Pall Mall/The Pageant of England/The Merry King
V.—THE MERRY KING.
MR. EVELYN was heard to sigh. He looked at Mr. Pepys very melancholy and shook his head. Mr. Pepys, a faithful friend, gazed heavenward in grief. Reverting of necessity to earth, his eyes came upon the royal line of the Duchess of Cleveland's neck, and he cheered up. Mr. Evelyn's severer taste found no anodyne in that, nor even in the vernal, dimpled shoulders of Madame Karwell. He sighed again and turned away to study Poussin's notion of the way in which the Virgin nursed her Child.
There was no lack of light in the Stone Gallery. The King loved a glare, and the women knew how to make their profit of it. They gleamed like polished marble, and glittering brown ringlets challenged glossy black, and red languorous lips breathed rival perfumes on the hot air. The King was tying a new bow in the ribands at the Duchess of Portsmouth's bosom, and let his long fingers dally while he listened to the virginals and a boy's song.
Il faut devant vous
Cacher ce qu'on fait de p'us doux;
On contraint ses p'us chers désirs,
On perd cent plaisirs;
Mais pour les soins
De cent témoins
En secret on n'aime pas moins.
Mr. Pepys's face expressed that he could not like the voice. It mattered the less for the rattle of the ombre tables. All along the gallery ranged the parties of five, and tides of gold coin surged to and fro to the tune of oaths. When the Duke of Monmouth, whose boyish temper was plainly suffering from Canary, began a broil with Harry Killigrew for throwing out more cards than twelve, Mr. Evelyn's tolerance expired, and he marched away with very dignified legs. The Duke of Buckingham made peace: “Here, Harry, what's the matter?”
“His Grace of Monmouth conceives he's in a state to count,” Mr. Killigrew sneered.
“Ods bones, then he's in no state for ombre. A man who hath kept his wits hath no right in our realm, Harry.”
The Duke of Monmouth stared with glassy eyes. Then he concluded to laugh. “That is good,” he roared. “I swear, George, that's very good,” and he picked up his cards.
Buckingham lounged along the gallery till he came upon the King sitting between his two mistresses. Then with a low bow, “O noble trinity!” quoth he.
“I always knew thee an infidel, George,” the King laughed.
“I protest, sir; I would not divide the persons. And for the rest”—again his bow took in all three—“'O King, live for ever!”
“Which is he?”
“I always suspected you were not sure, sir.”
“Tell me what a king is,” King Charles yawned. “I'll tell you who he is.”
“I have never known one, sir. Have you?”
“I have known as many different ones as I have women.” The King played with the Duchess of Cleveland's admirable arm. “And they were all tedious.”
The Duchess tossed her head. “Every man is when he thinks of himself.”
“And every woman when she thinks of anything else,” said the King lazily.
“Why, sir, the perfect woman should not know she is woman till you tell her so. She will then be incarnate gratitude: which is woman's business, and which man never gives her a chance to do, lest perfection should require him to be superhuman—that is to say, faithful. And so it's my advice that a king has no right to be human, but no good courtier will help him to be anything else, lest he should remember that he is a king.”
“You're an insolent wretch, Buckingham,” quoth her Grace of Cleveland, who was plainly bored.
“I thank you, madame. I believe I can be all things to all women. There is much of the apostle in me.”
“Ods fish, the one way to be King is to forget that you are,” quoth the King with a shrug.
“And so say all the faithful Court,” Buckingham sneered. “Look at them!” He waved his hand to the gaming tables and the wantoning women.
The King's eyes met his in equal understanding. They joined in a hard laugh.
At the end of the gallery two gentlemen were in earnest. The one had the pale face of a corpse and eyes like a cat's for brightness and shape. Even the Court painters of the day have not been able to rob him of his look of masterful greed. He was modestly clad, for that gaudy company, in black and silver. The other was not so rare. A full-bodied creature of red face, he yielded to no man for the splendour of his dress or the dull eye and skin of debauchery. So you see my Lord Lewknor and the Lord Chief Justice, Sir William Scroggs.
“I give you joy of the happy issue of your suit, my lord,” quoth Sir William, leering at him. “It is ever a pleasure to the court when the law suffers it to pronounce in favour of so goodly a nobleman.”
