by Anthony Hope
CHAPTER XXV
THE MIND OF M. DE FONTELLES
As I made my way through the Court nothing seemed changed; all was as Ihad seen it when I came to lay down the commission that Mistress Gwynhad got me. They were as careless, as merry, as shameless as before; thetalk then had been of Madame's coming, now it was of her going; theytalked of Dover and what had passed there, but the treaty was dismissedwith a shrug, and the one theme of interest, and the one subject ofwagers, was whether or how soon Mlle. de Querouaille would return to theshores and the monarch she had left. In me distaste now killedcuriosity; I pushed along as fast as the throng allowed me, anxious toperform my task and be quit of them all as soon as I could. My partthere was behind me; the prophecy was fulfilled, and my ambitionsquenched. Yet I had a pleasure in the remaining scene of the comedywhich I was to play with the King; I was amused also to see how thosewhom I knew to be in the confidence of the Duke of York and of Arlingtoneyed me with mingled fear and wariness, and hid distrust under a mostdeferential civility. They knew, it seemed, that I had guessed theirsecrets. But I was not afraid of them, for I was no more their rival inthe field of intrigue or in their assault upon the King's favour. Ilonged to say to them, "Be at peace. In an hour from now you will see myface no more."
The King sat in his chair, alone save for one gentleman who stood besidehim. I knew the Earl of Rochester well by repute, and had been beforenow in the same company, although, as it chanced, I had never yet spokenwith him. I looked for the King's brother and for Monmouth, but neitherwas to be seen. Having procured a gentleman to advise the King of mypresence, I was rewarded by being beckoned to approach immediately. Butwhen he had brought me there, he gave me no more than a smile, and,motioning me to stand by him, continued his conversation with my LordRochester and his caresses of the little dog on his lap.
"In defining it as the device by which the weak intimidate the strong,"observed Rochester, "the philosopher declared the purpose of virtuerather than its effect. For the strong are not intimidated, while theweak, falling slaves to their own puppet, grow more helpless still."
"It's a just retribution on them," said the King, "for having invented athing so tiresome."
"In truth, Sir, all these things that make virtue are given a man forhis profit, and that he may not go empty-handed into the mart of theworld. He has stuff for barter; he can give honour for pleasure,morality for money, religion for power."
The King raised his brows and smiled again, but made no remark.Rochester bowed courteously to me, as he added:
"Is it not as I say, sir?" and awaited my reply.
"It's better still, my lord," I answered. "For he can make thesebargains you speak of, and, by not keeping them, have his basket stillfull for another deal."
Again the King smiled as he patted his dog.
"Very just, sir, very just," nodded Rochester. "Thus by breaking avillainous bargain he is twice a villain, and preserves his reputationto aid him in the more effectual cheating of his neighbour."
"And the damning of his own soul," said the King softly.
"Your Majesty is Defender of the Faith. I will not meddle with your highoffice," said Rochester with a laugh. "For my own part I suffer from ahurtful sincerity; being known for a rogue by all the town, I am becomethe most harmless fellow in your Majesty's dominions. As Mr Dale heresays--I have the honour of being acquainted with your name, sir--mybasket is empty and no man will deal with me."
"There are women left you," said the King.
"It is more expense than profit," sighed the Earl. "Although indeed thekind creatures will most readily give for nothing what is worth asmuch."
"So that the sum of the matter," said the King, "is that he who refusesno bargain however iniquitous and performs none however binding----"
"Is a king among men, Sir," interposed Rochester with a low bow, "evenas your Majesty is here in Whitehall."
"And by the same title?"
"Ay, the same Right Divine. What think you of my reasoning, Mr Dale?"
"I do not know, my lord, whence you came by it, unless the Devil haspublished a tract on the matter."
"Nay, he has but circulated it among his friends," laughed Rochester."For he is in no need of money from the booksellers since he has a grantfrom God of the customs of the world for his support."
"The King must have the Customs," smiled Charles. "I have them here inEngland. But the smugglers cheat me."
"And the penitents him, Sir. Faith, these Holy Churches run queercargoes past his officers--or so they say;" and with another bow to theKing, and one of equal courtesy to me, he turned away and mingled in thecrowd that walked to and fro.
The King sat some while silent, lazily pulling the dog's coat with hisfingers. Then he looked up at me.
"Wild talk, Mr Dale," said he, "yet perhaps not all without a meaning."
