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 hangings of the window. She glanced at the first flower, then at the second, held up both her hands for a moment, turned for an instant with a coquettish smile towards the swarthy face behind, then handed the first flower with a laugh into a hand that was stretched out for it, and flung the second down to me. As it floated through the air, the wind disengaged its loose petals and they drifted away, some reaching ground, some caught by gusts and carried away, circling, towards the house-tops. The stalk fell by me, almost naked, stripped of its bloom. For the second flower was faded, and had no sweetness nor life left in it. Again her laugh sounded above me, and the casement closed.

I bent and picked up the stalk. Was it her own mood she told me in the allegory? Or was it the mood she knew to be in me? There had been an echo of sorrow in the laugh, of pity, kindness, and regret: and the laugh that she uttered in giving the fresh bloom to the King had seemed pure derision. It was my love, not hers, that found its symbol in the dying flower and the stalk robbed of its glory. She had said well, it was as she said; I picked up what she flung and went on my way, hugging my dead.

In this manner then, as I, Simon the old, have shewn, was I, Simon the young, brought back to my senses. It is all very long ago.



CHAPTER X

JE VIENS, TU VIENS, IL VIENT

It pleased his Grace the Duke of Monmouth so to do all things that men should heed his doing of them. Even in those days, and notwithstanding certain transactions hereinbefore related, I was not altogether a fool, and I had not been long about him before I detected this propensity and, as I thought, the intention underlying it. To set it down boldly and plainly, the more the Duke of Monmouth was in the eye of the nation, the better the nation accustomed itself to regard him as the king's son; the more it fell into the habit of counting him the king's son, the less astonished and unwilling would it be if fate should place him on the king's seat. Where birth is beyond reproach, dignity may be above display; a defect in the first demands an ample exhibition of the second. It was a small matter, this journey to Dover, yet, that he might not go in the train of his father and the Duke of York, but make men talk of his own going, he chose to start beforehand and alone; lest even thus he should not win his meed of notice, he set all the inns and all the hamlets on the road a-gossiping, by accomplishing the journey from London to Canterbury, in his coach-and-six, between sunrise and sunset of a single day. To this end it was needful that the coach should be light; Lord Carford, now his Grace's inseparable companion, alone sat with him, while the rest of us rode on horseback, and the Post supplied us with relays where we were in want of them. Thus we went down gallantly and in very high style, with his Grace much delighted at being told that never had king or subject made such pace in his travelling since the memory of man began. Here was reward enough for all the jolting, the flogging of horses, and the pain of yokels pressed unwillingly into pushing the coach with their shoulders through miry places.

As I rode, I had many things to think of. My woe I held at arm's length. Of what remained, the intimacy between his Grace and my Lord Carford, who were there in the coach together, occupied my mind most constantly. For by now I had moved about in the world a little, and had learnt that many counted Carford no better than a secret Papist, that he was held in private favour, but not honoured in public, by the Duke of York, and that communications passed freely between him and Arlington by the hand of the secretary's good servant and my good friend Mr Darrell. Therefore I wondered greatly at my lord's friendship with Monmouth, and at his showing an attachment to the Duke which, as I had seen at Whitehall, appeared to keep in check even the natural jealousy and resentment of a lover. But at Court a man went wrong if he held a thing unlikely because there was dishonour in it. There men were not ashamed to be spies themselves, nor to use their wives in the same office. There to see no evil was to shut your eyes. I determined to keep mine open in the interests of my new patron, of an older friend, and perhaps of myself also, for Carford's present civility scarcely masked his dislike.

We reached Canterbury while the light of the long summer evening still served, and clattered up the street in muddy bravery. The town was out to see his Grace, and his Grace was delighted to be seen by the town. If, of their courtesy, they chose to treat him as a Prince, he could scarcely refuse their homage, and if he accepted it, it was better to accept like one to the manner born than awkwardly; yet I wondered whether my lord made a note in his aspiring brain of all that passed, and how soon the Duke of York would know that a Prince of Wales, coming to Canterbury, could have received no greater honour. Nay, and they hailed him as the champion of the Church, with hits at the Romish faith, which my lord heard with eyes downcast to the ground and a rigid smile carved on his face. It was all a forecast of what was one day to be; perhaps to the hero of it a suggestion of what some day might be. At least he was radiant over it, and carried Carford off with him into his apartment in the merriest mood. He did not invite me to join his party, and I was well content to be left to wander for an hour in the quiet close of the great cathedral. For let me say that a young man who has been lately crossed in love is in a better mood for most unworldly meditation, than he is likely to be before or after. And if he would not be taken too strictly at his word in all he says to himself then, why, who would, pray, and when?

It was not my fault, but must be imputed to our nature, that in time my stomach cried out angrily at my heart, and I returned to the inn, seeking supper. His Grace was closeted with my lord, and I turned into the public room, desiring no other company than what should lie on my plate. But my host immediately made me aware that I must share my meal and the table with a traveller who had recently arrived and ordered a repast. This gentleman, concerning whom the host seemed in some perplexity, had been informed that the Duke of Monmouth was in the house, but had shown neither excitement at the news nor surprise, nor, to the host's great scandal, the least desire for a sight of his Grace. His men-servants, of whom he had two, seemed tongue-tied, so that the host doubted if they had more than a few phrases of English, and set the whole party down for Frenchmen.

"Hasn't the gentleman given his name?" I asked.

"No. He didn't offer it, and since he flung down money enough for his entertainment I had no cause to ask it."

"None," I remarked, "unless a man may be allowed more curiosity than a beast. Stir yourself about supper," and walking in, I saluted, with all the courtesy at my command, a young gentleman of elegant appearance (so far as I could judge of him in traveller's garb) who sat at the table. His greetings equalled mine in politeness, and we fell into talk on different matters, he using the English language, which he spoke with remarkable fluency, although evidently as a foreigner. His manner was easy and assured, and I took it for no more than an accident that his pistol lay ready to his hand, beside a small case or pocket-book of leather on the table. He asked me my business, and I told him simply that I was going in the Duke's train to Dover.

"Ah, to meet Madame the Duchess of Orleans?" said he. "I heard of her coming before I left France. Her visit, sir, will give great pleasure to the King her brother."

"More, if report speaks true, than to the Prince her husband," said I with a laugh. For the talk at Court was that the Duke of Orleans hated to let his wife out of his sight, while she for her part hated to be in it. Both had their reasons, I do not doubt.

"Perhaps," he answered with a shrug. "But it's hard to know the truth in these matters. I am myself acquainted with many gentlemen at the French Court, and they have much to say, but I believe little of it."

Though I might commend his prudence, I was not encouraged to pursue the topic, and, seeking a change of conversation, I paid him a compliment on his mastery of English, hazarding a suggestion that he must have passed some time in this country.

"Yes," he replied, "I was in London for a year or more a little while ago."

"Your English puts my French to the blush," I laughed, "else hospitality would bid me use your language."

"You speak French?" he asked. "I confess it is easier to me."

"Only a little, and that learnt from merchants, not at Court." For traders of all nations had come from time to time to my uncle's house at Norwich.

"But I believe you speak very well," he insisted politely. "Pray let me judge of your skill for myself."

