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“MY MERRY ROCKHURST”


      *      *      *      *      *      *

By Agnes & Egerton Castle

    THE PRIDE OF JENNICO
    “IF YOUTH BUT KNEW!”
    THE SECRET ORCHARD
    ROSE OF THE WORLD
    THE STAR-DREAMER
    THE HOUSE OF ROMANCE
    THE BATH COMEDY
    INCOMPARABLE BELLAIRS
    THE HEART OF LADY ANNE

[Illustration]

By Egerton Castle

    YOUNG APRIL
    THE LIGHT OF SCARTHEY
    CONSEQUENCES
    MARSHFIELD THE OBSERVER
    LE ROMAN DU PRINCE OTHON
    THE JERNINGHAM LETTERS
    ENGLISH BOOK-PLATES
    SCHOOLS AND MASTERS OF FENCE
    ETC.

      *      *      *      *      *      *


[Illustration: Through the open window, out of the darkness, gathered a
heavy rumble of wheels; then again uprose the call of the bell, the cry
of the hoarse voice: “Bring out your dead!”

(_See p. 293._)]


“MY MERRY ROCKHURST”

Being
Some Episodes in the Life of Viscount
Rockhurst, a Friend of King Charles
the Second, and at One Time Constable
of His Majesty’S Tower
of London

Recounted by

AGNES & EGERTON CASTLE

Authors of
“The Pride of Jennico,” “‘If Youth But
Knew!’” “Rose of the World,” etc.






New York
The Macmillan Company
1907

All rights reserved

Copyright, 1907,
by the Macmillan Company.

Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1907.

Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.




                                   TO

                         RANDOLPH HENRY STEWART

                        ELEVENTH EARL OF GALLOWAY
                  HEAD OF THE ANCIENT HOUSE OF STEWART
                         THIS STORY IS DEDICATED
                                WITH THE
                      AUTHORS’ AFFECTIONATE REGARD

                             SEPT. 1, 1907.




CONTENTS


                                              PAGE

    THE KING’S COMRADE                           1

        I. The State Crust                       3

       II. Cavalier and Capitan                 21

    FARRANT CHACE                               43

        I. Farrant Chace                        45

       II. The Lady in the Snow                 58

      III. The Ransom                           64

       IV. Under the Stars                      78

    THE ENIGMA OF THE LOCKET                    87

        I. Little Satan                         89

       II. Whitehall Stairs                    106

      III. The Linnet’s Song                   124

    THE PEACOCK WALK                           145

        I. June Roses                          147

       II. Fatherly Wisdom                     168

      III. The New French Pass                 186

    THE KING’S CUP                             197

        I. Little Satan                        199

       II. The Venetian Glass                  225

      III. The Phial of Acquetta               236

    LADY CHILLINGBURGH’S LAST CARD-PARTY       251

        I. Lincoln’s Inn Fields                253

       II. Love’s Reproach                     267

      III. The Plague-Cart                     281

    BROKEN SANCTUARY                           297

        I. The Haven of Refuge                 299

      II. The Gold Whistle                     308

      III. Nemesis                             323

    THE RED DESOLATION                         339

        I. The Watchers                        341

       II. The Testament                       351

      III. The Last Command                    368




ILLUSTRATIONS


    “Through the open window, out of the
    darkness, gathered a heavy rumble of wheels;
    then again uprose the call of the bell, the
    cry of the hoarse voice: ‘Bring out your
    dead!’” (See page 293)                      FRONTISPIECE

                                                   OPP. PAGE

    “The single contemptuous exclamation fell
    like the cut of a whip”                               68

    “She felt at last that she had power”                132

    “Lionel took place beside him and from
    narrowed lids looked smilingly at the young
    man’s happy countenance”                             184

    “The huddled figure in the great chair.
    The face of her that had so stout a heart,
    conquered in death—but less piteous, less
    awful sight than the living face of the
    French madam”                                        314

    “Harry gave a deep groan, covered his face
    with his hands, and fell upon the bench”             364





THE KING’S COMRADE




THE KING’S COMRADE




I

THE STATE CRUST


The early September night had descended upon Bruges,—“City of
Bridges,”—once the seat of the most luxurious court in Europe, now so far
away, fallen from its high if not from its wealthy estate. The life of
the little town, never very active or varied under the Spaniard’s rule,
seemed this evening to have been swept into a stillness emphasised only
by an occasional footfall upon the cobbles of its winding streets, some
husky cry from a barge gliding ghost-like down a canal, or the far-away
barking of dogs on the farm lands beyond the walls. A sea mist had crept
from the north, muffling even these sounds of silence, rolling in thicker
volumes along the many sluggard waters that intersect the old Flemish
Mart and bring prosperity to her comfortable merchants, as it were in
their sleep. It hung itself in loose wisps around the carven towers of
the Cathedral, the giddy heights of the belfry—whence, as the hours
slipped on, deep bell voices answered clear bell voices, like spirits
communing from their heights across the petty lives below.

