I AM FORBIDDEN TO FORGET
It must be allowed that by no possible union of unlucky chances could I,
desiring to appear as a staid, sober gentleman, and not as a ruffler or
debauched gallant, have had a worse introduction to my new life. To
start with a duel would have hurt me little, but a duel on such a cause
and on behalf of such a lady (for I should seem to be fighting the
battle of one whose name was past defending) would make my reputation
ridiculous to the gay, and offensive to all the more decent people of
the town. I thought enough on this sad side of the matter that night at
the inn, and despair would have made a prey of me had I not hoped to
clear myself in some degree by the step on which I had determined. For I
was resolved to abandon the aid in my career that the King's unexpected
favour had offered, and start afresh for myself, free from the illicit
advantage of a place gained undeservedly. Yet, amid my chagrin, and in
spite of my virtuous intentions, I found myself wondering that Cydaria
had remembered; I will not protest that I found no pleasure in the
thought; a young man whose pride was not touched by it would have
reached a higher summit of severity or a lower depth of insensibility
than was mine. Yet here also I made vows of renunciation, concerning
which there is nought to say but that, while very noble, they were in
all likelihood most uncalled for. What would or could Cydaria be to me
now? She flew at bigger game. She had flung me a kindly crumb of
remembrance; she would think that we were well quit; nay, that I was
overpaid for my bruised heart and dissipated illusion.
It was a fine fresh morning when Mr Darrell and I set out for the place
of meeting, he carrying a pair of swords. Mr Jermyn had agreed to
support my opponent; and I was glad to learn that the meeting was to be
restricted to the principals, and not, as too often occurred, to embroil
the seconds also in a senseless quarrel. We walked briskly; and crossing
the Oxford Road at Holborn, struck into the fields beyond Montague
House. We were first at the rendezvous, but had not to wait long before
three chairs appeared, containing Lord Carford, his second, and a
surgeon. The chairmen, having set down their burdens, withdrew some way
off, and we, being left to ourselves, made our preparations as quickly
as we could; Darrell, especially, urging speed; for it seemed that a
rumour of the affair had got about the town, and he had no desire for
spectators.
Although I desire to write without malice and to render fullest justice
to those whom I have least cause to love, I am bound to say that my Lord
Carford seemed to be most bitterly incensed against me, whereas I was in
no way incensed against him. In the first instance, he had offended
without premeditation, for he had not known who I was; his subsequent
insolence might find excuse in the peremptory phrasing of my demand for
apology, too curt, perhaps, for a young and untried man. Honour forced
me to fight, but nothing forced me to hate, and I asked no better than
that we should both escape with as little hurt as the laws of the game
allowed. His mood was different; he had been bearded, and was in a mind
to give my beard a pull--I speak in a metaphor, for beard had I
none--and possessing some reputation as a swordsman, he could not well
afford to let me go untouched. An old sergeant of General Cromwell's,
resident at Norwich, had instructed me in the use of the foils, but I
was not my lord's equal, and I set it down to my good luck and his fury
that I came off no worse than the event proved. For he made at me with
great impetuosity, and from beginning to end of the affair I was wholly
concerned in defending myself; this much I achieved successfully for
some moments, and I heard Mr Jermyn say, "But he stands his ground
well"; then came a cunning feint followed by a fierce attack and a sharp
pang in my left arm near the shoulder, while the sleeve of my shirt
went red in a moment. The seconds darted in between us, and Darrell
caught me round the waist.
"I'm glad it was no worse," I whispered to him with a smile; then I
turned very sick, and the meadow started to go round and round me. For
some minutes I knew nothing more, but when I revived, the surgeon was
busy in binding up my arm, while the three gentlemen stood together in a
group a little way apart. My legs shook under me, and doubtless I was as
white as my mother's best linen, but I was well content, feeling that my
honour was safe, and that I had been as it were baptised of the company
of gentlemen. So Mr Jermyn seemed to think; for when my arm was dressed,
and I had got my clothes on again with some pain, and a silken sling
under my elbow, he came and craved the surgeon's leave to carry me off
to breakfast. The request was granted, on a promise that I would abstain
from inflaming food and from all strong liquors. Accordingly we set out,
I dissembling a certain surprise inspired in my countryman's mind by the
discovery that my late enemy proposed to be of the party. Having come to
a tavern in Drury Lane, we were regaled very pleasantly; Mr Jermyn, who
(although a small man, and not in my opinion well-shaped) might be seen
to hold himself in good esteem, recounting to us his adventures in love
and his exploits on the field of honour. Meanwhile, Lord Carford
treated me with distinguished courtesy, and I was at a loss to
understand his changed humour until it appeared that Darrell had
acquainted him with my resolution to surrender the commission that the
King had bestowed on me. As we grew more free with one another, his
lordship referred plainly to the matter, declaring that my conduct
showed the nicest honour, and praying me to allow his own surgeon to
visit me every day until my wound should be fully cured. His marked
politeness, and the friendliness of the others, put me in better humour
than I had been since the discovery of the evening before, and when our
meal was ended, about eleven o'clock, I was well-nigh reconciled to life
again. Yet it was not long before Carford and I were again good enemies,
and crossed swords with no less zest, although on a different field.