My Lord Lewknor snarled: “When the court finds one green enough to buy it.”
Sir William, who had six feet to my Lord Lewknor's five, became dignified with the majesty of the law. “This is a vulgar jest, my lord. If I thought that in any small matter between thee and me there was any design to corrupt the founts of justice, I would denounce you in open court.”
My Lord Lewknor laughed. “Let be. I cannot afford to quarrel with you yet, and you will never dare quarrel with me. But we are not at the end of this business. The fellow is vilely stubborn. He swears that he hath been misused and will carry his plaint to the King.”
“Infamous wretch!” cried the Lord Chief Justice. He tapped his teeth with his fat fingers, meditating. “My lord, mercy is wasted on such a one. He doth contemn the majesty of Justice. Be assured that Justice will know how to vindicate her right.”
“Ay, it will be best to frighten him,” said my Lord Lewknor, and gave his companion a grim smile.
“Be assured it shall be done, my lord.”
“Oh, I have no anxieties. You cannot afford to fail.”
The Lord Chief Justice glared at him, and was answered with equal love.
In the midst of this a woman bounced upon them, crying, “La! here's the hangman and his prentice quarrelling over a corpse's clothes.” She was a little creature, quaintly splendid in turquoise velvet, and of a roguish pretty face.
“Nay, madame, you mistake us for your own kin,” quoth my Lord Lewknor with a mocking bow. The Chief Justice murmured oaths.
She made a face at him. “Your father, the butcher, had only one eye, but, i'gad, though he was not so good at the trade, he was a prettier man than his son. And for you, my lord, your father, who has been dead this twenty year, must now be looking much like you.” On she went, her gait as beautiful as her jests were ugly.
Before the King she made a curtsey so low that she seemed to lie prone. His tired dull eyes flickered and brightened, and he looked from her to the Duchess of Portsmouth as you may see a man when he has a pair of dogs ready for fighting.
For Mrs. Gwyn's velvet was the very likeness of the Duchess's. They made a piquant pair, of a sweet childish beauty both, but the Duchess dark-browed and peevish, as Mrs. Gwyn was fair and gay. And the Duchess was not mellowed by that kinship in velvet. She bit her lip, and the polished brow was drawn till she looked a baby shrew. But Mrs. Gwyn's face spoke the surprise of innocence. “Good sakes, ma'am, what possessed you to copy this dress too? My maid was a rogue not to warn you you dare not wear all my colours. It makes you yellow as an orange.”
The Duke of Buckingham led off the laughter. The King refrained a while till the distortions of the Duchess's rage obliged him to chuckle. She was pale and her eyes venomous. She muttered in French.
“Fie, child, never take it to heart so,” cried Mrs. Gwyn compassionately. “Why, it's easy mended. Strip off the dress, The men will forgive you then.”
“This person fancies herself back in the pit, I think,” cried the Duchess, in her French accent. “Is it not better that she go there?”
“What, you will keep it on? Sure, you can't look worse without it. But maybe you've your own reasons for keeping clothes on. Well, I'd never have my gown spoil another woman's looks. Here's for you, ma'am! Maybe you'll pass when I don't challenge you.” With the actress's speed she whipped off her dress, held it before her like a curtain a moment, then let it fall to reveal her in coat and breeches, a delectable lithe boy, who had withal a piquant hint of womanhood. She buttoned the coat about her bare neck and saluted the King as a saucy page his fellow.
“A new book in the Metamorphoses,” cried the Duke of Buckingham. “On your honour, master boy, which animal would you rather be?”
“By your honour, as double as my own, I'd be both, so I need not be both at once,” she cried, and began a rollicking dance.
When it was done, and she, panting delicately and delicately flushed, making roguish eyes at the King, the Duke of Buckingham had the music sounding for a country dance. Then off she went to the King. “My pretty soul,” said she in a man's voice with a foppish swagger, “wilt honour your slave and tread a measure with me?”
“Oh, sir,” the King simpered, “sure, 'tis not right. You should first ask my elder sister,” and he pointed ogling to the wrathful Duchess.
She flamed out: “When your Majesty desires to play the fool, one ought to warn us.”
