I would have given my ears not to have said it; what availed that? A thing said is a thing done, and stands for ever amid the irrevocable. For an instant her eyes flashed in anger; then she flushed suddenly, her lips trembled, her eyes grew dim, yet through the dimness mirth peeped out.

"I dared not hope you'd pass," she whispered.

"I am the greatest villain in the world!" I cried. "Barbara, you had no thought that I should pass!"

Again came silence. Then I spoke, and softly:

"And you—is it long since you——?"

She held out her hands towards me, and in an instant was in my arms. First she hid her face, but then drew herself back as far as the circle of my arm allowed. Her dark eyes met mine full and direct in a confession that shamed me but shamed her no more; her shame was swallowed in the sweet pride of surrender.

"Always," said she, "always; from the first through all; always, always." It seemed that though she could not speak that word enough.

In truth I could scarcely believe it; save when I looked in her eyes, I could not believe it.

"But I wouldn't tell you," she said. "I swore you should never know. Simon, do you remember how you left me?"

It seemed that I must play penitent now.

"I was too young to know——" I began.

"I was younger and not too young," she cried. "And all through those days at Dover I didn't know. And when we were together I didn't know. Ah, Simon, when I flung your guinea in the sea, you must have known!"

"On my faith, no," I laughed. "I didn't see the love in that, sweetheart."

"I'm glad there was no woman there to tell you what it meant," said Barbara. "And even at Canterbury I didn't know. Simon, what brought you to my door that night?"

I answered her plainly, more plainly than I could at any other time, more plainly, it may be, than even then I should:

"She bade me follow her, and I followed her so far."

"You followed her?"

"Ay. But I heard your voice through the door, and stopped."

"You stopped for my voice; what did I say?"

"You sung how a lover had forsaken his love. And I heard and stayed."

"Ah, why didn't you tell me then?"

"I was afraid, sweetheart."

"Of what? Of what?"

"Why, of you. You had been so cruel."

Barbara's head, still strained far as could be from mine, now drew nearer by an ace, and then she launched at me the charge of most enormity, the indictment that justified all my punishment.

"You had kissed her before my eyes, here, sir, where we are now, in my own Manor Park," said Barbara.

I took my arms from about her, and fell humbly on my knee.

"May I kiss so much as your hand?" said I in utter abasement.

She put it suddenly, eagerly, hurriedly to my lips.

"Why did she write to me?" she whispered.

"Nay, love, I don't know."

"But I know. Simon, she loves you."

"It would afford no reason if she did. And I think——"

"It would and she does. Simon, of course she does."

"I think rather that she was sorry for——"

"Not for me!" cried Barbara with great vehemence. "I will not have her sorry for me!"

"For you!" I exclaimed in ridicule. (It does not matter what I had been about to say before.) "For you! How should she? She wouldn't dare!"

"No," said Barbara. One syllable can hold a world of meaning.

"A thousand times, no!" cried I.

The matter was thus decided. Yet now, in quiet blood and in the secrecy of my own soul, shall I ask wherefore the letter came from Mistress Gwyn, to whom the shortest letter was no light matter, and to let even a humble man go some small sacrifice? And why did it come to Barbara and not to me? And why did it not say "Simon, she loves you," rather than the words that I now read, Barbara permitting me: "Pretty fool, he loves you." Let me not ask; not even now would Barbara bear to think that it was written in pity for her.

"Yes, she pitied you and so she wrote; and she loves you," said Barbara.

I let it pass. Shall a man never learn wisdom?

"Tell me now," said I, "why I may not see Carford?"

Her lips curved in a smile; she held her head high, and her eyes were triumphant.

"You may see Lord Carford as soon as you will, Simon," said she.

"But a few minutes ago——" I began, much puzzled.

"A few minutes!" cried Barbara reproachfully.

"A whole lifetime ago, sweetheart!"

"And shall that make no changes?"

"A whole lifetime ago you were ready to die sooner than let me see him."

"Simon, you're very——He knew, I told him."

"You told him?" I cried. "Before you told me?"

"He asked me before," said Barbara.

I did not grudge her that retort; every jot of her joy was joy to me, and her triumph my delight.

"How did I dare to tell him?" she asked herself softly. "Ah, but how have I contrived not to tell all the world? How wasn't it plain in my face?"

"It was most profoundly hidden," I assured her. Indeed from me it had been; but Barbara's wit had yet another answer.

"You were looking in another face," said she. Then, as the movement of my hands protested, remorse seized on her, and catching my hand she cried impulsively, "I'll never speak of it again, Simon."

Now I was not so much ashamed of the affair as to demand that utter silence on it; in which point lies a difference between men and women. To have wandered troubles our consciences little, when we have come to the right path again; their pride stands so strong in constancy as sometimes (I speak in trembling) even to beget an oblivion of its falterings and make what could not have been as if it had not. But now was not the moment for excuse, and I took my pardon with all gratitude and with full allowance of my offence's enormity.

Then we determined that Carford must immediately be sought, and set out for the house with intent to find him. But our progress was very slow, and the moon rose in the skies before we stepped out on to the avenue and came in sight of the house and the terrace. There was so much to tell, so much that had to slough off its old seeming and take on new and radiant apparel—things that she had understood and not I, that I had caught and she missed, wherein both of us had gone astray most lamentably and now stood aghast at our own sightlessness. Therefore never were our feet fairly in movement towards the house but a sudden—"Do you remember?" gave them pause again: then came shame that I had forgotten, or indignation that Barbara should be thought to have forgotten, and in both of these cases the need for expiation, and so forth. The moon was high in heaven when we stepped into the avenue and came in sight of the terrace.

On the instant, with a low cry of surprise and alarm, Barbara caught me by the arm, while she pointed to the terrace. The sight might well turn us even from our engrossing interchange of memories. There were four men on the terrace, their figures standing out dense and black against the old grey walls, which seemed white in the moonlight. Two stood impassive and motionless, with hands at their sides; at their feet lay what seemed bundles of clothes. The other two were in their shirts; they were opposite one another, and their swords were in their hands. I could not doubt the meaning; while love held me idle, anger had lent Fontelles speed; while I sought to perfect my joy, he had been hot to avenge his wounded honour. I did not know who were the two that watched unless they were servants; Fontelles' fierce mood would not stand for the niceties of etiquette. Now I could recognise the Frenchman's bearing and even see Carford's face, although distance hid its expression. I was amazed and at a loss what to do. How could I stop them and by what right? But then Barbara gave a little sob and whispered:

"My mother lies sick in the house."