"There's meaning enough, Sir. It's not that I miss."
"No, but perhaps you do. I have made many bargains; you don't praise allof them?"
"It's not for me to judge the King's actions."
"I wish every man were as charitable, or as dutiful. But--shall I emptymy basket? You know of some of my bargains. The basket is not emptiedyet."
I looked full in his face; he did not avoid my regard, but sat theresmiling in a bitter amusement.
"You are the man of reservations," said he. "I remember them. Be atpeace and hold your place. For listen to me, Mr Dale."
"I am listening to your Majesty's words."
"It will be time enough for you to open your mouth when I empty mybasket."
His words, and even more the tone in which he spoke and the significantglance of his eyes, declared his meaning. The bargain that I knew of Ineed not betray nor denounce till he fulfilled it. When would he fulfilit? He would not empty his basket, but still have something to give whenhe dealt with the King of France. I wondered that he should speak to meso openly; he knew that I wondered, yet, though his smile was bitter, hesmiled still.
I bowed to him and answered:
"I am no talker, Sir, of matters too great for me."
"That's well. I know you for a gentleman of great discretion, and Idesire to serve you. You have something to ask of me, Mr Dale?"
"The smallest thing in the world for your Majesty, and the greatest forme."
"A pattern then that I wish all requests might follow. Let me hear it."
"It is no more than your Majesty's favour for my efforts to win thewoman whom I love."
He started a little, and for the first time in all the conversationceased to fondle the little dog.
"The woman whom you love? Well, sir, and does she love you?"
"She has told me so, Sir."
"Then at least she wished you to believe it. Do I know this lady?"
"Very well, sir," I answered in a very significant tone.
He was visibly perturbed. A man come to his years will see a ready rivalin every youth, however little other attraction there may be. Butperhaps I had treated him too freely already; and now he used me well. Iwould keep up the jest no longer.
"Once, Sir," I said, "for a while I loved where the King loved, even asI drank of his cup."
"I know, Mr Dale. But you say 'once.'"
"It is gone by, Sir."
"But, yesterday?" he exclaimed abruptly.
"She is a great comedian, Sir; but I fear I seconded her efforts badly."
He did not answer for a moment, but began again to play with the dog.Then raising his eyes to mine he said:
"You were well enough; she played divinely, Mr Dale."
"She played for life, Sir."
"Ay, poor Nelly loves me," said he softly. "I had been cruel to her. ButI won't weary you with my affairs. What would you?"
"Mistress Gwyn, Sir, has been very kind to me."
"So I believe," remarked the King.
"But my heart, Sir, is now and has been for long irrevocably set onanother."
"On my faith, Mr Dale, and speaking as one man to anothe
r, I'm glad tohear it. Was it so at Canterbury?"
"More than ever before, Sir. For she was there and----"
"I know she was there."
"Nay, Sir, I mean the other, her whom I love, her whom I now woo. I meanMistress Barbara Quinton, Sir."
The King looked down and frowned; he patted his dog, he looked up again,frowning still. Then a queer smile bent his lips and he said in a voicewhich was most grave, for all his smile,
"You remember M. de Perrencourt?"
"I remember M. de Perrencourt very well, Sir."
"It was by his choice, not mine, Mr Dale, that you set out for Calais."
"So I understood at the time, Sir."
"And he is believed, both by himself and others, to choose hismen--perhaps you will allow me to say his instruments, Mr Dale--betterthan any Prince in Christendom. So you would wed Mistress Quinton? Well,sir, she is above your station."
"I was to have been made her husband, Sir."
"Nay, but she's above your station," he repeated, smiling at my retort,but conceiving that it needed no answer.
"She's not above your Majesty's persuasion, or, rather, her father isnot. She needs none."
"You do not err in modesty, Mr Dale."
"How should I, Sir, I who have drunk of the King's cup?"
"So that we should be friends."
"And known what the King hid?"
"So that we must stand or fall together?"
"And loved where the King loved?"
