Simon Dale

A >> Anthony Hope >> Simon Dale

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24

"You would do yourself good if you convinced him of that," he answered.
"For though she would not, I think, become his wife, he has the
influence of long acquaintance, and might use it against you. But
perhaps you're too angry with him?"

"My duty comes before my quarrel," said Fontelles. "I will seek this
gentleman."

"As you will. I think you're wise. They will know at the inn where to
find him."

"I will see him at once," cried Fontelles. "I have, it seems, two
matters to settle with this gentleman."

Carford, concealing his exultation, bade M. de Fontelles do as seemed
best to him. Fontelles, declaring again that the success of his mission
was nearest his heart, but in truth eager to rebuke or chasten my
mocking disrespect, rushed from the room. Carford followed more
leisurely. He had at least time for consideration now; and there were
the chances of this quarrel all on his side.

"Will you come with me?" asked Fontelles.

"Nay, it's no affair of mine. But if you need me later----" He nodded.
If it came to a meeting, his services were ready.

"I thank you, my lord," said the Frenchman, understanding his offer.

They were now at the door, and stepped out on the terrace. Barbara,
hearing their tread, looked up. She detected the eagerness in M. de
Fontelles' manner. He went up to her at once.

"Madame," he said, "I am forced to leave you for a while, but I shall
soon return. May I pray you to greet me more kindly when I return?"

"In frankness, sir, I should be best pleased if you did not return," she
said coldly, then, turning to Carford, she looked inquiringly at him.
She conceived that he had done her bidding, and thought that the
gentlemen concealed their quarrel from her. "You go with M. de
Fontelles, my lord?" she asked.

"With your permission, I remain here," he answered.

She was vexed, and rose to her feet as she cried,

"Then where is M. de Fontelles going?"

Fontelles took the reply for himself.

"I am going to seek a gentleman with whom I have business," said he.

"You have none with my Lord Carford?"

"What I have with him will wait."

"He desires it should wait?" she asked in a quick tone.

"Yes, madame."

"I'd have sworn it," said Barbara Quinton.

"But with Mr Simon Dale----"

"With Simon Dale? What concern have you with Simon Dale?"

"He has mocked me twice, and I believe hinders me now," returned
Fontelles, his hot temper rising again.

Barbara clasped her hands, and cried triumphantly,

"Go to him, go to him. Heaven is good to me! Go to Simon Dale!"

The amazed eyes of Fontelles and the sullen enraged glance of Carford
recalled her to wariness. Yet the avowal (O, that it had pleased God I
should hear it!) must have its price and its penalty. A burning flush
spread over her face and even to the border of the gown on her neck. But
she was proud in her shame, and her eyes met theirs in a level gaze.

To Fontelles her bearing and the betrayal of herself brought fresh and
strong confirmation of Carford's warning. But he was a gentleman, and
would not look at her when her blushes implored the absence of his eyes.

"I go to seek Mr Dale," said he gravely, and without more words turned
on his heel.

In a sudden impulse, perhaps a sudden doubt of her judgment of him,
Barbara darted after him.

"For what purpose do you seek him?"

"Madame," he answered, "I cannot tell you."

She looked for a moment keenly in his face; her breath came quick and
fast, the hue of her cheek flashed from red to white.

"Mr Dale," said she, drawing herself up, "will not fear to meet you."

Again Fontelles bowed, turned, and was gone, swiftly and eagerly
striding down the avenue, bent on finding me.

Barbara was left alone with Carford. His heavy frown and surly eyes
accused her. She had no mind to accept the part of the guilty.

"Well, my lord," she said, "have you told this M. de Fontelles what
honest folk would think of him and his errand?"

"I believe him to be honest," answered Carford.

"You live the quieter for your belief!" she cried contemptuously.

"I live the less quiet for what I have seen just now," he retorted.

There was a silence. Barbara stood with heaving breast, he opposite to
her, still and sullen. She looked long at him, but at last seemed not to
see him; then she spoke in soft tones, not as though to him, but rather
in an answer to her own heart, whose cry could go no more unheeded. Her
eyes grew soft and veiled in a mist of tears that did not fall. (So I
see it--she told me no more than that she was near crying.)

"I couldn't send for him," she murmured. "I wouldn't send for him. But
now he will come, yes, he'll come now."

Carford, driven half-mad by an outburst which his own device had caused,
moved by whatever of true love he had for her, and by his great rage and
jealousy against me, fairly ran at her and caught her by the wrist.

"Why do you talk of him? Do you love him?" he said from between clenched
teeth.

She looked at him, half-angry, half-wondering. Then she said,

"Yes."

"Nell Gwyn's lover?" said Carford.

Her cheek flushed again, and a sob caught her voice as it came.

"Yes," said she. "Nell Gywn's lover."

"You love him?"

"Always, always, always." Then she drew herself near to him in a sudden
terror. "Not a word, not a word," she cried. "I don't know what you are,
I don't trust you; forgive me, forgive me; but whatever you are, for
pity's sake, ah, my dear lord, for pity's sake, don't tell him. Not a
word!"

"I will not speak of it to M. de Fontelles," said Carford.

An amazed glance was followed by a laugh that seemed half a sob.

"M. de Fontelles! M. de Fontelles! No, no, but don't tell Simon."

Carford's lips bent in a forced smile uglier than a scowl.

"You love this fellow?"

"You have heard."

"And he loves you?"

The sneer was bitter and strong. In it seemed now to lie Carford's only
hope. Barbara met his glance an instant, and her answer to him was,

"Go, go."

"He loves you?"

"Leave me. I beg you to leave me. Ah, God, won't you leave me?"

"He loves you?"

Her face went white. For a while she said nothing; then in a calm quiet
voice, whence all life and feeling, almost all intelligence, seemed to
have gone, she answered,

"I think not, my lord."

He laughed. "Leave me," she said again, and he, in grace of what
manhood there was in him, turned on his heel and went. She stood alone,
there on the terrace.

Ah, if God had let me be there! Then she should not have stood desolate,
nor flung herself again on the marble seat. Then she should not have
wept as though her heart broke, and all the world were empty. If I had
been there, not the cold marble should have held her, and for every
sweetest tear there should have been a sweeter kiss. Grief should have
been drowned in joy, while love leapt to love in the fulness of delight.
Alas for pride, breeder of misery! Not life itself is so long as to give
atonement to her for that hour; though she has said that one moment, a
certain moment, was enough.

CHAPTER XXIII

A PLEASANT PENITENCE

There was this great comfort in the Vicar's society that, having once
and for all stated the irrefutable proposition which I have recorded, he
let the matter alone. Nothing was further from his thoughts than to
argue on it, unless it might be to take any action in regard to it. To
say the truth, and I mean no unkindness to him in saying it, the affair
did not greatly engage his thoughts. Had Betty Nasroth dealt with it,
the case would doubtless have been altered, and he would have followed
its fortune with a zest as keen as that he had bestowed on my earlier
unhappy passion. But the prophecy had stopped short, and all that was of
moment for the Vicar in my career, whether in love, war, or State, was
finished; I had done and undergone what fate declared and demanded, and
must now live in gentle resignation. Indeed I think that in his inmost
heart he wondered a little to find me living on at all. This attitude
was very well for him, and I found some amusement in it even while I
chafed at his composed acquiescence in my misfortunes. But at times I
grew impatient, and would fling myself out of the house, crying "Plague
on it, is this old crone not only to drive me into folly, but to forbid
me a return to wisdom?"

In such a mood I had left him, to wander by myself about the lanes,
while he sat under the porch of his house with a great volume open on
his knees. The book treated of Vaticination in all its branches, and the
Vicar read diligently, being so absorbed in his study that he did not
heed the approach of feet, and looked up at last with a start. M. de
Fontelles stood there, sent on from the inn to the parsonage in the
progress of his search for me.

"I am called Georges de Fontelles, sir," he began.

"I am the Vicar of this parish, at your service, sir," returned the
Vicar courteously.

"I serve the King of France, but have at this time the honour of being
employed by his Majesty the King of England."

"I trust, sir," observed the Vicar mildly, "that the employment is an
honour."

"Your loyalty should tell you so much."

"We are commanded to honour the King, but I read nowhere that we must
honour all that the King does."

"Such distinctions, sir, lead to disaffection and even to rebellion,"
said Fontelles severely.

"I am very glad of it," remarked the Vicar complacently.

I had told my old friend nothing of what concerned Barbara; the secret
was not mine; therefore he had nothing against M. de Fontelles; yet it
seemed as though a good quarrel could be found on the score of general
principles. It is strange how many men give their heads for them and how
few can give a reason; but God provides every man with a head, and since
the stock of brains will not supply all, we draw lots for a share in it.
Yes, a pretty quarrel promised; but a moment later Fontelles, seeing no
prospect of sport in falling out with an old man of sacred profession,
and amused, in spite of his principles, by the Vicar's whimsical talk,
chose to laugh rather than to storm, and said with a chuckle:

"Well, kings are like other men."

"Very like," agreed the Vicar. "In what can I serve you, sir?"

"I seek Mr Simon Dale," answered Fontelles.

"Ah, Simon! Poor Simon! What would you with the lad, sir?"

"I will tell that to him. Why do you call him poor?"

"He has been deluded by a high-sounding prophecy, and it has come to
little." The Vicar shook his head in gentle regret.

"He is no worse off, sir, than a man who marries," said Fontelles with a
smile.

"Nor, it may be, than one who is born," said the Vicar, sighing.

"Nor even than one who dies," hazarded the Frenchman.

"Sir, sir, let us not be irreligious," implored the Vicar, smiling.

The quarrel was most certainly over. Fontelles sat down by the Vicar's
side.

"Yet, sir," said he, "God made the world."

"It is full as good a world as we deserve," said the Vicar.

"He might well have made us better, sir."

"There are very few of us who truly wish it," the Vicar replied. "A man
hugs his sin."

"The embrace, sir, is often delightful."

"I must not understand you," said the Vicar.

Fontelles' business was proceeding but slowly. A man on an errand should
not allow himself to talk about the universe. But he was recalled to his
task a moment later by the sight of my figure a quarter of a mile away
along the road. With an eager exclamation he pointed his finger at me,
lifted his hat to the Vicar, and rushed off in pursuit. The Vicar, who
had not taken his thumb from his page, opened his book again, observing
to himself, "A gentleman of some parts, I think."

His quarrel with the Vicar had evaporated in the mists of speculation;
Fontelles had no mind to lose his complaint against me in any such
manner, but he was a man of ceremony and must needs begin again with me
much as he had with the Vicar. Thus obtaining my opportunity, I cut
across his preface, saying brusquely:

"Well, I am glad that it is the King's employment and not M. de
Perrencourt's."

He flushed red.

"We know what we know, sir," said he. "If you have anything to say
against M. de Perrencourt, consider me as his friend. Did you cry out to
me as I rode last night?"

"Why, yes, and I was a fool there. As for M. de Perrencourt----"

"If you speak of him, speak with respect, sir. You know of whom you
speak."

"Very well. Yet I have held a pistol to his head," said I, not, I
confess, without natural pride.

Fontelles started, then laughed scornfully.

"When he and Mistress Quinton and I were in a boat together," I pursued.
"The quarrel then was which of us should escort the lady, he or I, and
whether to Calais or to England. And although I should have been her
husband had we gone to Calais, yet I brought her here."

"You're pleased to talk in riddles."

"They're no harder to understand than your errand is to me, sir," I
retorted.

He mastered his anger with a strong effort, and in a few words told me
his errand, adding that by Carford's advice he came to me.

"For I am told, sir, that you have some power with the lady."

I looked full and intently in his face. He met my gaze unflinchingly.
There was a green bank by the roadside; I seated myself; he would not
sit, but stood opposite to me.

"I will tell you, sir, the nature of the errand on which you come," said
I, and started on the task with all the plainness of language that the
matter required and my temper enjoyed.

He heard me without a word, with hardly a movement of his body; his eyes
never left mine all the while I was speaking. I think there was a
sympathy between us, so that soon I knew that he was honest, while he
did not doubt my truth. His face grew hard and stern as he listened; he
perceived now the part he had been set to play. He asked me but one
question when I had ended:

"My Lord Carford knew all this?"

"Yes, all of it," said I. "He was privy to all that passed."

Engaged in talk, we had not noticed the Vicar's approach. He was at my
elbow before I saw him; the large book was under his arm. Fontelles
turned to him with a bow.

"Sir," said he, "you were right just now."

"Concerning the prophecy, sir?"

"No, concerning the employment of kings," answered M. de Fontelles. Then
he said to me, "We will meet again, before I take my leave of your
village." With this he set off at a round pace down the road. I did not
doubt that he went to seek Mistress Barbara and ask her pardon. I let
him go; he would not hurt her now. I rose myself from the green bank,
for I also had work to do.

"Will you walk with me, Simon?" asked the Vicar.

"Your pardon, sir, but I am occupied."

"Will it not wait?"

"I do not desire that it should."

For now that Fontelles was out of the way, Carford alone remained.
Barbara had not sent for me, but still I served her, and to some profit.

It was now afternoon and I set out at once on my way to the Manor. I did
not know what had passed between Barbara and Carford, nor how his
passion had been stirred by her avowal of love for me, but I conjectured
that on learning how his plan of embroiling me with Fontelles had
failed, he would lose no time in making another effort.

Fontelles must have walked briskly, for I, although I did not loiter on
the road, never came in sight of him, and the long avenue was empty when
I passed the gates. It is strange that it did not occur to my mind that
the clue to the Frenchman's haste was to be found in his last question;
no doubt he would make his excuses to Mistress Quinton in good time, but
it was not that intention which lent his feet wings. His errand was the
same as my own; he sought Carford, not Barbara, even as I. He found what
he sought, I what I did not seek, but what, once found, I could not pass
by.

She was walking near the avenue, but on the grass behind the trees. I
caught a glimpse of her gown through the leaves and my quick steps were
stayed as though by one of the potent spells that the Vicar loved to
read about. For a moment or two I stood there motionless; then I turned
and walked slowly towards her. She saw me a few yards off, and it seemed
as though she would fly. But in the end she faced me proudly; her eyes
were very sad and I thought that she had been weeping; as I approached
she thrust something--it looked like a letter--into the bosom of her
gown, as if in terror lest I should see it. I made her a low bow.

"I trust, madame," said I, "that my lady mends?"

"I thank you, yes, although slowly."

"And that you have taken no harm from your journey?"

"I thank you, none."

It was strange, but there seemed no other topic in earth or heaven; for
I looked first at earth and then at heaven, and in neither place found
any.

"I am seeking my Lord Carford," I said at last.

I knew my error as soon as I had spoken. She would bid me seek Carford
without delay and protest that the last thing in her mind was to detain
me. I cursed myself for an awkward fool. But to my amazement she did
nothing of what I looked for, but cried out in great agitation and, as
it seemed, fear:

"You mustn't see Lord Carford."

"Why not?" I asked. "He won't hurt me." Or at least he should not, if my
sword could stop his.

"It is not that. It is--it is not that," she murmured, and flushed red.

"Well, then, I will seek him."

"No, no, no," cried Barbara in a passion that fear--surely it was that
and nothing else--made imperious. I could not understand her, for I knew
nothing of the confession which she had made, but would not for the
world should reach my ears. Yet it was not very likely that Carford
would tell me, unless his rage carried him away.

"You are not so kind as to shield me from Lord Carford's wrath?" I asked
rather scornfully.

"No," she said, persistently refusing to meet my eyes.

"What is he doing here?" I asked.

"He desires to conduct me to my father."

"My God, you won't go with him?"

For the fraction of a moment her dark eyes met mine, then turned away in
confusion.

"I mean," said I, "is it wise to go with him?"

"Of course you meant that," murmured Barbara.

"M. de Fontelles will trouble you no more," I remarked, in a tone as
calm as though I stated the price of wheat; indeed much calmer than
such a vital matter was wont to command at our village inn.

"What?" she cried. "He will not----?"

"He didn't know the truth. I have told him. He is an honourable
gentleman."

"You've done that also, Simon?" She came a step nearer me.

"It was nothing to do," said I. Barbara fell back again.

"Yet I am obliged to you," said she. I bowed with careful courtesy.

Why tell these silly things. Every man has such in his life. Yet each
counts his own memory a rare treasure, and it will not be denied
utterance.

"I had best seek my Lord Carford," said I, more for lack of another
thing to say than because there was need to say that.

"I pray you----" cried Barbara, again in a marked agitation.

It was a fair soft evening; a breeze stirred the tree-tops, and I could
scarce tell when the wind whispered and when Barbara spoke, so like were
the caressing sounds. She was very different from the lady of our
journey, yet like to her who had for a moment spoken to me from her
chamber-door at Canterbury.

"You haven't sent for me," I said, in a low voice. "I suppose you have
no need of me?"

She made me no answer.

"Why did you fling my guinea in the sea?" I said, and paused.

"Why did you use me so on the way?" I asked.

"Why haven't you sent for me?" I whispered.

She seemed to have no answer for any of these questions. There was
nothing in her eyes now save the desire of escape. Yet she did not
dismiss me, and without dismissal I would not go. I had forgotten
Carford and the angry Frenchman, my quarrel and her peril; the questions
I had put to her summed up all life now held.

Suddenly she put her hand to her bosom, and drew out that same piece of
paper which I had seen her hide there. Before my eyes she read, or
seemed to read, something that was in it; then she shut her hand on it.
In a moment I was by her, very close. I looked full in her eyes, and
they fled behind covering lids; the little hand, tightly clenched, hung
by her side. What had I to lose? Was I not already banned for
forwardness? I would be forward still, and justify the sentence by an
after-crime. I took the hanging hand in both of mine. She started, and I
loosed it; but no rebuke came, and she did not fly. The far-off stir of
coming victory moved in my blood; not yet to win, but now to know that
win you will sends through a man an exultation, more sweet because it is
still timid. I watched her face--it was very pale--and again took her
hand. The lids of her eyes rose now an instant, and disclosed entreaty.
I was ruthless; our hearts are strange, and cruelty or the desire of
mastery mingled with love in my tightened grasp. One by one I bent her
fingers back; the crushed paper lay in a palm that was streaked to red
and white. With one hand still I held hers, with the other I spread out
the paper. "You mustn't read it," she murmured. "Oh, you mustn't read
it." I paid no heed, but held it up. A low exclamation of wonder broke
from me. The scrawl that I had seen at Canterbury now met me again,
plain and unmistakable in its laborious awkwardness. "In pay for your
dagger," it had said before. Were five words the bounds of Nell's
accomplishment? She had written no more now. Yet before she had seemed
to say much in that narrow limit; and much she said now.

There was long silence between us; my eyes were intent on her veiled
eyes.

"You needed this to tell you?" I said at last.

"You loved her, Simon."

I would not allow the plea. Shall not a thing that has become out of all
reason to a man's own self thereby blazon its absurdity to the whole
world?

"So long ago!" I cried scornfully.

"Nay, not so long ago," she murmured, with a note of resentment in her
voice.

Even then we might have fallen out; we were in an ace of it, for I most
brutally put this question:

"You waited here for me to pass?"

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

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

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

Again came silence. Then I spoke, and softly:

"And you--is it long since you----?"

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

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

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

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

It seemed that I must play penitent now.

"I was too young to know----" I began.

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

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

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

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

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

"You followed her?"

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

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

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

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

"I was afraid, sweetheart."

"Of what? Of what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24