companion. For my
own part, I am fate's child and fate shall guide me."

He was still stiff and cold with me, but my friendly air and my evident
determination to have no quarrel won him to civility if to no warmer
demonstration of regard.

"Fate's child?" he asked with a little scorn, but seating himself and
smoothing his brow. "You're fate's child? Isn't that an arrogant speech,
Simon?"

"If it weren't true, most arrogant," I answered. "Come, I'll tell you;
it's too soon for bed and too late to go abroad. Jonah, bring us some
wine, and if it be good, you shall be forgiven for admitting Master
Tate."

Jonah went off and presently returned with a bottle, which we drank,
while I, with the candour I had promised, told my friend of Betty
Nasroth and her prophecy. He heard me with an attention which belied the
contempt he asserted; I have noticed that men pay heed to these things
however much they laugh at them. At the end, growing excited not only
with the wine but with the fumes of life which had been mounting into my
young brain all the day, I leapt up, crying aloud:

"And isn't it true? Shan't I know what he hides? Shan't I drink of his
cup? For isn't it true? Don't I already, to my infinite misery, love
where he loves?" For the picture of Nell had come suddenly across me in
renewed strength and sweetness; when I had spoken I dropped again into
my chair and laid my head down on my arms.

Silence followed; Darrell had no words of consolation for my woes and
left my love-lorn cry unheeded; presently then (for neglected sorrows do
not thrive) I looked furtively at him between the fingers of my hand. He
sat moody, thoughtful, and frowning. I raised my head and met his eyes.
He leant across the table, saying in a sneering tone, "A fine witch, on
my life! You should know what he hides?"

"Aye."

"And drink of his cup?"

"Aye, so she said."

He sat sunk in troubled thought, but I, being all this night torn to and
fro by changing and warring moods, sprang up again and cried in
boisterous scorn, "What, you believe these fables? Does God reveal
hidden things to old crones? I thought you at Court were not the fools
of such fancies! Aren't they fitter for rustic churls, Mr Darrell? God
save us, do we live in the days of King James?"

He answered me shortly and sternly, as though I had spoken of things not
to be named lightly.

"It is devil's work, all of it."

"Then the devil is busier than he seems, even after a night at Court," I
said. "But be it whose work it will, I'll do it. I'll find what he
hides. I'll drink of his cup. Come, you're glum! Drink, friend Darrell!
Darrell, what's in his cup, what does he hide? Darrell, what does the
King hide?"

I had caught him by the shoulder and was staring in his face. I was all
aglow, and my eyes, no doubt, shone bright with excitement and the
exhilaration of the wine. The look of me, or the hour of the night, or
the working of his own superstition, got hold of him, for he sprang up,
crying madly:

"My God, do you know?" and glared into my face as though I had been the
very devil of whom I spoke.

We stood thus for a full minute. But I grew cool before my companion,
wonder working the change in me sooner than confusion could in him. For
my random ravings had most marvellously struck on something more than my
sober speculations could discern. The man before me was mad--or he had a
secret. And friend Darrell was no madman.

"Do I know?" I asked. "Do I know what? What could I, Simon Dale, know?
What in Heaven's name is there to know?" And I smiled cunningly, as
though I sought to hide knowledge by a parade of ignorance.

"Nothing, nothing," he muttered uneasily. "The wine's got into my head."

"Yet you've drunk but two glasses; I had the rest," said I.

"That damned Ranter has upset me," he growled. "That, and the talk of
your cursed witch."

"Can Ranters and witches make secrets where there are none?" said I with
a laugh.

"They can make fools think there are secrets where there are none," said
he rudely.

"And other fools ask if they're known," I retorted, but with a laugh;
and I added, "I'm not for a quarrel, secret or no secret, so if that's
your purpose in sitting the night through, to bed with you, my friend."

Whether from prudence, or whether my good humour rebuked his temper, he
grew more gentle; he looked at me kindly enough and sighed, as he said:

"I was to be your guide in London, Simon; but you take your own path."

"The path you shewed me was closed in my face," said I, "and I took the
first that was opened to me."

"By the Duke of Monmouth?"

