THE COURTSHIP OF MORRICE BUCKLER
CHAPTER I.
TELLS OF AN INTERRUPTED MESSAGE.
It chanced that as I was shifting the volumes in my library thismorning, more from sheer fatigue of idleness than with any setintention--for, alas! this long time since I have lost the savour ofbooks--a little Elzevir copy of Horace fell from the back of a shelfbetween my hands. It lay in my palm, soiled and faded with the dust oftwenty years; and as I swept clean its cover and the edges of theleaves, the look and feel of it unlocked my mind to such an inrush ofglistening memories that I seemed to be sweeping those years and theoverlay of their experience from off my consciousness. I lived againin that brief but eventful period which laid upon the unaccustomedshoulders of a bookish student a heavy burden of deeds, but gave himin compensation wherewith to reckon the burden light.
The book fell open of its own accord at the Palinodia at Tyndaridem.On the stained and fingered leaf facing the ode I could still decipherthe plan of Lukstein Castle, and as I gazed, that blurred outlinefilled until it became a picture. I looked into the book as into amagician's crystal. The great angle of the building, the level row ofwindows, the red roofs of the turrets, the terrace, and the littlepinewood pavilion, all were clearly limned before my eyes, and wereoverswept by changing waves of colour. I saw the Castle as on thefirst occasion of my coming, hung disconsolately on a hillside in afar-away corner of the Tyrol, a black stain upon a sloping wildernessof snow; I saw it again under a waning moon in the stern silence of afrosty night, as each window grew angry with a tossing glare of links;but chiefly I saw it as when I rode thither on my last memorablevisit, sleeping peacefully above the cornfields in the droning sabbathof a summer afternoon. I turned my eyes to the ode. The score of mypencil was visible against the last verse:
Nunc ego mitibus Mutare quaero tristia dum mihi Fias recantatis amica Opprobriis animumque reddas.
On the margin beside the first line was the date, Sept. 14, 1685, andbeneath the verse yet another date, Sept. 12, 1687. And as I looked,it came upon me that I would set down with what clearness I might therecord of those two years, in the hope that my memories might warm andcheer these later days of loneliness, much as the afterglow lingerspurple on yonder summit rocks when the sun has already sunk behind theCumberland fells. For indeed that short interspace of time shines outin my remembrance like a thick thread of gold in a woof of homespun. Iwould not, however, be understood to therefore deprecate the quietyears of happiness which followed. The two years of which I speak intheir actual passage occasioned me more anxiety and suffering thanhappiness. But they have a history of their own. They mark out aportion of my life whereof the two dates in my Horace were thebeginning and the end, and the verse between the dates, strangelyenough, its best epitome.
It was, then, the fourteenth day of September, 1685, and the time afew minutes past noon. Jack Larke, my fellow-student at the Universityof Leyden, and myself had but just returned to our lodging in thatstreet of the town which they call the Pape-Graft. We were both fairlywearied, for the weather was drowsy and hot, and one had littlestomach for the Magnificus Professor, the more particularly when hediscoursed concerning the natural philosophy of Pliny.
"'Tis all lies, every jot of it!" cried Larke. "If I wrote suchnonsense I should be whipped for a heretic. And yet I must sit thereand listen and take notes until my brain reels."
"You sit there but seldom, Jack," said I, "and never played yourselfso false as to listen; while as for the notes----!"
I took up his book which he had flung upon the table. It containednaught but pictures of the Professor in divers humiliating attitudes,with John Larke ever towering above him, his honest features twistedinto so heroical an expression of scorn as set me laughing till mysides ached.
He snatched the book from my hand, and flung it into a corner."There!" said he. "It may go to the dust-hole and Pliny with it, torot in company." And the Latin volume followed the note-book.Whereupon, with a sigh of relief, he lifted a brace of pistols from ashelf, and began industriously to scour and polish them, though indeedtheir locks and barrels shone like silver as it was. For my part, Iplumped myself down before this very ode of Horace; and so for awhile, each in his own way, we worked silently. Ever and again,however, he would look up and towards me, and then, with an impatientshrug, settle to his task again. At last he could contain no longer.
"Lord!" he burst out, "what a sick world it is! Here am I, fitted fora roving life under open skies, and plucked out of God's design by thewant of a few pence."
