A PLEASANT PENITENCE
There was this great comfort in the Vicar's society that, having once
and for all stated the irrefutable proposition which I have recorded, he
let the matter alone. Nothing was further from his thoughts than to
argue on it, unless it might be to take any action in regard to it. To
say the truth, and I mean no unkindness to him in saying it, the affair
did not greatly engage his thoughts. Had Betty Nasroth dealt with it,
the case would doubtless have been altered, and he would have followed
its fortune with a zest as keen as that he had bestowed on my earlier
unhappy passion. But the prophecy had stopped short, and all that was of
moment for the Vicar in my career, whether in love, war, or State, was
finished; I had done and undergone what fate declared and demanded, and
must now live in gentle resignation. Indeed I think that in his inmost
heart he wondered a little to find me living on at all. This attitude
was very well for him, and I found some amusement in it even while I
chafed at his composed acquiescence in my misfortunes. But at times I
grew impatient, and would fling myself out of the house, crying "Plague
on it, is this old crone not only to drive me into folly, but to forbid
me a return to wisdom?"
In such a mood I had left him, to wander by myself about the lanes,
while he sat under the porch of his house with a great volume open on
his knees. The book treated of Vaticination in all its branches, and the
Vicar read diligently, being so absorbed in his study that he did not
heed the approach of feet, and looked up at last with a start. M. de
Fontelles stood there, sent on from the inn to the parsonage in the
progress of his search for me.
"I am called Georges de Fontelles, sir," he began.
"I am the Vicar of this parish, at your service, sir," returned the
Vicar courteously.
"I serve the King of France, but have at this time the honour of being
employed by his Majesty the King of England."
"I trust, sir," observed the Vicar mildly, "that the employment is an
honour."
"Your loyalty should tell you so much."
"We are commanded to honour the King, but I read nowhere that we must
honour all that the King does."
"Such distinctions, sir, lead to disaffection and even to rebellion,"
said Fontelles severely.
"I am very glad of it," remarked the Vicar complacently.
I had told my old friend nothing of what concerned Barbara; the secret
was not mine; therefore he had nothing against M. de Fontelles; yet it
seemed as though a good quarrel could be found on the score of general
principles. It is strange how many men give their heads for them and how
few can give a reason; but God provides every man with a head, and since
the stock of brains will not supply all, we draw lots for a share in it.
Yes, a pretty quarrel promised; but a moment later Fontelles, seeing no
prospect of sport in falling out with an old man of sacred profession,
and amused, in spite of his principles, by the Vicar's whimsical talk,
chose to laugh rather than to storm, and said with a chuckle:
"Well, kings are like other men."
"Very like," agreed the Vicar. "In what can I serve you, sir?"
"I seek Mr Simon Dale," answered Fontelles.
"Ah, Simon! Poor Simon! What would you with the lad, sir?"
"I will tell that to him. Why do you call him poor?"
"He has been deluded by a high-sounding prophecy, and it has come to
little." The Vicar shook his head in gentle regret.
"He is no worse off, sir, than a man who marries," said Fontelles with a
smile.
"Nor, it may be, than one who is born," said the Vicar, sighing.
"Nor even than one who dies," hazarded the Frenchman.
"Sir, sir, let us not be irreligious," implored the Vicar, smiling.
The quarrel was most certainly over. Fontelles sat down by the Vicar's
side.
"Yet, sir," said he, "God made the world."
"It is full as good a world as we deserve," said the Vicar.
"He might well have made us better, sir."
"There are very few of us who truly wish it," the Vicar replied. "A man
hugs his sin."
"The embrace, sir, is often delightful."
"I must not understand you," said the Vicar.
Fontelles' business was proceeding but slowly. A man on an errand should
not allow himself to talk about the universe. But he was recalled to his
task a moment later by the sight of my figure a quarter of a mile away
along the road. With an eager exclamation he pointed his finger at me,
lifted his hat to the Vicar, and rushed off in pursuit. The Vicar, who
had not taken his thumb from his page, opened his book again, observing
to himself, "A gentleman of some parts, I think."
