Simon Dale

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"No doubt some business called her," said I rather lamely. "She has
shown much consideration in leaving her coach for us."

"And the money? Shall you use it?"

"What choice have I?"

Barbara's glance was on the pile of guineas. I put out my hand, took
them up, and stowed them in my purse; as I did this, my eye wandered to
the window. Barbara followed my look and my thought also. I had no mind
that this new provision for our needs should share the fate of my last
guinea.

"You needn't have said that!" cried Barbara, flushing; although, as may
be seen, I had said nothing.

"I will repay the money in due course," said I, patting my purse.

We made a meal together in unbroken silence. No more was said of
Mistress Nell; our encounter in the corridor last night seemed utterly
forgotten. Relieved of a presence that was irksome to her and would have
rendered her apprehensive of fresh shame at every place we passed
through, Mistress Barbara should have shown an easier bearing and more
gaiety; so I supposed and hoped. The fact refuted me; silent, cold, and
distant, she seemed in even greater discomfort than when we had a
companion. Her mood called up a like in me, and I began to ask myself
whether for this I had done well to drive poor Nell away.

Thus in gloom we made ready to set forth. Myself prepared to mount my
horse, I offered to hand Barbara into the coach. Then she looked at me;
I noted it, for she had not done so much for an hour past; a slight
colour came into her cheeks, she glanced round the interior of the
coach; it was indeed wide and spacious for one traveller.

"You ride to-day also?" she asked.

The sting that had tormented me was still alive; I could not deny myself
the pleasure of a retort so apt. I bowed low and deferentially, saying,
"I have learnt my station. I would not be so forward as to sit in the
coach with you." The flush on her cheeks deepened suddenly; she
stretched out her hand a little way towards me, and her lips parted as
though she were about to speak. But her hand fell again, and her lips
shut on unuttered words.

"As you will," she said coldly. "Pray bid them set out."

Of our journey I will say no more. There is nothing in it that I take
pleasure in telling, and to write its history would be to accuse either
Barbara or myself. For two days we travelled together, she in her coach,
I on horseback. Come to London, we were told that my lord was at
Hatchstead; having despatched our borrowed equipage and servant to their
mistress, and with them the amount of my debt and a most grateful
message, we proceeded on our road, Barbara in a chaise, I again riding.
All the way Barbara shunned me as though I had the plague, and I on my
side showed no desire to be with a companion so averse from my society.
On my life I was driven half-mad, and had that night at Canterbury come
again--well, Heaven be thanked that temptation comes sometimes at
moments when virtue also has attractions, or which of us would stand?
And the night we spent on the road, decorum forbade that we should so
much as speak, much less sup, together; and the night we lay in London,
I spent at one end of the town and she at the other. At least I showed
no forwardness; to that I was sworn, and adhered most obstinately. Thus
we came to Hatchstead, better strangers than ever we had left Dover,
and, although safe and sound from bodily perils and those wiles of
princes that had of late so threatened our tranquillity, yet both of us
as ill in temper as could be conceived. Defend me from any such journey
again! But there is no likelihood of such a trial now, alas! Yes, there
was a pleasure in it; it was a battle, and, by my faith, it was close
drawn between us.

The chaise stopped at the Manor gates, and I rode up to the door of it,
cap in hand. Here was to be our parting.

"I thank you heartily, sir," said Barbara in a low voice, with a bow of
her head and a quick glance that would not dwell on my sullen face.

"My happiness has been to serve you, madame," I returned. "I grieve only
that my escort has been so irksome to you."

"No," said Barbara, and she said no more, but rolled up the avenue in
her chaise, leaving me to find my way alone to my mother's house.

I sat a few moments on my horse, watching her go. Then with an oath I
turned away. The sight of the gardener's cottage sent my thoughts back
to the old days when Cydaria came and caught my heart in her butterfly
net. It was just there, in the meadow by the avenue, that I had kissed
her. A kiss is a thing lightly given and sometimes lightly taken. It was
that kiss which Barbara had seen from the window, and great debate had
arisen on it. Lightly given, yet leading on to much that I did not see,
lightly taken, yet perhaps mother to some fancies that men would wonder
to find in Mistress Gwyn.

"I'm heartily glad to be here!" I cried, loosing the Vicar's hand and
flinging myself into the high arm-chair in the chimney corner.