"Yes--or by another, if it had chanced to be another."

"But why take any, Simon?" he urged persuasively. "Why not live in peace
and leave these great folk alone?"

"With all my heart," I cried. "Is it a bargain? Whither shall we fly
from the turmoil?"

"We!" he exclaimed with a start.

"Aren't you sick of the same disease? Isn't the same medicine best for
you? Come, shall we both go to-morrow to Hatchstead--a pretty village,
Mr Darrell--and let the great folk go alone to Dover?"

"You know I cannot. I serve my Lord Arlington."

"And I the Duke of Monmouth."

"But my Lord is the King's servant."

"And his Grace the King's son."

"Oh, if you're obstinate----" he began, frowning.

"As fate, as prophecy, as witch, as Ranter, as devil, or as yourself!" I
said, laughing and throwing myself into a chair as he rose and moved
towards the door.

"No good will come of it to you," he said, passing me on his way.

"What loyal servant looks to make a profit of his service?" I asked,
smiling.

"I wish you could be warned."

"I'm warned, but not turned, Darrell. Come, we part friends?"

"Why, yes, we are friends," he answered, but with a touch of hesitation.

"Saving our duty to the King?"

"If need should come for that reservation, yes," said he gravely.

"And saving," said I, "the liberties of the Kingdom and the safety of
the Reformed Religion--if need should come for these reservations, Mr
Darrell," and I laughed to see the frown gather again on his brow. But
he made no reply, being unable to trust his self-control or answer my
light banter in its own kind. He left me with no more than a shake of
his head and a wave of his hand; and although we parted thus in amity
and with no feelings save of kindness for one another, I knew that
henceforth there must be a difference in our relations; the days of
confidence were gone.

The recognition of my loss weighed little with me. The diffidence born
of inexperience and of strangeness to London and the Court was wearing
away; the desire for another's arm to lean on and another's eyes to see
with gave way before a young man's pride in his own arm's strength and
the keenness of his own vision. There was sport afoot; aye, for me in
those days all things were sport, even the high disputes of Churches or
of Kingdoms. We look at the world through our own glasses; little as it
recks of us, it is to us material and opportunity; there in the dead of
night I wove a dream wherein the part of hero was played by Simon Dale,
with Kings and Dukes to bow him on and off the stage and Christendom to
make an audience. These dream-doings are brave things: I pity the man
who performs none of them; for in them you may achieve without labour,
enjoy without expense, triumph without cruelty, aye, and sin mightily
and grandly with never a reckoning for it. Yet do not be a mean villain
even in your dreaming, for that sticks to you when you awake.

I had supposed myself alone to be out of bed and Jonah Wall to have
slunk off in fear of my anger. But now my meditations were interrupted
by his entrance. He crept up to me in an uneasy fashion, but seemed to
take courage when I did not break into abuse, but asked him mildly why
he had not sought rest and what he wanted with me. His first answer was
to implore me to protect him from Mr Darrell's wrath; through Phineas
Tate, he told me timidly, he had found grace, and he could deny him
nothing; yet, if I bade him, he would not admit him again.

"Let him come," said I carelessly. "Besides, we shall not be long here.
For you and I are going on a journey, Jonah."

"A journey, sir?"

"Ay, I go with the Duke of Monmouth, and you go with me, to Dover when
the King goes."

Now, either Dover was on everybody's brain, or was very sadly on my
brain, for I swear even this fellow's eye seemed to brighten as I named
the place.

"To Dover, sir?"

"No less. You shall see all the gaiety there is to be seen, Jonah."

The flush of interest had died away; he was dolefully tranquil and
submissive again.

"Well, what do you want with me?" I asked, for I did not wish him to
suspect that I detected any change in his manner.

"A lady came here to-day, sir, in a very fine coach with Flemish
horses, and asked for you. Hearing you were from home, she called to me
and bade me take a message for you. I prayed her to write it, but she
laughed, and said she spoke more easily than she wrote; and she bade me
say that she wished to see you."

"What sort of lady was she, Jonah?"

"She sat all the while in the coach, sir, but she seemed not tall; she
was very merry, sir." Jonah sighed deeply; with him merriment stood high
among the vices of our nature.

