CHAPTER IV
I knew I could never carry the matter through alone; so, upon leaving the King's presence, I sought out Mr. Chiffinch immediately and told him what had passed.
He whistled, loud.
"You are pretty fortunate," he said. "Many a man—"
"I have no time for compliments," said I. "You must come with me to my cousin at once. We must ride at noon; and it is close upon eleven."
"You want me to plead for you, eh?"
"Not at all," said I. "There will be no pleading. It is to certify only that this is the King's writing, and that he means what he says."
"Well, well," said Mr. Chiffinch. "And what of the matter I spoke to you of last night? Have you decided? There is not much time to lose."
"You must give me a day or two," I said.
* * * * *
It was he who knocked this time; and it was not until the old woman had opened, and was curtseying to the King's page, that he called me up.
"Come, Mr. Mallock. Your cousin is within."
We went straight upstairs after the old lady; and upon her knock being answered, she threw the door open.
My Cousin Dolly was sitting over her needle, all alone. She looked, I thought, unusually pale; but she flushed scarlet, and sprang up, so soon as she saw me.
"Good-day, Mistress Jermyn," said the page very courteously. "We are come on a very sad errand—sad, that is, to those whom you will leave behind."
"What do you mean, sir?" asked Dolly, very fiercely. She did not give me one look, after the first.
He held out the paper to her. She took it, with fingers that shook a little, and read it through at least twice.
"Is this an insult, sir; or a very poor pleasantry?" (Her face was gone pale again.)
"It is neither, mistress. It is a very sober fact."
"This is the King's hand?" she snapped.
"It is," said Mr. Chiffinch.
"Dolly," said I, "I told you to be ready by noon; but you would not believe me. I suppose your packing is not done?"
She paid me no more attention than if I had been a chair.
"Mr. Chiffinch," said she, "you tell me, upon your honour, that this is the King's hand, and that he means what is written here?"
"I give you my honour, mistress," he said.
She tossed the paper upon the table; she went swiftly across to the further door, and opened it.
"Anne!" she said.
A voice answered her from within.
"Put out my riding-dress. Pack all that you can, that I shall need in the country. We have to ride at noon." She shut the door again, and turned on us—or rather, upon Mr. Chiffinch.
"Sir," she said, "you have done your errand. Perhaps you will now relieve me of your company. I shall be awaiting my cousin, Mr. Roger Mallock, as the King requires, at noon."
"Dolly—" said I.
She continued, looking through me, as through glass.
"At noon: and I trust he will not keep me waiting."
There was no more to be done. We turned and went out.
"Lord! what a termagant is your pretty cousin, Mr. Mallock!" said my companion when we were out of doors again. "You could have trusted her well enough, I think."
I was not in the mood to discuss her with him; I had other things to think of.
"Mr. Chiffinch," I said, "I am very much obliged to you; but I must be off for my own packing." And I bade him good-day.
* * * * *
When I rode into the court, five minutes before noon, a very piteous little group awaited me by the inner gate. Dolly, very white and angry, stood by the mounting-block, striving to preserve her dignity. Her maid was behind her, arguing how the bags should be disposed on the pack-horse, with the fellow who was to lead it. Dolly's own horse was not yet come; but as I rode up to salute her, he came out of an archway led by a groom.
I leapt off, and stood by the mounting-block to help her. Again it was as if I were not there. She jerked her head to the man.
"Help me," she said.
He was in a quandary, for he could not leave the horse's head.
"I am very sorry, Dolly," said I, "but you will have to put up for me for once. Come."
She gave a look of despair round about; but there was no help.
"It is on the stroke of noon," I said.
She submitted; but it was with the worst grace I have ever seen. She accepted my ministrations; but it was as if I were a machine: not one word did she speak, good or bad.
By the time that she was mounted, her maid was up too, and the bags disposed.
"Come," I said again; and mounted my own horse.
As we rode out through the great gate, the Clock Tower beat the hour of noon.
