The Great Roxhythe · Book III · Chapter 3 5 (1/2)

V

The Most Noble the Marquis

’76 dawned softly. In England there was no Parliament, for in November of ’75 it had refused Charles a grant of money; had even dared to insinuate that he should be in possession of a surplus. It was importunate, and it was straightway prorogued.

On the continent Louis still waged war on Holland, but Turenne was dead at Saltzbach, and De Ruyter dead in Italy. A congress was held at Nimeguen, but the war continued, the Prince of Orange doggedly holding his enemy in check. Seldom was he successful in battle. At St. Omer he suffered great losses, but ever he managed just to hold back the French. So Louis approached his cousin Charles tentatively.

Negotiations were opened and carried on through M. Barillon, the French ambassador; the Duchess of Portsmouth; and my Lord Danby. Into the negotiations strolled my Lord Roxhythe.

Charles was dissatisfied. Louis showed a tendency to meanness. Charles held counsel with his favourite.

“David, it is like squeezing money from a stone.”

“Is it, Sir?”

Charles was petulant. He repulsed one of the spaniels which was trying to leap on to his knee.

“It is unsatisfactory, trafficking through Barillon. I do not know King Louis his real mind. As before, we are fenced round with vague terms. I’ll do the thing direct or not at all.”

“Ah!” Roxhythe sighed, for he perceived whither this led.

Charles shook back his curls. In his eyes was a brooding melancholy look that the favourite knew well.

“Barillon speaks me fair and offers little. Louise⁠—” he shrugged. “She leaves me in the dark. Before I enter into a second treaty with Louis I’ll know where I stand. He seeks to trap me.”

“Naturally. So the whole matter lies in one short sentence:⁠—Roxhythe must go to France.”

The King half smiled.

“It seems so, David.”

“To discover King Louis his mind?”

“Ay. Roxhythe, I have no notion how much I may with safety demand. I would ask⁠—the same as before. Louis would try to beat me down. If I know not what is the maximum sum he will pay I dare not stand adamant. I must know. And there is none like unto you for discovering these matters. I want the thing done quickly; I am tired of all this haggling and bargaining.”

Roxhythe nodded.

“And when I have discovered this: what then?”

“I will have you take a letter to King Louis setting forth my mind.”

“But, Sir, why not negotiate then through Barillon?”

“Because I dislike the oily-tongued rascal! I’ll lay the matter bare before Louis⁠—he shall know my wants from me alone; not as translated and modified by his own servants.”

“Very well, Sir.”

“You must go to Monmouth. You have been a-many times, so it will not give rise to suspicion. And from thence to Paris.”

Roxhythe cast up his eyes.

“Have a little mercy, Sir! Employ one of the Duchess her creatures.”

“No. I trust no one save you.”

“I am flattered, Sir, of course.”

Charles stretched himself, laughing. Some of the shadows had gone from his eyes.

“David, ye grow ungallant!”

“I grow weary, Sir, and old,” retorted my lord.

“Nevertheless, ye will go?”

“I suppose I must, Sir.”

Charles smiled, full of affectionate understanding.

So Roxhythe went again to Paris.

During his absence Lady Crewe came one evening to Bevan House, closely veiled. She was ushered into the library where Christopher received her. When he saw who it was who had come to see Roxhythe at such an informal hour, he was horrified.

My lady moved agitated hands.

“Mr. Dart, I must see my Lord Roxhythe.” Her voice was carefully controlled, but Christopher could detect the flutter beneath her calm.

“I am very sorry, Lady Crewe, but⁠—”

“Please⁠—do not⁠—make excuses! I must see him.”

“Madame, it is impossible. He is not here.”

She stared at him, blankly.

“Not⁠—here! Oh⁠—I⁠—did not know! I⁠—” She broke off twisting her hands.

Christopher watched her. He saw pride struggling with desire, and wondered. Suddenly she turned to him.

