“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
