The King's Men: A Tale of To-morrow

by Nathan Schachner

  CHAPTER IX.

  "THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE."

  When Geoffrey awakened on the morning after the coaching party, he layfor some minutes dreamily revolving in his head the events of the lasttwo days. He felt that he had reached a crisis in his life, and as hestretched himself on his narrow bed he groaned inwardly at theperplexity and danger of the situation in which he found himself. Afterhis lonely existence he was suddenly in the vortex of the whirlpool. Hehad promised his life to Sir John Dacre and to his country to be stakedupon a hazard, which he thought to be hopeless, and knew to bedesperate. He did not think of swerving from this promise, for he feltthat he must be true to his order and to high patriotism.

  He winced, too, as he thought of the scene with Mrs. Carey in the ruinsof the Cathedral. He knew that he could not have averted it, for it hadbroken upon him with the suddenness of a summer shower. He had enteredinto a dangerous conspiracy, and had made a deadly enemy on the sameday.

  He was sure that Miss Windsor had seen the affair in the ruins. He hadgiven the ribbons on the drive home to Dacre, and had taken his place byMaggie's side on the back seat, but she had been cold and constrained,and had answered his remarks with monosyllables. The party was so gloomythat it was a positive relief when a cold drizzling rain set in, andmackintoshes and cloaks covered up the faces of all, and madeconversation difficult. But, after thinking of the dark side of themedal, Geoffrey gave a shrug of his shoulders, and cast off for a momentgloomy thoughts, as a duck shakes off water from its oily plumage.

  "Mrs. Carey was right," he said; "love is the great thing, after all;and I love Maggie Windsor. I have little enough to offer her, not evenmy life, for that I promised to John Dacre, and the reversion is notworth much, I fear. My title! Ah, that is an offering indeed; a title bycourtesy, in a democracy which at the same time sneers at and cringes toit. But I love her, and if a man comes to a woman with a sincere love hewill at least be heard."

  Then the thought of his promise to Dacre filled his mind and heart, andhe groaned aloud.

  "How can I speak to her of love, when I am on the verge of this emeuteat Aldershot? And yet I cannot give up life without having had thesatisfaction of its one joy, its one reality! I love Margaret Windsor,and there is a chance, a bare chance, of her loving me. Why did she pickout my old house, when she knew that I was living here, if she did notwish to see me again? Conspiracy or no conspiracy, my poverty, herriches, go hang. I shall ask for her love this very day."

  He had finished a very elaborate toilet for him, and Reynolds appearedto summon him to his breakfast, which the faithful servitor cooked andserved to him in the old sitting-room. As Geoffrey cracked his eggs anddrank his coffee, Reynolds looked wistfully at his master's handsomeface, for he saw a new expression there--a look bright with hope and theconsciousness of an awakened soul--and the old servant wondered whetherthe beautiful woman, who had visited the house two nights before, hadchanged his master's face so. He noticed, too, that Geoffrey was smartlydressed, and that he had tied his neck-tie with great care, and had puton a coat from one of the crack New York tailors, so that when the oldservitor disappeared to polish his master's boots he said to himself:

  "The young earl is going courting, for a certainty, and a fine lady hewill bring home as his bride. Will she buy back his house and lands forhim, I wonder?" And Reynolds smiled to himself as he pictured the headof his beloved family restored to his own again and Ripon House underthe faithful Reynolds, major-domo.

  The dinner at Ripon House after the coaching-party had been dull indeed.Mrs. Carey had sent her excuses to Miss Windsor, and the latter, who hadseen her head upon Geoffrey's shoulder in the Cathedral in the morning,was relieved at hearing them.

  For within Maggie's tender heart a love for Geoffrey Ripon had gainedthe mastery since the interview in the secret chamber. Long had thatlove haunted her gentle heart, a shade at first, which flitted away fora while, only to return again and trouble her. But just as she hadinstalled her love in the innermost sanctuary, fair and godlike, she haddiscovered, as she thought, that her idol had feet of clay; that the manwhose lips and tongue told her that he loved her on the one day was onthe next saying the same thing with the same lying lips to anotherwoman.

