I
The New Master
In April of 1677 Christopher left Roxhythe after nine long years and took rooms in Cheapside. After the first struggle he seemed to sink into a state of apathy. He hardly stirred from his rooms and he received no one. At present he was living in some horrible nightmare; he could not even now realise all that had happened.
In May of the same year Lady Frances returned from Scotland where she had been staying. She made her curtsey to the King at Whitehall and stayed by his side for some time, laughing and talking with him in a reminiscent vein. After that she exchanged frivolities with Lord Buckhurst. It was at that moment that Roxhythe appeared on the scene.
He stood for some while by the King, but presently he perceived his cousin and came across the room towards her.
Lady Frances gave him her hand.
“Well, David!” She eyed Lord Buckhurst with her head on one side. “Dear me, Charles, I believe Lady Finchley wants you!”
He laughed in answer to her twinkling glance.
“Which means that you do not? Very well! I’ll go!” He strolled off to join Killigrew.
Lady Frances smiled up at Roxhythe.
“Charles is very charming, is he not?” she said. “Sit down, David. How are you?”
“The same as ever,” he answered. “And you?”
“How do I look?” she parried.
“Marvellous!” he said lazily.
“Then that is how I feel. How is Chris?”
My lord regarded the rosettes on his shoes.
“I really don’t know. He has left me.”
Lady Frances gasped.
“Left you? Christopher? Good gracious, Roxhythe, what has happened?”
“We had a difference of opinion and he decided that our ways lay apart.”
Lady Frances to some extent recovered her composure. She laid a compelling hand on his arm.
“Roxhythe, you must have shown yourself very vile! I insist on knowing everything!”
“I am sorry to have to disappoint you, my dear. Suffice it that we agreed to part.”
“It does not suffice! Something terrible must have happened to induce Chris to leave you.”
“No, not at all.”
“Roxhythe, do not play with me! He is—disillusioned?”
“Thoroughly.”
“He knows that you are not—so idle?”
My lord raised his brows.
“Oh, pho! You know very well that I see through your pose! Others may be blind, but I am not. You are the King his man.”
“Is not this a rather public spot wherein to discuss such matters?”
“Has Chris found out?”
“Why not ask him?”
“I shall! Have no fear of that! But I want it from your lips. Oh, come, David! I too have lived in intrigue; I am not blameless myself. Chris discovered that you were plotting?”
“Something of the sort!”
“And so he left you? No, that is not enough. You used him?”
“You should have been born a man, my dear.”
“My mother knew better. Did you use Christopher?”
“You weary me,” said Roxhythe. “You were never wont to do that. I did use him.”
“Then you are utterly without a heart, without shame! You are loathsome!” said my lady vehemently.
“You always knew that I had no heart. Shame is an unknown quantity. But as to loathsome … h’m!”
“It is true. Oh, David, why did you do it?”
“I forget. There was a reason.”
“For heaven’s sake don’t be flippant!” she snapped. “Where is Christopher?”
“In rooms. 94, Cheapside.”
“I shall tell him to visit me. Perhaps he will be more explicit!”
“I doubt it.” My lord smiled insufferably.
“We shall see. I suppose you have killed his love for you?”
“On the contrary.”
“Do you mean to say that Christopher still adores you?”
“I believe so.”
“And you sit there and tell me that in that calm, disinterested way! Roxhythe, I have never found you less to my taste!”
He looked into her flashing eyes. She was sitting very straight.
“Well, my dear, there is a remedy.” He rose. “Pray give me leave!”
She nodded angrily. My lord strolled back to the King.
Next day a note was brought to Christopher. The serving-maid bore it up to his room.
Christopher was trying to write to his brother. The task was a difficult one. It was hard to acknowledge himself to have been in the wrong throughout.
The serving-maid gave a sniff and proffered the note. When he saw Lady Frances’ handwriting a little colour came to Christopher’s pale cheeks and he tore the letter open. It was very short.
“Deare Chris.—Come and See me this After Noon.—F. M.”
“Do they await an answer?” asked Christopher.
“No, sir.” The girl twisted her apron between her fingers and giggled a little for no better reason than that she admired him. “The footman went away at once.”
“Thank you.”
The maid departed, clattering across the floor in shoes two sizes too large for her. She was something of a contrast to the well-trained lackeys at Bevan House.
That afternoon Christopher surveyed his many suits deliberately. If he was to wait on Lady Fanny he must be carefully dressed. At the back of the cupboard hung a brown velvet suit, heavily laced with gold. Christopher fingered it dreamily. He had worn this coat last when he had returned from Flanders. … Then there was the blue cloth with its cream facings. That had been bought for a garden-party at Lady Pommeroy’s house. Roxhythe had worn apricot velvet. … He put it back slowly. The lilac velvet? No. … That had been his summer suit down at Bevan last year. … The grey cloth with the pale blue ribbons? … Not that. Roxhythe had approved of that dress. What was it he had said? … Almost roughly Christopher thrust it back into the cupboard. From its depths he drew a green coat laced with silver. He had seldom worn this, thinking it ugly. Well, it should be worn now. He shut the cupboard.
