He was supremely happy. In spite of all Roderick’s gloomy prognostications his love for Roxhythe grew steadily. True, he had to some extent readjusted his ideas. He no longer held my lord up as a model of good behaviour; he knew that Roxhythe was careless, frivolous, sometimes ruthless. A year ago these facts would have been enough to damn my lord in his eyes, but now he flattered himself that he was broader-minded. He no longer condemned the immoral lives that were led by Roxhythe and his associates. Their frivolity and their rakishness were at times to be deplored, but Christopher could not see that they were without honour. Roderick had insinuated that those who frequented Whitehall were entirely lacking in morals. He had said that each one would barter away his honour for position or money. He had even hinted that there were few who would scruple to betray their country.
As far as Christopher could see there was no question of such a contingency. It might be true of some, but of others it was manifestly untrue. With regard to Roxhythe it was ridiculous. He had no interest in politics; he laughed at intrigue. His whole life was spent in waiting on the King, and amusing himself either at Whitehall or at the Louvre. He was above the petty machinations of the day; he belonged to no party; he never schemed for his own ends.
Christopher did not pretend to understand him. It almost seemed as though his was a dual personality, yet the second side of him had appeared for so short a space that Christopher half doubted whether he had not been suffering from an illusion.
In Holland Roxhythe had shown himself to be cool-headed, energetic, astute. Above all he had proved an expert plotter. He had dropped much of his lazy cynicism; his languor had mysteriously vanished. But when the intrigue was at an end back had come the old Roxhythe, just as languid, just as indifferent. No word of politics ever passed his lips; no suspicion of plotting was evident.
Christopher was nonplussed. Eventually he came to the conclusion that Roxhythe was not an intriguer from choice. It was only when commanded by His Majesty that he roused himself.
Roderick had inferred that Roxhythe worked not for England but for his own ends. The idea was beneath contempt. Roxhythe had shown clearly that he worked for the King alone. The King, of course, worked for the Country. It was all one.
Christopher understood that Roxhythe did not wish his powers as an intriguer to be known. That was natural. Once discovered, he could not act with the same freedom. At first Christopher had thought his habitual indifference a mask, but as time went on he decided that it was as real as the other half of him. He realized that he could never hope to fathom the depths of my lord’s nature; perhaps he did not wish to try. He was content to love an enigma. He knew that Roxhythe could be astute; he knew that he was mostly obtuse; he could be ruthless, or he could be kindness personified. To Christopher he had been kind. He seemed to take an amused pleasure in fathering him; he introduced him at Jeremy’s, one of the great coffeehouses; he took him to routs and to balls. In all matters of dress and fashion he advised him; his house and servants were at Christopher’s disposal.
It was a curious friendship. On the one side was boundless affection and unlimited confidence; on the other a casual liking and absolute reticence. Partly it was accounted for by the difference in age. Roxhythe was more than twenty years Christopher’s senior and it was not to be expected that he should confide in the younger man to any great extent. But Christopher knew nothing of Roxhythe’s life. The surface was free for inspection. There were countless amours, countless trivialities, but of what lay beneath the boy had been allowed only a glimpse. Never again had he seen it; all that met his eyes was a cynical roué, fascinating and repellent by turns. He loved this roué as he had never loved before. There had been no woman in his short life, there still was not. Roxhythe possessed his whole heart. Whatever Roderick might say to the contrary, Christopher knew that Roxhythe would always possess it. It was to no avail to analyse the why and wherefore of his love; there was no reason for it but that subtle attraction which my lord held for him. He was content to love, secure in the belief that his love would never be betrayed. He wanted nothing in return; he asked no confidences and was not disappointed that he received none. He gave the very best that was in him, happy that this should be so.
Before he had entered Roxhythe’s service his life had been singularly devoid of colour. His mother died when he was a child, and his father had had Roderick’s cold nature. They came of old Puritan stock; they were very godly, and also very repressed. Madam Dart, who was not of her husband’s persuasions, had bequeathed her sunny personality to Christopher. She had nothing else to give him. On account of this bequest there had been no understanding between Christopher and his father, and very little between Christopher and his brother. Both Mr. Dart and Roderick felt that he was not akin to them; they feared that he was weak and easily led astray. They deplored his early craving for excitement, and they did their uttermost to quench the craving. Then, shortly after Roderick’s departure for Holland, Mr. Dart died. At first Christopher felt lost and vaguely frightened, but the feeling had faded and given place to a glorious sensation of freedom. Then Roxhythe had blazed into his life, shocking him. Disapproval had, in its turn, given way to love. His mind had broadened;