He made no answer to that, but sat silent for a great while. I wasconscious that many eyes were on us, in wonder that I was so long withhim, in speculation on what our business might be and whence came thefavour that gained me such distinction. I paid little heed, for I wasseeking to follow the thoughts of the King and hoping that I had won himto my side. I asked only leave to lead a quiet life with her whom Iloved, setting bounds at once to my ambition and to the plans which hehad made concerning her. Nay, I believe that I might have claimed somehold over him, but I would not. A gentleman may not levy hush-moneyhowever fair the coins seem in his eyes. Yet I feared that he mightsuspect me, and I said:
"To-day, I leave the town, Sir, whether I have what I ask of you or not;and whether I have what I ask of you or not I am silent. If your Majestywill not grant it me, yet, in all things that I may be, I am your loyalsubject."
To all this--perhaps it rang too solemn, as the words of a young man areapt to at the moments when his heart is moved--he answered nothing, butlooking up with a whimsical smile said,
"Tell me now; how do you love this Mistress Quinton?"
At this I fell suddenly into a fit of shame and bashful embarrassment.The assurance that I had gained at Court forsook me, and I wastongue-tied as any calf-lover.
"I--I don't know," I stammered.
"Nay, but I grow old. Pray tell me, Mr Dale," he urged, beginning tolaugh at my perturbation.
For my life I could not; it seems to me that the more a man feels athing the harder it is for him to utter; sacred things are secret, andthe hymn must not be heard save by the deity.
The King suddenly bent forward and beckoned. Rochester was passing by,with him now was the Duke of Monmouth. They approached; I bowed low tothe Duke, who returned my salute most cavalierly. He had small reasonto be pleased with me, and his brow was puckered. The King seemed tofind fresh amusement in his son's bearing, but he made no remark on it,and, addressing himself to Rochester, said:
"Here, my lord, is a young gentleman much enamoured of a lovely and mostchaste maiden. I ask him what this love of his is--for my memoryfails--and behold he cannot tell me! In case he doesn't know what it isthat he feels, I pray you tell him."
Rochester looked at me with an ironical smile.
"Am I to tell what love is?" he asked.
"Ay, with your utmost eloquence," answered the King, laughing still andpinching his dog's ears.
Rochester twisted his face in a grimace, and looked appealingly at theKing.
"There's no escape; to-day I am a tyrant," said the King.
"Hear then, youths," said Rochester, and his face was smoothed into apensive and gentle expression. "Love is madness and the only sanity,delirium and the only truth; blindness and the only vision, folly andthe only wisdom. It is----" He broke off and cried impatiently, "I haveforgotten what it is."
"Why, my lord, you never knew what it is," said the King. "Alone of ushere, Mr Dale knows, and since he cannot tell us the knowledge is lostto the world. James, have you any news of my friend M. de Fontelles?"
"Such news as your Majesty has," answered Monmouth. "And I hear that myLord Carford will not die."
"Let us be as thankful as is fitting for that," said the King. "M. deFontelles sent me a very uncivil message; he is leaving England, andgoes, he tells me, to seek a King whom a gentleman may serve."
"Is the gentleman about to kill himself, Sir?" asked Rochester with anaffected air of grave concern.
"He's an insolent rascal," cried Monmouth angrily. "Will he go back toFrance?"
"Why, yes, in the end, when he has tried the rest of my brethren inEurope. A man's King is like his nose; the nose may not be handsome,James, but it's small profit to cut it off. That was done once, youremember----"
"And here is your Majesty on the throne," interposed Rochester with amost loyal bow.
"James," said the King, "our friend Mr Dale desires to wed MistressBarbara Quinton."
Monmouth started violently and turned red.
"His admiration for that lady," continued the King, "has been shared bysuch high and honourable persons that I cannot doubt it to be wellfounded. Shall he not then be her husband?"
Monmouth's eyes were fixed on me; I met his glance with an easy smile.Again I felt that I, who had worsted M. de Perrencourt, need not fearthe Duke of Monmouth.
"If there be any man," observed Rochester, "who would love a lady who isnot a wife, and yet is fit to be his wife, let him take her, in Heaven'sname! For he might voyage as far in search of another like her as M. deFontelles must in his search for a Perfect King."
"Shall he not have her, James?" asked the King of his son.
Monmouth understood that the game was lost.
"Ay, Sir, let him have her," he answered, mustering a smile. "And I hopesoon to see your Court graced by her presence."
Well, at that, I, most inadvertently and by an error in demeanour whichI now deplore sincerely, burst into a short sharp laugh. The King turnedto me with raised eye-brows.
"Pray let us hear the jest, Mr Dale," said he.
"Why, Sir," I answered, "there is no jest. I don't know why I laughed,and I pray your pardon humbly."
