by Anthony Hope
CHAPTER XX
THE VICAR'S PROPOSITION
I do not know how long I stood outside the door there in the passage.After awhile I began to move softly to and fro, more than once reachingthe room where I was to sleep, but returning again to my old post. I wasloth to forsake it. A strange desire was on me. I wished that the doorwould open, nay, to open it myself, and by my presence declare what wasnow so plain to me. But to her it would not have been plain; for now Iwas alone in the passage, and there was nothing to show the thing whichhad come to me there, and there at last had left me. Yet it seemedmonstrous that she should not know, possible to tell her to-night,certain that my shame-faced tongue would find no words to-morrow. It wasa thing that must be said while the glow and the charm of it were stillon me, or it would find no saying.
The light had burnt down very low, and gave forth a dim fitful glare,hardly conquering the darkness. Now, again, I was standing still, lostin my struggle. Presently, with glad amazement, as though there hadcome an unlooked-for answer to my prayer, I heard a light step within.The footfalls seemed to hesitate; then they came again, the bolt of thedoor shot back, and a crack of faint light shewed. "Who's there?" askedBarbara's voice, trembling with alarm or some other agitation which madeher tones quick and timid. I made no answer. The door opened a littlewider. I saw her face as she looked out, half-fearful, yet surely alsohalf-expectant. Much as I had desired her coming, I would willingly haveescaped now, for I did not know what to say to her. I had rehearsed myspeech a hundred times; the moment for its utterance found me dumb. Yetthe impulse I had felt was still on me, though it failed to give mewords.
"I thought it was you," she whispered. "Why are you there? Do you wantme?"
Lame and halting came my answer.
"I was only passing by on my way to bed," I stammered. "I'm sorry Iroused you."
"I wasn't asleep," said she. Then after a pause she added, "I--I thoughtyou had been there some time. Good-night."
She bade me good-night, but yet seemed to wait for me to speak; since Iwas still silent she added, "Is our companion gone to bed?"
"Some little while back," said I. Then raising my eyes to her face, Isaid, "I'm sorry that you don't sleep."
"Alas, we both have our sorrows," she returned with a doleful smile.Again there was a pause.
"Good-night," said Barbara.
"Good-night," said I.
She drew back, the door closed, I was alone again in the passage.
Now if any man--nay, if every man--who reads my history, at this placeclose the leaves on his thumb and call Simon Dale a fool, I will notcomplain of him; but if he be moved to fling the book away for good andall, not enduring more of such a fool as Simon Dale, why I will humblyask him if he hath never rehearsed brave speeches for his mistress's earand found himself tongue-tied in her presence? And if he hath, what didhe then? I wager that, while calling himself a dolt with most heartyhonesty, yet he set some of the blame on her shoulders, crying that hewould have spoken had she opened the way, that it was her reticence, herdistance, her coldness, which froze his eloquence; and that to any otherlady in the whole world he could have poured forth words so full of firethat they must have inflamed her to a passion like to his own and burntdown every barrier which parted her heart from his. Therefore at thatmoment he searched for accusations against her, and found abitter-tasting comfort in every offence that she had given him, and madetreasure of any scornful speech, rescuing himself from the extreme offoolishness by such excuse as harshness might afford. Now BarbaraQuinton had told Mistress Nell that I was forward for my station. Whatman could, what man would, lay bare his heart to a lady who held him tobe forward for his station?
These meditations took me to my chamber, whither I might have gone anhour before, and lasted me fully two hours after I had stretched myselfupon the bed. Then I slept heavily; when I woke it was high morning. Ilay there a little while, thinking with no pleasure of the journeybefore me. Then having risen and dressed hastily, I made my way to theroom where Nell and I had talked the night before. I did not know inwhat mood I should find her, but I desired to see her alone and beg herto come to some truce with Mistress Quinton, lest our day's travellingshould be over thorns. She was not in the room when I came there.Looking out of window I perceived the coach at the door; the host wasgiving an eye to the horses, and I hailed him. He ran in and a momentlater entered the room.
"At what hour are we to set out?" I asked.
"When you will," said he.
"Have you no orders then from Mistress Gwyn?"
"She left none with me, sir."
"Left none?" I cried, amazed.
A smile came on his lips and his eyes twinkled.
"Now I thought it!" said he with a chuckle. "You didn't know herpurpose? She has hired a post-chaise and set out two hours ago, tellingme that you and the other lady would travel as well without her, andthat, for her part, she was weary of both of you. But she left a messagefor you. See, it lies there on the table."
