Roxhythe shrugged.
“Naught save the lowering of the King his honour.”
Charles bit his thick underlip.
Roxhythe continued, in that same level, passionless voice.
“I believe I have a desire to run straight once more, Sir. Sometimes I think I would give much to be with my regiment again—no intriguer, but just a soldier.”
“David!” The King’s eyes were full of pain. “You think that?”
The smile crossed Roxhythe’s lips again.
“Until I remember you, Sir.”
The King flung out his hand.
“Ah!—and then?”
“And then I know that had I to choose again I would follow you.” He came back to the King’s chair, and knelt. “Don’t let this distress you, Sir. These are but idle regrets, that are not even regrets. I am your man until I die, or until I fall.”
Charles’ hand was on his shoulder.
“Roxhythe, what is this talk of falling?”
“I hardly know, Sir, save that no man trusts my word. They suspect my every movement. Because of the Dover treaty, which they guess at.”
“Can you think that I would ever desert you?”
“Not I, Sir. I am turned pessimist today. I do crave your pardon.”
Charles pressed his shoulder. He was troubled.
“Regrets—regrets. I did not think you had any, Roxhythe.”
My lord rose, shaking back the heavy curls of his peruke.
“Nor have I, Sir. ’Tis the autumn dampness has entered my bones. Forget it! I chose long ago which path I should tread, and I’ve no regrets. I would not lose your friendship for all the world.”
Charles was still troubled.
“Which path you would tread. … What mean you, David?”
“Once I thought them one and the same path. Then they diverged, and I followed you. The choice lay between King and Country.”
“It was a struggle then?”
Roxhythe hesitated.
“A little, Sir. But I decided to kiss my hands to Country, and here am I!”
“And you are happy, Roxhythe?”
“Despite these moments of gloom, Sir, yes. I have all a man wants; money, power, the King his favour.”
“And friends?”
“Say rather popularity, Sir.”
“No; friends.”
Roxhythe was silent for a moment.
“Then, Sir, not counting yourself, one. Perhaps two.”
“Who are they?”
“My fair cousin Frances, and my secretary.”
“A strange couple. They are all you can name?”
“They are all.”
Charles nodded slowly.
“You sacrificed much for me, eh, David?”
Roxhythe’s egotism leapt to the fore.
“No. I gained all. I have everything. Friends? Bah! A name, no more. Not a doubt on it but those sycophants below,” he waved a contemptuous hand, “would not hesitate to call me that.”
“Yet you said you had but one?”
“Two. The rest hate me covertly. I am too powerful.”
Again Charles nodded.
“You do not seek to make them like you. I think you are foolish, Roxhythe.”
“Maybe. They do not understand me, and for that reason distrust me.”
Charles smiled irrepressibly.
“Why, I do not think that many men trust me,” he said. “But all men love me.”
Roxhythe swept a bow.
“Sire, I am no Stuart.”
“No, you are Roxhythe, which is perhaps even better. Mordieu! The great Roxhythe! Apropos, David, what’s this I hear took place at Jeremy’s?”
Roxhythe sat down. He drew out his comfit-box.
“Yes, it was diverting,” he admitted.
“Tell me your version. I heard it from Sedley yesterday, but I’d sooner have it from your own lips.”
“What did Sedley say? I hardly know what happened at the beginning.”
The King chuckled.
“Oh, Sedley was full of the tale! He tells me that that young secretary of yours was at Jeremy’s on Thursday, and fell to gaming with Fortescue. Sedley draws a picture of them both in their cups. Then Fortescue speaks sneeringly of the great Roxhythe, and the next thing they knew was that his face was all dripping wine, and young Dart was half across the table in a black fury. Sedley falls a-laughing at this point, but I gather that the two young cockerels were held apart by main force, and Dart was spluttering out challenges. It seems the rest of the party enjoyed the situation vastly, and there was great uproar. Fortescue—Sedley tells me he was most unsteady on his legs—hiccuped out his challenge, and called on Digby to second him. Then the pother was that no one liked to be embroiled in a quarrel against my Lord Roxhythe. So more uproar. Dart called on Fletcher to serve him. Fletcher thinks himself best out of that boys’ quarrel. Others were of his opinion. So then we have young Dart offering to fight the whole room, and Fortescue drinking more Burgundy to steady himself. Sedley says by now the whole room was in a roar, and the most of them arguing what was to be done. Then—Sedley is very fine at this point—the door opened. In strolled the unwitting cause of all the turmoil: Lord Roxhythe. He was becomingly languid; he desired to know the reason of all the noise. Six people explain it to him. My lord looks round with interest. Fletcher tells him that no one will second the children. My lord is pained. He looks at Fortescue. ‘You must apologize,’ says he. ‘No,’—hiccup—‘Be—damned an I will!’ ‘Then you must apologize,’ says my lord, turning to his secretary. Dart was not so far gone in his cups. ‘Never!’ says he. ‘Then I will apologize,’ says my lord. ‘Your pardon, gentlemen, for being the cause of so much trouble.’ Then Sedley grows incoherent. Tell me the rest, Roxhythe.”
Roxhythe touched his lips with his handkerchief.
“My young Chris was mighty valiant. He sneered. ‘If a glass of wine in the face is not enough,’ says he, and left an elegant pause. Fortescue caught him up. ‘No—damme—,’ says he. ‘I’ll fight you!’ Chris bowed. I have a fleeting suspicion that he emulates my style. ‘I am relieved,’ says he. ‘Mr. Fletcher, again I ask: will you serve me?’ Fletcher nodded. ‘Who’s to serve Fortescue?’ asks that rogue Sedley. Then they all looked uncomfortable, and shuffled. I conceived that it was time to introduce a light note. I made my best leg to Fortescue, who was hanging on to the table. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I shall be honoured