I was about to oblige him, when a loud dispute arose outside, French ejaculations mingling with English oaths. Then came a scuffle. With a hurried apology, the gentleman sprang to his feet and rushed out. I went on with my supper, supposing that his servants had fallen into some altercation with the landlord and that the parties could not make one another understand. My conjecture was confirmed when the traveller returned, declaring that the quarrel arose over the capacity of a measure of wine and had been soon arranged. But then, with a little cry of vexation, he caught up the pocket-book from the table and darted a quick glance of suspicion at me. I was more amazed than angry, and my smile caused him confusion, for he saw that I had detected his fear. Thinking him punished enough for his rudeness (although it might find some excuse in the indifferent honesty of many who frequented the roads in the guise of travellers) I relieved him by resuming our conversation, saying with a smile,

"In truth my French is a school-boy's French. I can tell the parts of the verb J'aime, tu aimes, il aime; it goes so far, sir, and no farther."

"Not far in speech, though often far enough in act," he laughed.

"Truly," said I with a sigh.

"Yet I swear you do yourself injustice. Is there no more?"

"A little more of the same sort, sir." And, casting about for another phrase with which to humour him, I took the first that came to my tongue; leaning my arms on the table (for I had finished eating), I said with a smile, "Well, what say you to this? This is something to know, isn't it? Je viens, tu viens, il vient."

As I live, he sprang to his feet with a cry of alarm! His hand darted to his breast where he had stowed the pocket-book; he tore it out and examined the fastening with furious haste and anxiety. I sat struck still with wonder; the man seemed mad. He looked at me now, and his glance was full of deepest suspicion. He opened his mouth to speak, but words seemed to fail him; he held out the leathern case towards me. Strange as was the question that his gesture put I could not doubt it.

"I haven't touched the book," said I. "Indeed, sir, only your visible agitation can gain you pardon for the suggestion."

"Then how—how?" he muttered.

"You pass my understanding, sir," said I in petulant amusement. "I say in jest 'I come, thou comest, he comes,' and the words act on you like abracadabra and the blackest of magic. You don't, I presume, carry a hornbook of French in your case; and if you do, I haven't robbed you of it."

He was turning the little case over and over in his hands, again examining the clasps of it. His next freak was to snatch his pistol and look to the priming. I burst out laughing, for his antics seemed absurd. My laughter cooled him, and he made a great effort to regain his composure. But I began to rally him.

"Mayn't a man know how to say in French 'He comes' without stealing the knowledge from your book, sir?" I asked. "You do us wrong if you think that so much is known to nobody in England."

He glared at me like a man who hears a jest, but cannot tell whether it conceals earnest or not.

"Open the case, sir," I continued in raillery. "Make sure all is there. Come, you owe me that much."

To my amazement he obeyed me. He opened the case and searched through certain papers which it contained; at the end he sighed as though in relief, yet his suspicious air did not leave him.

"Now perhaps, sir," said I, squaring my elbows, "you'll explain the comedy."

That he could not do. The very impossibility of any explanation showed that I had, in the most unexpected fashion, stumbled on some secret with him even as I had before with Darrell. Was his secret Darrell's or his own, the same or another? What it was I could not tell, but for certain there it was. He had no resource but to carry the matter with a high hand, and to this he betook himself with the readiness of his nation.

"You ask an explanation, sir?" he cried. "There's nothing to explain, and if there were, I give explanations when I please, and not to every fellow who chooses to ask them of me."

"I come, thou comest, he comes,—'tis a very mysterious phrase," said I. "I can't tell what it means. And if you won't tell me, sir, I must ask others."

"You'll be wiser to ask nobody," he said menacingly.

"Nay, I shall be no wiser if I ask nobody," I retorted with a smile.

"Yet you'll tell nobody of what has passed," said he, advancing towards me with the plain intention of imposing his will on me by fear, since persuasion failed. I rose to my feet and answered, mimicking his insolent words,

"I give promises, sir, when I please, and not to every fellow who chooses to ask them of me."

"You shall give me your promise before you leave this room," he cried.

His voice had been rising in passion and was now loud and fierce. Whether the sound of it had reached the room above, or whether the Duke and Carford had grown weary of one another, I do not know, but as the French gentleman uttered this last threat Carford opened the door, stood aside to let his Grace enter, and followed himself. As they came in, we were in a most hostile attitude; for the Frenchman's pistol was in his hand, and my hand had flown to the hilt of my sword. The Duke looked at us in astonishment.

"Why, what's this, gentlemen?" he said. "Mr Dale, are you at variance with this gentleman?" But before I had time to answer him, he had stepped forward and seen the Frenchman's face. "Why, here is M. de Fontelles!" he cried in surprise. "I am very pleased to see you, sir, again in England. Carford, here is M. de Fontelles. You were acquainted with him when he was in the suite of the French Ambassador? You carry a message, sir?"

I listened keenly to all that the Duke's words told me. M. de Fontelles bowed low, but his confusion was in no way abated, and he made no answer to his Grace's question. The Duke turned to me, saying with some haughtiness,

"This gentleman is a friend of mine, Mr Dale. Pray why was your hand on your sword?"

"Because the gentleman's pistol was in his hand, sir."

"You appear always to be very ready for a quarrel, Mr Dale," said the Duke, with a glance at Carford. "Pray, what's the dispute?"

"I'll tell your Grace the whole matter," said I readily enough, for I had nothing to blame myself with.

"No, I won't have it told," cried M. de Fontelles.

"It's my pleasure to hear it," said the Duke coldly.

"Well, sir, it was thus," said I, with a candid air. "I protested to this gentleman that my French was sadly to seek; he was polite enough to assure me that I spoke it well. Upon this I owned to some small knowledge, and for an example I said to him, 'J'aime, tu aimes, il aime.' He received the remark, sir, with the utmost amiability."

"He could do no less," said the Duke with a smile.

"But he would have it that this didn't exhaust my treasure of learning. Therefore, after leaving me for a moment to set straight a difference that had arisen between his servants and our host, he returned, put away a leathern case that he had left on the table (concerning which indeed he seemed more uneasy than would be counted courteous here in England, seeing that I had been all the while alone in the room with it), and allowed me to resume my exhibition of French-speaking. To humour him and to pass away the hour during which I was deprived of the pleasure of attending your Grace——"

"Yes, yes, Mr Dale. Don't delay in order to compliment me," said the Duke, smiling still.

"I leant across the table, sir, and I made him a speech that sent him, to all seeming, half-way out of his senses; for he sprang up, seized his case, looked at the fastenings, saw to the priming of his pistol, and finally presumed to exact from me a promise that I would consult nobody as to the perplexity into which this strange behaviour of his had flung me. To that I demurred, and hence the quarrel with which I regret most humbly that your Grace should have been troubled."

"I'm obliged to you, Mr Dale. But what was this wonder-working phrase?"

"Why, sir, just the first that came into my head. I said to the gentleman—to M. de Fontelles, as I understand him to be called—I said to him softly and gently—Je viens, tu viens——"

The Duke seized me by the arm, with a sudden air of excitement. Carford stepped forward and stood beside him.

"Je viens, tu viens.... Yes! And any more?" cried the Duke.

"Yes, your Grace," I answered, again amazed. "I completed what grammarians call the Singular Number by adding 'Il vient;' whereupon—but I have told you."

"Il vient?" cried the Duke and Carford all in a breath.

"Il vient," I repeated, thinking now that all the three had run mad. Carford screened his mouth with his hand and whispered in the Duke's ear. The Duke nodded and made some answer. Both seemed infinitely stirred and interested. M. de Fontelles had stood in sullen silence by the table while I told the story of our quarrel; now his eyes were fixed intently on the Duke's face.

