“In truth, madame,”
said I, “it’s the wont of your sex.
As soon as a woman knows a thing to be hers entirely,
she’ll fling it away.” With this
scrap of love’s lore and youth’s philosophy
I turned my back on my companion, and having walked
to where the battered pasty lay beside the empty jug
sat down in high dudgeon. Barbara’s eyes
were set on the spot where the guinea had been swallowed
by the waves, and she took no heed of my remark nor
of my going.
Say that my pleasantry was misplaced,
say that she was weary and strained beyond her power,
say what you will in excuse, I allow it all.
Yet it was not reason to fling my last guinea into
the sea. A flash of petulance is well enough
and may become beauty as summer lightning decks the
sky, but fury is for termagants, and nought but fury
could fling my last guinea to the waves. The
offence, if offence there were, was too small for
so monstrous an outburst. Well, if she would quarrel,
I was ready; I had no patience with such tricks; they
weary a man of sense; women serve their turn ill by
using them. Also I had done her some small service.
I would die sooner than call it to her mind, but it
would have been a grace in her to remember it.
The afternoon came, grew to its height,
and waned as I lay, back to sea and face to cliff,
thinking now of all that had passed, now of what was
before me, sparing a moment’s fitful sorrow for
the poor wretch who lay dead there by the cottage
door, but returning always in resentful mood to my
lost guinea and Barbara’s sore lack of courtesy.
If she needed me, I was ready; but heaven forbid that
I should face fresh rebuffs by seeking her! I
would do my duty to her and redeem my pledge.
More could not now be looked for, nay, by no possibility
could be welcome; to keep away from her was to please
her best. It was well, for in that her mind jumped
with mine. In two hours now we could set out for
Dover.
“Simon, I’m hungry.”
The voice came from behind my shoulder,
a yard or two away, a voice very meek and piteous,
eloquent of an exhaustion and a weakness so great
that, had they been real, she must have fallen by me,
not stood upright on her feet. Against such stratagems
I would be iron. I paid no heed, but lay like
a log.
“Simon, I’m very thirsty too.”
Slowly I gathered myself up and, standing, bowed.
“There’s a fragment of the pasty,”
said I; “but the jug is empty.”
I did not look in her face and I knew she did not
look in mine.
“I can’t eat without drinking,”
she murmured.
“I have nothing with which to
buy liquor, and there’s nowhere to buy it.”
“But water, Simon? Ah, but I mustn’t
trouble you.”
“I’ll go to the cottage and seek some.”
“But that’s dangerous.”
“You shall come to no hurt.”
“But you?”
“Indeed I need a draught for
myself. I should have gone after one in any case.”
There was a pause, then Barbara said:
“I don’t want it. My thirst has passed
away.”
“Will you take the pasty?”
“No, my hunger is gone too.”
I bowed again. We stood in silence for a moment.
“I’ll walk a little,” said Barbara.
“At your pleasure,” said
I. “But pray don’t go far, there may
be danger.”
She turned away and retraced her steps
to the beach. The instant she was gone, I sprang
up, seized the jug, and ran at the best of my speed
to the cottage. Jonah Wall lay still across the
entrance, no living creature was in sight; I darted
in and looked round for water; a pitcher stood on
the table, and I filled the jug hastily. Then,
with a smile of sour triumph, I hurried back the way
I had come. She should have no cause to complain
of me. I had been wronged, and was minded to hug
my grievance and keep the merit of the difference
all on my side. That motive too commonly underlies
a seeming patience of wrong. I would not for
the world enrich her with a just quarrel, therefore
I brought her water, ay, although she feigned not
to desire it. There it was for her, let her take
it if she would, or leave it if she would; and I set
the jug down by the pasty. She should not say
that I had refused to fetch her what she asked, although
she had, for her own good reasons, flung my guinea
into the sea. She would come soon, then would
be my hour. Yet I would spare her; a gentleman
should show no exultation; silence would serve to
point the moral.
