The King's Men: A Tale of To-morrow Page 7

  CHAPTER VII.

  A FOUR-IN-HAND AND ONE IN THE BUSH.

  The four-in-hand which was drawn up in front of the great terrace ofRipon House the next morning reflected much credit upon Mr. Jawkins's_savoir faire_. The new harness glistened in the sunlight of the brightNovember morning; the grooms, in the nattiest of coats and the whitestand tightest of breeches, were standing at the horses' heads; and thehorses themselves, beautifully matched, clean-limbed and glossy, werefresh from a toilet as carefully made as that of a professional beauty,or even Mrs. Oswald Carey's own. And that lady stood on the threshold ofthe Doric portal, her clinging driving-dress seeming loath to hide thegrand curves of her figure, and her violet eyes drinking in the day. Asshe stood there, she seemed anything but the flower of a moribundcivilization, the last blossom of an ancient _regime_; but there is acertain force which flourishes in anarchy, a life which feeds upon thedecay of other lives, and grows but the more beautiful for it. Geoffreylooked upon her with a half-repelled, unwilling admiration, littleknowing how near he had been to her the night before. Then MaggieWindsor came out, and he tried to look at her instead.

  "Remarkably fine horses, those, Mr. Windsor," remarked the Duke, with agravely approving nod of his polished head. "Remarkably fine horses," herepeated, as if one could not have too much of a good thing from a duke;and this time he threw in a wave of his patrician hand, gratis. Jawkinslooked at him with admiration, and again felt that he was a primeinvestment. The strawberry-colored dome of his bald head was alone worththe money, not to mention the strawberry leaves.

  "And does not your Grace admire the break?" asked Mr. Jawkins, with apreliminary bow and smirk. "It is a new pattern; and the panels pickedout in cream color are thought to give a monstrous fine tone to thebody. And as for the horses--they're from ex-President Rourke's statestables."

  The Duke looked as if he deprecated the introduction of any such recentpersonage into the company, even by the mention of his name; and at thatmoment the Duchess arrived with Sir John Dacre. Sir John did not lookmuch like the member of a coaching party; a close observer might havenoted a slight mutual glance of intelligence passing between his eyesand Geoffrey's. Mrs. Oswald Carey was that close observer.

  "A four-in-hand is all very well for those that like it," observed Mr.Windsor to the Duke, "but give me a box buggy and a span of long-tailedhorses. Are you off to-day, Jawkins?"

  "Yes; the Prince has sent telegrams at twenty-minute intervals allthrough the morning, and in the latest one he began to swear. The Princeis a natural linguist and can swear in fifteen different languages. Imust be off to Brighton at once. I will return late at night. I haveleft one of my young men, who will take good care of you, you know.Good-by, Mr. Windsor--your Grace, I am your most obedient--" Jawkinsbowed low and jumped into his little dog-cart. By this time the breakhad got fairly loaded; the horses were given their heads; the hornsounded; and in the wake of the great equipment provided for Mr.Jawkins's clients, Jawkins himself rattled contentedly along to thestation.

  A fine show made the paint and silver and the flowers and the gay cloaksand furs and the beautiful women among them. What is more dashing andbrilliant than a coaching-party? What more inspiring to the eye, morelight and careless; what fun more fast and furious? And many a man thatmorning, who felt his hand clothed with all the might of the people,looked curiously at the equipage of the Yankee millionaire and enviedthese gay people, the haughty beauty of the women, the gentlemen withtheir calm, unruffled exterior, and the light-heartedness, thecarelessness of it all.

  Now, upon this coach were six people; and as they bowled along in thecrisp November morning they were thinking of many things. Let us fancy,if we can, what some of these gay thoughts were. On the inside seat wasMr. Sydney, the hired wit, the broken-down man-about-town; his healthgone, his future gone, with no family, no friends, no faith in ahereafter and no joy in the present; and the day preceding, at dinner,he had eaten a _vol-au-vent_ which had disagreed with him. Next Mr.Sydney came the Duchess, the gaunt and dignified lady who awed evenJawkins to repose. There was not a night of her life that she did notcry like any schoolgirl whose lover has forgotten her, at the shame ofher life, and the bitterness and humiliation of her daily bread. Shewould rail at the old Duke, who had come to it so easily, and waswilling to prostitute the honors of his race for gross creaturecomforts, his claret, his cigar; and every morning, when her old eyesopened, she hated the daylight that told her she was not yet dead.

