CHAPTER VIII.
SUPERIOR TO FASHION.
At Oxford Angela was so happy as to be presented to Catharine of Braganza,a little dark woman, whose attire still bore some traces of its originalPortuguese heaviness; such a dress--clumsy, ugly, infinitely rich andexpensive--as one sees in old portraits of Spanish and Netherlandishmatrons, in which every elaborate detail of the costly fabric seems to havebeen devised in the research of ugliness. She saw the King also; met himcasually--she walking with her brother-in-law, while Lady Fareham and herfriends ran from shop to shop in the High Street--in Magdalen Collegegrounds, a group of beauties and a family of spaniels fawning upon him ashe sauntered slowly, or stopped to feed the swans that swam close bythe bank, keeping pace with him, and stretching long necks in greedysolicitation.
The loveliest woman Angela had ever seen--tall, built like agoddess--walked on the King's right hand. She carried a heap of brokenbread in the satin petticoat which she held up over one white arm, whilewith her other hand she gave the pieces one by one to the King. Angelasaw that as each hunch changed hands the royal fingers touched the lady'stapering finger-tips and tried to detain them.
Fareham took off his hat, bowed low in a grave and stately salutation, andpassed on; but Charles called him back.
"Nay, Fareham, has the world grown so dull that you have nothing to tell usthis November morning?"
"Indeed, sir, I fear that my riverside hermitage can afford very littlenews that could interest your Majesty or these ladies."
"A fox gone to ground, an otter killed among your reeds, or a hawk in thesulks, is an event in the country. Anything would be a relief from theweekly total of London deaths, which is our chief subject of conversation,or the General's complaints that there is no one in town but himself totransact business, or dismal prophecies of a Nonconformist rebellion thatis to follow the Five Mile Act."
The group of ladies stared at Angela in a smiling silence, one haughtierthan the rest standing a little aloof. She was older, and of a moreaudacious loveliness than the lady who carried broken bread in herpetticoat; but she too was splendidly beautiful as a goddess on a paintedceiling, and as much painted perhaps.
Angela contemplated her with the reverence youth gives to consummatebeauty, unaware that she was admiring the notorious Barbara Palmer.
Fareham waited, hat in hand, grave almost to sullenness. It was not for himto do more than reply to his Majesty's remarks, nor could he retire tilldismissed.
"You have a strange face at your side, man. Pray introduce the lady,"said the King, smiling at Angela, whose vivid blush was as fresh as MissStewart's had been a year or two ago, before she had her first quarrel withLady Castlemaine, or rode in Gramont's glass coach, or gave her classicprofile to embellish the coin of the realm--the "common drudge 'tween manand man."
"I have the honour to present my sister-in-law, Mistress Kirkland, to yourMajesty." The King shook hands with Angela in the easiest way, as if he hadbeen mortal.
"Welcome to our poor court, Mistress Kirkland. Your father was my father'sfriend and companion in the evil days. They starved together at Beverley,and rode side by side through the Warwickshire lanes to suffer theinsolence of Coventry. I have not forgotten. If I had I have a monitoryonder to remind me," glancing in the direction of a middle-aged gentleman,stately, and sober of attire, who was walking slowly towards them. "TheChancellor is a living chronicle, and his conversation chiefly consists inreminiscences of events I would rather forget."
"Memory is an invention of Old Nick," said Lady Castlemaine. "Who the deucewants to remember anything, except what cards are out and what are in?"
"Not you, Fairest. You should be the last to cultivate mnemonics foryourself or for your friends. Is your father in England, sweet mistress?"
Angela faltered a negative, as if with somebody else's voice--or so itseemed to her. A swarthy, heavy-browed man, wearing a dark-blue ribbon anda star--a man with whom his intimates jested in shameless freedom--a manwhom the town called Rowley, after some ignominious quadruped--a man whohad distinguished himself neither in the field nor in the drawing-room byany excellence above the majority, since the wit men praised has resolveditself for posterity into half a dozen happy repartees. Only this! But hewas a King, a crowned and anointed King, and even Angela, who was lessfrivolous and shallow than most women, stood before him abashed anddazzled.
His Majesty bowed a gracious adieu, yawned, flung another crust to theswans, and sauntered on, the Stewart whispering in his ear, the Castlemainetalking loud to her neighbour, Lady Chesterfield, this latter lady verypretty, very bold and mischievous, newly restored to the Court after exilewith her jealous husband at his mansion in Wales.
They were gone; Charles to be button-holed by Lord Clarendon, who waitedfor him at the end of the walk; the ladies to wander as they pleasedtill the two-o'clock dinner. They were gone, like a dream of beauty andsplendour, and Fareham and Angela pursued their walk by the river, grey inthe sunless November.