"She didn't say for what purpose she wanted me?" I asked as carelessly
as I could.

"No, sir. She said you would know the purpose, and that she would look
for you at noon to-morrow."

"But where, Jonah?"

"At a house called Burford House, sir, in Chelsea."

"She gave you no name?"

"I asked her name, and she gave me one."

"What was it?"

"It was a strange heathenish name, and she laughed as she gave it;
indeed she laughed all the time."

"There's no sin in laughter," said I dryly. "You may leave me, I need no
help in undressing."

"But the name----"

"By Heaven, man, I know the name! Be off with you!"

He shuffled off, his whole manner expressing reprobation, whether most
of my oath, or of the heathenish name, or of the lady who gave it, I
know not.

Well, if he were so horror-stricken at these things, what would he say
at learning with whom he had talked? Perhaps he would have preached to
her, as had Phineas Tate, his master in religion. For, beyond doubt,
that heathenish name was Cydaria, and that fine coach with Flemish
horses--I left the question of that coach unanswered.

The moment the door was shut behind my servant I sprang to my feet,
crying in a low but very vehement voice, "Never!" I would not go. Had
she not wounded me enough? Must I tear away the bandage from the gash?
She had tortured me, and asked me now, with a laugh, to be so good as
stretch myself on the rack again. I would not go. That laugh was cruel
insolence. I knew that laugh. Ah, why so I did--I knew it well--how it
rose and rippled and fell, losing itself in echoes scarcely audible, but
rich with enticing mirth. Surely she was cunningly fashioned for the
undoing of men; yes, and of herself, poor soul. What were her coaches,
and the Flemish horses, and the house called Burford House in Chelsea? A
wave of memory swept over me, and I saw her simple--well then, more
simple!--though always merry, in the sweet-smelling fields at home,
playing with my boy's heart as with a toy that she knew little of, but
yet by instinct handled deftly. It pleased her mightily, that toy, and
she seemed to wonder when she found that it felt. She did not feel; joy
was hers, nothing deeper. Yet could she not, might she not, would she
not? I knew what she was; who knew what she might be? The picture of her
rose again before my eyes, inviting a desperate venture, spurring me on
to an enterprise in which the effort seemed absurdity, and success would
have been in the eyes of the world calamity. Yet an exaltation of spirit
was on me, and I wove another dream that drove the first away; now I did
not go to Dover to play my part in great affairs and jostle for higher
place in a world where in God's eyes all places are equal and all low,
but away back to the country I had loved, and not alone. She should be
with me, love should dress penitence in glowing robes, and purity be
decked more gloriously than all the pomps of sin. Could it be? If it
could, it seemed a prize for which all else might be willingly
forgone--an achievement rare and great, though the page of no history
recorded it.

Phineas Tate had preached to her, and gone away, empty and scorned. I
would preach too, in different tones and with a different gospel. Yet my
words should have a sweetness his had not, my gospel a power that should
draw where his repelled. For my love, shaken not yet shattered, wounded
not dead, springing again to full life and force, should breathe its
vital energy into her soul and impart of its endless abundance till her
heart was full. Entranced by this golden vision, I rose and looked from
the window at the dawning day, praying that mine might be the task, the
achievement, the reward.

Bright dawned that day as I, with brighter brightness in my heart,
climbed the stairs that led to my bedroom. But as I reached the door of
it, I paused. There came a sound from the little closet beyond, where
Jonah stretched his weary legs, and, as I hoped, had forgotten in
harmless sleep the soul that he himself tormented worse than would the
hell he feared. No, he did not rest. From his closet came low, fervent,
earnest prayers. Listening a minute, half in scorn, half in pity, and in
no unkindness, I heard him.

"Praise be to God," he said, "Who maketh the crooked places straight,
and openeth a path through the wilderness, and setteth in the hand of
His servant a sword wherewith to smite the ungodly even in high places."

What crooked places were made straight, what path opened, what sword set
in Jonah's hand? Of the ungodly in high places there was no lack in the
days of King Charles. But was Jonah Wall to smite them? I opened my door
with a laugh. We were all mad that night, and my madness lasted till the
morning. Yes, till the morning grew full my second dream was with me.