"But why," said I, "that simple phrase worked such strange agitation in the gentleman, your Grace's wisdom may discover. I am at a loss."

Still Carford whispered, and presently the Duke said,

"Come, gentlemen, you've fallen into a foolish quarrel where no quarrel need have come. Pray be friends again."

M. de Fontelles drew himself up stiffly.

"I asked a promise of that gentleman, and he refused it me," he said.

"And I asked an explanation of that gentleman, and he refused it me," said I, just as stiffly.

"Well, then, Mr Dale shall give his promise to me. Will that be agreeable to you, Mr Dale?"

"I'm at your Grace's commands, in all things," I answered, bowing.

"And you'll tell nobody of M. de Fontelles' agitation?"

"If your Grace pleases. To say the truth, I don't care a fig for his fierceness. But the explanation, sir?"

"Why, to make all level," answered the Duke, smiling and fixing his gaze upon the Frenchman, "M. de Fontelles will give his explanation to me."

"I cry agreed, your Grace!" said I. "Come, let him give it."

"To me, Mr Dale, not to you," smiled the Duke.

"What, am I not to hear why he was so fierce with me?"

"You don't care a fig for his fierceness, Mr Dale," he reminded me, laughing.

I saw that I was caught, and had the sense to show no annoyance, although I must confess to a very lively curiosity.

"Your Grace wishes to be alone with M. de Fontelles?" I asked readily and deferentially.

"For a little while, if you'll give us leave," he answered, but he added to Carford, "No, you needn't move, Carford."

So I made my bow and left them, not well pleased, for my brain was on the rack to discover what might be the secret which hung on that mysterious phrase, and which I had so nearly surprised from M. de Fontelles.

"The gist of it," said I to myself, as I turned to the kitchen, "lies, if I am not mistaken, in the third member. For when I had said Je viens, tu viens, the Duke interrupted me, crying, 'Any more?'"

I had made for the kitchen since there was no other room open to me, and I found it tenanted by the French servants of M. de Fontelles. Although peace had been made between them and the host, they sat in deep dejection; the reason was plain to see in two empty glasses and an empty bottle that stood on a table between them. Kindliness, aided, it may be, by another motive, made me resolve to cure their despondency.

"Gentlemen," said I in French, going up to them, "you do not drink!"

They rose, bowing, but I took a third chair between them and motioned them to be seated.

"We have not the wherewithal, sir," said one with a wistful smile.

"The thing is mended as soon as told," I cried, and, calling the host, I bade him bring three bottles. "A man is more at home with his own bottle," said I.

With the wine came new gaiety, and with gaiety a flow of speech. M. de Fontelles would have admired the fluency with which I discoursed with his servants, they telling me of travelling in their country, I describing the incidents of the road in England.

"There are rogues enough on the way in both countries, I'll warrant," I laughed. "But perhaps you carry nothing of great value and laugh at robbers?"

"Our spoil would make a robber a poor meal, sir; but our master is in a different plight."

"Ah! He carries treasure?"

"Not in money, sir," answered one. The other nudged him, as though to bid him hold his tongue.

"Come, fill your glasses," I cried, and they obeyed very readily.

"Well, men have met their death between here and London often enough before now," I pursued meditatively, twisting my glass of wine in my fingers. "But with you for his guard, M. de Fontelles should be safe enough."

"We're charged to guard him with our lives, and not leave him till he comes to the Ambassador's house."

"But these rogues hunt sometimes in threes and fours," said I. "You might well lose one of your number."

"We're cheap, sir," laughed one. "The King of France has many of us."

"But if your master were the one?"

"Even then provision is made."

"What? Could you carry his message—for if his treasure isn't money, I must set it down as tidings—to the Ambassador."

They looked at one another rather doubtfully. But I was not behindhand in filling their glasses.

"Still we should go on, even without Monsieur," said one.

"But to what end?" I cried in feigned derision.

"Why, we too have a message."

"Indeed. Can you carry the King's message?"

"None better, sir," said the shorter of the pair, with a shrewd twinkle in his eye. "For we don't understand it."

"Is it difficult then?"

"Nay, it's so simple as to see without meaning."

"What, so simple—but your bottle is empty! Come, another?"

"Indeed no, Monsieur."

"A last bottle between us! I'll not be denied." And I called for a fourth.

When we were well started on the drinking of it, I asked carelessly,

"And what's your message?"

But neither the wine nor the negligence of my question had quite lulled their caution to sleep. They shook their heads, and laughed, saying,

"We're forbidden to tell that."

"Yet, if it be so simple as to have no meaning, what harm in telling it?"

"But orders are orders, and we're soldiers," answered the shrewd short fellow.

The idea had been working in my brain, growing stronger and stronger till it reached conviction. I determined now to put it to the proof.

"Tut," said I. "You make a pretty secret of it, and I don't blame you. But I can guess your riddle. Listen. If anything befell M. de Fontelles, which God forbid——"

"Amen, amen," they murmured with a chuckle.

"You two, or if fate left but one, that one, would ride on at his best speed to London, and there seek out the Ambassador of the Most Christian King. Isn't it so?"

"So much, sir, you might guess from what we've said."

"Ay, ay, I claim no powers of divination. Yet I'll guess a little more. On being admitted to the presence of the Ambassador, he would relate the sad fate of his master, and would then deliver his message, and that message would be——" I drew my chair forward between them and laid a finger on the arm of each. "That message," said I, "would be just like this—and indeed it's very simple, and seems devoid of all rational meaning: Je viens." They started. "Tu viens." They gaped. "Il vient," I cried triumphantly, and their chairs shot back as they sprang to their feet, astonishment vivid on their faces. For me, I sat there laughing in sheer delight at the excellence of my aim and the shrewdness of my penetration.

What they would have said, I do not know. The door was flung open and M. de Fontelles appeared. He bowed coldly to me and vented on his servants the anger from which he was not yet free, calling them drunken knaves and bidding them see to their horses and lie down in the stable, for he must be on his way by daybreak. With covert glances at me which implored silence and received the answer of a reassuring nod, they slunk away. I bowed to M. de Fontelles with a merry smile; I could not conceal my amusement and did not care how it might puzzle him. I strode out of the kitchen and made my way up the stairs. I had to pass the Duke's apartment. The light still burned there, and he and Carford were sitting at the table. I put my head in.

"If your Grace has no need of me, I'll seek my bed," said I, mustering a yawn.

"No need at all," he answered. "Good-night to you, Simon." But then he added, "You'll keep your promise to me?"

"Your Grace may depend on me."

"Though in truth I may tell you that the whole affair is nothing; it's no more than a matter of gallantry, eh, Carford?"

"No more," said my Lord Carford.

"But such matters are best not talked of."

I bowed as he dismissed me, and pursued my way to my room. A matter of gallantry might, it seemed, be of moment to the messengers of the King of France. I did not know what to make of the mystery, but I knew there was a mystery.

"And it turns," said I to myself, "on those little words 'Il vient.' Who is he? Where comes he? And to what end? Perhaps I shall learn these things at Dover."

There is this to be said. A man's heart aches less when his head is full. On that night I did not sigh above half my usual measure.



