CHAPTER XXIV
UNDER THE AEGIS OF THE COURT
The roar of London was about us.
Sign-boards creaked and swung to every puff of wind. Greathackney-coaches, sunk at the waist like those old gallipot boats of ours,went ploughing past through the mud of mid-road, with bepowdered footmenclinging behind and saucy coachmen perched in front. These flunkeysthought it fine sport to splash us passers-by, or beguiled the time whenthere was stoppage across the narrow street by lashing rival drivers withtheir long whips and knocking cock-hats to the gutter. 'Prentices stoodringing their bells and shouting their wares at every shop-door. "Whatd'ye lack? What d'ye lack? What d'ye please to lack, good sirs? Walkthis way for kerseys, sayes, and perpetuanoes! Bands and ruffs andpiccadillies! Walk this way! Walk this way!"
"Pardieu, lad!" says M. Radisson, elbowing a saucy spark from the wallfor the tenth time in as many paces. "Pardieu, you can't hear yourselfthink! Shut up to you!" he called to a bawling 'prentice dressed inwhite velvet waistcoat like a showman's dummy to exhibit the fashion."Shut up to you!"
And I heard the fellow telling his comrades my strange companion with thetangled hair was a pirate from the Barbary States. Another saucy vendercaught at the chance.
"Perukes! Perukes! Newest French periwigs!" he shouts, jangling hisbell and putting himself across M. Radisson's course. "You'd please tolack a periwig, sir! Walk this way! Walk this way--"
"Out of my way!" orders Radisson with a hiss of his rapier round thefellow's fat calves. "'Tis a milliner's doll the town makes of a man!Out of my way!"
And the 'prentice went skipping. We were to meet the directors of theHudson's Bay Company that night, and we had come out to refurbish ourscant, wild attire. But bare had we turned the corner for thelinen-draper's shops of Fleet Street when M. Radisson's troubles began.Idlers eyed us with strange looks. Hucksters read our necessitous stateand ran at heel shouting their wares. Shopmen saw needy customers in usand sent their 'prentices running. Chairmen splashed us as they passed;and impudent dandies powdered and patched and laced and bewigged like anyfizgig of a girl would have elbowed us from the wall to the gutter forthe sport of seeing M. Radisson's moccasins slimed.
"Egad," says M. Radisson, "an I spill not some sawdust out o' thesedolls, or cut their stay-strings, may the gutter take us for good andall! Pardieu! An your wig's the latest fashion, the wits under 't don'tmatter--"
"Have a care, sir," I warned, "here comes a fellow!"
'Twas a dandy in pink of fashion with a three-cornered hat coming overhis face like a waterspout, red-cheeked from carminative and with thehigh look in his eyes of one who saw common folk from the top of churchsteeple. His lips were parted enough to show his teeth; and I warrantyou my fine spark had posed an hour at the looking-glass ere he got hisneck at the angle that brought out the swell of his chest. He wasdressed in red plush with silk hose of the same colour and a square-cut,tailed coat out of whose pockets stuck a roll of paper missives.
"Verse ready writ by some penny-a-liner for any wench with cheap smiles,"says M. Radisson aloud.
But the fellow came on like a strutting peacock with his head in air.Behind followed his page with cloak and rapier. In one hand our dandycarried his white gloves, in the other a lace gewgaw heavy with musk,which he fluttered in the face of every shopkeeper's daughter.
"Give the wall! Give the wall!" cries the page. "Give the wall toLieutenant Blood o' the Tower!"
"S'blood," says M. Radisson insolently, "let us send that snipesprawling!"
At that was a mighty awakening on the part of my fine gentleman.
"Blood is my name," says he. "Step aside!"
"An Blood is its name," retorts M. Radisson, "'tis bad blood; and I've amind to let some of it, unless the thing gets out of my way!"
With which M. Radisson whips out his sword, and my grand beau condescendsto look at us.
"Boy," he commands, "call an officer!"
"Boy," shouts M. Radisson, "call a chirurgeon to mend its toes!" and hisblade cut a swath across the dandy's shining pumps.
At that was a jump!