But where was she? To say truth,
I was impatient for the play to begin and anticipation
grew flat with waiting. I looked down to the shore
but could not see her. I rose and walked forward
till the beach lay open before me. Where was
Barbara?
A sudden fear ran through me.
Had any madness seized the girl, some uncontrolled
whim made her fly from me? She could not be so
foolish. But where was she? On the moment
of the question a cry of surprise rang from my lips.
There, ahead of me, not on the shore, but on the sea,
was Barbara. The boat was twelve or fifteen yards
from the beach, Barbara’s face was towards me,
and she was rowing out to sea. Forgetting pasty
and jug, I bounded down. What new folly was this?
To show herself in the boat was to court capture.
And why did she row out to sea? In an instant
I was on the margin of the water. I called out
to her, she took no heed; the boat was heavy, but
putting her strength into the strokes she drove it
along. Again I called, and called unheeded.
Was this my triumph? I saw a smile on her face.
Not she, but I, afforded the sport then. I would
not stand there, mocked for a fool by her eyes and
her smile.
“Come back,” I cried.
The boat moved on. I was in the
water to my knees. “Come back,” I
cried. I heard a laugh from the boat, a high
nervous laugh; but the boat moved on. With an
oath I cast my sword from me, throwing it behind me
on the beach, and plunged into the water. Soon
I was up to the neck, and I took to swimming.
Straight out to sea went the boat, not fast, but relentlessly.
In grim anger I swam with all my strength. I could
not gain on her. She had ceased now even to look
where my head bobbed among the waves; her face was
lifted towards the sky. By heaven, did she in
very truth mean to leave me? I called once more.
Now she answered.
“Go back,” she said. “I’m
going alone.”
“By heaven, you aren’t,”
I muttered with a gasp, and set myself to a faster
stroke. Bad to deal with are women! Must
she fly from me and risk all because I had not smiled
and grinned and run for what she needed, like a well-trained
monkey? Well, I would catch her and bring her
back.
But catch her I could not. A
poor oarsman may beat a fair swimmer, and she had
the start of me. Steadily out to sea she rowed,
and I toiled behind. If her mood lasted and
hurt pride lasts long in disdainful ladies who are
more wont to deal strokes than to bear them my
choice was plain. I must drown there like a rat,
or turn back a beaten cur. Alas for my triumph!
If to have thought on it were sin, I was now chastened.
But Barbara rowed on. In very truth she meant
to leave me, punishing herself if by that she might
sting me. What man would have shown that folly or
that flower of pride?
Yet was I beaten? I do not love
to be beaten, above all when the game has seemed in
my hands. I had a card to play, and, between my
pants, smiled grimly as it came into my mind.
I glanced over my shoulder; I was hard on half-a-mile
from shore. Women are compassionate; quick on
pride’s heels there comes remorse. I looked
at the boat; the interval that parted me from it had
not narrowed by an inch, and its head was straight
for the coast of France. I raised my voice, crying:
“Stop, stop!”
No answer came. The boat moved
on. The slim figure bent and rose again, the
blades moved through the water. Well then, the
card should be played, the trick of a wily gamester,
but my only resource.
“Help, help!” I cried;
and letting my legs fall and raising my hands over
my head, I inhaled a full breath and sank like a stone,
far out of sight beneath the water. Here I abode
as long as I could; then, after swimming some yards
under the surface, I rose and put my head out again,
gasping hard and clearing my matted hair from before
my eyes. I could scarcely stifle a cry.
The boat’s head was turned now, and Barbara was
rowing with furious speed towards where I had sunk,
her head turned over her shoulder and her eyes fixed
on the spot. She passed by where I was, but did
not see me. She reached the spot and dropped her
oars.
“Help, help!” I cried
a second time, and stayed long enough to let her see
my head before I dived below. But my stay was
shorter now. Up again, I looked for her.
She was all but over me as she went by; she panted,
she sobbed, and the oars only just touched water.
