Simon Dale

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"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."

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