  Mrs. Carey had been Geoffrey's first love. Sir John had told her that,she remembered. "He loves her still and he pretends to care for mebecause I am rich," she said to herself as she lay tossing sleeplessduring the night, a dull pang racking her heart with a real physicalpain. In the early morning she arose and looked out of the window overtoward Geoffrey's house, down over the lawn and the cliff path and theleafy chestnut trees.

  "He is false," she said to herself, thinking of our hero who wassleeping so soundly under the little roof in the valley. "He tried totalk with me on the drive home as if nothing had happened. He is anactor who plays at love, and his eyes and his tongue are under hiscontrol as if he were the walking gentleman in the comedy, who kissesthe maid while he is waiting in the parlor for the mistress. He does notlove Margaret Windsor; he loves her father's stocks and bonds, and helongs for riches, even with the encumbrance of a wife."

  She smiled bitterly as she thought of the breaking up of her dream oflove, and she almost cursed the riches which had weighed her down andhad filled her with suspicion of all the men who had ever asked her handin marriage. She had thought that Geoffrey had been prevented fromasking for it two years before because he had felt that she was rich andhe was poor. When he had bade her farewell in Paris he had hesitated andtried to say something to her, she remembered, but had compressed hislips into a forced smile and taken his leave of her.

  As she looked out the window she heard a rumble of wheels and saw thephaeton rolling Mrs. Carey down to the station.

  "What is that woman doing at this hour in the morning?" Maggie askedherself, looking with hot, jealous eyes at the beauty as she sat back inthe phaeton. "It is dreadful to have such a person under one's roof. Ihope that she is gone and that she will not return. I suppose, though,that she is to meet Lord Brompton somewhere."

  And so it happened that at the moment that Geoffrey felt the firstpulsing strength of his love for her, and vowed that he would, despiteher riches and his entanglements, strive to gain her, Maggie wasstrangling her old love for him, and her heart was filled with jealousfears; and the woman whose wild passion had ruffled the current of theirtrue love was speeding to London to work their ruin.

  Breakfast at Ripon House was a straggling, informal meal, and the mencame down in pink coats. They were going hunting on an anise-seed trail,and ordered what they wished, standing by the side-board and eating.Maggie, after the men had followed the hounds, left the other ladiesgossiping together in the library before the fire.

  She walked down the cliff path which led to the shingle beach, uponwhich the small craft of the fishermen in the little village were hauledup.

  Against one of the boats a fisherman, dressed in oil-skins, was leaning.He had a paint-brush in his hand, and he was gazing out ruefully overthe bay, which was lashed into white caps by the strong breeze. When hesaw Maggie, he pulled at his forelock and set to work vigorously withhis paint-brush on the stern of his boat, daubing with the black paintover the name of the craft. As the fisherman obliterated the name,Maggie noticed that his hand trembled and that he turned his head awayfrom her that she might not see his face.

  "What are you doing, my good man?" she asked, coming near him, for shesaw that he was in distress.

  "Painting and caulking my old boat, miss," answered the fisherman,blotting out the last letters with a long smear of paint.

  "But you are painting out the name?" said Maggie, inquiringly.

  "I have a new name for the craft, miss," he answered, in a hoarse voice:"the 'Lone Star'; and I am painting out the old name, the Mary Mallow,which I gave her after my wife; but, saving your presence, miss, shedesarted me these six months ago; I was too rough and common for her, Isuppose."

  He put his rough hand over his eyes. "It goes against my hear
t to painther name out; but, as things are now, the 'Lone Star' is better."

  Maggie could not help smiling at the unconscious poetry of the poorfellow and at the likeness between her lot and his.