A little packet was on the table; I took it up. The innkeeper's eyeswere fixed on me in obvious curiosity and amusement. I was not minded toafford him more entertainment than I need, and bade him begone before Iopened the packet. He withdrew reluctantly. Then I unfastened Nell'sparcel. It contained ten guineas wrapped in white paper, and on theinside of the paper was written in a most laborious awkward scrawl (Ifear the execution of it gave poor Nell much pains), "In pay for yourdagger. E.G." It was all of her hand I had ever seen; the brief messageseemed to speak a sadness in her. Perhaps I deluded myself; her skillwith the pen would not serve her far. She had gone, that was the sum ofit, and I was grieved that she had gone in this fashion.
With the piece of paper still in my hands, the guineas also stillstanding in a little pile on the table, I turned to find Barbara Quintonin the doorway of the room. Her air was timid, as though she were notsure of welcome, and something of the night's embarrassment still hungabout her. She looked round as though in search for somebody.
"I am alone here," said I, answering her glance.
"But she? Mistress----?"
"She's gone," said I. "I haven't seen her. The innkeeper tells me thatshe has been gone these two hours. But she has left us the coachand----" I walked to the window and looked out. "Yes, and my horse isthere, and her servant with his horse."
"But why is she gone? Hasn't she left----?"
"She has left ten guineas also," said I, pointing to the pile on thetable.
"And no reason for her going?"
"Unless this be one," I answered, holding out the piece of paper.
"I won't read it," said Barbara.
"It says only, 'In pay for your dagger.'"
"Then it gives no reason."
"Why, no, it gives none," said I.
"It's very strange," murmured Barbara, looking not at me but past me.
Now to me, when I pondered over the matter, it did not seem altogetherstrange. Yet where lay the need to tell Mistress Barbara why it seemednot altogether strange? Indeed I could not have told it easily, seeingthat, look at it how you will, the thing was not easy to set forth toMistress Barbara. Doubtless it was but a stretch of fancy to see anymeaning in Nell's mention of the dagger, save the plain one that lay onthe surface; yet had she been given to conceits, she might have used thedagger as a figure for some wound that I had dealt her.
"No doubt some business called her," said I rather lamely. "She hasshown much consideration in leaving her coach for us."
"And the money? Shall you use it?"
"What choice have I?"
Barbara's glance was on the pile of guineas. I put out my hand, tookthem up, and stowed them in my purse; as I did this, my eye wandered tothe window. Barbara followed my look and my thought also. I had no mindthat this new provision for our needs should share the fate of my lastguinea.
"You needn't have said that!" cried Barbara, flushing; although, as maybe seen, I had said nothing.
"I will repay the money in due course," s
aid I, patting my purse.
We made a meal together in unbroken silence. No more was said ofMistress Nell; our encounter in the corridor last night seemed utterlyforgotten. Relieved of a presence that was irksome to her and would haverendered her apprehensive of fresh shame at every place we passedthrough, Mistress Barbara should have shown an easier bearing and moregaiety; so I supposed and hoped. The fact refuted me; silent, cold, anddistant, she seemed in even greater discomfort than when we had acompanion. Her mood called up a like in me, and I began to ask myselfwhether for this I had done well to drive poor Nell away.
Thus in gloom we made ready to set forth. Myself prepared to mount myhorse, I offered to hand Barbara into the coach. Then she looked at me;I noted it, for she had not done so much for an hour past; a slightcolour came into her cheeks, she glanced round the interior of thecoach; it was indeed wide and spacious for one traveller.
"You ride to-day also?" she asked.
The sting that had tormented me was still alive; I could not deny myselfthe pleasure of a retort so apt. I bowed low and deferentially, saying,"I have learnt my station. I would not be so forward as to sit in thecoach with you." The flush on her cheeks deepened suddenly; shestretched out her hand a little way towards me, and her lips parted asthough she were about to speak. But her hand fell again, and her lipsshut on unuttered words.
"As you will," she said coldly. "Pray bid them set out."
