Simon Dale

  CHAPTER XXIII

  A PLEASANT PENITENCE

  There was this great comfort in the Vicar's society that, having onceand for all stated the irrefutable proposition which I have recorded, helet the matter alone. Nothing was further from his thoughts than toargue on it, unless it might be to take any action in regard to it. Tosay the truth, and I mean no unkindness to him in saying it, the affairdid not greatly engage his thoughts. Had Betty Nasroth dealt with it,the case would doubtless have been altered, and he would have followedits fortune with a zest as keen as that he had bestowed on my earlierunhappy passion. But the prophecy had stopped short, and all that was ofmoment for the Vicar in my career, whether in love, war, or State, wasfinished; I had done and undergone what fate declared and demanded, andmust now live in gentle resignation. Indeed I think that in his inmostheart he wondered a little to find me living on at all. This attitudewas very well for him, and I found some amusement in it even while Ichafed at his composed acquiescence in my misfortunes. But at times Igrew impatient, and would fling myself out of the house, crying "Plagueon it, is this old crone not only to drive me into folly, but to forbidme a return to wisdom?"

  In such a mood I had left him, to wander by myself about the lanes,while he sat under the porch of his house with a great volume open onhis knees. The book treated of Vaticination in all its branches, and theVicar read diligently, being so absorbed in his study that he did notheed the approach of feet, and looked up at last with a start. M. deFontelles stood there, sent on from the inn to the parsonage in theprogress of his search for me.

  "I am called Georges de Fontelles, sir," he began.

  "I am the Vicar of this parish, at your service, sir," returned theVicar courteously.

  "I serve the King of France, but have at this time the honour of beingemployed by his Majesty the King of England."

  "I trust, sir," observed the Vicar mildly, "that the employment is anhonour."

  "Your loyalty should tell you so much."

  "We are commanded to honour the King, but I read nowhere that we musthonour all that the King does."

  "Such distinctions, sir, lead to disaffection and even to rebellion,"said Fontelles severely.

  "I am very glad of it," remarked the Vicar complacently.

  I had told my old friend nothing of what concerned Barbara; the secretwas not mine; therefore he had nothing against M. de Fontelles; yet itseemed as though a good quarrel could be found on the score of generalprinciples. It is strange how many men give their heads for them and howfew can give a reason; but God provides every man with a head, and sincethe stock of brains will not supply all, we draw lots for a share in it.Yes, a pretty quarrel promised; but a moment later Fontelles, seeing noprospect of sport in falling out with an old man of sacred profession,and amused, in spite of his principles, by the Vicar's whimsical talk,chose to laugh rather than to storm, and said with a chuckle:

  "Well, kings are like other men."

  "Very like," agreed the Vicar. "In what can I serve you, sir?"

  "I seek Mr Simon Dale," answered Fontelles.

  "Ah, Simon! Poor Simon! What would you with the lad, sir?"

  "I will tell that to him. Why do you call him poor?"

  "He has been deluded by a high-sounding prophecy, and it has come tolittle." The Vicar shook his head in gentle regret.

  "He is no worse off, sir, than a man who marries," said Fontelles with asmile.

  "Nor, it may be, than one who is born," said the Vicar, sighing.

  "Nor even than one who dies," hazarded the Frenchman.

  "Sir, sir, let us not be irreligious," implored the Vicar, smiling.

  The quarrel was most certainly over. Fontelles sat down by the Vicar'sside.

  "Yet, sir," said he, "God made the world."

  "It is full as good a world as we deserve," said the Vicar.

  "He might well have made us better, sir."

  "There are very few of us who truly wish it," the Vicar replied. "A manhugs his sin."

  "The embrace, sir, is often delightful."

  "I must not understand you," said the Vicar.

  Fontelles' business was proceeding but slowly. A man on an errand shouldnot allow himself to talk about the universe. But he was recalled to histask a moment later by the sight of my figure a quarter of a mile awayalong the road. With an eager exclamation he pointed his finger at me,lifted his hat to the Vicar, and rushed off in pursuit. The Vicar, whohad not taken his thumb from his page, opened his book again, observingto himself, "A gentleman of some parts, I think."