"Well, sister, you have seen the man whom we brought back in a whirlwindof loyalty five years ago, and for whose sake we rebuilt the fabric ofmonarchical government. Do you think we are much the gainers by thattempest of enthusiasm which blew us home Charles the Second? We hadsuffered all the trouble of the change to a Republic; a life that shouldhave been sacred had been sacrificed to the principles of liberty. Whileabhorring the regicides, we might have profited by their crime. We mighthave been a free state to-day, like the United Provinces. Do you think weare better off with a King like Rowley, to amuse himself at the expense ofthe nation?"
"I detest the idea of a Republic."
"Youth worships the supernatural in anointed kings. Think not that I amopposed to a constitutional monarchy, so long as it works well for themajority. But when England had with such terrible convulsions shakenoff all those shackles and trappings of royalty, and when the ship, solightened, had sailed so steadily with no ballast but common sense, does itnot seem almost a pity to undo what has been done--to begin again the longprocession of good kings and bad kings, foolish or wise--for the sake ofsuch a man as yonder saunterer?" with a glance towards the British Sultanand his harem.
"England was never better governed than by Cromwell," he continued. "Shewas tranquil at home and victorious abroad, admired and feared. Mazarin,while pretending to be the faithful friend of Charles, was the obsequiouscourtier of Oliver. The finest form of government is a limited despotism.See how France prospered under the sagacious tyrant, Louis the Eleventh,under the soldier-statesman, Sully, under pure reason incarnate inRichelieu. Whether you call your tyrant king or protector, minister orpresident, matters nothing. It is the man and not the institution, the mindand not the machinery that is wanted."
"I did not know you were a Republican, like Sir Denzil Warner."
"I am nothing now I have left off being a soldier. I have no strongopinions about anything. I am a looker on; and life seems little morereal to me than a stage play. Warner is of a different stamp. He is anenthusiastic in politics--godson of Horn's--a disciple of Milton's, the sonof a Puritan, and a Puritan himself. A fine nature, Angela, allied to ahandsome presence."
Sir Denzil Warner was their neighbour at Chilton, and Angela had met himoften enough for them to become friends. He had ridden by her side withhawk and hound, had been one of her instructors in English sport, andhad sometimes, by an accident, joined her and Henriette in their boatingexpeditions, and helped her to perfect herself in the management of a pairof sculls.
"Hyacinth has her fancies about Warner," Fareham said presently, as theystrolled along.
There was a significance in his tone that the girl could not mistake; moreespecially as her sister had not been reticent about those notions to whichFareham alluded.
"Hyacinth has fancies about many things," she said, blushing a little.
Fareham noted the slightness of the blush.
"I verily believe that handsome youth has found you adamant," he said,after a thoughtful silence. "Yet you migh
t easily choose a worse suitor.Your sister has often the strangest whims about marriage-making; but inthis fancy I did not oppose her. It would be a very suitable alliance."
"I hope your lordship does not begin to think me a burden on yourhousehold," faltered Angela, wounded by his cold-blooded air in disposingof her. "When you and my sister are tired of me I can go back to myconvent."
"What! Return to those imprisoning walls; immure your sweet youth in acloister? Not for the Indies. I would not suffer such a sacrifice. Tired ofyou! I--so deeply bound! I who owe you my life! I who looked up out of aburning hell of pain and madness and saw an angel standing by my bed! Tiredof you! Indeed you know me better than to think so badly of me were it butin one flash of thought. You can need no protestations from me. Only, asa young and beautiful woman, living in an age that is full of peril forwomen, I should like to see you married to a good and true man--such asDenzil Warner."
"I am sorry to disappoint you," Angela answered coldly; "but Papillon andI have agreed that I am always to be her spinster aunt, and am to keep herhouse when she is married, and wear a linsey gown and a bunch of keys at mygirdle, like Mrs. Hubbuck, at Chilton."
"That's just like Henriette. She takes after her mother, and thinks thatthis globe and all the people upon it were created principally for herpleasure. The Americas to give her chocolate, the Indian isles to sweetenit for her, the ocean tides to bring her feathers and finery. She is herown centre and circumference, like her mother."
"You should not say such an ill thing of your wife, Fareham," said Angela,deeply shocked. "Hyacinth is not one to look into the heart of things. Shehas too happy a disposition for grave backward-reaching thoughts; but Iwill swear that she loves you--ay--almost to reverence."
"Yes, to reverence, to over much reverence, perhaps. She might have given afreer, fonder love to a more amiable man. I have some strain of my unhappykinsman's temper, perhaps--the disposition that keeps a wife at a distance.He managed to make three wives afraid of him; and it was darkly rumouredthat he killed one."
"Strafford--a murderer! No, no."
"Not by intent. An accident--only an accident. They who most hated himpretended that he pushed her from him somewhat roughly when she was leastable to bear roughness, and that the after consequences of the blow werefatal. He was one of the doomed always, you see. He knew that himself, andtold his bosom friend that he was not long-lived. The brand of misfortunewas upon him even at the height of his power. You may read his destiny inhis face."
