Roxhythe ate another comfit.
Slowly Christopher picked up his brother’s letter. His mouth was very set, his eyes bewildered, terribly hurt.
“I cannot as yet—quite realize—everything,” he said unsteadily. “It—it takes time, my lord, to undo—the belief—of years. And it has come so—suddenly.”
“When you have considered the matter you will think differently,” replied Roxhythe, snapping his comfit-box. “There’s no harm done; only a jar to a rather fanatic love for Country.”
“I shall not think differently. I—I must think what I shall do. My—brain feels numbed. I—I can’t realize that you whom I loved and respected so have done this thing.”
“ ‘This thing’ is so delightfully tragic,” remarked my lord.
Christopher walked to the door. His hand trembled as he pulled back the curtain.
“You’ll—give me leave, sir.”
“Yes,” said Roxhythe.
Christopher went out.
For a long time after he had gone Roxhythe sat twisting his rings, and staring out of the window. At last he gave the faintest of sighs, and shrugged. The smile that came to his lips was not mirthful.
X
The Bitter Hour
All that day and the next Christopher avoided Roxhythe. He was battling with himself, fighting against what he believed to be wrong.
The blow to his patriotism had been severe, the blow to his love for Roxhythe severer, but what had been the severest of all was the blow to his pride. He would not admit it, but it was true. At twenty-eight pride is tender. It was not pleasant to think that he had been duped so easily and used as a catspaw. It galled him unbearably.
Nothing could kill his love for Roxhythe. It had grown and deepened during nine years; a single blow was not enough to quench it. But the trust was gone. Never again could he believe in my lord. He might pretend, but he knew that in his heart would always be suspicion. He knew now that Roxhythe was the King’s chief adviser and negotiator. When my lord disappeared again, mysteriously, he would know that he was gone on secret business, nefarious business. Men would continue to question him; how could he quiet their fears, knowing the truth? If he assured these questioners of Roxhythe’s innocence he would be acting for my lord, against all that was upright and good. Yet if he left my lord, what else did life hold for him? All these years he had been wrapped up in this one man, managing his affairs, accompanying him almost everywhere, living for him alone. Everyone else had ceased to count with him; Roxhythe was the beginning and the end.
Bitterly he reflected that he had learnt never to question my lord’s actions, to trust in him always, to take up the cudgels on his behalf. In return for this he had been tricked in cold blood. Roxhythe was ruthless; Christopher saw that in his turn he was engrossed in one man. All must give way before the King, even he who had served my lord so faithfully for so long. Then came the still more bitter thought: Roxhythe did not care how he had hurt him. He could not, even in the moment of discovery, abandon his flippancy. He treated the whole affair as an amusing episode; he laughed at Christopher’s discomfiture.
Christopher tried to imagine what life would be if he continued in Roxhythe’s service. It seemed impossible. His spirit rebelled against working for one who plotted and schemed behind the Country’s back. In time he might perhaps be drawn under by Roxhythe’s influence; he might become as cynical as Roxhythe; he might lose all his patriotism, even as Roxhythe had done.
Of the King he could scarcely bear to think. Charles had cast his spell over him, had inspired him with enthusiastic loyalty. He had refused to listen to ill of him; he had thought him all that was best and most noble. Now that ideal was shattered and lay in the dust at his feet.
Seated by the open window, looking out into the dusk, a great loneliness crept over Christopher. There was no one to whom he could speak; no one who would listen to the unburdening of his heart. He had sworn an oath to Charles that he would never disclose the secret of his mission to Flanders. That secret must remain with him to the very end, an everlasting shame to haunt him all his life.
He had wanted to serve his country. Instead, he had worked against her, helped to lower her honour. …
The wind blew in at the window, coldly, and moaned a little through the trees without. Only a few embers burned in the grate; the candles were unlit. Christopher did not care. He was cold through and through, but he did not shut the window. He was facing the first big crisis in his life, and he was terribly afraid lest he should play the coward’s part.
He knew that his mind was made up and that he must leave Roxhythe. No argument was strong enough to convince him that it would be right to remain. Perhaps Roxhythe would trick him again did the need arise. There would never be trust in him now, and suspicion would surely kill his love. And Roxhythe cared nothing for him. He was merely a useful acquisition. He must leave Roxhythe. But it was hard. Love for man was greater at this moment than love for Country. Right must in the end triumph over wrong, but not without a struggle. …
Christopher looked round the familiar room. It had been his for eight years. A lump rose in his throat. …
Another aspect presented itself. Roxhythe had been good to him before this disaster. He had treated him more as a son than as a secretary. Did he not owe something to him? Why had Roxhythe been so good to him? Was it only that he might be of use to him? Christopher had set many uneasy minds at rest in ’70, because he himself