  His quarrel with the Vicar had evaporated in the mists of speculation;Fontelles had no mind to lose his complaint against me in any suchmanner, but he was a man of ceremony and must needs begin again with memuch as he had with the Vicar. Thus obtaining my opportunity, I cutacross his preface, saying brusquely:

  "Well, I am glad that it is the King's employment and not M. dePerrencourt's."

  He flushed red.

  "We know what we know, sir," said he. "If you have anything to sayagainst M. de Perrencourt, consider me as his friend. Did you cry out tome as I rode last night?"

  "Why, yes, and I was a fool there. As for M. de Perrencourt----"

  "If you speak of him, speak with respect, sir. You know of whom youspeak."

  "Very well. Yet I have held a pistol to his head," said I, not, Iconfess, without natural pride.

  Fontelles started, then laughed scornfully.

  "When he and Mistress Quinton and I were in a boat together," I pursued."The quarrel then was which of us should escort the lady, he or I, andwhether to Calais or to England. And although I should have been herhusband had we gone to Calais, yet I brought her here."

  "You're pleased to talk in riddles."

  "They're no harder to understand than your errand is to me, sir," Iretorted.

  He mastered his anger with a strong effort, and in a few words told mehis errand, adding that by Carford's advice he came to me.

  "For I am told, sir, that you have some power with the lady."

  I looked full and intently in his face. He met my gaze unflinchingly.There was a green bank by the roadside; I seated myself; he would notsit, but stood opposite to me.

  "I will tell you, sir, the nature of the errand on which you come," saidI, and started on the task with all the plainness of language that thematter required and my temper enjoyed.

  He heard me without a word, with hardly a movement of his body; his eyesnever left mine all the while I was speaking. I think there was asympathy between us, so that soon I knew that he was honest, while hedid not doubt my truth. His face grew hard and stern as he listened; heperceived now the part he had been set to play. He asked me but onequestion when I had ended:

  "My Lord Carford knew all this?"

  "Yes, all of it," said I. "He was privy to all that passed."

  Engaged in talk, we had not noticed the Vicar's approach. He was at myelbow before I saw him; the large book was under his arm. Fontellesturned to him with a bow.

  "Sir," said he, "you were right just now."

  "Concerning the prophecy, sir?"

  "No, concerning the employment of kings," answered M. de Fontelles. Thenhe said to me, "We will meet again, before I take my leave of yourvillage." With this he set off at a round pace down the road. I did notdoubt that he went to seek Mistress Barbara and ask her pardon. I lethim go; he would not hurt her now. I rose myself from the green bank,for I also had work to do.

  "Will you walk with me, Simon?" asked the Vicar.

  "Your pardon, sir, but I am occupied."

  "Will it not wait?"

  "I do not desire that it should."

  For now that Fontelles was out of the way, Carford alone remained.Barbara had not sent for me, but still I served her, and to some profit.

  It was now afternoon and I set out at once on my way to the Manor. I didnot know what had passed between Barbara and Carford, nor how hispassion had been stirred by her avowal of love for me, but I conjecturedthat on learning ho
w his plan of embroiling me with Fontelles hadfailed, he would lose no time in making another effort.

  Fontelles must have walked briskly, for I, although I did not loiter onthe road, never came in sight of him, and the long avenue was empty whenI passed the gates. It is strange that it did not occur to my mind thatthe clue to the Frenchman's haste was to be found in his last question;no doubt he would make his excuses to Mistress Quinton in good time, butit was not that intention which lent his feet wings. His errand was thesame as my own; he sought Carford, not Barbara, even as I. He found whathe sought, I what I did not seek, but what, once found, I could not passby.

  She was walking near the avenue, but on the grass behind the trees. Icaught a glimpse of her gown through the leaves and my quick steps werestayed as though by one of the potent spells that the Vicar loved toread about. For a moment or two I stood there motionless; then I turnedand walked slowly towards her. She saw me a few yards off, and it seemedas though she would fly. But in the end she faced me proudly; her eyeswere very sad and I thought that she had been weeping; as I approachedshe thrust something--it looked like a letter--into the bosom of hergown, as if in terror lest I should see it. I made her a low bow.

  "I trust, madame," said I, "that my lady mends?"

  "I thank you, yes, although slowly."

  "And that you have taken no harm from your journey?"

  "I thank you, none."

  It was strange, but there seemed no other topic in earth or heaven; forI looked first at earth and then at heaven, and in neither place foundany.

