Simon Dale Part 8

The great porter could endure no more. With a seemingly gentle motion of his hand he thrust me aside, pushing me on to the bosom of a buxom flower-girl who, laughing boisterously, wound a pair of st.u.r.dy red arms round me. Then he stepped forward, and seizing Phineas by the scruff of the neck shook him as a dog shakes a rat. To what more violence he would have proceeded I do not know; for suddenly from above us, out of a window of the c.o.c.k and Pie, came a voice which sent a stir through my veins.

"Good people, good people," said the voice, "what with preaching and brawling, a body can get no sleep in the Lane. Pray go and work, or if you've no work, go and drink. Here are the means." And a shower of small coins came flying down on our heads, causing an immediate wild scramble.

My flower-girl loosed me that she might take her part in this fray; the porter stood motionless, still holding poor Phineas, limp and lank, in his hand; and I turned my eyes upwards to the window of the c.o.c.k and Pie.

I looked up, and I saw her. Her sunny brown hair was about her shoulders, her knuckles rubbed her sleepy eyes to brightness, and a loose white bodice, none too high nor too carefully b.u.t.toned about the neck, showed that her dressing was not done. Indeed, she made a pretty picture, as she leant out, laughing softly, and now shading her face from the sun with one hand, while she raised the other in mocking reproof of the preacher.

"Fie, sir, fie," she said. "Why fall on a poor girl who earns an honest living, gives to the needy, and is withal a good Protestant?" Then she called to the porter, "Let him go with what life you've left in him. Let him go."

"You heard what he said of you----" began the fellow sullenly.

"Ay, I hear what everybody says of me," she answered carelessly. "Let him go."

The porter sulkily released his prey, and Phineas, set free, began to gasp and shake himself. Another coin whistled down to the porter, who, picking it up, shambled off with a last oath of warning to his enemy.

Then, and then only, did she look at me, who had never ceased to look at her. When she saw me, her smile grew broader, and her eyes twinkled in surprise and delight.

"A happy morning!" she said, clasping her little hands. "Ah, a happy morning! Why, 'tis Simon, my Simon, my little Simon from the country.

Come up to me, Simon. No, no, your pardon; I'll come down to you, Simon.

In the parlour, in the parlour. Quick! I'll be down in an instant."

The vision vanished, but my gaze dwelt on the window where it had been, and I needed Phineas Tate's harsh voice to rouse me from my stupor.

"Who is the woman?" he demanded.

"Why--why--Mistress Gwyn herself," I stammered.

"Herself--the woman, herself?" he asked eagerly. Then he suddenly drew himself up and, baring his head, said solemnly, "Thanks be to G.o.d, thanks be to G.o.d, for it may be His will that this brand should be plucked from the burning." And before I could speak or attempt to hinder him he stepped swiftly across the pathway and entered the tavern. I, seeing nothing else that I could do, followed him straightway and as fast as I could.

I was in a maze of feeling. The night before I had reasoned with myself and schooled my wayward pa.s.sion to a resolve neither to see nor to speak with her. Resentment at the shame she had brought on me aided my stubbornness, and helped me to forget that I had been shamed because she had remembered me. But now I followed Phineas Tate. For be memory ever so keen and clear, yes, though it seem able to bring every feature, every shade, and every pose before a man's eyes in absolute fidelity, yet how poor and weak a thing it is beside the vivid sight of bodily eyes; that paints the faded picture all afresh in hot and glowing colours, and the man who bade defiance to the persuasions of his recollection falls beaten down by the fierce force of a present vision.

I followed Phineas Tate, perhaps using some excuse with myself--indeed, I feared that he would attack her rudely and be cruelly plain with her--yet knowing in my heart that I went because I could do nothing else, and that when she called, every atom of life in me answered to her summons. So in I went, to find Phineas standing bolt upright in the parlour of the tavern, turning the leaves of his book with eager fingers, as though he sought some text that was in his mind. I pa.s.sed by him and leant against the wall by the window; so we awaited her, each of us eager, but with pa.s.sions most unlike.

She came, daintily dressed now, although still negligently. She put her head round the corner of the door, radiant with smiles, and with no more shame or embarra.s.sment than if our meeting in this way were the most ordinary thing. Then she caught sight of Phineas Tate and cried, pouting, "But I wanted to be alone with my Simon, my dear Simon."

Phineas caught the clue her words gave him with perverse readiness.

"Alone with him, yes!" he cried. "But what of the time when you must be alone with G.o.d?"

"Alas," said she, coming in, and seating herself at the table, "is there more still? Indeed, I thought you had said all your say outside. I am very wicked; let that end it."

He advanced to the table and stood directly opposite to her, stretching his arm towards her, while she sat with her chin on her hands, watching him with eyes half-amused, half-apprehensive.

"You who live in open sin----" he began; before he could say more I was by his elbow.

"Hold your tongue," I said. "What is it to you?"

"Let him go on, Simon," said she.

And go on he did, telling all--as I prayed, more than all--the truth, while she heard him patiently. Yet now and then she gave herself a little shake, as though to get rid of something that threatened to stick. Then he fell on his knees and prayed fervently, she still sitting quiet and I standing awkwardly near. He finished his prayer, and, rising again, looked earnestly at her. Her eyes met his in good nature, almost in friendliness. He stretched out his hand to her again, saying,

"Child, cannot you understand? Alas, your heart is hardened! I pray Christ our Lord to open your eyes and change your heart, that at the last your soul may be saved."

Nelly examined the pink nails of her right hand with curious attention.

"I don't know that I'm more of a sinner than many others," said she. "Go to Court and preach, sir."

A sudden fury seemed to come over him, and he lost the gentleness with which he had last addressed her.

"The Word shall be heard at the Court," he cried, "in louder accents than mine. Their cup is full, the measure of their iniquity is pressed down and running over. All who live shall see."

"Like enough," said Nell, as though the matter were grown very tedious, and she yawned just a little; but, as she glanced at me, a merry light gleamed in her eyes. "And what is to befall Simon here?" she asked.

He turned on me with a start, seeming to have forgotten my presence.

"This young man?" he asked, looking full in my face. "Why, his face is honest; if he choose his friends well, he may do well."

"I am of his friends," said Nell, and I defy any man on earth to have given the lie to such a claim so made.

"And for you, may the Lord soften your heart," said Phineas to her.

"Some say it's too soft already," said Nell.

"You will see me again," said he to her, and moved towards the door. But once more he faced me before he went, and looked very intently at me.

Then he pa.s.sed out, leaving us alone.

At his going Nell sighed for relief, stretched out her arms, and let them fall on the table in front of her; then she sprang up and ran to me, catching hold of my hands.

"And how goes all at pretty Hatchstead?" she asked.

I drew back, releasing my hands from hers, and I spoke to her stiffly.

"Madame," said I, "this is not Hatchstead, nor do you seem the lady whom I knew at Hatchstead."

"Indeed, you seem very like the gentleman I knew, and knew well, there,"

she retorted.

"And you, very unlike the lady."

"Nay, not so unlike as you think. But are you also going to preach to me?"

"Madame," said I in cold courtesy, "I have to thank you for a good remembrance of me, and for your kindness in doing me a service; I a.s.sure you I prize it none the less, because I may not accept it."

"You may not accept it?" she cried. "What? You may not accept the commission?"

"No, madame," said I, bowing low.

Her face was like a pretty child's in disappointment.

"And your arm? How come you to be wounded? Have you been quarrelling already?"

"Already, madame."