Part 17 (1/2)
”Ay, I go with the Duke of Monmouth, and you go with me, to Dover when the King goes.”
Now, either Dover was on everybody's brain, or was very sadly on my brain, for I swear even this fellow's eye seemed to brighten as I named the place.
”To Dover, sir?”
”No less. You shall see all the gaiety there is to be seen, Jonah.”
The flush of interest had died away; he was dolefully tranquil and submissive again.
”Well, what do you want with me?” I asked, for I did not wish him to suspect that I detected any change in his manner.
”A lady came here to-day, sir, in a very fine coach with Flemish horses, and asked for you. Hearing you were from home, she called to me and bade me take a message for you. I prayed her to write it, but she laughed, and said she spoke more easily than she wrote; and she bade me say that she wished to see you.”
”What sort of lady was she, Jonah?”
”She sat all the while in the coach, sir, but she seemed not tall; she was very merry, sir.” Jonah sighed deeply; with him merriment stood high among the vices of our nature.
”She didn't say for what purpose she wanted me?” I asked as carelessly as I could.
”No, sir. She said you would know the purpose, and that she would look for you at noon to-morrow.”
”But where, Jonah?”
”At a house called Burford House, sir, in Chelsea.”
”She gave you no name?”
”I asked her name, and she gave me one.”
”What was it?”
”It was a strange heathenish name, and she laughed as she gave it; indeed she laughed all the time.”
”There's no sin in laughter,” said I dryly. ”You may leave me, I need no help in undressing.”
”But the name----”
”By Heaven, man, I know the name! Be off with you!”
He shuffled off, his whole manner expressing reprobation, whether most of my oath, or of the heathenish name, or of the lady who gave it, I know not.
Well, if he were so horror-stricken at these things, what would he say at learning with whom he had talked? Perhaps he would have preached to her, as had Phineas Tate, his master in religion. For, beyond doubt, that heathenish name was Cydaria, and that fine coach with Flemish horses--I left the question of that coach unanswered.
The moment the door was shut behind my servant I sprang to my feet, crying in a low but very vehement voice, ”Never!” I would not go. Had she not wounded me enough? Must I tear away the bandage from the gash?
She had tortured me, and asked me now, with a laugh, to be so good as stretch myself on the rack again. I would not go. That laugh was cruel insolence. I knew that laugh. Ah, why so I did--I knew it well--how it rose and rippled and fell, losing itself in echoes scarcely audible, but rich with enticing mirth. Surely she was cunningly fas.h.i.+oned for the undoing of men; yes, and of herself, poor soul. What were her coaches, and the Flemish horses, and the house called Burford House in Chelsea? A wave of memory swept over me, and I saw her simple--well then, more simple!--though always merry, in the sweet-smelling fields at home, playing with my boy's heart as with a toy that she knew little of, but yet by instinct handled deftly. It pleased her mightily, that toy, and she seemed to wonder when she found that it felt. She did not feel; joy was hers, nothing deeper. Yet could she not, might she not, would she not? I knew what she was; who knew what she might be? The picture of her rose again before my eyes, inviting a desperate venture, spurring me on to an enterprise in which the effort seemed absurdity, and success would have been in the eyes of the world calamity. Yet an exaltation of spirit was on me, and I wove another dream that drove the first away; now I did not go to Dover to play my part in great affairs and jostle for higher place in a world where in G.o.d's eyes all places are equal and all low, but away back to the country I had loved, and not alone. She should be with me, love should dress penitence in glowing robes, and purity be decked more gloriously than all the pomps of sin. Could it be? If it could, it seemed a prize for which all else might be willingly forgone--an achievement rare and great, though the page of no history recorded it.
Phineas Tate had preached to her, and gone away, empty and scorned. I would preach too, in different tones and with a different gospel. Yet my words should have a sweetness his had not, my gospel a power that should draw where his repelled. For my love, shaken not yet shattered, wounded not dead, springing again to full life and force, should breathe its vital energy into her soul and impart of its endless abundance till her heart was full. Entranced by this golden vision, I rose and looked from the window at the dawning day, praying that mine might be the task, the achievement, the reward.
Bright dawned that day as I, with brighter brightness in my heart, climbed the stairs that led to my bedroom. But as I reached the door of it, I paused. There came a sound from the little closet beyond, where Jonah stretched his weary legs, and, as I hoped, had forgotten in harmless sleep the soul that he himself tormented worse than would the h.e.l.l he feared. No, he did not rest. From his closet came low, fervent, earnest prayers. Listening a minute, half in scorn, half in pity, and in no unkindness, I heard him.