CHAPTER IX

OF GEMS AND PEBBLES


How I sought her, how I found her, that fine house of hers with the lawn
round it and the river by it, the stare of her lackeys, the pomp of her
living, the great lord who was bowed out as I went in, the maid who
bridled and glanced and laughed--they are all there in my memory, but
blurred, confused, beyond clear recall. Yet all that she was, looked,
said, aye, or left the clearer for being unsaid, is graven on my memory
in lines that no years obliterate and no change of mind makes hard to
read. She wore the great diamond necklace whose purchase was a fresh
text with the serious, and a new jest for the wits; on her neck it
gleamed and flashed as brilliantly and variously as the dazzling turns
in her talk and the unending chase of fleeting moods across her face.
Yet I started from my lodging, sworn to win her, and came home sworn to
have done with her. Let me tell it; I told it to myself a thousand times
in the days that followed. But even now, and for all the times that the
scene has played itself again before my unwilling eyes, I can scarcely
tell whence and how at the last, the change came. I think that the pomp
itself, the lord and the lackeys, the fine house, and all her state
struck as it were cold at my heart, dooming to failure the mad appeal
which they could not smother. But there was more; for all these might
have been, and yet not reached or infected her soul. But when I spoke to
her in words that had for me a sweetness so potent as to win me from all
hesitation and make as nothing the whole world beside, she did not
understand. I saw that she tried to understand; when she failed, I had
failed also. The flower was dead; what use then to cherish or to water
it? I had not thought it was dead, but had prayed that, faded and choked
though it were, yet it might find life in the sunshine of my love and
the water of her tears. But she did not weep, unless in a passing
petulance because I asked what she could not give; and the clouds swept
dark over my love's bright face.

And now, alas, I am so wise that I cannot weep! I must rather smile to
have asked, than lament that my asking was in vain. I must wonder at her
patience in refusing kindly, and be no more amazed that she refused at
last. Yet this sad wisdom that sits well on age I do not love in youth.
I was a fool; but if to hold that good shall win and a true love prevail
be folly, let my sons be fools after me until their sons in turn catch
up from them the torch of that folly which illuminates the world.

You would have said that she had not looked to see me, for she started
as though in surprise when I stood before her, saying, "You sent for
me."

"I sent for you?" she cried, still as if puzzled; then, "Ah, I remember.
A whim seized me as I passed your lodging. Yet you deserved no such
favour, for you treated me very rudely--why, yes, with great
unkindness--last time we met. But I wouldn't have you think me
resentful. Old friends must forgive one another, mustn't they? Besides,
you meant no hurt, you were vexed, perhaps you were even surprised. Were
you surprised? No, you weren't surprised. But were you grieved, Simon?"

I had been gazing dully at her, now I spoke heavily and dully.

"You wear gems there on your neck," said I, pointing at the necklace.

"Isn't the neck worthy?" she murmured quickly yet softly, pulling her
dress away to let me see the better, and raising her eyes to mine.

"Yes, very worthy. But wouldn't you be grieved to find them pebbles?"

"By my faith, yes!" she laughed, "for I paid the price of gems for
them."

"I also paid the price of a gem," said I, "and thought I had it."

"And it proved a pebble?" said she, leaning over me; for I had seated
myself in a chair, being in no mood for ceremony.

"Yes, a pebble; a very pebble, a common pebble."

"A common pebble!" she echoed. "Oh, Simon, cruel Simon! But a pretty
bright pebble? It looked like a gem, Simon?"

"God forgive you, yes. In Heaven's name--then--long ago, when you came
to Hatchstead--what then? Weren't you then----"

"No gem," said she. "Even then a pebble." Her voice sank a little, as
though for a single moment some unfamiliar shame came on her. "A common
pebble," she added, echoing my words.

"Then God forgive you," said I again, and I leant my head on my hand.

"And you, good Simon, do you forgive me?"

I was silent. She moved away petulantly, crying,

"You're all so ready to call on God to forgive! Is forgiveness God's
only? Will none of you forgive for yourselves? Or are you so righteous
that you can't do what God must?"

