CYDARIA REVEALED
There, mounted on the coach at Hertford (for at last I am fairly on my
way, and may boast that I have made short work of my farewells), a
gentleman apparently about thirty years of age, tall, well-proportioned,
and with a thin face, clean-cut and high-featured. He was attended by a
servant whom he called Robert, a stout ruddy fellow, who was very jovial
with every post-boy and ostler on the road. The gentleman, being placed
next to me by the chance of our billets, lost no time in opening the
conversation, a step which my rustic backwardness would long have
delayed. He invited my confidence by a free display of his own,
informing me that he was attached to the household of Lord Arlington,
and was returning to London on his lordship's summons. For since his
patron had been called to the place of Secretary of State, he, Mr
Christopher Darrell (such was his name), was likely to be employed by
him in matters of trust, and thus fill a position which I must perceive
to be of some importance. All this was poured forth with wonderful
candour and geniality, and I, in response, opened to him my fortunes and
prospects, keeping back nothing save the mention of Cydaria. Mr Darrell
was, or affected to be, astonished to learn that I was a stranger to
London--my air smacked of the Mall and of no other spot in the world, he
swore most politely--but made haste to offer me his services, proposing
that, since Lord Arlington did not look for him that night, and he had
abandoned his former lodging, we should lodge together at an inn he
named in Covent Garden, when he could introduce me to some pleasant
company. I accepted his offer most eagerly. Then he fell to talking of
the Court, of the households of the King and the Duke, of Madame the
Duchess of Orleans, who was soon to come to England, they said (on what
business he did not know); next he spoke, although now with caution, of
persons no less well known but of less high reputation, referring
lightly to Lady Castlemaine and Eleanor Gwyn and others, while I
listened, half-scandalised, half-pleased. But I called him back by
asking whether he were acquainted with one of the Duchess's ladies named
Mistress Barbara Quinton.
"Surely," he said. "There is no fairer lady at Court, and very few so
honest."
I hurried to let him know that Mistress Barbara and I were old friends.
He laughed as he answered,
"If you'd be more you must lose no time. It is impossible that she
should refuse many more suitors, and a nobleman of great estate is now
sighing for her so loudly as to be audible from Whitehall to Temple
Bar."
I heard the news with interest, with pride, and with a touch of
jealousy; but at this time my own fortunes so engrossed me that soon I
harked back to them, and, taking my courage in both hands, was about to
ask my companion if he had chanced ever to hear of Cydaria, when he gave
a new turn to the talk, by asking carelessly,
"You are a Churchman, sir, I suppose?"
"Why, yes," I answered, with a smile, and perhaps a bit of a stare.
"What did you conceive me to be, sir?--a Ranter, or a Papist?"
"Pardon, pardon, if you find offence in my question," he answered,
laughing. "There are many men who are one or the other, you know."
"The country has learnt that to its sorrow," said I sturdily.
"Ay," he said, in a dreamy way, "and maybe will learn it again." And
without more he fell to describing the famous regiment to which I was to
belong, adding at the end:
"And if you like a brawl, the 'prentices in the City will always find
one for a gentleman of the King's Guards. Take a companion or two with
you when you walk east of Temple Bar. By the way, sir, if the question
may be pardoned, how came you by your commission? For we know that
merit, standing alone, stands generally naked also."
I was much inclined to tell him all the story, but a shamefacedness came
over me. I did not know then how many owed all their advancement to a
woman's influence, and my manly pride disdained to own the obligation. I
put him off by a story of a friend who wished to remain unnamed, and,
after the feint of some indifferent talk, seized the chance of a short
silence to ask him my great question.
"Pray, sir, have you ever heard of a lady who goes sometimes by the name
of Cydaria?" said I. I fear my cheek flushed a little, do what I could
to check such an exhibition of rawness.
"Cydaria? Where have I heard that name? No, I know nobody--and yet----"
He paused; then, clapping his hand on his thigh, cried, "By my faith,
yes; I was sure I had heard it. It is a name from a play; from--from the
'Indian Emperor.' I think your lady must have been masquerading."
"I thought as much," I nodded, concealing my disappointment.
He looked at me a moment with some curiosity, but did not press me
further; and, since we had begun to draw near London, I soon had my mind
too full to allow me to think even of Cydaria. There is small profit in
describing what every man can remember for himself--his first sight of
the greatest city in the world, with its endless houses and swarming
people. It made me still and silent as we clattered along, and I forgot
my companion until I chanced to look towards him, and found an amused
glance fixed on my face. But, as we reached the City, he began to point
out where the fire had been, and how the task of rebuilding progressed.