CHAPTER XI

THE GENTLEMAN FROM CALAIS

Good fortune and bad had combined to make me somewhat more of a figure in the eyes of the Court than was warranted by my abilities or my station. The friend of Mistress Gwyn and the favourite of the Duke of Monmouth (for this latter title his Grace's signal kindness soon extorted from the amused and the envious) was a man whom great folk recognised, and to whom small folk paid civility. Lord Carford had become again all smiles and courtesy; Darrell, who arrived in the Secretary's train, compensated in cordiality for what he lacked in confidence; my Lord Arlington himself presented me in most flattering terms to the French King's envoy, M. Colbert de Croissy, who, in his turn, greeted me with a warmth and regarded me with a curiosity that produced equal gratification and bewilderment in my mind. Finally, the Duke of Monmouth insisted on having me with him in the Castle, though the greater part of the gentlemen attached to the Royal and noble persons were sent to lodge in the town for want of accommodation within the walls. My private distress, from which I recovered but slowly, or, to speak more properly, suppressed with difficulty, served to prevent me from becoming puffed up with the conceit which this success might well have inspired.

The first part of Betty Nasroth's prophecy now stood fulfilled, ay, as I trusted, utterly finished and accomplished; the rest tarried. I had guessed that there was a secret, what it was remained unknown to me and, as I soon suspected, to people more important. The interval before the arrival of the Duchess of Orleans was occupied in many councils and conferences; at most of them the Duke of Monmouth was present, and he told me no more than all the Court conjectured when he said that Madame d'Orleans came with a project for a new French Alliance and a fresh war with the Dutch. But there were conferences at which he was not present, nor the Duke of Buckingham, but only the King, his brother (so soon as his Royal Highness joined us from London), the French Envoy, and Clifford and Arlington. Of what passed at these my master knew nothing, though he feigned knowledge; he would be restless when I, having used my eyes, told him that the King had been with M. Colbert de Croissy for two hours, and that the Duke of York had walked on the wall above an hour in earnest conversation with the Treasurer. He felt himself ignored, and poured out his indignation unreservedly to Carford. Carford would frown and throw his eyes towards me, as though to ask if I were to hear these things, but the Duke refused his suggestion. Nay, once he said in jest:

"What I say is as safe with him as with you, my lord, or safer."

I wondered to see Carford indignant.

"Why do you say safer, sir?" he asked haughtily, while the colour on his cheeks was heightened. "Is any man's honour more to be trusted than mine?"

"Ah, man, I meant nothing against your honour; but Simon here has a discretion that heaven does not give to everyone."

Now, when I see a man so sensitive to suspicion as to find it in every careless word, I am set thinking whether he may not have some cause to fear suspicion. Honesty expects no accusation. Carford's readiness to repel a charge not brought caught my notice, and made me ponder more on certain other conferences to which also his Grace my patron was a stranger. More than once had I found Arlington and Carford together, with M. Colbert in their company, and on the last occasion of such an encounter Carford had requested me not to mention his whereabouts to the Duke, advancing the trivial pretext that he should have been engaged on his Grace's business. His Grace was not our schoolmaster. But I was deceived, most amiably deceived, and held my tongue as he prayed. Yet I watched him close, and soon, had a man told me that the Duke of York thought it well to maintain a friend of his own in his nephew's confidence, I would have hazarded that friend's name without fear of mistake.

So far the affair was little to me, but when Mistress Barbara came from London the day before Madame was to arrive, hardly an hour passed before I perceived that she also, although she knew it not, had her part to play. I cannot tell what reward they offered Carford for successful service; if a man who sells himself at a high price be in any way less a villain than he who takes a penny, I trust that the price was high; for in pursuance of the effort to obtain Monmouth's confidence and an ascendency over him, Carford made use of the lady whom he had courted, and, as I believed, still courted, for his own wife. He threw her in Monmouth's way by tricks too subtle for her to detect, but plain to an attentive observer. I knew from her father that lately he had again begged her hand, and that she had listened with more show of favour. Yet he was the Duke's very humble servant in all the plans which that headstrong young man now laid against the lady's peace and honour. Is there need to state the scheme more plainly? In those days a man might rise high and learn great secrets, if he knew when to shut his eyes and how to knock loud before he entered the room.

I should have warned her. It is true; but the mischief lay in the fact that by no means could I induce her to exchange a word with me. She was harder by far to me than she had shewn herself in London. Perhaps she had heard how I had gone to Chelsea; but whether for good reason or bad, my crime now seemed beyond pardon. Stay; perhaps my condition was below her notice; or sin and condition so worked together that she would have nothing of me, and I could do nothing but look on with outward calm and hidden sourness while the Duke plied her with flatteries that soon grew to passionate avowals, and Carford paid deferential suit when his superior was not in the way. She triumphed in her success as girls will, blind to its perils as girls are; and Monmouth made no secret of his hopes of success, as he sat between Carford's stolid face and my downcast eyes.

"She's the loveliest creature in the world," he would cry. "Come, drink a toast to her!" I drank silently, while Carford led him on to unrestrained boasts and artfully fanned his passion.

At last—it was the evening of the day before Madame was to come—I met her where she could not avoid me, by the Constable's Tower, and alone. I took my courage in my hands and faced her, warning her of her peril in what delicate words I could find. Alas, I made nothing of it. A scornful jest at me and my righteousness (of which, said she, all London had been talking a little while back) was the first shot from her battery. The mention of the Duke's name brought a blush and a mischievous smile, as she answered:

"Shouldn't I make a fine Duchess, Mr Dale?"

"Ay, if he made you one," said I with gloomy bluntness.

"You insult me, sir," she cried, and the flush on her face deepened.

"Then I do in few words what his Grace does in many," I retorted.

I went about it like a dolt, I do not doubt. For she flew out at me, demanding in what esteem I held her, and in what her birth fell short of Anne Hyde's—"who is now Duchess of York, and in whose service I have the honour to be."

"Is that your pattern?" I asked. "Will the King interpose for you as he did for the daughter of Lord Clarendon?"

She tossed her head, answering:

"Perhaps so much interference will not be needed."

"And does my Lord Carford share these plans of yours?" I asked with a sneer.

The question touched her; she flushed again, but gave way not an inch.

"Lord Carford has done me much honour, as you know," said she, "but he wouldn't stand in my way here."

"Indeed he doesn't!" I cried. "Nor in his Grace's!"

"Have you done, sir?" says she most scornfully.

"I have done, madame," said I, and on she swept.

"Yet you shall come to no harm," I added to myself as I watched her proud free steps carry her away. She also, it seemed, had her dream; I hoped that no more than hurt pride and a heart for the moment sore would come of it. Yet if the flatteries of princes pleased, she was to be better pleased soon, and the Duke of Monmouth seem scarcely higher to her than Simon Dale.

Then came Madame in the morning from Dunkirk, escorted by the Vice-Admiral, and met above a mile from the coast by the King in his barge; the Duke of York, Prince Rupert, and my Duke (on whom, I attended) accompanying His Majesty. Madame seemed scarcely as beautiful as I had heard, although of a very high air and most admirable carriage and address; and my eyes, prone, I must confess, to seek the fairest face, wandered from hers to a lady who stood near, gifted with a delicate and alluring, yet childish, beauty, who gazed on the gay scene with innocent interest and a fresh enjoyment. Madame, having embraced her kinsmen, presented the lady to His Majesty by the name of Mademoiselle Louise Renee de Perrencourt de Querouaille (the name was much shortened by our common folk in later days), and the King kissed her hand, saying that he was rejoiced to see her—as indeed he seemed to be, if a man might judge by the time he spent in looking at her, and the carelessness with which he greeted the others in attendance on Madame.

