CHAPTER IV
Will Jackson
THE landlord sat long over his matutinal collops and ale. No philosopher could have desired nicer food for meditation than the incidents of the night. The thoughts they induced were subtle, yet peculiar. Could it be that the young man with “the incurable disease” was the King! He himself did not know his Majesty other than by repute. He was said to be young and handsome. He was said to be on the coast of Dorset; and last night he was expected at the “Sea Rover” by persons of knowledge and experience. Could this querulous young gentleman be the King, after all? He was building that theory up piece by piece in his mind. He could see no argument against it other than the fact that he had a woman for a travelling companion. True, she might be a fugitive, even as he. That she was a person of a rare condition he did not doubt. It would not surprise him to discover that she was a princess of the royal house.
Still, whatever the nature of his suspicions, he must hasten to confirm them. The bird might slip through his fingers else. The simplest and the surest way was to send for the soldiers. Thereby he would guard against risk. But Gamaliel never was a friend of simplicity. Besides, his guests might prove not to be royalty at all. They might be merely a pair of proscribed aristocrats. In that case, he would lose two wealthy patrons on the first day of their sojourn; a thing not in the least consonant with his ideas. In the case of the King, that would be all well and good. There would be a fine reward for his pains. But in the matter of a cavalier, there was no such great solatium. They were not rated so high; indeed, they might be said to be as common as dirt. No; in a bald phrase, as between a man and his conscience, he proposed in the case of a mere cavalier seeking refuge under his roof, to bleed him, to wring him dry, and then to propitiate the law at the eleventh hour by depositing the fellow, and the few rags left to cover him, into the hands of the Lord Protector.
Was there not an intelligent discretion in a scheme of this kind? But he must be wary indeed. It might prove a dangerous game. Once more that menacing sailor put a thrill of fear in his heart; he was sure that the young man upstairs was he whom Diggory Fargus sought. But, be that as it may, there was one piece of information he must acquire at all costs: Was this young man Charles Stuart?
He had yet to view his visitors by the light of day. He conceived the idea of bearing food to them with his own hands, particularly as now it was nine o’clock of the morning, and they had evinced no disposition to procure it for themselves. When the meat was ready, he took it upstairs and tapped upon the chamber door. But if Master Hooker had hoped to gain admission there, his disappointment must have proved extreme; for at his knock the door was opened, and the lady met him on the threshold. She stood unmasked at last, her eyes now shining in the morning light. There was a finger on her lip.
“Hush, sir!” she whispered. “I prithee do not speak, and do not enter. My husband sleeps, and he is in such case that I fear he may never wake again.”
Her voice was wild and low with sorrow.
Speaking thus, she took the tray of meat from the landlord’s hand, and she acted with such a quickness that the door was shut upon him ere he could reply. He heard the key turn in the lock. So far he was foiled. Plainly they had something to conceal, and just as plainly they did not trust Gamaliel. Yet the old man went downstairs with positive knowledge on a point that was not the least important. He had seen the lady’s face. Her mask was off, and he had fed his cunning eyes on her every feature. He was not by any means a young man, and he whimsically thanked his stars that his blood was cool and sober.
What a creature! A woman formed for tenderness and passion. He had seen them younger and more lyrical, handsomer, more brilliant, more prodigal of smiles; for there was the matron in her shape, and he should take her age for thirty-five. But she had the sort of face that Correggio painted: large, steadfast eyes, gazing on the world and occasionally mocking at it gently, as one who has sipped the cup of the poison of experience, and who has had the native strength to accept the bitter draught without being defiled—nay, rather fortified. A fair and gracious lady, then, with a face sensitive and pure, grave with the loveliness of knowledge; no milk-hearted nymph nor dimpled Hebe, but a Helen at the zenith of her womanhood, who “moves a goddess and looks a queen”; true child of her sex withal, one who could be an angel to her friends and a devil to her enemies.