Of our journey I will say no more. There is nothing in it that I takepleasure in telling, and to write its history would be to accuse eitherBarbara or myself. For two days we travelled together, she in her coach,I on horseback. Come to London, we were told that my lord was atHatchstead; having despatched our borrowed equipage and servant to theirmistress, and with them the amount of my debt and a most gratefulmessage, we proceeded on our road, Barbara in a chaise, I again riding.All the way Barbara shunned me as though I had the plague, and I on myside showed no desire to be with a companion so averse from my society.On my life I was driven half-mad, and had that night at Canterbury comeagain--well, Heaven be thanked that temptation comes sometimes atmoments when virtue also has attractions, or which of us would stand?And the night we spent on the road, decorum forbade that we should somuch as speak, much less sup, together; and the night we lay in London,I spent at one end of the town and she at the other. At least I showedno forwardness; to that I was sworn, and adhered most obstinately. Thuswe came to Hatchstead, better strangers than ever we had left Dover,and, although safe and sound from bodily perils and those wiles ofprinces that had of late so threatened our tranquillity, yet both of usas ill in temper as could be conceived. Defend me from any such journeyagain! But there is no likelihood of such a trial now, alas! Yes, therewas a pleasure in it; it was a battle, and, by my faith, it was closedrawn between us.
The chaise stopped at the Manor gates, and I rode up to the door of it,cap in hand. Here was to be our parting.
"I thank you heartily, sir," said Barbara in a low voice, with a bow ofher head and a quick glance that would not dwell on my sullen face.
"My happiness has been to serve you, madame," I returned. "I grieve onlythat my escort has been so irksome to you."
"No," said Barbara, and she said no more, but rolled up the avenue inher chaise, leaving me to find my way alone to my mother's house.
I sat a few moments on my horse, watching her go. Then with an oath Iturned away. The sight of the gardener's cottage sent my thoughts backto the old days when Cydaria came and caught my heart in her butterflynet. It was just there, in the meadow by the avenue, that I had kissedher. A kiss is a thing lightly given and sometimes lightly taken. It wasthat kiss which Barbara had seen from the window, and great debate hadarisen on it. Lightly given, yet leading on to much that I did not see,lightly taken, yet perhaps mother to some fancies that men would wonderto find in Mistress Gwyn.
"I'm heartily glad to be here!" I cried, loosing the Vicar's hand andflinging myself into the high arm-chair in the chimney corner.
My mother received this exclamation as a tribute of filial affection,the Vicar treated it as an evidence of friendship, my sister Mary saw init a thanksgiving for deliverance from the perils and temptations ofLondon and the Court. Let them take it how they would; in truth it wasinspired in none of these ways, but was purely an expression of relief,first at having brought Mistress Barbara safe to the Manor, in thesecond place, at being quit of her society.
"I am very curious to learn, Simon," said the Vicar, drawing his chairnear mine, and laying his hand upon my knee, "what passed at Dover. Forit seems to me that there, if at any place in the world, the prophecywhich Betty Nasroth spoke concerning you----"
"You shall know all in good time, sir," I cried impatiently.
"Should find its fulfilment," ended the Vicar placidly.
"Are we not finished with that folly yet?" asked my mother.
"Simon must tell us that," smiled the Vicar.
"In good time, in good time," I cried again. "But tell me first, whendid my lord come here from London?"
"Why, a week ago. My lady was sick, and the physician prescribed the airof the country for her. But my lord stayed four days only and then wasgone again."
I started and sat upright in my seat.
"What, isn't he here now?" I asked eagerly.
"Why, Simon," said my good mother with a laugh, "we looked to get newsfrom you, and now we have news to give you! The King has sent for mylord; I saw his message. It was most flattering and spoke of some urgentand great business on which the King desired my lord's immediatepresence and counsel. So he set out two days ago to join the King with alarge train of servants, leaving behind my lady, who was too sick totravel."
I was surprised at these tidings and fell into deep consideration. Whatneed had the King of my lord's counsel, and so suddenly? What had beendone at Dover would not be opened to Lord Quinton's ear. Was he summonedas a Lord of Council or as his daughter's father? For by now the Kingmust know certain matters respecting my lord's daughter and a humblegentleman who had striven to serve her so far as his station enabled himand without undue forwardness. We might well have passed my lord's coachon the road and not remarked it among the many that met us as we drewnear to London in the evening. I had not observed his liveries, but thatwent for nothing. I took heed of little on that journey save the bearingof Mistress Barbara. Where lay the meaning of my lord's summons? It cameinto my mind that M. de Perrencourt had sent messengers from Calais, andthat the King might be seeking to fulfil in another way the bargainwhose accomplishment I had hindered. The thought was new life to me. Ifmy work were not finished--. I broke off; the Vicar's hand was on myknee again.