“Good lack, what need?” Buckingham murmured,
But the Duchess went out in a whirling passion.
Mrs. Gwyn tucked the King's arm under hers like a triumphant boy claiming a saucy maid. “Take heart, Cinderella, the ugly sister is gone,” she cried, and so swept into the dance.
The King took up the game, The long, lean figure, that swarthy, coarse, lined face aped a girl's shy ways in coarse mockery. She played better. She made a gallant vigorous lad, and her grace drove the buffoonery out of him, and he let her take him captive away. “But, faith, Nell, I shall pay dear for this,” quoth he.
“Is it I ever cost you dear?” she said. Their eyes met and were sad a moment. Then the King turned it off in a coarse joke.
In the morning, Mrs. Gwyn, freshly fragrant as the roses, took the air of her garden. From the terrace at its end she looked out over the Park and saw the King. His Majesty was engaged with a pelican. Its manners argued a low opinion of the royal taste, but the King plainly found it a less “melancholy water-fowl” than Mr. Evelyn. Soon one of the Balearian cranes engrossed all his attention. It had lost the better part of its right leg, and an artful gentleman of the Horse Guards was trying to persuade it to take kindly to a wooden substitute. The King gave his whole mind to the operation, and devised ingenious amendments. He stooped and handled the bird with cunning fingers. The flaccid, swarthy face was keen and alive. He flashed out eager questions. It was work to the royal taste. Mrs. Gwyn laughed like a nurse watching a child with its sand castle.
There were park wardens ready to provide that none should disturb the royal labours. While most of the loungers in the park kept loyally aloof, one man gave trouble, persisting insolently that he must have speech with the King. It may have been himself who attracted Mrs. Gwyn, for he was a stalwart fellow, of wholesome brown face. But he had with him a child of singular allure. She was so fragile that she seemed no form of earth. The springtime innocence of her delicate face was very weary and sad. Mrs. Gwyn went, out to the park.
She clapped the man on the shoulder. “How now, bully? What maggot's biting you?”
He turned and glared at her. “It's a brute natural, mad to come at the King, Mrs. Gwyn,” said one of the wardens.
“Well, what's your errand, brother? I know the King so well as another.” She was smiling down at the child, who had no smile for her.
“I want justice,” he growled.
“Poor devil!” She laid her hand on the child's shoulder with a skilful caress, but the child was cold. “Come now, tell me the affair. I'm no fine lady to play you double, but just a plain wench of the people.”
The man stared at her fiercely. There was never doubt of the fearless, careless honesty of that gay face. “My Lord Lewknor goes about to rob me, ma'am. He hath the ear of these red judges, and I am undone. Sure, it's the King's part to give me aid.”
Mrs. Gwyn swore a hearty oath. “Lewknor, the corpse! Odso, I'd as lief it were him as Madame Karwell!” She caught at the girl's hand. “Here, come with me, child.” But she hung back, trying to free herself. “What, sweet! Sure, I'm pretty enough to be your mother.”
“No,” the child said solemnly.
Mrs. Gwyn was not touchy. “Well, I'll not eat you. Come, and we'll help your—here, what are you, my bully, her father or son?”
“Of course, Diccon is my brother,” said the child with contempt. Grave, unloving eyes considered Mrs. Gwyn. “I will go with you. But you must not hold my hand. I don't like you.”
“You elf,” said Mrs. Gwyn, and gave a queer laugh. “Come, then.” She put the child before her, and as the grinning wardens made way went on to the King.
He had just made an admirable innovation in the crane's leg, and was well pleased with himself.
Mrs. Gwyn made him a curtsey of impudence and put the child forward, and the King examined her frail charm curiously. “Faith, this is Titania's daughter that Puck stole away to pleasure Oberon.” Mrs. Gwyn had no notion who Titania might be, but she smiled approval. The King was interested. If he could be kept so five minutes all might be well. He held out his hand to the child. “Come, sweet, what do you bring me from fairyland?”
The child's great, grave eyes had no answering kindness. She stared full at the loose cheeks and swollen, sneering lip of that dark face, and drew back a little. Mrs. Gwyn felt her tremble. The King laughed. “I want you to help my brother,” said the child. “Will you?”
