Mistress of Mistresses

‘Come hither, Pyewacket!’ shouted the Vicar, letting go that dog that was then in the bath and turning to peer into the shadows of the gate. ‘Pyewacket! Satan’s lightnings blast the bitch! Woo’t come when th’art called?’ He hurled the heavy scrubbing-brush at a brindled shadowy form that stole away in hoped obscurity: a yelp told him that his aim was true. The great beast, her tail between her legs, trotted away; he shouted to her again; she glanced back, a harried reproachful glance, and trotted faster; the Vicar was upon her with a lion-like agility; he kicked her; she laid back her ears, snarled, and snapped at his leg; he caught her by the neck and beat her with his fist about the ribs and buttocks till she yelped for pain; when he had done she growled and bared her teeth; he beat her once more, harder, then waited to see what she would do. She gave in, and walked, but with no good grace, to the distasteful bath. There, standing shoulder-deep in the steaming suds, grown thin to look on beyond nature, and very pathetical, with the water’s soaking of her hair and making it cling close to the skin, she suffered sulkily the indignities of soap and brush, and the searching erudite fingers that (greatly indeed for her good) sought out and slew the ticks that here and there beset her. All the while her staring eyes were sullen with bottled-up anger, like a bull’s. The Vicar’s eyes had the like look in them.

‘Well,’ said he in a while, ‘is he coming? You did say I would have speech of him, and that instantly?’

‘I did give him your highness’ very words,’ said Gabriel. He paused: then, ‘’Tis a strange folly, this tennis: racket away a hundred crowns afore breakfast, and till that’s done all sober business may go hang.’

‘Did he not answer you?’ asked the Vicar after a minute.

Gabriel smiled a crooked smile. ‘Not to say, answer,’ he said.

‘What said he, then?’ said the Vicar, looking up.

Gabriel said, ‘Faith, ’twas not for your ear intended. I were to blame did I blab to your highness every scurvy word, spoke in unconsiderate haste, that your highness should magnify past all reason.’

At that word, came Lessingham hastily towards them out of the low dark passage that sloped upward into the long and narrow yard, at the far, or eastern, end whereof was Hagsby’s Entry where the washing was. And at that word, whether seeing him or no, the Vicar gave his Pyewacket a damnable slap across the nose, grabbed her fore and aft, and flung her out in the way of Lessingham that walked hastily to greet him. She, with the gadflies of pain and outraged dignity behind her and a strange man before, sprang at his throat. Lessingham was in his shirt, tennis-racket in hand; he smote her with the racket, across the fore-leg as she sprang: this stopped her; she gave way, yowling and limping. ‘God’s death!’ said the Vicar, ‘will you kill my brach?’ and threw a long-bladed dagger at him. Lessingham avoided it: but the singing of it was in his ear as it passed. He leapt at the Vicar and grappled him. The Vicar wrestled like a cat-a-mountain, but Lessingham held him. Gabriel, at his master’s skirt, now kept off the dogs, now pleased himself with looking on the fight, ever side-stepping and dodging, like a man caught in a hill-forest in a whirlwind when the tall pines loosened at root reel and lock together and lurch, creaking and tottering, towards the last downward-tearing ruinous crash. The Vicar’s breath began to come and go now in great puffs and hissings like the blowing of a sea-beast. Lessingham rushed him backwards. The edge of the wash-tub caught him behind the knees, and he fell in, body and breeches, with Lessingham a-top of him, and with that violence the tub was overturned.

They loosed hold and stood up now, and in that nick of time came Amaury into the yard. The Vicar barked out a great laugh, and held out his hand to Lessingham, who took it straight. There was in Lessingham’s eye as it rested upon his cousin a singular look, as if he fingered in him a joy too fine for common capacities: such a look as a man might cast, unknowingly and because he could not help it, on his dear mistress. And indeed it was strange to consider how the Vicar, standing thus in nasty clothes, but even risen from a rude tussling-bout and a shameful fall, stood yet as clothed upon with greatness like a mantle, sunning in his majesty like adders in warm beams.