It was enough to loose my bound limbs. I sprang forward and set out at a run. I had not far to go and lost no time; but I would not cry out lest I might put one off his guard and yet not arrest the other's stroke. For the steel flashed, and they fought, under the eyes of the quiet servants. I was near to them now and already wondering how best to interpose, when, in an instant, the Frenchman lunged, Carford cried out, his sword dropped from his hand, and he fell heavily on the gravel of the terrace. The servants rushed forward and knelt down beside him. M. de Fontelles did not leave his place, but stood, with the point of his naked sword on the ground, looking at the man who had put an affront on him and whom he had now chastised. The sudden change that took me from love's pastimes to a scene so stern deprived me of speech for a moment. I ran to Fontelles and faced him, panting but saying nothing. He turned his eyes on me: they were calm, but shone still with the heat of contest and the sternness of resentment. He raised his sword and pointed with it towards where Carford lay.

"My lord there," said he, "knew a thing that hurt my honour, and did not warn me of it. He knew that I was made a tool and did not tell me. He knew that I was used for base purposes and sought to use me for his own also. He has his recompense."

Then he stepped across to where the green bank sloped down to the terrace and, falling on one knee, wiped his blade on the grass.



CHAPTER XXIV

A COMEDY BEFORE THE KING

On the next day but one M. de Fontelles and I took the road for London together. Carford lay between life and death (for the point had pierced his lung) at the inn to which we had carried him; he could do no more harm and occasion us no uneasiness. On the other hand, M. de Fontelles was anxious to seek out the French Ambassador, with whom he was on friendly terms, and enlist his interest, first to excuse the abandonment of his mission, and in the second place to explain the circumstances of his duel with Carford. In this latter task he asked my aid since I alone, saving the servants, had been a witness of the encounter, and Fontelles, recognising (now that his rage was past) that he had been wrong to force his opponent to a meeting under such conditions, prayed my testimony to vindicate his reputation. I could not deny him, and moreover, though it grieved me to be absent from Quinton Manor, I felt that Barbara's interests and my own might be well served by a journey to London. No news had come from my lord, and I was eager to see him and bring him over to my side; the disposition of the King was also a matter of moment and of uncertainty; would he still seek to gain for M. de Perrencourt what that exacting gentleman required, or would he now abandon the struggle in which his instruments had twice failed him? His Majesty should now be returning from Dover, and I made up my mind to go to Court and learn from him the worst and the best of what I might look for. Nay, I will not say that the pure desire to see him face to face had not weight with me; for I believed that he had a liking for me, and that I should obtain from him better terms in my own person than if my cause were left in the hands of those who surrounded him.

When we were come to London (and I pray that it be observed and set down to my credit that, thinking there was enough of love-making in this history, I have spared any narrative of my farewell to Barbara, although on my soul it was most moving) M. de Fontelles at once sought the Ambassador's, taking my promise to come there as soon as his summons called, while I betook myself to the lodging which I had shared with Darrell before we went to Dover. I hoped to find him there and renew our friendship; my grudge was for his masters, and I am not for making an enemy of a man who does what his service demands of him. I was not disappointed; Robert opened the door to me, and Darrell himself sprang to his feet in amazement at the sound of my name. I laughed heartily and flung myself into a chair, saying:

"How goes the Treaty of Dover?"

He ran to the door and tried it; it was close-shut.

"The less you say of that, the safer you'll be," said he.

"Oho," thought I, "then I'm not going to market empty-handed! If I want to buy, it seems that I have something to sell." And smiling very good-humouredly I said:

"What, is there a secret in it?"

Darrell came up to me and held out his hand.

"On my life," said he, "I didn't know you were interested in the lady, Simon, or I wouldn't have taken a hand in the affair."

"On my life," said I, "I'm obliged to you. What of Mlle. de Querouaille?"

"She has returned with Madame."

"But will return without Madame?"

"Who knows?" he asked with a smile that he could not smother.

"God and the King," said I. "What of M. de Perrencourt?"

"Your tongue's hung so loose, Simon, that one day it'll hang you tight."

"Enough, enough. What then of Phineas Tate?"

"He is on board ship on his way to the plantations. He'll find plenty to preach to there."

"What? Why, there's never a Papist sent now! He'll mope to death. What of the Duke of Monmouth?"

"He has found out Carford."

"He has? Then he has found out the Secretary also?"

"There is indeed a distance between his Grace and my lord," Darrell admitted.

"When rogues fall out! A fine saying that, Darrell. And what of the King?"

"My lord tells me that the King swears he won't sleep o' nights till he has laid a certain troublesome fellow by the heels."

"And where is that same troublesome fellow?"

"So near me that, did I serve the King as I ought, Robert would now be on his way with news for my Lord Arlington."

"Then His Majesty's sentiments are mighty unkind towards me? Be at peace, Darrell. I am come to London to seek him."

"To seek him? Are you mad? You'll follow Phineas Tate!"

"But I have a boon to ask of the King. I desire him to use his good offices with my Lord Quinton. For I am hardly a fit match for my lord's daughter, and yet I would make her my wife."

"I wonder," observed Darrell, "that you, Simon, who, being a heretic, must go to hell when you die, are not more careful of your life."

Then we both fell to laughing.

"Another thing brings me to London," I pursued. "I must see Mistress Gwyn."

He raised his hands over his head.

"Fill up the measure," said he. "The King knows you came to London with her and is more enraged at that than all the rest."

"Does he know what happened on the journey?"

"Why, no, Simon," smiled Darrell. "The matter is just that. The King does not know what happened on the journey."

"He must learn it," I declared. "To-morrow I'll seek Mistress Gwyn. You shall send Robert to take her pleasure as to the hour when I shall wait on her."

"She's in a fury with the King, as he with her."

"On what account?"

"Already, friend Simon, you're too wise."

"By Heaven, I know! It's because Mlle. de Querouaille is so good a Catholic?"

Darrell had no denial ready. He shrugged his shoulders and sat silent.