“Ods fish, fairies are mighty human,” the King sneered. “Nell, when you meet a soul that wants nothing of you, kneel down and pray, for sure that will be God.”
“Odso, I doubt He wants most of all,” quoth Mrs. Gwyn.
The King's brow grew sombre. He came to the child, and took her chin in his fingers. “Is your brother an elf like you?”
At his touch she cried out, “Diccon, Diccon!” as though for help, and Dick Craddock won through the little throng to the King.
The King looked him up and down and shrugged. “Nay, this is common clay enough. Well, what is your woe, friend?”
“Please you, sir, I am Dick Craddock, a gardener of Islington, and I've a ten acre of my own which my folk have held this hundred year, But it's close on my Lord Lewknor's new park, and he would rob me of it. First he tried to buy it, but I would not sell at all, being that it has been my folk's land so long. Then I heard nothing more of him for a while. But yesterday, look you, sir, come fellows with staves and warrants of the law, and they tell me the judges have said that the land is all my Lord Lewknor's, and I must quit. Sir, it's a base, vile wrong, for the land has been a Craddock's time out of mind, and no one in Islington ever heard of my Lord Lewknor till yesterday. And your judges never heard me at all; nay, did not so much as know they were judging about my land. Now they say if I will not go out and away and give up all my own and be a landless man, I must to gaol and pillory. Sir, I say it's a most base, vile wrong”
“Good fellow, you have said so already.” The King yawned. He was watching the child's strange, spiritual face.
“And by God, he says right,” cried Mrs. Gwyn.
The King beckoned the child closely. “What are you thinking of me, elfin eyes?”
“I think that you will help us,” she said slowly.
“And you'll thank me for that,” said he, with a bitter, sneering laugh. “Well, friend, it shall be looked to. You shall have justice.”
“It's all I want, sir,” said Craddock. “And sure, sir, I do thank you, I”—the child was already dragging him away—“I thank you.”
The King waved his hand, and they were gone. “Why, Nell, God save us from a child's eyes on Judgment Day,” said he. “But why cannot this fool be bled without howling, like a loyal subject? Well, I'll give it to Shaftesbury. He'll like it.”
And into the hands of that Chancellor, “sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit,” my Lord Lewknor might have fallen (to his exceeding discomfiture), but that coming back to Whitehall the King met with the Duke of Buckingham, who carried him off to Dowgate to a pair of Spanish dancers. With whom the child's eyes were utterly forgotten.
That night, as she sat with her brother happy, there came other men with staves and a warrant from the Lord Chief Justice, who bore him away to Newgate. The child followed distraught, and he fought like a wild beast when he heard her cry. To the prison gate she came, and begged piteously that she might be taken too. When that was denied, she would heed neither the threats that bade her away nor the kindliness that sought to comfort her. She stayed there by the gate still, in tearless grief, with no word for answer to any, and a passionate strength against the hands urging her to a night's home. So as the dark gathered about the walls she was left alone in dumb, unreasoning agony. She was of that age when body and soul feel most keenly without help from the anodyne of thought. Her nature, of one blood with those who see and know without the labour of reason, in whom the body is but a thin veil and feeble shield for the soul, paid their penalty of keenest torment in sorrow. It held her in a mad trance of pain, while a pomp of ghastly visions passed. What she feared she could have told no more than the stunned beast whose muscles twitch beneath the knife understands the manner of its death. Through the cold, dark autumn night she crouched in the archway by the barred gates, strained and stiff. In the dawn the turnkeys found her trembling, her hair dank and ugly about a livid face and cavernous eyes that flamed. They tried to stay her with rough comfort and care, but her eyes did not understand. Again and again she asked tidings of her brother, and when they told her all they knew, asked still. Calling her mad, they left her at last, and she kept her watch by the gate. She was there when the grim procession of prisoners marched out with the javelin-men, and panting she followed to Westminster. Her brother did not see her. That was spared.
The dingy court off Westminster Hall had few in it to greet the Chief Justice. There were no tidings of any of the cases that made him entertaining to amateurs of the man-hunt. He took his seat late, and his eyes were heavy and swollen. But when he had spoken with the officers of the court his big face flushed pleasure. “Ay, ay, have the rogue in first,” he cried. “Sure, the court shall avenge its own majesty before all.”