"You may yet sit on the bench," said I, to console him.
"Ay, lad," he answered, "I might if I had sufficient roguery to supplymy lack of wits." Then he suddenly turned on me. "And here are you,"he said, "who could journey east and west, and never sleep twicebeneath the same roof, breaking your back mewed up over a copy ofHorace!"
At that moment I was indeed stretched full-length upon a sofa, but Ihad no mind to set him right. The tirade was passing old to me, andreplies were but fresh fuel to keep it flickering. However, he had notyet done.
"I believe," he continued, "you would sooner solve a knot in Aristotlethan lead out the finest lady in Europe to dance a pavan with you."
"That is true," I replied. "I should be no less afraid of her than youof Aristotle."
"Morrice," said he solemnly, "I do verily believe you have naught butfish-blood in your veins."
Whereat I laughed, and he, coming over to me:
"Why, man," he cried, "had I your fortune on my back----"
"You would soon find it a ragged cloak," I interposed.
"And your sword at my side----"
"You would still lack my skill in using it."
Larke stopped short in his speech, and his face darkened. I hadtouched him in the tenderest part of his pride. Proficiency in manlyexercises was the single quality on which he plumed himself, and so hehad made it his daily habit to repair to the fencing-rooms of a notedFrench master, who dwelt in Noort-Eynde by the Witte Poort. Thitheralso, by dint of much pertinacity, for which I had grave reason tothank him afterwards, he had haled me for instruction in the art. OnceI got there, however, the play fascinated me. The delicate intricacyof the movements so absorbed brain and muscle in a common service asto produce in me an inward sense of completeness, very sweet andstrange to one of my halting diffidence. In consequence I appliedmyself with considerable enthusiasm, and in the end acquired somenimbleness with the rapier, or, to speak more truly, the foil. For asyet my skill had never been put to the test of a serious encounter.
Now, on the previous day Larke and I had fenced together throughoutthe afternoon, and fortune had sided with me in every bout; and itwas, I think, the recollection of this which rankled within him.However, the fit soon passed--'twas not in his nature to be silentlong--and he broke out again, seating himself in a chair by the table.
"Dost never dream of adventures, Morrice?" he asked. "A life brimfulof them, and a quick death at the end?"
"I had as lief die in my bed," said I.
"To be sure, to be sure," he replied with a sneer. "Men ever wish todie in the place they are most fond of;" and then he leant forwardupon the table and said, with a curious wonder: "Hast never a regretthat thy sword rusted in June?"
"Nay," I answered him quickly. "Monmouth was broken and capturedbefore we had even heard he had raised his flag. And, besides, theKing had stouter swords than mine, and yet no use for them."
But none the less I turned my face to the wall, for I felt my cheeksblazing. My words were indeed the truth. The same packet which broughtto us the news of Monmouth's rising in the west, brought to us alsothe news of his defeat at Sedgemoor. But I might easily have divinedhis project some while ago. For early in the spring I had received avisit from one Ferguson, a Scot, who, after uttering many fantasticallies concerning the "Duke of York,"
as he impudently styled the King,had warned me that such as failed to assist the true monarch out ofthe funds they possessed might well find themselves sorely burdened inthe near future. At the time I had merely laughed at the menace, andslipped it from my thoughts. Afterwards, however, the remembrance ofhis visit came back to me, and with it a feeling of shame that I hadlain thus sluggishly at Leyden while this monstrous web of rebellionwas a-weaving about me in the neighbouring towns of Holland.
"'Art more of a woman than a man, Morrice, I fear me," said Jack.
I had heard some foolish talk of this kind more than once before, andit ever angered me. I rose quickly from the couch; but Jack skippedround the table, and jeered yet the more.
"'Wilt never win a wife by fair means, lad," says he. "The Muses arewomen, and women have no liking for them. 'Must buy a wife when thetime comes."
Perceiving that his aim was but to provoke my anger, I refrained fromanswering him and got me back to my ode. The day was in truth too hotfor quarrelling. Larke, however, was not so easily put off. Hereturned to his chair, which was close to my couch.
"Horace!" he said gravely, wagging his head at me. "Horace! There arewise sayings in his book."
"What know you of them?" I laughed.
