V
Mynheer de Staal
During the coach journey to Rotterdam, Christopher suffered from suppressed excitement, much to Roxhythe’s amusement.
As soon as they arrived at the inn Roxhythe retired to his room, leaving Christopher to explain to mine host that his lordship was most unwell and must be kept very quiet. At first the landlord was not desirous of having a sick man in his house, but when it was clearly borne in upon him that Roxhythe was an English milor’ and would pay lavishly, his objections faded.
Christopher repaired to Roxhythe’s room, and found him in the act of writing to de Staal.
My lord refused his proffered services, and finished the letter with a flourish.
“Tell the landlord to have it conveyed to 19, Prinsen Straat, Chris.”
“I will take it, sir.”
“My dear boy, do as I bid you.”
“Yes, sir,” said Christopher, chastened, and bore it off.
“Has M. the Spy arrived?” asked Roxhythe on his return.
“Not yet, sir.” Christopher shook his head. “I can see him nowhere.”
“I should be sorry if de Staal arrived before him,” remarked my lord.
Presently Christopher went downstairs again, on some pretext or other, and took a casual survey of the coffee-room. The spy was not there, but as Christopher turned to go, horses’ hoofs sounded on the cobblestones without. Feeling that he was very deep in intrigue, Christopher affected to take no notice and strolled towards the stairs.
“Party o’ three,” rumbled the landlord, coming out of an inner room. “Plague take them, we’re nearly full already.”
He waddled away to the door and set it wide. Through it Christopher caught a glimpse of the new arrivals. Two of them had their backs to him, the third came forward to speak with mine host. He was plainly dressed and eminently respectable. Christopher did not know him at all. Then one of the other men turned, and he saw that it was the spy. He went upstairs with forced calmness, but his heart was bounding within him, and his eyes, when he burst in upon Roxhythe, sparkled and glowed with excitement.
“Fiend seize you, Christopher! What now?” protested Roxhythe, opening one heavy eyelid.
“He hath arrived!”
The other eye opened with an effort.
“Hath he indeed?” mocked Roxhythe. “What shall we do?”
“Nay!” blushed Christopher. “But you must admit that ’tis monstrous exciting, sir!”
My lord yawned and prepared to go asleep again.
“ ’Tis all a damned plaguey nuisance,” he murmured. “And I would I were at home.”
“So do not I,” retorted Christopher. “I swear I am enjoying myself as I have never done before. I marvel that you can go to sleep in this fashion!”
“I cannot with so much chatter in my ear,” complained his lordship. He opened his eyes to watch Christopher laugh. He always averred that to see Chris laugh afforded him much pleasure.
“Well, may I go out, sir?” asked Dart impatiently.
“By all means. You’ll find Rotterdam dull and unprofitable, but don’t let that dissuade you.”
“I’m not so blind that I cannot see from the window what a quaint place it is,” answered Christopher. He walked to the door. “I wish you might come with me, sir.”
“Go away!” begged Roxhythe.
Christopher found Rotterdam a prosperous town. He walked about its streets for some time, and in the course of his peregrinations, met a fat tradesman with whom he had speech. He wanted to hear the tradesman’s views on State Affairs, and what his feelings were towards the Prince of Orange. It seemed that the man was a butcher. He gave Christopher a long account of the price of meat. He deplored the fact that three of his bullocks, all very fine and in their prime, had lately sickened and died of a mysterious disease. He had dark suspicions that this was the work of a certain enemy of his who lived at the other end of the town and boasted that his custom was far greater than Mynheer Dagvelt’s. Christopher, only half comprehending, tried in broken Dutch to bring the conversation round to the Prince. Mynheer Dagvelt told him that his neighbour had had a spite against him from the day that two of his customers left him to deal with the far superior Dagvelt. Disgruntled, Christopher passed on his way.
He returned to the Flaming Sun shortly after sundown. Roxhythe had shaken off some of his sleepiness and was studying a map of Holland. He had changed his clothes and his nails had been carefully polished. He looked up as Christopher entered, and smiled.
“Well, what of the town?”
Christopher did not tell him of his encounter with Mynheer Dagvelt.
John put his head in at the door with the news that Mynheer de Staal was below. Roxhythe nodded.
“At once, John.”
Christopher rose to depart.
“Don’t go, Chris,” said my lord languidly. “You’ll like de Staal.”
The door opened again in a minute, and a small, white-haired gentleman came hesitatingly into the room, hat in hand.