Now although I had told Barbara that it was my intention to ask an audience from the King, I had not disclosed my purpose of seeing Mistress Nell. Yet it was firm in my mind—for courtesy's sake. Of a truth she had done me great service. Was I to take it as though it were my right, with never a word of thanks? Curiosity also drew me, and that attraction which she never lost for me, nor, as I believe, for any man whose path she crossed. I was sure of myself, and did not fear to go. Yet memory was not dead in me, and I went in a species of excitement, the ghost of old feelings dead but not forgotten. When a man has loved, and sees her whom he loves no more, he will not be indifferent; angry he may be, or scornful, amused he may be, and he should be tender; but it will not be as though he had not loved. Yet I had put a terrible affront on her, and it might be that she would not receive me.

As I live, I believe that but for one thing she would not. That turned her, by its appeal to her humour. When I came to the house in Chelsea, I was conducted into a small ante-chamber, and there waited long. There were voices speaking in the next room, but I could not hear their speech. Yet I knew Nell's voice; it had for me always—ay, still—echoes of the past. But now there was something which barred its way to my heart.

The door in front of me opened, and she was in the room with me. There she was, curtseying low in mock obeisance and smiling whimsically.

"A bold man!" she cried. "What brings you here? Art not afraid?"

"Afraid that I am not welcome, yet not afraid to come."

"A taunt wrapped in civility! I do not love it."

"Mistress Nell, I came to thank you for the greatest kindness——"

"If it be kindness to help you to a fool!" said Mistress Nell. "What, besides your thanks to me, brings you to town?"

I must forgive her the style in which she spoke of Barbara. I answered with a smile:

"I must see the King. I don't know his purposes about me. Besides, I desire that he should help me to my—fool."

"If you're wise you'll keep out of his sight." Then she began to laugh. "Nay, but I don't know," said she. Then with a swift movement she was by me, catching at my coat and turning up to me a face full of merriment. "Shall we play a comedy?" she asked.

"As you will. What shall be my part?"

"I'll give you a pretty part, Simon. Your face is very smooth; nay, do not fear, I remember so well that I needn't try again. You shall be this French lady of whom they speak."

"I the French lady! God forbid!"

"Nay, but you shall, Simon. And I'll be the King. Nay, I say, don't be afraid. I swear you tried to run away then!"

"Is it not prescribed as the best cure for temptation?"

"Alas, you're not tempted!" she said with a pout. "But there's another part in the comedy."

"Besides the King and Mademoiselle?"

"Why, yes—and a great part."

"Myself by chance?"

"You! No! What should you do in the play? It is I—I myself."

"True, true. I forgot you, Mistress Nell."

"You did forget me, Simon. But I must spare you, for you will have heard that same charge of fickleness from Mistress Quinton, and it is hard to hear it from two at once. But who shall play my part?"

"Indeed I can think of none equal to it."

"The King shall play it!" she cried with a triumphant laugh, and stood opposite to me, the embodiment of merry triumph. "Do you catch the plot of my piece, Simon?"

"I am very dull," I confessed.

"It's your condition, not your nature, Simon," Nell was so good as to say. "A man in love is always dull, save to one woman, and she's stark-mad. Come, can you feign an inclination for me, or have you forgot the trick?"

At the moment she spoke the handle of the door turned. Again it turned and was rattled.

"I locked it," whispered Nell, her eyes full of mischief.

Again, and most impatiently, the handle was twisted to and fro.

"Pat, pat, how pat he comes!" she whispered.

A last loud rattle followed, then a voice cried in anger, "Open it, I bid you open it."

"God help us!" I exclaimed in sad perplexity. "It's the King?"

"Yes, it's the King, and, Simon, the piece begins. Look as terrified as you can. It's the King."

"Open, I say, open!" cried the King, with a thundering knock.

I understood now that he had been in the other room, and that she had left his society to come to me; but I understood only dimly why she had locked the door, and why she now was so slow in opening it. Yet I set my wits to work, and for further aid watched her closely. She was worth the watching. Without aid of paints or powders, of scene or theatre, she transformed her air, her manner, ay, her face also. Alarm and terror showed in her eyes as she stole in fearful fashion across the room, unlocked the door, and drew it open, herself standing by it, stiff and rigid, in what seemed shame or consternation. The agitation she feigned found some reality in me. I was not ready for the thing, although I had been warned by the voice outside. When the King stood in the doorway, I wished myself a thousand miles away.

The King was silent for several moments; he seemed to me to repress a passion which, let loose, might hurry him to violence. When he spoke, he was smiling ironically, and his voice was calm.

"How comes this gentleman here?" he asked.

The terror that Nell had so artfully assumed she appeared now, with equal art, to defy or conquer. She answered him with angry composure.

"Why shouldn't Mr. Dale be here, Sir?" she asked. "Am I to see no friends? Am I to live all alone?"

"Mr Dale is no friend of mine——"

"Sir——" I began, but his raised hand stayed me.

"And you have no need of friends when I am here."

"Your Majesty," said she, "came to say farewell; Mr Dale was but half an hour too soon."

This answer showed me the game. If he had come to bid her farewell—why, I understood now the parts in the comedy. If he left her for the Frenchwoman, why should she not turn to Simon Dale? The King bit his lip. He also understood her answer.

"You lose no time, mistress," he said, with an uneasy laugh.

"I've lost too much already," she flashed back.

"With me?" he asked, and was answered by a sweeping curtsey and a scornful smile.

"You're a bold man, Mr Dale," said he. "I knew it before, and am now most convinced of it."

"I didn't expect to meet your Majesty here," said I sincerely.

"I don't mean that. You're bold to come here at all."

"Mistress Gwyn is very kind to me," said I. I would play my part and would not fail her, and I directed a timid yet amorous glance at Nell. The glance reached Nell, but on its way it struck the King. He was patient of rivals, they said, but he frowned now and muttered an oath. Nell broke into sudden laughter. It sounded forced and unreal. It was meant so to sound.

"We're old friends," said she, "Simon and I. We were friends before I was what I am. We're still friends, now that I am what I am. Mr Dale escorted me from Dover to London."

"He is an attentive squire," sneered the King.

"He hardly left my side," said Nell.

"You were hampered with a companion?"

"Of a truth I hardly noticed it," cried Nelly with magnificent falsehood. I seconded her efforts with a shrug and a cunning smile.

"I begin to understand," said the King. "And when my farewell has been said, what then?"

