X
The Bitter Hour
All that day and the next Christopher avoided Roxhythe. He was battling with himself, fighting against what he believed to be wrong.
The blow to his patriotism had been severe, the blow to his love for Roxhythe severer, but what had been the severest of all was the blow to his pride. He would not admit it, but it was true. At twenty-eight pride is tender. It was not pleasant to think that he had been duped so easily and used as a catspaw. It galled him unbearably.
Nothing could kill his love for Roxhythe. It had grown and deepened during nine years; a single blow was not enough to quench it. But the trust was gone. Never again could he believe in my lord. He might pretend, but he knew that in his heart would always be suspicion. He knew now that Roxhythe was the King’s chief adviser and negotiator. When my lord disappeared again, mysteriously, he would know that he was gone on secret business, nefarious business. Men would continue to question him; how could he quiet their fears, knowing the truth? If he assured these questioners of Roxhythe’s innocence he would be acting for my lord, against all that was upright and good. Yet if he left my lord, what else did life hold for him? All these years he had been wrapped up in this one man, managing his affairs, accompanying him almost everywhere, living for him alone. Everyone else had ceased to count with him; Roxhythe was the beginning and the end.
Bitterly he reflected that he had learnt never to question my lord’s actions, to trust in him always, to take up the cudgels on his behalf. In return for this he had been tricked in cold blood. Roxhythe was ruthless; Christopher saw that in his turn he was engrossed in one man. All must give way before the King, even he who had served my lord so faithfully for so long. Then came the still more bitter thought: Roxhythe did not care how he had hurt him. He could not, even in the moment of discovery, abandon his flippancy. He treated the whole affair as an amusing episode; he laughed at Christopher’s discomfiture.
Christopher tried to imagine what life would be if he continued in Roxhythe’s service. It seemed impossible. His spirit rebelled against working for one who plotted and schemed behind the Country’s back. In time he might perhaps be drawn under by Roxhythe’s influence; he might become as cynical as Roxhythe; he might lose all his patriotism, even as Roxhythe had done.
Of the King he could scarcely bear to think. Charles had cast his spell over him, had inspired him with enthusiastic loyalty. He had refused to listen to ill of him; he had thought him all that was best and most noble. Now that ideal was shattered and lay in the dust at his feet.
Seated by the open window, looking out into the dusk, a great loneliness crept over Christopher. There was no one to whom he could speak; no one who would listen to the unburdening of his heart. He had sworn an oath to Charles that he would never disclose the secret of his mission to Flanders. That secret must remain with him to the very end, an everlasting shame to haunt him all his life.
He had wanted to serve his country. Instead, he had worked against her, helped to lower her honour. …
The wind blew in at the window, coldly, and moaned a little through the trees without. Only a few embers burned in the grate; the candles were unlit. Christopher did not care. He was cold through and through, but he did not shut the window. He was facing the first big crisis in his life, and he was terribly afraid lest he should play the coward’s part.
He knew that his mind was made up and that he must leave Roxhythe. No argument was strong enough to convince him that it would be right to remain. Perhaps Roxhythe would trick him again did the need arise. There would never be trust in him now, and suspicion would surely kill his love. And Roxhythe cared nothing for him. He was merely a useful acquisition. He must leave Roxhythe. But it was hard. Love for man was greater at this moment than love for Country. Right must in the end triumph over wrong, but not without a struggle. …
Christopher looked round the familiar room. It had been his for eight years. A lump rose in his throat. …
Another aspect presented itself. Roxhythe had been good to him before this disaster. He had treated him more as a son than as a secretary. Did he not owe something to him? Why had Roxhythe been so good to him? Was it only that he might be of use to him? Christopher had set many uneasy minds at rest in ’70, because he himself had believed in Roxhythe. Nothing is so convincing as innocence. Now that he knew the truth he could not set minds at rest. He could not pose and counterfeit, even if he wished. It seemed likely that Roxhythe would no longer have any use for him.