Christopher was between him and Roxhythe, obscuring the latter. A pair of gentle blue eyes looked up into his face, and the finely cut lips smiled doubtfully.
“Milor’—Roxhyt’e?” said de Staal.
Roxhythe had pulled himself out of his chair, and now he came forward, hands outstretched.
“De Staal!”
“Milor’!” The sweet voice trembled. Before Roxhythe could prevent him, de Staal had carried both hands to his lips. “Milor’! Ah, milor’ … ! To see you again after all these years!” He spoke in Dutch.
“And you, de Staal! You are well?” Roxhythe’s English accent had disappeared.
“I grow old,” answered the other. “Yes, I am well. The sight of you would refresh a dying man, milor’.”
Roxhythe led him to a chair.
“You missed us, de Staal? Well, we’ve missed you, and all the old friends. Sometimes we pine for the sight of the old haunts—my little master and I.”
“Ah, the Prince! He is well? He is happy in his England?”
“Yes, he’s happy, de Staal.”
“And you?”
“Oh, I! But of course!”
De Staal regarded him wistfully.
“We heard how great you are in England, milor’; how powerful; what a courtier. Eh, eh! And it likes you, that life?”
“It likes me very well, de Staal. I am as my master—I’ve no mind to set out on my travels again.”
De Staal nodded slowly. His eyes never left Roxhythe’s face.
“You find me changed?” asked my lord.
“A little,” admitted de Staal. “There are lines where there were not, and your eyes have grown not so bright.”
“That is age,” smiled Roxhythe.
“It is the soft living,” replied de Staal. “I do not see the soldier, milor’.”
My lord gave a strange little sigh.
“He hath gone long since, my friend.” He sighed again.
“You almost make me wish I was a wanderer once more.” His smile was rather crooked. “You were surprised to get my letter?”
“I could not believe mine eyes! The sight of ‘Roxhyt’e’ across the page stunned me. I came as soon as I could leave the house. You want my help?”
“You guessed that?”
“You would not else have sent for me, milor’.”
Christopher cleared his throat. De Staal was a pathetic figure, and these calm words, spoken entirely without bitterness, made his eyelids smart suddenly.
Roxhythe did not expostulate.
“I am here on the King’s business, de Staal; business of a very private nature, and I am spied upon.”
“You have been spied upon before,” smiled de Staal. They both laughed.
“Ay, but this is more serious.”
“Your life is in danger?”
“Not a whit. But I must shake off the importunate gentleman. He is downstairs now, thinking me in bed with a low fever. I must ride to the Hague no later than tomorrow night and I do not desire the company of my friend.”
“Ah! You kill him?”
Roxhythe bit his lip.
“There are three of them or I might be tempted. No, I leave him here. De Staal, I want you to give it out downstairs that I am indeed ill—remember you have never seen me before—and that I must not be disturbed. Only Chris here, and my servant are to be allowed into my room, and you will come every day until I return from the Hague. That I hope to do in three or four days’ time. Will you do it?”
“Milor’!” De Staal looked his reproach. “You ask me will I do it?”
“You will. Another thing. I want you to procure me a horse, and to stall it for me until I come to fetch it. You’ll do that too?”
“Assuredly. So you escape by night, hein?”
“By way of the window. With your permission I’ll spend the rest of the night with you.”
De Staal nodded.
“I wish I were coming!” said Christopher suddenly.
Roxhythe shook his head.
“You would greatly complicate matters, my dear Chris.”
De Staal looked enquiringly from one to the other. Roxhythe translated.
“Aha! De adventure appeal to you, hein?”
“I should like to be there, to help Lord Roxhythe.”
De Staal smiled approvingly.
“You should take heem, milor’.”
“Sacré nom! I think not.”
“If only you would, sir!” Christopher looked appealingly across at him.
“De Staal, why must you put such ideas into the child’s head? No, Chris, it’s impossible.”
“I am not a child.”
“I crave your pardon. An I thought you one, I should not leave you to dupe Mynheer Spy during my absence.”
Christopher was not appeased.
“It is so little to do, sir!”
“Chris, this is your first intrigue, and you expect to play the leading part! I have given you an all too difficult task as it is. Be assured that it is of great importance.”
Christopher was silent. He escorted de Staal part of the way home, and again he broached the subject.
“I would I might prevail upon my lord to take me with him, mynheer.”
“He tell me you are of grit use to heem here,” replied the Dutchman.
“Did he? I was afraid—I mean I do so little—I did not think I was of any use.”
