CHAPTER II
THE WAY OF YOUTH
The debate is years old; not indeed quite so old as the world, sinceAdam and Eve cannot, for want of opportunity, have fallen out over it,yet descending to us from unknown antiquity. But it has never been setat rest by general consent: the quarrel over Passive Obedience isnothing to it. It seems such a small matter though; for the debate Imean turns on no greater question than this: may a man who ownsallegiance to one lady justify by any train of reasoning his conduct insnatching a kiss from another, this other being (for it is important tohave the terms right) not (so far as can be judged) unwilling? Imaintained that he might; to be sure, my position admitted of no otherargument, and, for the most part, it is a man's state which determineshis arguments and not his reasons that induce his state. Barbaradeclared that he could not; though, to be sure, it was, as she addedmost promptly, no concern of hers; for she cared not whether I were inlove or not, nor how deeply, nor with whom, nor, in a word, anything atall about the matter. It was an abstract opinion she gave, so far aslove, or what men chose to call such, might be involved; as toseemliness, she must confess that she had her view, with which, may be,Mr Dale was not in agreement. The girl at the gardener's cottage must,she did not doubt, agree wholly with Mr Dale; how otherwise would shehave suffered the kiss in an open space in the park, where anybody mightpass--and where, in fact (by the most perverse chance in the world),pretty Mistress Barbara herself passed at the moment when the thingoccurred? However, if the matter could ever have had the smallestinterest for her--save in so far as it touched the reputation of thevillage and might afford an evil example to the village maidens--itcould have none at all now, seeing that she set out the next day toLondon, to take her place as Maid of Honour to Her Royal Highness theDuchess, and would have as little leisure as inclination to think of MrSimon Dale or of how he chose to amuse himself when he believed thatnone was watching. Not that she had watched: her presence was the purestand most unwelcome chance. Yet she could not but be glad to hear thatthe girl was soon to go back whence she came, to the great relief (shewas sure) of Madame Dale and of her dear friends Lucy and Mary; to herlove for whom nothing--no, nothing--should make any difference. For thegirl herself she wished no harm, but she conceived that her mother mustbe ill at ease concerning her.
It will be allowed that Mistress Barbara had the most of the argument ifnot the best. Indeed, I found little to say, except that the villagewould be the worse by so much as the Duchess of York was the better forMistress Barbara's departure; the civility won me nothing but thehaughtiest curtsey and a taunt.
"Must you rehearse your pretty speeches on me before you venture them onyour friends, sir?" she asked.
"I am at your mercy, Mistress Barbara," I pleaded. "Are we to partenemies?"
She made me no answer, but I seemed to see a softening in her face asshe turned away towards the window, whence were to be seen the stretchof the lawn and the park-meadows beyond. I believe that with a littlemore coaxing she would have pardoned me, but at the instant, by anotherstroke of perversity, a small figure sauntered across the sunny fields.The fairest sights may sometimes come amiss.
"Cydaria! A fine name!" said Barbara, with curling lip. "I'll wager shehas reasons for giving no other."
"Her mother gives another to the gardener," I reminded her meekly.
"Names are as easy given as--as kisses!" she retorted. "As for Cydaria,my lord says it is a name out of a play."
All this while we had stood at the window, watching Cydaria's light feettrip across the meadow, and her bonnet swing wantonly in her hand. Butnow Cydaria disappeared among the trunks of the beech trees.
"See, she has gone," said I in a whisper. "She is gone, MistressBarbara."
Barbara understood what I would say, but she was resolved to show me nogentleness. The soft tones of my voice had been for her, but she wouldnot accept their homage.
"You need not sigh for that before my face," said she. "And yet, sigh ifyou will. What is it to me? But she is not gone far, and, doubtless,will not run too fast when you pursue."
"When you are in London," said I, "you will think with remorse how illyou used me."
"I shall never think of you at all. Do you forget that there aregentlemen of wit and breeding at the Court?"
"The devil fly away with every one of them!" cried I suddenly, notknowing then how well the better part of them would match their escort.
Barbara turned to me; there was a gleam of triumph in the depths of herdark eyes.
"Perhaps when you hear of me at Court," she cried, "you'll be sorry tothink how----"
But she broke off suddenly, and looked out of the window.