       *       *       *       *       *

The corner house of a row of solid burgher mansions, flanking the canal
on the Quai Vert, stood slightly apart with an air of greater importance
than the rest, giving to the street on the one side through courtyard
and wrought-iron gate, and on the other sheer over the water that lazily
lipped the green, slimy foot of its walls.

The second floor of this house had been the dwelling of my lord Viscount
Rockhurst ever since—that is, some two years before—Charles had
transferred to Bruges his penurious little court of English Cavaliers,
exiles like himself since the fateful days of Worcester, of Boscobel, and
Whiteladies.

In a long, low room overlooking the canal, two men sat together, one on
each side of an open hearth, lost in deep musings. The curtains were
undrawn; one window stood open, and ever and anon admitted a wreath of
the sea-fog that swirled a moment and swiftly fainted away. The only
light in the apartment was the ruddy glow of a driftwood fire, now
cheerfully burning, although the acrid savour that still hung in the air
betrayed its recent stubbornness and explained the gaping casement. It
seemed as if the two lacked the energy either to shut out the gloom of
night or call for the enlivening of candle or lamp; as if the paralysing,
sodden weight lying upon the world without had laid hold of their souls.

The blue-tipped flames that leaped round the logs flung now one brooding
countenance in relief, now the other. Upon the right, the dark head of
the exiled King of England, still in the very ripeness of young manhood,
would be sketched against the leather-backed chair upon which it wearily
rested. But not all the geniality of the blaze could give sanguine hue or
gleam of cheerfulness to the sallow, harsh visage. In utter dejection,
the long figure—“a tall man, above two yards high,” so had run the
description on the Council of State’s Warrant for the apprehension of
Charles Stuart—extended itself as if unconsciously to the warmth, chin
sunk upon breast, eyes fixed and moody under drooping lids and singularly
bushy eyebrows.

Upon the left, the fitful tongues of flame revealed a face of equal
melancholy if of greater energy and comeliness. My lord Rockhurst sat
forward, supporting his cheek upon his hand. His was a type such as
Sir Anthony Van Dyck, some few years before, had loved to fix in his
incomparable line and colour. Like his King he was dark, but with
chestnut lights and a crispness in the waves of hair falling upon his
shoulders absent from the heavy locks of Charles. Against the glow his
profile stood out, fine-cut and pale-hued as a carving in ivory. Older
by some years, there yet was a youthful air of alertness about his whole
personality, even as he sat motionless, that was conspicuously lacking in
the apathetic figure facing him.

Ever and anon his eyes, hawk-like in their keenness and the quick
dilation of their pupils, would shift from the wistful contemplation
of fire-pictures to the royal countenance, where they would rest in
scrutiny, and, it seemed, in deepening concern. Ever and anon, upon the
withdrawal of this gaze, a slight sigh escaped him.

Suddenly Charles gathered his long limbs into a more erect posture, and
jerking his head toward his companion:—

“And there you go again, Harry, with your heigh-ho’s. I fled but an hour
ago from the long faces of my lord Gerard, of Erskine, and Armorer—”

“My lord Gerard, gentleman of the Bedchamber, Messieurs Erskine and
Armorer, Cupbearer and Comptroller of the Household—” murmured Rockhurst,
with a humorous twist of bitterness.

“Gentleman of the Straw Pallet and Wooden Stool … Comptroller of the
State Crusts! As for Mr. Cupbearer Erskine, he had to-day to pledge in
pawn the last silver pot for fear of arrest.… Marry! I took refuge with
you, who at least, God be praised, never weary me with talk of debts.
Yet even you must need treat me to sighs! Upon my soul, a man would no
more cheerful company than that of this Court of mine to put him in fit
frame for the monastery—How say you, Harry? Is’t perchance the one issue
left us? There is Royal, aye, Imperial example for it. Do you see in me
proper material for a Trappist? ‘_Brother, we must die_’—Nay, ‘_Brother,
we are dead_’ would better suit our case! No Cistercian wall could hold a
drearier prospect than this dismal town of Bruges.”

He rose as he spoke, and dragged himself with slouching steps to the
window:—

“Faugh! the smell of those dead waters—the stillness of them!… I vow I
can hear the drip from yonder leafless poplars on the bank! Aye, Charles
is dead, and Bruges is his tomb! ’Tis no lofty withdrawal from life, like
his great namesake’s, but a very sordid end, my good Harry. Death of
credit, death of hopes.… Here we are, in a town of merchants, a community
of buyers and sellers, and we have not wherewithal to pay for a supper,
nay, not even for a bottle to help us forget that we have not supped.”