An hour later he was ushered into Lady Fanny’s boudoir.
Frances looked up quickly, scanning his face as he made his leg. She was shocked at the change that had taken place. There was no sparkle in his eyes, no colour in his face. He had aged extraordinarily since last she had seen him.
“My very dear Chris!” She came forward, hands outstretched.
He took them in his.
“How kind of you to invite me, Lady Frances! I did not know you were in town.” His voice was graver than of old.
“Dear boy, it was more of a summons!” she smiled. “Now come and sit down beside me and tell me everything.” She drew him to a couch.
“I don’t think that there is much to tell,” said Christopher, trying hard to sound unconcerned. “You heard that I have left Roxhythe?”
“Yes, Chris. Tell me all about it.” She patted his hand as she spoke. “You know that I can be discreet.”
“It’s nothing, Lady Fanny. I found that I wanted to leave—so I—left.” He spoke with would-be lightness.
“Chris, that is not enough. I have seen Roxhythe, and I know that something has happened.”
“Oh, no! I was tired of playing secretary. I am a man of leisure now!”
“And do you like it, Chris?”
He looked away.
“Tell me, dear boy. …”
“I can’t!”
“You can. Roxhythe has treated you shamefully I know.”
A wry smile twisted his lips.
“Don’t say you warned me!”
“Of course I shall not! He used you in some way? tricked you?”
“That I cannot tell you. But you will be glad to know—that my eyes are open—at last.”
“I am not glad, dear. I am very, very sorry. You thought he was—”
“I thought he was the soul of honour and truth. Well, I was mistaken.”
“He has hurt you badly, then. It was bound to happen. He lives only for the King. It is his one good point.”
“Not at all. He has many good points. Don’t think that I have ceased to care for him! I love him as much as before—but I—cannot live with him. Shall we talk of something else?” His eyes pleaded.
“Yes, Chris. We will talk of what you contemplate doing.”
“I hardly know. I thought I would continue to be a man of leisure. I find I must have some occupation.”
“Quite right. What have you thought of?”
“A secretaryship, I suppose.”
Lady Frances nodded briskly.
“You’ve someone in mind?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I know the very thing for you!”
Christopher looked apprehensive.
“What is it, Lady Frances?”
“Do you know Sir Richard Worth?”
“One of the Country Party?”
“Yes; under Cavendish.”
“I believe I have seen him. I do not know him.”
“It so happens that he is in need of a secretary. Jasper knows him. You must apply for the post.”
“Oh—oh—I do not think so!”
“Indeed yes! It is the very thing for you. You want occupation, and it had best be with a man very different from Roxhythe.”
“But I doubt—I am not fitted for—public work.”
“You will learn. Your name stands in your favour—”
“And my nine years’ service to Roxhythe stands well against me.”
“That is true, of course. However, I shall see what can be done. I have bidden Sir Richard to dinner tonight. I shall talk gently to him.”
“Please do not, Lady Frances! Indeed, I do not think that I want to be his secretary!”
“Whose then?”
“I don’t know—I—”
“Very well then! No, you must not argue! You do not want to do anything but mope at home. And I say you are not to. Have you any objection to Worth?”
“No. I know nothing about him.”
“Then apply for the post. Ah, Chris, please!”
“It’s very kind of you, Lady Fanny. I’ll apply for it. After all, what odds does it make whom I serve?”
“There! I knew you would be sensible. And you’ll wait on him tomorrow?”
“If you like.”
“I do like. And Chris—don’t wear that dress! Indeed, green becomes you not.”
He smiled.
“I’ll go clad in sober black.”
“No, nor that either. Wear that nice blue coat worked with cream.”
There was a slight pause.
“Yes,” said Christopher.
He did go, although against his inclination. When he arrived at Worth’s house he was ushered into the study, which was severely furnished and dark, and which looked out on to the backs of houses. Christopher shivered. A single ray of sunlight contrived to squeeze in at the window and showed a million specks of dust.
The door opened. A short, middle-aged man came into the room, Christopher’s card in his hand.
“Mr. Dart?” The voice was fussy, slightly peevish.
Christopher bowed.
Sir Richard clasped his hand.
“Yours is an old name. I knew your father. A most noble gentleman.”
Again Christopher bowed.
“Yes. Well, will you be seated? Oh, there are papers on the chair! Allow me!” He cleared the documents on to the table. Christopher thanked him.