  Next the Duchess came Maggie Windsor. Come now (you might say), she, atleast, is in her place upon a four-in-hand, with her young life, herhappy lot, her pretty, pouting lips and laughing eyes? I do not know; Imarked the quiver of those pretty lips, and the flush of her fresh face,as her eyes, no longer laughing, looked at Mrs. Carey, just in front.Beside her sits Sir John Dacre. His lips are closed firmly above thesquare blue chin, and his eyes, beneath a prematurely wrinkled brow,look straight before him out upon the road. Perhaps you would not callSir John's face attractive; his expression does not change enough forcharm, and there is not light enough in those still gray eyes. As yousee it now, so his expression has been these twenty years, from hisstudious youth at Oxford on. The four horses break into a furious canterdown the hill; the coach sways from side to side; and Dacre still looksfar ahead and down the road. If there is no light in the eyes, there isno tremor of the lips; just so he looked when at the doorway, allunconscious that Mary Lincoln was looking at his eyes and finding themattractive. Dacre has never thought of women; his life has had but asingle thought, a single hope, and that, perhaps, a forlorn one.

  In front, on the box-seat, is Geoffrey Ripon, driving, and Ripon ismiserable that Maggie Windsor is there, miserable that Eleanor Carey isthere, so miserable about either that he half forgets he has promisedhis life to Dacre, and with him, so close that her full arm toucheshis, and troubles him as if it had some magnetic influence, sits thebeautiful woman whose girlhood he had loved; she, now knowing this, nowconscious of the might of love, and of the power that it gave herwomanhood upon this man; and in her heart the madness of her misery, thescorning of her world, the courage and the passion of despair.

  It is a gay coaching party, and many such another rattles through thisworld with the footmen and the shining trappings and the pomp of paintand varnish. Oddly enough, no one speaks for moments, while they whirldown the avenue beneath the stately trees. "Where shall I drive you to?"finally says Ripon to the company.

  "Where you like," says Miss Windsor, after a pause. "You must know theprettiest place--you have known this country from your childhood."

  Ripon drove them up to the highest crest of the down, where the longmain wave of the green hills stretches eastward along the coast, and thefaint blue sea sleeps glimmering in the south. Still no one spoke;Dacre's eyes were lost over the ocean; even Miss Windsor was grave andsilent. Mrs. Carey tried to point out a sail to Geoffrey; he could notsee it, and she leaned over close to him that he might follow thedirection of her eye. Her breath seemed warm upon his face after the seabreeze.

  "Your eyes are not so good as they used to be," said she. Geoffreylooked at her, and thought to himself that hers were deeper. He said so;but she only laughed the more and looked at him again. "Do you rememberour rides in the pony-carriage?" she went on. "Poor Neddy!"

  He did remember the rides in the pony-carriage only too well; when hesat beside the laughing girl, and she looked up at him as they drovethrough the leafy lanes when the shadows lengthened till the sunbeamscrept under the old trees and touched her hair with gold. It was in oneof these drives that he had vowed that he would always love her. He hadbroken a sixpence with her in earnest of their betrothal contract. Buthe did not like to have those drives recalled with Maggie Windsorsitting just behind them. The horses were conveniently restive justthen, and perhaps Geoffrey did not put on quite so much brake going downthe hill as was necessary. The heavy vehicle went down with a rush;Geoffrey and Mrs. Carey were not looking at the horses, the Duchess wasindifferent,
Sydney looked on dyspeptically, and Dacre was looking farahead, as was his wont. Only Maggie Windsor gave a little scream andgrasped the rail.

  "It was not so hard to drive Neddy as that four," Mrs. Carey went on."If I remember aright, the reins were often on the dash-board, and wewere not always absorbed in the scenery, I fear." Mrs. Carey sighed, andlooked away over the green hills and valleys.

  "Poor old Neddy!" said Geoffrey, lightly. "I suppose he carries no suchhappy burdens now."

  "Some people are happy yet," the woman answered. "I told you yesterday Ihad never blamed you for forgetting me after you went to Oxford. It wastrue. But I missed you very much." There was a little tremor in hervoice as she said this. Geoffrey pricked his horses nervously.