I sprang up and came to her.

"Forgive?" I cried in a low voice. "Ay, I'll forgive. Don't talk of
forgiveness to me. I came to love."

"To love? Now?" Her eyes grew wide in wonder, amusement, and delight.

"Yes," said I.

"You loved the gem; you'd love the pebble? Simon, Simon, where is Madame
your mother, where my good friend the Vicar? Ah, where's your virtue,
Simon?"

"Where yours shall be," I cried, seizing and covering her hands in mine.
"Where yours, there mine, and both in love that makes delight and virtue
one." I caught a hand to my lips and kissed it many times. "No sin comes
but by desire," said I, pleading, "and if the desire is no sin, there is
no sin. Come with me! I will fulfil all your desire and make your sin
dead."

She shrank back amazed; this was strange talk to her; yet she left her
hand in mine.

"Come with you? But whither, whither? We are no more in the fields at
Hatchstead."

"We could be again," I cried. "Alone in the fields at Hatchstead."

Even now she hardly understood what I would have, or, understanding,
could not believe that she understood rightly.

"You mean--leave--leave London and go with you? With you alone?"

"Yes--alone with your husband."

She pulled her hand away with a jerk, crying, "You're mad!"

"May be. Let me be mad, and be mad yourself also, sweetheart. If both of
us are mad, what hurt?"

"What, I--I go--I leave the town--I leave the Court? And you?--You're
here to seek your fortune!"

"Mayn't I dream that I've found it?" And again I caught her hand.

After a moment she drew nearer to me; I felt her fingers press mine in
tenderness.

"Poor Simon!" said she with a little laugh. "Indeed he remembers Cydaria
well. But Cydaria, such as she was, even Cydaria is gone. And now I am
not she." Then she laughed again, crying, "What folly!"

"A moment ago you didn't call it folly."

"Then I was doubly a fool," she answered with the first touch of
bitterness. "For folly it is, deep and black. I am not--nay, was I
ever?--one to ramble in green fields all day and go home to a cottage."

"Never," said I. "Nor will be, save for the love of a man you love. Save
for that, what woman has been? But for that, how many!"

"Why, very few," said she with a gentle little laugh. "And of that
few--I am not one. Nay, nor do I--am I cruel?--nor do I love you,
Simon."

"You swear it?"

"But a little--as a friend, an old friend."

"And a dear one?"

"One dear for a certain pleasant folly that he has."

"You'll come?"

"No."

"Why not? But in a day neither you nor I would ask why."

"I don't ask now. There's a regiment of reasons." Her laugh burst out
again; yet her eyes seemed tender.

"Give me one."

"I have given one. I don't love you."

"I won't take it."

"I am what I am."

"You should be what I would make you."

"You're to live at the Court. To serve the Duke of Monmouth, isn't it?"

"What do I care for that? Are there no others?"

"Let go my hand--No, let it go. See now, I'll show you. There's a ring
on it."

"I see the ring."

"A rich one."

"Very rich."

"Simon, do you guess who set it there?"

"He is your King only while you make him such."

"Nay," she cried with sudden passion, "I am set on my course." Then came
defiance. "I wouldn't change it. Didn't I tell you once that I might
have power with the King?"

"Power? What's that to you? What's it to any of us beside love?"

"Oh, I don't know anything about your love," she cried fretfully, "but I
know what I love--the stir, and the frowns of great ladies, and the
courting of great lords. Ah, but why do I talk? Do we reason with a
madman?"

"If we are touched ever so little with his disease."

She turned to me with sparkling eyes; she spoke very softly.

"Ah, Simon, you too have a tongue! Can you also lure women? I think you
could. But keep it, Simon, keep it for your wife. There's many a maid
would gladly take the title, for you're a fine figure, and I think that
you know the way to a woman's heart."

