"She hath taken me through all the grand places, Ramsay; through Whitehall and Hampton Court and the Tower! She hath come to see me every week!"
I said nothing.
"To-morrow she goes to Oxford with the queen. She is not happy, Ramsay.
She says she feels like a caged bird. Ramsay, why did she love that north land where the wicked Frenchman took her?"
"I don"t know, Rebecca. She once said it was strong and pure and free."
"Did you see her oft, Ramsay?"
"No, Rebecca; only at dinner on Sundays."
"And--and--all the officers were there on the Sabbath?"
"All the officers were there!"
She sat silent, eyes downcast, thinking.
"Ramsay?"
"Well?"
"Hortense will be marrying some grand courtier."
"May he be worthy of her."
"I think many ask her."
"And what does Mistress Hortense say?"
"I think," answers Rebecca meditatively, "from the quant.i.ty of love-verse writ, she must keep saying--No."
Then Lady Kirke turns to bid us all go to the Duke"s Theatre, where the king"s suite would appear that night. Rebecca, of course, would not go.
Her father would be expecting her when he came home, she said. So Pierre Radisson and I escorted Lady Kirke and her daughter to the play, riding in one of those ponderous coaches, with four belaced footmen clinging behind and postillions before. At the entrance to the playhouse was a great concourse of crowding people, masked ladies, courtiers with pages carrying torches for the return after dark, merchants with linkmen, work folk with lanterns, n.o.blemen elbowing tradesmen from the wall, tradesmen elbowing mechanics; all pushing and jostling and cracking their jokes with a freedom of speech that would have cost dear in Boston Town. The beaux, I mind, had ready-writ love-verses sticking out of pockets thick as bailiffs" yellow papers; so that a gallant could have stocked his own munitions by picking up the missives dropped at the feet of disdainfuls.
Of the play, I recall nothing but that some favourite of the king, Mary Davies, or the famous Nell, or some such an one, danced a monstrous bold jig. Indeed, our grand people, taking their cue from the courtiers"
boxes, affected a mighty contempt for the play, except when a naughty jade on the boards stepped high, or blew a kiss to some dandy among the noted folk. For aught I could make out, they did not come to hear, but to be heard; the ladies chattering and ogling; the gallants stalking from box to box and pit to gallery, waving their scented handkerchiefs, striking a pose where the greater part of the audience could see the flash of beringed fingers, or taking a pinch of snuff with a snap of the lid to call attention to its gold-work and naked G.o.ddesses.
"Drat these tradespeople, kinsman!" says Lady Kirke, as a fat townsman and his wife pushed past us, "drat these tradespeople!" says she as we were taking our place in one of the boxes, ""tis monstrous gracious of the king to come among them at all!"
Methought her memory of Sir John"s career had been suddenly clipped short; but Pierre Radisson only smiled solemnly. Some jokes, like dessert, are best taken cold, not hot.
Then there was a craning of necks; and the king"s party came in, His Majesty grown sallow with years but gay and nonchalant as ever, with Barillon, the French amba.s.sador, on one side and Her Grace of Portsmouth on the other. Behind came the whole court; the d.u.c.h.ess of Cleveland, whom our wits were beginning to call "a perennial," because she held her power with the king and her lovers increased with age; statesmen hanging upon her for a look or a smile that might lead the way to the king"s ear; Sir George Jeffreys, the judge, whose name was to become England"s infamy; Queen Catherine of Braganza, keeping up hollow mirth with those whose presence was insult; the Duke of York, soberer than his royal brother, the king, since Monmouth"s menace to the succession; and a host of hangers-on ready to swear away England"s liberties for a licking of the crumbs that fell from royal lips.
Then the hum of the playhouse seemed as the beating of the north sea; for Lady Kirke was whispering, "There! There! There she is!" and Hortense was entering one of the royal boxes accompanied by a foreign-looking, elderly woman, and that young Lieutenant Blood, whom we had encountered earlier in the day.
"The countess from Portugal--Her Majesty"s friend," murmurs Lady Kirke.