Worth sat down at the writing-table and rested his arms on it.
“Lady Frances Montgomery advised me of your coming today. A charming lady! Charming!”
Christopher suppressed a smile. Evidently Fanny had exerted herself to captivate Sir Richard.
Worth came back to earth.
“Charming, yes. I understand you have been secretary to my Lord Roxhythe?”
“I have had that honour, Sir Richard, for nine years.”
“Well, well! May I ask why you left him? Do not think me impertinent! But it is just as well to know everything, is it not?”
This was almost amusing. Worth was indeed a contrast to Roxhythe. Christopher found himself thinking of another interview that had taken place at eleven at night in rooms overlooking the river. How typical of my lord that was!
“Er—certainly, sir. I left because I wanted a change. He will speak for me, I know.”
“Ah, yes, yes, of course! That is excellent. You understand that this is rather different work from what you have been accustomed to?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t think that I mean to infer that you are not capable of undertaking it! But I think it would be a great change. Is that not so?”
“Yes, sir. I have done little save manage the affairs of my lord’s estate.”
“Just as I thought. Exactly. No matter. Of course I need hardly say this to James Dart his son, but great discretion would be required of you an you worked for me. Here we handle State affairs which must not be talked of.”
“I understand that, sir.”
“Ah, yes, yes, naturally. I am sure that you would prove discreet. You said, I think, that Lord Roxhythe would speak for you?”
“I did.”
“Yes. You’ll forgive me, Mr. Dart, but I marvel that you stayed so long in his service.”
Christopher stiffened.
“Indeed, sir?”
“I had thought that James Dart his son would not have been in the company of such as Roxhythe.”
“Sir, I think it as well to tell you that Lord Roxhythe commands my highest regards.”
“Dear, dear! Of course he has great fascination. I have heard of it. A powerful man.”
“Very,” said Christopher.
“Forgive me again, but do you realize that the atmosphere of my house is very different from Lord Roxhythe’s?”
Christopher glanced round the untidy room.
“Yes,” he said. The faintest of smiles flickered across his mouth.
“I live very quietly. I fear I am no brilliant courtier. I am but a patriot. I do trust you are not imbued with Lord Roxhythe his views.”
“I regret, sir, I cannot tell you what are his views.”
“That is very well, very well. And so you desire to fill the post of secretary to me?”
Christopher sighed.
“That is my desire, sir.”
“Yes. Well, Mr. Dart, I will not disguise the fact that good—above all discreet—secretaries are not easily come by these days. Your name stands greatly in your favour. And of course Sir Jasper Montgomery’s recommendation is sufficient. With your permission I will write to Lord Roxhythe. And then, if you are agreeable, I should suggest a week’s trial.”
“Very well, Sir Richard. I shall try to satisfy you.”
“Of course, of course! Let me see—have you not an elder brother?”
“Roderick, sir. He is with the Prince of Orange.”
“Is that so? Very interesting to be sure. Though we cannot afford to lose good patriots in these times.”
Christopher rose.
“Roderick has been with the Prince for many years, sir. He is very devoted.”
“Ah yes, naturally. A remarkable young man, is he not? Remarkable.” He ushered his visitor out.
Christopher walked slowly down Bishopsgate Street. Suddenly he laughed mirthlessly, and his hand clenched on his glove. What a fool he was not to return to Roxhythe! Why should he enter the service of this uncongenial man? Why should he not go to his master and beg to be allowed to come back? But he knew that he would never do that. A fool he might be, but he knew that he was acting rightly. He thought how Roxhythe would have enjoyed the interview with Worth, and laughed again. There swept over him an overwhelming longing to see that tall, graceful figure again, to hear the lazy voice, to feel the pressure of those tapering fingers. He walked on, biting his lip.
Two days later came a letter from Roxhythe. Christopher’s hands trembled as he broke the seal.
“My Deare Chris.—Who in God’s Name is Worth? Some Psalm-singing Puritan, I’ll be bound. Eschew his Company. I spoke of you Very Highly, though I was minded to Malign you when I saw who your Future Master was to be.
“My secretary is a Fool. I implore you to take Pity on me. Or if Ye will not, at least Visitt me Some Day.—Roxhythe.”
Christopher folded the missive tenderly and slipped it into his pocket. Every nerve urged him to go to Roxhythe who wanted him, but his will held him back. Once in my lord’s presence the spell would be cast over him again, and all the old agony would return.
He answered the letter at length, and told my lord that as yet he could not face an interview. He assured Roxhythe of his undying affection. It was a pathetic, wistful letter that tried hard to be cheerful.
My lord read it and laid it aside.
“A pity,” he reflected. “He was so much more restful than this dolt.”