"And these are all who come with you, sister?" he asked.

She answered him clearly, almost loudly:

"Except a gentleman who is to join me from Calais to-morrow, with messages from the King."

I heard no more, being forced to move away and leave the royal group alone. I had closely examined all who came. For in the presence of Madame I read Je viens, in our King's, Tu viens; but I saw none whose coming would make the tidings Il vient worthy of a special messenger to London. But there was a gentleman to arrive from Calais. I had enough curiosity to ask M. le Comte d'Albon, who (with his wife) accompanied Madame and stood by me on deck as we returned to land, who this gentleman might be.

"He is called M. de Perrencourt," the Count replied, "and is related remotely to the lady whom you saw with Madame."

I was disappointed, or rather checked. Was M. de Perrencourt so important that they wrote Il vient about him and sent the tidings to London?

After some time, when we were already coming near to shore, I observed Madame leave the King and go walking to and fro on the deck in company with Monmouth. He was very merry and she was very gracious; I amused myself with watching so handsome and well-matched a pair. I did not wonder that my Duke was in a mighty good temper, for, even had she been no Princess, her company was such as would please a man's pride and content his fancy. So I leant against the mast, thinking it a pity that they troubled their pretty heads with Dutch wars and the like tiresome matters, and were not content to ornament the world, leaving its rule to others. But presently I saw the Duke point towards me, and Madame's glance follow his finger; he talked to her again and both laughed. Then, just as we came by the landing-stage, she laid her hand on his arm, as though in command. He laughed again, shrugging his shoulders, then raised his hand and beckoned to me. Now I, while watching, had been most diligent in seeming not to watch, and it needed a second and unmistakable signal from his Grace before I hastened up, hat in hand. Madame was laughing, and, as I came, I heard her say, "Yes, but I will speak to him." The Duke, with another shrug, bade me come near, and in due form presented me. She gave me her hand to kiss, saying with a smile that showed her white teeth,

"Sir, I asked to be shown the most honest man in Dover, and my cousin Monmouth has brought you to me."

I perceived that Monmouth, seeking how to entertain her, had not scrupled to press me into his service. This I could not resent, and since I saw that she was not too dull to be answered in the spirit of her address, I made her a low bow and said:

"His Grace, Madame, conceived you to mean in Dover Castle. The townsmen, I believe, are very honest."

"And you, though the most honest in the Castle, are not very honest?"

"I take what I find, Madame," I answered.

"So M. Colbert tells me," she said with a swift glance at me. "Yet it's not always worth taking."

"I keep it, in case it should become so," I answered, for I guessed that Colbert had told her of my encounter with M. de Fontelles; if that were so, she might have a curiosity to see me without the added inducement of Monmouth's malicious stories.

"Not if it be a secret? No man keeps that," she cried.

"He may, if he be not in love, Madame."

"But are you that monster, Mr Dale?" said she. "Shame on the ladies of my native land! Yet I'm glad! For, if you're not in love, you'll be more ready to serve me, perhaps."

"Mr Dale, Madame, is not incapable of falling in love," said Monmouth with a bow. "Don't try his virtue too much."

"He shall fall in love then with Louise," she cried.

Monmouth made a grimace, and the Duchess suddenly fell to laughing, as she glanced over her shoulder towards the King, who was busily engaged in conversation with Mlle. de Querouaille.

"Indeed, no!" I exclaimed with a fervour that I had not intended. No more of that part of Betty Nasroth's prophecy for me, and the King's attentions were already particular. "But if I can serve your Royal Highness, I am body and soul at your service."

"Body and soul?" said she. "Ah, you mean saving—what is it? Haven't you reservations?"

"His Grace has spared me nothing," said I, with a reproachful glance at Monmouth.

"The more told of you the better you're liked, Simon," said he kindly. "See, Madame, we're at the landing, and there's a crowd of loyal folk to greet you."

"I know the loyalty of the English well," said she in a low voice and with a curling lip. "They have their reservations like Mr Dale. Ah, you're speaking, Mr Dale?"

"To myself, Madame," I answered, bowing profoundly. She laughed, shaking her head at me, and passed on. I was glad she did not press me, for what I had said was, "Thank God," and I might likely enough have told a lie if she had put me to the question.

That night the King entertained his sister at a great banquet in the hall of the Castle, where there was much drinking of toasts, and much talk of the love that the King of France had for the King of England, and our King for the other King, and we for the French (whereas we hated them) and they for us (although they wasted no kindness on us); but at least every man got as much wine as he wanted, and many of them more than they had fair occasion for; and among these last I must count the Duke of Monmouth. For after the rest had risen from table he sat there still, calling Carford to join him, and even bidding me sit down by his side. Carford seemed in no haste to get him away, although very anxious to relieve me of my post behind his chair, but at last, by dint of upbraiding them both, I prevailed on Carford to offer his arm and the Duke to accept it, while I supported him on the other side. Thus we set out for his Grace's quarters, making a spectacle sad enough to a moralist, but too ordinary at Court for any remark to be excited by it. Carford insisted that he could take the Duke alone; I would not budge. My lord grew offensive, hinting of busybodies who came between the Duke and his friends. Pushed hard, I asked the Duke himself if I should leave him. He bade me stay, swearing that I was an honest fellow and no Papist, as were some he knew. I saw Carford start; his Grace saw nothing save the entrance of his chamber, and that not over-plainly. But we got him in, and into a seat, and the door shut. Then he called for more wine, and Carford at once brought it to him and pledged him once and again, Monmouth drinking deep.

"He's had more than he can carry already," I whispered. Carford turned straight to the Duke, crying, "Mr Dale here says that your Grace is drunk." He made nothing by the move, for the Duke answered good-humouredly,

"Truly I am drunk, but in the legs only, my good Simon. My head is clear, clear as daylight, or the——" He looked round cunningly, and caught each of us by the arm. "We're good Protestants here?" he asked with a would-be shrewd, wine-muddled glance.

"Sound and true, your Grace," said Carford. Then he whispered to me, "Indeed I think he's ill. Pray run for the King's physician, Mr Dale."

"Nay, he'd do well enough if he were alone with me. If you desire the physician's presence, my lord, he's easy to find."

I cared not a jot for Carford's anger, and was determined not to give ground. But we had no more time for quarrelling.

"I am as loyal—as loyal to my father as any man in the kingdom," said the Duke in maudlin confidence. "But you know what's afoot?"

"A new war with the Dutch, I'm told, sir," said I.

"A fig for the Dutch! Hush, we must speak low, there may be Papists about. There are some in the Castle, Carford. Hush, hush! Some say my uncle's one, some say the Secretary's one. Gentlemen, I—I say no more. Traitors have said that my father is——"

Carford interrupted him.

"Don't trouble your mind with these slanders, sir," he urged.

"I won't believe it. I'll stand by my father. But if the Duke of York—But I'll say no more." His head fell on his breast. But in a moment he sprang to his feet, crying, "But I'm a Protestant. Yes, and I'm the King's son." He caught Carford by the arm, whispering, "Not a word of it. I'm ready. We know what's afoot. We're loyal to the King; we must save him. But if we can't—if we can't, isn't there one who—who——?"

He lost his tongue for an instant. We stood looking at him, till he spoke again. "One who would be a Protestant King?"

He spoke the last words loud and fiercely; it was the final effort, and he sank back in his chair in a stupor. Carford gave a hasty glance at his face.