My mother received this exclamation as a tribute of filial affection,
the Vicar treated it as an evidence of friendship, my sister Mary saw in
it a thanksgiving for deliverance from the perils and temptations of
London and the Court. Let them take it how they would; in truth it was
inspired in none of these ways, but was purely an expression of relief,
first at having brought Mistress Barbara safe to the Manor, in the
second place, at being quit of her society.

"I am very curious to learn, Simon," said the Vicar, drawing his chair
near mine, and laying his hand upon my knee, "what passed at Dover. For
it seems to me that there, if at any place in the world, the prophecy
which Betty Nasroth spoke concerning you----"

"You shall know all in good time, sir," I cried impatiently.

"Should find its fulfilment," ended the Vicar placidly.

"Are we not finished with that folly yet?" asked my mother.

"Simon must tell us that," smiled the Vicar.

"In good time, in good time," I cried again. "But tell me first, when
did my lord come here from London?"

"Why, a week ago. My lady was sick, and the physician prescribed the air
of the country for her. But my lord stayed four days only and then was
gone again."

I started and sat upright in my seat.

"What, isn't he here now?" I asked eagerly.

"Why, Simon," said my good mother with a laugh, "we looked to get news
from you, and now we have news to give you! The King has sent for my
lord; I saw his message. It was most flattering and spoke of some urgent
and great business on which the King desired my lord's immediate
presence and counsel. So he set out two days ago to join the King with a
large train of servants, leaving behind my lady, who was too sick to
travel."

I was surprised at these tidings and fell into deep consideration. What
need had the King of my lord's counsel, and so suddenly? What had been
done at Dover would not be opened to Lord Quinton's ear. Was he summoned
as a Lord of Council or as his daughter's father? For by now the King
must know certain matters respecting my lord's daughter and a humble
gentleman who had striven to serve her so far as his station enabled him
and without undue forwardness. We might well have passed my lord's coach
on the road and not remarked it among the many that met us as we drew
near to London in the evening. I had not observed his liveries, but that
went for nothing. I took heed of little on that journey save the bearing
of Mistress Barbara. Where lay the meaning of my lord's summons? It came
into my mind that M. de Perrencourt had sent messengers from Calais, and
that the King might be seeking to fulfil in another way the bargain
whose accomplishment I had hindered. The thought was new life to me. If
my work were not finished--. I broke off; the Vicar's hand was on my
knee again.

"Touching the prophecy----" he began.

"Indeed, sir, in good time you shall know all. It is fulfilled."

"Fulfilled!" he cried rapturously. "Then, Simon, fortune smiles?"

"No," I retorted, "she frowns most damnably."

To swear is a sin, to swear before ladies is bad manners, to swear in
talking to a clergyman is worst of all. But while my mother and my
sister drew away in offence (and I hereby tender them an apology never
yet made) the Vicar only smiled.

"A plague on such prophecies," said I sourly.

"Yet if it be fulfilled!" he murmured. For he held more by that than by
any good fortune of mine; me he loved, but his magic was dearer to him.
"You must indeed tell me," he urged.

My mother approached somewhat timidly.

"You are come to stay with us, Simon?" she asked.

"For the term of my life, so far as I know, madame," said I.

"Thanks to God," she murmured softly.

There is a sort of saying that a mother speaks and a son hears to his
shame and wonder! Her heart was all in me, while mine was far away.
Despondency had got hold of me. Fortune, in her merriest mood, seeming
bent on fooling me fairly, had opened a door and shown me the prospect
of fine doings and high ambitions realised. The glimpse had been but
brief, and the tricky creature shut the door in my face with a laugh.
Betty Nasroth's prophecy was fulfilled, but its accomplishment left me
in no better state; nay, I should be compelled to count myself lucky if
I came off unhurt and were not pursued by the anger of those great folk
whose wills and whims I had crossed. I must lie quiet in Hatchstead, and
to lie quiet in Hatchstead was hell to me--ay, hell, unless by some
miracle (whereof there was but one way) it should turn to heaven. That
was not for me; I was denied youth's sovereign balm for ill-starred
hopes and ambitions gone awry.

The Vicar and I were alone now, and I could not but humour him by
telling what had passed. He heard with rare enjoyment; and although his
interest declined from its zenith so soon as I had told the last of the
prophecy, he listened to the rest with twinkling eyes. No comment did he
make, but took snuff frequently. I, my tale done, fell again into
meditation. Yet I had been fired by the rehearsal of my own story, and
my thoughts were less dark in hue. The news concerning Lord Quinton
stirred me afresh. My aid might again be needed; my melancholy was
tinted with pleasant pride as I declared to myself that it should not be
lacking, for all that I had been used as one would not use a faithful
dog, much less a gentleman who, doubtless by no merit of his own but yet
most certainly, had been of no small service. To confess the truth, I
was so persuaded of my value that I looked for every moment to bring me
a summons, and practised under my breath the terms, respectful yet
resentful, in which I would again place my arm and sword at Barbara's
disposal.

"You loved this creature Nell?" asked the Vicar suddenly.

"Ay," said I, "I loved her."

"You love her no more?"

"Why, no," I answered, mustering a cool smile. "Folly such as that goes
by with youth."

"Your age is twenty-four?"

"Yes, I am twenty-four."

"And you love her no longer?"

"I tell you, no longer, sir."

The Vicar opened his box and took a large pinch.

"Then," said he, the pinch being between his finger and thumb and just
half-way on the road to his nose, "you love some other woman, Simon."

He spoke not as a man who asks a question nor even as one who hazards an
opinion; he declared a fact and needed no answer to confirm him. "Yes,
you love some other woman, Simon," said he, and there left the matter.

"I don't," I cried indignantly. Had I told myself a hundred times that I
was not in love to be told by another that I was? True, I might have
been in love, had not----

"Ah, who goes there?" exclaimed the Vicar, springing nimbly to the
window and looking out with eagerness. "I seem to know the gentleman.
Come, Simon, look."

I obeyed him. A gentleman, attended by two servants, rode past rapidly;
twilight had begun to fall, but the light served well enough to show me
who the stranger was. He rode hard and his horse's head was towards the
Manor gates.

"I think it is my Lord Carford," said the Vicar. "He goes to the Manor,
as I think."

"I think it is and I think he does," said I; and for a single moment I
stood there in the middle of the room, hesitating, wavering, miserable.

"What ails you, Simon? Why shouldn't my Lord Carford go to the Manor?"
cried the Vicar.

"Let him go to the devil!" I cried, and I seized my hat from the table
where it lay.

The Vicar turned to me with a smile on his lips.

"Go, lad," said he, "and let me not hear you again deny my propositions.
They are founded on an extensive observation of humanity and----"

Well, I know not to this day on what besides. For I was out of the house
before the Vicar completed his statement of the authority that underlay
his propositions.

CHAPTER XXI

THE STRANGE CONJUNCTURE OF TWO GENTLEMEN

I have heard it said that King Charles laughed most heartily when he
learnt how a certain gentleman had tricked M. de Perrencourt and carried
off from his clutches the lady who should have gone to prepare for the
Duchess of York's visit to the Court of France. "This Uriah will not be
set in the forefront of the battle," said he, "and therefore David can't
have his way." He would have laughed, I think, even although my action
had thwarted his own schemes, but the truth is that he had so wrought on
that same devotion to her religion which, according to Mistress Nell,
inspired Mlle. de Querouaille that by the time the news came from Calais
he had little doubt of success for himself although his friend M. de
Perrencourt had been baffled. He had made his treaty, he had got his
money, and the lady, if she would not stay, yet promised to return. The
King then was well content, and found perhaps some sly satisfaction in
the defeat of the great Prince whose majesty and dignity made any
reverse which befell him an amusement to less potent persons. In any
case the King laughed, then grew grave for a moment while he declared
that his best efforts should not be wanting to reclaim Mistress Quinton
to a sense of her duty, and then laughed again. Yet he set about
reclaiming her, although with no great energy or fierceness; and when he
heard that Monmouth had other views of the lady's duty, he shrugged his
shoulders, saying, "Nay, if there be two Davids, I'll wager a crown on
Uriah."

It is easy to follow a man to the door of a house, but if the door be
shut after him and the pursuer not invited to enter, he can but stay
outside. So it fell out with me, and being outside I did not know what
passed within nor how my Lord Carford fared with Mistress Barbara. I
flung myself in deep chagrin on the grass of the Manor Park, cursing my
fate, myself, and if not Barbara, yet that perversity which was in all
women and, by logic, even in Mistress Barbara. But although I had no
part in it, the play went on and how it proceeded I learnt afterwards;
let me now leave the stage that I have held too long and pass out of
sight till my cue calls me again.

This evening then, my lady, who was very sick, being in her bed, and
Mistress Barbara, although not sick, very weary of her solitude and
longing for the time when she could betake herself to the same refuge
(for there is a pride that forbids us to seek bed too early, however
strongly we desire it) there came a great knocking at the door of the
house. A gentleman on horseback and accompanied by two servants was
without and craved immediate audience of her ladyship. Hearing that she
was abed, he asked for Mistress Barbara and obtained entrance; yet he
would not give his name, but declared that he came on urgent business
from Lord Quinton. The excuse served, and Barbara received him. With
surprise she found Carford bowing low before her. I had told her enough
concerning him to prevent her welcome being warm. I would have told her
more, had she afforded me the opportunity. The imperfect knowledge that
she had caused her to accuse him rather of a timidity in face of
powerful rivals than of any deliberate design to set his love below his
ambition and to use her as his tool. Had she known all I knew she would
not have listened to him. Even now she made some pretext for declining
conversation that night and would have withdrawn at once; but he stayed
her retreat, earnestly praying her for her father's sake and her own to
hear his message, and asserting that she was in more danger than she was
aware of. Thus he persuaded her to be seated.

"What is your message from my father, my lord?" she asked coldly, but
not uncivilly.

"Madame, I have none," he answered with a bluntness not ill calculated.
"I used the excuse to gain admission, fearing that my own devotion to
you would not suffice, well as you know it. But although I have no
message, I think that you will have one soon. Nay, you must listen." For
she had risen.

"I listen, my lord, but I will listen standing."

"You're hard to me, Mistress Barbara," he said. "But take the tidings
how you will; only pay heed to them." He drew nearer to her and
continued, "To-morrow a message will come from your father. You have had
none for many days?"

"Alas, no," said she. "We were both on the road and could send no letter
to one another."

"To-morrow one comes. May I tell you what it will say?"

"How can you know what it will say, my lord?"

"I will stand by the event," said he sturdily. "The coming of the letter
will prove me right or wrong. It will bid your mother and you accompany
the messenger----"

"My mother cannot----"

"Or, if your mother cannot, you alone, with some waiting-woman, to
Dover."

"To Dover?" cried Barbara. "For what purpose?" She shrank away from him,
as though alarmed by the very name of the place whence she had escaped.

He looked full in her face and answered slowly and significantly:

"Madame goes back to France, and you are to go with her."

Barbara caught at a chair near her and sank into it. He stood over her
now, speaking quickly and urgently.

"You must listen," he said, "and lose no time in acting. A French
gentleman, by name M. de Fontelles, will be here to-morrow; he carries
your father's letter and is sent to bring you to Dover."

"My father bids me come?" she cried.

"His letter will convey the request," answered Carford.

"Then I will go," said she. "I can't come to harm with him, and when I
have told him all, he won't allow me to go to France." For as yet my
lord did not know of what had befallen his daughter, nor did my lady,
whose sickness made her unfit to be burdened with such troublesome
matters.

"Indeed you would come to no harm with your father, if you found your
father," said Carford. "Come, I will tell you. Before you reach Dover my
lord will have gone from there. As soon as his letter to you was sent
the King made a pretext to despatch him into Cornwall; he wrote again to
tell you of his journey and bid you not come to Dover till he sends for
you. This letter he entrusted to a messenger of my Lord Arlington's who
was taking the road for London. But the Secretary's messengers know when
to hasten and when to loiter on the way. You are to have set out before
the letter arrives."

Barbara looked at him in bewilderment and terror; he was to all seeming
composed and spoke with an air of honest sincerity.

"To speak plainly, it is a trick," he said, "to induce you to return to
Dover. This M. de Fontelles has orders to bring you at all hazards, and
is armed with the King's authority in case my lord's bidding should not
be enough."

She sat for a while in helpless dismay. Carford had the wisdom not to
interrupt her thoughts; he knew that she was seeking for a plan of
escape and was willing to let her find that there was none.

"When do you say that M. de Fontelles will be here?" she asked at last.

"Late to-night or early to-morrow. He rested a few hours in London,
while I rode through, else I shouldn't have been here before him."

"And why are you come, my lord?" she asked.

"To serve you, madame," he answered simply.

She drew herself up, saying haughtily,

"You were not so ready to serve me at Dover."

Carford was not disconcerted by an attack that he must have foreseen; he
had the parry ready for the thrust.

"From the danger that I knew I guarded you, the other I did not know."
Then with a burst of well-feigned indignation he cried, "By Heaven, but
for me the French King would have been no peril to you; he would have
come too late."

She understood him and flushed painfully.

"When the enemy is mighty," he pursued, "we must fight by guile, not
force; when we can't oppose we must delay; we must check where we can't
stop. You know my meaning: to you I couldn't put it more plainly. But
now I have spoken plainly to the Duke of Monmouth, praying something
from him in my own name as well as yours. He is a noble Prince, madame,
and his offence should be pardoned by you who caused it. Had I thwarted
him openly, he would have been my enemy and yours. Now he is your friend
and mine."

The defence was clever enough to bridle her indignation. He followed up
his advantage swiftly, leaving her no time to pry for a weak spot in his
pleading.

"By Heaven," he cried, "let us lose no time on past troubles. I was to
blame, if you will, in execution, though not, I swear, in intention. But
here and now is the danger, and I am come to guard you from it."

"Then I am much in your debt, my lord," said she, still doubtful, yet in
her trouble eager to believe him honest.

"Nay," said he, "all that I have, madame, is yours, and you can't be in
debt to your slave."

I do not doubt that in this speech his passion seemed real enough, and
was the more effective from having been suppressed till now, so that it
appeared to break forth against his will. Indeed although he was a man
in whom ambition held place of love, yet he loved her and would have
made her his for passion's sake as well as for the power that he hoped
to wield through her means. I hesitate how to judge him; there are many
men who take their colour from the times, as some insects from the
plants they feed on; in honest times they would be honest, in debauched
they follow the evil fashion, having no force to stand by themselves.
Perhaps this lord was one of this kidney.

"It's an old story, this love of mine," said he in gentler tones. "Twice
you have heard it, and a lover who speaks twice must mourn once at
least; yet the second time I think you came nearer to heeding it. May I
tell it once again?"

"Indeed it is not the time----" she began in an agitated voice.

"Be your answer what it may, I am your servant," he protested. "My hand
and heart are yours, although yours be another's."

"There is none--I am free--" she murmured. His eyes were on her and she
nerved herself to calm, saying, "There is nothing of what you suppose.
But my disposition towards you, my lord, has not changed."

He let a moment go by before he answered her; he made it seem as though
emotion forbade earlier speech. Then he said gravely,

"I am grieved from my heart to hear it, and I pray Heaven that an early
day may bring me another answer. God forbid that I should press your
inclination now. You may accept my service freely, although you do not
accept my love. Mistress Barbara, you'll come with me?"

"Come with you?" she cried.

"My lady will come also, and we three together will seek your father in
Cornwall. On my faith, madame, there is no safety but in flight."

"My mother lies too sick for travelling. Didn't you hear it from my
father?"

"I haven't seen my lord. My knowledge of his letter came through the
Duke of Monmouth, and although he spoke there of my lady's sickness, I
trusted that she had recovered."

"My mother cannot travel. It is impossible."

He came a step nearer her.

"Fontelles will be here to-morrow," he said. "If you are here then----!
Yet if there be any other whose aid you could seek----?" Again he
paused, regarding her intently.

She sat in sore distress, twisting her hands in her lap. One there was,
and not far away. Yet to send for him crossed her resolution and stung
her pride most sorely. We had parted in anger, she and I; I had blamed
my share in the quarrel bitterly enough, it is likely she had spared
herself no more; yet the more fault is felt the harder comes its
acknowledgment.

"Is Mr Dale in Hatchstead?" asked Carford boldly and bluntly.

"I don't know where he is. He brought me here, but I have heard nothing
from him since we parted."

"Then surely he is gone again?"

"I don't know," said Barbara.

Carford must have been a dull man indeed not to discern how the matter
lay. There is no better time to press a lady than when she is chagrined
with a rival and all her pride is under arms to fight her inclination.

"Surely, or he could not have shewn you such indifference--nay, I must
call it discourtesy."

"He did me service."

"A gentleman, madame, should grow more, not less, assiduous when he is
so happy as to have put a lady under obligation."

He had said enough, and restrained himself from a further attack.

"What will you do?" he went on.

"Alas, what can I do?" Then she cried, "This M. de Fontelles can't carry
me off against my will."

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