“When the tide is at lowest, ’tis but nearest to the turn.”
“Nay,” broke from the other with ever-increasing bitterness, “if that is where thy hopes lie, I am sorry for thee. There is no turn in such fortunes as mine, but an ever-sapping drain. Why, there is not a kinsman can afford to show countenance to such a falling house, not a lady in Europe who has heart enough to risk her fate with my hopes. Nay, there’s not even a fat tallow merchant of Flanders who thinks it worth his while to risk a present guilder for future favour. You would do better, my lord, to go seek your peace with the powers that be—and for this you have recent high precedent—rather than remain to share the last ruin of our line.”
“Sire,” exclaimed Rockhurst then, “how shall my house stand if yours fall? How shall my body keep health if yours ail? Where is my country but with you, or my hopes but with yours?”
Charles answered the steady tones with an attempt at lightness which failed to cover completely a certain tender break in his own voice.
“The more fool you, then, Harry! Easy terms would be made to the Viscount Rockhurst. He could dwell on his fat lands once more in power and opulence instead of wasting them in fines—he could bring up his heir in leisure; nay, he could wed him a new wife and beget him a fresh family, all in merry England.”
“My son,” answered the other, “is in good hands—and my sister in the farm-house where she hath refuge brings him up even in such wise as I should myself. As for a new wife, poor Charles,”—his lips broke into a smile as they spoke the words,—“believe your poor Harry, he is as little likely to seek one as he is to seek a new master—But, Heaven forgive me!” he went on with brisk change of tone, “this outer fog seems to have befogged my inner wits. The house can at least afford us lights. Nay, I will close the casement upon the dull, wet world. Another log or two on the hearth!” He added action to speech, and a cheerful roar and blaze answered the ministration. “The curtain across the casement—so! Now we were in worse straits after Worcester. Have you forgotten how we stole a sheep and killed it and brought you the reeking leg, and you yourself cut it into collops and set them in the pan? Good lack—how tough they were! Yet ’twas a merry supper. Back to your chair by the warmth, my dearest Sire. An hour’s patience, and it will go ill with me if I serve you not a meal—and wine to it—fit wine for the pledge it shall wash.”
“Aye, and how will you manage that, my merry Rockhurst?” asked Charles Stuart listlessly, as he suffered himself to be led back to his chair.
“Why, by a fight or a kiss, a laugh or a lie!” cried his companion gaily. “Since the French king has thrust us out to please England’s Protector; since the Don neglects to maintain us in proper state, why then, the Don’s land must be made to provide!” He took up his sword which lay on the table to his hand and buckled it round his lean figure as he spoke. “A joke will bring a man far along sometimes; or, if not, then a prodigious bit of deceit. I am ready, too, to kiss, my good liege, or kill. Is not all fair in love and war? And are we not at war still, aye, and with the whole world too,—and as much in love as out of it? There are women in this Flemish town, and they have hearts for a man, or how could even this Bruges subsist?”
He stood in the full light of the racing hearth-flame, the points of the thin mustache quivering with his smile. So handsome, although worn with anxiety and privation; so tall and proper a man, so dashing a presence in such tattered and faded garb.
Charles turned his dark eyes slowly on his friend.