"I'll go for the physician," he cried. "His Grace may need blood-letting."

I stepped between him and the door as he advanced.

"His Grace needs nothing," said I, "except the discretion of his friends. We've heard foolish words that we should not have heard to-night, my lord."

"I am sure they're safe with you," he answered.

"And with you?" I retorted quickly.

He drew himself up haughtily.

"Stand aside, sir, and let me pass."

"Where are you going?"

"To fetch the physician. I'll answer none of your questions."

I could not stop him without an open brawl, and that I would not encounter, for it could lead only to my own expulsion. Yet I was sure that he would go straight to Arlington, and that every word the Duke had spoken would be carried to York, and perhaps to the King, before next morning. The King would be informed, if it were thought possible to prejudice him against his son; York, at least, would be warned of the mad scheme which was in the young Duke's head. I drew aside and with a surly bow let Carford pass. He returned my salutation with an equal economy of politeness, and left me alone with Monmouth, who had now sunk into a heavy and uneasy sleep. I roused him and got him to bed, glad to think that his unwary tongue would be silent for a few hours at least. Yet what he had said brought me nearer to the secret and the mystery. There was indeed more afoot than the war with the Dutch. There was, if I mistook not, a matter that touched the religion of the King. Monmouth, whose wits were sharp enough, had gained scent of it; the wits went out as the wine went in, and he blurted out what he suspected, robbing his knowledge of all value by betraying its possession. Our best knowledge lies in what we are not known to know.

I repaired, thoughtful and disturbed, to my own small chamber, next the Duke's; but the night was fine and I had no mind for sleep. I turned back again and made my way on to the wall, where it faces towards the sea. The wind was blowing fresh and the sound of the waves filled my ears. No doubt the same sound hid the noise of my feet, for when I came to the wall, I passed unheeded by three persons who stood in a group together. I knew all and made haste to pass by; the man was the King himself, the lady on his right was Mistress Barbara; in the third I recognised Madame's lady, Louise de Querouaille. I proceeded some distance farther till I was at the end of the wall nearest the sea. There I took my stand, looking not at the sea but covertly at the little group. Presently two of them moved away; the third curtseyed low but did not accompany them. When they were gone, she turned and leant on the parapet of the wall with clasped hands. Drawn by some impulse, I moved towards her. She was unconscious of my approach until I came quite near to her; then she turned on me a face stained with tears and pale with agitation and alarm. I stood before her, speechless, and she found no words in which to address me. I was too proud to force my company on her, and made as though to pass with a bow; but her face arrested me.

"What ails you, Mistress Barbara?" I cried impetuously. She smoothed her face to composure as she answered me:

"Nothing, sir." Then she added carelessly, "Unless it be that sometimes the King's conversation is too free for my liking."

"When you want me, I'm here," I said, answering not her words but the frightened look that there was in her eyes.

For an instant I seemed to see in her an impulse to trust me and to lay bare what troubled her. The feeling passed; her face regained its natural hue, and she said petulantly,

"Why, yes, it seems fated that you should always be there, Simon, yet Betty Nasroth said nothing of it."

"It may be well for you that I'm here," I answered hotly; for her scorn stirred me to say what I should have left unsaid.

I do not know how she would have answered, for at the moment we heard a shout from the watchman who stood looking over the sea. He hailed a boat that came prancing over the waves; a light answered his signal. Who came to the Castle? Barbara's eyes and mine sought the ship; we did not know the stranger, but he was expected; for a minute later Darrell ran quickly by us with an eager look on his face; with him was the Count d'Albon, who had come with Madame, and Depuy, the Duke of York's servant. They went by at the top of their speed and in visible excitement. Barbara forgot her anger and haughtiness in fresh girlish interest.

"Who can it be?" she cried, coming so near to me that her sleeve touched mine, and leaning over the wall towards where the ship's black hull was to be seen far below in the moonlight by the jetty.

"Doubtless it's the gentleman whom Madame expects," said I.

Many minutes passed, but through them Barbara and I stood silent side by side. Then the party came back through the gate, which had been opened for them. Depuy walked first, carrying a small trunk; two or three servants followed with more luggage; then came Darrell in company with a short man who walked with a bold and confident air. The rest passed us, and the last pair approached. Now Darrell saw Mistress Barbara and doffed his hat to her. The new-comer did the like and more; he halted immediately opposite to us and looked curiously at her, sparing a curious glance for me. I bowed; she waited unmoved until the gentleman said to Darrell,

"Pray present me."

"This, madame," said Darrell, in whose voice there was a ring of excitement and tremulous agitation, "is M. de Perrencourt, who has the honour of serving Her Royal Highness the Duchess. This lady, sir, is Mistress Barbara Quinton, maid of honour to the Duchess of York, and now in attendance on Madame."

Barbara made a curtsey, M. de Perrencourt bowed. His eyes were fixed on her face; he studied her openly and fearlessly, yet the regard was difficult to resent, it was so calm, assured, and dignified. It seemed beyond challenge, if not beyond reproach. I stood by in silence, angry at a scrutiny so prolonged, but without title to interfere.

"I trust, madame, that we shall be better acquainted," he said at last, and with a lingering look at her face passed on. I turned to her; she was gazing after him with eager eyes. My presence seemed forgotten; I would not remind her of it; I turned away in silence, and hastened after Darrell and his companion. The curve of the wall hid them from my sight, but I quickened my pace; I gained on them, for now I heard their steps ahead; I ran round the next corner, for I was ablaze with curiosity to see more of this man, who came at so strange an hour and yet was expected, who bore himself so loftily, and yet was but a gentleman-in-waiting as I was. Round the next corner I should come in sight of him. Round I went, and I came plump into the arms of my good friend Darrell, who stood there, squarely across the path!

"Whither away, Simon?" said he coldly.

I halted, stood still, looked him in the face. He met my gaze with a calm, self-controlled smile.

"Why," said I, "I'm on my way to bed, Darrell. Let me pass, I beg you."

"A moment later will serve," said he.

"Not a moment," I replied testily, and caught him by the arm. He was stiff as a rock, but I put out my strength and in another instant should have thrown him aside. But he cried in a loud angry voice,

"By the King's orders, no man is to pass this way."

Amazed, I fell back. But over his head, some twenty yards from us, I saw two men embracing one another warmly. Nobody else was near; Darrell's eyes were fixed on me, and his hand detained me in an eager grasp. But I looked hard at the pair there ahead of me; there was a cloud over the moon now, in a second it passed. The next moment the two had turned their backs and were walking off together. Darrell, seeing my fixed gaze, turned also. His face was pale, as if with excitement, but he spoke in cool, level tones.

"It's only M. Colbert greeting M. de Perrencourt," said he.

"Ah, of course!" I cried, turning to him with a smile. "But where did M. Colbert get that Star?" For the glitter of the decoration had caught my eye, as it sparkled in the moonlight.

There was a pause before Darrell answered. Then he said,

"The King gave him his own Star to-night, in compliment to Madame."

And in truth M. Colbert wore that Star when he walked abroad next morning, and professed much gratitude for it to the King. I have wondered since whether he should not have thanked a humbler man. Had I not seen the Star on the breast of the gentleman who embraced M. de Perrencourt, should I have seen it on the breast of M. Colbert de Croissy? In truth I doubt it.