His quarrel with the Vicar had evaporated in the mists of speculation;
Fontelles had no mind to lose his complaint against me in any such
manner, but he was a man of ceremony and must needs begin again with me
much as he had with the Vicar. Thus obtaining my opportunity, I cut
across his preface, saying brusquely:
"Well, I am glad that it is the King's employment and not M. de
Perrencourt's."
He flushed red.
"We know what we know, sir," said he. "If you have anything to say
against M. de Perrencourt, consider me as his friend. Did you cry out to
me as I rode last night?"
"Why, yes, and I was a fool there. As for M. de Perrencourt----"
"If you speak of him, speak with respect, sir. You know of whom you
speak."
"Very well. Yet I have held a pistol to his head," said I, not, I
confess, without natural pride.
Fontelles started, then laughed scornfully.
"When he and Mistress Quinton and I were in a boat together," I pursued.
"The quarrel then was which of us should escort the lady, he or I, and
whether to Calais or to England. And although I should have been her
husband had we gone to Calais, yet I brought her here."
"You're pleased to talk in riddles."
"They're no harder to understand than your errand is to me, sir," I
retorted.
He mastered his anger with a strong effort, and in a few words told me
his errand, adding that by Carford's advice he came to me.
"For I am told, sir, that you have some power with the lady."
I looked full and intently in his face. He met my gaze unflinchingly.
There was a green bank by the roadside; I seated myself; he would not
sit, but stood opposite to me.
"I will tell you, sir, the nature of the errand on which you come," said
I, and started on the task with all the plainness of language that the
matter required and my temper enjoyed.
He heard me without a word, with hardly a movement of his body; his eyes
never left mine all the while I was speaking. I think there was a
sympathy between us, so that soon I knew that he was honest, while he
did not doubt my truth. His face grew hard and stern as he listened; he
perceived now the part he had been set to play. He asked me but one
question when I had ended:
"My Lord Carford knew all this?"
"Yes, all of it," said I. "He was privy to all that passed."
Engaged in talk, we had not noticed the Vicar's approach. He was at my
elbow before I saw him; the large book was under his arm. Fontelles
turned to him with a bow.
"Sir," said he, "you were right just now."
"Concerning the prophecy, sir?"
"No, concerning the employment of kings," answered M. de Fontelles. Then
he said to me, "We will meet again, before I take my leave of your
village." With this he set off at a round pace down the road. I did not
doubt that he went to seek Mistress Barbara and ask her pardon. I let
him go; he would not hurt her now. I rose myself from the green bank,
for I also had work to do.
"Will you walk with me, Simon?" asked the Vicar.
"Your pardon, sir, but I am occupied."
"Will it not wait?"
"I do not desire that it should."
For now that Fontelles was out of the way, Carford alone remained.
Barbara had not sent for me, but still I served her, and to some profit.
It was now afternoon and I set out at once on my way to the Manor. I did
not know what had passed between Barbara and Carford, nor how his
passion had been stirred by her avowal of love for me, but I conjectured
that on learning how his plan of embroiling me with Fontelles had
failed, he would lose no time in making another effort.
Fontelles must have walked briskly, for I, although I did not loiter on
the road, never came in sight of him, and the long avenue was empty when
I passed the gates. It is strange that it did not occur to my mind that
the clue to the Frenchman's haste was to be found in his last question;
no doubt he would make his excuses to Mistress Quinton in good time, but
it was not that intention which lent his feet wings. His errand was the
same as my own; he sought Carford, not Barbara, even as I. He found what
he sought, I what I did not seek, but what, once found, I could not pass
by.
She was walking near the avenue, but on the grass behind the trees. I
caught a glimpse of her gown through the leaves and my quick steps were
stayed as though by one of the potent spells that the Vicar loved to
read about. For a moment or two I stood there motionless; then I turned
and walked slowly towards her. She saw me a few yards off, and it seemed
as though she would fly. But in the end she faced me proudly; her eyes
were very sad and I thought that she had been weeping; as I approached
she thrust something--it looked like a letter--into the bosom of her
gown, as if in terror lest I should see it. I made her a low bow.
"I trust, madame," said I, "that my lady mends?"
"I thank you, yes, although slowly."
"And that you have taken no harm from your journey?"
"I thank you, none."
It was strange, but there seemed no other topic in earth or heaven; for
I looked first at earth and then at heaven, and in neither place found
any.
"I am seeking my Lord Carford," I said at last.