"I thought that it had been said half an hour ago," she exclaimed. "Wasn't it?"

"You were anxious to hear it, and so seemed to hear it," said he uneasily.

She turned to me with a grave face and tender eyes.

"Didn't I tell you here, just now, how the King parted from me?"

I was to take the stage now, it seemed.

"Ay, you told me," said I, playing the agitated lover as best I could. "You told me that—that—but I cannot speak before His Majesty." And I ended in a most rare confusion.

"Speak, sir," he commanded harshly and curtly.

"You told me," said I in low tones, "that the King left you. And I said I was no King, but that you need not be left alone." My eyes fell to the ground in pretended fear.

The swiftest glance from Nell applauded me. I would have been sorry for him and ashamed for myself, had I not remembered M. de Perrencourt and our voyage to Calais. In that thought I steeled myself to hardness and bade conscience be still.

A long silence followed. Then the King drew near to Nell. With a rare stroke of skill she seemed to shrink away from him and edged towards me, as though she would take refuge in my arms from his anger or his coldness.

"Come, I've never hurt you, Nelly!" said he.

Alas, that art should outstrip nature! Never have I seen portrayed so finely the resentment of a love that, however greatly wounded, is still love, that even in turning away longs to turn back, that calls even in forbidding, and in refusing breathes the longing to assent. Her feet still came towards me, but her eyes were on the King.

"You sent me away," she whispered as she moved towards me and looked where the King was.

"I was in a temper," said he. Then he turned to me, saying "Pray leave us, sir."

I take it that I must have obeyed, but Nell sprang suddenly forward, caught my hand, and holding it faced the King.

"He shan't go; or, if you send him away, I'll go with him."

The King frowned heavily, but did not speak. She went on, choking down a sob—ay, a true sob; the part she played moved her, and beneath her acting there was a reality. She fought for her power over him and now was the test of it.

"Will you take my friendships from me as well as my——? Oh, I won't endure it!"

She had given him his hint in the midst of what seemed her greatest wrath. His frown persisted, but a smile bent his lips again.

"Mr Dale," said he, "it is hard to reason with a lady before another gentleman. I was wrong to bid you go. But will you suffer me to retire to that room again?"

I bowed low.

"And," he went on, "will you excuse our hostess' presence for awhile?"

I bowed again.

"No, I won't go with you," cried Nell.

"Nay, but, Nelly, you will," said he, smiling now. "Come, I'm old and mighty ugly, and Mr Dale is a strapping fellow. You must be kind to the unfortunate, Nelly."

She was holding my hand still. The King took hers. Very slowly and reluctantly she let him draw her away. I did what seemed best to do; I sighed very heavily and plaintively, and bowed in sad submission.

"Wait till we return," said the King, and his tone was kind.

They passed out together, and I, laughing yet ashamed to laugh, flung myself in a chair. She would not keep him for herself alone; nay, as all the world knows, she made but a drawn battle of it with the Frenchwoman; but the disaster and utter defeat which had threatened her she had averted, jealousy had achieved what love could not, he would not let her go now, when another's arms seemed open for her. To this success I had helped her. On my life I was glad to have helped her. But I did not yet see how I had helped my own cause.

I was long in the room alone, and though the King had bidden me await his return, he did not come again. Nell came alone, laughing, radiant and triumphant; she caught me by both hands, and swiftly, suddenly, before I knew, kissed me on the cheek. Nay, come, let me be honest; I knew a short moment before, but on my honour I could not avoid it courteously.

"We've won," she cried. "I have what I desire, and you, Simon, are to seek him at Whitehall. He has forgiven you all your sins and—yes, he'll give you what favour you ask. He has pledged his word to me."

"Does he know what I shall ask?"

"No, no, not yet. Oh, that I could see his face! Don't spare him, Simon. Tell him—why, tell him all the truth—every word of it, the stark bare truth."

"How shall I say it?"

"Why, that you love, and have ever loved, and will ever love Mistress Barbara Quinton, and that you love not, and will never love, and have never loved, no, nor cared the price of a straw for Eleanor Gwyn."

"Is that the whole truth?" said I.

She was holding my hands still; she pressed them now and sighed lightly.

"Why, yes, it's the whole truth. Let it be the whole truth, Simon. What matters that a man once lived when he's dead, or once loved when he loves no more?"

"Yet I won't tell him more than is true," said I.

"You'll be ashamed to say anything else?" she whispered, looking up into my face.

"Now, by Heaven, I'm not ashamed," said I, and I kissed her hand.

"You're not?"

"No, not a whit. I think I should be ashamed, had my heart never strayed to you."

"Ah, but you say 'strayed'!"

I made her no answer, but asked forgiveness with a smile. She drew her hand sharply away, crying,

"Go your ways, Simon Dale, go your ways; go to your Barbara, and your Hatchstead, and your dulness, and your righteousness."

"We part in kindness?" I urged.

For a moment I thought she would answer peevishly, but the mood passed, and she smiled sincerely on me as she replied:

"Ay, in all loving-kindness, Simon; and when you hear the sour gird at me, say—why, say, Simon, that even a severe gentleman, such as you are, once found some good in Nelly. Will you say that for me?"

"With all my heart."

"Nay, I care not what you say," she burst out, laughing again. "Begone, begone! I swore to the King that I would speak but a dozen words to you. Begone!"

I bowed and turned towards the door. She flew to me suddenly, as if to speak, but hesitated. I waited for her; at last she spoke, with eyes averted and an unusual embarrassment in her air.

"If—if you're not ashamed to speak my name to Mistress Barbara, tell her I wish her well, and pray her to think as kindly of me as she can."

"She has much cause to think kindly," said I.

"And will therefore think unkindly! Simon, I bid you begone."

She held out her hand to me, and I kissed it again.

"This time we part for good and all," said she. "I've loved you, and I've hated you, and I have nearly loved you. But it is nothing to be loved by me, who love all the world."

"Nay, it's something," said I. "Fare you well."

I passed out, but turned to find her eyes on me. She was laughing and nodding her head, swaying to and fro on her feet as her manner was. She blew me a kiss from her lips. So I went, and my life knew her no more.

But when the strict rail on sinners, I guard my tongue for the sake of Nelly and the last kiss she gave me on my cheek.