Whatever the beaux of King Charles's court may have been, they were notcowards! Grasping his sword from the page, the fellow made at us. Whatwith the lashing of the coachmen riding post-haste to see the fray, thejostling chairmen calling out "A fight! A fight!" and the 'prenticesyelling at the top of their voices for "A watch! A watch!" we had had ithot enough then and there for M. Radisson's sport; but above the meleesounded another shrill alarm, the "Gardez l'eau! Gardy loo!" of someFrench kitchen wench throwing her breakfast slops to mid-road from thedwelling overhead. [1]
Only on the instant had I jerked M. Radisson back; and down theycame--dish-water--and coffee leavings--and porridge scraps full on thecrown of my fine young gentleman, drenching his gay attire as it had beensoaked in soapsuds of a week old. Something burst from his lips a dealstronger than the modish French oaths then in vogue. There was a shoutfrom the rabble. I dragged rather than led M. Radisson pell-mell into ashop from front to rear, over a score of garden walls, and out again fromrear to front, so that we gave the slip to all those officers now runningfor the scene of the broil.
"Egad's life," cried M. de Radisson, laughing and laughing, "'tis thenarrowest escape I've ever had! Pardieu--to escape the north sea anddrown in dish-water! Lord--to beat devils and be snuffed out by a wenchin petticoats! 'Tis the martyrdom of heroes! What a tale for thecourt!"
And he laughed and laughed again till I must needs call a chair to gethim away from onlookers. In the shop of a draper a thought struck him.
"Egad, lad, that young blade was Blood!"
"So he told you."
"Did he? Son of the Blood who stole the crown ten years ago, and gotyour own Stanhope lands in reward from the king!"
What memories were his words bringing back?--M. Picot in the hunting-roomtelling me of Blood, the freebooter and swordsman. And that brings me tothe real reason for our plundering the linen-drapers' shops beforepresenting ourselves at Sir John Kirke's mansion in Drury Lane, wheregentlemen with one eye cocked on the doings of the nobility in the westand the other keen for city trade were wont to live in those days.
For six years M. Radisson had not seen Mistress Mary Kirke--as his wifestyled herself after he broke from the English--and I had not heard oneword of Hortense for nigh as many months. Say what you will of thedandified dolls who wasted half a day before the looking-glass in thereign of Charles Stuart, there are times when the bravest of men had bestlook twice in the glass ere he set himself to the task of conquering faireyes. We did not drag our linen through a scent bath nor loll allmorning in the hands of a man milliner charged with the duty of turningus into showmen's dummies--as was the way of young sparks in that age.But that was how I came to buy yon monstrous wig costing forty guineasand weighing ten pounds and coming half-way to a man's waist. And youmay set it down to M. Radisson's credit that he went with his wiry hairflying wild as a lion's mane. Nothing I could say would make himexchange his Indian moccasins for the high-heeled pumps with a buckle atthe instep.
"I suppose," he had conceded grudgingly, "we must have a brat to carryswords and cloaks for us, or we'll be taken for some o' your cheap-jackhucksters parading latest fashions," and he bade our host of the Star andGarter have some lad searched out for us by the time we should be cominghome from Sir John Kirke's that night.
A mighty personage with fat chops and ruddy cheeks and rounded waistcoatand padded calves received us at the door of Sir John Kirke's house inDrury Lane. Sir John was not yet back from the Exchange, this grandfellow loftily informed us at the entrance to the house. A glance toldhim that we had neither page-boy nor private carriage; and he half-shutthe door in our faces.
"Now the devil take _this thing_ for a half-baked, back-stairs,second-hand kitchen gentleman," hissed M. Radisson, pushing in. "Here,my fine fellow," says he with a largesse of vails his purse could illafford, "here, you sauce-pans, go te
ll Madame Radisson her husband ishere!"
I have always held that the vulgar like insolence nigh as well as silver;and Sieur Radisson's air sent the feet of the kitchen steward pattering."Confound him!" muttered Radisson, as we both went stumbling overfootstools into the dark of Sir John's great drawing-room, "Confound him!An a man treats a man as a man in these stuffed match-boxes o' towns,looking man as a man on the level square in the eye, he only gets himselfslapped in the face for it! An there's to be any slapping in the face,be the first to do it, boy! A man's a man by the measure of his staturein the wilderness. Here, 'tis by the measure of his clothes----"
But a great rustling of flounced petticoats down the hallway broke in onhis speech, and a little lady had jumped at me with a cry of "Pierre,Pierre!" when M. Radisson's long arms caught her from her feet.
"You don't even remember what your own husband looked like," said he."Ah, Mary, Mary--don't dear me! I'm only dear when the court takes meup! But, egad," says he, setting her down on her feet, "you may wagerthese pretty ringlets of yours, I'm mighty dear for the gilded crew thistime!"
Madame Radisson said she was glad of it; for when Pierre was rich theycould take a fine house in the West End like my Lord So-and-So; but inthe next breath she begged him not to call the Royalists a gilded crew.
"And who is this?" she asked, turning to me as the servants brought incandles.
"Egad, and you might have asked that before you tried to kiss him! Youalways did have a pretty choice, Mary! I knew it when you took me!That," says he, pointing to me, "that is the kite's tail!"
"But for convenience' sake, perhaps the kite's tail may have a name,"retorts Madame Radisson.
"To be sure--to be sure--Stanhope, a young Royalist kinsman of yours."
"Royalist?" reiterates Mary Kirke with a world of meaning to thehigh-keyed question, "then my welcome was no mistake! Welcome waitsRoyalists here," and she gave me her hand to kiss just as an elderlywoman with monster white ringlets all about her face and bejewelledfingers and bare shoulders and flowing draperies swept into the room,followed by a serving-maid and a page-boy. With the aid of two men, herdaughter, a serving-maid, and the page, it took her all of five minutesby the clock to get herself seated. But when her slippered feet were ona Persian rug and the displaced ringlets of her monster wig adjusted bythe waiting abigail and smelling-salts put on a marquetry table nearbyand the folds of the gown righted by the page-boy, Lady Kirke extended ahand to receive our compliments. I mind she called Radisson her "dear,sweet savage," and bade him have a care not to squeeze the stones of herrings into the flesh of her fingers.
"As if any man would want to squeeze such a ragbag o' tawdry finery andmilliners' tinsel," said Radisson afterward to me.
I, being younger, was "a dear, bold fellow," with a tap of her fan to thewords and a look over the top of it like to have come from some saucyjade of sixteen.
After which the serving-maid must hand the smelling-salts and thepage-boy haste to stroke out her train.
"Egad," says Radisson when my lady had informed us that Sir John wouldawait Sieur Radisson's coming at the Fur Company's offices, "egad,there'll be no getting Ramsay away till he sees some one else!"
"And who is that?" simpers Lady Kirke, languishing behind her fan.
"Who, indeed, but the little maid we sent from the north sea."
"La," cries Lady Kirke with a sudden livening, "an you always do as wellfor us all, we can forgive you, Pierre! The courtiers have cried her upand cried her up, till your pretty savage of the north sea is like tobecome the first lady of the land! Sir John comes home with your letterto me--boy, the smelling-salts!--so!--and I say to him, 'Sir John, takethe story to His Royal Highness!' Good lack, Pierre, no sooner hath theDuke of York heard the tale than off he goes with it to King Charles!His Majesty hath an eye for a pretty baggage. Oh, I promise you, Pierre,you have done finely for us all!"
And the lady must simper and smirk and tap Pierre Radisson with her fan,with a glimmer of ill-meaning through her winks and nods that might havebrought the blush to a woman's cheeks in Commonwealth days.
"Madame," cried Pierre Radisson with his eyes ablaze, "that sweet childcame to no harm or wrong among our wilderness of savages! An she come toharm in a Christian court, by Heaven, somebody'll answer me for't!"
"Lackaday! Hoighty-toighty, Pierre! How you stamp! The black-eyedmonkey hath been named maid of honour to Queen Catherine! How muchbetter could we have done for her?"
"Maid of honour to the lonely queen?" says Radisson. "That is well!"
"She is ward of the court till a husband be found for her," continuesLady Kirke.
"There will be plenty willing to be found," says Pierre Radisson, lookingme wondrous straight in the eye.
"Not so sure--not so sure, Pierre! We catch no glimpse of her nowadays;but they say young Lieutenant Blood o' the Tower shadows the courtwherever she is----"
"A well-dressed young man?" adds Radisson, winking at me.
"And carries himself with a grand air," amplifies my lady, puffing outher chest, "but then, Pierre, when it comes to the point, your prettywench hath no dower--no property----"
"Heaven be praised for that!" burst from my lips.
At which there was a sudden silence, followed by sudden laughter to myconfusion.
"And so Master Stanhope came seeking the bird that had flown," twittedRadisson's mother-in-law. "Faugh--faugh--to have had the bird in hishand and to let it go! But--ta-ta!" she laughed, tapping my arm with herfan, "some one else is here who keeps asking and asking for MasterStanhope. Boy," she ordered, "tell thy master's guest to come down!"
Two seconds later entered little Rebecca of Boston Town. Blushing pinkas apple-blossoms, dressed demurely as of old, with her glances playing ashy hide-and-seek under the downcast lids, she seemed as alien to theartificial grandeur about her as meadow violets to the tawdry splendourof a flower-dyer's shop.
"Fie, fie, sly ladybird," called out Sir John's wife, "here are friendsof yours!"
At sight of us, she uttered a little gasp of pleasure.
"So--so--so joysome to see Boston folk," she stammered.
"Fie, fie!" laughed Lady Kirke. "Doth Boston air bring red so quick toall faces?"
"If they be not painted too deep," said Pierre Radisson loud anddistinct. And I doubt not the coquettish old dame blushed red, thoughthe depth of paint hid it from our eyes; for she held her tongue longenough for me to lead Rebecca to an alcove window.
Some men are born to jump in sudden-made gaps. Such an one was PierreRadisson; for he set himself between his wife and Lady Kirke, where hekept them achattering so fast they had no time to note little Rebecca'sunmasked confusion.
"This is an unexpected pleasure, Rebecca!"
She glanced up as if to question me.
"Your fine gallants have so many fine speeches----"
"Have you been here long?"
"A month. My father came to see about the furs that Ben Gillam lost inthe bay," explains Rebecca.
"Oh!" said I, vouching no more.
"The ship was sent back," continues Rebecca, all innocent of the natureof her father's venture, "and my father hopes that King Charles may getthe French to return the value of the furs."
"Oh!"
There was a little silence. The other tongues prattled louder. Rebeccaleaned towards me.
"Have you seen her?" she asked.
"Who?"
She gave an impetuous little shake of her head. "You know," she said.
"Well?" I asked.
"She hath taken me through all the grand places, Ramsay; throughWhitehall and Hampton Court and the Tower! She hath come to see me everyweek!"
I said nothing.
"To-morrow she goes to Oxford with the queen. She is not happy, Ramsay.She says she feels like a caged bird. Ramsay, why did she love thatnorth land where the wicked Frenchman took her?"
"I don't know, Rebecca. She once said it was strong and pure and free."
"Did you see her oft, Ramsay?"
"No, Rebecca; only at dinner on Sundays."
"And--and--all the officers were there on the Sabbath?"
"All the officers were there!"
She sat silent, eyes downcast, thinking.
"Ramsay?"
"Well?"
"Hortense will be marrying some grand courtier."
"May he be worthy of her."
"I think many ask her."
"And what does Mistress Hortense say?"
"I think," answers Rebecca meditatively, "from the quantity of love-versewrit, she must keep saying--No."
Then Lady Kirke turns to bid us all go to the Duke's Theatre, where theking's suite would appear that night. Rebecca, of course, would not go.Her father would be expecting her when he came home, she said. So PierreRadisson and I escorted Lady Kirke and her daughter to the play, ridingin one of those ponderous coaches, with four belaced footmen clingingbehind and postillions before. At the entrance to the playhouse was agreat concourse of crowding people, masked ladies, courtiers with pagescarrying torches for the return after dark, merchants with linkmen, workfolk with lanterns, noblemen elbowing tradesmen from the wall, tradesmenelbowing mechanics; all pushing and jostling and cracking their jokeswith a freedom of speech that would have cost dear in Boston Town. Thebeaux, I mind, had ready-writ love-verses sticking out of pockets thickas bailiffs' yellow papers; so that a gallant could have stocked his ownmunitions by picking up the missives dropped at the feet of disdainfuls.Of the play, I recall nothing but that some favourite of the king, MaryDavies, or the famous Nell, or some such an one, danced a monstrous boldjig. Indeed, our grand people, taking their cue from the courtiers'boxes, affected a mighty contempt for the play, except when a naughtyjade on the boards stepped high, or blew a kiss to some dandy among thenoted folk. For aught I could make out, they did not come to hear, butto be heard; the ladies chattering and ogling; the gallants stalking frombox to box and pit to gallery, waving their scented handkerchiefs,striking a pose where the greater part of the audience could see theflash of beringed fingers, or taking a pinch of snuff with a snap of thelid to call attention to its gold-work and naked goddesses.
"Drat these tradespeople, kinsman!" says Lady Kirke, as a fat townsmanand his wife pushed past us, "drat these tradespeople!" says she as wewere taking our place in one of the boxes, "'tis monstrous gracious ofthe king to come among them at all!"
Methought her memory of Sir John's career had been suddenly clippedshort; but Pierre Radisson only smiled solemnly. Some jokes, likedessert, are best taken cold, not hot.