  "I am sorry for you, my man," she said, and she slipped a coin into hishand. "Put in a gilt star on the stern with this. It will be a comfortto you to have your boat smart." The man took the coin and looked at itvacantly. Maggie left him and kept on her way over the beach, past theboats and the drying nets, and the great heaps of seaweed and kelp, tothe headland which jutted out into the sea beyond the village. Oncethere she seated herself in a deep recess of the cliff which commanded aview of the bay.

  "And now I am alone, entirely alone, and I cannot be disturbed," shesaid to herself.

  Down below her the breakers rolled in over the seaweed-covered rocks,and dashed into a deep chasm in the rocks, cleft by the attrition ofages, breaking with a dull sough upon the farthermost end of the cleft.

  Maggie could see nothing from her perch but the sea, and the oppositecliff upon which Ripon House stood. A few wheeling sea-gulls, and asmall fishing-boat, beating out of the harbor, were the only livingobjects in the view. The waves, crest over crest, hurried toward theheadland, and beat into foam at her feet. Her mind was soothed bywatching the torn waters, as each wave dashed out its life, in athousand swirls and white bubbles of foam.

  Suddenly she was startled from her reverie by hearing Geoffrey call hername, and she saw him on the rocks below her.

  He looked more than pleased at getting so good a chance to see heralone.

  "Ah, Lord Brompton," she said, coldly, looking at him, but not invitinghim to come up by her. "What has brought you out here?"

  "You. I was on my way to make a call upon you, and just as I reached thetop of the cliff I saw you on the beach, talking with a fisherman. May Icome up to you?"

  Maggie glanced down at him, and saw that he was dressed with more thanordinary care; in spite of her hard feelings toward him she could nothelp smiling at the thought that he had been prinking all the morning tolook well when he came courting.

  Geoffrey saw her smile, and started to climb up to her side.

  "There is not room up here for two, I am afraid," she said in adetermined voice.

  "I will sit on the sharpest edge of the rock," pleaded Geoffrey.

  "It would make me uncomfortable to see you suffer, just as it would tosee anything in pain," she added hastily. "What did it matter to her,"she thought, "whether Lord Brompton suffered or not?"

  "I would not suffer when I am near you," said Geoffrey, a littleplaintively, wondering why he was treated so badly.

  "If you came you would not be more entertaining than Heine, would you?"asked Maggie, looking mockingly down into his gray eyes.

  "Damn Heine," thought Geoffrey, as he lifted himself up over the rocks.Miss Windsor huddled herself far into a corner of the niche. There wasplenty of room for two there after all; yet Geoffrey seated himself in amost uncomfortable attitude, with his stick over his knees, and lookedearnestly at her.

  "He has come after the stocks and bonds," said Maggie to herself, as shesteeled her heart against his winning face and his manly simplicity ofmanner. She tried to say something about the sea and the view, but helooked at her earnestly, and said, in a low, hurried voice:

  "Miss Windsor, I have sought you out to-day with a definite purpose. Isincerely hope that you were not displeased at seeing me. You know why Iwish to see you."

  Maggie turned away her head; there was a sincere ring to his voice;could it be possible that he really cared for her, loved her, MaggieWindsor? Ah, no; she remembered Mrs. Carey, and said nothing.

  "Miss Windsor--Maggie," he said, "I know that I have no right to ask youto marry me, save that I love you with a single heart."

  "Oh, Mr. Doubleface," she thought, "how fair you talk!" She still saidnothing, but tapped the stone in front of her nervously with the end ofher little boot.

  "I have nothing to offer you," continued Geoffrey, "except my love andmy name; I do not even know whether I even have a life to give you."

  Maggie was startled by this; she did not understand it at all. Geoffreywaited for her to say something, and there was a depressing pause for amoment.

  She felt that she had grown pale, and her fingers twitched convulsivelyat the handle of her parasol. Here was her lover saying to her all thatshe had dreamed he might say, saying in an earnest, trembling voice thathe loved her; in a voice so different to his customary tone of banter,that she for a moment almost believed in his sincerity; yet as sheaverted her face and looked over the bay she could see clearly in hermind's eye the little picture which had remained in it fromyesterday--her lover holding Mrs. Carey in his arms.