  "My heart gave a great leap when you came into the room--it should notleap, being Oswald's," she continued, in a more worldly tone, "but itdid all the same. A woman's heart cannot forget its first possessor,you know; even now that you have lost it--with the rest of yourestates," she added maliciously.

  "With the rest of my estates," Geoffrey repeated, almost unconsciously.They had crossed the highest hill by this time, and were upon a lowerridge; before them a long green band of velvety turf stretched away overthe billowy downs, the chalk shining through the bare places where thegrass was worn away, like flecks of foam. Geoffrey had a sudden thought,and, leaving the road, he cannoned the four noble horses over the close,hard turf.

  "Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Carey after a moment. "And are all your estatesreally gone? Can you get none of them back? But where is this--where areyou going?"

  "I say," said Sydney, "do you know where you are, Brompton? This used tobe Goodwood Race-course." Goodwood Race-course; so it was. There was thetrack, stretching like a band of broad green ribbon over hill and dale;there was the glorious oak wood to the west, above the smooth bit ofgrass which used to be the lawn, where the ladies of the reign ofVictoria had their picnics and showed their dresses, and book-makersused to jostle ministers in the betting-ring. "Ah," said Sydney, "myfather has told me of great doings here--when King George's grandfatherwas the Prince of Wales."

  The break rolled silently over the soft greensward, and Geoffrey fearedMiss Windsor could overhear their every word, as Mrs. Carey spoke again.

  "This is a glorious day--a glorious country," she said. "Do you know, Ihave not felt so happy since those old days?" She looked up again, andGeoffrey met the magic of her eyes, and lost himself in them. Suddenlyshe turned them from him. "You should be saying all this--not I," shesaid.

  "When were you married to Mr. Oswald Carey?" asked Geoffrey, abruptly.He felt that he was slipping from his moral moorings and wished to lashhimself to them again.

  "I have been married four years," she said, coldly. "But you really mustbe careful of your driving, Lord Brompton. I distract you by talking."

  "Not at all," said Geoffrey, half troubled that his parrying questionhad answered his purpose so well. Mrs. Carey turned round with anindifferent air.

  "My dear Duchess, is not the view charming?"

  The Duchess made so slight an inclination of her head that it was hardlyan affirmative. She did not approve of Mrs. Oswald Carey. Not that herapproval mattered anything nowadays. But she thought it bad enough to bea professional beauty and sell one's photograph; and worse still to rentone's face out to enliven dining-parties, and one's neck and shouldersto adorn dinners. True, she herself rented their great name, their ducaltitle; but then she never could get used to it in others.

  If Mrs. Carey noticed the snub, she showed no sign in her face, butturned to Mr. Sydney. He also had found the Duchess rather thorny; andwas ready as ever to pay the homage that one who is only a wit owes tobeauty. And we know that beauty is more queen than ever in this materialage. It is long since our grandfathers first found the folly of dreamsand banished art and poetry from England--with opium and other idledrugs.

  "Mr. Sydney, you look as fresh as a daisy. I am so glad the_vol-au-vent_ agreed with you."

  "My dear madam, you know not of what you speak. My night was terrible,and no such aurora as yourself was in my troubled dream at dawn." Sydneylooked over at the Duchess, fancying this speech was rather nicelyturned; but her Grace was quite impassive, and evidently maintaining asort of conversational armed neutrality.

  "Oh, Mr. Sydney, you should have more care of yourself, or I fear theday will come when you will dine no longer, but merely sit up and takenourishment. Now, we expect you to be so funny at luncheon."

  Sydney began to be offended thinking this too flippant treatment of aman of his position. Meantime Maggie Windsor had been asking Dacre aboutthe beauty. "She told me last night she was a very old friend of LordBrompton's?"

  "Yes, I believe she was. I fancy even there may have been some childishlove affair between them." Dacre spoke bluntly, as usual. Love affairshad found no place in Dacre's mind; his only thought was his country andhis King; and he spoke with little consciousness of the individual humanlife his words might wound.

  "Look there!" cried Sydney, "there is Goodwood House." Geoffrey lookedacross the park (they had gone down the hill, through the wood, and werenow in the open again) and saw a great, rambling house, the central partof white stone, with two semicircular bays. This part was evidently old,but long brick wings were added of more modern construction. "The countyhas bought it for a lunatic asylum, I hear from Jawkins," said the witgrimly.

