VII
February, 1685
Lady Frances regarded her cousin thoughtfully.
“I often wonder, David, how you triumphed.”
Roxhythe showed signs of interest.
“When? And how?”
“When Russell died, and Essex killed himself.”
Roxhythe relapsed into boredom.
“Old history, my dear.”
“But none the less puzzling. At the time you would say naught. Now it should be different. All those enemies to the King are gone; there is no danger of Exclusion. How did you do it?”
“It was the King his triumph.”
“Undoubtedly. But also yours.”
“I am gratified, of course. But why was it my triumph?”
“Roxhythe, am I a fool?”
“You are wiser than the most of your sex, my dear.”
She made a little grimace.
“You are more than kind! Well, I am not a fool. Never have you succeeded in deceiving me, less than ever now. Why does Halifax become as stone when one speaks your name? Why does Sunderland grind his teeth? Why do Howard’s cheeks grow red?”
“Do they?” asked Roxhythe. “How amusing!”
“No. Why do all these things happen?”
“In truth, I am too powerful.”
“Why are you too powerful? What have you done to cause their enmity? You put a spoke in their wheels.”
“Several spokes.”
“You helped to overthrow Shaftesbury, you overthrew the Exclusion, you ruined Monmouth.”
“It seems I am omnipotent. But I did not ruin Monmouth.”
“Oh, I know he was forgiven, but he had to leave the country for all that.”
“It was the King his will.”
“Roxhythe, tell me plainly: were you one of Monmouth’s band?”
“Is it likely?”
“It is more than likely that you counterfeited the better to undo him.”
“Dear, dear!” said Roxhythe.
“David, I know that it must have been so. Every man mistrusts you, yet dare not cross you. You have tricked and betrayed; I am sure of it.”
“In that case there is no more to be said.”
“You admit it?”
“I admit nothing.”
“Neither do you deny. That tells me all I want to know. I am fearful for you, David.”
“Odds life! Why?”
“There is no one will uphold you save the King.”
“Am I like to require upholding?”
Lady Fanny did not smile.
“I think so. Roxhythe, you have sacrificed all for Charles. It was weak.”
My lord was genuinely astonished.
“Weak? What next?”
“I know ’tis a surprising thought. Christopher was stronger than are you.”
“Cordieu, why am I weak?”
“David, when you were young, and I was a child, you were a soldier. You fought at Worcester. You were honest then, and you played one game alone. Gradually you dabbled in intrigue; at last you quitted the army. From that moment you changed. You forgot the soldier in yourself, overcome by your love for Charles. You put honour and good faith behind you. You sank yourself for Charles.”
“This is enthralling! Proceed!”
“In ’60 you came with him to England. Since that day you have never once played an honest game.”
“One moment! I have played a consistent game.”
“Consistent in that it was always for one man. Never a straightforward game. You intrigued with Louis—led him to think that you worked in his interest. You are no longer received at the Louvre because Louis discovered that your fair promises were empty, that you were not to be trusted. You betrayed Shaftesbury; you betrayed Monmouth, Russell and all those others. All for one man. I do admit that you have ever worked for Charles, and for that much will doubtless be forgiven hereafter. But, David! You have sacrificed truth, honour, patriotism for man. You may look at it in what light you will, but always it will be a weakness—a shame!”
“Will it?” said Roxhythe, unperturbed. “It is very sad.”
“You will regret it, David.”
“If you think that, Fanny, you do not know me.”
She shrugged.
“Perhaps I do not. Will it not prey on your mind that you brought about the deaths of men who were innocent—just to gratify the whim of your master?”
“Not in the least. Who are these innocent men?”
“Russell and Essex. Do you think I did not know them? I knew them well. In Monmouth’s cause they may have been, but in a plot to murder Charles, never! All that lying, worthless evidence … who helped to concoct it? Methinks I descry your hand. And Stafford; could you not have induced Charles to save him?”
“No.”
She shrugged again.
“It may be so. But could you not have saved Russell?”
“Perhaps.”
“And yet you did not. I can find it in my heart to pity you, David.”
“Then I beg you will not. I regret nothing. My whole life has been at the disposal of the King. Am I to regret that?”
“It is for you to say. I had thought so, certainly. I tell you, David, Christopher chose the better part.”