“But yes. He t’ink a grit deal of you, Mynheer Dart.”
“Oh, is that true?”
De Staal cast him a shrewd glance.
“I should not say it eef eet were not. He tell me you are a ver’ prince of secretaries. Eet ees not often t’at milor’ t’ink a grit deal of a man. … You like heem, yes?”
“Yes,” said Christopher. “But I do not understand him.”
“No one understands heem,” answered de Staal placidly. “He ees what you English call—enigma. He ees a ver’ grit man. He throw a spell over you, hein? He make you do what he say?”
“He has great fascination,” admitted Christopher.
“He make all men love heem eef he like. Only he not like ver’ often.”
“No. He is sometimes very—very—”
“He make you angry, hein?”
“Yes, very.”
“I know. Eet ees hees way. You must always do what he say, nevair—what you call eet?—dispute with heem.”
“I am learning that!” grimaced Christopher.
“T’at ees well. You will love heem ver’ mooch one day, only, I warn you, do not love heem too mooch, for he ees Roxhyt’e, and he not care for any one save heemself and hees Prince.”
“Oh,” protested Christopher.
“You not belief me. You t’ink heem onselfish, and ver’ good. Well, I warn you, eet ees not so. You remember t’at always and you not get hurt.”
“But, mynheer, why should I get hurt?”
“Eef you love a man ver’ deeply, t’at man he have de power to hurt you ver’ mooch. Me, I love heem ver’ gritly, but I know t’at he ees—Roxhyt’e. One day perhaps he hurt you ver’ mooch eef you not take care. So I warn you.”
“Thank you very much, mynheer. But—oh, I feel sure that he is not like that!”
“You will see. You not belief me now, but one day you will remember what I say tonight, hein?”
“I hope not,” said Christopher gravely.
On his way back to the Flaming Sun, he decided that de Staal was very charming, but very morbid. He gave not another thought to the evening’s conversation.
De Staal visited my lord just before noon next day and Christopher saw him off the premises. For the benefit of all who might chance to be within earshot, de Staal gave him minute instructions concerning his “patient’s” treatment. Christopher hoped that the spy was near at hand.
He could hardly possess his soul in patience during the rest of the day, and Roxhythe’s placidity was a source of wonderment to him.
“One would think you were trying to get out of the way,” my lord twitted him. “I only hope you will not run your head into a noose while I am gone, in your lust for adventure. Sit down and write to your brother.”
“Why?” asked Christopher.
“How argumentative you are! Tell him that you are coming to the Hague, with a certain Mr. Curtis, and have rooms at the Three Fishers. Tell him to visit you at six in the evening tomorrow. And tell him to ask for Curtis. Say naught that spies might not read with impunity.”
Christopher looked up.
“Oh, Roderick is not suspect, sir! He was engaged by De Witt himself.”
“Yet he is the Prince, his man?”
“He is now.”
“Ah!” said Roxhythe.
Christopher scratched away at the parchment.
“Seal and address it,” ordered Roxhythe.
Christopher obeyed, and handed it over to him.
“There’s naught else, sir?”
“I think not. You know all that you have to do. Keep Mynheer Spy content, and listen every night for the hoot of an owl, twice repeated.”
“I do trust you will come to no harm, sir,” said Christopher anxiously.
“You had best wish success to my mission,” was the gloomy response. “God knows, it needs it,” he added beneath his breath.
At half-past ten he was ready to start. A voluminous cloak concealed his rich riding dress, and heavy top boots were on his feet. He thrust his gloves into his belt and donned his beaver.
“So it is fare ye well, Chris! You took that package to de Staal?”
“For your journey? Yes, sir.”
Roxhythe opened the window softly, and looked out. It was very dark.
“None too vigilant a spy,” he remarked. “Did you say he was playing at picquet?”
“Five minutes ago he was. But you had best hasten.”
“Oh, I am going, I am going! Lud, how anxious you are to be rid of me!” He held out his hand. “Goodbye, Chris; have a care to yourself, and remember that John may be trusted implicitly.”
“Yes, sir. And, oh! pray, be careful.”
“There’s naught to fear on my account.” He looked at Christopher for a moment. “I could not have accomplished this without you, child.”
The two hands gripped. Then Roxhythe swung one leg over the sill.
“Quickly, Chris! The rope.”
Two minutes later he was on the ground outside, and blackness had enveloped him.
Christopher shut the window. He felt strangely forlorn and alone.
Downstairs the spy continued to play picquet.