Again wonder and anticipation grew on me.
"Yes," said he, "it's a fine treasure-house for a man who can get the
key to it."
Yet, amazed as I was, I would not have it supposed that I was altogether
an unlicked cub. My stay in Norwich, if it had not made me a Londoner,
had rubbed off some of the plough-mud from me, and I believe that my new
friend was not speaking wholly in idle compliment when he assured me
that I should hold my own very well. The first lesson I learnt was not
to show any wonder that I might feel, but to receive all that chanced as
though it were the most ordinary thing in the world; for this, beyond
all, is the hall-mark of your quality. Indeed, it was well that I was so
far fit to show my face, since I was to be plunged into the midst of the
stream with a suddenness which startled, although it could not displease
me. For the first beginning I was indebted to Mr Darrell, for what
followed to myself alone and a temper that has never been of the most
patient.
We had reached our inn and refreshed ourselves, and I was standing
looking out on the evening and wondering at what time it was proper for
me to seek my bed when my friend entered with an eager air, and advanced
towards me, crying,
"Dear sir, I hope your wardrobe is in order, for I am resolved to redeem
my word forthwith, and to-night to carry you with me to an
entertainment for which I have received an invitation. I am most anxious
for you to accompany me, as we shall meet many whom you should know."
I was, of course, full of excuses, but he would admit of one only; and
that one I could not or would not make. For I had provided myself with a
neat and proper suit, of which I was very far from ashamed, and which,
when assumed by me and set off with a new cloak to match it, was
declared by Mr Darrell to be most apt for the occasion.
"You lack nothing but a handsome cane," said he, "and that I can myself
provide. Come, let us call chairs and be gone, for it grows late
already."
Our host that evening was Mr Jermyn, a gentleman in great repute at
Court, and he entertained us most handsomely at the New Spring Garden,
according to me a welcome of especial courtesy, that I might be at my
ease and feel no stranger among the company. He placed me on his left
hand, Darrell being on my other side, while opposite to me sat my lord
the Earl of Carford, a fine-looking man of thirty or a year or two
above. Among the guests Mr Darrell indicated several whose names were
known to me, such as the witty Lord Rochester and the French Ambassador,
M. de Cominges, a very stately gentleman. These, however, being at the
other end of the table, I made no acquaintance with them, and contented
myself with listening to the conversation of my neighbours, putting in a
word where I seemed able with propriety and without displaying an
ignorance of which I was very sensible. It seemed to me that Lord
Carford, to whom I had not been formally presented (indeed, all talked
to one another without ceremony) received what I said with more than
sufficient haughtiness and distance; but on Darrell whispering
humorously that he was a great lord, and held himself even greater than
he was, I made little of it, thinking my best revenge would be to give
him a lesson in courtesy. Thus all went well till we had finished eating
and sat sipping our wine. Then my Lord Carford, being a little
overheated with what he had drunk, began suddenly to inveigh against the
King with remarkable warmth and freedom, so that it seemed evident that
he smarted under some recent grievance. The raillery of our host, not
too nice or delicate, soon spurred him to a discovery of his complaint.
He asked nothing better than to be urged to a disclosure.
"Neither rank, nor friendship, nor service," he said, smiting the table,
"are enough to gain the smallest favour from the King. All goes to the
women; they have but to ask to have. I prayed the King to give me for a
cousin of mine a place in the Life Guards that was to be vacant, and
he--by Heaven, he promised! Then comes Nell, and Nell wants it for a
friend--and Nell has it for a friend--and I go empty!"
I had started when he spoke of the Life Guards, and sat now in a state
of great disturbance. Darrell also, as I perceived, was very uneasy, and
made a hasty effort to alter the course of the conversation; but Mr
Jermyn would not have it.
"Who is the happy--the new happy man, that is Mistress Nell's friend?"
he asked, smiling.
"Some clod from the country," returned the Earl; "his name, they say, is
Dale."
I felt my heart beating, but I trust that I looked cool enough as I
leant across and said,
"Your lordship is misinformed. I have the best of reasons for saying
so."
"The reasons may be good, sir," he retorted with a stare, "but they are
not evident."
"I am myself just named to a commission in the King's Life Guards, and
my name is Dale," said I, restraining myself to a show of composure, for
I felt Darrell's hand on my arm.
"By my faith, then, you're the happy man," sneered Carford. "I
congratulate you on your----"
"Stay, stay, Carford," interposed Mr Jermyn.
"On your--godmother," said Carford.
"You're misinformed, my lord," I repeated fiercely, although by now a
great fear had come upon me. I knew whom they meant by "Nell."