The other man had risen in his turn and approached the window.

“Why, now!” he cried, and his voice in its brisk, manly tone formed a
strong contrast to the other’s melancholy drawl, “’tis surely but this
pestilent fog keeps Mr. Secretary Hyde and my lord of Bristol from
rejoining us with the promised supplies; faith, and who knows? with news
that may cheer our hearts, my liege.”

“Harry,” said the other, wheeling round and facing him with something
of humour in his rueful visage, “this _my liege_ of yours to my empty
stomach savours most damnably of mockery. For love of Heaven, if thou
wouldst help me to bear it, remember we are but comrades in bad straits
together. Here is poor Charles, and there stands poor Harry. Liege?
Majesty? Psho! Our own country will have none of us; our friends abroad
have failed us; the wise burghers of this town will no longer recognise
the value of a signature of mine—and as for thee.…”

“My last remittance, overdue this month; intercepted, I make no doubt,
by Old Noll’s—” Rockhurst made a gesture toward the casement: yonder
to the north, but a score of miles, perhaps, Cromwell’s well-found
ships were cruising, as he knew, close in shore. “Well, better luck
next venture!” he went on. “Our friends at home—the one certainty in
these uncertain times—do not forget us. Sighs! Did I sigh? ’Twas at the
thought that, though there is still firewood in the house you deigned
to honour to-night, there is ne’er a bottle left for your Majesty’s
entertainment—and.…”

In eloquent conclusion, the Cavalier pulled out a silk purse and crushed
its emptiness between his palms with a smile, which the anxious gaze he
fixed upon his visitor markedly belied.

“My last angel gone to the surly porter of Mynheer Tratsaert’s house of
business this afternoon. I had better have kept it for our supper. But
who would have thought that Mr. Secretary Hyde, Councillor, Chancellor of
the Exchequer, would allow such lack.…”

“And who would have thought who knew the fortunes of Charles that he
was ever destined to do aught but lack? The fox hath his hole and the
birds of the air have nests … but Charles shall not even have a stone
whereon to lay his head. Aye—you may well stare, Harry, to hear me quote
Scripture. The waters are at lowest ebb with us, good friend; and like
the rest of the world, in our extremity, we turn to the texts.”

A moment the elder man stood gazing through the gloom which in the
falling firelight was gathering ever more closely about them, at the face
of his royal master. Then he said in a low voice which more concealed
than betrayed emotion:—

“When the tide is at lowest, ’tis but nearest to the turn.”

“Nay,” broke from the other with ever-increasing bitterness, “if that
is where thy hopes lie, I am sorry for thee. There is no turn in such
fortunes as mine, but an ever-sapping drain. Why, there is not a kinsman
can afford to show countenance to such a falling house, not a lady in
Europe who has heart enough to risk her fate with my hopes. Nay, there’s
not even a fat tallow merchant of Flanders who thinks it worth his while
to risk a present guilder for future favour. You would do better, my
lord, to go seek your peace with the powers that be—and for this you have
recent high precedent—rather than remain to share the last ruin of our
line.”

“Sire,” exclaimed Rockhurst then, “how shall my house stand if yours
fall? How shall my body keep health if yours ail? Where is my country
but with you, or my hopes but with yours?”

Charles answered the steady tones with an attempt at lightness which
failed to cover completely a certain tender break in his own voice.

“The more fool you, then, Harry! Easy terms would be made to the Viscount
Rockhurst. He could dwell on his fat lands once more in power and
opulence instead of wasting them in fines—he could bring up his heir in
leisure; nay, he could wed him a new wife and beget him a fresh family,
all in merry England.”

“My son,” answered the other, “is in good hands—and my sister in the
farm-house where she hath refuge brings him up even in such wise as I
should myself. As for a new wife, poor Charles,”—his lips broke into a
smile as they spoke the words,—“believe your poor Harry, he is as little
likely to seek one as he is to seek a new master—But, Heaven forgive
me!” he went on with brisk change of tone, “this outer fog seems to have
befogged my inner wits. The house can at least afford us lights. Nay, I
will close the casement upon the dull, wet world. Another log or two on
the hearth!” He added action to speech, and a cheerful roar and blaze
answered the ministration. “The curtain across the casement—so! Now we
were in worse straits after Worcester. Have you forgotten how we stole a
sheep and killed it and brought you the reeking leg, and you yourself cut
it into collops and set them in the pan? Good lack—how tough they were!
Yet ’twas a merry supper. Back to your chair by the warmth, my dearest
Sire. An hour’s patience, and it will go ill with me if I serve you not a
meal—and wine to it—fit wine for the pledge it shall wash.”

“Aye, and how will you manage that, my merry Rockhurst?” asked Charles
Stuart listlessly, as he suffered himself to be led back to