Standing above me (for I had sunk back in my chair) she caressed my
cheek gently with her hand. I was checked, but not beaten. My madness,
as she called it (as must not I also call it?), was still in me, hot and
surging. Hope was yet alive, for she had shown me tenderness, and once
it had seemed as though a passing shadow of remorse had shot across her
brightness. Putting out my hands, I took both of hers again, and so
looked up in her face, dumbly beseeching her; a smile quivered on her
lips as she shook her head at me.

"Heaven keeps you for better things," she said.

"I'd be the judge of them myself," I cried, and I sought to carry her
hands to my lips.

"Let me go," she said; "Simon, you must let me go. Nay, you must. So!
Sit there, and I'll sit opposite to you."

She did as she said, seating herself over against me, although quite
close. She looked me in the face. Presently she gave a little sigh.

"Won't you leave me now?" she asked with a plaintive smile.

I shook my head, but made no other answer.

"I'm sorry," she went on softly, "that I came to Hatchstead; I'm sorry
that I brought you to London, that I met you in the Lane, that I brought
you here to-day. I didn't guess your folly. I've lived with players, and
with courtiers, and with--with one other; so I didn't dream of such
folly as yours. Yes, I'm sorry."

"You can give me joy infinitely greater than any sorrow I've had by
you," said I in a low voice.

On this she sat silent for a full minute, seeming to study my face. Then
she looked to right and left, as though she would fain have escaped. She
laughed a little, but grew grave again, saying, "I don't know why I
laughed," and sighing heavily. I watched every motion and change in her,
waiting for her to speak again. At last she spoke.

"You won't be angry with me, Simon?" she asked coaxingly.

"Why, no," I answered, wondering.

"Nor run quite mad, nor talk of death, nor any horrors?"

"I'll hear all you say calmly," I answered.

She sat looking at me in a whimsical distress, seeming to deprecate
wrath and to pray my pardon yet still to hint amusement deep-hidden in
her mind. Then she drew herself up, and a strange and most pitiful
pride appeared on her face. I did not know the meaning of it. She leant
forward towards me, blushing a little, and whispered my name.

"I'm waiting to hear you," said I; my voice came hard, stern, and cold.

"You'll be cruel to me, I know you will," she cried petulantly.

"On my life, no," said I. "What is it you want to say?"

She was like a child who shows you some loved forbidden toy that she
should not have, but prizes above all her trifles; there was that sly
joy, that ashamed exultation in her face.

"I have promises," she whispered, clasping her hands and nodding her
head at me. "Ah, they make songs on me, and laugh at me, and Castlemaine
looks at me as though I were the street-dirt under her feet. But they
shall see! Ay, they shall see that I can match them!" She sprang to her
feet in reckless merriment, crying, "Shall I make a pretty countess,
Simon?" She came near to me and whispered with a mysterious air, "Simon,
Simon!"

I looked up at her sparkling eyes.

"Simon, what's he whom you serve, whom you're proud to serve? Who is he,
I say?" She broke into a laugh of triumph.

But I, hearing her laugh, and finding my heart filled with a sudden
terror, spread my hands over my eyes and fell back heavily in my chair,
like a sick man or a drunken. For now, indeed, I saw that my gem was
but a pebble. And the echo of her laugh rang in my ears.

"So I can't come, Simon," I heard her say. "You see that I can't come.
No, no, I can't come"; and again she laughed.

I sat where I was, hearing nothing but the echo of her laugh, unable to
think save of the truth that was driven so cruelly into my mind. The
first realising of things that cannot be undone brings to a young man a
fierce impotent resentment; that was in my heart, and with it a sudden
revulsion from what I had desired, as intemperate as the desire, as
cruel, it may be, as the thing which gave it birth. Nell's laughter died
away, and she was silent. Presently I felt a hand rest on my hands as
though seeking to convey sympathy in a grief but half-understood. I
shrank away, moving my hands till hers no longer touched them. There are
little acts, small matters often, on which remorse attends while life
lasts. Even now my heart is sore that I shrank away from her; she was
different now in nothing from what I had known of her; but I who had
desired passionately now shunned her; the thing had come home to me,
plain, close, in an odious intimacy. Yet I wish I had not shrunk away;
before I could think I had done it; and I found no words; better perhaps
that I attempted none.

I looked up; she was holding out the hand before her; there was a
puzzled smile on her lips.