  "Lord Brompton," she finally said, in a slow, deliberate voice, fromwhich all passion, even all affection was wanting, "I am sorry that youhave spoken to me in this way, very sorry."

  Poor Geoffrey had expected a different answer, and as he sat therelooking at Maggie's pale, agitated face, he felt that there was a wallbetween them, where he had always found a kindly sympathy and anaffectionate interest before. He had expected, perhaps, that she mightnot care about him enough to marry him, for he was not so young orconceited as to imagine that the priceless treasure of a woman's heartis to be lightly won at the first asking, but he had thought that hissweetheart would sympathize with him at his loss of her; with thetouching pity which at such times is so akin to love and often itsforerunner. Still he boldly went on with his declaration, feeling thathe did not wish to leave a word unsaid of all that had swelled his heartwith love and hope. If his love were all poured out and spurned, wouldnot the chambers of his heart be swept and garnished for the future?

  Yet what a desolate, haunted chamber it will be, he bitterly thought.

  "I could not have told you a week ago that I loved you, Maggie," hesaid. "But I did, though; only I did not know it. I must have loved yousince the day I first met you at the ball. You remember it, do you not?When you first smiled at me I felt that we had always known each other;and that evening I was content. Will you make me so for all my life?" Heleaned over toward her and tried to take one of her hands; she edged itaway from him, and turned toward him with flashing eyes and thin,compressed lips.

  "It is not possible that I shall ever care for you, Lord Brompton, inthe way in which you pretend to care for me."

  "Pretend to care for you!" he said, angrily. "What do you mean by that?Why should I come to you with pretences? What should I gain by making alying love to you?"

  "Everything," she answered, coldly.

  "I do not care to argue this, Miss Windsor," he said, turning his faceaway, pained to the heart. "I am in such a position that I may not; butI wished, while I had a chance, to tell you that I loved you. Good-by,Maggie, good-by. I do not wish to be melodramatic; but you may never seeme again."

  He kissed one of her hands, which lay at her side, and lifting himselffrom the rock, climbed down the cliff, a mist of tears before his eyes;and Maggie sat looking over the bay silent and sad, trying to reconcilethe evident genuineness of Geoffrey's entreaty with what she knew ofhim.

  Late that evening Mary Lincoln was sitting in her bedroom, in anarm-chair by the fire. Her thoughts were of Sir John Dacre.

  In him she saw the hero of whom she had dreamed during her girlhood; theyoung prince clad in golden armor, and in quest of adventures andopportunities for self-sacrifice, who should awake her sleeping heartwith a kiss.

  The ordinary warm-hearted but pleasure-loving and easy-going man cannotstir the depths of a nature like Mary Lincoln's. An earnest, ardentspirit, even if it be Quixotic, so that it see before it, like a clearflame, some duty to be done, or some war to be waged, attracts to it thedevotion of a strong woman's heart.

  Women love adventurous, single-minded men, and will die for them, ifneed be, gladly and silently; but such men, intent on their object, seemoblivious to the wealth of love that might be theirs for the asking,were they not too absorbed to as
k for it. And so it was with John Dacreand Mary Lincoln. He was drawn to her unconsciously by her lovelywomanhood; but his great dream seemed to fill his mind, and thatfulfilled, the world had nothing in store for him. He wished no rewards,no life for himself, but to see his King returned and Great Britainproud among the nations; yet he liked to sit by Mary Lincoln and ponderhis cherished dream.

  Of course he would not speak to her of it; he knew the danger of hisproject; yet she read his heart and knew that he was deep in someadventure which filled his life so that she had no part in it. Still,she saw that she attracted him, even if he did not know it, and theytalked together about the glories of the past history of their country,and lived with the great men who, with brain, and sword, and pen hadwrought for the honor and fame of their native land.