"By God, sir, I'm not misinformed," said he.
"By God, my lord," said I--though I had not been wont to swear--"By God,
my lord, you are."
Our voices had risen in anger; a silence fell on the party, all turning
from their talk to listen to us. Carford's face went red when I gave him
the lie so directly and the more fiercely because, to my shame and
wonder, I had begun to suspect that what he said was no lie. But I
followed up the attack briskly.
"Therefore, my lord," I said, "I will beg of you to confess your error,
and withdraw what you have said."
He burst into a laugh.
"If I weren't ashamed to take a favour from such a hand, I wouldn't be
ashamed to own it," said he.
I rose from my seat and bowed to him gravely. All understood my meaning;
but he, choosing to treat me with insolence, did not rise nor return my
salute, but sat where he was, smiling scornfully.
"You don't understand me, it seems, my lord," said I. "May be this will
quicken your wits," and I flung the napkin which had been brought to me
after meat lightly in his face. He sprang up quickly enough then, and so
did all the company. Darrell caught me by the arm and held me fast.
Jermyn was by Carford's side. I hardly knew what passed, being much
upset by the sudden quarrel, and yet more by the idea, that Carford's
words had put in my head. I saw Jermyn come forward, and Darrell,
loosing my arm, went and spoke to him. Lord Carford resumed his seat; I
leant against the back of my chair and waited. Darrell was not long in
returning to me.
"You'd best go home," he said, in a low voice. "I'll arrange
everything. You must meet to-morrow morning."
I nodded my head; I had grown cool and collected now. Bowing slightly to
Carford, and low to my host and the company, I turned to the door. As I
passed through it, I heard the talk break out again behind me. I got
into my chair, which was waiting, and was carried back to my inn in a
half-amazed state. I gave little thought to the quarrel or to the
meeting that awaited me. My mind was engrossed with the revelation to
which I had listened. I doubted it still; nay, I would not believe it.
Yet whence came the story unless it were true? And it seemed to fit most
aptly and most lamentably with what had befallen me, and to throw light
on what had been a puzzle. It was hard on four years since I had parted
from Cydaria; but that night I felt that, if the thing were true, I
should receive Carford's point in my heart without a pang.
Being, as may be supposed, little inclined for sleep, I turned into the
public room of the inn and called for a bottle of wine. The room was
empty save for a lanky fellow, very plainly dressed, who sat at the
table reading a book. He was drinking nothing, and when--my wine having
been brought--I called in courtesy for a second glass and invited him to
join me, he shook his head sourly. Yet presently he closed his book,
which I now perceived to be a Bible, and fixed an earnest gaze on me. He
was a strange-looking fellow; his face was very thin and long, and his
hair (for he wore his own and no wig) hung straight from the crown of
his head in stiff wisps. I set him down as a Ranter, and was in no way
surprised when he began to inveigh against the evils of the times, and
to prophesy the judgment of God on the sins of the city.
"Pestilence hath come and fire hath come," he cried. "Yet wickedness is
not put away, and lewdness vaunteth herself, and the long-suffering of
God is abused."
All this seeming to me very tedious, I sipped my wine and made no
answer. I had enough to think of, and was content to let the sins of the
city alone.
"The foul superstition of Papacy raises its head again," he went on,
"and godly men are persecuted."
"Those same godly men," said I, "have had their turn before now, sir. To
many it seems as if they were only receiving what they gave." For the
fellow had roused me to some little temper by his wearisome cursing.
"But the Time of the Lord is at hand," he pursued, "and all men shall
see the working of His wrath. Ay, it shall be seen even in palaces."
"If I were you, sir," said I dryly, "I would not talk thus before
strangers. There might be danger in it."
He scanned my face closely for a few moments; then, leaning across
towards me, he said earnestly:
"You are young, and you look honest. Be warned in time; fight on the
Lord's side, and not among His enemies. Verily the time cometh."
I had met many of these mad fellows, for the country was full of them,
some being disbanded soldiers of the Commonwealth, some ministers who
had lost their benefices; but this fellow seemed more crazy than any I
had seen: though, indeed, I must confess there was a full measure of
truth, if not of charity, in the description of the King's Court on
which he presently launched himself with great vigour of declamation and
an intense, although ridiculous, exhibition of piety.
"You may be very right, sir----"
"My name is Phineas Tate."
"You may be very right, friend Phineas," said I, yawning; "but I can't
alter all this. Go and preach to the King."
"The King shall be preached to in words that he must hear," he retorted
with a frown, "but the time is not yet."
"The time now is to seek our beds," said I, smiling. "Do you lodge
here?"
"For this night I lie here. To-morrow I preach to this city."