"You'll find a husband there," I suggested bitterly.
"Like enough," said she carelessly.
To be plain, I was in no happy mood. Her going grieved me to the heart,and that she should go thus incensed stung me yet more. I was jealous ofevery man in London town. Had not my argument, then, some reason in itafter all?
"Fare-you-well, madame," said I, with a heavy frown and a sweeping bow.No player from the Lane could have been more tragic.
"Fare-you-well, sir. I will not detain you, for you have, I know, otherfarewells to make."
"Not for a week yet!" I cried, goaded to a show of exultation thatCydaria stayed so long.
"I don't doubt that you'll make good use of the time," she said, as witha fine dignity she waved me to the door. Girl as she was, she had caughtor inherited the grand air that great ladies use.
Gloomily I passed out, to fall into the hands of my lord, who waswalking on the terrace. He caught me by the arm, laughing ingood-humoured mockery.
"You've had a touch of sentiment, eh, you rogue?" said he. "Well,there's little harm in that, since the girl leaves us to-morrow."
"Indeed, my lord, there was little harm," said I, long-faced and rueful."As little as my lady herself could wish." (At this he smiled andnodded.) "Mistress Barbara will hardly so much as look at me."
He grew graver, though the smile still hung about his lips.
"They gossip about you in the village, Simon," said he. "Take a friend'scounsel, and don't be so much with the lady at the cottage. Come, Idon't speak without reason." He nodded at me as a man nods who meansmore than he will say. Indeed, not a word more would he say, so thatwhen I left him I was even more angry than when I parted from hisdaughter. And, the nature of man being such as Heaven has made it, whatneed to say that I bent my steps to the cottage with all convenientspeed? The only weapon of an ill-used lover (nay, I will not argue themerits of the case again) was ready to my hand.
Yet my impatience availed little; for there, on the seat that stood bythe door, sat my good friend the Vicar, discoursing in pleasant leisurewith the lady who named herself Cydaria.
"It is true," he was saying. "I fear it is true, though you're overyoung to have learnt it."
"There are schools, sir," she returned, with a smile that had (or so itseemed to me) a touch--no more--of bitterness in it, "where such lessonsare early learnt."
"They are best let alone, those schools," said he.
"And what's the lesson?" I asked, drawing nearer.
Neither answered. The Vicar rested his hands on the ball of his cane,and suddenly began to relate old Betty Nasroth's prophecy to hiscompanion. I cannot tell what led his thoughts to it, but it was neverfar from his mind when I was by. She listened with attention, smilingbrightly in whimsical amusement when the fateful words, pronounced withdue solemnity, left the Vicar's lips.
"It is a strange saying," he ended, "of which time alone can show thetruth."
She glanced at me with merry eyes, yet with a new air of interest. It isstrange the hold these superstitions have on all of us; though surelyfuture ages will outgrow such childishness.
"I don't know what the prophecy means," said she; "yet one thing atleast would seem needful for its fulfilment--that Mr Dale should becomeacquainted with the King."
"True!" cried the Vicar eagerly. "E
verything stands on that, and on thatwe stick. For Simon cannot love where the King loves, nor know what theKing hides, nor drink of the King's cup, if he abide all his days herein Hatchstead. Come, Simon, the plague is gone!"
"Should I then be gone too?" I asked. "But to what end? I have nofriends in London who would bring me to the notice of the King."
The Vicar shook his head sadly. I had no such friends, and the King hadproved before now that he could forget many a better friend to thethrone than my dear father's open mind had made of him.
"We must wait, we must wait still," said the Vicar. "Time will find afriend."
Cydaria had become pensive for a moment, but she looked up now, smilingagain, and said to me:
"You'll soon have a friend in London."
Thinking of Barbara, I answered gloomily, "She's no friend of mine."
"I did not mean whom you mean," said Cydaria, with twinkling eyes andnot a whit put out. "But I also am going to London."
I smiled, for it did not seem as though she would be a powerful friend,or able to open any way for me. But she met my smile with another sofull of confidence and challenge that my attention was wholly caught,and I did not heed the Vicar's farewell as he rose and left us.
"And would you serve me," I asked, "if you had the power?"
