Part 24 (1/2)
”Ah, man, I meant nothing against your honour; but Simon here has a discretion that heaven does not give to everyone.”
Now, when I see a man so sensitive to suspicion as to find it in every careless word, I am set thinking whether he may not have some cause to fear suspicion. Honesty expects no accusation. Carford's readiness to repel a charge not brought caught my notice, and made me ponder more on certain other conferences to which also his Grace my patron was a stranger. More than once had I found Arlington and Carford together, with M. Colbert in their company, and on the last occasion of such an encounter Carford had requested me not to mention his whereabouts to the Duke, advancing the trivial pretext that he should have been engaged on his Grace's business. His Grace was not our schoolmaster. But I was deceived, most amiably deceived, and held my tongue as he prayed. Yet I watched him close, and soon, had a man told me that the Duke of York thought it well to maintain a friend of his own in his nephew's confidence, I would have hazarded that friend's name without fear of mistake.
So far the affair was little to me, but when Mistress Barbara came from London the day before Madame was to arrive, hardly an hour pa.s.sed before I perceived that she also, although she knew it not, had her part to play. I cannot tell what reward they offered Carford for successful service; if a man who sells himself at a high price be in any way less a villain than he who takes a penny, I trust that the price was high; for in pursuance of the effort to obtain Monmouth's confidence and an ascendency over him, Carford made use of the lady whom he had courted, and, as I believed, still courted, for his own wife. He threw her in Monmouth's way by tricks too subtle for her to detect, but plain to an attentive observer. I knew from her father that lately he had again begged her hand, and that she had listened with more show of favour. Yet he was the Duke's very humble servant in all the plans which that headstrong young man now laid against the lady's peace and honour. Is there need to state the scheme more plainly? In those days a man might rise high and learn great secrets, if he knew when to shut his eyes and how to knock loud before he entered the room.
I should have warned her. It is true; but the mischief lay in the fact that by no means could I induce her to exchange a word with me. She was harder by far to me than she had shewn herself in London. Perhaps she had heard how I had gone to Chelsea; but whether for good reason or bad, my crime now seemed beyond pardon. Stay; perhaps my condition was below her notice; or sin and condition so worked together that she would have nothing of me, and I could do nothing but look on with outward calm and hidden sourness while the Duke plied her with flatteries that soon grew to pa.s.sionate avowals, and Carford paid deferential suit when his superior was not in the way. She triumphed in her success as girls will, blind to its perils as girls are; and Monmouth made no secret of his hopes of success, as he sat between Carford's stolid face and my downcast eyes.
”She's the loveliest creature in the world,” he would cry. ”Come, drink a toast to her!” I drank silently, while Carford led him on to unrestrained boasts and artfully fanned his pa.s.sion.
At last--it was the evening of the day before Madame was to come--I met her where she could not avoid me, by the Constable's Tower, and alone. I took my courage in my hands and faced her, warning her of her peril in what delicate words I could find. Alas, I made nothing of it. A scornful jest at me and my righteousness (of which, said she, all London had been talking a little while back) was the first shot from her battery. The mention of the Duke's name brought a blush and a mischievous smile, as she answered:
”Shouldn't I make a fine d.u.c.h.ess, Mr Dale?”
”Ay, if he made you one,” said I with gloomy bluntness.
”You insult me, sir,” she cried, and the flush on her face deepened.
”Then I do in few words what his Grace does in many,” I retorted.
I went about it like a dolt, I do not doubt. For she flew out at me, demanding in what esteem I held her, and in what her birth fell short of Anne Hyde's--”who is now d.u.c.h.ess of York, and in whose service I have the honour to be.”
”Is that your pattern?” I asked. ”Will the King interpose for you as he did for the daughter of Lord Clarendon?”
She tossed her head, answering:
”Perhaps so much interference will not be needed.”
”And does my Lord Carford share these plans of yours?” I asked with a sneer.
The question touched her; she flushed again, but gave way not an inch.
”Lord Carford has done me much honour, as you know,” said she, ”but he wouldn't stand in my way here.”
”Indeed he doesn't!” I cried. ”Nor in his Grace's!”
”Have you done, sir?” says she most scornfully.
”I have done, madame,” said I, and on she swept.
”Yet you shall come to no harm,” I added to myself as I watched her proud free steps carry her away. She also, it seemed, had her dream; I hoped that no more than hurt pride and a heart for the moment sore would come of it. Yet if the flatteries of princes pleased, she was to be better pleased soon, and the Duke of Monmouth seem scarcely higher to her than Simon Dale.
Then came Madame in the morning from Dunkirk, escorted by the Vice-Admiral, and met above a mile from the coast by the King in his barge; the Duke of York, Prince Rupert, and my Duke (on whom, I attended) accompanying His Majesty. Madame seemed scarcely as beautiful as I had heard, although of a very high air and most admirable carriage and address; and my eyes, p.r.o.ne, I must confess, to seek the fairest face, wandered from hers to a lady who stood near, gifted with a delicate and alluring, yet childish, beauty, who gazed on the gay scene with innocent interest and a fresh enjoyment. Madame, having embraced her kinsmen, presented the lady to His Majesty by the name of Mademoiselle Louise Renee de Perrencourt de Querouaille (the name was much shortened by our common folk in later days), and the King kissed her hand, saying that he was rejoiced to see her--as indeed he seemed to be, if a man might judge by the time he spent in looking at her, and the carelessness with which he greeted the others in attendance on Madame.
”And these are all who come with you, sister?” he asked.
She answered him clearly, almost loudly:
”Except a gentleman who is to join me from Calais to-morrow, with messages from the King.”
I heard no more, being forced to move away and leave the royal group alone. I had closely examined all who came. For in the presence of Madame I read _Je viens_, in our King's, _Tu viens_; but I saw none whose coming would make the tidings _Il vient_ worthy of a special messenger to London. But there was a gentleman to arrive from Calais. I had enough curiosity to ask M. le Comte d'Albon, who (with his wife) accompanied Madame and stood by me on deck as we returned to land, who this gentleman might be.