Simon Dale Part 41

There is this in great station, that it imparts to a man a bearing sedate in good times and debonair in evil. A king may be unkinged, as befell him whom in my youth we called the Royal Martyr, but he need not be unmanned. He has tasted of what men count the best, and, having found even in it much bitterness, turns to greet fortune's new caprice smiling or unmoved. Thus it falls out that though princes live no better lives than common men, yet for the most part they die more n.o.ble deaths; their sunset paints all their sky, and we remember not how they bore their glorious burden, but with what grace they laid it down. Much is forgiven to him who dies becomingly, and on earth, as in heaven, there is pardon for the parting soul. Are we to reject what we are taught that G.o.d receives? I have need enough of forgiveness to espouse the softer argument.

Now King Louis, surnamed the Great, having more matters in his head than the scheme I thought to baffle, and (to say truth) more ladies in his heart than Barbara Quinton, was not minded to die for the one or the other. But had you been there (which Heaven for your sake forbid, I have pa.s.sed many a pleasanter night), you would have sworn that death or life weighed not a straw in the balance with him, and that he had no thought save of the destiny G.o.d had marked for him and the realm that called him master. So lofty and serene he was, when he perceived my resolution and saw my pistol at his head. On my faith, the victory was mine, but he robbed me of my triumph, and he, submitting, seemed to put terms on me who held him at my mercy. It is all a trick, no doubt; they get it in childhood, as (I mean no harm by my comparisons) the beggar's child learns to whine or the thief's to pick. Yet it is pretty. I wish I had it.

"In truth," said he with a smile that had not a trace of wryness, "I have chosen my means ill for this one time, though they say that I choose well. Well, G.o.d rules the world."

"By deputy, sir," said I.

"And deputies don't do His will always? Come, Mr Dale, for this hour you hold the post and fill it well. Wear this for my sake"; and he handed across to me a dagger with a handle richly wrought and studded with precious stones.

I bowed low; yet I kept my finger on the trigger.

"Man, I give you my word, though not in words," said he, and I, rebuked, set my weapon back in its place. "Alas, for a sad moment!" he cried. "I must bid farewell to Mistress Barbara. Yet (this he added, turning to her) life is long, madame, and has many changes. I pray you may never need friends, but should you, there is one ready so long as Louis is King of France. Call on him by the token of his ring and count him your humble servant." With this he stripped his finger of a fine brilliant, and, sinking on his knee in the boat, took her hand very delicately, and, having set the ring on her finger, kissed her hand, sighed lightly yet gallantly, and rose with his eyes set on the ship.

"Row me to her," he commanded me, shortly but not uncivilly; and I, who held his life in my hands, sat down obediently and bent to my oars. In faith, I wish I had that air, it's worth a fortune to a man!

Soon we came to the side of the ship. Over it looked the face of Colbert, amazed that I had stolen his King, and the face of Thomas Lie, indignant that I had made free with his boat; by them were two or three of the crew agape with wonder. King Louis paid no respect to their feelings and stayed their exclamations with a gesture of his hand. He turned to me, saying in low tones and with a smile,

"You must make your own terms with my brother, sir. It has been hard fighting between us, and I am in no mood for generosity."

I did not know what to answer him, but I stammered:

"I ask nothing but that your Majesty should remember me as an honest man."

"And a brave gentleman," he added gravely, with a slight inclination of his head. Then he turned to Barbara and took her hand again, bowing low and saying, "Madame, I had meant you much good in my heart, and my state forced me to mean you some evil. I pray you remember the one and forget the other." He kissed her hand again with a fine grace. It was a fair sounding apology for a thing beyond defence. I admired while I smiled.

But Barbara did not smile. She looked up in his face, then dropped on her knees in the boat and caught his hand, kissing it twice and trying to speak to him. He stood looking down on her; then he said softly, "Yet I have forgiven your friend," and gently drew his hand away. I stood up, baring my head. He faced round on me and said abruptly, "This affair is between you and me, sir."

"I am obedient to a command I did not need," said I.

"Your pardon. Cover your head. I do not value outward signs of respect where the will is wanting. Fare you well."

At a sign from him Colbert stretched out a hand. Not a question, not a word, scarcely now a show of wonder came from any, save honest Lie, whose eyes stood out of his head and whose tongue was still only because it could not speak. The King leapt lightly on the deck of his ship.

"You'll be paid for the boat," I heard him say to Lie. "Make all sail for Calais."

None spoke to him, none questioned him. He saw no need for explanation and accorded no enlightenment. I marvelled that fear or respect for any man could so bind their tongues. The King waved them away; Lie alone hesitated, but Colbert caught him by the arm and drew him off to the helm. The course was given, and the ship forged ahead. The King stood in the stern. Now he raised his hat from his head and bowed low to Mistress Barbara. I turned to see how she took the salutation; but her face was downcast, resting on her hands. I stood and lifted my hat; then I sat down to the oars. I saw King Louis' set courtly smile, and as our ways parted asunder, his to France, where he ruled, mine to England where I prayed nothing but a hiding-place, we sent into one another's eyes a long look as of men who have measured strength, and part each in his own pride, each in respect for the powers of his enemy. In truth it was something to have played a winning hand with the Most Christian King.

