The Line of Love; Dizain des Mariages

by James Branch Cabell

  CHAPTER IX

  _The Episode Called Porcelain Cups_

  1. _Of Greatness Intimately Viewed_

  "Ah, but they are beyond praise," said Cynthia Allonby, enraptured, "andcertainly you should have presented them to the Queen."

  "Her majesty already possesses a cup of that ware," replied LordPevensey. "It was one of her New Year's gifts, from Robert Cecil. Hersis, I believe, not quite so fine as either of yours; but then, they tellme, there is not the like of this pair in England, nor indeed on thehither side of Cataia."

  He set the two pieces of Chinese pottery upon the shelves in the southcorner of the room. These cups were of that sea-green tint calledceladon, with a very wonderful glow and radiance. Such oddities were thelast vogue at Court; and Cynthia could not but speculate as to whatmonstrous sum Lord Pevensey had paid for this his last gift to her.

  Now he turned, smiling, a really superb creature in his blue and gold."I had to-day another message from the Queen--"

  "George," Cynthia said, with fond concern, "it frightens me to see youthus foolhardy, in tempting alike the Queen's anger and the Plague."

  "Eh, as goes the Plague, it spares nine out of ten," he answered,lightly. "The Queen, I grant you, is another pair of sleeves, for anirritated Tudor spares nobody."

  But Cynthia Allonby kept silence, and did not exactly smile, while sheappraised her famous young kinsman. She was flattered by, and a littleafraid of, the gay self-confidence which led anybody to take suchchances. Two weeks ago it was that the terrible painted old Queen hadnamed Lord Pevensey to go straightway into France, where, rumor had it,King Henri was preparing to renounce the Reformed Religion, and makinghis peace with the Pope: and for two weeks Pevensey had lingered, on onepretence or another, at his house in London, with the Plague creepingabout the city like an invisible incalculable flame, and the Queen askingquestions at Windsor. Of all the monarchs that had ever reigned inEngland, Elizabeth Tudor was the least used to having her ordersdisregarded. Meanwhile Lord Pevensey came every day to the Marquis ofFalmouth's lodgings at Deptford: and every day Lord Pevensey pointed outto the marquis' daughter that Pevensey, whose wife had died in childbirtha year back, did not intend to go into France, for nobody could foretellhow long a stay, as a widower. Certainly it was all very flattering....

  "Yes, and you would be an excellent match," said Cynthia, aloud, "if thatwere all. And yet, what must I reasonably expect in marrying, sir, thefamous Earl of Pevensey?"

  "A great deal of love and petting, my dear. And if there were anythingelse to which you had a fancy, I would get it for you."

  Her glance went to those lovely cups and lingered fondly. "Yes, dearMaster Generosity, if it could be purchased or manufactured, you wouldget it for me--"

  "If it exists I will get it for you," he declared.

  "I think that it exists. But I am not learned enough to know what it is.George, if I married you I would have money and fine clothes and gildedcoaches, and an army of maids and pages, and honor from all men. And youwould be kind to me, I know, when you returned from the day's work atWindsor--or Holyrood or the Louvre. But do you not see that I wouldalways be to you only a rather costly luxury, like those cups, which theQueen's minister could afford to keep for his hours of leisure?"

  He answered: "You are all in all to me. You know it. Oh, very well do youknow and abuse your power, you adorable and lovely baggage, who have keptme dancing attendance for a fortnight, without ever giving me an honestyes or no." He gesticulated. "Well, but life is very dull in Deptfordvillage, and it amuses you to twist a Queen's adviser around yourfinger! I see it plainly, you minx, and I acquiesce because it delightsme to give you pleasure, even at the cost of some dignity. Yet I may nolonger shirk the Queen's business,--no, not even to amuse you, my dear."

  "You said you had heard from her--again?"

  "I had this morning my orders, under Gloriana's own fair hand, either todepart to-morrow into France or else to come to-morrow to Windsor. I neednot say that in the circumstances I consider France the more wholesome."

  Now the girl's voice was hurt and wistful. "So, for the thousandth time,is it proven the Queen's business means more to you than I do. Yes,certainly it is just as I said, George."

  He observed, unruffled: "My dear, I scent unreason. This is a highmatter. If the French King compounds with Rome, it means war forProtestant England. Even you must see that."