I had been advised by Darrell to return at once to my inn, and there
rest quietly until evening, leaving my journey to Whitehall for the next
day, lest too much exertion should induce a fever in me; and in
obedience to his counsel I began to walk gently along Drury Lane on my
way back to Covent Garden. My Lord Carford and Mr Jermyn had gone off to
a cock-fight, where the King was to be, while Darrell had to wait upon
the Secretary at his offices; therefore I was alone, and, going easily,
found fully enough to occupy my attention in the business and incredible
stir of the town. I thought then, and think still, that nowhere in the
world is there such a place for an idle man as London; where else has he
spread for him so continual a banquet of contemplation, where else are
such comedies played every hour for his eyes' delight? It is well enough
to look at a running river, or to gaze at such mighty mountains as I saw
when I journeyed many years later into Italy; but the mountain moves
not, and the stream runs always with the same motion and in its wonted
channel. Give me these for my age, but to a young man a great city is
queen of all.
So I was thinking as I walked along; or so I think now that I must have
thought; for in writing of his youth it is hard for a man to be sure
that he does not transfer to that golden page some of the paler
characters which later years print on his mind. Perhaps I thought of
nothing at all, save that this man here was a fine fellow, that girl
there a pretty wench, that my coat became me well, and my wounded arm
gave me an interesting air. Be my meditations what they might, they were
suddenly interrupted by the sight of a crowd in the Lane near to the
Cock and Pie tavern. Here fifty or sixty men and women, decent folk
some, others porters, flower-girls, and such like, were gathered in a
circle round a man who was pouring out an oration or sermon with great
zeal and vehemence. Having drawn nearer, I paused out of a curiosity
which turned to amusement when I discovered in the preacher my good
friend Phineas Tate, with whom I had talked the evening before. It
seemed that he had set about his task without delay, and if London were
still unmindful of its sins, the fault was not to lie at Mr Tate's door.
On he plunged, sparing neither great nor small; if the Court were
sinful, so was Drury Lane; if Castlemaine (he dealt freely in names, and
most sparingly in titles of courtesy) were what he roundly said she was,
which of the women about him was not the same? How did they differ from
their betters, unless it were that their price was not so high, and in
what, save audacity, were they behind Eleanor Gwyn? He hurled this last
name forth as though it marked a climax of iniquity, and a start ran
through me as I heard it thus treated. Strange to say, something of the
same effect seemed to be produced on his other hearers. Hitherto they
had listened with good-natured tolerance, winking at one another,
laughing when the preacher's finger pointed at a neighbour, shrugging
comfortable shoulders when it turned against themselves. They are
long-suffering under abuse, the folk of London; you may say much what
you will, provided you allow them to do what they will, and they support
the imputation of unrighteousness with marvellous composure, as long as
no man takes it in hand to force them to righteousness. As they are now,
they were then, though many changes have passed over the country and
the times; so will they be, although more transformations come.
But, as I say, this last name stirred the group to a new mood. Friend
Phineas perceived the effect that he had made, but set a wrong meaning
on it. Taking it as a ground for encouragement, he loosed his tongue yet
more outrageously, and so battered the unhappy subject of his censures
that my ears tingled, and suddenly I strode quickly up to the group,
intent on silencing him; but a great brawny porter, with a dirty red
face, was beforehand with me. Elbowing his way irresistibly through the
ranks, he set himself squarely before Phineas, and, wagging his head
significantly enough, growled out:
"Say what you will of Castlemaine and the rest, Master Ranter, but keep
your tongue off Nelly."
A murmur of applause ran round. They knew Nelly: here in the Lane was
her kingdom.
"Let Nelly alone," said the porter, "if you value whole bones, master."