With regret I watched him go; though I could not serve him in his affairs of love, I would gladly have fought for him in his wars.

We were alone now on the sea; dawn was breaking and the sky cleared till the cliffs were dimly visible behind us. I pulled the boat round, and set her head for home. Barbara sat in the stern, pale and still, exhausted by the efforts and emotion of the night. The great peril and her great salvation left her numb rather than thankful; and in truth, if she looked into the future, her joy must be dashed with sore apprehension. M. de Perrencourt was gone, the Duke of Monmouth remained; till she could reach her father I was her only help, and I dared not show my face in Dover. But these thoughts were for myself, not for her, and seeking to cheer her I leant forward and said,

"Courage, Mistress Barbara." And I added, "At least we shan't be married, you and I, in Calais."

She started a little, flushed a little, and answered gravely,

"We owe Heaven thanks for a great escape, Simon."

It was true, and the knowledge of its truth had nerved us to the attempt so marvellously crowned with success. Great was the escape from such a marriage, made for such purposes as King Louis had planned. Yet some feeling shot through me, and I gave it voice in saying,

"Nay, but we might have escaped after the marriage also."

Barbara made no reply; for it was none to say, "The cliffs grow very plain."

"But that wouldn't have served our turn," I added with a laugh. "You would have come out of the business saddled with a sore enc.u.mbrance."

"Shall you go to Dover?" asked Barbara, seeming to pay no heed to all that I had been saying.

"Where G.o.d pleases," I answered rather peevishly. "Her head's to the land, and I'll row straight to land. The land is safer than the sea."

"No place is safe?"

"None," I answered. But then, repenting of my surliness, I added, "And none so perilous that you need fear, Mistress Barbara."

"I don't fear while you're with me, Simon," said she. "You won't leave me till we find my father?"

"Surely not," said I. "Is it your pleasure to seek him?"

"As speedily as we can," she murmured. "He's in London. Even the King won't dare to touch me when I'm with him."

"To London, then!" I said. "Can you make out the coast?"

"There's a little bay just ahead where the cliff breaks; and I see Dover Castle away on my left hand."

"We'll make for the bay," said I, "and then seek means to get to London."

Even as I spoke a sudden thought struck me. I laid down my oars and sought my purse. Barbara was not looking at me, but gazed in a dreamy fashion towards where the Castle rose on its cliff. I opened the purse; it held a single guinea; the rest of my store lay with my saddle-bags in the French King's ship; my head had been too full to think of them.

There is none of life's small matters that so irks a man as to confess that he has no money for necessary charges, and it is most sore when a lady looks to him for hers. I, who had praised myself for forgetting how to blush, went red as a c.o.c.k's comb and felt fit to cry with mortification. A guinea would feed us on the road to London if we fared plainly; but Barbara could not go on her feet.

Her eyes must have come back to my sullen downcast face, for in a moment she cried, "What's the matter, Simon?"

Perhaps she carried money. Well then, I must ask for it. I held out my guinea in my hand.

"It's all I have," said I. "King Louis has the rest."

She gave a little cry of dismay. "I hadn't thought of money," she cried.

"I must beg of you."

"Ah, but, Simon, I have none. I gave my purse to the waiting-woman to carry, so that mine also is in the French King's ship."

Here was humiliation! Our fine schemes stood blocked for the want of so vulgar a thing as money; such fate waits often on fine schemes, but surely never more perversely. Yet, I know not why, I was glad that she had none. I was a guinea the better of her; the amount was not large, but it served to keep me still her Providence, and that, I fear, is what man, in his vanity, loves to be in woman's eyes; he struts and plumes himself in the pride of it. I had a guinea, and Barbara had nothing. I had sooner it were so than that she had a hundred.

But to her came no such subtle consolation. To lack money was a new horror, untried, undreamt of; the thing had come to her all her days in such measure as she needed it, its want had never thwarted her desires or confined her purpose. To lack the price of post-horses seemed to her as strange as to go fasting for want of bread.

"What shall we do?" she cried in a dismay greater than all the perils of the night had summoned to her heart.

We had about us wealth enough; Louis' dagger was in my belt, his ring on her finger. Yet of what value were they, since there was n.o.body to buy them? To offer such wares in return for a carriage would seem strange and draw suspicion. I doubted whether even in Dover I should find a Jew with whom to pledge my dagger, and to Dover in broad day I dared not go.

I took up my oars and set again to rowing. The sh.o.r.e was but a mile or two away. The sun shone now and the light was full, the little bay seemed to smile at me as I turned my head; but all smiles are short for a man who has but a guinea in his purse.