by Anthony Hope
SIMON DALE
by
ANTHONY HOPE
T. Nelson & SonsLondon and EdinburghParis: 189, rue Saint-JacquesLeipzig: 35-37 Koenigstrasse
"It is only that a low laugh echoes distantly in myear."]
CONTENTS
I. The Child of Prophecy 3
II. The Way of Youth 18
III. The Music of the World 33
IV. Cydaria revealed 49
V. I am forbidden to forget 65
VI. An Invitation to Court 84
VII. What came of Honesty 103
VIII. Madness, Magic, and Moonshine 122
IX. Of Gems and Pebbles 140
X. Je Viens, Tu Viens, Il Vient 160
XI. The Gentleman from Calais 180
XII. The Deference of His Grace the Duke 201
XIII. The Meed of Curiosity 222
XIV. The King's Cup 244
XV. M. de Perrencourt whispers 263
XVI. M. de Perrencourt wonders 283
XVII. What befell my Last Guinea 303
XVIII. Some Mighty Silly Business 324
XIX. A Night on the Road 345
XX. The Vicar's Proposition 362
XXI. The Strange Conjuncture of Two Gentlemen 378
XXII. The Device of Lord Carford 396
XXIII. A Pleasant Penitence 414
XXIV. A Comedy before the King 434
XXV. The Mind of M. de Fontelles 451
XXVI. I come Home 468
SIMON DALE
CHAPTER I
THE CHILD OF PROPHECY
One who was in his day a person of great place and consideration, andhas left a name which future generations shall surely repeat so long asthe world may last, found no better rule for a man's life than that heshould incline his mind to move in Charity, rest in Providence, and turnupon the poles of Truth. This condition, says he, is Heaven upon Earth;and although what touches truth may better befit the philosopher whouttered it than the vulgar and unlearned, for whom perhaps it is acounsel too high and therefore dangerous, what comes before shouldsurely be graven by each of us on the walls of our hearts. For any manwho lived in the days that I have seen must have found much need oftrust in Providence, and by no whit the less of charity for men. In suchtrust and charity I have striven to write: in the like I pray you toread.
I, Simon Dale, was born on the seventh day of the seventh month in theyear of Our Lord sixteen-hundred-and-forty-seven. The date was good inthat the Divine Number was thrice found in it, but evil in that it fellon a time of sore trouble both for the nation and for our own house;when men had begun to go about saying that if the King would not keephis promises it was likely that he would keep his head as little; whenthey who had fought for freedom were suspecting that victory had broughtnew tyrants; when the Vicar was put out of his cure; and my father,having trusted the King first, the Parliament afterwards, and at lastneither the one nor the other, had lost the greater part of hissubstance, and fallen from wealth to straitened means: such is thecommon reward of an honest patriotism wedded to an open mind. However,the date, good or bad, was none of my doing, nor indeed, folkswhispered, much of my parents' either, seeing that destiny overruled theaffair, and Betty Nasroth, the wise woman, announced its imminence morethan a year beforehand. For she predicted the birth, on the very daywhereon I came into the world, within a mile of the parish church, of amale child who--and the utterance certainly had a lofty sound aboutit--should love where the King loved, know what the King hid, and drinkof the King's cup. Now, inasmuch as none lived within the limits namedby Betty Nasroth, save on the one side sundry humble labourers, whoseprogeny could expect no such fate, and on the other my Lord and LadyQuinton, who were wedded but a month before my birthday, the prophecywas fully as pointed as it had any need to be, and caused to my parentsno small questionings. It was the third clause or term of the predictionthat gave most concern alike to my mother and to my father; to mymother, because, although of discreet mind and a sound Churchwoman, shewas from her earliest years a Rechabite, and had never heard of a Kingwho drank water; and to my father by reason of his decayed estate, whichmade it impossible for him to contrive how properly to fit me for mypredestined company. "A man should not drink the King's wine withoutgiving the King as good," my father reflected ruefully. Meanwhile I,troubling not at all about the matter, was content to prove Betty rightin point of the date, and, leaving the rest to the future, achieved thistriumph for her most punctually. Whatsoever may await a man on his waythrough the world, he can hardly begin life better than by keeping hisfaith with a lady.