"Ah, Pierre, you have done finely for us all!"
And there oozed over my Lady Kirke"s countenance as fine a satisfaction as ever radiated from the face of a sweating cook.
"How?" asks Pierre Radisson, pursing his lips.
"Sir John hath dined twice with His Royal Highness----"
"The Duke is Governor of the Company, and Sir John is a director."
"Ta-ta, now there you go, Pierre!" smirks my lady. "An your pretty baggage had not such a saucy way with the men--why--who can tell----"
"Madame," interrupted Pierre Radisson, "G.o.d forbid! There be many lords amaking in strange ways, but we of the wilderness only count honour worth when it"s won honourably."
But Lady Kirke bare heard the rebuke. She was all eyes for the royal box. "La, now, Pierre," she cries, "see! The king hath recognised you!"
She lurched forward into fuller view of onlookers as she spoke.
"Wella-day! Good lack! Pierre Radisson, I do believe!--Yes!--See!--His Majesty is sending for you!"
And a page in royal colours appeared to say that the king commanded Pierre Radisson to present himself in the royal box. With his wiry hair wild as it had ever been on the north sea, off he went, all unconscious of the contemptuous looks from courtier and dandy at his strange, half-savage dress. And presently Pierre Radisson is seated in the king"s presence, chatting unabashed, the cynosure of all eyes. At the stir, Hortense had turned towards us. For a moment the listless hauteur gave place to a scarce hidden start. Then the pallid face had looked indifferently away.
"The huzzy!" mutters Lady Kirke. "She might "a" bowed in sight of the whole house! Hoighty-toighty! We shall see, an the little moth so easily blinded by court glare is not singed for its vanity! Ungrateful baggage! See how she sits, not deigning to listen one word of all the young lieutenant is saying! Mary?"
"Yes----"
"You mind I told her--I warned the saucy miss to give more heed to the men--to remember what it might mean to us----"
"Yes," adds Madame Radisson, "and she said she hated the court----"
"Faugh!" laughs Lady Kirke, fussing and fuming and shifting her place like a peac.o.c.k with ruffled plumage, "pride before the fall--I"ll warrant, you men spoiled her in the north! Very fine, forsooth, when a pauper wench from no one knows where may slight the first ladies of the land!"
"Madame," said I, "you are missing the play!"
"Master Stanhope," said she, "the play must be marvellous moving! Where is your colour of a moment ago?"
I had no response to her railing. It was as if that look of Hortense had come from across the chasm that separated the old order from the new. In the wilderness she was in distress, I her helper. Here she was of the court and I--a common trader. Such fools does pride make of us, and so p.r.o.ne are we to doubt another"s faith!
"One slight was enough," Lady Kirke was vowing with a toss of her head; and we none of us gave another look to the royal boxes that night, though all about the wits were cracking their jokes against M. Radisson"s "Medusa locks," or "the king"s idol, with feet of clay and face of bra.s.s," thereby meaning M. Radisson"s moccasins and swarth skin. At the door we were awaiting M. Radisson"s return when the royal company came out. I turned suddenly and met Hortense"s eyes blazing with a hauteur that forbade recognition. Beside her in lover-like pose lolled that milliners" dummy whom we had seen humbled in the morning.
Then, promising to rejoin Pierre Radisson at the Fur Company"s offices, I made my adieux to the Kirkes and flung out among those wild revellers who scoured London streets of a dark night.
[1] The old expression which the law compelled before throwing slops in mid-street.
CHAPTER XXV
JACK BATTLE AGAIN
The higher one"s hopes mount the farther they have to fall; and I, who had mounted to stars with Hortense, was pushed to the gutter by the king"s dragoons making way for the royal equipage. There was a crackling of whips among the king"s postillions. A yeoman thrust the crowd back with his pike. The carriages rolled past. The flash of a linkman"s torch revealed Hortense sitting languid and scornful between the foreign countess and that milliner"s dummy of a lieutenant. Then the royal carriages were lost in the darkness, and the streets thronged by a rabble of singing, shouting, hilarious revellers.