CHAPTER XXV

THE MIND OF M. DE FONTELLES

As I made my way through the Court nothing seemed changed; all was as I had seen it when I came to lay down the commission that Mistress Gwyn had got me. They were as careless, as merry, as shameless as before; the talk then had been of Madame's coming, now it was of her going; they talked of Dover and what had passed there, but the treaty was dismissed with a shrug, and the one theme of interest, and the one subject of wagers, was whether or how soon Mlle. de Querouaille would return to the shores and the monarch she had left. In me distaste now killed curiosity; I pushed along as fast as the throng allowed me, anxious to perform my task and be quit of them all as soon as I could. My part there was behind me; the prophecy was fulfilled, and my ambitions quenched. Yet I had a pleasure in the remaining scene of the comedy which I was to play with the King; I was amused also to see how those whom I knew to be in the confidence of the Duke of York and of Arlington eyed me with mingled fear and wariness, and hid distrust under a most deferential civility. They knew, it seemed, that I had guessed their secrets. But I was not afraid of them, for I was no more their rival in the field of intrigue or in their assault upon the King's favour. I longed to say to them, "Be at peace. In an hour from now you will see my face no more."

The King sat in his chair, alone save for one gentleman who stood beside him. I knew the Earl of Rochester well by repute, and had been before now in the same company, although, as it chanced, I had never yet spoken with him. I looked for the King's brother and for Monmouth, but neither was to be seen. Having procured a gentleman to advise the King of my presence, I was rewarded by being beckoned to approach immediately. But when he had brought me there, he gave me no more than a smile, and, motioning me to stand by him, continued his conversation with my Lord Rochester and his caresses of the little dog on his lap.

"In defining it as the device by which the weak intimidate the strong," observed Rochester, "the philosopher declared the purpose of virtue rather than its effect. For the strong are not intimidated, while the weak, falling slaves to their own puppet, grow more helpless still."

"It's a just retribution on them," said the King, "for having invented a thing so tiresome."

"In truth, Sir, all these things that make virtue are given a man for his profit, and that he may not go empty-handed into the mart of the world. He has stuff for barter; he can give honour for pleasure, morality for money, religion for power."

The King raised his brows and smiled again, but made no remark. Rochester bowed courteously to me, as he added:

"Is it not as I say, sir?" and awaited my reply.

"It's better still, my lord," I answered. "For he can make these bargains you speak of, and, by not keeping them, have his basket still full for another deal."

Again the King smiled as he patted his dog.

"Very just, sir, very just," nodded Rochester. "Thus by breaking a villainous bargain he is twice a villain, and preserves his reputation to aid him in the more effectual cheating of his neighbour."

"And the damning of his own soul," said the King softly.

"Your Majesty is Defender of the Faith. I will not meddle with your high office," said Rochester with a laugh. "For my own part I suffer from a hurtful sincerity; being known for a rogue by all the town, I am become the most harmless fellow in your Majesty's dominions. As Mr Dale here says—I have the honour of being acquainted with your name, sir—my basket is empty and no man will deal with me."

"There are women left you," said the King.

"It is more expense than profit," sighed the Earl. "Although indeed the kind creatures will most readily give for nothing what is worth as much."

"So that the sum of the matter," said the King, "is that he who refuses no bargain however iniquitous and performs none however binding——"

"Is a king among men, Sir," interposed Rochester with a low bow, "even as your Majesty is here in Whitehall."

"And by the same title?"

"Ay, the same Right Divine. What think you of my reasoning, Mr Dale?"

"I do not know, my lord, whence you came by it, unless the Devil has published a tract on the matter."

"Nay, he has but circulated it among his friends," laughed Rochester. "For he is in no need of money from the booksellers since he has a grant from God of the customs of the world for his support."

"The King must have the Customs," smiled Charles. "I have them here in England. But the smugglers cheat me."

"And the penitents him, Sir. Faith, these Holy Churches run queer cargoes past his officers—or so they say;" and with another bow to the King, and one of equal courtesy to me, he turned away and mingled in the crowd that walked to and fro.

The King sat some while silent, lazily pulling the dog's coat with his fingers. Then he looked up at me.

"Wild talk, Mr Dale," said he, "yet perhaps not all without a meaning."

"There's meaning enough, Sir. It's not that I miss."

"No, but perhaps you do. I have made many bargains; you don't praise all of them?"

"It's not for me to judge the King's actions."

"I wish every man were as charitable, or as dutiful. But—shall I empty my basket? You know of some of my bargains. The basket is not emptied yet."

I looked full in his face; he did not avoid my regard, but sat there smiling in a bitter amusement.

"You are the man of reservations," said he. "I remember them. Be at peace and hold your place. For listen to me, Mr Dale."

"I am listening to your Majesty's words."

"It will be time enough for you to open your mouth when I empty my basket."

His words, and even more the tone in which he spoke and the significant glance of his eyes, declared his meaning. The bargain that I knew of I need not betray nor denounce till he fulfilled it. When would he fulfil it? He would not empty his basket, but still have something to give when he dealt with the King of France. I wondered that he should speak to me so openly; he knew that I wondered, yet, though his smile was bitter, he smiled still.

I bowed to him and answered:

"I am no talker, Sir, of matters too great for me."

"That's well. I know you for a gentleman of great discretion, and I desire to serve you. You have something to ask of me, Mr Dale?"

"The smallest thing in the world for your Majesty, and the greatest for me."

"A pattern then that I wish all requests might follow. Let me hear it."

"It is no more than your Majesty's favour for my efforts to win the woman whom I love."

He started a little, and for the first time in all the conversation ceased to fondle the little dog.

"The woman whom you love? Well, sir, and does she love you?"

"She has told me so, Sir."

"Then at least she wished you to believe it. Do I know this lady?"

"Very well, sir," I answered in a very significant tone.

He was visibly perturbed. A man come to his years will see a ready rival in every youth, however little other attraction there may be. But perhaps I had treated him too freely already; and now he used me well. I would keep up the jest no longer.

"Once, Sir," I said, "for a while I loved where the King loved, even as I drank of his cup."

"I know, Mr Dale. But you say 'once.'"

"It is gone by, Sir."

"But, yesterday?" he exclaimed abruptly.

"She is a great comedian, Sir; but I fear I seconded her efforts badly."

He did not answer for a moment, but began again to play with the dog. Then raising his eyes to mine he said:

"You were well enough; she played divinely, Mr Dale."