"Touching the prophecy----" he began.
"Indeed, sir, in good time you shall know all. It is fulfilled."
"Fulfilled!" he cried rapturously. "Then, Simon, fortune smiles?"
"No," I retorted, "she frowns most damnably."
To swear is a sin, to swear before ladies is bad manners, to swear intalking to a clergyman is worst of all. But while my mother and mysister drew away in offence (and I hereby tender them an apology neveryet made) the Vicar only smiled.
"A plague on such prophecies," said I sourly.
"Yet if it be fulfilled!" he murmured. For he held more by that than byany good fortune of mine; me he loved, but his magic was dearer to him."You must indeed tell me," he urged.
My mother approached somewhat timidly.
"You are come to stay with us, Simon?" she asked.
"For the term of my life, so far as I know, madame," said I.
"Thanks to God," she murmured softly.
There is a sort of saying that a mother speaks and a son hears to hisshame and wonder! Her heart was all in me, while mine was far away.Despondency had got hold of me. Fortune, in her merriest mood, seemingbent on fooling me fairly, had opened a door and shown me the prospectof fine doings and high ambitions realised. The glimpse had been butbrief, and the tricky creature shut the door in my face with a laugh.Betty
Nasroth's prophecy was fulfilled, but its accomplishment left mein no better state; nay, I should be compelled to count myself lucky ifI came off unhurt and were not pursued by the anger of those great folkwhose wills and whims I had crossed. I must lie quiet in Hatchstead, andto lie quiet in Hatchstead was hell to me--ay, hell, unless by somemiracle (whereof there was but one way) it should turn to heaven. Thatwas not for me; I was denied youth's sovereign balm for ill-starredhopes and ambitions gone awry.
The Vicar and I were alone now, and I could not but humour him bytelling what had passed. He heard with rare enjoyment; and although hisinterest declined from its zenith so soon as I had told the last of theprophecy, he listened to the rest with twinkling eyes. No comment did hemake, but took snuff frequently. I, my tale done, fell again intomeditation. Yet I had been fired by the rehearsal of my own story, andmy thoughts were less dark in hue. The news concerning Lord Quintonstirred me afresh. My aid might again be needed; my melancholy wastinted with pleasant pride as I declared to myself that it should not belacking, for all that I had been used as one would not use a faithfuldog, much less a gentleman who, doubtless by no merit of his own but yetmost certainly, had been of no small service. To confess the truth, Iwas so persuaded of my value that I looked for every moment to bring mea summons, and practised under my breath the terms, respectful yetresentful, in which I would again place my arm and sword at Barbara'sdisposal.
"You loved this creature Nell?" asked the Vicar suddenly.
"Ay," said I, "I loved her."
"You love her no more?"
"Why, no," I answered, mustering a cool smile. "Folly such as that goesby with youth."
"Your age is twenty-four?"
"Yes, I am twenty-four."
"And you love her no longer?"
"I tell you, no longer, sir."
The Vicar opened his box and took a large pinch.
"Then," said he, the pinch being between his finger and thumb and justhalf-way on the road to his nose, "you love some other woman, Simon."
He spoke not as a man who asks a question nor even as one who hazards anopinion; he declared a fact and needed no answer to confirm him. "Yes,you love some other woman, Simon," said he, and there left the matter.
"I don't," I cried indignantly. Had I told myself a hundred times that Iwas not in love to be told by another that I was? True, I might havebeen in love, had not----
"Ah, who goes there?" exclaimed the Vicar, springing nimbly to thewindow and looking out with eagerness. "I seem to know the gentleman.Come, Simon, look."
I obeyed him. A gentleman, attended by two servants, rode past rapidly;twilight had begun to fall, but the light served well enough to show mewho the stranger was. He rode hard and his horse's head was towards theManor gates.
"I think it is my Lord Carford," said the Vicar. "He goes to the Manor,as I think."
"I think it is and I think he does," said I; and for a single moment Istood there in the middle of the room, hesitating, wavering, miserable.
"What ails you, Simon? Why shouldn't my Lord Carford go to the Manor?"cried the Vicar.
"Let him go to the devil!" I cried, and I seized my hat from the tablewhere it lay.
The Vicar turned to me with a smile on his lips.
"Go, lad," said he, "and let me not hear you again deny my propositions.They are founded on an extensive observation of humanity and----"
Well, I know not to this day on what besides. For I was out of the housebefore the Vicar completed his statement of the authority that underlayhis propositions.