Then Christopher’s head went down on the hard sill, despairingly. …
Roxhythe had a card-party that night. Christopher should have dined with him, and seen that all was in order. He could not face the inane gaiety, the senseless laughter, the foolish witticisms. He rose jerkily and took up his hat and cloak. In a little while the visitors would arrive; he would hear their voices floating up to his room; tonight he could not bear it. He went quickly out of the room and down the stairs. An amazed footman opened the door for him and watched him descend the steps. Christopher did not care what he thought; only one thing mattered, and that was that he should be out of the house before dinner.
He did not return until after eleven. The same footman admitted him and afterwards remarked to his brethren that Mr. Dart looked for all the world as though he had seen a ghost.
Christopher went slowly upstairs. A burst of laughter from the library made him wince. He was very tired. …
My Lord Roxhythe did not appear next morning until twelve o’clock. He came downstairs then, hat in hand, and his gloves already on.
Christopher met him at the foot of the stairs, barring his passage.
“My lord, may I speak to you—privately?”
Roxhythe paused, his hand on the baluster. He stood just above his secretary, looking down into the pale face with eyes that were quite expressionless.
“My dear Chris, I am pressed for time. His Majesty expects me.”
“I can wait no longer, sir. His Majesty would not grudge me ten minutes.”
The straight brows rose perceptibly.
“My lord,” said Christopher earnestly. “I think you owe me this.”
Roxhythe resumed his passage downstairs.
“It is never wise to take that tone with me,” he remarked.
Christopher laid a hand on his arm.
“Sir, I do beg you will speak to me now! I—I cannot wait!”
The hand was removed.
“Neither can I,” said his lordship. He went on calmly across the hall.
“You will not?” cried Christopher. His eyes flashed.
“I shall be in at three,” replied Roxhythe. The next moment he was gone.
It was the one thing needed to clinch the matter forever. If Roxhythe had acted differently, if he had exerted himself never so slightly to placate Christopher, love for man might had triumphed. But that was not Roxhythe’s way.
Christopher fretted and chafed under the added wrong. By three o’clock there was no doubt left in his mind which way he should decide.
He went to the library to wait for my lord.
Punctual to the minute came Roxhythe. He surveyed his secretary coolly and laid his hat on the table.
Christopher came forward. He was holding fast to his decision. At the sight of Roxhythe it threatened to slip away. No slight that my lord could inflict would ever destroy the magic of his presence.
“I—suppose you—you have guessed why I want to speak to you, sir,” said Christopher unsteadily.
Roxhythe drew off his gloves.
“No. May I ask why you were not present last night?”
The old flush rose to Christopher’s cheeks.
“I—could not. I was in no mood for it.”
“I am sorry,” said Roxhythe. “Perhaps you will inform me next time you feel like that.”
“There will be no next time,” answered Christopher very quietly.
“I am relieved to hear you say so.”
“You do not take my meaning, sir. I desire to—to offer you my resignation.” His voice trembled in spite of all his efforts to control it.
There was a long silence.
“Oh!” said Roxhythe. “Very well.”
So this was the end. Christopher walked slowly to the door. There was a buzzing in his ears, his feet were like lead. He put out his hand to draw back the curtain. He must hold his head high; he must not let Roxhythe see his misery.
“Chris?”
The drawling voice reached him, full of caress. He wheeled about, saw my lord’s outstretched hand, and stumbled back to where he stood, falling on his knees beside him, the hand pressed to his lips. There was a choking lump in his throat; desperately he clung to that strong, white hand. The fingers closed on his.
“So you’ll leave me, Chris?”
“I must, I must! My lord, how can I stay after—after—” he broke off hopelessly.
“I see no reason why you should not.”
“It—is impossible. I could—never—trust you again. If you went on King Charles his business—I should know, and—feel that I was helping to plot against my country.”