  "I am seeking my Lord Carford," I said at last.

  I knew my error as soon as I had spoken. She would bid me seek Carfordwithout delay and protest that the last thing in her mind was to detainme. I cursed myself for an awkward fool. But to my amazement she didnothing of what I looked for, but cried out in great agitation and, asit seemed, fear:

  "You mustn't see Lord Carford."

  "Why not?" I asked. "He won't hurt me." Or at least he should not, if mysword could stop his.

  "It is not that. It is--it is not that," she murmured, and flushed red.

  "Well, then, I will seek him."

  "No, no, no," cried Barbara in a passion that fear--surely it was thatand nothing else--made imperious. I could not understand her, for I knewnothing of the confession which she had made, but would not for theworld should reach my ears. Yet it was not very likely that Carfordwould tell me, unless his rage carried him away.

  "You are not so kind as to shield me from Lord Carford's wrath?" I askedrather scornfully.

  "No," she said, persistently refusing to meet my eyes.

  "What is he doing here?" I asked.

  "He desires to conduct me to my father."

  "My God, you won't go with him?"

  For the fraction of a moment her dark eyes met mine, then turned away inconfusion.

  "I mean," said I, "is it wise to go with him?"

  "Of course you meant that," murmured Barbara.

  "M. de Fontelles will trouble you no more," I remarked, in a tone ascalm as though I stated the price of wheat; indeed much calmer thansuch a vital matter was wont to command at our village inn.

  "What?" she cried. "He will not----?"

  "He didn't know the truth. I have told him. He is an honourablegentleman."

  "You've done that also, Simon?" She came a step nearer me.

  "It was nothing to do," said I. Barbara fell back again.

  "Yet I am obliged to you," said she. I bowed with careful courtesy.

  Why tell these silly things. Every man has such in his life. Yet eachcounts his own memory a rare treasure, and it will not be deniedutterance.

  "I had best seek my Lord Carford," said I, more for lack of anotherthing to say than because there was need to say that.

  "I pray you----" cried Barbara, again in a marked agitation.

  It was a fair soft evening; a breeze stirred the tree-tops, and I couldscarce tell when the wind whispered and when Barbara spoke, so like werethe caressing sounds. She was very different from the lady of ourjourney, yet like to her who had for a moment spoken to me from herchamber-door at Canterbury.

  "You haven't sent for me," I said, in a low voice. "I suppose you haveno need of me?"

  She made me no answer.

  "Why did you fling my guinea in the sea?" I said, and paused.

  "Why did you use me so on the way?" I asked.

  "Why haven't you sent for me?" I whispered.

  She seemed to have no answer for any of these questions. There wasnothing in her eyes now save the desire of escape. Yet she did notdismiss me, and without dismissal I would not go. I had forgottenCarford and the angry Frenchman, my quarrel and her peril; the questionsI had put to her summed up all life now held.

  Suddenly she put her hand to her bosom, and drew out that same piece ofpaper which I had seen her hide there. Before my eyes she read, orseemed to read, something that was in it; then she shut her hand on it.In a moment I was by her, very close. I looked full in her eyes, andthey fled behind covering lids; the little hand, tightly clenched, hungby her side. What had I to lose? Was I not already banned forforwardness? I would be forward still, and justify the sentence by anafter-crime. I took the hanging hand in both of mine. She started, and Iloosed it; but no rebuke came, and she did not fly. The far-off stir ofcoming victory moved in my blood; not yet to win, but now to know thatwin you will sends through a man an exultation, more sweet because it isstill timid. I watched her face--it was very pale--and again took herhand. The lids of her eyes rose now an instant, and disclosed entreaty.I was ruthless; our hearts are strange, and cruelty or the desire ofmastery mingled with love in my tightened grasp. One by one I bent herfingers back; the crushed paper lay in a palm that was streaked to redand white. With one hand still I held hers, with the other I spread outthe paper. "You mustn't read it," she murmured. "Oh, you mustn't readit." I paid no heed, but held it up. A low exclamation of wonder brokefrom me. The scrawl that I had seen at Canterbury now met me again,plain and unmistakable in its laborious awkwardness. "In pay for yourdagger," it had said before. Were five words the bounds of Nell'saccomplishment? She had written no more now. Yet before she had seemedto say much in that narrow limit; and much she said now.

  There was long silence between us; my eyes were intent on her veiledeyes.

  "You needed this to tell you?" I said at last.

  "You loved her, Simon."

  I would not allow the plea. Shall not a thing that has become out of allreason to a man's own self thereby blazon its absurdity to the wholeworld?

  "So long ago!" I cried scornfully.

  "Nay, not so long ago," she murmured, with a note of resentment in hervoice.

  Even then we might have fallen out; we were in an ace of it, for I mostbrutally put this question:

  "You waited here for me to pass?"

  I would have given my ears not to have said it; what availed that? Athing said is a thing done, and stands for ever amid the irrevocable.For an instant her eyes flashed in anger; then she flushed suddenly, herlips trembled, her eyes grew dim, yet through the dimness mirth peepedout.

  "I dared not hope you'd pass," she whispered.

  "I am the greatest villain in the world!" I cried. "Barbara, you had nothought that I should pass!"

  Again came silence. Then I spoke, and softly:

  "And you--is it long since you----?"

  She held out her hands towards me, and in an instant was in my arms.First she hid her face, but then drew herself back as far as the circleof my arm allowed. Her dark eyes met mine full and direct in aconfession that shamed me but shamed her no more; her shame wasswallowed in the sweet pride of surrender.

  "Always," said she, "always; from the first through all; always,always." It seemed that though she could not speak that word enough.

  In truth I could scarcely believe it; save when I looked in her eyes, Icould not believe it.

  "But I wouldn't tell you," she said. "I swore you should never know.Simo
n, do you remember how you left me?"

  It seemed that I must play penitent now.

  "I was too young to know----" I began.

  "I was younger and not too young," she cried. "And all through thosedays at Dover I didn't know. And when we were together I didn't know.Ah, Simon, when I flung your guinea in the sea, you must have known!"

  "On my faith, no," I laughed. "I didn't see the love in that,sweetheart."

  "I'm glad there was no woman there to tell you what it meant," saidBarbara. "And even at Canterbury I didn't know. Simon, what brought youto my door that night?"

  I answered her plainly, more plainly than I could at any other time,more plainly, it may be, than even then I should:

  "She bade me follow her, and I followed her so far."

  "You followed her?"

  "Ay. But I heard your voice through the door, and stopped."

  "You stopped for my voice; what did I say?"

  "You sung how a lover had forsaken his love. And I heard and stayed."

  "Ah, why didn't you tell me then?"

  "I was afraid, sweetheart."

  "Of what? Of what?"

  "Why, of you. You had been so cruel."

  Barbara's head, still strained far as could be from mine, now drewnearer by an ace, and then she launched at me the charge of mostenormity, the indictment that justified all my punishment.

  "You had kissed her before my eyes, here, sir, where we are now, in myown Manor Park," said Barbara.

  I took my arms from about her, and fell humbly on my knee.

  "May I kiss so much as your hand?" said I in utter abasement.

  She put it suddenly, eagerly, hurriedly to my lips.

  "Why did she write to me?" she whispered.

  "Nay, love, I don't know."

  "But I know. Simon, she loves you."

  "It would afford no reason if she did. And I think----"

  "It would and she does. Simon, of course she does."

  "I think rather that she was sorry for----"

  "Not for me!" cried Barbara with great vehemence. "I will not have hersorry for me!"

  "For you!" I exclaimed in ridicule. (It does not matter what I had beenabout to say before.) "For you! How should she? She wouldn't dare!"

  "No," said Barbara. One syllable can hold a world of meaning.

  "A thousand times, no!" cried I.

  The matter was thus decided. Yet now, in quiet blood and in the secrecyof my own soul, shall I ask wherefore the letter came from MistressGwyn, to whom the shortest letter was no light matter, and to let evena humble man go some small sacrifice? And why did it come to Barbara andnot to me? And why did it not say "Simon, she loves you," rather thanthe words that I now read, Barbara permitting me: "Pretty fool, he lovesyou." Let me not ask; not even now would Barbara bear to think that itwas written in pity for her.

  "Yes, she pitied you and so she wrote; and she loves you," said Barbara.

  I let it pass. Shall a man never learn wisdom?

  "Tell me now," said I, "why I may not see Carford?"

  Her lips curved in a smile; she held her head high, and her eyes weretriumphant.

