IX
The Sunderlands
My Lord Sunderland spoke humbly.
“Sire, I think it were best to leave Roxhythe.”
James’ eyes flashed.
“What now? Does he refuse to leave the country?”
“He hinted, Sir, that it would serve him better to remain in London.”
James pulled at his lip.
“What means he?”
“I think, Sir, that he counts himself safe.”
“How? What do you know of him? I can convict him of his guilt in dealing with Monmouth!”
“Sire, he dealt with Monmouth that he might the better serve King Charles.”
“Who will believe that?” James was scowling.
Sunderland looked at him significantly.
“It may be, Sir, that he hath that which will prove it.”
James’ brow grew yet more black.
“Explain yourself!”
“Sir, almost he told me that he had written authority from King Charles.”
There was a pause.
“So I am to allow him to plot and work against me?” A peevish note sounded in the King’s voice.
Sunderland was deprecating.
“I hardly like to advise Your Majesty. …”
“What is your advice?”
“Your Majesty has doubtless considered that Roxhythe makes a powerful ally.”
“Do you dare to insinuate that I should placate the man?” cried James, wrathfully.
My lord was shocked.
“Sir! Such a course were unworthy of you. Roxhythe may seek to placate you.”
“I want no dealings with him!”
“Then of course Your Majesty must have none. Roxhythe is a clever man.”
“An untrustworthy man!”
“Your Majesty says very truly. Nevertheless Your Majesty might make use of him.”
“I dislike him!”
“In that case. …” Sunderland spread out his hands. “Why trouble to notice his existence?” He watched the King’s face covertly, and noted with satisfaction that this seed promised to take root. James said no more.
The weeks passed slowly by. It was one day in March that Lady Sunderland met Roxhythe.
She went to Lady Duncannon’s soirée. Lady Duncannon welcomed Whigs and Tories alike, so Wharton met Halifax, and the Sunderlands, true Tories, rubbed shoulders with every Whig who came. To wit, Lady Sunderland, who sat in close conversation with Lord Macclesfield, lately concerned in the Monmouth plot.
A little stir was caused by the entrance of Lord Roxhythe. Lady Sunderland gripped Macclesfield’s arm.
“La! Roxhythe!”
Macclesfield nodded.
“He goes everywhere.”
“What effrontery!” Her ladyship eyed Macclesfield over the top of her fan.
“He is brave,” admitted my lord grudgingly. “Hostesses still welcome him.”
“Well, well!” sighed the Countess. “Gracious! Do I see Trenchard?”
“He is newly arrived in town. It is unwise, of course.”
“Dogged man! I admire such courage. Trenchard!”
Trenchard came up to her.
“Do I see your ladyship, or do mine eyes deceive me?”
“You see me. What do you in town?”
“Perhaps I wanted to meet you.”
“Perhaps you did. Yet it was foolhardy to come.”
“The risk was worth the issue.”
Lady Sunderland toyed with her fan.
“What is the issue?”
“How can I say, madam? It is for you to prompt me.”
She laid a finger on her lips.
“You’re overbold, sir. I can give no promises.”
“If I am overbold, madam, you are overcautious.”
“Maybe. I am but the mouthpiece of my lord.”
“Then your lord is overcautious. Will he come to no decision?”
She looked down at her white hands.
“He waits. Who shall say which way the wind will blow?”
“You mean?”
“No more than I say. You ask us to risk all for—it may be nothing. We wish to know what we are like to gain.”
“He whom we will not name comes soon.”
“Why, we will wait till then!”
“And after?”
“Who knows?” she smiled. “Must I promise?”
“You will not. But do you hold out—hope?”
“There is always hope,” she parried. “Have you seen who is here tonight?”
He frowned.
“Ay. Once bit, twice shy.”
“But the King is dead,” said my lady.
“I’d have no dealings in that quarter. Unhappily I am otherwise commanded.”
She leaned towards him.
“Mark my words, Trenchard. In Roxhythe you gain a powerful ally.”
“I know it. But who shall trust him after what he did?”
“Have I not said?—The King is dead.”
He shrugged.
Later in the evening Roxhythe passed Lady Sunderland’s couch. She beckoned to him, and he had, perforce, to go to her.
“Come and talk to me,” she invited. “I am very forgiving, am I not?”
“Are you?” said Roxhythe. He sat down. “Why?”
“You did not answer my note.”
“Did I not?”
“You’ll say you had forgot that I had written! I was minded to be honest with you. Alack, the time has passed!”
He regarded her languidly.
“Honesty is a virtue which becomes not your sex, my dear.”
“True!” She cast up her eyes. “ ’Tis our sweet deception that attracts. Heigh-ho! Have you been to Whitehall, my lord?”
Up went his brows.
“Lady Sunderland feigns ignorance. Why?”
She bit her lip.
“You have not. Have you seen Mr. Trenchard?”
“He obtrudes himself on one’s notice. A plain man.”
“I had perceived it. But he has conversation. You should speak with him; he would surprise you.”
“Very little surprises me, madam.”
“Except me?” She ogled him.
He looked at her gravely.
“In truth, madam, I am accustomed to woman’s vagaries.”
“Aha! Yet in some ways I differ from the rest of my sex.”
“In many. So few women have the brain for affairs.”
She cast down her eyes.
“Is it a compliment, my lord?”
“I wonder,” said my lord.
At that she raised her eyes, deep wells of innocence.
“Let us be honest!”
“I thought we had decided that it was not becoming, madam?”
“But let us essay it. Do you dislike my poor Sunderland?”
Roxhythe bowed.