She was a strange old woman, this Betty Nasroth, and would likely enoughhave fared badly in the time of the King's father. Now there was biggergame than witches afoot, and nothing worse befell her than the scowls ofher neighbours and the frightened mockery of children. She made freereply with curses and dark mutterings, but me she loved as being thechild of her vision, and all the more because, encountering her as Irode in my mother's arms, I did not cry, but held out my hands, crowingand struggling to get to her; whereat suddenly, and to my mother's greatterror, she exclaimed: "Thou see'st, Satan!" and fell to weeping, athing which, as every woman in the parish knew, a person absolutelypossessed by the Evil One can by no means accomplish (unless, indeed, abare three drops squeezed from the left eye may usurp the name oftears). But my mother shrank away from her and would not allow her totouch me; nor was it until I had grown older and ran about the villagealone that the old woman, having tracked me to a lonely spot, took me inher arms, mumbled over my head some words I did not understand, andkissed me. That a mole grows on the spot she kissed is but a fable (forhow do the women know where her kiss fell save by where the molegrows?--and that is to reason poorly), or at the most the purest chance.Nay, if it were more, I am content; for the mole does me no harm, andthe kiss, as I hope, did Betty some good; off she went straight to theVicar (who was living then in the cottage of my Lord Quinton's gardenerand exercising his sacred functions in a secrecy to which the wholeparish was privy) and prayed him to let her partake of the Lord'sSupper: a request that caused great scandal to the neighbours and soreembarrassment to the Vicar himself, who, being a learned man and deeplyread in demonology, grieved from his heart that the witch did not playher part better.
"It is," said he to my father, "a monstrous lapse."
"Nay, it is a sign of grace," urged my mother.
"It is," said my father (and I do not know whether he spoke perverselyor in earnest), "a matter of no moment."
Now, being steadfastly determined that my boyhood shall be less tediousin the telling than it was in the living--for I always longed to be aman, and hated my green and petticoat-governed days--I will passforthwith to the hour when I reached the age of eighteen years. My dearfather was then in Heaven, and old Betty had found, as was believed,another billet. But my mother lived, and the Vicar, like the King, hadcome to his own again: and I was five feet eleven in my stockings, andthere was urgent need that I should
set about pushing my way and puttingmoney in my purse; for our lands had not returned with the King, andthere was no more incoming than would serve to keep my mother andsisters in the style of gentlewomen.
"And on that matter," observed the Vicar, stroking his nose with hisforefinger, as his habit was in moments of perplexity, "Betty Nasroth'sprophecy is of small service. For the doings on which she touches arelikely to be occasions of expense rather than sources of gain."
"They would be money wasted," said my mother gently, "one and all ofthem."
The Vicar looked a little doubtful.
"I will write a sermon on that theme," said he; for this was with him afavourite way out of an argument. In truth the Vicar loved the prophecy,as a quiet student often loves a thing that echoes of the world which hehas shunned.
"You must write down for me what the King says to you, Simon," he toldme once.
"Suppose, sir," I suggested mischievously, "that it should not be fitfor your eye?"
"Then write it, Simon," he answered, pinching my ear, "for myunderstanding."
It was well enough for the Vicar's whimsical fancy to busy itself withBetty Nasroth's prophecy, half-believing, half-mocking, never forgettingnor disregarding; but I, who am, after all, the most concerned, doubtwhether such a dark utterance be a wholesome thing to hang round a youngman's neck. The dreams of youth grow rank enough without such watering.The prediction was always in my mind, alluring and tantalising as ateasing girl who puts her pretty face near yours, safe that you dare notkiss it. What it said I mused on, what it said not I neglected. Idedicated my idle hours to it, and, not appeased, it invaded my seasonsof business. Rather than seek my own path, I left myself to its will andhearkened for its whispered orders.
"It was the same," observed my mother sadly, "with a certain cook-maidof my sister's. It was foretold that she should marry her master."
"And did she not?" cried the Vicar, with ears all pricked-up.
"She changed her service every year," said my mother, "seeking thelikeliest man, until at last none would hire her."
"She should have stayed in her first service," said the Vicar, shakinghis head.
"But her first master had a wife," retorted my mother triumphantly.
"I had one once myself," said the Vicar.
The argument, with which his widowhood supplied the Vicar, was sound andunanswerable, and it suited well with my humour to learn from my aunt'scook-maid, and wait patiently on fate. But what avails an argument, beit ever so sound, against an empty purse? It was declared that I mustseek my fortune; yet on the method of my search some difference arose.
"You must work, Simon," said my sister Lucy, who was betrothed toJustice Barnard, a young squire of good family and high repute, butmighty hard on idle vagrants, and free with the stocks for revellers.
"You must pray for guidance," said my sister Mary, who was to wed asaintly clergyman, a Prebend, too, of the Cathedral.
"There is," said I stoutly, "nothing of such matters in Betty Nasroth'sprophecy."
"They are taken for granted, dear boy," said my mother gently.