"Yet there was something in your mind," the King insisted.
"Then, Sir, if I must say it, it was no more than this; if I would notbe married in Calais, neither will I be married in Whitehall."
There was a moment's silence. It was broken by Rochester.
"I am dull," said he. "I don't understand that observation of MrDale's."
"That may well be, my lord," said Charles, and he turned to Monmouth,smiling maliciously as he asked, "Are you as dull as my lord here,James, or do you understand what Mr Dale would say?"
Monmouth's mood hung in the balance between anger and amusement. I hadcrossed and thwarted his fancy, but it was no more than a fancy. And Ihad crossed and thwarted M. de Perrencourt's also; that was balm to hiswounds. I do not know that he could have done me harm, and it was asmuch from a pure liking for him as from any fear of his disfavour that Irejoiced when I saw his kindly thoughts triumph and a smile come on hislips.
"Plague take the fellow," said he, "I understand him. On my life he'swise!"
I bowed low to him, saying, "I thank your Grace for your understanding."
Rochester sighed heavily.
"This is wearisome," said he. "Shall we walk?"
"You and James shall walk," said the King. "I have yet a word for MrDale." As they went he turned to me and said, "But will you leave us? Icould find wo
rk for you here."
I did not know what to answer him. He saw my hesitation.
"The basket will not be emptied," said he in a low and cautious voice."It will be emptied neither for M. de Perrencourt nor for the King ofFrance. You look very hard at me, Mr Dale, but you needn't search myface so closely. I will tell you what you desire to know. I have had myprice, but I do not empty my basket." Having said this, he sat leaninghis head on his hands with his eyes cast up at me from under his swarthybushy brows.
There was a long silence then between us. For myself I do not deny thatyouthful ambition again cried to me to take his offer, while pride toldme that even at Whitehall I could guard my honour and all that was mine.I could serve him; since he told me his secrets, he must and would serveme. And he had in the end dealt fairly and kindly with me.
The King struck his right hand on the arm of his chair suddenly andforcibly.
"I sit here," said he; "it is my work to sit here. My brother has aconscience, how long would he sit here? James is a fool, how long wouldhe sit here? They laugh at me or snarl at me, but here I sit, and here Iwill sit till my life's end, by God's grace or the Devil's help. Mygospel is to sit here."
I had never before seen him so moved, and never had so plain a glimpseof his heart, nor of the resolve which lay beneath his lightness andfrivolity. Whence came that one unswerving resolution I know not; yet Ido not think that it stood on nothing better than his indolence and ahatred of going again on his travels. There was more than that in it;perhaps he seemed to himself to hold a fort and considered allstratagems and devices well justified against the enemy. I made him noanswer but continued to look at him. His passion passed as quickly as ithad come, and he was smiling again with his ironical smile as he said tome:
"But my gospel need not be yours. Our paths have crossed, they need notrun side by side. Come, man, I have spoken to you plainly, speak plainlyto me." He paused, and then, leaning forward, said,
"Perhaps you are of M. de Fontelles' mind? Will you join him in hissearch? Abandon it. You had best go to your home and wait. Heaven mayone day send you what you desire. Answer me, sir. Are you of theFrenchman's mind?"
His voice now had the ring of command in it and I could not but answer.And when I came to answer there was but one thing to say. He had told methe terms of my service. What was it to me that he sat there, if honourand the Kingdom's greatness and all that makes a crown worth the wearingmust go, in order to his sitting there? There rose in me at once aninclination towards him and a loathing for the gospel that he preached;the last was stronger and, with a bow, I said:
"Yes, Sir, I am of M. de Fontelles' mind."
He heard me, lying back in his chair. He said nothing, but sighedlightly, puckered his brow an instant, and smiled. Then he held out hishand to me, and I bent and kissed it.
"Good-bye, Mr Dale," said he. "I don't know how long you'll have towait. I'm hale and--so's my brother."
He moved his hand in dismissal, and, having withdrawn some paces, Iturned and walked away. All observed or seemed to observe me; I heardwhispers that asked who I was, why the King had talked so long to me,and to what service or high office I was destined. Acquaintances salutedme and stared in wonder at my careless acknowledgment and the quickdecisive tread that carried me to the door. Now, having made my choice,I was on fire to be gone; yet once I turned my head and saw the Kingsitting still in his chair, his head resting on his hands, and a slightsmile on his lips. He saw me look, and nodded his head. I bowed, turnedagain, and was gone.