  "Where is the Duke of Richmond?" asked Geoffrey. "Still in Russia?"

  "Giving boxing lessons," said Dacre.

  The rest of the ride was made in silence. They went down through avalley naturally fertile. None of the large older houses seemed to beoccupied, but were falling into waste. Early in the afternoon they drewup at Chichester Cathedral, among the ruins of which they were to lunch.The grooms took the horses off to an inn in the little village near by,and Jawkins's man proceeded to unpack the hampers.

  For some reason, Miss Windsor avoided Geoffrey. The Duchess and Sir Johnsat silently beside one another; Ripon was left to Mrs. Carey. It was apretty picnic; but the party did not seem to enjoy it very much. Fromthe Chichester ruin the roof has quite disappeared, but the pointedarches of the nave still stand; and these and the flying buttresses ofthe choir make a half inclosure of the place, into which the sunlightbreaks and slants like broken bars of music through the soft greensward.Here you may lose yourself among the arches and pillars, the brokenaltars, the overturned fonts, and the old tombs and marble tabletsspeaking of dead worthies long forgotten. And if you lose yourself withthe right person, your loss may be (as these same epitaphs read) hereternal gain.

  Geoffrey wandered in here with Mrs. Carey. He had been trying to findMiss Windsor; but he met the other first. He could not treat her rudely,perhaps he did not wish to; but to his speech she answered but inmonosyllables or not at all. Finally they sat down on the grass, leaningon an old stone pillar overthrown in a corner, half sheltered by whathad been an altar in the old days, before the church was disestablished.Geoffrey did not speak for some time, and when he looked at her he sawthat she was crying. Great tears were in her eyes, and as he bent downthey seemed tenfold even their usual depth.

  "Mrs. Carey! Eleanor!" he cried in despair, "what can be so wrong withyou! Pray tell me--please tell me--" She made no answer; her hand wascold and unresisting as he raised it with the soft white arm from thegrass; the sleeve fell back, and the setting sunlight showed each littlevein in her transparent skin. "Pray, tell me!" Geoffrey went on, andthen, more softly, "You know I have never forgotten you!"

  Her breast was rising and falling with her weeping; but only a singlesigh escaped her lips. At his words a deep sob seemed to break from afull heart; half rising, on an elbow, she placed her hand on Geoffrey'sshoulder and drew his head in the bend of her wrist down close to her asshe lay. Her lips almost brushed his cheek as she poured into his ear atorrent of words. "I am so miserable! so miserable!" was all he coulddistinguish. Then she arose, sitting upright.

  "Geoffrey Ripon, my life is
a lie--a mean, unbroken lie. You know why Imarried Carey--he could give me position, _eclat_, fashion--fashion,which is all we moderns prize, who have killed our nobles and banishedhonor from the dictionary. I sold myself to him and I have queened it,there in London, among the lucky gamblers and the demagogues and theforeign millionaires. All that this world--all that the world can give Ihave had, Geoffrey Ripon. And I tell you that there is nothing but love,love, love. It is these things that are the lie, Geoffrey--not love andtruth and honesty. Oh, forgive me, Geoffrey, but I do so crave for lovealone."

  Ripon looked at her, speechless. As she spoke the glorious lips had acurl that was above the earth, and the eyes a glory that was beyond it;and the grand lines of her figure formed and melted and new formed againas she leaned, restless, upon the fallen stone. She threw her arm abouthis neck, and drew him down to her.

  "Geoffrey, did you ever love me? You never could have loved me, when youleft me so. See, the broken sixpence you gave me. I have still got it. Ihave always kept it." And she tore her collar open, and showed him thebroken silver, hanging on a ribbon of her hair about her neck. "Oh,Geoffrey, you never knew that I loved you so! See--" and she drew outthe coin and ribbon, and placed it, still warm from her bosom, in hishand. "Geoffrey, I care for nothing but love--this world is a wreck, asham, a ruin--all is gone--all is gone but love--dear love--"

  She drew him closer to her breast. For a moment Geoffrey looked into hermarvellous eyes. Then a faint shadow passed across them, and lookingaside he thought he saw Miss Windsor, alone, passing one of the arches.

  "Hush!" he cried; and throwing the ribbon down he rose and stepped apace or so aside. "Forgive me, Eleanor," he said to her, as she lookedat him, "I loved you once--God knows--but now--it is too late."