I swam five strokes and caught at the gunwale of the
boat. A loud cry broke from her. The oars
fell from her hand. The boat was broad and steady.
I flung my leg over and climbed in, panting hard.
In truth I was out of breath. Barbara cried,
“You’re safe!” and hid her face in
her hands.
We were mad both of us, beyond a doubt,
she sobbing there on the thwart, I panting and dripping
in the bows. Yet for a touch of such sweet madness
now, when all young nature was strung to a delicious
contest, and the blood spun through the veins full
of life! Our boat lay motionless on the sea,
and the setting sun caught the undergrowth of red-brown
hair that shot through Barbara’s dark locks.
My own state was, I must confess, less fair to look
on.
I controlled my voice to a cold steadiness,
as I wrung the water from my clothes.
“This is a mighty silly business,
Mistress Barbara,” said I.
I had angled for a new outburst of
fury, my catch was not what I looked for. Her
hands were stretched out towards me, and her face,
pale and tearful, pleaded with me.
“Simon, Simon, you were drowning!
Through my my folly! Oh, will you
ever forgive me? If if you had come
to hurt, I wouldn’t have lived.”
“Yet you were running away from me.”
“I didn’t dream that you’d
follow. Indeed I didn’t think that you’d
risk death.” Then her eyes seemed to fall
on my dripping clothes. In an instant she snatched
up the cloak that lay by her, and held it towards
me, crying “Wrap yourself in it.”
“Nay, keep your cloak,”
said I, “I shall be warm enough with rowing.
I pray you, madame, tell me the meaning
of this freak of yours.”
“Nothing, nothing. I Oh,
forgive me, Simon. Ah, how I shuddered when I
looked round on the water and couldn’t see you!
I vowed to God that if you were saved .”
She stopped abruptly.
“My death would have been on your conscience?”
I asked.
“Till my own death,” she said.
“Then indeed,” said I, “I’m
very glad that I wasn’t drowned.”
“It’s enough that you were in peril of
it,” she murmured woefully.
“I pray heaven,” said
I cheerfully, “that I may never be in greater.
Come, Mistress Barbara, sport for sport, trick for
trick, feint for feint. I think your intention
of leaving me was pretty much as real as this peril
of drowning from which I have escaped.”
Her hands, which still implored me,
fell to her side. An expression of wonder spread
over her face.
“In truth, I meant to leave you,” she
said.
“And why, madame?”
“Because I burdened you.”
“But you had consented to accept my aid.”
“While you seemed to give it
willingly. But I had angered you in the matter
of that ”
“Ay, of that guinea. Well, it was my last.”
“Yes, of the guinea. Although
I was foolish, yet I could not endure your ”
Again she hesitated.
“Pray let me hear?” said I.
“I would not stay where my company
was suffered rather than prized,” said she.
“So you were for trying fortune alone?”
“Better that than with an unwilling defender,”
said she.
“Behold your injustice!”
I cried. “For, rather than lose you, I have
faced all, even drowning!” And I laughed.
Her eyes were fixed on my face, but
she did not speak. I believe she feared to ask
me the question that was in her dark eyes. But
at last she murmured:
“Why do you speak of tricks? Simon, why
do you laugh?”
“Why, since by a trick you left
me indeed I cannot believe it was no trick.”
“I swear it was no trick!”
“I warrant it was. And thus by a trick
I have contrived to thwart it.”
“By a trick?”
“Most assuredly. Am I a
man to drown with half a mile’s swimming in
smooth water?” Again I laughed.
She leant forward and spoke in an agitated voice,
yet imperiously.
“Tell me the truth. Were you indeed in
danger and distress?”
“Not a whit,” said I composedly.
“But you wouldn’t wait for me.”
Slowly came her next question.
“It was a trick, then?”
“And crowned with great success,” said
I.
“All a trick?”
“Throughout,” I answered.