"She played for life, Sir."

"Ay, poor Nelly loves me," said he softly. "I had been cruel to her. But I won't weary you with my affairs. What would you?"

"Mistress Gwyn, Sir, has been very kind to me."

"So I believe," remarked the King.

"But my heart, Sir, is now and has been for long irrevocably set on another."

"On my faith, Mr Dale, and speaking as one man to another, I'm glad to hear it. Was it so at Canterbury?"

"More than ever before, Sir. For she was there and——"

"I know she was there."

"Nay, Sir, I mean the other, her whom I love, her whom I now woo. I mean Mistress Barbara Quinton, Sir."

The King looked down and frowned; he patted his dog, he looked up again, frowning still. Then a queer smile bent his lips and he said in a voice which was most grave, for all his smile,

"You remember M. de Perrencourt?"

"I remember M. de Perrencourt very well, Sir."

"It was by his choice, not mine, Mr Dale, that you set out for Calais."

"So I understood at the time, Sir."

"And he is believed, both by himself and others, to choose his men—perhaps you will allow me to say his instruments, Mr Dale—better than any Prince in Christendom. So you would wed Mistress Quinton? Well, sir, she is above your station."

"I was to have been made her husband, Sir."

"Nay, but she's above your station," he repeated, smiling at my retort, but conceiving that it needed no answer.

"She's not above your Majesty's persuasion, or, rather, her father is not. She needs none."

"You do not err in modesty, Mr Dale."

"How should I, Sir, I who have drunk of the King's cup?"

"So that we should be friends."

"And known what the King hid?"

"So that we must stand or fall together?"

"And loved where the King loved?"

He made no answer to that, but sat silent for a great while. I was conscious that many eyes were on us, in wonder that I was so long with him, in speculation on what our business might be and whence came the favour that gained me such distinction. I paid little heed, for I was seeking to follow the thoughts of the King and hoping that I had won him to my side. I asked only leave to lead a quiet life with her whom I loved, setting bounds at once to my ambition and to the plans which he had made concerning her. Nay, I believe that I might have claimed some hold over him, but I would not. A gentleman may not levy hush-money however fair the coins seem in his eyes. Yet I feared that he might suspect me, and I said:

"To-day, I leave the town, Sir, whether I have what I ask of you or not; and whether I have what I ask of you or not I am silent. If your Majesty will not grant it me, yet, in all things that I may be, I am your loyal subject."

To all this—perhaps it rang too solemn, as the words of a young man are apt to at the moments when his heart is moved—he answered nothing, but looking up with a whimsical smile said,

"Tell me now; how do you love this Mistress Quinton?"

At this I fell suddenly into a fit of shame and bashful embarrassment. The assurance that I had gained at Court forsook me, and I was tongue-tied as any calf-lover.

"I—I don't know," I stammered.

"Nay, but I grow old. Pray tell me, Mr Dale," he urged, beginning to laugh at my perturbation.

For my life I could not; it seems to me that the more a man feels a thing the harder it is for him to utter; sacred things are secret, and the hymn must not be heard save by the deity.

The King suddenly bent forward and beckoned. Rochester was passing by, with him now was the Duke of Monmouth. They approached; I bowed low to the Duke, who returned my salute most cavalierly. He had small reason to be pleased with me, and his brow was puckered. The King seemed to find fresh amusement in his son's bearing, but he made no remark on it, and, addressing himself to Rochester, said:

"Here, my lord, is a young gentleman much enamoured of a lovely and most chaste maiden. I ask him what this love of his is—for my memory fails—and behold he cannot tell me! In case he doesn't know what it is that he feels, I pray you tell him."

Rochester looked at me with an ironical smile.

"Am I to tell what love is?" he asked.

"Ay, with your utmost eloquence," answered the King, laughing still and pinching his dog's ears.

Rochester twisted his face in a grimace, and looked appealingly at the King.

"There's no escape; to-day I am a tyrant," said the King.

"Hear then, youths," said Rochester, and his face was smoothed into a pensive and gentle expression. "Love is madness and the only sanity, delirium and the only truth; blindness and the only vision, folly and the only wisdom. It is——" He broke off and cried impatiently, "I have forgotten what it is."

"Why, my lord, you never knew what it is," said the King. "Alone of us here, Mr Dale knows, and since he cannot tell us the knowledge is lost to the world. James, have you any news of my friend M. de Fontelles?"

"Such news as your Majesty has," answered Monmouth. "And I hear that my Lord Carford will not die."

"Let us be as thankful as is fitting for that," said the King. "M. de Fontelles sent me a very uncivil message; he is leaving England, and goes, he tells me, to seek a King whom a gentleman may serve."

"Is the gentleman about to kill himself, Sir?" asked Rochester with an affected air of grave concern.

"He's an insolent rascal," cried Monmouth angrily. "Will he go back to France?"

"Why, yes, in the end, when he has tried the rest of my brethren in Europe. A man's King is like his nose; the nose may not be handsome, James, but it's small profit to cut it off. That was done once, you remember——"

"And here is your Majesty on the throne," interposed Rochester with a most loyal bow.

"James," said the King, "our friend Mr Dale desires to wed Mistress Barbara Quinton."

Monmouth started violently and turned red.

"His admiration for that lady," continued the King, "has been shared by such high and honourable persons that I cannot doubt it to be well founded. Shall he not then be her husband?"

Monmouth's eyes were fixed on me; I met his glance with an easy smile. Again I felt that I, who had worsted M. de Perrencourt, need not fear the Duke of Monmouth.

"If there be any man," observed Rochester, "who would love a lady who is not a wife, and yet is fit to be his wife, let him take her, in Heaven's name! For he might voyage as far in search of another like her as M. de Fontelles must in his search for a Perfect King."

"Shall he not have her, James?" asked the King of his son.

Monmouth understood that the game was lost.

"Ay, Sir, let him have her," he answered, mustering a smile. "And I hope soon to see your Court graced by her presence."

Well, at that, I, most inadvertently and by an error in demeanour which I now deplore sincerely, burst into a short sharp laugh. The King turned to me with raised eye-brows.

"Pray let us hear the jest, Mr Dale," said he.

"Why, Sir," I answered, "there is no jest. I don't know why I laughed, and I pray your pardon humbly."

"Yet there was something in your mind," the King insisted.