“You rate yourself high,” said that even voice. “And I thought I told you that it is France, not England that we trick?”
“It is almost as bad. Oh, my lord, I have been taught to act honestly always—heaven knows I am wavering—but it is no honourable thing to trick any man by fair words! I cannot, cannot remain with you! There would always be suspicion; I should be of no further use to you, and—I should be wretched!”
“Where is your vaunted love for me?” asked my lord sadly.
Christopher kissed his hand.
“It will always be there sir! Nothing could kill it—I—I would give my life for you.”
“Yet when I ask you to stay with me you refuse.”
“Do not—oh, do not! It means—sacrificing my honour—my pride—I—oh, cannot you see that it is impossible?”
“Honour and pride count for more than Roxhythe?”
“Sir, it is right against wrong! You might persuade me to remain with you, but always I should know that I was doing wrong. I—it is—oh, do you think it is not breaking my heart to leave you?”
“Chris, try to look at the matter in a more sensible light. You assume that I am the greatest villain unhanged. In fact, you are melodramatic.”
“I cannot look at it in what you call a sensible light. I can only see that you intrigue for His Majesty’s private ends, breaking treaties, selling England—and—I—I cannot be privy to it!”
“Have I asked you to be privy to it?”
“I have eyes, sir. I should know when you went to France what was your mission. I—could not—shield you from suspicion. People have always tried to squeeze me concerning you. How could I reassure them, knowing the truth?” He did not look up; he dared not.
“Perhaps you are right,” said Roxhythe. He sighed. “I am sorry.”
“I—I cannot make evasive replies; I cannot counterfeit. It might even be that I should—all unwittingly—betray you.”
“You could not do that. I am not a clumsy intriguer. But I suppose you must have your own way.” Again he sighed. “We tread different paths.”
“Yes—sir. You choose to follow King; I—I cleave to—Country.”
“But mine, Chris, is the better part.”
“No, sir, no. Yours is the—tempting part—but I believe that mine is the right.”
“We shall not agree on that score,” answered Roxhythe. He looked round the room. “Oddsblood, I shall miss you, Chris. You have been with me for so long.”
“Nine—years,” said Christopher, little above a whisper. “I, oh, my dear lord, why did you do it? Why did you trick me? I had never found out else! Why, why did you do it?”
Roxhythe smiled.
“Is that the way the wind blows? I believe I could persuade you very easily if I tried.”
Christopher shook his head.
“No—do not try!”
“I shall not. I’ll not have you here against your will. Nine years! You must have become a habit, Christopher.”
“Yes—that is all. You will not—miss me for long. You will have another—secretary—you will forget that there ever was—a Christopher. ’Tis I who—shall not forget.”
“Another secretary. … It seems strange.”
Christopher’s hold on his hand tightened.
“Don’t speak of it, sir! I—can’t—bear it!”
Roxhythe bent over him.
“Look at me, Chris!”
The grey, almost blue eyes met his.
“You mean it, Chris? You’ll leave me?”
Christopher tried to wrench his gaze away but the steady brown eyes held his. He drew a deep breath.
“Yes, sir. I—must.”
Roxhythe straightened. He drew his hand away.
“I thought I could bend you to my will, Chris,” he said. “It seems I was wrong. Well, what now?”
Christopher rose.
“I shall stay until you have—found a—secretary, sir—of course.”
“Thank you. And then?”
“Then—I do not know. I cannot think of the future—as yet.”
Roxhythe looked at him thoughtfully.
“One thing, Chris, I want you to remember always. Whatever happens, whenever you will, you may return to me. Don’t forget it, child. I shall welcome you back no matter when you come. And if you ever want help, call upon me.”
“You—are very good, sir. I—will—remember.”
Roxhythe nodded. He watched Christopher go out of the room. Then he picked up his hat and gloves.
“So ends the one friendship,” he said aloud. “I wonder—is it worth it?”