Her face grew set and rigid, and,
if it might be, yet paler than before. I waited
for her to speak, but she said nothing. She drew
away the cloak that she had offered me, and, wrapping
it about her shoulders, withdrew to the stern of the
boat. I took her place, and laid hold of the oars.
“What’s your pleasure now, madame?”
I asked.
“What you will,” she said briefly.
I looked at her; she met my gaze with
a steady regard. I had expected scorn, but found
grief and hurt. Accused by the sight, I wrapped
myself in a cold flippancy.
“There is small choice,”
said I. “The beach is there, and that we
have found not pleasant. Calais is yonder, where
certainly we must not go. To Dover then?
Evening falls, and if we go gently it will be dark
before we reach the town.”
“Where you will. I care
not,” said Barbara, and she folded her cloak
so about her face that I could see little more of
her than her eyes and her brows. Here at length
was my triumph, as sweet as such joys are; malice
is their fount and they smack of its bitterness.
Had I followed my heart, I would have prayed her pardon.
A sore spirit I had impelled her, my revenge lacked
justice. Yet I would not abase myself, being now
in my turn sore and therefore obstinate. With
slow strokes I propelled the boat towards Dover town.
For half an hour I rowed; dusk fell,
and I saw the lights of Dover. A gentler mood
came on me. I rested an instant, and, leaning
forward, said to Barbara:
“Yet I must thank you.
Had I been in peril, you would have saved me.”
No answer came.
“I perceived that you were moved by my fancied
danger,” I persisted.
Then she spoke clearly, calmly, and coldly.
“I wouldn’t have a dog
drown under my eyes,” said she. “The
spectacle is painful.”
I performed such a bow as I could,
sitting there, and took up my oars again. I had
made my advance; if such were the welcome, no more
should come from me. I rowed slowly on, then
lay on my oars awhile, waiting for darkness to fall.
The night came, misty again and chill. I grew
cold as I waited (my clothes were but half-dry), and
would gladly have thumped myself with my hands.
But I should have seemed to ask pity of the statue
that sat there, enveloped in the cloak, with closed
eyes and pale unmoved face. Suddenly she spoke.
“Are you cold, sir?”
“Cold? I am somewhat over-heated
with rowing, madame,” I answered.
“But, I pray you, wrap your cloak closer round
you.”
“I am very well, I thank you, sir.”
Yet cold I was, and bitterly.
Moreover I was hungry and somewhat faint. Was
Barbara hungry? I dared not ask her lest she should
find a fresh mockery in the question.
When I ventured to beach the boat
a little way out of Dover, it was quite dark, being
hard on ten o’clock. I offered Barbara my
hand to alight, but she passed it by unnoticed.
Leaving the boat to its fate, we walked towards the
town.
“Where are you taking me?” asked Barbara.
“To the one person who can serve
us,” I answered. “Veil your face,
and it would be well that we shouldn’t speak
loud.”
“I have no desire to speak at all,” said
Barbara.
I would not tell her whither she went.
Had we been friends, to bring her there would have
taxed my persuasion to the full; as our affairs stood,
I knew she would lie the night in the street before
she would go. But if I got her to the house,
I could keep her. But would she reach the house?
She walked very wearily, faltering in her step and
stumbling over every loose stone. I put out my
arm to save her once, but she drew away from it, as
though I had meant to strike her.
At last we came to the narrow alley;
making a sign to Barbara, I turned down it. The
house was in front of me; all was quiet, we had escaped
detection. Why, who should seek for us? We
were at Calais with King Louis, at Calais where we
were to be married!
Looking at the house, I found the
upper windows dark; there had been the quarters of
Phineas Tate, and the King had found him others.
But below there was a light.
“Will it please you to wait
an instant, while I go forward and rouse my friend?
I shall see then whether all is safe.”
“I will wait here,” answered
Barbara, and she leant against the wall of the alley
which fronted the house. In much trepidation I
went on and knocked with my knuckles on the door.