I knew my error as soon as I had spoken. She would bid me seek Carford
without delay and protest that the last thing in her mind was to detain
me. I cursed myself for an awkward fool. But to my amazement she did
nothing of what I looked for, but cried out in great agitation and, as
it seemed, fear:
"You mustn't see Lord Carford."
"Why not?" I asked. "He won't hurt me." Or at least he should not, if my
sword could stop his.
"It is not that. It is--it is not that," she murmured, and flushed red.
"Well, then, I will seek him."
"No, no, no," cried Barbara in a passion that fear--surely it was that
and nothing else--made imperious. I could not understand her, for I knew
nothing of the confession which she had made, but would not for the
world should reach my ears. Yet it was not very likely that Carford
would tell me, unless his rage carried him away.
"You are not so kind as to shield me from Lord Carford's wrath?" I asked
rather scornfully.
"No," she said, persistently refusing to meet my eyes.
"What is he doing here?" I asked.
"He desires to conduct me to my father."
"My God, you won't go with him?"
For the fraction of a moment her dark eyes met mine, then turned away in
confusion.
"I mean," said I, "is it wise to go with him?"
"Of course you meant that," murmured Barbara.
"M. de Fontelles will trouble you no more," I remarked, in a tone as
calm as though I stated the price of wheat; indeed much calmer than
such a vital matter was wont to command at our village inn.
"What?" she cried. "He will not----?"
"He didn't know the truth. I have told him. He is an honourable
gentleman."
"You've done that also, Simon?" She came a step nearer me.
"It was nothing to do," said I. Barbara fell back again.
"Yet I am obliged to you," said she. I bowed with careful courtesy.
Why tell these silly things. Every man has such in his life. Yet each
counts his own memory a rare treasure, and it will not be denied
utterance.
"I had best seek my Lord Carford," said I, more for lack of another
thing to say than because there was need to say that.
"I pray you----" cried Barbara, again in a marked agitation.
It was a fair soft evening; a breeze stirred the tree-tops, and I could
scarce tell when the wind whispered and when Barbara spoke, so like were
the caressing sounds. She was very different from the lady of our
journey, yet like to her who had for a moment spoken to me from her
chamber-door at Canterbury.
"You haven't sent for me," I said, in a low voice. "I suppose you have
no need of me?"
She made me no answer.
"Why did you fling my guinea in the sea?" I said, and paused.
"Why did you use me so on the way?" I asked.
"Why haven't you sent for me?" I whispered.
She seemed to have no answer for any of these questions. There was
nothing in her eyes now save the desire of escape. Yet she did not
dismiss me, and without dismissal I would not go. I had forgotten
Carford and the angry Frenchman, my quarrel and her peril; the questions
I had put to her summed up all life now held.
Suddenly she put her hand to her bosom, and drew out that same piece of
paper which I had seen her hide there. Before my eyes she read, or
seemed to read, something that was in it; then she shut her hand on it.
In a moment I was by her, very close. I looked full in her eyes, and
they fled behind covering lids; the little hand, tightly clenched, hung
by her side. What had I to lose? Was I not already banned for
forwardness? I would be forward still, and justify the sentence by an
after-crime. I took the hanging hand in both of mine. She started, and I
loosed it; but no rebuke came, and she did not fly. The far-off stir of
coming victory moved in my blood; not yet to win, but now to know that
win you will sends through a man an exultation, more sweet because it is
still timid. I watched her face--it was very pale--and again took her
hand. The lids of her eyes rose now an instant, and disclosed entreaty.
I was ruthless; our hearts are strange, and cruelty or the desire of
mastery mingled with love in my tightened grasp. One by one I bent her
fingers back; the crushed paper lay in a palm that was streaked to red
and white. With one hand still I held hers, with the other I spread out
the paper. "You mustn't read it," she murmured. "Oh, you mustn't read
it." I paid no heed, but held it up. A low exclamation of wonder broke
from me. The scrawl that I had seen at Canterbury now met me again,
plain and unmistakable in its laborious awkwardness. "In pay for your
dagger," it had said before. Were five words the bounds of Nell's
accomplishment? She had written no more now. Yet before she had seemed
to say much in that narrow limit; and much she said now.