CHAPTER XII

THE DEFERENCE OF HIS GRACE THE DUKE

Certainly he had some strange ways, this M. de Perrencourt. It was not enough for him to arrive by night, nor to have his meeting with M. Colbert (whose Star Darrell made me observe most particularly next morning) guarded from intruding eyes by the King's own order. He shewed a predilection for darkness and was visible in the daytime only in Madame's apartment, or when she went to visit the King. The other French gentlemen and ladies manifested much curiosity concerning the town and the neighbourhood, and with Madame and the Duke of Monmouth at their head took part in many pleasant excursions. In a day or two the Queen also and the Duchess of York came from London, and the doings grew more gay and merry. But M. de Perrencourt was not to be tempted; no pastimes, no jaunts allured him; he did not put his foot outside the walls of the Castle, and was little seen inside it. I myself did not set eyes on him for two days after my first sight of him; but after that I beheld him fairly often, and the more I saw him the more I wondered. Of a truth his retiring behaviour was dictated by no want of assurance nor by undue modesty; he was not abashed in the presence of the great and bore himself as composedly before the King as in the presence of a lackey. It was plain, too, that he enjoyed Madame's confidence in no common degree, for when affairs of State were discussed and all withdrew saving Madame, her brothers and the Secretary (even the Duke of Monmouth not being admitted), the last we saw as we made our bows and backed out of the doorway would be M. de Perrencourt standing in an easy and unconstrained attitude behind Madame's chair and manifesting no overpowering sense of the signal honour paid to him by the permission to remain. As may be supposed, a theory sprang up to account for the curious regard this gentleman commanded; it was put about (some said that Lord Arlington himself gave his authority for the report) that M. de Perrencourt was legal guardian to his cousin Mlle. de Querouaille, and that the King had discovered special reasons for conciliating the gentleman by every means, and took as much pains to please him as to gain favour with the lady herself. Here was a good reason for M. de Perrencourt's distinguished treatment, and no less for the composure and calm with which M. de Perrencourt accepted it. To my mind, however, the manner of M. de Perrencourt's arrival and the incident of M. Colbert's Star found scarcely a sufficient explanation in this ingenious conjecture; yet the story, thus circulated, was generally accepted and served its office of satisfying curiosity and blunting question well enough.

Again (for my curiosity would not be satisfied, nor the edge of my questioning be turned)—what had the Duke of Monmouth to gain from M. de Perrencourt? Something it seemed, or his conduct was most mysterious. He cared nothing for Mlle. de Querouaille, and I could not suppose that the mere desire to please his father would have weighed with him so strongly as to make him to all appearance the humble servant of this French gentleman. The thing was brought home most forcibly to my mind on the third evening after M. de Perrencourt's arrival. A private conference was held and lasted some hours; outside the closed doors we all paced to and fro, hearing nothing save now and then Madame's clear voice, raised, as it seemed, in exhortation or persuasion. The Duke, who was glad enough to escape the tedium of State affairs but at the same time visibly annoyed at his exclusion, sauntered listlessly up and down, speaking to nobody. Perceiving that he did not desire my company, I withdrew to a distance, and, having seated myself in a retired corner, was soon lost in consideration of my own fortunes past and to come. The hour grew late; the gentlemen and ladies of the Court, having offered and accepted compliments and gallantries till invention and complaisance alike were exhausted, dropped off one by one, in search of supper, wine, or rest. I sat on in my corner. Nothing was to be heard save the occasional voices of the two musketeers on guard on the steps leading from the second storey of the keep to the State apartments. I knew that I must move soon, for at night the gate on the stairs was shut. It was another of the peculiar facts about M. de Perrencourt that he alone of the gentlemen-in-waiting had been lodged within the precincts of the royal quarters, occupying an apartment next to the Duke of York, who had his sister Madame for his neighbour on the other side. The prolonged conference was taking place in the King's cabinet farther along the passage.

Suddenly I heard steps on the stairs, the word of the night was asked, and Monmouth's voice made answer "Saint Denis"; for just now everything was French in compliment to Madame. The steps continued to ascend; the light in the corridor was very dim, but a moment later I perceived Monmouth and Carford. Carford's arm was through his Grace's, and he seemed to be endeavouring to restrain him. Monmouth shook him off with a laugh and an oath.

"I'm not going to listen," he cried. "Why should I listen? Do I want to hear the King praying to the Virgin?"

"Silence, for God's sake, silence, your Grace," implored Carford.

"That's what he does, isn't it? He, and the Queen's Chaplain, and the——"

"Pray, sir!"

"And our good M. de Perrencourt, then?" He burst into a bitter laugh as he mentioned the gentleman's name.

I had heard more than was meant for my ears, and what was enough (if I may use a distinction drawn by my old friend the Vicar) for my understanding. I was in doubt whether to declare my presence or not. Had Monmouth been alone, I would have shown myself directly, but I did not wish Carford to be aware that I had overheard so much. I sat still a moment longer in hesitation; then I uttered a loud yawn, groaned, stretched myself, rose to my feet, and gave a sudden and very obvious start, as I let my eyes fall on the Duke.

"Why, Simon," he cried, "what brings you here?"

"I thought your Grace was in the King's cabinet," I answered.

"But you knew that I left them some hours since."

"Yes, but having lost sight of your Grace, I supposed that you'd returned, and while waiting for you I fell asleep."

My explanation abundantly satisfied the Duke; Carford maintained a wary silence.

"We're after other game than conferences to-night," said Monmouth, laughing again. "Go down to the hall and wait there for me, Simon. My lord and I are going to pay a visit to the ladies of Madame and the Duchess of York."

I saw that he was merry with wine; Carford had been drinking too, but he grew only more glum and malicious with his liquor. Neither their state nor the hour seemed fitted for the visit the Duke spoke of, but I was helpless, and with a bow took my way down the stairs to the hall below, where I sat down on the steps that led up to one of the loop-holes. A great chair, standing by the wall, served to hide me from observation. For a few moments nothing occurred. Then I heard a loud burst of laughter from above. Feet came running down the steps into the hall, and a girl in a white dress darted across the floor. I heard her laugh, and knew that she was Barbara Quinton. An instant later came Monmouth hot on her heels, and imploring her in extravagant words not to be so cruel and heartless as to fly from him. But where was Carford? I could only suppose that my lord had the discretion to stay behind when the Duke of Monmouth desired to speak with the lady whom my lord sought for his wife.

In my humble judgment, a very fine, large, and subtle volume might be composed on the canons of eavesdropping—when a man may listen, when he may not, and for how long he may, to what end, for what motives, in what causes, and on what provocations. It may be that the Roman Divines, who, as I understand, are greatly adept in the science of casuistry, have accomplished already the task I indicate. I know not; at least I have nowhere encountered the result of their labours. But now I sat still behind the great chair and listened without doubt or hesitation. Yet how long I could have controlled myself I know not, for his Grace made light of scruples that night and set bounds at nought. At first Mistress Barbara was merry with him, fencing and parrying, in confidence that he would use no roughness nor an undue vehemence. But on he went; and presently a note of alarm sounded in her voice as she prayed him to suffer her to depart and return to the Duchess, who must have need of her.

"Nay, I won't let you go, sweet mistress. Rather, I can't let you go."

"Indeed, sir, I must go," she said. "Come, I will call my Lord Carford, to aid me in persuading your Grace."

He laughed at the suggestion that a call for Carford would hinder him.

"He won't come," he said; "and if he came, he would be my ally, not yours."

She answered now haughtily and coldly:

"Sir, Lord Carford is a suitor for my hand. It is in your Grace's knowledge that he is."