They walked on in silence for some time, Angela depressed and unhappy. Itseemed as if Fareham had lifted a mask and shown her his real countenance,with all the lines that tell a life history. She had suspected that he wasnot happy; that the joyous existence amidst fairest surroundings whichseemed so exquisite to her was dull and vapid for him. She could but thinkthat he was like her father, and that action and danger were necessary tohim, and that it was only this rustic tranquillity that weighed upon hisspirits.
"Do not for a moment believe that I would speak slightingly of yoursister," Fareham resumed, after that silent interval. "It were indeed anill thing in me--most of all to disparage her in your hearing. She islovely, accomplished, learned even, after the fashion of the Rue St. Thomasdu Louvre. She used to shine among the brightest at the Scuderys' Saturdayparties, which were the most wearisome assemblies I ever ran away from. Thematch was made for us by others, and I was her betrothed husband before Isaw her. Yet I loved her at first sight. Who could help loving a faceas fair as morning over the eastward hills, a voice as sweet as thenightingales in the Tuileries garden? She was so young--a child almost; sogentle and confiding. And to see her now with Papillon is to question whichis the younger, mother or daughter. Love her? Why, of course I love her. Iloved her then. I love her now. Her beauty has but ripened with the passingyears; and she has walked the furnace of fine company in two cities, andhas never been seared by fire. Love her! Could a man help loving beauty,and frankness, and a natural innocence which cannot be spoiled even by theknowledge of things evil, even by daily contact with sin in high places?"
Again there was a silence, and then, in a deeper tone, after a long sigh,Fareham said--
"I love and honour my wife; I adore my children; yet I am alone, Angela,and I shall be alone till death."
"I don't understand."
"Oh yes, you do; you understand as well as I who suffer. My wife and I loveeach other dearly. If she have a fit of the vapours, or an aching tooth, Iam wretched. But we have never been companions. The things that she lovesare charmless for me. She is enchanted with people from whom I run away. Isit companionship, do you think, for me to look on while she walks a corantoor tosses shuttlecocks with De Malfort? Roxalana is as much my companionwhen I admire her on the stage from my seat in the pit. There are timeswhen my wife seems no nearer to me than a beautiful picture. If I sit in acorner, and listen to her pretty babble about the last fan she bought atthe Middle Exchange, or the last witless comedy she saw at the King'sTheatre, is that companionship, think you? I may be charmed to-day--as Iwas charmed ten years ago--with the silvery sweetness of her voice, withthe graceful turn of her head, the white roundness of her throat. At leastI am constant. There is no change in her or in me. We are just as near andjust as far apart as when the priest joined our hands at St. Eustache. Andit must be so to the end, I suppose; and I think the fault is in me. I amout of joint with the world I live in. I cannot set myself in tune withtheir new music. I look back, and remember, and regret; yet hardly know whyI remember or what I regret."
Again a silence, briefer than the last, and he went on:--
"Do you think it strange that I talk so freely--to you--who are scarce morethan a child, less learned than Henriette in worldly knowledge? It is acomfort sometimes to talk of one's self; of what one has missed as well asof what one has. And you have such an air of being wise beyond your years;wise in all thoughts that are not of the world--thoughts of things of whichthere is no truck at the Exchanges; which no one buys or sells at Abingdonfair. And you are so near allied to me--a sister! I never had a sister ofmy own blood, Angela. I was an only child. Solitude was my portion. Ilived alone with my tutor and _gouvernante_--a poor relation of mymother's--alone in a house that was mostly deserted, for Lord and LadyFareham were in London with the King, till the troubles brought the Courtto Christchurch, and them to Chilton. I have had few in whom to confide.And you--remember what you have been to me, and do not wonder if I trustyou more than others. Thou didst go down to the very grave with me, didstpluck me out of the pit. Corruption could not touch a creature so lovelyand so innocent Thou didst walk unharmed through the charnel-house.Remembering this, as I ever must remember, can you wonder that you arenearer to me than all the rest of the world?"
She had seated herself on a bench that commanded a view of the river, andher dreaming eyes were looking far away along the dim perspective of mistand water, bare pollard willows, ragged sedges. Her head drooped a littleso that he could not see her face, and one ungloved hand hung listlessly ather side.
He bent down to take the slender hand in his, lifted it to his lips, andquickly let it go; but not before she had felt his tears upon it. Shelooked up a few minutes later, and the place was empty. Her tears fellthick and fast. Never before had she suffered this exquisite pain--sadnessso intense, yet touching so close on joy. She sat alone in theinexpressible melancholy of the late autumn; pale mists rising from theriver; dead leaves falling; and Fareham's tears upon her hand.
London Pride, Or, When the World Was Younger Page 8