Since then I have not seen him, for the paths that crossed divergedagain. But, as all men know, he carried out his gospel. There he sattill his life's end, whether by God's grace or the Devil's help I knownot. But there he sat, and never did he empty his basket lest, havinggiven all, he should have nothing to carry to market. It is not for meto judge him now; but then, when I had the choice set before me, therein his own palace, I passed my verdict. I do not repent of it. For goodor evil, in wisdom or in folly, in mere honesty or the extravagance ofsentiment, I had made my choice. I was of the mind of M. de Fontelles,and I went forth to wait till there should be a King whom a gentlemancould serve. Yet to this day I am sorry that he made me tell him of mychoice.
CHAPTER XXVI
I COME HOME
I have written the foregoing for my children's sake that they may knowthat once their father played some part in great affairs, and, rubbingshoulder to shoulder with folk of high degree, bore himself (as Iventure to hope) without disgrace, and even with that credit which aready brain and hand bring to their possessor. Here, then, I might wellcome to an end, and deny myself the pleasure of a last few words inditedfor my own comfort and to please a greedy recollection. The children, ifthey read, will laugh. Have you not seen the mirthful wonder thatspreads on a girl's face when she comes by chance on some relic of herfather's wooing, a faded wreath that he has given her mother, or anosegay tied with a ribbon and a poem attached thereto? She will look inher father's face, and thence to where her mother sits at herneedle-work, just where she has sat at her needle-work these twentyyears, with her old kind smile and comfortable eyes. The girl loves her,loves her well, but--how came father to write those words? For mother,though the dearest creature in the world, is not slim, nor dazzling, nora Queen, nor is she Venus herself, decked in colours of the rainbow, nora Goddess come from heaven to men, nor the desire of all the world, noraught else that father calls her in the poem. Indeed, what father wroteis something akin to what the Squire slipped into her own hand lastnight; but it is a strange strain in which to write to mother, thedearest creature in the world, but no, not Venus in her glory nor theQueen of the Nymphs. But though the maiden laughs, her father is notashamed. He still sees her to whom he wrote, and when she smiles acrossthe room at him, and smiles again to see her daughter's wonder, all theyears fade from the picture's face, and the vision stands as once itwas, though my young mistress' merry eyes have not the power to see it.Let her laugh. God forbid that I should grudge it her! Soon enough shallshe sit sewing and another laugh.
Carford was gone, well-nigh healed of his wound, healed also of hislove, I trust, at least headed off from it. M. de Fontelles was gonealso, on that quest of his which made my Lord Rochester so merry; indeedI fear that in this case the scoffer had the best of it, for he whom Ihave called M. de Perrencourt was certainly served again by hisindignant subject, and that most brilliantly. Well, had I been aFrenchman, I could have forgiven King Louis much; and I suppose that,although an Englishman, I do not hate him greatly, since his ring isoften on my wife's finger and I see it there without pain.
It was the day before my wedding was to take place; for my lord, onbeing informed of all that had passed, had sworn roundly that sincethere was one honest man who sought his daughter, he would not refuseher, lest while he waited for better things worse should come. And heproceeded to pay me many a compliment, which I would repeat, despite ofmodesty, if it chanced that I remembered them. But in truth my head wasso full of his daughter that there was no space for his praises, and hiswell-turned eulogy (for my lord had a pretty flow of words) was as sadlywasted as though he had spoken it to the statue of Apollo on histerrace.
I had been taking dinner with the Vicar, and, since it was not yet timeto pay my evening visit to the Manor, I sat with him a while after ourmeal, telling him for his entertainment how I had talked with the Kingat Whitehall, what the King had said, and what I, and how my LordRochester had talked finely of the Devil, and tried, but failed, to talkof love. He drank in all with eager ears, weighing the wit in a balance,and striving to see, through my recollection, the life and the scene andthe men that were so strange to his eyes and so familiar to his dreams.
"You don't appear very indignant, sir," I ventured to observe with asmile.
We were in the porch, and, for answer to what I said, he pointed to thepath in front of us. Following the direction of his finger I perceived afly of a species with which I, who am a poor student of nature, was notfamiliar. It was
villainously ugly, although here and there on it werepatches of bright colour.
"Yet," said the Vicar, "you are not indignant with it, Simon."