There was no other course; yet I did not know how
either of them would take my action the
lady within or the lady without, she whom I asked
for succour or she in whose cause I sought it.
My entry was easy; a man-servant and
a maid were just within, and the house seemed astir.
My request for their mistress caused no surprise;
the girl opened the door of the room. I knew the
room and gave my name. A cry of pleasure greeted
it, and a moment later Nell herself stood before me.
“From the Castle or Calais,
from Deal or the devil?” she cried. In truth
she had a knack of telling you all she knew in a sentence.
“Why, from half-way between
Deal and the devil,” said I. “For
I have left Monmouth on one side and M. de Perrencourt
on the other, and am come safe through.”
“A witty Simon! But why in Dover again?”
“For want of a friend, mistress. Am I come
to one?”
“With all my heart, Simon. What would you?”
“Means to go to London.”
“Now Heaven is kind! I
go there myself in a few hours. You stare.
In truth, it’s worth a stare. But the King
commands. How did you get rid of Louis?”
I told her briefly. She seemed
barely to listen, but looked at me with evident curiosity,
and, I think, with some pleasure.
“A brave thing!” she cried.
“Come, I’ll carry you to London. Nobody
shall touch you while you’re hid under the hem
of my petticoat. It will be like old times, Simon.”
“I have no money,” said I.
“But I have plenty. For
the less the King comes, the more he sends. He’s
a gentleman in his apologies.” Her sigh
breathed more contentment than repining.
“So you’ll take me with you?”
“To the world’s end, Simon,
and if you don’t ask that, at least to London.”
“But I’m not alone,” said I.
She looked at me for an instant. Then she began
to laugh.
“Whom have you with you?” she asked.
“The lady,” said I.
She laughed still, but it seemed to me not very heartily.
“I’m glad,” she
said, “that one man in England thinks me a good
Christian. By heaven, you do, Simon, or you’d
never ask me to aid your love.”
“There’s no love in the matter,”
I cried. “We’re at daggers drawn.”
“Then certainly there’s
love in it,” said Mistress Nell, nodding her
pretty head in a mighty sagacious manner. “Does
she know to whom you’ve brought her?”
“Not yet,” I answered with a somewhat
uneasy smile.
“How will she take it?”
“She has no other help,” said I.
“Oh, Simon, what a smooth tongue
is yours!” She paused, seeming, to fall into
a reverie. Then she looked at me wickedly.
“You and your lady are ready to face the perils
of the road?”
“Her peril is greater here, and mine as great.”
“The King’s pursuit, Monmouth’s
rage, soldiers, officers, footpads?”
“A fig for them all!”
“Another peril?”
“For her or for me?”
“Why, for both, good Simon.
Don’t you understand! See then!” She
came near to me, smiling most saucily, and pursing
her lips together as though she meant to kiss me.
“If I were vowed to the lady,
I should fear the test,” said I, “but I
am free.”
“Where is she?” asked Nell, letting my
answer pass with a pout.
“By your very door.”
“Let’s have her in,” cried Nell,
and straightway she ran into the alley.
I followed, and came up with her just
as she reached Barbara. Barbara leant no more
against the wall, but lay huddled at the foot of it.
Weariness and hunger had overcome her; she was in a
faint, her lips colourless and her eyes closed.
Nell dropped beside her, murmuring low, soft consolations.
I stood by in awkward helplessness. These matters
were beyond my learning.
“Lift her and carry her in,”
Nell commanded, and, stooping, I lifted her in my
arms. The maid and the man stared. Nell shut
the door sharply on them.
“What have you done to her?”
she cried to me in angry accusation. “You’ve
let her go without food.”
“We had none. She flung
my last money into the sea,” I pleaded.
“And why? Oh, hold your peace and let us
be!”
To question and refuse an answer is
woman’s way; should it be forbidden to Nell,
who was woman from crown to sole? I shrugged my
shoulders and drew off to the far end of the room.