  She replied, sadly: "Yes, even I! oh, certainly, my lord, even ahalf-witted child of seventeen can perceive as much as that."

  "I was not speaking of half-witted persons, as I remember. Well, itchances that I am honored by the friendship of our gallant Bearnais, andam supposed to have some claim upon him, thanks to my good fortune lastyear in saving his life from the assassin Barriere. It chances that I mayperhaps become, under providence, the instrument of preserving my fellowcountrymen from much grief and trumpet-sounding and throat-cutting.Instead of pursuing that chance, two weeks ago--as was my duty--I havedangled at your apron-strings, in the vain hope of softening the mostvariable and hardest heart in the world. Now, clearly, I have not theright to do that any longer."

  She admired the ennobled, the slightly rapt look which, she knew, denotedthat George Bulmer was doing his duty as he saw it, even in herdisappointment. "No, you have not the right. You are wedded to yourstatecraft, to your patriotism, to your self-advancement, or christen itwhat you will. You are wedded, at all events, to your man's business. Youhave not the time for such trifles as giving a maid that foolish andlovely sort of wooing to which every maid looks forward in her heart ofhearts. Indeed, when you married the first time it was a kind ofinfidelity; and I am certain that poor, dear mouse-like Mary must havefelt that often and over again. Why, do you not see, George, even now,that your wife will always come second to your real love?"

  "In my heart, dear sophist, you will always come first. But it is notpermitted that any loyal gentleman devote every hour of his life tosighing and making sonnets, and to the general solacing of a maid'sloneliness in this dull little Deptford. Nor would you, I am sure, desireme to do so."

  "I hardly know what I desire," she told him ruefully. "But I know thatwhen you talk of your man's business I am lonely and chilled and faraway from you. And I know that I cannot understand more than half yourfine high notions about duty and patriotism and serving England and soon," the girl declared: and she flung wide her lovely little hands, in adespairing gesture. "I admire you, sir, when you talk of England. Itmakes you handsomer--yes, even handsomer!--somehow. But all the while Iam remembering that England is just an ordinary island inhabited by anumber of ordinary persons, for the most of whom I have no particularfeeling one way or the other."

  Pevensey looked down at her for a while with queer tenderness. Then hesmiled. "No, I could not quite make you understand, my dear. But, ah, whyfuddle that quaint little brain by trying to understand such matters aslie without your realm? For a woman's kingdom is the home, my dear, andher throne is in the heart of her husband--"

  "All this is but another way of saying your lordship would have us cupsupon a shelf," she pointed out--"in readiness for your leisure."

  He shrugged, said "Nonsense!" and began more lightly to talk of othermatters. Thus and thus he would do in France, such and such trinketshe would fetch back--"as toys for the most whimsical, the loveliest,and the most obstinate child in all the world," he phrased it. Andthey would be married, Pevensey declared, in September: nor (he gailysaid) did he propose to have any further argument about it. Childrenshould be seen--the proverb was dusty, but it particularly applied topretty children.

  Cynthia let him talk. She was just a little afraid of hisself-confidence, and of this tall nobleman's habit of getting what hewanted, in the end: but she dispiritedly felt that Pevensey had failedher. Why, George Bulmer treated her as if she were a silly infant; andhis want of her, even in that capacity, was a secondary matter: he wasgoing into France, for all his petting talk, and was leaving her to shiftas she best might, until he could s
pare the time to resume hislove-making....

  2. _What Comes of Scribbling_

  Now when Pevensey had gone the room seemed darkened by the withdrawal ofso much magnificence. Cynthia watched from the window as the tall earlrode away, with three handsomely clad retainers. Yes, George was veryfine and admirable, no doubt of it: even so, there was relief in thereflection that for a month or two she was rid of him.

  Turning, she faced a lean, dishevelled man, who stood by the Magdalentapestry scratching his chin. He had unquiet bright eyes, thisout-at-elbows poet whom a marquis' daughter was pleased to patronize, andhis red hair was unpardonably tousled. Nor were his manners beyondreproach, for now, without saying anything, he, too, went to the window.He dragged one foot a little as he walked.