“Mr. Dart, I want so much to ask my lord not to⁠—not to⁠—go to Lady Claremont’s rout next week!”

Christopher looked at her steadily. The reason sounded much like an excuse. He bowed.

Millicent read the doubt in his face; she drew herself up proudly.

“Will you please deliver that message to my lord as soon as he returns?”

Christopher decided that his suspicions were unjust. He came forward, taking her hand.

“Will you not be seated, Madame? Of course I will deliver your message, but⁠—forgive me⁠—is it not rather a strange one?”

“I⁠—yes, I suppose you must think so. Perhaps he⁠—will not understand⁠—I⁠—oh, promise me you will tell this to⁠—”

“Whatever you impart to me I shall treat as a strict confidence.”

“Thank you. It is just that⁠—people are talking still about⁠—my lord⁠—and me. And last week⁠—we⁠—I was at Lady Bletchley’s and she presented⁠—Roxhythe⁠—to me, and we had to dance⁠—and my husband was very angry. Now he watches my every movement. He heard my lord ask me if I was to be at the Claremont rout⁠—next week. And then at a coffeehouse there was some vile talk⁠—and oh, I don’t know how it is, but he hath it firmly fixed in his head⁠—that we⁠—that I have arranged to meet⁠—my lord⁠—there, because Henry is not going. He⁠—he is mad with jealousy. He won’t believe⁠—that it is not so. I feel he means to arrive at the rout⁠—later in the evening⁠—and⁠—if my lord is there⁠—and I am there⁠—he⁠—he⁠—is so wild I fear a scene⁠—or that he will challenge my lord. You see, of late⁠—Lord Roxhythe has been at all the balls⁠—and⁠—oh, I dare not stay at home, for then Henry suspects me more than ever! Please, please do not let Roxhythe go to the Claremont rout!”

“I will certainly try to prevent it,” soothed Christopher. “But are you sure that your husband is quite as mad⁠—as you think?” He spoke apologetically.

“You do not know how wild he is! And⁠—and because I go to Lady Frances’ house who is Roxhythe’s cousin, he thinks⁠—he thinks⁠—oh, it is all too horrible!”

“It must be,” said Christopher with feeling. “Will it comfort you if I promise that Roxhythe shall not go to this ball?”

“Oh, yes!” she sighed. “Thank you very much!”

He showed her out, anxious that she should leave as soon as might be. Hysterical women filled him with nervousness.

When he came back to the library his lips pursed.

“Thunder of God, what a household! And how indiscreet of her to come here!” He shook his head wisely.

When Roxhythe returned two days later, Christopher told him of my lady’s visit.

“Little fool,” commented my lord.

“Sir, she is naught but a child, and⁠—I believe I am sorry for her.”

Roxhythe poured himself out a glass of burgundy.

“She behaves so foolishly. I have but to enter the room for her to go pale and then red. They are a melodramatic pair. I wish them joy of each other.” He drained the glass and lounged out.

Shortly after noon on the following day Roxhythe was in his private room attending to some affairs. To him came a lackey who announced that Sir Henry Crewe was downstairs and desired to see him at once.

One haughty eyebrow rose.

“I do not receive,” said my lord.

“I thought not,” said a deadly calm voice. “So I followed your servant.”

The scandalized footman threw a deprecatory glance at his master. Roxhythe nodded. Sir Henry came firmly into the room; the door closed behind the lackey.

Roxhythe looked his visitor up and down.

“May I know to what I owe this honour?” he drawled.

Crewe was very pale, with determination writ upon his face.

“A year ago, sir, you refused to fight me. Since then I have watched you closely. I have seen you at every ball, sometimes in attendance with my wife. I have remarked how many evenings she spends with your cousin. I am not a fool; neither am I blind.”

My lord’s mouth twitched.

“I am glad to know that,” he said.

“Perhaps it surprises you!” sneered Crewe.

“I confess I had not given you credit for much brain. Of course if you assure me that I was wrong I have no choice but to believe you.”

