"Ay, I go with the Duke of Monmouth, and you go with me, to Dover when the King goes."

Now, either Dover was on everybody's brain, or was very sadly on my brain, for I swear even this fellow's eye seemed to brighten as I named the place.

"To Dover, sir?"

"No less. You shall see all the gaiety there is to be seen, Jonah."

The flush of interest had died away; he was dolefully tranquil and submissive again.

"Well, what do you want with me?" I asked, for I did not wish him to suspect that I detected any change in his manner.

"A lady came here to-day, sir, in a very fine coach with Flemish horses, and asked for you. Hearing you were from home, she called to me and bade me take a message for you. I prayed her to write it, but she laughed, and said she spoke more easily than she wrote; and she bade me say that she wished to see you."

"What sort of lady was she, Jonah?"

"She sat all the while in the coach, sir, but she seemed not tall; she was very merry, sir." Jonah sighed deeply; with him merriment stood high among the vices of our nature.

"She didn't say for what purpose she wanted me?" I asked as carelessly as I could.

"No, sir. She said you would know the purpose, and that she would look for you at noon to-morrow."

"But where, Jonah?"

"At a house called Burford House, sir, in Chelsea."

"She gave you no name?"

"I asked her name, and she gave me one."

"What was it?"

"It was a strange heathenish name, and she laughed as she gave it; indeed she laughed all the time."

"There's no sin in laughter," said I dryly. "You may leave me, I need no help in undressing."

"But the name----"

"By Heaven, man, I know the name! Be off with you!"

He shuffled off, his whole manner expressing reprobation, whether most of my oath, or of the heathenish name, or of the lady who gave it, I know not.

Well, if he were so horror-stricken at these things, what would he say at learning with whom he had talked? Perhaps he would have preached to her, as had Phineas Tate, his master in religion. For, beyond doubt, that heathenish name was Cydaria, and that fine coach with Flemish horses--I left the question of that coach unanswered.

The moment the door was shut behind my servant I sprang to my feet, crying in a low but very vehement voice, "Never!" I would not go. Had she not wounded me enough? Must I tear away the bandage from the gash?

She had tortured me, and asked me now, with a laugh, to be so good as stretch myself on the rack again. I would not go. That laugh was cruel insolence. I knew that laugh. Ah, why so I did--I knew it well--how it rose and rippled and fell, losing itself in echoes scarcely audible, but rich with enticing mirth. Surely she was cunningly fashioned for the undoing of men; yes, and of herself, poor soul. What were her coaches, and the Flemish horses, and the house called Burford House in Chelsea? A wave of memory swept over me, and I saw her simple--well then, more simple!--though always merry, in the sweet-smelling fields at home, playing with my boy's heart as with a toy that she knew little of, but yet by instinct handled deftly. It pleased her mightily, that toy, and she seemed to wonder when she found that it felt. She did not feel; joy was hers, nothing deeper. Yet could she not, might she not, would she not? I knew what she was; who knew what she might be? The picture of her rose again before my eyes, inviting a desperate venture, spurring me on to an enterprise in which the effort seemed absurdity, and success would have been in the eyes of the world calamity. Yet an exaltation of spirit was on me, and I wove another dream that drove the first away; now I did not go to Dover to play my part in great affairs and jostle for higher place in a world where in G.o.d's eyes all places are equal and all low, but away back to the country I had loved, and not alone. She should be with me, love should dress penitence in glowing robes, and purity be decked more gloriously than all the pomps of sin. Could it be? If it could, it seemed a prize for which all else might be willingly forgone--an achievement rare and great, though the page of no history recorded it.

Phineas Tate had preached to her, and gone away, empty and scorned. I would preach too, in different tones and with a different gospel. Yet my words should have a sweetness his had not, my gospel a power that should draw where his repelled. For my love, shaken not yet shattered, wounded not dead, springing again to full life and force, should breathe its vital energy into her soul and impart of its endless abundance till her heart was full. Entranced by this golden vision, I rose and looked from the window at the dawning day, praying that mine might be the task, the achievement, the reward.

Bright dawned that day as I, with brighter brightness in my heart, climbed the stairs that led to my bedroom. But as I reached the door of it, I paused. There came a sound from the little closet beyond, where Jonah stretched his weary legs, and, as I hoped, had forgotten in harmless sleep the soul that he himself tormented worse than would the h.e.l.l he feared. No, he did not rest. From his closet came low, fervent, earnest prayers. Listening a minute, half in scorn, half in pity, and in no unkindness, I heard him.

"Praise be to G.o.d," he said, "Who maketh the crooked places straight, and openeth a path through the wilderness, and setteth in the hand of His servant a sword wherewith to smite the unG.o.dly even in high places."

What crooked places were made straight, what path opened, what sword set in Jonah's hand? Of the unG.o.dly in high places there was no lack in the days of King Charles. But was Jonah Wall to smite them? I opened my door with a laugh. We were all mad that night, and my madness lasted till the morning. Yes, till the morning grew full my second dream was with me.

CHAPTER IX

OF GEMS AND PEBBLES

How I sought her, how I found her, that fine house of hers with the lawn round it and the river by it, the stare of her lackeys, the pomp of her living, the great lord who was bowed out as I went in, the maid who bridled and glanced and laughed--they are all there in my memory, but blurred, confused, beyond clear recall. Yet all that she was, looked, said, aye, or left the clearer for being unsaid, is graven on my memory in lines that no years obliterate and no change of mind makes hard to read. She wore the great diamond necklace whose purchase was a fresh text with the serious, and a new jest for the wits; on her neck it gleamed and flashed as brilliantly and variously as the dazzling turns in her talk and the unending chase of fleeting moods across her face.

Yet I started from my lodging, sworn to win her, and came home sworn to have done with her. Let me tell it; I told it to myself a thousand times in the days that followed. But even now, and for all the times that the scene has played itself again before my unwilling eyes, I can scarcely tell whence and how at the last, the change came. I think that the pomp itself, the lord and the lackeys, the fine house, and all her state struck as it were cold at my heart, dooming to failure the mad appeal which they could not smother. But there was more; for all these might have been, and yet not reached or infected her soul. But when I spoke to her in words that had for me a sweetness so potent as to win me from all hesitation and make as nothing the whole world beside, she did not understand. I saw that she tried to understand; when she failed, I had failed also. The flower was dead; what use then to cherish or to water it? I had not thought it was dead, but had prayed that, faded and choked though it were, yet it might find life in the sunshine of my love and the water of her tears. But she did not weep, unless in a pa.s.sing petulance because I asked what she could not give; and the clouds swept dark over my love's bright face.

And now, alas, I am so wise that I cannot weep! I must rather smile to have asked, than lament that my asking was in vain. I must wonder at her patience in refusing kindly, and be no more amazed that she refused at last. Yet this sad wisdom that sits well on age I do not love in youth.

I was a fool; but if to hold that good shall win and a true love prevail be folly, let my sons be fools after me until their sons in turn catch up from them the torch of that folly which illuminates the world.

You would have said that she had not looked to see me, for she started as though in surprise when I stood before her, saying, "You sent for me."

"I sent for you?" she cried, still as if puzzled; then, "Ah, I remember.

A whim seized me as I pa.s.sed your lodging. Yet you deserved no such favour, for you treated me very rudely--why, yes, with great unkindness--last time we met. But I wouldn't have you think me resentful. Old friends must forgive one another, mustn't they? Besides, you meant no hurt, you were vexed, perhaps you were even surprised. Were you surprised? No, you weren't surprised. But were you grieved, Simon?"

I had been gazing dully at her, now I spoke heavily and dully.

"You wear gems there on your neck," said I, pointing at the necklace.

"Isn't the neck worthy?" she murmured quickly yet softly, pulling her dress away to let me see the better, and raising her eyes to mine.

"Yes, very worthy. But wouldn't you be grieved to find them pebbles?"

"By my faith, yes!" she laughed, "for I paid the price of gems for them."

"I also paid the price of a gem," said I, "and thought I had it."

"And it proved a pebble?" said she, leaning over me; for I had seated myself in a chair, being in no mood for ceremony.

"Yes, a pebble; a very pebble, a common pebble."

"A common pebble!" she echoed. "Oh, Simon, cruel Simon! But a pretty bright pebble? It looked like a gem, Simon?"

"G.o.d forgive you, yes. In Heaven's name--then--long ago, when you came to Hatchstead--what then? Weren't you then----"

"No gem," said she. "Even then a pebble." Her voice sank a little, as though for a single moment some unfamiliar shame came on her. "A common pebble," she added, echoing my words.

"Then G.o.d forgive you," said I again, and I leant my head on my hand.

"And you, good Simon, do you forgive me?"