"Does it burn, does it prick, does it soil, Simon?" she asked. "See,
touch it, touch it. It is as it was, isn't it?" She put it close by my
hand, waiting for me to take it, but I did not take it. "As it was when
you kissed it," said she; but still I did not take it.

I rose to my feet slowly and heavily, like a tired man whose legs are
reluctant to resume their load. She stood quite still, regarding me now
with alarmed and wondering eyes.

"It's nothing," I stammered. "Indeed it's nothing; only I hadn't thought
of it."

Scarcely knowing what I did, I began to move towards the door. An
unreasoned instinct impelled me to get away from her. Yet my gaze was
drawn to her face; I saw her lips pouting and her cheek flushed, the
brightness of her eyes grew clouded. She loved me enough to be hurt by
me, if no more. A pity seized me; turning, I fell on my knee, and,
seizing the hand whose touch I had refused, I kissed it.

"Ah, you kiss my hand now!" she cried, breaking into smiles again.

"I kiss Cydaria's hand," said I. "For in truth I'm sorry for my
Cydaria."

"She was no other than I am," she whispered, and now with a touch of
shame; for she saw that I felt shame for her.

"Not what is hurts us, but what we know," said I. "Good-bye, Cydaria,"
and again I kissed her hand. She drew it away from me and tossed her
head, crying angrily:

"I wish I hadn't told you."

"In God's name don't wish that," said I, and drew her gaze on me again
in surprise. I moved on my way, the only way my feet could tread. But
she darted after me, and laid her hand on my arm. I looked at her in
amazed questioning.

"You'll come again, Simon, when--?" The smile would not be denied though
it came timidly, afraid for its welcome and distrustful of its right.
"When you're better, Simon?"

I longed--with all my heart I longed--to be kind to her. How could the
thing be to her what it was to me? She could not understand why I was
aghast; extravagant despair, all in the style of a vanquished rival,
would have been easy for her to meet, to ridicule, to comfort. I knew
all this, but I could not find the means to affect it or to cover my own
distress.

"You'll come again then?" she insisted pleadingly.

"No," said I, bluntly, and cruelly with unwilling cruelty.

At that a sudden gust of passion seized her and she turned on me,
denouncing me fiercely, in terms she took no care to measure, for a
prudish virtue that for good or evil was not mine, and for a narrowness
of which my reason was not guilty. I stood defenceless in the storm,
crying at the end no more than, "I don't think thus of you."

"You treat me as though you thought thus," she cried. Yet her manner
softened and she came across to me, seeming now as if she might fall to
weeping. But at the instant the door opened and the saucy maid who had
ushered me in entered, running hastily to her mistress, in whose ears
she whispered, nodding and glancing the while at me.

"The King!" cried Nell, and, turning to me, she added hastily: "He'd
best not find you here."

"I ask no better than to be gone," said I.

"I know, I know," she cried. "We're not disturbed! The King's coming
interrupts nothing, for all's finished. Go then, go, out of my sight."
Her anger seemed to rise again, while the serving-girl stared back
astonished as she passed out. But if she went to stay the King's coming,
she was too late. For he was in the doorway the instant she had passed
through; he had heard Nell's last speech, and now he showed himself,
asking easily,

"Who's the gentleman of whose society you are so ready to be relieved?"

I turned, bowing low. The King arched his brows. It may well be that he
had had enough of me already, and that he was not well pleased to
stumble on me again and in this place. But he said nothing, merely
turning his eyes to Nell in question.

"You know him, Sir," said she, throwing herself into a chair.

"Yes, I know him," said the King. "But, if I may ask without
presumption, what brings him here?"

Nell looked at the pair of us, the King and Simon Dale, and answered
coolly,

"My invitation."

"The answer is all sufficient," bowed the King. "I'm before my time
then, for I received a like honour."

"No, he's after his," said she. "But as you heard, Sir, I was urging him
to go."

"Not on my account, I pray," said the King politely.

"No, on his. He's not easy here."

"Yet he outstayed his time!"

"We had a matter of business together, Sir. He came to ask something of
me, but matters did not prove to be as he thought."

