Part 42 (1/2)
”What shall we do?” asked Barbara again. ”Is there n.o.body to whom you can go, Simon?”
There seemed n.o.body. Buckingham I dared not trust, he was in Monmouth's interest; Darrell had called himself my friend, but he was the servant of Lord Arlington, and my lord the Secretary was not a man to trust. My messenger would guide my enemies and my charge be put in danger.
”Is there n.o.body, Simon?” she implored.
There was one, one who would aid me with merry willingness and, had she means at the moment, with lavish hand. The thought had sprung to my mind as Barbara spoke. If I could come safely and secretly to a certain house in a certain alley in the town of Dover, I could have money for the sake of old acquaintance, and what had once been something more, between her and me. But would Barbara take largesse from that hand? I am a coward with women; ignorance is fear's mother and, on my life, I do not know how they will take this thing or that, with scorn or tears or shame or what, or again with some surprising turn of softness and (if I may make bold to say it) a pliability of mind to which few of us men lay claim and none give honour. But the last mood was not Barbara's, and, as I looked at her, I dared not tell her where lay my only hope of help in Dover. I put my wits to work how I could win the aid for her, and keep the hand a secret. Such deception would sit lightly on my conscience.
”I am thinking,” I replied to her, ”whether there is anyone, and how I might reach him, if there is.”
”Surely there's someone who would serve you and whom you could trust?”
she urged.
”Would you trust anyone whom I trust?” I asked.
”In truth, yes.”
”And would you take the service if I would?”
”Am I so rich that I can choose?” she said piteously.
”I have your promise to it?”
”Yes,” she answered with no hesitation, nay, with a readiness that made me ashamed of my stratagem. Yet, as Barbara said, beggars cannot be choosers even in their stratagems, and, if need were, I must hold her to her word.
Now we were at the land and the keel of our boat grated on the s.h.i.+ngle.
We disembarked under the shadow of the cliffs at the eastern end of the bay; all was solitude, save for a little house standing some way back from the sea, half-way up the cliff, on a level platform cut in the face of the rock. It seemed a fisherman's cottage; thence might come breakfast, and for so much our guinea would hold good. There was a recess in the cliffs, and here I bade Barbara sit and rest herself, sheltered from view on either side, while I went forward to try my luck at the cottage. She seemed reluctant to be left, but obeyed me, standing and watching while I took my way, which I chose cautiously, keeping myself as much within the shadow as might be. I had sooner not have ventured this much exposure, but it is ill to face starvation for safety's sake.
The cottage lay but a hundred yards off, and soon I approached it. It was hard on six o'clock now, and I looked to find the inmates up and stirring. I wondered also whether Monmouth were gone to await Barbara and myself at the Merry Mariners in Deal; alas, we were too near the trysting-place! Or had he heard by now that the bird was flown from his lure and caged by that M. de Perrencourt who had treated him so cavalierly? I could not tell. Here was the cottage; but I stood still suddenly, amazed and cautious. For there, in the peaceful morning, in the sun's kindly light, there lay across the threshold the body of a man; his eyes, wide-opened, stared at the sky, but seemed to see nothing of what they gazed at; his brown coat was stained to a dark rusty hue on the breast, where a gash in the stuff showed the pa.s.sage of a sword. His hand clasped a long knife, and his face was known to me. I had seen it daily at my uprising and lying-down. The body was that of Jonah Wall, in the flesh my servant, in spirit the slave of Phineas Tate, whose teaching had brought him to this pa.s.s.
The sight bred in me swift horror and enduring caution. The two Dukes had been despatched, sorely against their will, in chase of this man.
Was it to their hands that he had yielded up his life and by their doing that he lay like carrion? It might well be that he had sought refuge in this cottage, and having found there death, not comfort, had been flung forth a corpse. I pitied him; although he had been party to a plot which had well nigh caused my own death and taken no account of my honour, yet I was sorry for him. He had been about me; I grieved for him as for the cat on my hearth. Well, now in death he warned me; it was some recompense; I lifted my hat as I stole by him and slunk round to the side of the house. There was a window there, or rather a window-frame, for gla.s.s there was none; it stood some six feet from the ground and I crouched beneath it, for I now heard voices in the cottage.
”I wish the rascal hadn't fought,” said one voice. ”But he flew at me like a tiger, and I had much ado to stop him. I was compelled to run him through.”
”Yet he might have served me alive,” said another.
”Your Grace is right. For although we hate these foul schemes, the men had the root of the matter in them.”
”They were no Papists, at least,” said the second voice.
”But the King will be pleased.”
”Oh, a curse on the King, although he's what he is to me! Haven't you heard? When I returned to the Castle from my search on the other side of the town, seeking you or Buckingham--by the way, where is he?”
”Back in his bed, I warrant, sir.”
”The lazy dog! Well then, they told me she was gone with Louis. I rode on to tell you, for, said I, the King may hunt his conspirators himself now. But who went with them?”
”Your Grace will wonder if I say Simon Dale was the man?”