“You may mock as much as you please, my lord, but you will not evade the point any longer. It has come to my knowledge that my wife came to your house three nights since. I have borne much, but this goes beyond all bounds. One of us dies, my lord. Will you meet me?”

Roxhythe balanced his quill on one finger.

“I gave you the answer to that question a year ago, my friend.”

“You still refuse?”

“Certainly.”

“Perhaps⁠—” Crewe laughed derisively. “⁠—perhaps you’ll deny that my wife came to your house?”

“I am not in a position to deny it. You see, I was not in London.”

Crewe laughed again.

“A lie!”

Roxhythe bowed.

“I have called you coward; I now call you liar. Do you still refuse to meet me?”

“I do.”

An unpleasant smile hovered about Crewe’s mouth. He strode to the door, turned the key in the lock, and pocketed it. Roxhythe watched, mildly interested.

“Very well, my lord. You force my hand.” Sir Henry produced a case of pistols. He laid them on the table. “You will find them ready primed, sir, and alike in every respect. You may take your choice. We will stand at opposite ends of the room. It is now two minutes to the hour. When the clock strikes for the third time we fire.”

“It doesn’t strike,” said Roxhythe apologetically.

Crewe reddened.

“Then you may count.”

“You are very kind,” murmured my lord.

“Have you chosen your weapon, sir?”

Roxhythe pushed them away.

“My dear, impetuous fool, do you seriously think that I am going to fight you?”

“If you do not I’ll shoot you like the dog you are!”

“Not in this coat,” said Roxhythe. He stroked its velvet surface lovingly.

Crewe curbed his temper with difficulty.

“I think you will have no need of coats after today, sir.”

“Oh, I trust so,” answered Roxhythe placidly.

Crewe picked up one of the pistols.

“Do you fire from where you sit, sir?”

“No,” said Roxhythe.

Light sprang to the angry eyes.

“At last! From where, my lord?”

“From nowhere,” said Roxhythe.

The nervous hands clenched.

“I could strangle you in your chair, you mocking devil!”

“I doubt it,” smiled Roxhythe, unruffled. He rose, and came towards the furious young man. “In a very few moments I shall have lost my patience,” he said. “So I advise you to go.”

The pistol was raised.

“If you call for help I fire!” threatened Crewe.

“What I dislike about you is your deplorable manner,” complained Roxhythe. “Don’t wave that thing in my face!”

“Pick up that pistol! By God, if you goad me much further I will shoot you out of hand!”

“I thought you proposed doing that in any case. I suppose you have not the courage.”

Crewe’s finger was on the trigger. His eyes blazed.

“ ’Tis not I who lack courage, my lord! ’Tis you!”

Roxhythe smiled.

“Do you doubt me?” cried Sir Henry.

“You are labouring under a delusion,” replied Roxhythe. “I am not deaf.”

“Damn you, pick up that pistol!”

The smile became insufferable.

“Damn you, pick it up yourself,” said Roxhythe, very urbane.

Crewe looked in the handsome, laughing face, saw that my lord was playing with him, would continue to play with him, and went white. In that moment all semblance of sanity left him. He raised the pistol. His hand was trembling, but he controlled it; he had no thought for the consequences; he only knew that Roxhythe was laughing at him, jibing at him. He fired.⁠ ⁠…

The report was deafening; smoke flooded the room. As soon as he had pulled the trigger Crewe realized the enormity of his act, and came violently to his senses. He dropped the pistol, shuddering.

The smoke cleared. Lord Roxhythe was lying inert upon the floor. Below his right shoulder a great red patch was growing, growing.

Crewe stared numbly. The patch was creeping over my lord’s coat, soon it would trickle down on to the carpet. It seemed a pity. Crewe tried to imagine what it would look like when the steadily flowing blood should have reached the floor. It would spoil the carpet; he thought that bloodstains never came out, but he was not sure.