There was long silence between us; my eyes were intent on her veiled
eyes.
"You needed this to tell you?" I said at last.
"You loved her, Simon."
I would not allow the plea. Shall not a thing that has become out of all
reason to a man's own self thereby blazon its absurdity to the whole
world?
"So long ago!" I cried scornfully.
"Nay, not so long ago," she murmured, with a note of resentment in her
voice.
Even then we might have fallen out; we were in an ace of it, for I most
brutally put this question:
"You waited here for me to pass?"
I would have given my ears not to have said it; what availed that? A
thing said is a thing done, and stands for ever amid the irrevocable.
For an instant her eyes flashed in anger; then she flushed suddenly, her
lips trembled, her eyes grew dim, yet through the dimness mirth peeped
out.
"I dared not hope you'd pass," she whispered.
"I am the greatest villain in the world!" I cried. "Barbara, you had no
thought that I should pass!"
Again came silence. Then I spoke, and softly:
"And you--is it long since you----?"
She held out her hands towards me, and in an instant was in my arms.
First she hid her face, but then drew herself back as far as the circle
of my arm allowed. Her dark eyes met mine full and direct in a
confession that shamed me but shamed her no more; her shame was
swallowed in the sweet pride of surrender.
"Always," said she, "always; from the first through all; always,
always." It seemed that though she could not speak that word enough.
In truth I could scarcely believe it; save when I looked in her eyes, I
could not believe it.
"But I wouldn't tell you," she said. "I swore you should never know.
Simon, do you remember how you left me?"
It seemed that I must play penitent now.
"I was too young to know----" I began.
"I was younger and not too young," she cried. "And all through those
days at Dover I didn't know. And when we were together I didn't know.
Ah, Simon, when I flung your guinea in the sea, you must have known!"
"On my faith, no," I laughed. "I didn't see the love in that,
sweetheart."
"I'm glad there was no woman there to tell you what it meant," said
Barbara. "And even at Canterbury I didn't know. Simon, what brought you
to my door that night?"
I answered her plainly, more plainly than I could at any other time,
more plainly, it may be, than even then I should:
"She bade me follow her, and I followed her so far."
"You followed her?"
"Ay. But I heard your voice through the door, and stopped."
"You stopped for my voice; what did I say?"
"You sung how a lover had forsaken his love. And I heard and stayed."
"Ah, why didn't you tell me then?"
"I was afraid, sweetheart."
"Of what? Of what?"
"Why, of you. You had been so cruel."
Barbara's head, still strained far as could be from mine, now drew
nearer by an ace, and then she launched at me the charge of most
enormity, the indictment that justified all my punishment.
"You had kissed her before my eyes, here, sir, where we are now, in my
own Manor Park," said Barbara.
I took my arms from about her, and fell humbly on my knee.
"May I kiss so much as your hand?" said I in utter abasement.
She put it suddenly, eagerly, hurriedly to my lips.
"Why did she write to me?" she whispered.
"Nay, love, I don't know."
"But I know. Simon, she loves you."
"It would afford no reason if she did. And I think----"
"It would and she does. Simon, of course she does."
"I think rather that she was sorry for----"
"Not for me!" cried Barbara with great vehemence. "I will not have her
sorry for me!"
"For you!" I exclaimed in ridicule. (It does not matter what I had been
about to say before.) "For you! How should she? She wouldn't dare!"
"No," said Barbara. One syllable can hold a world of meaning.
"A thousand times, no!" cried I.
The matter was thus decided. Yet now, in quiet blood and in the secrecy
of my own soul, shall I ask wherefore the letter came from Mistress
Gwyn, to whom the shortest letter was no light matter, and to let even
a humble man go some small sacrifice? And why did it come to Barbara and
not to me? And why did it not say "Simon, she loves you," rather than
the words that I now read, Barbara permitting me: "Pretty fool, he loves
you." Let me not ask; not even now would Barbara bear to think that it
was written in pity for her.
"Yes, she pitied you and so she wrote; and she loves you," said Barbara.
I let it pass. Shall a man never learn wisdom?
"Tell me now," said I, "why I may not see Carford?"
Her lips curved in a smile; she held her head high, and her eyes were
triumphant.
"You may see Lord Carford as soon as you will, Simon," said she.