  "So my lord Pevensey departs! Look how he rides in triumph! like lameTamburlaine, with Techelles and Usumcasane and Theridamas to attend him,and with the sunset turning the dust raised by their horses' hoofs into asort of golden haze about them. It is a beautiful world. And truly,Mistress Cyn," the poet said, reflectively, "that Pevensey is a verysplendid ephemera. If not a king himself, at least he goes magnificentlyto settle the affairs of kings. Were modesty not my failing, MistressCyn, I would acclaim you as strangely lucky, in being beloved by two finefellows that have not their like in England."

  "Truly, you are not always thus modest, Kit Marlowe--"

  "But, Lord, how seriously Pevensey takes it all! and takes himself inparticular! Why, there departs from us, in befitting state, a personagewhose opinion as to every topic in the world is written legibly in thecarriage of those fine shoulders, even when seen from behind and from soconsiderable a distance. And in not one syllable do any of these opinionsdiffer from the opinions of his great-great-grandfathers. Oho, and harkto Deptford! now all the oafs in the Corn-market are cheering thisbulwark of Protestant England, this rising young hero of a people with nononsense about them. Yes, it is a very quaint and rather splendidephemera."

  The daughter of a marquis could not quite approve of the way in whichthis shoemaker's son, however talented, railed at his betters. "Pevenseywill be the greatest man in these kingdoms some day. Indeed, Kit Marlowe,there are those who say he is that much already."

  "Oh, very probably! Still, I am puzzled by human greatness. A centuryhence what will he matter, this Pevensey? His ascent and his declensionwill have been completed, and his foolish battles and treaties will havegiven place to other foolish battles and treaties, and oblivion will haveswallowed this glistening bluebottle, plumes and fine lace and statelyruff and all. Why, he is but an adviser to the queen of half an island,whereas my Tamburlaine was lord of all the golden ancient East: and whatdoes my Tamburlaine matter now, save that he gave Kit Marlowe the subjectof a drama? Hah, softly though! for does even that very greatly matter?Who really cares to-day about what scratches were made upon wax by thatold Euripides, the latchet of whose sandals I am not worthy to unloose?No, not quite worthy, as yet!"

  And thereupon the shabby fellow sat down in the tall leather-coveredchair which Pevensey had just vacated: and this Marlowe nodded hisflaming head portentously. "Hoh, look you, I am displeased, Mistress Cyn,I cannot lend my approval to this over-greedy oblivion that gapes forall. No, it is not a satisfying arrangement, that I should teeterinsecurely through the void on a gob of mud, and be expected by and by torelinquish even that crazy foothold. Even for Kit Marlowe death lies inwait! and it may be, not anything more after death, not even any lovelywords to play with. Yes, and this Marlowe may amount to nothing, afterall: and his one chance of amounting to that which he intends may betaken away from him at any moment!"

  He touched the breast of a weather-beaten doublet. He gave her that queertwisted sort of smile which the girl could not but find attractive,somehow. He said: "Why, but this heart thumping here inside me may stopany moment like a broken clock. Here is Euripides writing better than I:and here in my body, under my hand, is the mechanism upon which dependall those masterpieces that are to blot the Athenian from the reckoning,and I have no control of it!"

  "Indeed, I fear that you control few things," she told him, "and thatleast of all do you control your taste for taverns and bad women. Oh, Ihear tales of you!" And Cynthia raised a reproving forefinger.

  "True tales, no doubt." He shrugged. "Lacking the moon he vainly criedfor, the child learns to content himself with a penny whistle."

  "Ah, but the moon is far away," the girl said, smiling--"too far to hearthe sound of human crying: and besides, the moon, as I remember it, wasnever a very amorous goddess--"

  "Just so," he answered: "also she was called Cynthia, and she, too, wasbeautiful."

  "Yet is it the heart that cries to me, my poet?" she asked him, softly,"or just the lips?"

  "Oh, both of them, most beautiful and inaccessible of goddesses." ThenMarlowe leaned toward her, laughing and shaking that disreputable redhead. "Still, you are very foolish, in your latest incarnation, to bewasting your rays upon carpet earls who will not outwear a century. Weremodesty not my failing, I repeat, I could name somebody who will lastlonger. Yes, and--if but I lacked that plaguey virtue--I would advise youto go a-gypsying with that nameless somebody, so that two manikins mightsnatch their little share of the big things that are eternal, just as thebutterfly fares intrepidly and joyously, with the sun for his torchboy,through a universe wherein thought cannot estimate the unimportance of abutterfly, and wherein not even the chaste moon is very important. Yes,certainly I would advise you to have done with this vanity of courts andmasques, of satins and fans and fiddles, this dallying with tinsels andbright vapors; and very movingly I would exhort you to seek out Arcadia,travelling hand in hand with that still nameless somebody." And of asudden the restless man began to sing.

  Sang Kit Marlowe:

  _"Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Woods or steepy mountain yields.

  "And we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals--"_

  But the girl shook her small, wise head decisively. "That is all veryfine, but, as it happens, there is no such place as this Arcadia, wherepeople can frolic in perpetual sunlight the year round, and find theirfood and clothing miraculously provided. No, nor can you, I am afraid,give me what all maids really, in their heart of hearts, desire far morethan any sugar-candy Arcadia. Oh, as I have so often told you, Kit, Ithink you love no woman. You love words. And your seraglio is tenanted byvery beautiful words, I grant you, though there is no longer any Sestosbuilded of agate and crystal, either, Kit Marlowe. For, as you mayperceive, sir, I have read all that lovely poem you left with me lastThursday--"

  She saw how interested he was, saw how he almost smirked. "Aha, so youthink it not quite bad, eh, the conclusion of my _Hero and Leander_?"

  "It is your best. And your middlemost, my poet, is better than aught elsein English," she said, politely, and knowing how much he delighted tohear such remarks.

  "Come, I retract my charge of foolishness, for you are plainly a wenchof rare discrimination. And yet you say I do not love you! Cynthia, youare beautiful, you are perfect in all things. You are that heavenlyHelen of whom I wrote, some persons say, acceptably enough. How strangeit was I did not know that Helen was dark-haired and pale! for certainlyyours is that immortal loveliness which must be served by poets in lifeand death."

  "And I wonder how much of these ardors," she thought, "is kindled by mypraise of his verses?" She bit her lip, and she regarded him with a hintof sadness. She said, aloud: "But I did not, after all, speak to LordPevensey concerning the printing of your poem. Instead, I burned your_Hero and Leander_."

  She saw him jump, as under a whip-lash. Then he smiled again, in that wryfashion of his. "I lament the loss to letters, for it was my only copy.But you knew that."

  "Yes, Kit, I knew it was your only copy."

  "Oho! and for what reason did you burn it, may one ask?"
/>   "I thought you loved it more than you loved me. It was my rival, Ithought--" The girl was conscious of remorse, and yet it was remorsecommingled with a mounting joy.

  "And so you thought a jingle scribbled upon a bit of paper could be yourrival with me!"

  Then Cynthia no longer doubted, but gave a joyous little sobbinglaugh, for the love of her disreputable dear poet was sustaining thestringent testing she had devised. She touched his freckled handcaressingly, and her face was as no man had ever seen it, and hervoice, too, caressed him.

  "Ah, you have made me the happiest of women, Kit! Kit, I am almostdisappointed in you, though, that you do not grieve more for the loss ofthat beautiful poem."

  His smiling did not waver; yet the lean, red-haired man stayedmotionless. "Why, but see how lightly I take the destruction of mylife-work in this, my masterpiece! For I can assure you it was amasterpiece, the fruit of two years' toil and of much lovingrepolishment--"

  "Ah, but you love me better than such matters, do you not?" she askedhim, tenderly. "Kit Marlowe, I adore you! Sweetheart, do you notunderstand that a woman wants to be loved utterly and entirely? She wantsno rivals, not even paper rivals. And so often when you talked of poetryI have felt lonely and chilled and far away from you, and I have beenhalf envious, dear, of your Heros and Helens and your othergood-for-nothing Greek minxes. But now I do not mind them at all. And Iwill make amends, quite prodigal amends, for my naughty jealousy: and mypoet shall write me some more lovely poems, so he shall--"

  He said: "You fool!"

  And she drew away from him, for this man was no longer smiling.

  "You burned my _Hero and Leander_! You! you big-eyed fool! You lispingidiot! you wriggling, cuddling worm! you silken bag of guts! had not evenyou the wit to perceive it was immortal beauty which would have livedlong after you and I were stinking dirt? And you, a half-witted animal, ashining, chattering parrot, lay claws to it!" Marlowe had risen in a sortof seizure, in a condition which was really quite unreasonable when youconsidered that only a poem was at stake, even a rather long poem.

  And Cynthia began to smile, with tremulous hurt-looking young lips. "Somy poet's love is very much the same as Pevensey's love! And I was right,after all."

  "Oh, oh!" said Marlowe, "that ever a poet should love a woman! What jokesdoes the lewd flesh contrive!" Of a sudden he was calmer; and then ragefell away from him like a dropped cloak, and he viewed her as withrespectful wonder. "Why, but you sitting there, with goggling innocentbright eyes, are an allegory of all that is most droll and tragic. Yes,and indeed there is no reason to blame you. It is not your fault thatevery now and then is born a man who serves an idea which is to him themost important thing in the world. It is not your fault that this manperforce inhabits a body to which the most important thing in the worldis a woman. Certainly it is not your fault that this compost makes yetanother jumble of his two desires, and persuades himself that the two aresomehow allied. The woman inspires, the woman uplifts, the womanstrengthens him for his high work, saith he! Well, well, perhaps thereare such women, but by land and sea I have encountered none of them."

  All this was said while Marlowe shuffled about the room, with bentshoulders, and nodding his tousled red head, and limping as he walked.Now Marlowe turned, futile and shabby looking, just where a while agoLord Pevensey had loomed resplendent. Again she saw the poet's queer,twisted, jeering smile.

  "What do you care for my ideals? What do you care for the ideals of thattall earl whom for a fortnight you have held from his proper business? orfor the ideals of any man alive? Why, not one thread of that dark hair,not one snap of those white little fingers, except when ideals irritateyou by distracting a man's attention from Cynthia Allonby. Otherwise, heis welcome enough to play with his incomprehensible toys."

  He jerked a thumb toward the shelves behind him.

  "Oho, you virtuous pretty ladies! what all you value is such matters asthose cups: they please the eye, they are worth sound money, and peopleenvy you the possession of them. So you cherish your shiny mud cups, andyou burn my _Hero and Leander_: and I declaim all this dull nonsense overthe ashes of my ruined dreams, thinking at bottom of how pretty you are,and of how much I would like to kiss you. That is the real tragedy, theimmemorial tragedy, that I should still hanker after you, my Cynthia--"

  His voice dwelt tenderly upon her name. His fever-haunted eyes weretender, too, for just a moment. Then he grimaced.

  "No, I was wrong--the tragedy strikes deeper. The root of it is thatthere is in you and in all your glittering kind no malice, no will to doharm nor to hurt anything, but just a bland and invincible and, upon thewhole, a well-meaning stupidity, informing a bright and soft anddelicately scented animal. So you work ruin among those men who serveideals, not foreplanning ruin, not desiring to ruin anything, not evenhaving sufficient wit to perceive the ruin when it is accomplished. Youare, when all is done, not even detestable, not even a worthy peg whereonto hang denunciatory sonnets, you shallow-pated pretty creatures whompoets--oh, and in youth all men are poets!--whom poets, now and always,are doomed to hanker after to the detriment of their poesy. No, I concedeit: you kill without pre-meditation, and without ever suspecting yourhands to be anything but stainless. So in logic I must retract all myharsh words; and I must, without any hint of reproach, endeavor to bidyou a somewhat more civil farewell."

  She had regarded him, throughout this preposterous and uncalled-forharangue, with sad composure, with a forgiving pity. Now she asked him,very quietly, "Where are you going, Kit?"

  "To the Golden Hind, O gentle, patient and unjustly persecuted virginmartyr!" he answered, with an exaggerated bow--"since that is the part inwhich you now elect to posture."

  "Not to that low, vile place again!"

  "But certainly I intend in that tavern to get tipsy as quickly aspossible: for then the first woman I see will for the time become thewoman whom I desire, and who exists nowhere." And with that thered-haired man departed, limping and singing as he went to look for atrull in a pot-house.

  Sang Kit Marlowe:

  _"And I will make her beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

  "A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair-lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold--"_

  3. _Economics of Egeria_

  She sat quite still when Marlowe had gone.

  "He will get drunk again," she thought despondently. "Well, and whyshould it matter to me if he does, after all that outrageous ranting? Hehas been unforgivably insulting--Oh, but none the less, I do not want tohave him babbling of the roses and gold of that impossible fairy worldwhich the poor, frantic child really believes in, to some painted womanof the town who will laugh at him. I loathe the thought of her laughingat him--and kissing him! His notions are wild foolishness; but I at leastwish that they were not foolishness, and that hateful woman will not careone way or the other."

