Again he took up the letter.
“… And so I come to the Crux of the matter. …”
He read it through carefully. Peste! Roderick was morbidly suspicious!
“… Hardly a month from thatt Date the English Army had Moved, Secretly, to Join the French. …”
Something seemed to seize his throat; he felt as though he were choking. These words of Roderick’s were based not on suspicion but on hard facts. Roderick was not the man to prevaricate that he might gain his own ends. … But it could not be! Roxhythe would never use him so! Nor would the King stoop to sell his Country to Louis. It was unthinkable, ridiculous! Charles was all that was most regal, most upright! Christopher remembered how he had extended his hand; he remembered the thrill that had run through him as he had kissed that hand. Surely, surely Charles was honest? And Roxhythe! It was impossible that he should have consented to use him deliberately, against his convictions! He did not believe it! He would not believe it! Sangdieu! He laughed at such senseless tittle-tattle! …
“… You not belief’ me. You t’ink heem onselfish and ver’ good. Well, I warn you, eet ees not so. You remember t’at always and you not get hurt. …”
De Staal. … And de Staal had loved Roxhythe. … The grave words were ringing in his ears—he could see the whole scene. It was nine years ago. How quiet the street had been! How peaceful was de Staal; how pathetic his love for Roxhythe! …
“I—like you, Chris. I—don’t want you to get hurt.”
Lady Frances. … She had warned him repeatedly. What was it she had said?
“… You think him very great, very good. Suppose—it were not so? Suppose he were not so true? …”
Had he been blinded by his love for Roxhythe? Was my lord the ruthless schemer they had all thought him? Even Ashley had warned him.
“… I fear he is not so indolent as he would have us believe. … I mistrust him. I have always mistrusted him. …”
Realisation was dawning on Christopher; doubts pulled him this way and that. He would not believe—he did not believe … but—oh, God, if it were so! …
Roxhythe came into the room in his usual leisurely fashion. Christopher ever afterwards remembered his appearance on that day. He was dressed in pearl grey velvet, with soft pink facings and sword-knot. The rosettes on his shoes were of pink satin; rubies sparkled in his cravat and on his fingers. He was carrying a ruby-studded comfit-box, given him by the King.
“Russell waxeth very wroth over Buckingham’s imprisonment,” remarked my lord. He gave a twitch to his billowing shirt sleeve. “He and Coventry inveigh against me.” He glanced up and saw Christopher’s face. “Oh. Well, what now?”
Christopher handed him Roderick’s letter.
“Please—read that, sir—and deny—what is writ there! I—it has disquieted my mind.”
Roxhythe sat down on the table-edge. He read the letter through in silence. Then he handed it back to Christopher.
“May I ask why such nonsense should disquiet you?”
Christopher rose quickly.
“It is nonsense, sir? There’s no truth in it?” His voice trembled relievedly. “And yet, sir—”
Roxhythe shrugged.
“There is a certain amount of truth interwoven, I grant you. The rest—bah!”
“Sir, this secret treaty with France that he writes of—it is a lie?”
“My dear Chris, best ask His Majesty.”
“Ah, don’t evade me! Roderick says that you were implicated in it! Harcourt feared it; Ashley too.”
“Your memory is not of the longest, Chris. Did we not discuss this question at the time?”
“Ay, sir. You told me then that it was a lie.”
“Am I likely to tell you that it was the truth now?”
“Tell me again, sir! You are not intriguing?”
“I was not.”
“I knew it! I knew it! But—”
“Well?”
“Roderick says that you acted envoy to the Prince of Orange last year. Roderick would not lie to me!”
Roxhythe seemed to consider.
“Why not?” he said at last. “I have done it before, and you too.”
“It was different then! We acted for the country; Ashley was privy to it. Roderick says that this time you acted for King Charles’ private ends—to gain money for him!”
“I admire your brother’s imagination, Chris.”
“I would I could think it only that! But he writes so earnestly.”
“Yes. I had noticed that he seemed concerned,” nodded my lord.
“He is concerned. And, sir, if you can intrigue with the Stadtholder for the King, I suppose you can intrigue for him with Louis. You told me naught of your journey to Holland; I cannot help wondering how many times you have plotted without my knowledge.”
“I wish you would sit down,” murmured my lord.
Christopher ignored him. He was controlling himself with difficulty.
“And now I wonder if it was indeed to Monmouth that I took that letter. At the time I thought—it strange—that I should give it to Cherrywood. I—oh, my lord, my lord! Tell me that my suspicions are without foundation! It is not possible that you should have used me as a tool! You could not have done it! You would not!”
“My dear Chris, why all this excitement? I could not have done it. I would not! Voilà!”
“I wish—oh, how I wish that I could believe you!” cried Christopher.
“Oh? Why can you not?”
“Sir, forgive me if I malign you, but you have so often journeyed to France—I—and then when you were ill, I had to go—and—oh, I have been warned so many, many times!” He spoke very bitterly. “De Staal told me not to trust you; Harcourt, Ashley, Lady Frances, Roderick! And I—thought—them—fools.”
“Belike they were.”
“You mean?” There was suppressed eagerness in his voice.
“Why, I mean that I have done you no harm nor am not like to.”
“It was in truth a letter to Monmouth?”
Roxhythe looked at him haughtily.
“Is His Majesty’s word not enough?”
“I wish I might be convinced! But you see what Roderick says! The army stands against Holland now. Everything comes back to me! Milward’s strange