* * * * *
I am weary of saying that my journeys were strange; but, certainly, this was another of them.
* * * * *
Through the narrow streets I made no attempt to ride beside her. In the van went three of my men; then rode I; then, about ten yards behind, came Dolly and her maid. Then came two pack-horses, led by a fellow who controlled them both; and my fourth man closed the dismal cavalcade. So we went through the streets—all the way down the Strand and into the City, wheeled to the left, and so out by Bishopsgate. It was a clear kind of day, without rain: but the clouds hung low, and I thought it would rain before nightfall. I intended to do the whole journey in a day; so as to be at Hare Street before midnight at least. A night on the way, and Dolly's company at supper, all alone with me, or even with her maid, appeared to me too formidable to face.
When we were out in the country, I reined my horse in. I saw a change pass over Dolly's face; then it became like stone.
"We have a long ride, for one day," said I.
She made no answer. My anger rose a little.
"My Cousin," I said, "I had the honour to speak to you."
"I do not wish to have the dishonour of answering you," said Dolly.
It was a weakness on her part to answer at all; but I suppose she could not resist the repartee.
"A very neat hit," I said. "Must all our conversation run upon these lines?"
She made no answer at all.
"Anne," I said, "rein your horse back ten yards."
"Anne," said Dolly, "ride precisely where you are."
"Very good," said I. "I have no objection to your maid hearing what I have to say. I thought it would be you that would object."
"Anne," said Dolly, "did you pack the sarcenet?"
"Yes, mistress."
"Then tell me again the tale that you were—"
I broke in with such fury that even Dolly ceased.
"My Cousin," I said, "I have a louder voice than either of you; and I shall use it, if you do not listen, so that the whole countryside shall hear. I have to say this—that some time or another to-day I have to have a private conversation with you. It is for you to choose the time and place. If you give me no opportunity now, I shall make it myself, later. Will you hear what I have to say now?"
There was a very short silence.
"Anne," said Dolly, "now that we can hear ourselves speak, will you tell me again the tale that you began last night?"
She said it, not at all lightly, but with a coldness and a distilled kind of anger that gave me no choice. I lifted my hat a little; shook my reins; and once more took up my position ten yards ahead. There was a low murmur of voices behind; and then silence. It appeared that the tale was not to be told after all.
* * * * *
We dined, very late, at a little inn, called the Cross-Keys, between Edmonton and Ware. I remember nothing at all, either of the inn or the host or the food—nothing but the name of the inn, for the name struck me, with a dreary kind of wit, as reflective of the cross-purposes which we were at. We three dined together, in profound silence, except when Dolly addressed a word or two to her maid. As for me, she took the food which I carved, all as if I were a servant, without even such a thank-you as a man gives to a servant.
We took the road again, about three o'clock; and even then the day was beginning to draw in a little, very bleak and dismal; and that, too, I took as a symbol of my heart within, and of my circumstances and prospects. Certainly I had gained my desire in one way; I had got Dolly away from Court; yet that was the single point I had to congratulate myself upon. All else, it appeared, was ruined. I had lost all the advantage, or very nearly all, that I had ever won from the King—(for I knew, that although he had been merry at the end of the time, he would not forget how I had worsted him)—and as for Dolly, I supposed she would never speak to me again. It had been bad enough when I had left Hare Street nearly a twelvemonth ago: my return to it now was a hundred times worse.
Although Dolly, however, would not speak to me, I was entirely determined to speak to Dolly. I proposed to rehearse to her what I had done, and why; and when that was over, I would leave it in her hands whether I remained at Hare Street a day or two, or left again next morning. More than a day or two, I did not even hope for. I had insulted her—it seemed—beyond forgiveness. Yet, besides my miserableness, there was something very like pleasure as well, though of a grim sort. I had spoken my mind to her, pretty well, and would do so more explicitly; and I was to speak my mind very well indeed to her father. There was a real satisfaction to me in that prospect. Then, once more, I would shut the door for ever on Hare Street, and go back again to town, and begin all over again at the beginning, and try to retrieve a little of what I had lost. Such then were my thoughts.