For some moments I heard nothing and remained very
uneasy, not knowing whether it were allowed me to look
or not, nor what passed. Then I heard Barbara’s
voice.
“I thank you, I thank you much.
But where am I, and who are you? Forgive me,
but who are you?”
“You’re in Dover, and
safe enough, madame,” answered Nell.
“What does it matter who I am? Will you
drink a little of this to please me?”
“No, but who are you? I seem to know your
face.”
“Like enough. Many have seen it.”
“But tell me who you are.”
“Since you will know, Simon
Dale must stand sponsor for me. Here, Simon!”
I rose in obedience to the summons.
A thing that a man does not feel of his own accord,
a girl’s eyes will often make him feel.
I took my stand by Nell boldly enough; but Barbara’s
eyes were on mine, and I was full of fear.
“Tell her who I am, Simon,” said Nell.
I looked at Nell. As I live,
the fear that was in my heart was in her eyes.
Yet she had faced the world and laughed to scorn all
England’s frowns. She understood my thought,
and coloured red. Since when had Cydaria learnt
to blush? Even at Hatchstead my blush had been
the target for her mockery. “Tell her,”
she repeated angrily.
But Barbara knew. Turning to
her, I had seen the knowledge take shape in her eyes
and grow to revulsion and dismay. I could not
tell what she would say; but now my fear was in no
way for myself. She seemed to watch Nell for
awhile in a strange mingling of horror and attraction.
Then she rose, and, still without a word, took her
way on trembling feet towards the door. To me
she gave no glance and seemed to pay no heed.
We two looked for an instant, then Nell darted forward.
“You mustn’t go,”
she cried. “Where would you go? You’ve
no other friend.”
Barbara paused, took one step more, paused again.
“I shan’t harm you,”
said Nell. Then she laughed. “You needn’t
touch me, if you will have it so. But I can help
you. And I can help Simon; he’s not safe
in Dover.” She had grown grave, but she
ended with another laugh, “You needn’t
touch me. My maid is a good girl yes,
it’s true and she shall tend you.”
“For pity’s sake, Mistress Barbara ”
I began.
“Hush,” said Nell, waving
me back with a motion of her hand. Barbara now
stood still in the middle of the room. She turned
her eyes on me, and her whisper sounded clear through
all the room.
“Is it ?” she asked.
“It is Mistress Eleanor Gwyn,” said I,
bowing my head.
Nell laughed a short strange laugh;
I saw her breast rise and fall, and a bright red patch
marked either cheek.
“Yes, I’m Nelly,” said she, and
laughed again.
Barbara’s eyes met hers.
“You were at Hatchstead?”
“Yes,” said Nell, and
now she smiled defiantly; but in a moment she sprang
forward, for Barbara had reeled, and seemed like to
faint again and fall. A proud motion of the hand
forbade Nell’s approach, but weakness baffled
pride, and now perforce Barbara caught at her hand.
“I I can go in a moment,” stammered
Barbara. “But .”
Nell held one hand. Very slowly,
very timidly, with fear and shame plain on her face,
she drew nearer, and put out her other hand to Barbara.
Barbara did not resist her, but let her come nearer;
Nell’s glance warned me not to move, and I stood
where I was, watching them. Now the clasp of
the hand was changed for a touch on the shoulder, now
the comforting arm sank to the waist and stole round
it, full as timidly as ever gallant’s round
a denying mistress; still I watched, and I met Nell’s
bright eyes, which looked across at me wet and sparkling.
The dark hair almost mingled with the ruddy brown
as Barbara’s head fell on Nell’s shoulder.
I heard a little sob, and Barbara moaned:
“Oh, I’m tired, and very hungry.”
“Rest here, and you shall have
food, my pretty,” said Nell Gwyn. “Simon,
go and bid them give you some.”
I went, glad to go. And as I went I heard, “There,
pretty, don’t cry.”
Well, women love to weep. A plague
on them, though, they need not make us also fools.