"Nay, put the question as you think it," said she. "Would you have thepower to serve me if you had the will? Is not that the doubt in yourmind?"
"And if it were?"
"Then, indeed, I do not know how to answer; but strange things happenthere in London, and it may be that some day even I should have somepower."
"And you would use it for me?"
"Could I do less on behalf of a gentleman who has risked his mistress'sfavour for my poor cheek's sake?" And she fell to laughing again, hermirth growing greater as I turned red in the face. "You mustn't blushwhen you come to town," she cried, "or they'll make a ballad on you, andcry you in the streets for a monster."
"The oftener comes the cause, the rarer shall the effect be," said I.
"The excuse is well put," she conceded. "We should make a wit of you intown."
"What do you in town?" I asked squarely, looking her full in the eyes.
"Perhaps, sometimes," she laughed, "what I have done once--and to yourgood knowledge--since I came to the country."
Thus she would baffle me with jesting answers as often as I sought tofind out who and what she was. Nor had I better fortune with her mother,for whom I had small liking, and who had, as it seemed, no more for me.For she was short in her talk, and frowned to see me with her daughter.Yet she saw me, I must confess, often with Cydaria in the next days, andI was often with Cydaria when she did not see me. For Barbara was gone,leaving me both sore and lonely, all in the mood to find comfort where Icould, and to see manliness in desertion; and there was a charm aboutthe girl that grew on me insensibly and without my will until I came tolove, not her (as I believed, forgetting that Love loves not to mark hisboundaries too strictly) but her merry temper, her wit and cheerfulness.Moreover, these things were mingled and spiced with others, moreattractive than all to unfledged youth, an air of the world and aknowledge of life which piqued my curiosity and sat (it seems so even tomy later mind as I look back) with bewitching incongruity on thelaughing child's face and the unripe grace of girlhood. Her moods wereendless, vying with one another in an ever undetermined struggle for theprize of greatest charm. For the most part she was merry, frank mirthpassing into sly raillery; now and then she would turn sad, sighing,"Heigho, that I could stay in the sweet innocent country!" Or again shewould show or ape an uneasy conscience, whispering, "Ah, that I werelike your Mistress Barbara!" The next moment she would be laughing andjesting and mocking, as though life were nought but a greatmany-coloured bubble, and she the brightest-tinted gleam on it.
Are women so constant and men so forgetful, that all sympathy must gofrom me and all esteem be forfeited because, being of the age ofeighteen years, I vowed to live for one lady only on a Monday and wasready to die for another on the Saturday? Look back; bow your heads, andgive me your hands, to kiss or to clasp!
Let not you and I inquire What has been our past desire, On what shepherds you have smiled, Or what nymphs I have beguiled; Leave it to the planets too What we shall hereafter do; For the joys we now may prove, Take advice of present love.
Nay, I will not set my name to that in its fulness; Mr Waller is alittle too free for one who has been nicknamed a Puritan to follow himto the end. Yet there is a truth in it. Deny it, if you will. You aresmiling, madame, while you deny.
It was a golden summer's evening when I, to whom the golden world wasall a hell, came by tryst to the park of Quinton Manor, there to bidCydaria farewell. Mother and sisters had looked askance at me, thevillage gossiped, even the Vicar shook a kindly head. What cared I? ByHeaven, why was one man a nobleman and rich, while another had no moneyin his purse and but one change to his back? Was not love all in all,and why did Cydaria laugh at a truth so manifest? There she was underthe beech tree, with her sweet face screwed up to a burlesque of grief,her little hand lying on her hard heart as though it beat for me, andher eyes the playground of a thousand quick expressions. I strode up toher, and caught her by the hand, saying no more than just her name,"Cydaria." It seemed that there was no more to say; yet she cried,laughing and reproachful, "Have you no vows for me? Must I go without mytribute?"
I loosed her hand and stood away from her. On my soul, I could notspeak. I was tongue-tied, dumb as a dog.
"When you come courting in London," she said, "you must not come soempty of lover's baggage. There ladies ask vows, and protestations, anddespair, ay, and poetry, and rhapsodies, and I know not what."
"Of all these I have nothing but despair," said I.
"Then you make a sad lover," she pouted. "And I am glad to be goingwhere lovers are less woebegone."