"Indeed you must tell me more, or should have told me less. I'm of a
mighty curious disposition. Won't Mr Dale sit?" And the King seated
himself.

"I will beg your Majesty's permission to depart," said I.

"All requests here, sir, lie with this lady to grant or to refuse. In
this house I am a servant,--nay, a slave."

Nell rose and coming to the side of the King's chair stood there.

"Had things been other than they are, Mr Dale would have asked me to be
his wife," said she.

A silence followed. Then the King remarked,

"Had things been other than they are, Mr Dale would have done well."

"And had they been other than they are, I might well have answered yes,"
said Nell.

"Why yes, very well," said the King. "For Mr Dale is, I'm very sure, a
gentleman of spirit and honour, although he seems, if I may say so, just
now rather taciturn."

"But as matters are, Mr Dale would have no more of me."

"It's not for me," said the King, "to quarrel with his resolve, although
I'm free to marvel at it."

"And asks no more of me than leave to depart."

"Do you find it hard, madame, to grant him that much?"

She looked in the King's face and laughed in amusement, but whether at
him or me or herself I cannot tell.

"Why, yes, mighty hard," said she. "It's strange how hard."

"By my faith," said the King, "I begin to be glad that Mr Dale asked no
more. For if it be hard to grant him this little thing, it might have
been easy to grant him more. Come, is it granted to him?"

"Let him ask for it again," said she, and leaving the King she came and
stood before me, raising her eyes to mine. "Would you leave me, Simon?"
she cried.

"Yes, I would leave you, madame," said I.

"To go whither?"

"I don't know."

"Yet the question isn't hard," interposed the King. "And the answer
is--elsewhere."

"Elsewhere!" cried Nell. "But what does that mean, Sir?"

"Nay, I don't know her name," said the King. "Nor, may be, does Mr Dale
yet. But he'll learn, and so, I hope, shall I, if I can be of service to
him."

"I'm in no haste to learn it," cried Nell.

"Why no," laughed the King.

She turned to me again, holding out her hand as though she challenged me
to refuse it.

"Good-bye, Simon," said she, and she broke into a strange little laugh
that seemed devoid of mirth, and to express a railing mockery of herself
and what she did.

I saw the King watching us with attentive eyes and brows bent in a
frown.

"Good-bye," said I. Looking into her eyes, I let my gaze dwell long on
her; it dwelt longer than I meant, reluctant to take last leave of old
friends. Then I kissed her hand and bowed very low to the King, who
replied with a good-natured nod; then turning I passed out of the room.

I take it that the change from youth to manhood, and again from full
manhood to decline, comes upon us gradually, never ceasing but never
swift, as mind and body alike are insensibly transformed beneath the
assault of multitudinous unperceived forces of matter and of
circumstances; it is the result we know; that, not the process, is the
reality for us. We awake to find done what our sleepy brains missed in
the doing, and after months or years perceive ourselves in a second
older by all that period. We are jogged by the elbow, roused ruthlessly
and curtly bidden to look and see how we are changed, and wonder, weep,
or smile as may seem best to us in face of the metamorphosis. A moment
of such awakening came to me now; I seemed a man different from him who
had, no great number of minutes before, hastened to the house, inspired
by an insane hope, and aflame with a passion that defied reason and
summed up life in longing. The lackeys were there still, the maid's
smile altered only by a fuller and more roguish insinuation. On me the
change had passed, and I looked open-eyed on what I had been. Then came
a smile, close neighbour to a groan, and the scorn of my old self which
is the sad delirium wrought by moving time; but the lackey held the door
for me and I passed out.

A noise sounded from above as the casement of the window was thrown
open. She looked out; her anger was gone, her emotion also seemed gone.
She stood there smiling, very kindly but with mockery. She held in
either hand a flower. One she smelt and held her face long to it, as
though its sweetness kept her senses willing prisoners; turning to the
other, she smelt it for a short instant and then drew away, her face,
that told every mood with unfailing aptness, twisted into disappointment
or disgust. She leant out looking down on me; now behind her shoulder I
saw the King's black face, half-hidden by the han

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