"But a few minutes ago----" I began, much puzzled.
"A few minutes!" cried Barbara reproachfully.
"A whole lifetime ago, sweetheart!"
"And shall that make no changes?"
"A whole lifetime ago you were ready to die sooner than let me see him."
"Simon, you're very----He knew, I told him."
"You told him?" I cried. "Before you told me?"
"He asked me before," said Barbara.
I did not grudge her that retort; every jot of her joy was joy to me,
and her triumph my delight.
"How did I dare to tell him?" she asked herself softly. "Ah, but how
have I contrived not to tell all the world? How wasn't it plain in my
face?"
"It was most profoundly hidden," I assured her. Indeed from me it had
been; but Barbara's wit had yet another answer.
"You were looking in another face," said she. Then, as the movement of
my hands protested, remorse seized on her, and catching my hand she
cried impulsively, "I'll never speak of it again, Simon."
Now I was not so much ashamed of the affair as to demand that utter
silence on it; in which point lies a difference between men and women.
To have wandered troubles our consciences little, when we have come to
the right path again; their pride stands so strong in constancy as
sometimes (I speak in trembling) even to beget an oblivion of its
falterings and make what could not have been as if it had not. But now
was not the moment for excuse, and I took my pardon with all gratitude
and with full allowance of my offence's enormity.
Then we determined that Carford must immediately be sought, and set out
for the house with intent to find him. But our progress was very slow,
and the moon rose in the skies before we stepped out on to the avenue
and came in sight of the house and the terrace. There was so much to
tell, so much that had to slough off its old seeming and take on new and
radiant apparel--things that she had understood and not I, that I had
caught and she missed, wherein both of us had gone astray most
lamentably and now stood aghast at our own sightlessness. Therefore
never were our feet fairly in movement towards the house but a
sudden--"Do you remember?" gave them pause again: then came shame that I
had forgotten, or indignation that Barbara should be thought to have
forgotten, and in both of these cases the need for expiation, and so
forth. The moon was high in heaven when we stepped into the avenue and
came in sight of the terrace.
On the instant, with a low cry of surprise and alarm, Barbara caught me
by the arm, while she pointed to the terrace. The sight might well turn
us even from our engrossing interchange of memories. There were four men
on the terrace, their figures standing out dense and black against the
old grey walls, which seemed white in the moonlight. Two stood impassive
and motionless, with hands at their sides; at their feet lay what seemed
bundles of clothes. The other two were in their shirts; they were
opposite one another, and their swords were in their hands. I could not
doubt the meaning; while love held me idle, anger had lent Fontelles
speed; while I sought to perfect my joy, he had been hot to avenge his
wounded honour. I did not know who were the two that watched unless they
were servants; Fontelles' fierce mood would not stand for the niceties
of etiquette. Now I could recognise the Frenchman's bearing and even see
Carford's face, although distance hid its expression. I was amazed and
at a loss what to do. How could I stop them and by what right? But then
Barbara gave a little sob and whispered:
"My mother lies sick in the house."
It was enough to loose my bound limbs. I sprang forward and set out at a
run. I had not far to go and lost no time; but I would not cry out lest
I might put one off his guard and yet not arrest the other's stroke. For
the steel flashed, and they fought, under the eyes of the quiet
servants. I was near to them now and already wondering how best to
interpose, when, in an instant, the Frenchman lunged, Carford cried out,
his sword dropped from his hand, and he fell heavily on the gravel of
the terrace. The servants rushed forward and knelt down beside him. M.
de Fontelles did not leave his place, but stood, with the point of his
naked sword on the ground, looking at the man who had put an affront on
him and whom he had now chastised. The sudden change that took me from
love's pastimes to a scene so stern deprived me of speech for a moment.
I ran to Fontelles and faced him, panting but saying nothing. He turned
his eyes on me: they were calm, but shone still with the heat of contest
and the sternness of resentment. He raised his sword and pointed with it
towards where Carford lay.
"My lord there," said he, "knew a thing that hurt my honour, and did not
warn me of it. He knew that I was made a tool and did not tell me. He
knew that I was used for base purposes and sought to use me for his own
also. He has his recompense."
Then he stepped across to where the green bank sloped down to the
terrace and, falling on one knee, wiped his blade on the grass.