We supped, at Ware—at the Saracen's Head, and the same wretched performance was gone through as at the Cross-Keys. Night was fallen completely; and we had candles that guttered not a little. Dolly was silent, however, this time, even to her maid. She did not give me one look, all through supper.
When I came out afterwards to the horses, the yard was all in a mist: I could see no more than a spot of light where the lamp should be by the stable-door. The host came with me.
"It has fallen very foggy, sir," he said. "Would it not be best to stay the night?"
I was considering the point before answering; but my cousin answered for me, from behind.
"Nonsense," said she. "I know every step of the way. Where are the horses?"
(Even that, I observed, she said to the host and not to me.)
"The lady is impatient to get home," I said. "Is the fog likely to spread far?"
"It may be from here to Cambridge, sir," he said—"at this time of the year."
"Where are the horses?" said Dolly again.
There was no help for it. Once more we mounted; Dolly, again, assisted by the host, and not by me: but Anne was gracious enough to accept my ministrations.
For a few miles all went well: but the roads hereabouts were very soft and boggy; it was next to impossible sometimes to know whether we were right or not; and after a while one of my men waited for me—he that carried the lantern to guide the rest of us. The first I saw of him was his horse's ears, very black, like a pair of horns, against the lighted mist. "Sir," he said, "I do not know the road. I can see not five yards, light or no light."
I called out to James.
"James," said I, "do you know where we are?"
"No, sir," said he, "at least not very well."
"Cousin," I said—(for Dolly had reined up her horse close behind, not knowing, I suppose, that I was so near). "Cousin, I am sorry to trouble you; but unless you can lead us—"
"Give me the lantern," she said sharply to my man.
She took it from him, and pushed forwards. I wheeled my horse after her and followed. The rest fell in behind somewhere. I did not say one word, good or bad; for a certain thought had come to me of what might happen. She thought, I suppose, that Anne was behind her.
So impatient was my Cousin Dolly, that, certain of her road, as she supposed, she urged her horse presently into a kind of amble. I urged mine to the same; and so, for perhaps ten minutes, we rode in silence. I could hear the horses behind—or rather the sucking noise of their feet,—fall behind a little, and then a little more. The men were talking, too; and so was Anne, to them—for she liked men's company, and did not get very much of it in Dolly's service—and this I suppose was the reason why they did not notice how the distance grew between us. After about ten minutes I heard a man shout; but the fog deadened his voice, so that it sounded a great way off; and Dolly, I suppose, thought he was not of our party at all; for she never turned her head; and besides, she was intent on hating me, and that, I think, absorbed her more than she knew. I said nothing; I rode on in silence, seeing her like an outline only in the dark, now and again—and, more commonly nothing but a kind of lighted mist, now and then obscured. It appeared to me that we were very far away to the right; but then I never professed to know the way; and it was no business of mine. Truly the very courses of nature fought against my cousin and her passionate ways. Presently I turned at a sound; and there was James' mare at my heels. I knew her even in the dark, by the white blaze on her forehead. I had been listening for the voices; and had not noticed he was there. I reined up, instantly; and as he came level I plucked his sleeve.
"James," I whispered in Italian, lest Dolly should catch even a phrase of what I said—"not a word. Go back and find the others. Leave us. We will find our way."
James was an exceedingly discreet and sensible fellow—as I knew. He reined back upon the instant, and was gone in the black mist; and I could hear his horse's footsteps passing into the distance. What he thought, God and he alone knew; for he never told me.
The soft sound of the hoofs was scarcely died away, before I too had to pull in suddenly; for there were the haunches of Dolly's horse before the very nose of my poor grey. She had halted; and was listening. I held my breath.
"Anne," she said suddenly. "Anne, where are you?"