Dick Craddock, fierce and dishevelled, was thrust into the dock, and at once he cried out: “Justice my lord! I ask you, do me justice!”
The Chief justice roared at him: “Thou naughty rogue! Do you, with all mischief that hell hath in you, think to brave it in a court of justice? I wonder at your impudence! Hold thy peace, hold thy peace. Your time for howling shall come in good earnest.”
One of the tipstaffs came leering to bear witness. There was no doubt of the judge's temper, and he fed it skilfully. Mr. Craddock had been served with the warrant of the court, and straightway he had raged most foully and sworn that he would not obey it. Nay, he had used the officers of the court most grievously, and in truth (he being a sturdy rogue) they had hardly got away from him whole. For they were very sore mishandled, and bore the marks of it.
“Oh, villain!” the Chief Justice roared, and beat upon his desk. “Oh, hellish villain! Wilt thou misuse my officers? Wilt thou condemn the majesty of the court? Wilt thou rebel against the law? Why, this is to be accounted with the devils which made war upon God! I will prepare very hell for you! I will so school you that none shall dare to do the like this hundred years.”
“May I not speak, my lord?” Craddock cried,
“Oh, ay, thou shalt speak and yell and howl and whine, I will take such order with thee. I protest for him that doth practise contempt of this court there is no penalty too hard. But I thank God I know how to be merciful. Ay, I will be very tender. Hark ye, Mr. Craddock: you shall be taken back to Newgate, and there the hangman shall give you twice a hundred lashes. So easily shall your contempt be purged. For which give thanks to God and hie away and render up that land you knavishly hold to him whose right it is, yielding it peaceably and thankfully, being grateful that your devilish villainy is thus lightly entreated.”
“My lord, I do swear”
“Ods blood, will you still be talking? Have him out, have him out! Is he to hurl his vileness at the patient court?”
The tipstaffs haled him away, while he thundered mad defiance. In the very doorway he shook them off, and, white with passion, “God visit you with such a judge as yourself!” he shouted. Then they closed about him and dragged him away.
The Lord Chief Justice lay back in his chair and laughed. “Methinks that gallant will sing a smaller tune by dinner-time,” quoth he, and smacking his lips over the relish of it, turned with appetite to the next business. It did not seem likely that the rogue would make any more trouble of being robbed.
By the gate of the prison a wretched girl cowered, quivering for the flesh that quivered beneath the lash. In each wandering sound she heard her brother's tortured life cry out, and bore herself a pain more ruinous. The short morning hours were an age of suffering that wore her mind away. For the child all conscious life had meant love for her brother and the love that answered it. He came out of the prison with a broken, shambling gait, his back distorted, and he muttered to himself and groaned. His grey face was flecked with blood above the sweat.
She ran to him shrieking his name and clung to him. He struck at her feebly, and muttered foul words, and his eyes glared stupid hate. Still she held to him, sobbing and calling to him. He turned away and staggered on blindly, and she went with him, trying to make her broken strength his stay. So, side by side, yet tortured so that they could not feel the comradeship, they toiled to the home that was theirs no more. It might have been the least loss for those who had lost all the soul's inheritance in this world—sane knowledge and love.
••••••
Mrs. Gwyn had no illusions about her King. When she heard that he was gone with Buckingham, she guessed how much help Dick Craddock would have of him, and swore at him frankly and with ability. His Majesty was then enjoying himself in Dowgate. On the morning after the debauch he awoke late, with an uneasy head and a distaste for all things foreign. He knew nothing more English than Mrs. Gwyn, and in the early afternoon you find him making across the Park to her house with my Lord Wilmot. She saw him in good time, and saw how to use him. While my Lord Wilmot was knocking at her door, a most dainty milkmaid, with skirts high kilted above fine ankles, and kerchief low from a well-turned neck, came out by the side gate and showed them her back.
“Why, who goes there?” cried the King.
“Two desirable feet at the least,” quoth my Lord Wilmot.
At which point the servant came in, and in some confusion announced that Mrs. Gwyn had gone out.
The King nodded. “I would have sworn to them out of all Solomon's harem.”
“You have a touching fidelity, sir.”