"But he thinks a hand none the worse because I've kissed it," retorted Monmouth. "You don't know how amiable a husband you're to have, Mistress Barbara."

I was on my feet now, and, peering round the chair which hid me from them, I could see her standing against the wall, with Monmouth opposite to her. He offered to seize her hand, but she drew it away sharply. With a laugh he stepped nearer to her. A slight sound caught my ear, and, turning my head, I saw Carford on the lowest step of the stairs; he was looking at the pair, and a moment later stepped backwards, till he was almost hidden from my sight, though I could still make out the shape of his figure. A cry of triumph from Monmouth echoed low but intense through the hall; he had caught the elusive hand and was kissing it passionately. Barbara stood still and stiff. The Duke, keeping her hand still in his, said mockingly:

"You pretty fool, would you refuse fortune? Hark, madame, I am a King's son."

I saw no movement in her, but the light was dim. He went on, lowering his voice a little, yet not much.

"And I may be a King; stranger things have come to pass. Wouldn't you like to be a Queen?" He laughed as he put the question; he lacked the care or the cunning to make even a show of honesty.

"Let me go," I heard her whisper in a strained, timid voice.

"Well, for to-night you shall go, sweetheart, but not without a kiss, I swear."

She was frightened now and sought to propitiate him, saying gently and with attempted lightness,

"Your Grace has my hand prisoner. You can work your will on it."

"Your hand! I mean your lips this time," he cried in audacious insolence. He came nearer to her, his arm crept round her waist. I had endured what I could, yes, and as long as I could; for I was persuaded that I could serve her better by leaving her unaided for the moment. But my limit was reached; I stepped out from behind the chair. But in an instant I was back again. Monmouth had paused; in one hand he held Barbara's hand, the other rested on her girdle, but he turned his head and looked at the stairs. Voices had come from there; he had heard them as I had, as Barbara had.

"You can't pass out," had come in a blustering tone from Carford.

"Stand aside, sir," was the answer in a calm, imperative voice.

Carford hesitated for a single instant, then he seemed to shrink away, making himself small and leaving free passage for a man who came down the steps and walked confidently and briskly across the hall towards where the Duke stood with Barbara.

Above us, at the top of the stairs, there were the sound of voices and the tread of feet. The conference was broken up and the parties to it were talking in the passage on their way to regain their own apartments. I paid no heed to them; my eyes were fixed on the intruder who came so boldly and unabashed up to the Duke. I knew him now; he was M. de Perrencourt, Madame's gentleman.

Without wavering or pausing, straight he walked. Monmouth seemed turned to stone; I could see his face set and rigid, although light failed me to catch that look in the eyes by which you may best know a man's mood. Not a sound or a motion came from Carford. Barbara herself was stiff and still, her regard bent on M. de Perrencourt. He stood now directly over against her and Monmouth; it seemed long before he spoke. Indeed, I had looked for Monmouth's voice first, for an oath of vexation at the interruption, for a curse on the intruder and a haughty order to him to be gone and not interfere with what concerned his betters. No such word, nor any words, issued from the mouth of the Duke. And still M. de Perrencourt was silent. Carford stole covertly from the steps nearer to the group until, gliding across the hall, he was almost at the Frenchman's elbow. Still M. de Perrencourt was silent.

Slowly and reluctantly, as though in deference to an order that he loathed but dared not disobey, Monmouth drew his arm away; he loosed Barbara's hand, she drew back, leaning against the wall; the Duke stood with his arms by his side, looking at the man who interrupted his sport and seemed to have power to control his will. Then, at last, in crisp, curt, ungracious tones, M. de Perrencourt spoke.

"I thank you, Monsieur le Duc," said he. "I was sure that you would perceive your error soon. This is not the lady you supposed, this is Mistress Quinton. I desire to speak with her, pray give me leave."

The King would not have spoken in this style to his pampered son, and the Duke of York himself dared not have done it. But no touch of uneasiness or self-distrust appeared in M. de Perrencourt's smooth cutting speech. Truly he was high in Madame's confidence, and, likely enough, a great man in his own country; but, on my life, I looked to see the hot-tempered Duke strike him across the face. Even I, who had been about to interfere myself, by some odd momentary turn of feeling resented the insolence with which Monmouth was assailed. Would he not resent it much more for himself? No. For an instant I heard his quick breathing, the breathing of a man who fights anger, holding it under with great labour and struggling. Then he spoke; in his voice also there was passion hard held.

"Here, sir, and everywhere," he said, "you have only to command to be obeyed." Slowly he bent his head low, the gesture matching the humility of his words, while it emphasised their unwillingness.

The strange submission won no praise. M. de Perrencourt did not accord the speech so much courtesy as lay in an answer. His silent slight bow was all his acknowledgment; he stood there waiting for his command to be obeyed.

Monmouth turned once towards Barbara, but his eyes came back to M. de Perrencourt. Carford advanced to him and offered his arm. The Duke laid his hand on his friend's shoulder. For a moment they stood still thus, then both bowed low to M. de Perrencourt, who answered with another of his slight inclinations of the head. They turned and walked out of the hall, the Duke seeming almost to stagger and to lean on Carford, as though to steady his steps. As they went they passed within two yards of me, and I saw Monmouth's face pale with rage. With a long indrawing of my breath I drew back into the shadow of my shelter. They passed, the hall was empty save for myself and the two who stood there by the wall.

I had no thought now of justifying my part of eavesdropper. Scruples were drowned in excitement; keen interest bound me to my place with chains of iron. My brain was full of previous suspicion thrice magnified; all that was mysterious in this man came back to me; the message I had surprised at Canterbury ran echoing through my head again and again. Yet I bent myself to the task of listening, resolute to catch every word. Alas, my efforts were in vain! M. de Perrencourt was of different clay from his Grace the Duke. He was indeed speaking now, but so low and warily that no more than a gentle murmur reached my ears. Nor did his gestures aid; they were as far from Monmouth's jovial violence as his tones from the Duke's reckless exclaiming. He was urgent but courteous, most insistent yet most deferential. Monmouth claimed and challenged, M. de Perrencourt seemed to beseech and woo. Yet he asked as though none could refuse, and his prayer presumed a favourable answer. Barbara listened in quiet; I could not tell whether fear alone bound her, or whether the soft courtly voice bred fascination also. I was half-mad that I could not hear, and had much ado not to rush out, unprovoked, and defy the man before whom my master had bowed almost to the ground, beaten and dismayed.

At last she spoke a few hurried imploring words.

"No, no," she panted. "No; pray leave me. No."

M. de Perrencourt answered gently and beseechingly,

"Nay, say 'Not yet,' madame."

They were silent again, he seeming to regard her intently. Suddenly she covered her face with her hands; yet, dropping her hands almost immediately, she set her eyes on his; I saw him shake his head.

"For to-night, then, good-night, fairest lady," said he. He took her hand and kissed it lightly, bowing very low and respectfully, she looking down at him as he stooped. Then he drew away from her, bowing again and repeating again,

"For to-night, good-night."

With this he turned towards the stairs, crossing the hall with the same brisk, confident tread that had marked his entry. He left her, but it looked as though she were indulged, not he defeated. At the lowest step he paused, turned, bowed low again. This time she answered with a deep and sweeping curtsey. Then he was gone, and she was leaning by the wall again, her face buried in her hands. I heard her sob, and her broken words reached me: