And he looked at her with sardonic raised brows.
“Madam,” pursues he, “let us change the metaphor. I am addicted to a weakness called sauntering: which leads me, more often than not, to no happy valley. But tonight I would speak of graver matters. If you were granted one wish of all things in this world, what would you wish for?”
She would wish, Dolly felt at the time, for the return of that damning deposition which Pembroke Harker had forced timorous Aub Fairchild to write, and which he still held over her as a threat. But she could not say this—not yet. She asked him, with respectful humility, why he wished to know. Nor would the king himself pursue it further.
“Well, let be!” he said. “Yet I have heard report of you, madam, as one who can hold her tongue if need be. It is possible (God’s fish!), it is possible we may speak of this another time.”
He did speak of it another time: ten days later, when he invited her to sup at the Rose in Covent Garden. They were not altogether alone that night. In the next room two of his younger and madder cronies—my Lord Rochester, author of the mock epitaph, and Sir Charles Sedley, who had written The Mulberry Garden with a brace of their wenches—were getting howling drunk and smashing furniture, while assuming the king pursued his latest conquest with Dolly Landis. What King Charles actually said was:
“You are acquainted, I think, with a certain Captain Pembroke Harker?”
“Pem Harker? Him?”
“You do not appear overfond of this man!”
“Overfond?”
“Nor am I happy, between ourselves, with report of disaffection in the army, or of schemes on foot to take the militia away from my control. My father lost his head because of such measures. I will not let the army pass from under my command, not even for half an hour. If Captain Harker be concerned in this, plotting treason against me …”
And then, presently, Dolly blurted out her whole story.
“God’s fish, madam, here is no trumpery business of a stolen purse! Do you watch him, madam, and mark him well. Bring me the least indication my suspiciousness is correct, and, whatever you have done, I will pardon you should you be betrayed. It is probable you will be pardoned in any case. Bring me full proof of this man’s activities, with the requisite witnesses, and with the pardon shall go the fulfilment of whatever wish of yours it is within my power to grant.”
At this point of her recital, in the Cupid Room of the Devil, Dolly Landis set down her glass with a shaky hand.
“Yet it was not disaffection in the army?” she cried.
“Nay, less,” rumbled Bygones Abraham, “though matters may come to that pass in future. ’Twas a greater thing by far.”
“He misled me, then? He misled me deliberately?”
“That would appear probable.”
“Now wherefore,” cried Dolly, “should the King of England trouble his head to deceive the likes of me? Because he is become earth’s greatest jester?”
“Not so,” retorted Bygones, and slowly rose up. “Because he is become earth’s greatest cynic.”
Chimney smoke blew through the open windows into Bygone’s face, but he paid no attention. He lumbered to the fireplace, wheezing, and turned round with his back to it
“Come!” he said. “You are both too young to have clear recollection of the Restoration a decade gone. What happened, hey? I’ll tell ye.
“Charles Stuart, elder son of the man they executed outside the Banqueting House at Whitehall, returned from exile in so-called triumph. For fifteen years he and his brother, the Duke of York, had been eating poor relations’ bread and salt at half the courts in Europe. He had been an awkward fellow in those days; they let him see it. Not only France, but tuppenny courts as well, laughed hard at him and made sport of his suit for the hand of a tuppenny princess.
“Here in England, under the Roundheads, they could sing psalms and huff high as long as Oliver was Lord Protector. But Oliver died; they were bankrupt; the psalm singing had a sound most unholy sour. Within two years they made discovery that ’twas all a hideous mistake: that they craved the son of the old king, had craved him all the time: and that, unless he made haste to return, they’d die o’ broken hearts.
“What did he think, d’ye fancy, when they fetched him back from Breda amid the lit bonfires and the bells going mad? Oh, ecod, what did he think? In this same country he had been chased through ditches after Worcester fight All the lean times, the years of sitting in draughts …”
“It’s to be supposed,” said Kinsmere, while Dolly merely cursed, “this had not sweetened his view of human nature?”
“Nay, lad, it had not. ‘Since you love me as much as this, I wonder I have been so long away.’ But he walked amiably enough. He kissed the Bible they gave him, and said he loved it above all things in the world.
“Past doubt he knew, as he could not help knowing, that many a rusty old Cavalier had lost land and goods and all else, and done so with the greatest cheerfulness, to see the dawn of this blessed day. Such men, the true-loyal, would gain small preferment when rogues flocked in for plunder; as, d’ye see, the rogues always do. And what of the king, who himself needed money? Parliament voted him huge subsidies, which were never collected or could never be collected save in part. And Parliament would turn on him in an instant, as it had turned on his father, did he show signs he’d a mind of his own. On what course, therefore, was he hence-forward resolved?”
“Why—”
“Why, I’ll tell ye!” roared Bygones, striking right fist into left palm. “It was to meet roguery with roguery, and deceit with the greater deceit. ‘God’s fish, they have put a set of men about me; but these shall know nothing!’ It was to rule in his own fashion, letting no man be aware he ruled, with all ill acts attributed to his ministers. To raise money independently of Parliament, and be free of ’em: bribes, titles, pardons, sale of Crown lands or appointments, everything in his power. He sold Dunkirk to the King of France. And now, if I read the signs aright—Marker read ’em aright—he fishes in more dangerous waters still.”
“Will you try, in all this,” Kinsmere roared back, “to speak one plain word of fact? What’s the king’s design, then? If negotiations with France should be on foot, what does he hope to gain by them?”
“A subsidy paid in secret by that same French king,” answered Bygones. “In my time, lad, I have seen all kinds of fighting and uproar and bloodletting. If there is any manner o’ dispute that here in England would cause more than another of fighting and blood-letting, ’tis a dispute concerning religious faith: in particular, of the Roman Catholic faith. Stay, now! Don’t ask how this concerns us! Let’s assume, for the moment, that here’s theory and no more. But do I speak truth?”
“You do.”
“I can’t claim to know the rights and wrongs of it, not being myself a praying man. I have no dislike for Roman Catholics; nor has the king. These Papists have ever stood his friends, in good fortune and in bad; when he was a fugitive in his own country after Worcester fight, a Papist priest saved his life. For my own part, I hold enmity only towards Puritans and all their works; nor have I yet met a Papist who could abide Puritans either. What’s your feeling in the matter, lad?”
“Much like your own, I think. And yet—”
“And yet,” interposed Bygones, hitching up his sword belt, “and yet, as you’d doubtless say, the feeling is not common in this nation. ’Tis a very hobgoblin with ’em, is Popery! They think of racks, and ropes, and thumbscrews. They’ll limn for you, in all fantastic luridness, fires burning again at Smithfield. And they’d slit the throat of the man who would make it our state religion. Is this true?”
“It is.”
“Your view, lass?”
“God bless the Church Established!” cried Dolly. “Though I say that so glibly, and don’t in the least know what it means, still …”
“Still,” said Kinsmere, slipping his arm round her as they both rose up, “still, theory apart, how is this to our purpose? There has been much talk o
f a ‘treaty.’”
“One treaty, fairly new and thought to be binding, already exists.”
“With France?”
“Body o’ Pilate, no! It was signed by England, Holland, and Sweden; it is called the Triple Alliance; it exists to promote ‘peace, trade, and prosperity’ among three Protestant nations. However!”
Bygones, oratorical finger lifted, turned round to address the figure of Cupid in the niche over the fireplace; then, becoming sensible of the incongruity, he swung back again.
“King Looey Catters of France, ’tis widely reported, would like well to see that treaty broken. He would have England again at sea war against the Dutch, allied to France in secret treaty if need be.”
“Could such a secret treaty be brought about?”
“It could, lad; it probably will. Ayagh!” snorted Bygones. “The Dutch have cut our throats on every trade route; you can’t beat a Dutchman at bargaining; there’s powerful companies in the City would have this altered. It may not be long ere we again hear ships’ guns off Lowestoft, as when the Duke of York blew up Opdam in his own two-decker. Moreover …”
“Well?”
“Should such an arrangement be one item in the secret treaty, then all five members of King Charles’s Cabal would sign it. But—”
“Hang me, what are all these ‘buts’? What are you gabbling of now?”
“Gabbling, am I?” roared Bygones. “Attend to me! Another item, the most secret and the most dangerous, could be told to two members of the Cabal alone. To Sir Thomas Clifford, he being a Papist; to my Lord Arlington—ay, Harker was wrong there—my Lord Arlington having Popish sympathies under his mask. The other three, Buckingham and Ashley and Lauderdale, must never learn it in this world. The terms of this most secret item shall be known only to the King of England, the King of France, and the King of England’s sister as negotiator.”
“Bygones, for God’s sake! Can’t you EVER speak plain?”
“I will do so,” said Bygones. “In return for the payment of an enormous subsidy, King Charles will promise France that he will introduce the Roman Catholic religion into this country: by persuasion if possible, by the use of a French army if necessary.”
“Stay a moment!” said Kinsmere. “Whatever else the king may be, is he stark mad?”
“Not so; far from it! He knows he can’t do this; he knows he dare not; nor would he ever see foreign troops on this soil. But he will promise it; he will play against time and the clock; he will forever put it off. Are these plain words now?”
“Then hark to some other plain words,” says Kinsmere. “If he would so much as promise this, even without will or intent to carry it out, then the King of England must be fully as great a rogue as any who …”
“Since when is statecraft honest? Or ever has been? Also, if we be loyal King’s men, which of us is to judge him?”
“I preach no sermons. And yet—”
“Well, nor do I debate or defend: I only tell you these things are true. Here are the terms of a treaty which Harker and I were this night to have carried to France in two halves of a divided document and which somebody else and I must still carry!
“D’ye see, lad? Great body o’ Pilate, here’s more gunpowder than Guy Fawkes ever dreamed of! And we three are sitting on it, because we know too much. Or put it that we’re between two sides: the king on one side, and on the other a band of malcontents led by a plotter-in-chief whose identity we can’t guess at. As for Harker in there—”
Abruptly Bygones Abraham paused. His eyes swung round towards the knothole in the wall, as though he had heard a noise from the next room. Then his eyes bulged.
“Harker! Oh, ecod! If … Wait here, both of you!”
He was across the room before either of them could speak. The door to the passage opened and closed behind him; they heard his footsteps move towards the Hebe Room.
“What is happening?” cried Dolly, and then lowered her voice. “Oh, so-and-so it all, what can be happening?”
“I don’t know.”
“But it’s no concern of ours, is it? (Hold me closer!) Sir—dear boy—it can’t in any case concern us?”
“I can’t say that either. And yet, madam—sweet heart, that’s to say!—we are slap in the middle of whatever trouble there is.”
Bygones’s voice, speaking through the knothole, struck at them with muffled thunder.
“Lad!” he said. “Come in here at once. You, lass, remain where you are!”
Releasing himself from Dolly, who was frightened and had no wish to be released, Kinsmere hurried to the door. Then he ran. In the next room, not far from the partly open cupboard door, Bygones awaited him with a face of wrath and near-collapse.
“Harker!” he said. “You did him no hurt. I did him no hurt. And yet—” He pointed to the cupboard. “Who did this, lad? Who is the plotter-in-chief? God damn my soul.”
Kinsmere, conscious of flies buzzing near, threw the cupboard door wide open.
Pembroke Harker, trussed round with ropes which were no longer necessary, lay face down at full length. Also unnecessary was the plum-coloured satin sash wound twice round his mouth and tied at the back of the head. At the collar line below the sash’s knot, through the curls of the periwig and through a great flowing of blood, jutted up the yellow bone handle of a heavy knife.
As he lay trussed and helpless, someone had stabbed him to death through the back of the neck. Already a dozen flies were gathering and buzzing round the blood.
IX
THE KING’S HOUSE, LITTLE Russell Street, Drury Lane. Friday, May 20th, 1670. Four o’clock in the afternoon, and the performance about to begin.