  "You may see Lord Carford as soon as you will, Simon," said she.

  "But a few minutes ago----" I began, much puzzled.

  "A few minutes!" cried Barbara reproachfully.

  "A whole lifetime ago, sweetheart!"

  "And shall that make no changes?"

  "A whole lifetime ago you were ready to die sooner than let me see him."

  "Simon, you're very----He knew, I told him."

  "You told him?" I cried. "Before you told me?"

  "He asked me before," said Barbara.

  I did not grudge her that retort; every jot of her joy was joy to me,and her triumph my delight.

  "How did I dare to tell him?" she asked herself softly. "Ah, but howhave I contrived not to tell all the world? How wasn't it plain in myface?"

  "It was most profoundly hidden," I assured her. Indeed from me it hadbeen; but Barbara's wit had yet another answer.

  "You were looking in another face," said she. Then, as the movement ofmy hands protested, remorse seized on her, and catching my hand shecried impulsively, "I'll never speak of it again, Simon."

  Now I was not so much ashamed of the affair as to demand that uttersilence on it; in which point lies a difference between men and women.To have wandered troubles our consciences little, when we have come tothe right path again; their pride stands so strong in constancy assometimes (I speak in trembling) even to beget an oblivion of itsfalterings and make what could not have been as if it had not. But nowwas not the moment for excuse, and I took my pardon with all gratitudeand with full allowance of my offence's enormity.

  Then we determined that Carford must immediately be sought, and set outfor the house with intent to find him. But our progress was very slow,and the moon rose in the skies before we stepped out on to the avenueand came in sight of the house and the terrace. There was so much totell, so much that had to slough off its old seeming and take on new andradiant apparel--things that she had understood and not I, that I hadcaught and she missed, wherein both of us had gone astray mostlamentably and now stood aghast at our own sightlessness. Thereforenever were our feet fairly in movement towards the house but asudden--"Do you remember?" gave them pause again: then came shame that Ihad forgotten, or indignation that Barbara should be thought to haveforgotten, and in both of these cases the need for expiation, and soforth. The moon was high in heaven when we stepped into the avenue andcame in sight of the terrace.

  On the instant, with a low cry of surprise and alarm, Barbara caught meby the arm, while she pointed to the terrace. The sight might well turnus even from our engrossing interchange of memories. There were four menon the terrace, their figures standing out dense and black against theold grey walls, which seemed white in the moonlight. Two stood impassiveand motionless, with hands at their sides; at their feet lay what seemedbundles of clothes. The other two were in their shirts; they wereopposite one another, and their swords were in their hands. I could notdoubt the meaning; while love held me idle, anger had lent Fontellesspeed; while I sought to perfect my joy, he had been hot to avenge hiswounded honour. I did not know who were the two that watched unless theywere servants; Fontelles' fierce mood would not stand for the nicetiesof etiquette. Now I could recognise the Frenchman's bearing and even seeCarford's face, although distance hid its expression. I was amazed andat a loss what to do. How could I stop them and by what right? But thenBarbara gave a little sob and whispered:

  "My mother lies sick in the house."

  It was enough to loose my bound limbs. I sprang forward and set out at arun. I had not far to go and lost no time; but I would not cry out lestI might put one off his guard and yet not arrest the other's stroke. Forthe steel flashed, and they fought, under the eyes of the quietservants. I was near to them now and already wondering how best tointerpose, when, in an instant, the Frenchman lunged, Carford cried out,his sword dropped from his hand, and he fell heavily on the gravel ofthe terrace. The servants rushed forward and knelt down beside him. M.de Fontelles did not leave his place, but stood, with the point of hisnaked sword on the ground, looking at the man who had put an affront onhim and whom he had now chastised. The sudden change that took me fromlove's pastimes to a scene so stern deprived me of speech for a moment.I ran to Fontelles and faced him, panting but saying nothing. He turnedhis eyes on me: they were calm, but shone still with the heat of contestand the sternness of resentment. He raised his sword and pointed with ittowards where Carford lay.

  "My lord there," said he, "knew a thing that hurt my honour, and did notwarn me of it. He knew that I was made a tool and did not tell me. Heknew that I was used for base purposes and sought to use me for his ownalso. He has his recompense."

  Then he stepped across to where the green bank sloped down to theterrace and, falling on one knee, wiped his blade on the grass.