"I know one," he answered. "I learnt it yesternight for thy specialdelectation. It begins in this way:
"Quem si puellarum chore inseres."
He got no further in his quotation. For he tilted his chair at thismoment, and I thrusting at it with my foot, he tumbled over backwardsand sprawled on the ground, swearing at great length.
"'Wilt never win a wife by fair means for all that," he sputtered.
"Then 'tis no more than prudence in me to wed my books."
So I spake, and hot on the heels of my saying came the message whichdivorced me from them for good and all. For as Larke still lay uponthe floor, a clatter of horse's hoofs came to us through the openwindow. The sound stopped at our door. Larke rose hastily, and leanedout across the sill.
"It is an Englishman," he cried. "He comes to us."
The next moment a noise of altercation filled the air. I could hearthe shrill speech of our worthy landlady, and above it a man's voicein the English dialect, growing ever louder and louder as though theviolence of his tone would translate his meaning. I followed Larke tothe window. The quiet street was alive with peeping faces, and justbeneath us stood the reason of the brawl, a short, thick-set man,whose face was hidden by a large flapping hat. His horse stood in theroadway in a lather of spume. For some reason, doubtless theexcitement of his manner, our hostess would not let him pass into thehouse. She stood solidly filling the doorway, and for a little itamused us to watch the man's vehement gesticulations; so littlethought had we of the many strange events which were to follow fromhis visit. In a minute, however, he turned his face towards us, and Irecognised him as Nicholas Swasfield, the body-servant of my goodfriend, Sir Julian Harnwood.
"Let him up!" I cried. "Let him up!"
"Yes, woman, let him up!" repeated Larke, and turning to me: "He hathmany choice and wonderful oaths, and I fain would add them to mystore."
Thereupon the woman drew reluctantly aside, and Swasfield bounded pasther into the passage. We heard him tumble heavily up the darkstairway, cursing the country and its natives, and then with a greatbump of his body he burst open the door and lurched into the room. Atthe sight of me he brake into a glad cry:
"Sir Julian, my master," he gasped, and stopped dead.
"Well, what of him?" I asked eagerly.
But he answered never a word; he stood mopping his brows with a greatblue handkerchief, which hid his face from us. 'Tis strange howclearly I remember that handkerchief. It was embroidered at thecorners with anchors in white cotton, and it recurred to me with aquaint irrelevancy that the man had been a sailor in his youth.
"Well, what of him?" I asked again with some sharpness. "Speak, man!You had words and to spare below."
"He lies in Bristol gaol," at last he said, heaving great breathsbetween his words, "and none but you can serve his turn."
With that he tore at his shirt above his heart, and made a littletripping run to the table. He clutched at its edge and swayed forwardabove it, his head loosely swinging between his shoulders.
"Hurry!" he said in a thick, strangled voice."Assizes--twenty-first--Jeffries."
And with a sudden convulsion he straightened himself, stood for asecond on the tips of his toes, with the veins ridged on his lividface like purple weals, and then fell in a huddled lump upon thefloor. I sprang to the stair-head and shouted for some one to run fora doctor. Jack was already loosening the man's shirt.
"It is a fit," he said, clasping a hand to his heart.
Luckily my bedroom gave onto the parlour, and between us we carriedhim within and laid him gently on my bed. His eyelids were open andhis eyes fixed, but turned inwards, so that one saw but the whites ofthem, while a light froth oozed through his locked teeth.
"He will die," I cried.
A ewer of water stood by the bedside, and this I emptied over his headand shoulders, drowning the sheets, but to no other purpose. Ourlandlady fetched up a bottle of Dutch schnapps, which was the onlyspirit the house contained, but his jaws were too fast closed for usto open them. So we stood all three watching him helplessly, whilethose last words of his drummed at my heart. Jeffries! I knew enoughof the bloody work he had taken in hand that summer to assure me therewould be short shrift for Julian had he meddled in Monmouth's affairs.On the other hand, I reflected, if such indeed was my friend's case,wherein could I prove of effectual help? "None but you can serve histurn," the fellow had said. Could Julian have fallen under anothercharge? I was the more inclined to this conjecture, for that Julianhad been always staunchly loyal to the King, and, moreover, a constantfigure at the Court.