As in the Scripture—there was no voice nor any that answered. There was no sound at all but the creaking of the harness, and the soft breathing of the horses, for we had been coming over heavy ground. The world was as if buried in wool.
"Anne," she said again; and I caught a note of fear in her voice.
"Cousin," said I softly, "I fear Anne is lost, and so are the rest. You see you would not speak to me; and it was none of my business—"
"Who is that?" said she sharply. But she knew well enough.
I resolved to spare her nothing; for I was beginning to understand her a little better.
"It is Cousin Roger," I said. "You see you said you knew the road, and so—"
Then she lashed her horse suddenly; and I heard him plunge. But he could not go fast, from the heaviness of the ground; and he was very weary too, as were we all. Besides, she forgot that she carried the lantern, I think; and I was able to follow her easily enough; as the light moved up and down. Then the light halted once more; and I saw a great whiteness beyond it which I could not at first understand.
I came up quietly; and spoke again.
"Dolly, my dear; we had best have a little truce—an armed truce, if you will—but a truce. You can be angry with me again afterwards."
"You coward!" she said, with a sob in her voice, "to lead me away like this—"
"My dear, it was you who did the leading. Do me bare justice. I have followed very humbly."
She made no answer.
"Cousin; be reasonable," I said. "Let us find the way out of this; and when we are clear you can say what you will—or say nothing once more."
She took me at my word, and preserved her deadly silence.
I slipped off my horse; she was within an arm's length, and, not trusting her, I passed my arm with scarcely a noticeable movement through her bridle. It was well that I did so; for an instant after she tore at the bridle, not knowing I had hold of it, and lashed her horse again, thinking to escape whilst I was on the ground. I was very near knocked down by the horse's shoulder, but I slipped up my hand and caught him close to the bit—holding my own with my other hand.
"You termagant!" I said, as soon as I had them both quiet; for I was very angry indeed to be treated so after all my gentleness. "No more trust for me. It would serve you right if I left you here."
"Leave me," she wailed, "leave me, you coward!"
I set my teeth.
"I shall not," I said. "I shall punish you by remaining. I know you hate my company. Well, you will submit to it, then, because I choose so. Now then, let us see—"
Then she burst out suddenly into a passion of weeping. I set my teeth harder than ever. There was only one way, after all, to get the better of Dolly; and I had pitched on it.
"Yes: it is very well to cry," I said. "You nearly had me killed just now. Well: you will have to listen to me presently, whether you like it or not. Give me the lantern."
She made no movement. She had fought down the tears a little; but I could hear her breath still sobbing. I reached up and took the lantern from her right hand.
"Now; where in God's name are we?" said I.
We had ridden into some kind of blind alley, I presently saw; and that was why Dolly's horse had halted. Even that I had not owed to her goodwill. For we had ridden, I saw presently, lifting the lantern up and down, into a great chalk pit; and must have turned off along the track that led to it, from one of those sunken ways that drovers use to bring their flocks up to the high road. That we were to the right of the high road I was certain, of my own observation. Ergo; if we could get back into the sunken way and turn to the right, we might find ourselves on familiar ground again. However, I said nothing of this to Dolly. I was resolved that she should suffer a little more first. I took the bridles of the two horses more securely, slipping my hand with the lantern through the bridle of my own, turned their heads round and walked between them, looking very closely on this side and that, and turning my lantern every way. After twenty yards I saw that I was right. The bank on my left proved to be no bank, but the cliff-edge of the chalk pit only, by which the sunken way passed very near. I led the horses round to the right; and there were we, in the very situation I had surmised. Still holding Dolly's bridle, I mounted my own horse; and when I had done so, to secure myself and her the better, I pulled the reins suddenly over her horse's head, and brought them into my left hand.
"That is safer," I observed. "Now we can pretend to be friends again; and hold that conversation of which I spoke after we left London."
