XI
The Great Roxhythe
“My lady, there is a lackey from Bevan House who desires speech with you.”
Lady Frances was surprised.
“So? I’ll come.” She went downstairs. When she saw John she smiled. “Well John? You’ve a mess—” She stopped short, staring at him. “John! What is it?”
The man’s face worked.
“My lady—my master—” he choked.
Lady Frances drew nearer.
“Quickly, John! What—what is it?”
“He is—dying!” John’s voice trembled. “He—desires to see you.”
All the colour ebbed slowly from her face.
“Good—God! No, no!”
“He was—shot—last night.” John’s head was bowed. “I cannot tell you, madam. He wishes you to come.”
“Shot! Oh, heaven, ’twas that we heard, then! Yes, yes, I’ll come at once! Only wait one moment!” She turned, and flew upstairs.
In three minutes she was back again, seated in the coach. She had commanded John to sit with her. Her eyes were wide.
“It was last night? When he left the ball?”
“Yes, my lady. They—brought him home—unconscious.”
“Dolts! Fools! Why did they not take him back to the house?”
John brushed his hand across his eyes.
“It—was not—my lord’s will, madam,” he said simply.
Lady Frances burst into tears.
“Can’t they—save him? Surely, surely, it is not mortal?”
“Dr. Burnest was with him through the night, madam. Nothing—can be done.”
Lady Frances wept.
Outside the door of my lord’s room she met the surgeon. Eagerly she caught at his arm.
“Tell me he will live! Oh, he cannot die! He cannot!”
Burnest took her hand.
“I beg you will be calm, Lady Frances. The bullet entered a vital part. Don’t grieve my lord!”
She wiped her eyes.
“I will be calm. Is he—is he conscious?”
“Yes, madam, but very weak. He commanded that you should be sent for. You’ll not excite him?”
She drew herself up.
“Of course I shall not.”
Burnest opened the door for her.
My lord lay in bed, raised slightly on pillows. He was wrapped in an elegant bed-gown, and he wore his wig. His eyes were closed, but he opened them as Frances entered.
He smiled.
“My dear Fanny—all my difficulties are solved.”
She bent over him.
“Dear, wicked Roxhythe!” In spite of herself, tears stole down her cheeks.
Up went his brows.
“I thought you knew that I could not bear a weeping woman?” His voice was full of mockery.
“Since you cannot weep for yourself, David. …” she whispered, and flicked away the teardrops.
“Weep? I?” The faint voice was disdainful. “I am only too well satisfied.”
John put a chair for her ladyship. Frances sat down.
Roxhythe allowed her to take his hand. He was staring before him.
“The … welcome end. Gad, but I was glad to see the fellow … lurking in the shadows! … He little knew … little knew. …”
“Who was it, David?” Lady Frances was surprised at her own calm.
“Trenchard. He thought … I should betray him. … Sapient man.” Suddenly Roxhythe chuckled. “I told him … to shoot. He was … so surprised … he—” He broke off, coughing.
Burnest was at his side in a moment. The handkerchief that came away from my lord’s lips was stained red.
“Sir, I beg you will keep quiet.”
“No doubt. You want … to prolong … life. Unfortunately … I want … to end it.”
“Sir—”
“My … dear Burnest … we have dealt with … one another … before. Don’t … you realize … the futility of … argument?”
“You were always very stubborn, sir.” Burnest put a spoon to his lips, smiling.
Roxhythe took the restorative. His eyes closed.
For a long time there was absolute silence. My lord lay in a kind of stupor. Presently a deep furrow appeared between his brows. He began to speak, muttering.
“… vain … regrets! … Not I, sir. There was … never a question … of it. If you … think that … Fanny … you do not … know me. Always I am Roxhythe. Roxhythe … C. R. … linked together. … Sire, all my … life. …” His voice died away. He moved uneasily; his hand was very hot.
“My dear … Saint-Aignan! … a maker of … gloves. Blue … entwined. Did … Colbert tell you, Madame?” His eyes opened. They were shining with a strange, feverish light. “When … you … are gone … nothing matters. The … better … part. Fools! … fools! … Someone said … that. The better … part! … Always your … faithful … servant, Sir.” He struggled up on his elbow. “It is … Cromwell’s lucky day! How … could we … hope to win? Courage, Sir! This is … not the end!”
Burnest put him back on his pillows.
“Hush, sir! Be still.”
He was shaken off.
“Gentlemen … the King … is dead! … Who was it … uttered the accursed … words? His hand … is cold … Sire … Sire!”
“Give me that bottle!”
John put it into his hands, weeping. Burnest measured out a spoonful. The mixture trickled between my lord’s parted lips. Frances watched in silent agony.
The brown eyes opened.
“Fanny … why weep? Do you … think I … mind?”
“My lord, I beg you will not talk!”
“You … intrude … Burnest.” The eyes were haughty.
“I am sorry, sir. I am responsible for you, you see.”
The fine lips curled.
“No one is responsible … for Roxhythe … save himself. You would … oblige me … by retiring.”