“And what is he now?”
“He is an honest man. He fought against losing his honour, his manhood, even as you must have fought, long, long ago. You gave way to inclination; Chris won his battle. He would not sacrifice all that was right and true for one man. Don’t think that it was easy for him to leave you! I watched that struggle, and I know. Now he has found happiness. He is with his regiment; he works openly, honestly. I don’t say that he has ever regained the same bliss that he once knew, but he is at peace, because he knows that he chose rightly. He may not have won power, but he has friends—and trust. You have power, but for how long will it last? No man trusts you.”
Roxhythe turned his head to look at her. He was faintly amused.
“Quite a homily. Yet if I had to choose again I would choose the same path.”
“Would you, David? Are you not lonely?”
“I am not.”
“Then I can say nothing more. I suppose you think me very officious.”
“My dear, you are at liberty to say what you will to me, but don’t seek to reform my ways. Do you expect me to repent my evil life and weep?”
At last she smiled.
“You would not be Roxhythe an you did,” she said.
“And you would thoroughly despise me.”
“I suppose I should. I cannot help liking you—perhaps because I too have lived in intrigue. In truth, David, we are old and wicked.”
“My sweet Fanny, I am not yet fifty, and you—”
“Don’t! I cannot bear to think how old I am!”
“—are not yet forty-five. We are in our prime.”
“Are we? Roxhythe, do you ever hear from Chris?”
“At rare intervals. Our interests lie apart.”
“Do—you ever—miss him?”
“I really have not given the matter a thought,” said Roxhythe, suddenly languid. He rose. “I must go. I have to visit Lord Wildmay. Have you observed his wife?”
“No,” she said. “But I can see that you have.”
The door flew open. An agitated gentleman came in. He did not heed Lady Frances who stared at him in great hauteur. He went straight to Roxhythe, breathless.
“My lord—I have searched for you everywhere!” He paused, and spoke lower. “You must come to the palace at once!”
Roxhythe’s hand tightened slowly on his comfit-box.
“What is it, Chiffinch?”
Lady Frances drew nearer.
“What is the matter? Why is my lord so instantly required?”
Chiffinch hesitated.
“Madam—I trust to your discretion—the King—is ill.”
Roxhythe picked up his hat.
“You’ll excuse me, Frances. I will come, Chiffinch.”
“Make haste, sir! They—they fear—he cannot—live!” He turned away, hiding his grief.
Lady Frances went very white.
“Oh—! Mr. Chiffinch! Roxhythe, go quickly!” She turned towards him and found that she was addressing space. Roxhythe had gone.
The room was full of people. The physicians were consulting together by the window; James stood by the fireplace with the Earl of Feversham. When Roxhythe entered he turned, frowning. My lord did not glance in his direction. He went quietly to the great bed where lay his master. Charles’ eyes were closed; his face was ghastly; one hand lay on the sheet. Roxhythe lifted that hand tenderly and kissed it.
The King’s eyes opened. With an effort he smiled.
“This is the end, Davy.” He spoke feebly, little above a whisper.
“Have courage, Sir. This is not the end.”
The smile lingered.
“I shall not be sorry, Davy. In—truth, my spirit has—not been at rest—this many a day. Stay by me.” His eyes closed.
The day wore on. One after another the surgeons attended him. He was unconscious, but towards evening he came to himself and seemed better.
Several divines sat with him during the night; the Duke of York scarcely left the bedchamber. Roxhythe sat beside the bed, watchful, immovable.
Charles hardly opened his eyes. He was suffering great pain, but no complaint passed his lips.
On the second day news came of the nation’s grief. During these last years Charles had regained all his old popularity. The people were filled with dismay at his illness; prayers were read for him in every church.
On the fourth day of his illness it was thought that the King would recover, and London rejoiced. Suddenly there was a relapse and the physicians knew that they could not save him.
At sight of her husband’s sufferings, the Queen had fainted and had been forced to retire.
When the news came that the King was dying, the Duchess of Portsmouth had an interview with M. Barillon, as a result of which M. Barillon spoke long and earnestly to the Duke of York.
The Archbishop of Canterbury had urged the King to receive the Sacrament. Charles seemed sunk in apathy.
Thomas Ken, Bishop of Bath and Wells, fared no better.