"Then, Sir, if I must say it, it was no more than this; if I would not be married in Calais, neither will I be married in Whitehall."

There was a moment's silence. It was broken by Rochester.

"I am dull," said he. "I don't understand that observation of Mr Dale's."

"That may well be, my lord," said Charles, and he turned to Monmouth, smiling maliciously as he asked, "Are you as dull as my lord here, James, or do you understand what Mr Dale would say?"

Monmouth's mood hung in the balance between anger and amusement. I had crossed and thwarted his fancy, but it was no more than a fancy. And I had crossed and thwarted M. de Perrencourt's also; that was balm to his wounds. I do not know that he could have done me harm, and it was as much from a pure liking for him as from any fear of his disfavour that I rejoiced when I saw his kindly thoughts triumph and a smile come on his lips.

"Plague take the fellow," said he, "I understand him. On my life he's wise!"

I bowed low to him, saying, "I thank your Grace for your understanding."

Rochester sighed heavily.

"This is wearisome," said he. "Shall we walk?"

"You and James shall walk," said the King. "I have yet a word for Mr Dale." As they went he turned to me and said, "But will you leave us? I could find work for you here."

I did not know what to answer him. He saw my hesitation.

"The basket will not be emptied," said he in a low and cautious voice. "It will be emptied neither for M. de Perrencourt nor for the King of France. You look very hard at me, Mr Dale, but you needn't search my face so closely. I will tell you what you desire to know. I have had my price, but I do not empty my basket." Having said this, he sat leaning his head on his hands with his eyes cast up at me from under his swarthy bushy brows.

There was a long silence then between us. For myself I do not deny that youthful ambition again cried to me to take his offer, while pride told me that even at Whitehall I could guard my honour and all that was mine. I could serve him; since he told me his secrets, he must and would serve me. And he had in the end dealt fairly and kindly with me.

The King struck his right hand on the arm of his chair suddenly and forcibly.

"I sit here," said he; "it is my work to sit here. My brother has a conscience, how long would he sit here? James is a fool, how long would he sit here? They laugh at me or snarl at me, but here I sit, and here I will sit till my life's end, by God's grace or the Devil's help. My gospel is to sit here."

I had never before seen him so moved, and never had so plain a glimpse of his heart, nor of the resolve which lay beneath his lightness and frivolity. Whence came that one unswerving resolution I know not; yet I do not think that it stood on nothing better than his indolence and a hatred of going again on his travels. There was more than that in it; perhaps he seemed to himself to hold a fort and considered all stratagems and devices well justified against the enemy. I made him no answer but continued to look at him. His passion passed as quickly as it had come, and he was smiling again with his ironical smile as he said to me:

"But my gospel need not be yours. Our paths have crossed, they need not run side by side. Come, man, I have spoken to you plainly, speak plainly to me." He paused, and then, leaning forward, said,

"Perhaps you are of M. de Fontelles' mind? Will you join him in his search? Abandon it. You had best go to your home and wait. Heaven may one day send you what you desire. Answer me, sir. Are you of the Frenchman's mind?"

His voice now had the ring of command in it and I could not but answer. And when I came to answer there was but one thing to say. He had told me the terms of my service. What was it to me that he sat there, if honour and the Kingdom's greatness and all that makes a crown worth the wearing must go, in order to his sitting there? There rose in me at once an inclination towards him and a loathing for the gospel that he preached; the last was stronger and, with a bow, I said:

"Yes, Sir, I am of M. de Fontelles' mind."

He heard me, lying back in his chair. He said nothing, but sighed lightly, puckered his brow an instant, and smiled. Then he held out his hand to me, and I bent and kissed it.

"Good-bye, Mr Dale," said he. "I don't know how long you'll have to wait. I'm hale and—so's my brother."

He moved his hand in dismissal, and, having withdrawn some paces, I turned and walked away. All observed or seemed to observe me; I heard whispers that asked who I was, why the King had talked so long to me, and to what service or high office I was destined. Acquaintances saluted me and stared in wonder at my careless acknowledgment and the quick decisive tread that carried me to the door. Now, having made my choice, I was on fire to be gone; yet once I turned my head and saw the King sitting still in his chair, his head resting on his hands, and a slight smile on his lips. He saw me look, and nodded his head. I bowed, turned again, and was gone.

Since then I have not seen him, for the paths that crossed diverged again. But, as all men know, he carried out his gospel. There he sat till his life's end, whether by God's grace or the Devil's help I know not. But there he sat, and never did he empty his basket lest, having given all, he should have nothing to carry to market. It is not for me to judge him now; but then, when I had the choice set before me, there in his own palace, I passed my verdict. I do not repent of it. For good or evil, in wisdom or in folly, in mere honesty or the extravagance of sentiment, I had made my choice. I was of the mind of M. de Fontelles, and I went forth to wait till there should be a King whom a gentleman could serve. Yet to this day I am sorry that he made me tell him of my choice.



CHAPTER XXVI

I COME HOME

I have written the foregoing for my children's sake that they may know that once their father played some part in great affairs, and, rubbing shoulder to shoulder with folk of high degree, bore himself (as I venture to hope) without disgrace, and even with that credit which a ready brain and hand bring to their possessor. Here, then, I might well come to an end, and deny myself the pleasure of a last few words indited for my own comfort and to please a greedy recollection. The children, if they read, will laugh. Have you not seen the mirthful wonder that spreads on a girl's face when she comes by chance on some relic of her father's wooing, a faded wreath that he has given her mother, or a nosegay tied with a ribbon and a poem attached thereto? She will look in her father's face, and thence to where her mother sits at her needle-work, just where she has sat at her needle-work these twenty years, with her old kind smile and comfortable eyes. The girl loves her, loves her well, but—how came father to write those words? For mother, though the dearest creature in the world, is not slim, nor dazzling, nor a Queen, nor is she Venus herself, decked in colours of the rainbow, nor a Goddess come from heaven to men, nor the desire of all the world, nor aught else that father calls her in the poem. Indeed, what father wrote is something akin to what the Squire slipped into her own hand last night; but it is a strange strain in which to write to mother, the dearest creature in the world, but no, not Venus in her glory nor the Queen of the Nymphs. But though the maiden laughs, her father is not ashamed. He still sees her to whom he wrote, and when she smiles across the room at him, and smiles again to see her daughter's wonder, all the years fade from the picture's face, and the vision stands as once it was, though my young mistress' merry eyes have not the power to see it. Let her laugh. God forbid that I should grudge it her! Soon enough shall she sit sewing and another laugh.