Stand at the back of the pit, now, and look at it. It will be a gala afternoon, since today most of the court attend the play. Nowhere will you get a better view of so many of these people gathered together, with an edge of wax-light on their faces; and you will see representatives from half London too. Grandee and Grandee’s Lady in the side boxes; in the pit, Fop and Trollop and even respectable young Man of Affairs, with wife (Mr. Pepys of the Navy Office is a good example); Sedate Citizen in the middle gallery; Unnameable Public in the top gallery.
Never expect, as you enter, to see anything like our modern theatre of 1815. There’ll be no drop curtain, as you observe; no floats or footlights to shine on it; such things have not yet been invented. Merely a raised platform of a stage, with double doors at the back and a smaller door flanking them on either side; above the stage, on ropes so that they may be raised or lowered, two chandeliers with crowns of candles.
Nor is there any scenery, except such articles as are necessary for the action. You must use imagination, letting the scene be painted with words. And some costumes on the stage might startle the uninitiated. An actor—Mr. Hart, for instance—will play Macbeth in the periwig and red coat of a seventeenth-century Guardsman. However, since today the play is Julius Caesar and Roman dress well known from the number of London’s statues in toga or tunic, some attempt will be made to present this as it might have looked in Julius Caesar’s day.
Standing also at the back of the pit, so as to keep a wary eye out for riots at the door, is Tom Killigrew, the manager. He can look with pride on this theatre. It is a commodious place, capable of seating nearly two hundred people, and even has a glass cupola to protect the pit from rain. That cupola will be necessary soon. Despite a sunny morning, it has grown so dark and thunder-fraught that the wax candles have been lighted above the stage, throwing shaky illumination towards spectators too.
Killigrew’s French musicians—ten of them—are already in place below the stage, tuning their fiddles. There is a sharp tap for attention. Then the fiddles, aided by a horn or two, strike up a country dance as though to silence the buzz of the crowd.
It is a large crowd and a well-behaved one—barring, to be sure, those congenital brawlers who always make an uproar at the door, and say they’ll pay their money when they get inside. A shuffling from the pit is drowned by
the tumult of the top gallery, where the crowd whoops and whistles and stamps like a cloudful of angels on a spree. There sit ’prentice from Eastcheap, jack-pudding from Ludgate Hill, bullyrock from the stews of Alsatia: critical, not-to-be-cozened public, with their wenches along.
Grave-faced and quiet is the middle gallery, showing no female company. Any respectable woman may go to the play, provided she wear a vizard mask. But the Sedate Citizens of the middle gallery hold different views, Here are government men of all but the highest rank, country gentlemen, bankers, trade princes from the City. They don’t bring their wives; they won’t bring their doxies. They wear five-guinea perukes above sober finery; or they wear skull caps, gold chains, and grave fur gowns. They may be raised to the peerage one day. Meanwhile they whisper to one another, bending forward in dim light. Yet they are none the less eagerly glancing towards the side boxes, left and right, upper tier and lower, not yet filled by the court.
The fiddles dance into a merrier tune; the clamour in the pit grows louder. Come, there’s your fashion! Camlet cloaks are jostling together; a bottle passes from hand to hand. On the stage itself, in Fops’ Corner—chairs or stools there, as in the side boxes; no benches as in the rest of the house—several furbelow’d gentlemen have raised gold quizzing glasses, and are ogling ladies in vizard masks who sit well to the front of the pit.
Above singing fiddles you can hear the cries of the orange girls. “Oranges! Will you have any oranges?” They are pretty, bare-armed wenches with roving eyes. “Oranges! Who’ll buy my oranges?” Standing with their backs to the stage, they swing baskets covered with vine leaves. “Oranges!”
It has grown much darker now. A rumble of thunder shakes the glass cupola, setting candle flames atremble. The atmosphere is close, rather foul; dust rises; a lack of washing becomes evident. From the gloom of the pit you can hear scuffling noises, laughter, and the sound of a slap. “Let be, you! Oranges!”
There is a burst of laughter at the door. Killigrew turns round; the top gallery cheers; Sedate Citizen cranes his neck. For the court parties are arriving. At the head of them, looking round complacently as he enters his side box. is a portly man with a light tread …
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