  So Cynthia sighed, and to comfort her forlorn condition fetched ahand-mirror from the shelves whereon glowed her green cups. She touchedeach cup caressingly in passing; and that which she found in the mirror,too, she regarded not unappreciatively, from varying angles.... Yes,after all, dark hair and a pale skin had their advantages at a courtwhere pink and yellow women were so much the fashion as to be common. Menremembered you more distinctively.

  Though nobody cared for men, in view of their unreasonable behavior, andtheir absolute self-centeredness.... Oh, it was pitiable, it wasgrotesque, she reflected sadly, how Pevensey and Kit Marlowe had bothfailed her, after so many pretty speeches.

  Still, there was a queer pleasure in being wooed by Kit: his insanenotions went to one's head like wine. She would send Meg for him againto-morrow. And Pevensey was, of course, the best match imaginable.... No,it would be too heartless to dismiss George Buhner outright. It wasunreasonable of him to desert her because a Gascon threatened to go tomass: but, after all, she would probably marry George
, in the end. Hewas really almost unendurably silly, though, about England and freedomand religion and right and wrong and things like that. Yes, it would betedious to have a husband who often talked to you as though he wereaddressing a public assemblage.... Yet, he was very handsome,particularly in his highflown and most tedious moments; that year-old sonof his was sickly, and would probably die soon, the sweet forlorn littlepet, and not be a bother to anybody: and her dear old father would beprofoundly delighted by the marriage of his daughter to a man whose wifecould have at will a dozen celadon cups, and anything else she chose toask for....

  But now the sun had set, and the room was growing quite dark. So Cynthiastood a-tiptoe, and replaced the mirror upon the shelves, setting itupright behind those wonderful green cups which had anew reminded her ofPevensey's wealth and generosity. She smiled a little, to think of whatfun it had been to hold George back, for two whole weeks, fromdischarging that horrible old queen's stupid errands.

  4. _Treats Philosophically of Breakage_

  The door opened. Stalwart young Captain Edward Musgrave came with alighted candle, which he placed carefully upon the table in theroom's centre.

  He said: "They told me you were here. I come from London. I bringnews for you."

  "You bring no pleasant tidings, I fear--"

  "As Lord Pevensey rode through the Strand this afternoon, on his wayhome, the Plague smote him. That is my sad news. I grieve to bring suchnews, for your cousin was a worthy gentleman and universally respected."

  "Ah," Cynthia said, very quiet, "so Pevensey is dead. But the Plaguekills quickly!"

  "Yes, yes, that is a comfort, certainly. Yes, he turned quite black inthe face, they report, and before his men could reach him had fallen fromhis horse. It was all over almost instantly. I saw him afterward, hardlya pleasant sight. I came to you as soon as I could. I was vexatiouslydetained--"

  "So George Bulmer is dead, in a London gutter! It seems strange,because he was here, befriended by monarchs, and very strong andhandsome and self-confident, hardly two hours ago. Is that his bloodupon your sleeve?"

  "But of course not! I told you I was vexatiously detained, almost at yourgates. Yes, I had the ill luck to blunder into a disgusting business. Thetwo rapscallions tumbled out of a doorway under my horse's very nose,egad! It was a near thing I did not ride them down. So I stopped,naturally. I regretted stopping, afterward, for I was too late to be ofhelp. It was at the Golden Hind, of course. Something really ought to bedone about that place. Yes, and that rogue Marler bled all over a newdoublet, as you see. And the Deptford constables held me with theirfoolish interrogatories--"

  "So one of the fighting men was named Marlowe! Is he dead, too, dead inanother gutter?"

  "Marlowe or Marler, or something of the sort--wrote plays and sonnets andsuch stuff, they tell me. I do not know anything about him--though, Igive you my word, now, those greasy constables treated me as though Iwere a noted frequenter of pot-houses. That sort of thing is mostannoying. At all events, he was drunk as David's sow, and squabblingover, saving your presence, a woman of the sort one looks to find in thatabominable hole. And so, as I was saying, this other drunken rascal dug aknife into him--"

  But now, to Captain Musgrave's discomfort, Cynthia Allonby had begun toweep heartbrokenly.