Then there was a craning of necks; and the king's party came in, HisMajesty grown sallow with years but gay and nonchalant as ever, withBarillon, the French ambassador, on one side and Her Grace of Portsmouthon the other. Behind came the whole court; the Duchess of Cleveland,whom our wits were beginning to call "a perennial," because she held herpower with the king and her lovers increased with age; statesmen hangingupon her for a look or a smile that might lead the way to the king's ear;Sir George Jeffreys, the judge, whose name was to become England'sinfamy; Queen Catherine of Braganza, keeping up hollow mirth with thosewhose presence was insult; the Duke of York, soberer than his royalbrother, the king, since Monmouth's menace to the succession; and a hostof hangers-on ready to swear away England's liberties for a licking ofthe crumbs that fell from royal lips.
Then the hum of the playhouse seemed as the beating of the north sea; forLady Kirke was whispering, "There! There! There she is!" and Hortensewas entering one of the royal boxes accompanied by a foreign-looking,elderly woman, and that young Lieutenant Blood, whom we had encounteredearlier in the day.
"The countess from Portugal--Her Majesty's friend," murmurs Lady Kirke."Ah, Pierre, you have done finely for us all!"
And there oozed over my Lady Kirke's countenance as fine a satisfactionas ever radiated from the face of a sweating cook.
"How?" asks Pierre Radisson, pursing his lips.
"Sir John hath dined twice with His Royal Highness----"
"The Duke is Governor of the Company, and Sir John is a director."
"Ta-ta, now there you go, Pierre!" smirks my lady. "An your prettybaggage had not such a saucy way with the men--why--who can tell----"
"Madame," interrupted Pierre Radisson, "God forbid! There be many lordsamaking in strange ways, but we of the wilderness only count honour worthwhen it's won honourably."
But Lady Kirke bare heard the rebuke. She was all eyes for the royalbox. "La, now, Pierre," she cries, "see! The king hath recognised you!"She lurched forward into fuller view of onlookers as she spoke."Wella-day! Good lack! Pierre Radisson, I do believe!--Yes!--See!--HisMajesty is sending for you!"
And a page in royal colours appeared to say that the king commandedPierre Radisson to present himself in the royal box. With his wiry hairwild as it had ever been on the north sea, off he went, all unconsciousof the contemptuous looks from courtier and dandy at his strange,half-savage dress. And presently Pierre Radisson is seated in the king'spresence, chatting unabashed, the cynosure of all eyes. At the stir,Hortense had turned towards us. For a moment the listless hauteur gaveplace to a scarce hidden start. Then the pallid face had lookedindifferently away.
"The huzzy!" mutters Lady Kirke. "She might 'a' bowed in sight of thewhole house! Hoighty-toighty! We shall see, an the little moth soeasily blinded by court glare is not singed for its vanity! Ungratefulbaggage! See how she sits, not deigning to listen one word of all theyoung lieutenant is saying! Mary?"
"Yes----"
"You mind I told her--I warned the saucy miss to give more heed to themen--to remember what it might mean to us----"
"Yes," adds Madame Radisson, "and she said she hated the court----"
"Faugh!" laughs Lady Kirke, fussing and fuming and shifting her placelike a peacock with ruffled plumage, "pride before the fall--I'llwarrant, you men spoiled her in the north! Very fine, forsooth, when apauper wench from no one knows where may slight the first ladies of theland!"
"Madame," said I, "you are missing the play!"
"Master Stanhope," said she, "the play must be marvellous moving! Whereis your colour of a moment ago?"
I had no response to her railing. It was as if that look of Hortense hadcome from across the chasm that separated the old order from the new. Inthe wilderness she was in distress, I her helper. Here she was of thecourt and I--a common trader. Such fools does pride make of us, and soprone are we to doubt another's faith!
"One slight was enough," Lady Kirke was vowing with a toss of her head;and we none of us gave another look to the royal boxes that night, thoughall about the wits were cracking their jokes against M. Radisson's"Medusa locks," or "the king's idol, with feet of clay and face ofbrass," thereby meaning M. Radisson's moccasins and swarth skin. At thedoor we were awaiting M. Radisson's return when the royal company cameout. I turned suddenly and met Hortense's eyes blazing with a hauteurthat forbade recognition. Beside her in lover-like pose lolled thatmilliners' dummy whom we had seen humbled in the morning.
Then, promising to rejoin Pierre Radisson at the Fur Company's offices, Imade my adieux to the Kirkes and flung out among those wild revellers whoscoured London streets of a dark night.
[1] The old expression which the law compelled before throwing slops inmid-street.