"No, I am not indignant," I admitted.
"But if it were to crawl over you----"
"I should crush the brute," I cried.
"Yes. They have crawled over you and you are indignant. They have notcrawled over me, and I am curious."
"But, sir, will you allow a man no disinterested moral emotion?"
"As much as he will, and he shall be cool at the end of it," smiled theVicar. "Now if they took my benefice from me again!" Stooping down, hepicked up the creature in his hand and fell to examining it veryminutely.
"I wonder you can touch it," said I in disgust.
"You did not quit the Court without some regret, Simon," he reminded me.
I could make nothing of him in this mood and was about to leave him whenI perceived my lord and Barbara approaching the house. Springing up, Iran to meet them; they received me with a grave air, and in the readyapprehension of evil born of a happiness that seems too great I criedout to know if there were bad tidings.
"There's nothing that touches us nearly," said my lord. "But verypitiful news is come from France."
The Vicar had followed me and now stood by me; I looked up and saw thatthe ugly creature was still in his hand.
"It concerns Madame, Simon," said Barbara. "She is dead and all the towndeclares that she had poison given to her in a cup of chicory-water. Isit not pitiful?"
Indeed the tidings came as a shock to me, for I remembered the winninggrace and wit of the unhappy lady.
"But who has done it?" I cried.
"I don't know," said my lord. "It is set down to her husband; rightly orwrongly, who knows?"
A silence ensued for a few moments. The Vicar stooped and set hiscaptive free to crawl away on the path.
"God has crushed one of them, Simon," said he. "Are you content?"
"I try not to believe it of her," said I.
In a grave mood we began to walk, and presently, as it chanced, Barbaraand I distanced the slow steps of our elders and found ourselves at theManor gates alone.
"I am very sorry for Madame," said she, sighing heavily. Yet presently,because by the mercy of Providence our own joy outweighs others' griefand thus we can pass through the world with unbroken hearts, she lookedup at me with a smile, and passing her arm, through mine, drew herselfclose to me.
"Ay, be merry, to-night at least be merry, my sweet," said I. "For wehave come through a forest of troubles and are here safe out on theother side."
"Safe and together," said she.
"Without the second, where would be the first?"
"Yet," said Barbara, "I fear you'll make a bad husband; for here at thevery beginning--nay, I mean before the beginning--you have deceived me."
"I protest----!" I cried.
"For it was from my father only that I heard of a visit you paid inLondon."
I bent my head and looked at her.
"I would not trouble you with it," said I. "It was no more than a debtof civility."
"Simon, I don't grudge it to her. For I am, here in the country withyou, and she is there in London without you."
"And in truth," said I, "I believe that you are both best pleased."
"For her," said Barbara, "I cannot speak."
For a long while then we walked in silence, while the afternoon grewfull and waned again. They mock at lovers' talk; let them, say I withall my heart, so that they leave our silence sacred. But at lastBarbara turned to me and said with a little laugh:
"Art glad to have come home, Simon?"
Verily I was glad. In body I had wandered some way, in mind and heartfarther, through many dark ways, turning and twisting here and there,leading I knew not whither, seeming to leave no track by which I mightregain my starting point. Yet, although I felt it not, the thread was inmy hand, the golden thread spun here in Hatchstead when my days wereyoung. At length the hold of it had tightened and I, perceiving it, hadturned and followed. Thus it had brought me home, no better in purse orstation than I went, and poorer by the loss of certain dreams thathaunted me, yet, as I hope, sound in heart and soul. I looked now in thedark eyes that were, set on me as though there were their refuge, joy,and life; she clung to me as though even still I might leave her. Butthe last fear fled, the last doubt faded away, and a smile came inradiant serenity on the lips I loved as, bending down, I whispered:
"Ay, I am glad to have come home."
But there was one thing more that I must say. Her head fell on myshoulder as she murmured:
"And you have utterly forgotten her?"
Her eyes were safely hidden. I smiled as I answered, "Utterly."
See how I stood! Wilt thou forgive me, Nelly?
For a man may be very happy as he is and still not forget the thingswhich have been. "What are you thinking of, Simon?" my wife askssometimes when I lean back in my chair and smile. "Of nothing, sweet,"say I. And, in truth, I am not thinking; it is only that a low laughechoes distantly in my ear. Faithful and loyal am I--but, should such asNell leave nought behind her?
