Simon Dale Part 48

There was now a new tone in her voice. Her eyes still sparkled in mischievous exultation that she had proved right and I come away sore and baffled. But when she spoke of the healing of my heart, there was an echo of sadness; the hinting of some smothered sorrow seemed to be struggling with her mirth. She was a creature all compounded of sudden changing moods; I did not know when they were true, when feigned in sport or to further some device. She came near now and bent over my chair, saying gently,

"Alas, I'm very wicked! I couldn't help the folk cheering me, Simon.

Surely it was no fault of mine?"

"You had no need to look out of the window of the coach," said I sternly.

"But I did that with never a thought. I wanted the air. I----"

"Nor to jest and banter. It was mighty unseemly, I swear."

"In truth I was wrong to jest with them," said Nell remorsefully. "And within, Simon, my heart was aching with shame, even while I jested. Ah, you don't know the shame I feel!"

"In good truth," I returned, "I believe you feel no shame at all."

"You're very cruel to me, Simon. Yet it's no more than my desert. Ah, if----"; she sighed heavily. "If only, Simon----," she said, and her hand was very near my hair by the back of the chair. "But that's past praying," she ended, sighing again most woefully. "Yet I have been of some service to you."

"I thank you for it most heartily," said I, still stiff and cold.

"And I was very wrong to-day. Simon, it was on her account."

"What?" I cried. "Did Mistress Quinton bid you put your head out and jest with the fellows on the pavement?"

"She did not bid me; but I did it because she was there."

I looked up at her; it was a rare thing with her, but she would not meet my glance. I looked down again.

"It was always the same between her and me," murmured Nell. "Ay, so long ago--even at Hatchstead."

"We're not in Hatchstead now," said I roughly.

"No, nor even in Chelsea. For even in Chelsea you had a kindness for me."

"I have much kindness for you now."

"Well, then you had more."

"It is in your knowledge why now I have no more."

"Yes, it's in my knowledge!" she cried. "Yet I carried Mistress Quinton from Dover."

I made no answer to that. She sighed "Heigho," and for a moment there was silence. But messages pa.s.s without words, and there are speechless Mercuries who carry tidings from heart to heart. Then the air is full of whisperings, and silence is but foil to a thousand sounds which the soul hears though the dull corporeal ear be deaf. Did she still amuse herself, or was there more? Sometimes a part, a.s.sumed in play or malice, so grows on the actor that he cannot, even when he would, throw aside his trappings and wash from his face the paint which was to show the pa.s.sion that he played. The thing takes hold and will not be thrown aside; it seems to seek revenge for the light a.s.sumption and punishes the bravado that feigned without feeling by a feeling which is not feint. She was now, for the moment if you will, but yet now, in earnest.

Some wave of recollection or of fancy had come over her and transformed her jest. She stole round till her face peeped into mine in piteous bewitching entreaty, asking a sign of fondness, bringing back the past, raising the dead from my heart's sepulchre. There was a throbbing in my brain; yet I had need of a cool head. With a spring I was on my feet.

"I'll go and ask if Mistress Barbara sleeps," I stammered. "I fear she may not be well attended."

"You'll go again? Once scorned, you'll go again, Simon? Well, the maid will smile; they'll make a story of it among themselves at their supper in the kitchen."

The laugh of a parcel of knaves and wenches! Surely it is a small thing!

But men will face death smiling who run wry-faced from such ridicule. I sank in my chair again. But in truth did I desire to go? The dead rise, or at least there is a voice that speaks from the tomb. A man tarries to listen. Well if he be not lost in listening!

With a sigh Nell moved across the room and flung the window open. The loiterers were gone, all was still, only the stars looked in, only the sweet scent of the night made a new companion.

"It's like a night at Hatchstead," she whispered. "Do you remember how we walked there together? It smelt as it smells to-night. It's so long ago!" She came quickly towards me and asked "Do you hate me now?" but did not wait for the answer. She threw herself in a chair near me and fixed her eyes on me. It was strange to see her face grave and wrung with agitation; yet she was better thus, the new timidity became her marvellously.

There was a great clock in the corner of the old panelled room; it ticked solemnly, seeming to keep time with the beating of my heart. I had no desire to move, but sat there waiting; yet every nerve of my body was astir. Now I watched her every movement, took reckoning of every feature, seemed to read more than her outward visage showed and to gain knowledge of her heart. I knew that she tempted me, and why. I was not a fool, to think that she loved me; but she was set to conquer me, and with her there was no price that seemed high when the prize was victory or a whim's fulfilment.

I would have written none of this, but that it is so part and marrow of my history that without it the record of my life would go limping on one leg.

She rose and came near me again. Now she laughed, yet still not lightly, but as though she hid a graver mood.

"Come," said she, "you needn't fear to be civil to me. Mistress Barbara is not here."

The taunt was well conceived; for the most part there is no incitement that more whips a man to any madness than to lay self-control to the score of cowardice, and tell him that his scruples are not his own, but worn by command of another and on pain of her displeasure. But sometimes woman's cunning goes astray, and a name, used in mockery, speaks for itself with strong attraction, as though it held the charm of her it stands for. The name, falling from Nell's pouting lips, had power to raise in me a picture, and the picture spread, like a very painting done on canvas, a screen between me and the alluring eyes that sought mine in provoking witchery. She did not know her word's work, and laughed again to see me grow yet more grave at Barbara's name.

"The stern mistress is away," she whispered. "May we not sport? The door is shut! Why, Simon, you're dull. In truth you're as dull as the King when his purse is empty."

I raised my eyes to hers, she read the thought. She tossed her head, flinging the brown curls back; her eyes twinkled merrily, and she said in a soft whisper half-smothered in a rising laugh,

"But, Simon, the King also is away."

I owed nothing to the King and thought nothing of the King. It was not there I stuck. Nay, and I did not stick on any score of conscience. Yet stick I did, and gazed at her with a dumb stare. She seemed to fall into a sudden rage, crying,

"Go to her then if you will, but she won't have you. Would you like to know what she called you to-day in the coach?"

"I would hear nothing that was not for my ears."

"A very pretty excuse; but in truth you fear to hear it."

Alas, the truth was even as she said. I feared to hear it.

"But you shall hear it. 'A good honest fellow,' she said, 'but somewhat forward for his station.' So she said, and leant back with half-closed lids. You know the trick these great ladies have? By Heaven, though, I think she wronged you! For I'll swear on my Bible that you're not forward, Simon. Well, I'm not Mistress Quinton."

"You are not," said I, sore and angry, and wishing to wound her in revenge for the blow she had dealt me.

"Now you're gruff with me for what she said. It's a man's way. I care not. Go and sigh outside her door; she won't open it to you."

She drew near to me again, coaxing and seeking to soften me.

"I took your part," she whispered, "and declared that you were a fine gentleman. Nay, I told her how once I had come near to--Well, I told her many things that it should please you to hear. But she grew mighty short with me, and on the top came the folk with their cheers. Hence my lady's in a rage."

She shrugged her shoulders; I sat there sullen. The scornful words were whirling through my brain. "Somewhat forward for his station!" It was a hard judgment on one who had striven to serve her. In what had I shewn presumption? Had she not professed to forgive all offence? She kept the truth for others, and it came out when my back was turned.

"Poor Simon!" said Nell softly. "Indeed I wonder any lady should speak so of you. It's an evil return for your kindness to her."

Silence fell on us for awhile. Nell was by me now, her hand rested lightly on my shoulder, and, looking up, I saw her eyes on my face in mingled pensiveness and challenge.

"Indeed you are not forward," she murmured with a little laugh, and set one hand over her eyes.