Lady Frances laid her hand on the surgeon’s.
“Mr. Burnest, let him have his way. You cannot help now.”
“Madam, I cannot allow him to—”
“Mordieu! Am … I to be set … at naught?”
“You only excite him. Please, please stand back!”
Burnest shrugged and walked away.
“Another … of those … who dislike me. I have … inspired … great love, or great … hatred … never a … lukewarm … liking, I thank God!”
Frances stroked his hand.
“In truth, you are Roxhythe,” she smiled.
“Always. They … would have liked … to see me … fall. Had I lived … I would have shown them that Roxhythe … can stand … alone! But it is … better so. I am … going … to my master.” Again his eyes closed. After perhaps ten minutes they opened. They did not see Lady Frances.
“It is … no laughing matter, Sir! … I am … too old to be … ordered … by petty princelings … Thank God … for Whitehall … and my … own master. Curse … the dolt! Why … must he sit … in your place? … So you will leave … me, Chris? After all these … years. Did you bring my mask? … You know me … very well … don’t you? You will … not stay with me? You make too much … out of … too little. I regret … nothing. … The better … part … the better … part. … Cor … dieu! I would choose the same … the same. …” The brown eyes were frowning. “Why … must you sit … in his place? Memories … only … memories. … What if I did … lose all? The … one friend … the one friend. … Nothing matters … save your pleasure, Sir. I am … busied with … your affairs.” Suddenly he laughed. “They … remind me of … cabbages! … a fruitful topic!” He drew his hand away, passing it across his eyes. “You remember … the green hangings … don’t you, Chris?” His hand fell away. He looked at Lady Frances’ bowed head. “I … have been … dreaming. I thought Chris was … here. Fanny?”
“Dear David?” Lady Frances tried to choke the sobs that rose to her lips.
Roxhythe was smiling now.
“You … remember how Chris … laughed? It always … pleased me. He laughed … because I objected … to the green … hangings. They are gone … now. I had them … changed. It is … eight years. A … long time, my … dear.”
“Yes, David. You still have—me.”
“Of course. You … could never … quite … disown me … could you?”
“I am always—your friend, David. We understand one another.”
The smile grew.
“But then you … are not … impenetrable, you know!”
“Am I not? How—you love to—tease me, David!”
“Vraiment … I am a trial. Don’t let Jasper meddle … in Monmouth’s cause!”
“I will not.”
“I … ought to send … some farewell … messages. I always … disliked … the heroic pose … off the stage. Do you … remember Crewe?”
“And the silly wife! That was unlucky, David.”
“A … mistake … I admit. Give … my love … to Chris. I would I … had seen him … just once … again. You … won’t believe me … but I cared … for him.”
“I know that you did, dear. I always knew it. If I said hard things I am very sorry!”
“My dear … according … to your lights … you spoke … rightly. You … could not … understand.”
She shook her head.
“We won’t speak of it, David.”
“We might … quarrel … an we did. I regret … I cannot … repent, weeping. It … is not in … the part.” He paused, and his hand tightened on hers. “I could have … regained … all my lost … power. It was … within my grasp. But it … was not … worth it. You … understand?”
“Perfectly, David.”
“Your chief … attraction. What … is the … time?”
She glanced at the clock.
“Just after three, dear.”
“Ah! … He died … at noon. I shall not wait … much longer. I am … very content.” The weary lids drooped. “I have to … thank you … for your … kindness. I knew … that you would … come.”
“I would have come from the ends of the earth, David.”
“Happily … you were … nearer. I should have been … loth to put you … to such … inconvenience. It is … very dark. Draw the curtains … further apart! No … matter. …” The whisper ceased.
Burnest tiptoed to the bed.
“It is nearly the end,” he murmured in Lady Fanny’s ear. “Just sit where you are.”
She nodded. Her face was drawn.
John crept up to the bed and knelt beside it, his head buried in the coverlet. Lady Frances laid her hand on his shoulder.
“Do not grieve, John,” she said pitifully. “You know he would not wish it.”
Only a strangled sob answered her. Roxhythe moved his hand.
“Devil … take you … John! What now?”
John carried the hand to his lips, smothering it with kisses.
“My lord! My dear lord!”
“Chut!” Roxhythe pressed his fingers feebly. “Have … a care to him … Fanny.”
“I promise.”
There was a long, long silence. Nothing broke it save the laboured breathing. John was quiet now, clasping my lord’s hand. Lady Fanny sat very still.
Over by the fire was the surgeon, staring into the red embers. He did not move.
Half an hour crept by; yet another. Somewhere outside a clock chimed mournfully.
My lord’s eyes opened. There was a faraway look in them not of this world.
“I must … to Whitehall. To … my little … master.” Faintly, very faintly came the whisper. His beautiful smile curved my lord’s lips. “Sire … Sire. …”
The eyelids fluttered, closed. My lord’s hand quivered. He gave a deep sigh, full of peace.
“Only … your … pleasure … Sir. …”
His head fell sideways a little on the pillow. The smile was still on his lips, but the light had gone out.