There was no answer, as we set out along the way. It was a little clearer by now; and I could see the bank on my right. I glanced at her; and in the light of the lantern I could see that she was sitting very upright and motionless like a shadow. I lowered the lantern to the right side, so that she was altogether in the dark and the bank illuminated. I felt a little compassion for her indeed; but I dared not shew it.
"Now, Cousin," I said, "I preached to His Majesty yesterday; and he told me I should be a Bishop at least. Now it is you that must hear a sermon."
Again she said nothing.
I had rehearsed pretty well by now all that I meant to say to her; and it was good for me that I had, else I might have fallen weak again when I saw her so unhappy. As it was I kept back some of the biting sentences I had prepared. My address was somewhat as follows. We jogged forward very gingerly as I spoke.
"Cousin," I began, "you have treated me very ill. The first of your offences to me was that, though I had earned, I think, the right to call myself your friend, neither you nor your father gave me any hint whatever of your going to Court. I know very well why you did not; and I shall have a little discourse to make to your father upon the matter, at the proper time. But for all that I had a right to be told. If you were to go, I might at least have got you better protection in the beginning than that of the—the—well—of Her Grace of Portsmouth.
"Now all that was the cause of the very small offence that I committed against you myself—that of forcing my way into your lodgings. For that I offer my apologies—not for the fact, but for the manner of it. And even that apology is not very deep: I shall presently tell you why.
"The next of your offences to me was that open defiance which you shewed, and some of the words you addressed to me, both then and afterwards. You have told me I was a coward, several times, under various phrases, and twice, I think, sans phrase. Cousin; I am a great many things I should not be; but I do not think I am a coward; at least I have never been a coward in your presence. Again, you have told me that I was very good at bullying. For that I thank God, and gladly plead guilty. If a maid is bent on her own destruction, if nothing else will serve she must be bullied out of it. Again, I thank God that I was there to do it."
I looked at her out of the tail of my eye. Her head seemed to me to be a little hung down; but she said nothing at all.
"The third offence of yours is the intolerable discourtesy you have shewn to me all to-day—and before servants, too. I put myself to great pains to get you out of that stinking hole called Whitehall; I risked His Majesty's displeasure for the same purpose: I have been at your disposal ever since noon; and you have treated me like a dog. You will continue to treat me so, no doubt, until we get to Hare Street; and you will do your best no doubt to provoke a quarrel between your father and myself. Well; I have no great objection to that; but I have not deserved that you should behave so. I have done nothing, ever since I have known you, but try to serve you—" (my voice rose a little; for I was truly moved, and far more than my words shewed)—"You first treated me like a friend; then, when you would not have me as a lover, I went away, and I stayed away. Then, when you would not have me as a lover, and I would not have you as my friend, I became, I think I may fairly say, your defender; and all that you do in return—"
Then, without any mistake at all, I caught the sound of a sob; and all my pompous eloquence dropped from me like a cloak. My anger was long since gone, though I had feigned it had not. To be alone with her there, enclosed in the darkness as in a little room—her horse and mine nodding their heads together, and myself holding her bridle—all this, and the silence round us, and my own heart, very near bursting, broke me down.
"Oh! Dolly," I cried. "Why are you so bitter with me? You know that I have never thought ill of you for an instant. You know I have done nothing but try to serve you—I have bullied you? Yes: I have; and I would do the same a thousand times again in the same cause. You are wilful and obstinate; but I thank God I am more wilful and obstinate than you. I am sick of this fencing and diplomacy and irony. You know what I am—I am not at all the fine gentleman that leaned his head on the chimney-breast—that was make-believe and foolishness. I am a bully and a brute—you have told me so—"
"Oh!" wailed Dolly suddenly—no longer pretending; and I caught the note in her voice for which I had been waiting. I dropped the lantern; the horses plunged violently at the flare and the crash; but I cared nothing for that. I dragged furiously on the bridle; and as the horses swung together, I caught her round the shoulders, and kissed her fiercely on the cheek. She clung to me, weeping.