  So he cleared his throat, and he patted the back of her hand. "It is agreat shock to you, naturally--oh, most naturally, and does you greatcredit. But come now, Pevensey is gone, as we must all go some day, andour tears cannot bring him back, my dear. We can but hope he is betteroff, poor fellow, and look on it as a mysterious dispensation and thatsort of thing, my dear--"

  "Oh, Ned, but people are so cruel! People will be saying that it was Iwho kept poor Cousin George in London this past two weeks, and that butfor me he would have been in France long ago! And then the Queen,Ned!--why, that pig-headed old woman will be blaming it on me, thatthere is nobody to prevent that detestable French King from turningCatholic and dragging England into new wars, and I shall not be able togo to any of the Court dances! nor to the masques!" sobbed Cynthia, "noranywhere!"

  "Now you talk tender-hearted and angelic nonsense. It is noble of you tofeel that way, of course. But Pevensey did not take proper care ofhimself, and that is all there is to it. Now I have remained in Londonsince the Plague's outbreak. I stayed with my regiment, naturally. Wehave had a few deaths, of course. People die everywhere. But the Plaguehas never bothered me. And why has it never bothered me? Simply because Iwas sensible, took the pains to consult an astrologer, and by his advicewear about my neck, night and day, a bag containing tablets of toads'blood and arsenic. It is an infallible specific for men born in February.No, not for a moment do I wish to speak harshly of the dead, but sensiblepersons cannot but consider Lord Pevensey's death to have been caused byhis own carelessness."

  "Now, certainly that is true," the girl said, brightening. "It was reallyhis own carelessness and his dear lovable rashness. And somebody couldexplain it to the Queen. Besides, I often think that wars are good forthe public spirit of a nation, and bring out its true manhood. But thenit upset me, too, a little, Ned, to hear about this Marlowe--for I musttell you that I knew the poor man, very slightly. So I happen to knowthat to-day he flung off in a rage, and began drinking, because somebody,almost by pure chance, had burned a packet of his verses--"

  Thereupon Captain Musgrave raised heavy eyebrows, and guffawed soheartily that the candle flickered. "To think of the fellow's putting iton that plea! when he could so easily have written some more verses. Thatis the trouble with these poets, if you ask me: they are not practicaleven in their ordinary everyday lying. No, no, the truth of it was thatthe rogue wanted a pretext for making a beast of himself, and seized thefirst that came to hand. Egad, my dear, it is a daily practise with thesepoets. They hardly draw a sober breath. Everybody knows that."

  Cynthia was looking at him in the half-lit room with very flatteringadmiration.... Seen thus, with her scarlet lips a littleparted--disclosing pearls,--and with her naive dark eyes aglow, she wasquite incredibly pretty and caressable. She had almost forgotten untilnow that this stalwart soldier, too, was in love with her. But now herspirits were rising venturously, and she knew that she liked NedMusgrave. He had sensible notions; he saw things as they really were, andwith him there would never be any nonsense about toplofty ideas. Then,too, her dear old white-haired father would be pleased, because there wasa very fair estate....

  So Cynthia said: "I believe you are right, Ned. I often wonder how theycan be so lacking in self-respect. Oh, I am certain you must be right,for it is just what I felt without being able quite to express it. Youwill stay for supper with us, of course. Yes, but you must, because it isalways a great comfort for me to talk with really sensible persons. I donot wonder that you are not very eager to stay, though, for I am probablya fright, with my eyes red, and with my hair all tumbling down, like anold witch's. Well, let us see what can be done about it, sir! There was ahand-mirror--"

  And thus speaking, she tripped, with very much the reputed grace of afairy, toward the far end of the room, and standing a-tiptoe, groped atthe obscure shelves, with a resultant crash of falling china.

  "Oh, but my lovely cups!" said Cynthia, in dismay. "I had forgotten theywere up there: and now I have smashed both of them, in looking for mymirror, sir, and trying to prettify myself for you. And I had so fanciedthem, because they had not their like in England!"

  She looked at the fragments, and then at Musgrave, with wide, innocenthurt eyes. She was really grieved by the loss of her quaint toys. ButMusgrave, in his sturdy, common-sense way, only laughed at herseriousness over such kickshaws.

  "I am for an honest earthenware tankard myself!" he said, jovially, asthe two went in to supper.

  * * * * *

  1905-1919

  _"Tell me where is fancy bred Or in the heart or in the head? How begot,how nourished?... Then let us all ring fancy's knell."_