"Then I fear you are likely to lie in a less comfortable place
to-morrow." And bidding him good-night, I turned to go. But he sprang
after me, crying, "Remember, the time is short"; and I doubt whether I
should have got rid of him had not Darrell at that moment entered the
room. To my surprise, the two seemed to know one another, for Darrell
broke into a scornful laugh, exclaiming:
"Again, Master Tate! What, haven't you left this accursed city to its
fate yet?"
"It awaits its fate," answered the Ranter sternly, "even as those of
your superstition wait theirs."
"My superstition must look out for itself," said Darrell, with a shrug;
and, seeing that I was puzzled, he added, "Mr Tate is not pleased with
me because I am of the old religion."
"Indeed?" I cried. "I didn't know you were a--of the old church." For I
remembered with confusion a careless remark that I had let fall as we
journeyed together.
"Yes," said he simply.
"Yes!" cried Tate. "You--and your master also, is he not?"
Darrell's face grew stern and cold.
"I would have you careful, sir, when you touch on my Lord Arlington's
name," he said. "You know well that he is not of the Roman faith, but is
a convinced adherent of the Church of this country."
"Is he so?" asked Tate, with an undisguised sneer.
"Come, enough!" cried Darrell in sudden anger. "I have much to say to my
friend, and shall be glad to be left alone with him."
Tate made no objection to leaving us, and, gathering up his Bible, went
out scowling.
"A pestilent fellow," said Darrell. "He'll find himself laid by the
heels before long. Well, I have settled your affair with my Lord
Carford."
But my affair with Carford was not what I wanted to hear about. I came
to him as he sat down at the table, and, laying my hand on his shoulder,
asked simply,
"Is it true?"
He looked up at me with great kindness, and answered gently,
"It is true. I guessed it as soon as you spoke of Cydaria. For Cydaria
was the part in which she first gained the favour of the town, and that,
taken with your description of her, gave me no room for doubt. Yet I
hoped that it might not be as I feared, or, at least, that the thing
could be hidden. It seems, though, that the saucy wench has made no
secret of it. Thus you are landed in this quarrel, and with a good
swordsman."
"I care nothing for the quarrel----" I began.
"Nay, but it is worse than you think. For Lord Carford is the gentleman
of whom I spoke, when I told you that Mistress Quinton had a noble
suitor. And he is high in her favour and higher yet in her father's. A
quarrel with him, and on such a cause, will do you no good in Lord
Quinton's eyes."
Indeed, it seemed as though all the furies had combined to vex me. Yet
still my desire was to learn of Cydaria, for even now I could hardly
believe what Darrell told me. Sitting down by him, I listened while he
related to me what he knew of her; it was little more than the
mentioning of her true name told me--a name familiar, alas, through all
the country, sung in ballads, bandied to and fro in talk, dragged even
into high disputes that touched the nation's fortunes; for in those
strange days, when the world seemed a very devil's comedy, great
countries, ay, and Holy Churches, fought behind the mask of an actress's
face or chose a fair lady for their champion. I hope, indeed, that the
end sanctified the means; they had great need of that final
justification. Castlemaine and Nell Gwyn--had we not all read and heard
and gossiped of them? Our own Vicar had spoken to me of Nell, and would
not speak too harshly, for Nell was Protestant. Yes, Nell, so please
you, was Protestant. And other grave divines forgave her half her sins
because she flouted most openly and with pert wit the other lady, who
was suspected of an inclination towards Rome and an intention to charm
the King into the true Church's bosom. I also could have forgiven her
much; for, saving my good Darrell's presence, I hated a Papist worse
than any man, saving a Ranter. Yes, I would have forgiven her all, and
applauded her pretty face and laughed at her pretty ways. I had looked
to do as much when I came to town, being, I must confess, as little
straightlaced as most young men. But I had not known that the thing was
to touch me close. Could I forgive her my angry humiliation and my sore
heart, bruised love and burning ridicule? I could forgive her for being
all she now was. How could I forgive her for having been once my
Cydaria?
"Well, you must fight," said Darrell, "although it is not a good
quarrel," and he shook my hand very kindly with a sigh of friendship.
"Yes, I must fight," said I, "and after that--if there be an after--I
must go to Whitehall."
"To take up your commission?" he asked.
"To lay it down, Mr Darrell," said I with a touch of haughtiness. "You
don't think that I could bear it, since it comes from such a source?"
He pressed my hand, saying with a smile that seemed tender,
"You're from the country. Not one in ten would quarrel with that here."
"Yes, I'm from the country," said I. "It was in the country that I knew
Cydaria."