“I have a great admiration for Lord Sunderland’s cunning.”
“Perhaps that feeling is reciprocated,” she answered. “You should have speech with my lord.”
“Why, then, there are two whose acquaintance you bid me cultivate. Your lord, and Trenchard. A strange couple.”
She laughed.
“Are they not? But I do not think I bade you speak with both at once.”
“To speak with them separately were too tedious, madam.”
“Tedious?”
“I weary of the same subject.”
“Would both say the same things, think you?”
“Since you advise me to speak with both it seems likely, madam.”
“So you will eschew their company?”
“I shall not seek them out.”
“Ah! And if they seek you out?”
“I shall count myself singularly honoured, no doubt.”
“I wonder what you mean by that?” she said.
“So do I,” smiled Roxhythe, and left her.
My lady was thoughtful. She went home early to meet her lord.
Sunderland entered her boudoir.
“You are very opportune,” said my lady. “I want you.”
“Good lack!” exclaimed Sunderland. “What ails you?”
She curled her lip at him.
“I am not grown maudlin of a sudden, Spencer, rest assured. I have worked tonight.”
He sat down.
“Let’s hear it, my dear.”
“I have had speech with Roxhythe. Also with Trenchard.”
“Oddsbody! Is Trenchard in town?”
“Ay, and wants an answer.”
“What said you?”
“I told him that we should wait until we might clearly see the result. He asked for hope. I gave him that.” She smiled slowly. “Monmouth desires to treat with Roxhythe.”
“It was to be expected. What is Roxhythe’s attitude?”
“I cannot tell. He is to be feared, Sunderland.”
“Ay. I’d think seriously of Monmouth if Roxhythe were to take charge of his affairs.”
“So would a-many others. Roxhythe has the cool sagacity that Monmouth lacks. He would change the whole complexion of the matter.”
Sunderland tapped his teeth with one fingernail.
“H’m. I do not think he will join Monmouth.”
“No, but have you thought what else he might do?”
“Warn James? Ay.”
My lady rose, drawing her wrapper about her.
“I’ve given you something to rack your brains over,” she said, and laughed. “You would not be the man you are if you had not me to wife.”
“I don’t deny your intelligence,” he retorted.
When Mr. Trenchard waited on Lord Roxhythe he went straight to the point.
“My lord, once you betrayed us.”
Roxhythe paused. He was in the act of pouring out a glass of wine.
“I did not know you had come to indulge in reminiscences,” he remarked.
“Nor have I. You betrayed us to your master. Perhaps I do not blame you.”
“How magnanimous!” Roxhythe handed him the glass.
“Thank you. Well, now you have no master. Things have changed. Papist James was never to your taste.” He paused. Roxhythe was sipping his wine, and did not speak. “Things have changed. His Highness remembers that you aided him to escape when our plot was exploded. Have you still a fondness for him?”
“Had I ever?” asked Roxhythe, mildly surprised.
“It is for you to say. Have you ever considered that His Highness might—plot again?”
“I never consider the obvious,” said my lord.
“Then have you considered that it might be to your advantage to—plot with him?”
“I have not,” said Roxhythe rather drily.
“But then you do not consider the obvious, do you?”
“No more than I consider the impossible.”
“Is this impossible?”
“Say, rather, ludicrous.”
Trenchard flushed.
“His Highness offers you—a place of command if you will join him.”
“Delightfully vague,” commented my lord.
“Prove yourself, sir, and I may safely promise a high place.”
“It seems that His Grace is afraid of me,” murmured Roxhythe.
“What is there to be afraid of?” sneered Trenchard.
“Why does he want me so urgently?”
“He wants all men.”
“Oh? You take quite the wrong tone with me, you know. I do not like the offer.”
“You like the offer but not the way in which I make it?”
“Perhaps even that.”
“I thought so. Let me tell you that His Highness begs you will join him in Holland.”
“I think the climate would not agree with me.”
“Does the English climate suit you so well?”
“I think it will.” Roxhythe played with his rings.
Trenchard curbed his impatience.
“What is your objection to my offer?”
“It is altogether too vague. What prospects has His Grace?”
“Do you expect me to tell you that?”
“Do you expect me to join you in the dark? If Sunderland would not, how should I?”
The chance shot found its mark. Trenchard sprang up.
“What do you know of Sunderland?”
My lord smiled.
“What more do you know?” cried Trenchard.
Again my lord smiled. If the weight within him were less he could enjoy this game. He essayed another shot.
“I might mention the name of a Scotsman,” he said.
“If you know that Argyle is with us, what more do you want?”
“Nothing,” yawned my lord. “So I’ll give you good day.”
“You will not join us?”
“It is too much trouble,” apologized his lordship. “Convey my respects to His Grace of Monmouth.”
He bowed his guest out and returned to the library.
He had flung away that last chance; his master had not wished Monmouth to come to the throne. As to Sunderland—pah! He wanted no power under any man; his day was done. He was only waiting now until he could join his King.
His glance fell on his gold comfit-box, given him by Charles. In diamonds was written on the lid:—
“Roxhythe: C. R.”
He picked it up, a smile that was more terrible than tears upon his lips. Slowly his hand clenched on it; his face had grown very grey. He sat down, resting his arms on the table, gazing dry-eyed at the jewelled box in his hand, He was still smiling, looking back across the years.
“… So we are linked together, Davy, you and I.”
“Always, Sir. I stand or fall with you.”
“And always you had my love, David. …”
There was a long, long silence. The proud head sank over my lord’s hands; the comfit-box was pressed to his lips.
“Ah, Sire … Sire … !” whispered Roxhythe.