  It was no courtship, no wooing, only a meeting, for a brief space, oftwo human beings who had been made for each other, but whom fateseparated by a rift which could not be bridged. Mary Lincoln knew this,John Dacre did not; but as he had bade her good-night just before, hefelt a sadness steal over his heart, and his voice had trembled as hespoke. Even into the heart of this man of one idea, on the eve of thisdangerous conspiracy, all unawares the love god had stolen with muffledfeet, so that he did not know his presence. But Mary knew.

  There was a little tap at the door, and she heard Maggie Windsor's voiceasking:

  "May I come in?"

  Mary arose quickly and unbolted the door, and Maggie Windsor entered.

  "You will excuse me for disturbing you, will you not?" asked Maggie,whose eyes were red with weeping, and whose hair had a dishevelled look,as if it had been buried deep in a pillow. "But I felt so lonely andtroubled to-night that I have come to talk to you."

  Mary leaned over and kissed her with tenderness. "My dear Miss Windsor,"she said, "I am touched that you should come to me."

  "Oh, please do not call me Miss Windsor, call me Maggie: I cannot tellyou anything if you call me Miss Windsor. You know I never had amother; and there are some things which a girl must tell to some one."

  "Maggie, dear," said Mary gently, "tell me everything. It will ease yourmind, even if I cannot help you in any way."

  "You cannot help me; no one can help me," sobbed Maggie, as her friendput her arm around her waist, and gently stroked her hair. "It is onlythat I love him so, and he is unworthy of it."

  "Do you mean Geoffrey Ripon?" asked Mary.

  "Yes, yes."

  "Geoffrey Ripon unworthy of a woman's love!" exclaimed Mary. "Thatcannot be. John Dacre--" She blushed and turned away her face, thatMaggie might not see her as she spoke his name. "John Dacre says that heis the soul of honor and his life-long friend."

  "Oh! men have such different ideas of honor from ours," exclaimedMaggie. Then she told her friend in broken speech of her love forGeoffrey; that she had supposed that he had not told her he loved herbecause he felt that he had nothing to offer her; that she had come toEngland to see him again; and then she told of the dreadful scene inChichester, and how she had coldly rejected him in the morning becauseshe believed he loved Eleanor Carey, and that he wished to marry formoney.

  The story seemed shameful to her as she told it: her forwardness incoming to England, and her shattered faith in her lover.

  "And yet he seemed in earnest this morning, and he appeared to love me,"she said to Mary, when she had told her story, "and when I told him,when he asked me what he had to gain by a pretence of loving me, that hehad everything to gain, his face was deadly white and his eyes werefilled with tears. Oh, I almost believed in him then, and I should haverelented; I fear I should have been weak enough to have relented if hehad not left me; and now it is all over!"

  She burst into tears, and Mary's face was full of sympathy, as shewhispered words of comfort in the unhappy girl's ear.

  "I own that appearances are against him," she urged, "but they may beexplained away. Mrs. Carey is a very dangerous and bad woman; at themoment when Geoffrey appeared to you the worst he may have loved you themost. Have heart, dear, if he loves you, and if he is a good and trueman, as I think he must be, for John Dacre trusts him--"

  Maggie raised her head, looked into her friend's eyes and read hersecret. Then two hands clasped together tightly, and they kissed andwept together.

  "You will see him again," whispered Mary, as Maggie was leaving theroom. "You will see him soon, and everything will be right."

  "No, I am afraid everything will not," said Maggie; "but if I have losta lover, I have found a friend, have I not?"

  And they did not meet soon again, for Geoffrey was dispatched by Dacreupon most important duty--to make arrangements for the concealment ofthe King when he should arrive in the country to return to his ownagain. He went into the enterprise heart and soul; that is to say, withthat part of his heart which was left him. Still he feared the end ofthe affair, and seemed to foresee the ruin to which the troubled watersin which he swam were sweeping the King's men.