"You look for lovers in London?" I cried, I that had cried toBarbara--well, I have said my say on that.
"If Heaven send them," answered Cydaria.
"And you will forget me?"
"In truth, yes, unless you come yourself to remind me. I have no headfor absent lovers."
"But if I come----" I began in a sudden flush of hope.
She did not (though it was her custom) answer in raillery; she plucked aleaf from the tree, and tore it with her fingers as she answered with acurious glance.
"Why, if you come, I think you'll wish that you had not come, unless,indeed, you've forgotten me before you come."
"Forget you! Never while I live! May I come, Cydaria?"
"Most certainly, sir, so soon as your wardrobe and your purse allow.Nay, don't be huffed. Come, Simon, sweet Simon, are we not friends, andmay not friends rally one another? No, and if I choose, I will put myhand through your arm. Indeed, sir, you're the first gentleman that everthrust it away. See, it is there now! Doesn't it look well there,Simon--and feel well there, Simon?" She looked up into my face incoaxing apology for the hurt she had given me, and yet still withmockery of my tragic airs. "Yes, you must by all means come to London,"she went on, patting my arm. "Is not Mistress Barbara in London? And Ithink--am I wrong, Simon?--that there is something for which you willwant to ask her pardon."
"If I come to London, it is for you and you only that I shall come," Icried.
"No, no. You will come to love where the King loves, to know what hehides, and to drink of his cup. I, sir, cannot interfere with your greatdestiny"; she drew away from me, curtseyed low, and stood opposite tome, smiling.
"For you and for you only," I repeated.
"Then will the King love me?" she asked.
"God forbid," said I fervently.
"Oh, and why, pray, your 'God forbid'? You're very ready with your 'Godforbids.' Am I then to take your love sooner than the King's, MasterSimon?"
"Mine is an honest love," said I soberly.
"Oh, I should doat on the country, if everybody didn't talk of hishonesty there! I have
seen the King in London and he is a finegentleman."
"And you have seen the Queen also, may be?"
"In truth, yes. Ah, I have shocked you, Simon? Well, I was wrong. Come,we're in the country; we'll be good. But when we've made a townsman ofyou, we'll--we will be what they are in town. Moreover, in ten minutes Iam going home, and it would be hard if I also left you in anger. Youshall have a pleasanter memory of my going than Mistress Barbara's gaveyou."
"How shall I find you when I come to town?"
"Why, if you will ask any gentleman you meet whether he chances toremember Cydaria, you will find me as soon as it is well you should."
I prayed her to tell me more; but she was resolved to tell no more.
"See, it is late. I go," said she. Then suddenly she came near to me."Poor Simon," she said softly. "Yet it is good for you, Simon. Some dayyou will be amused at this, Simon"; she spoke as though she were fiftyyears older than I. My answer lay not in words or arguments. I caughther in my arms and kissed her. She struggled, yet she laughed. It shotthrough my mind then that Barbara would neither have struggled norlaughed. But Cydaria laughed.
Presently I let her go, and kneeling on my knee kissed her hand veryhumbly, as though she had been what Barbara was. If she were not--and Iknew not what she was--yet should my love exalt her and make a thronewhereon she might sit a Queen. My new posture brought a sudden gravityto her face, and she bent over me with a smile that seemed now tenderand almost sorrowful.
"Poor Simon, poor Simon," she whispered. "Kiss my hand now; kiss it asthough I were fit for worship. It will do you no harm, and--andperhaps--perhaps I shall like to remember it." She bent down and kissedmy forehead as I knelt before her. "Poor Simon," she whispered, as herhair brushed mine. Then her hand was gradually and gently withdrawn. Ilooked up to see her face; her lips were smiling but there seemed a dewon her lashes. She laughed, and the laugh ended in a little gasp, asthough a sob had fought with it. And she cried out loud, her voiceringing clear among the trees in the still evening air.
"That ever I should be so sore a fool!"
Then she turned and left me, running swiftly over the grass, with nevera look behind her. I watched till she was out of sight, and then satdown on the ground; with twitching lips and wide-open dreary eyes.
Ah, for youth's happiness! Alas for its dismal woe! Thus she came intomy life.