The Vicar rubbed his nose.
Yet not these excellent and zealous counsellors proved right, but theVicar and I. For had I gone to London, as they urged, instead of abidingwhere I was, agreeably to the Vicar's argument and my own inclination,it is a great question whether the plague would not have proved toostrong for Betty Nasroth, and her prediction gone to lie with me in adeath-pit. As things befell, I lived, hearing only dimly and, as itwere, from afar-off of that great calamity, and of the horrors thatbeset the city. For the disease did not come our way, and we moralisedon the sins of the townsfolk with sound bodies and contented minds. Wewere happy in our health and in our virtue, and not disinclined toapplaud God's judgment that smote our erring brethren; for too often thechastisement of one sinner feeds another's pride. Yet the plague had ahand, and no small one, in that destiny of mine, although it came notnear me; for it brought fresh tenants to those same rooms in thegardener's cottage where the Vicar had dwelt till the loyal Parliament'sAct proved too hard for the conscience of our Independent minister, andthe Vicar, nothing loth, moved back to his parsonage.
Now I was walking one day, as I had full licence and leave to walk, inthe avenue of Quinton Manor, when I saw, first, what I had (if I am totell the truth) come to see, to wit, the figure of young MistressBarbara, daintily arrayed in a white summer gown. Barbara was pleasedto hold herself haughtily towards me, for she was an heiress, and of ahouse that had not fallen in the world as mine had. Yet we were friends;for we sparred and rallied, she giving offence and I taking it, shepardoning my rudeness and I accepting forgiveness; while my lord and mylady, perhaps thinking me too low for fear and yet high enough forfavour, showed me much kindness; my lord, indeed, would often jest withme on the great fate foretold me in Betty Nasroth's prophecy.
"Yet," he would say, with a twinkle in his eye, "the King has strangesecrets, and there is some strange wine in his cup, and to love where heloves----"; but at this point the Vicar, who chanced to be by, twinkledalso, but shifted the conversation to some theme which did not touch theKing, his secrets, his wine, or where he loved.
Thus then I saw, as I say, the slim tall figure, the dark hair, and theproud eyes of Barbara Quinton; and the eyes were flashing in anger astheir owner turned away from--what I had not looked to see in Barbara'scompany. This was another damsel, of lower stature and plumper figure,dressed full as prettily as Barbara herself, and laughing with mostmerry lips and under eyes that half hid themselves in an eclipse ofmirth. When Barbara saw me, she did not, as her custom was, feign not tosee me till I thrust my presence on her, but ran to me at once, cryingvery indignantly, "Simon, who is this girl? She has dared to tell methat my gown is of country make and hangs like an old smock on abeanpole."
"Mistress Barbara," I answered, "who heeds the make of the gown when thewearer is of divine make?" I was young then, and did not know that tocompliment herself at the expense of her apparel is not the best way toplease a woman.
"You are silly," said Barbara. "Who is she?"
"The girl," said I, crestfallen, "is, they tell me, from London, and shelodges with her mother in your gardener's cottage. But I didn't look tofind her here in the avenue."
"You shall not again if I have my way," said Barbara. Then she addedabruptly and sharply, "Why do you look at her?"
Now, it was true that I was looking at the stranger, and on Barbara'squestion I looked the harder.
"She is mighty pretty," said I. "Does she not seem so to you, MistressBarbara?" And, simple though I was, I spoke not altogether insimplicity.
"Pretty?" echoed Barbara. "And pray what do you know of prettiness,Master Simon?"
"What I have learnt at Quinton Manor," I answered, with a bow.
"That doesn't prove her pretty," retorted the angry lady.
"There's more than one way of it," said I discreetly, and I took a steptowards the visitor, who stood some ten yards from us, laughing stilland plucking a flower to pieces in her fingers.
"She isn't known to you?" asked Barbara, perceiving my movement.
"I can remedy that," said I, smiling.
Never since the world began had youth been a more faithful servant tomaid than I to Barbara Quinton. Yet because, if a man lie down, the bestof girls will set her pretty foot on his neck, and also from my love ofa thing that is new, I was thoroughly resolved to accost the gardener'sguest; and my purpose was not altered by Barbara's scornful toss of herlittle head as she turned away.
"It is no more than civility," I protested, "to ask after her health,for, coming from London, she can but just have escaped the plague."
Barbara tossed her head again, declaring plainly her opinion of myexcuse.
"But if you desire me to walk with you----" I began.
"There is nothing I thought of less," she interrupted. "I came here tobe alone."
"My pleasure lies in obeying you," said I, and I stood bareheaded whileBarbara, wi
thout another glance at me, walked off towards the house.Half penitent, yet wholly obstinate, I watched her go; she did not oncelook over her shoulder. Had she--but a truce to that. What passed isenough; with what might have, my story would stretch to the world's end.I smothered my remorse, and went up to the stranger, bidding hergood-day in my most polite and courtly manner; she smiled, but at what Iknew not. She seemed little more than a child, sixteen years old orseventeen at the most, yet there was no confusion in her greeting of me.Indeed, she was most marvellously at her ease, for, on my salute, shecried, lifting her hands in feigned amazement,
"A man, by my faith; a man in this place!"
Well pleased to be called a man, I bowed again.
"Or at least," she added, "what will be one, if it please Heaven."
"You may live to see it without growing wrinkled," said I, striving toconceal my annoyance.
"And one that has repartee in him! Oh, marvellous!"
"We do not all lack wit in the country, madame," said I, simpering as Isupposed the Court gallants to simper, "nor, since the plague came toLondon, beauty."
"Indeed, it's wonderful," she cried in mock admiration. "Do they teachsuch sayings hereabouts, sir?"
"Even so, madame, and from such books as your eyes furnish." And for allher air of mockery, I was, as I remember, much pleased with this speech.It had come from some well-thumbed romance, I doubt not. I was always aneager reader of such silly things.
She curtseyed low, laughing up at me with roguish eyes and mouth.
"Now, surely, sir," she said, "you must be Simon Dale, of whom my hostthe gardener speaks?"
"It is my name, madame, at your service. But the gardener has played mea trick; for now I have nothing to give in exchange for your name."
"Nay, you have a very pretty nosegay in your hand," said she. "I mightbe persuaded to barter my name for it."
The nosegay that was in my hand I had gathered and brought for BarbaraQuinton, and I still meant to use it as a peace-offering. But Barbarahad treated me harshly, and the stranger looked longingly at thenosegay.
"The gardener is a niggard with his flowers," she said with a coaxingsmile.
"To confess the truth," said I, wavering in my purpose, "the nosegay wasplucked for another."
"It will smell the sweeter," she cried, with a laugh. "Nothing givesflowers such a perfume." And she held out a wonderfully small handtowards my nosegay.
"Is that a London lesson?" I asked, holding the flowers away from hergrasp.
"It holds good in the country also, sir; wherever, indeed, there is aman to gather flowers and more than one lady who loves smelling them."
"Well," said I, "the nosegay is yours at the price," and I held it outto her.
"The price? What, you desire to know my name?"
"Unless, indeed, I may call you one of my own choosing," said I, with aglance that should have been irresistible.
"Would you use it in speaking of me to Mistress Barbara there? No, I'llgive you a name to call me by. You may call me Cydaria."
"Cydaria! A fine name!"
"It is," said she carelessly, "as good as any other."
"But is there no other to follow it?"
"When did a poet ask two names to head his sonnet? And surely you wantedmine for a sonnet?"
"So be it, Cydaria," said I.
"So be it, Simon. And is not Cydaria as pretty as Barbaria?"
"It has a strange sound," said I, "but it's well enough."
"And now--the nosegay!"
"I must pay a reckoning for this," I sighed; but since a bargain is abargain I gave her the nosegay.
She took it, her face all alight with smiles, and buried her nose in it.I stood looking at her, caught by her pretty ways and graceful boldness.Boy though I was, I had been right in telling her that there are manyways of beauty; here were two to start with, hers and Barbara's. Shelooked up and, finding my gaze on her, made a little grimace as thoughit were only what she had expected and gave her no more concern thanpleasure. Yet at such a look Barbara would have turned cold and distantfor an hour or more. Cydaria, smiling in scornful indulgence, dropped meanother mocking curtsey, and made as though she would go her way. Yetshe did not go, but stood with her head half-averted, a glance strayingtowards me from the corner of her eye, while with her tiny foot she dugthe gravel of the avenue.
"It is a lovely place, this park," said she. "But, indeed, it's oftenhard to find the way about it."
I was not backward to take her hint.
"If you had a guide now----" I began.
"Why, yes, if I had a guide, Simon," she whispered gleefully.
"You could find the way, Cydaria, and your guide would be most----"
"Most charitably engaged. But then----" She paused, drooping the cornersof her mouth in sudden despondency.
"But what then?"
"Why then, Mistress Barbara would be alone."
I hesitated. I glanced towards the house. I looked at Cydaria.
"She told me that she wished to be alone," said I.
"No? How did she say it?"
"I will tell you all about that as we go along," said I, and Cydarialaughed again.