Along the passage came the sound of footsteps, running. The door was tried; voices called; someone was trying to burst open the lock.

The noise dispelled some of the mists that were gathering about Crewe’s mind.

“Wait! wait!” He fumbled in his pocket for the key, and finding it, thrust it into the lock with cold, trembling fingers.⁠ ⁠…

The room seemed full of people. They were gathered about my lord’s body, talking excitedly. No one noticed him. How foolish they were! Why try to staunch that blood? Roxhythe was dead. He, Crewe, had killed him.⁠ ⁠… How still Roxhythe lay! He could not look at him. He leant against the wall, sick and cold.

Into the confusion came Christopher, swiftly.

“What is it? I thought I heard⁠—” he stopped short seeing the agitated group at one end of the room. Like a flash he was across the floor and had thrust two of the men aside.

Crewe watched covertly. The red patch was growing and growing; it had reached the carpet. What fools they were! Why did they not stop it?

Christopher gave a strangled cry. He was down beside my lord, agonized, feeling for his heart.

“My God, no!” he whispered. “Not dead! Not dead!”

Those around grew suddenly quiet.

Christopher lifted his head from my lord’s breast.

“He is alive. James, run for the nearest surgeon! Quickly!”

The man hurried out.

“John?” He was staunching the blood with deft, tender fingers, as he spoke.

Roxhythe’s old servant stood before him, shaking.

Christopher looked up.

“Get me linen and water!”

John fled.

“The rest of you, go!” said Christopher. His eyes fell on Crewe, leaning against the wall, face averted.

“Crewe!”

A footman pushed forward.

“Ay, sir! He came an hour since, and forced himself into the room. I thought that he was queer-like then⁠—”

“Fool! Why did you let him in?”

“But, sir! My lord said⁠—”

“Oh ay, ay! See that he does not escape now. My God, if Roxhythe dies⁠—!”

Two lackeys seized Sir Henry’s arms and stood holding him. The rest, in obedience to Christopher’s commands, drifted away.

John came running with linen and water. Between them, he and Christopher bound the wound tightly, and straightened my lord’s limbs. Then, after what seemed an interminable time, Mr. Burnest, the surgeon, appeared, and attended to the wound.

Christopher watched breathlessly as his hands moved about my lord.

Burnest finished his examination.

“By God’s mercy it has not touched the lung. He will live.”

The colour came flooding back to Christopher’s cheeks. John fell on his knees beside the writing-table, sobbing thankfully.

Crewe’s voice, hoarse, unlike himself, cut across the room.

“He’ll live, you say?”

Christopher swung round fiercely.

“No thanks to you, you damned scoundrel!”

Burnest looked up quickly.

“What’s that?” he said sharply.

Before anyone had time to answer Roxhythe stirred. Christopher was beside him in a moment, and knelt down on the floor holding one of the beautifully shaped hands in his.

The deep brown eyes opened. They were puzzled; then the bewilderment faded, and amusement took its place. My lord regarded the surgeon silently. Then he looked at Christopher. Lastly he frowned.

“God’s Body! My new coat!”

At the sound of the faint voice, Christopher gave vent to a shaky laugh of relief and pressed my lord’s hand to his lips. Roxhythe saw the blood on his sleeve.

“Ruined!” he said. He showed a tendency to rise, and was suppressed.

“My lord, you must be still!” commanded Burnest.

“If you think I shall continue to lie on this devilish hard floor, you are mistaken,” said Roxhythe faintly. “Chris!”

Christopher bent over him.

“I implore you to lie still, sir. If you move you will start the bleeding again.”

“Send for James and another. I’ll be lifted to the couch.” He saw Christopher glance at the surgeon. “I mean it, Chris.”

Burnest knew Roxhythe of old. He shrugged.

In five minutes my lord was reposing on the sofa, his wig straight, his side neatly bandaged. Burnest gave him a restorative and his voice grew stronger.