But the King had already started after Mrs. Gwyn, and my Lord Wilmot had to be careful of his breath. For among His Majesty's abilities was one for walking, and Mrs. Gwyn gave him occasion to use it. She was over the stile behind St. Martin's and away across the fields. Labouring over the meadow by Montagu House, my lord expressed a vicious hope that Phyllis found it irk to have her Corydon live so far from town. Her gait fell slower, and she dallied by the way, flirting a pretty arm along the brown hedgerows, poising herself delectably upon the stiles. She was plainly wantoning with fancies of love, as one who had much experience and happy expectations. The King pursued with zest. He had forgotten the whole matter of Craddock. He conceived Mrs. Gwyn on her way to a pair of sturdy rustic arms, and proposed to himself the joy of seeing her in them. The affair was full of relish. Mrs. Gwyn spoke with a ploughman, and at his direction turned away from the gleam of the New River head and along the verge of the green slope.
Only a little while before, Craddock and his sister had laboured faint up the hill from the city and come to the little white house among the orchards fronting the western stun. But their home was already given to ruin. In the garden the glistening box hedges were broken, the roses were trampled down. A rough din came from the house. Men were at work there stripping it bare, and all their goods were flung out in an ugly mass of waste. Brother and sister saw with haggard eyes of despair. He broke from her, and with a mad yell began to run to the house. He staggered a long way, throwing his arms before him, and fell, body and will worn out, senseless.
Then came Mrs. Gwyn, and close upon her pretty heels, his eyes bright with desire, the King. He heard her shriek as the child cast herself down upon her brother, holding him close, kissing him, crying his name. But he was deaf and cold. Mrs. Gwyn tried to raise her. “My maid, my dear pretty maid!” she sobbed, and her cheeks were all glistening. “O God, save us! Never look so! Sure, my bosom's warm for you.” But the child tore herself away with mad strength and ran, tripping, falling, as though she were blind, and rising again, careless of torn limbs. She came to the heap of household gear and burrowed in it, flinging things wildly this way and that. At last she found a gardener's knife. A moment she stood erect, stabbed at herself, and fell down gasping out her life.
“Odso, here is slaughter,” quoth my Lord Wilmot.
Mrs. Gwyn, crying and helpless, flung herself upon the King.
From a window there looked out a brutal face, something scared. “You fellow!” the King cried. “What does this mean?”
“It's you know as much as me. He be in a swound and she have stuck herself. It's Dick Craddock that the Lord Chief Justice have had flogged for mishandling of the tipstaffs, and that queer maid of his. Good lack, to kill herself like a pig now! What a saucy maid!”
The frail face lay before them all distorted and dappled with blood from that grim wound in the throat, and still it seemed that the child's limbs moved.
“I've an opinion the vulgar should not attempt tragedy,” said my Lord Wilmot. “They are too crude in it. And I wonder if I can find a coach?”
“Faith, Nell, if you weep so, I shall swim,” quoth the King. “Come away. We town-folks should never meddle with country manners.”
They hurried away for fear of the moment when Craddock's soul should come back to the misery of life.
••••••
The tables were set for basset in the Matted Gallery. The King was amused, for the Duchess of Portsmouth had been cheating him, and she was happy in thinking he did not know it. Into the midst of the splendour, dragging the ushers with him, tossing them aside among the startled courtiers, broke a man, filthy, unshaven, with matted hair. “You King!” he screamed. “King Charles! King Devil! Give me my own! Justice! Justice!” The ushers and some of the braver courtiers closed about him, and forced him backward by sheer weight. Still he screamed, “Justice! Justice!”
The King gave him no kind of answer.
The Duke of York bustled forward and took command. “The fellow belongs to Bedlam!” he cried. “See that he goes there, and what the whips can do for him.” So Craddock was hustled off.
But the King sat with glazed eyes, gripping the table.
From the other end of the gallery the ushers were crying, “His Highness the Prince of Orange!” The double doors opened wide, and there came a skeleton of a man all in black, with a white hawk face and glittering eyes. One glance saw all the riot, but he made no sign of seeing. He came to the King, who neither saw nor heard him.
“I fear that I disturb your Majesty,” he said quietly.
From the court without rang Craddock's mad cry, “Justice! Justice!”