Then came James to the bedside, and ordered everyone to stand back. He spoke quietly to his brother.
“Yes—yes! with all my heart!” gasped Charles.
The Duke whispered again. The King’s answer could not be heard.
My Lord Roxhythe was speaking to M. Barillon when James approached. He turned to the Duke.
“Your Grace should seek out the Count of Castel Melhor.”
James frowned.
“There should be some Englishman.”
“There is not!” interposed Barillon eagerly. “The Count will find a confessor.”
“One who cannot speak English. To what avail?”
“It is almost the only chance,” said Roxhythe. “Where will you find a priest these days?”
James hurried out. Roxhythe went out also.
The Count promised to find a confessor, but not one was forthcoming who could speak enough English or French. James was distracted. Then came Roxhythe.
“Do you remember Huddleston, sir?”
“No!” snapped James. “I want no riddles now!”
Roxhythe looked his scorn.
“I offer you none. I speak of the man who saved the King’s life after Worcester.”
“That man!” James started. “Is he a priest?”
“Something approaching it. I have taken him to Castel Melhor who will see that he is well instructed. He is willing to shrive the King.” He went back to the bedside.
“He is very cold,” remarked M. Barillon. “Ma foi! I do not understand you Englishmen.”
“I thank God we are not all like Roxhythe,” answered James curtly. He left the room.
Later the room was cleared, only Feversham and Granville remaining, and Chiffinch brought Huddleston, disguised, by a back way.
For nearly an hour the door to the King’s chamber remained inexorably closed. Glances were exchanged in the outer room, full of significance. Then again the door was opened and everyone was allowed to enter.
The King’s children were brought to receive his blessing, but the absent Monmouth’s name never once passed his lips.
During the night Charles regained some of his old urbanity. He sent messages to the Queen, and recommended several people to his brother’s care. He even contrived to crack a joke.
The dawn came. Roxhythe was kneeling by the bed, the King’s hand in his. His face was a mask; he seemed not to notice anyone in the room save his master. During the night Charles had spoken with him in broken, laboured whispering. No one knew what he had said. His feeble voice reached the favourite’s ears alone, and not even James, watching jealously, could catch a syllable. He had only seen Roxhythe kiss the King’s hand again and again.
The light crept in at the windows. Charles ordered that the curtains should be drawn apart that he might see the day once more. Very shortly after, speech left him.
The slow hours crept on. Once the King’s eyelids flickered, and Roxhythe felt the faint pressure of his hand. He bent over it, his face hidden.
Charles became unconscious. It was now only a matter of hours.
The Duke of York came and went; from time to time the physicians took the King’s pulse. Nothing further could be done for him.
Drearily the moments ticked away. Except for the whispering of the men by the fireplace there was no sound.
M. Barillon jerked his head towards the still, kneeling figure by the bed.
“I think he feels it.”
Feversham sneered.
“As much as he feels anything. It means his downfall.”
“Perhaps,” said Barillon. “Perhaps.”
It was nearly noon. Dr. Shortt drew near the bed, bending over the King. He straightened himself and looked across at the other surgeons. They came to his side. …
Dr. Shortt came away from the bed.
“Gentlemen!”
Everyone turned anxiously. The Duke was with the other physicians.
“Gentlemen, the King is dead.” Shortt walked away to the window, blowing his nose.
There was a long silence. The Duke came away from the great four-poster, his face set. He went out quickly.
Roxhythe held the cold hand still. He had made no movement all through; it was doubtful if he had heard the sentence. Barillon looked at him curiously for a moment. Then he went to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Milor’. …” He spoke gently.
Roxhythe looked up. His face was drawn and grey.
“Milor’ … you heard?”
Roxhythe stared before him.
“Ay. I heard.” The level voice did not tremble.
“Eh, bien!” Before this coldness M. Barillon’s gentleness fled. He withdrew.
Once more my lord bent over the lifeless hand, raising it to his lips. There was no answering pressure now. For a long while he held it there, taking his last farewell. Then he rose and looked into the beloved composed features.
He turned, and faced the room. No one spoke. Even Feversham could not sneer.
The hard eyes travelled slowly round the room. Without a word my lord went to the door.
So he left Whitehall, which had been almost his home for so many years. Never again would he willingly cross its threshold. The King was dead.