However, 'twas all idle guess-work, and there before my eyes wasstretched the one man, who could have disclosed the truth, struck downin the very telling of his story! I began to fear that he would diebefore the surgeon came. For he breathed heavily with a horrid soundlike a dog snoring.
All at once a thought flashed into my mind. He might have brought aletter from Julian's hand. I searched his pockets on the instant; theyheld nothing but a few English coins and some metal charms, such asthe ignorant are wont to carry on their persons to preserve them frommisadventure.
While I was thus engaged, the doctor was ushered into the room, verydeliberate in manner, and magnificent in his dress. Erudition wasmarked in the very cock of his wig. I sprang towards him.
"Make him speak, Mynheer!" I implored. "He hath a message to deliver,and it cannot wait."
But he put me aside with a wave of his hand and advanced towards thebed, pursing his lips and frowning as one sunk in a profundity ofthought.
"Can you make him speak?" I asked again with some impatience. Butagain he merely waved his hand, and taking a gilt box from his pocket,inhaled a large pinch of snuff. Then he turned to Larke, who stoodholding the bottle of schnapps.
"Tell me, young gentleman," he said severely, "what time the fit tookhim, and the manner of his seizure!"
Larke informed him hastily of what had passed, and he listened withmuch sage bobbing of his head. Then to our hostess:
"My assistant is below, and hath my instruments. Send him up!"
He turned to us.
"I will bleed him," he said. "For what saith the learned Hippocrates?"Whereupon he mouthed out a rigmarole of Latin phrases, wherein I coulddetect neither cohesion nor significance.
"Leave him to me, gentlemen!" he continued with a third flourish ofhis wrist. "Leave him to me and Hippocrates!"
"Which we do," I replied, "with the more confidence in thatHippocrates had so much foreknowledge of the Latin tongue."
And so we got us back to the parlour. How the minutes dragged! Throughthe door I could still hear the noise of the man's breathing; and nowand again the light clink of instruments and a trickling sound as ofblood dripp
ing into a bason. I paced impatiently about the room, whileJack sat him down at the table and began loading his pistols.
"The twenty-first!" I exclaimed, "and this day is the fourteenth.Seven days, Jack! I have but seven days to win from here to Bristol."
I went to the window and leaned out. Swasfield's horse was standingquietly in the road, tethered by the bridle to a tree.
"'Canst do it, Morrice, if the wind holds fair," replied Jack. "Heavensend a wind!" and he rose from the table and joined me. Together westretched out to catch the least hint of a breeze. But not a breathcame to us; not a tree shimmered, not a shadow stirred. The worldslumbered in a hot stupor. It seemed you might have felt the airvibrate with the passage of a single bird.
Of a sudden Larke cried out:
"Art sure 'tis the fourteenth to-day?"
With that we scrambled back into the room and searched for a calendar.
"Ay, lad!" he said ruefully as he discovered it; "'tis the fourteenth,not a doubt of it."
I flung myself dejectedly on the couch. The volume of Horace lay openby my hand, and I took it up, and quite idly, with no thought of whatI was doing, I wrote this date and the name of the month and the dateof the year on the margin of the page.
"Lord!" exclaimed Jack, flinging up his hands. "At the books again?Hast no boots and spurs?"
I slipped the book into my pocket, and sprang to my feet. In the heatof my anxiety I had forgotten everything but this half-spoken message.But, or ever I could make a step, the door of the bedroom opened andthe surgeon stepped into the room.
"Can he speak now?" I asked.
"The fit has not passed," says he.
"Then in God's name, what ails the man?" cries Larke.
"It is a visitation," says the doctor, with an upward cast of hiseyes.
"It is a canting ass of a doctor," I yelled in a fury, and I clappedmy hat on my head.
"Your boots?" cried Larke.
"I'll e'en go in my shoes," I shouted back.
I snatched up one of Jack's pistols, rammed it into my pocket, and soclattered downstairs and into the street. I untied Swasfield's horseand sprang on to its back.
"Morrice!"
I looked up. Jack was leaning out from the window.
"Morrice," he said whimsically, and with a very winning smile, "'artnot so much of a woman after all."
I dug my heels into the horse's flanks and so rode out at a gallopbeneath the lime-trees to Rotterdam.