Phineas was no coward, and threats served only to fan the flame of his
zeal. I had started to stop his mouth; it seemed likely that I must
employ myself in saving his head. His lean frame would crack and break
in the grasp of his mighty assailant, and I was loth that the fool
should come to harm; so I began to push my way through towards the pair,
and arrived just as Phineas, having shot a most pointed dart, was about
to pay for his too great skill with a blow from the porter's
mutton-fist. I caught the fellow's arm as he raised it, and he turned
fiercely on me, growling, "Are you his friend, then?"
"Not I," I answered. "But you'd kill him, man."
"Let him heed what he says, then. Kill him! Ay, and spare him readily!"
The affair looked awkward enough, for the feeling was all one way, and I
could do little to hinder any violence. A girl in the crowd reminded me
of my helplessness, touching my wounded arm lightly, and saying, "Are
you hungry for more fighting, sir?"
"He's a madman," said I. "Let him alone; who heeds what he says?"
Friend Phineas did not take my defence in good part.
"Mad, am I?" he roared, beating with his fist on his Bible. "You'll know
who was mad when you lie howling in hell fire. And with you that----"
And on he went again at poor Nell.
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 sturdy 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 Cock 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 Cock 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 buttoned 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 God,
thanks be to God, 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 passion 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 passed by
him and leant against the wall by the window; so we awaited her, each
of us eager, but with passions 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 embarrassment 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 God?"
"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 passed 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 assure
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."
"But with whom, and why?"
"With my Lord Carford. The reason I need not weary you with."
"But I desire to know it."
"Because my lord said that Mistress Gwyn had obtained me my commission."
"But it was true."
"Doubtless; yet I fought."
"Why, if it were true?"
I made her no answer. She went and seated herself again at the table,
looking up at me with eyes in which I seemed to read pain and puzzle.
"I thought it would please you, Simon," she said, with a coaxing glance
that at least feigned timidity.
"Never have I been so proud as on the day I received it," said I; "and
never, I think, so happy, unless, may be, when you and I walked in the
Manor park."
"Nay, Simon, but you will be glad to have it, even though I obtained it
for you."
"I shall not have it. I go to Whitehall to-morrow to surrender it."
She sprang up in wonder, and anger also showed in her eyes.
"To surrender it? You mean in truth to surrender it? And because it came
from me?"
Again I could do nothing but bow. That I did with the best air I could
muster, although I had no love for my part in this scene. Alas for a man
who, being with her, must spend his time in chiding!
"Well, I wish I hadn't remembered you," she said resentfully.
"Indeed, madame, I also wish that I had forgotten."
"You have, or you would never use me so."
"It is my memory that makes me rough, madame. Indeed, how should I have
forgotten?"
"You hadn't?" she asked, advancing nearer to me. "No, in truth I believe
you hadn't! And, Simon, listen!" Now she stood with her face but a yard
from mine, and again her lips were curved with mirth and malice.
"Listen, Simon," she said, "you had not forgotten; and you shall not
forget."
"It is very likely," said I simply; and I took up my hat from the table.
"How fares Mistress Barbara?" asked Nell suddenly.
"I have not waited on her," I answered.
"Then indeed I am honoured, although our meeting was somewhat by chance.
Ah, Simon, I want to be so angry with you. But how can I be angry? I can
never be angry. Why" (and here she came even a little closer, and now
she was smiling most damnably--nay, I mean most delightfully; but it is
often much the same), "I was not very angry even when you kissed me,
Simon."
It is not for me to say what answer to that speech she looked to
receive. Mine was no more than a repetition of my bow.
"You'll keep the commission, Simon?" she whispered, standing on tiptoe,
as though she would reach my ear.
"I can't," said I, bowing no more, and losing, I fear, the air of grave
composure that I had striven to maintain. I saw what seemed a light of
triumph in her eyes. Yet that mood passed quickly from her. She grew
pensive and drew away from me. I stepped towards the door, but a hand
laid on my arm arrested me.
"Simon," she asked, "have you sweet memories of Hatchstead?"
"God forgive me," said I confusedly, "sweeter than my hopes of heaven."
She looked at me gravely for an instant. Then, sighing, she said,
"Then I wish you had not come to town, but stayed there with your
memories. They were of me?"
"Of Cydaria."
"Ah, of Cydaria," she echoed, with a little smile.
But a moment later the full merriment of laughter broke out again on her
face, and, drawing her hand away, she let me go, crying after me,
"But you shall not forget, Simon. No, you shall not forget."
There I left her, standing in the doorway of the inn, daring me to
forget. And my brain seemed all whirling and swirling as I walked down
the Lane.