Carford was gone, well-nigh healed of his wound, healed also of his love, I trust, at least headed off from it. M. de Fontelles was gone also, on that quest of his which made my Lord Rochester so merry; indeed I fear that in this case the scoffer had the best of it, for he whom I have called M. de Perrencourt was certainly served again by his indignant subject, and that most brilliantly. Well, had I been a Frenchman, I could have forgiven King Louis much; and I suppose that, although an Englishman, I do not hate him greatly, since his ring is often on my wife's finger and I see it there without pain.

It was the day before my wedding was to take place; for my lord, on being informed of all that had passed, had sworn roundly that since there was one honest man who sought his daughter, he would not refuse her, lest while he waited for better things worse should come. And he proceeded to pay me many a compliment, which I would repeat, despite of modesty, if it chanced that I remembered them. But in truth my head was so full of his daughter that there was no space for his praises, and his well-turned eulogy (for my lord had a pretty flow of words) was as sadly wasted as though he had spoken it to the statue of Apollo on his terrace.

I had been taking dinner with the Vicar, and, since it was not yet time to pay my evening visit to the Manor, I sat with him a while after our meal, telling him for his entertainment how I had talked with the King at Whitehall, what the King had said, and what I, and how my Lord Rochester had talked finely of the Devil, and tried, but failed, to talk of love. He drank in all with eager ears, weighing the wit in a balance, and striving to see, through my recollection, the life and the scene and the men that were so strange to his eyes and so familiar to his dreams.

"You don't appear very indignant, sir," I ventured to observe with a smile.

We were in the porch, and, for answer to what I said, he pointed to the path in front of us. Following the direction of his finger I perceived a fly of a species with which I, who am a poor student of nature, was not familiar. It was villainously ugly, although here and there on it were patches of bright colour.

"Yet," said the Vicar, "you are not indignant with it, Simon."

"No, I am not indignant," I admitted.

"But if it were to crawl over you——"

"I should crush the brute," I cried.

"Yes. They have crawled over you and you are indignant. They have not crawled over me, and I am curious."

"But, sir, will you allow a man no disinterested moral emotion?"

"As much as he will, and he shall be cool at the end of it," smiled the Vicar. "Now if they took my benefice from me again!" Stooping down, he picked up the creature in his hand and fell to examining it very minutely.

"I wonder you can touch it," said I in disgust.

"You did not quit the Court without some regret, Simon," he reminded me.

I could make nothing of him in this mood and was about to leave him when I perceived my lord and Barbara approaching the house. Springing up, I ran to meet them; they received me with a grave air, and in the ready apprehension of evil born of a happiness that seems too great I cried out to know if there were bad tidings.

"There's nothing that touches us nearly," said my lord. "But very pitiful news is come from France."

The Vicar had followed me and now stood by me; I looked up and saw that the ugly creature was still in his hand.

"It concerns Madame, Simon," said Barbara. "She is dead and all the town declares that she had poison given to her in a cup of chicory-water. Is it not pitiful?"

Indeed the tidings came as a shock to me, for I remembered the winning grace and wit of the unhappy lady.

"But who has done it?" I cried.

"I don't know," said my lord. "It is set down to her husband; rightly or wrongly, who knows?"

A silence ensued for a few moments. The Vicar stooped and set his captive free to crawl away on the path.

"God has crushed one of them, Simon," said he. "Are you content?"

"I try not to believe it of her," said I.

In a grave mood we began to walk, and presently, as it chanced, Barbara and I distanced the slow steps of our elders and found ourselves at the Manor gates alone.

"I am very sorry for Madame," said she, sighing heavily. Yet presently, because by the mercy of Providence our own joy outweighs others' grief and thus we can pass through the world with unbroken hearts, she looked up at me with a smile, and passing her arm, through mine, drew herself close to me.

"Ay, be merry, to-night at least be merry, my sweet," said I. "For we have come through a forest of troubles and are here safe out on the other side."

"Safe and together," said she.

"Without the second, where would be the first?"

"Yet," said Barbara, "I fear you'll make a bad husband; for here at the very beginning—nay, I mean before the beginning—you have deceived me."

"I protest——!" I cried.

"For it was from my father only that I heard of a visit you paid in London."

I bent my head and looked at her.

"I would not trouble you with it," said I. "It was no more than a debt of civility."

"Simon, I don't grudge it to her. For I am, here in the country with you, and she is there in London without you."

"And in truth," said I, "I believe that you are both best pleased."

"For her," said Barbara, "I cannot speak."

For a long while then we walked in silence, while the afternoon grew full and waned again. They mock at lovers' talk; let them, say I with all my heart, so that they leave our silence sacred. But at last Barbara turned to me and said with a little laugh:

"Art glad to have come home, Simon?"

Verily I was glad. In body I had wandered some way, in mind and heart farther, through many dark ways, turning and twisting here and there, leading I knew not whither, seeming to leave no track by which I might regain my starting point. Yet, although I felt it not, the thread was in my hand, the golden thread spun here in Hatchstead when my days were young. At length the hold of it had tightened and I, perceiving it, had turned and followed. Thus it had brought me home, no better in purse or station than I went, and poorer by the loss of certain dreams that haunted me, yet, as I hope, sound in heart and soul. I looked now in the dark eyes that were, set on me as though there were their refuge, joy, and life; she clung to me as though even still I might leave her. But the last fear fled, the last doubt faded away, and a smile came in radiant serenity on the lips I loved as, bending down, I whispered:

"Ay, I am glad to have come home."

But there was one thing more that I must say. Her head fell on my shoulder as she murmured:

"And you have utterly forgotten her?"

Her eyes were safely hidden. I smiled as I answered, "Utterly."

See how I stood! Wilt thou forgive me, Nelly?

For a man may be very happy as he is and still not forget the things which have been. "What are you thinking of, Simon?" my wife asks sometimes when I lean back in my chair and smile. "Of nothing, sweet," say I. And, in truth, I am not thinking; it is only that a low laugh echoes distantly in my ear. Faithful and loyal am I—but, should such as Nell leave nought behind her?

THE END