Lessingham said, ‘You did send for me.’

‘Yes,’ answered he: ‘the matter is of weight. Wash and array us, and we’ll talk on’t at breakfast. Gabriel, see to’t.’

‘I’ll meet you straight in my lodging, Amaury,’ said Lessingham.

When they were alone, ‘Cousin,’ said Lessingham, ‘you did throw a knife at me.’

The Vicar was ill at ease under Lessingham’s secure and disturbing smile. ‘Tush,’ he said, ‘’twas but in sport.’

‘You shall find it a dangerous sport,’ said Lessingham. ‘Be advised, cousin. Leave that sport.’

‘You are such a quarrelling, affronting—’ the words ceased in his throat as his eye met Lessingham’s. Like his own great hell-hound bitch awhile ago, he, as for this time, bared fang yet owned his master. And in that owning, as by some hidden law, he seemed to put on again that greatness which but even now, under Lessing-ham’s basilisk look, had seemed to fall off from him.

That was an hour later when those kinsmen brake their fast together on the roof of the great main keep, over the Vicar’s lodging: a place of air and wide prospect; and a place besides of secrecy; for when the door in the north-west turret was shut, by which alone was a way up to the roof and the battlements, there was none save the fowls of the air and the huge stones of the floor and parapet to be eavesdroppers at their conference. Here in the midst of the floor was a narrow table set under the sky, with musk-millions and peaches in silver dishes, and a great haunch of cold venison, and marmalades of quince and crab-apple, and flagons of white and red hippocras, with chased gold goblets; and there were diapered linen napkins and silver-handled knives and silver forks to eat withal; all very noble and sumptuously arrayed. Two heavy armchairs of old black oak were set at the table; the Vicar sat at the northern side, and over against him Lessingham. They were washen now, and in fair and fine clothes. The Vicar had put on now a kirtle of dark brown velvet edged with rich embroidery of thread of gold, but frayed and dirted and rubbed with wearing; it was cut wide and low about the neck, with a flat collar of white pleated lace tied with silken cord. Lessingham was in a buff-coloured kirtle of soft ribbed silk with a narrow ruff and narrow wristbands of point-lace spangled with beads of jet of the bigness of mustard seeds, and tight-fitting black silk breeches and velvet shoes.

For a time they ate in silence. Every other while, the Vicar’s sudden eye glinted upon Lessingham; it was as if he had a mind to propound some matter, but would be besought for it first. But Lessingham sat sphinx-like and unconcerned in his pleasant ease, as wanting nothing, desiring nothing, at peace with himself and the hour and the fresh morning. At length the Vicar spoke: ‘You are as unquiet and restless as an October stag: but three days here, and already I see you in a fever for some new action.’

Lessingham smiled.

After a time the Vicar spoke again: ‘For my own part, I had as lief sit quiet now: enjoy that fortune hath given us.’

‘I praise your resolution,’ said Lessingham: ‘a most pious and fine humility in you, whom fortune hath so much blest, without all seconding of your proper action.’

The Vicar took a peach and skinned it. ‘Could we but count,’ he said, ‘on others for the like temperate withholding.’

Lessingham said nothing.

‘The south breedeth hot bloods and hot livers like summer flies,’ said the Vicar after a pause. He poured out some more wine. ‘’Tis that gives me stay,’ he said. ‘’Tis that makes me think may be we should do somewhat,’ he said, after another mouthful.

Lessingham waited.

The Vicar smote his fist on the table. ‘I am master of the game, by this lucky turn,’ he said: ‘play off the fat Admiral ’gainst the Duke, and all the poppets of Meszria ’gainst each in turn: cheap as kissing, and twice as profitable. But it needs suasion, cousin, specious arguments; butter ’em, tickle ’em, conycatch ‘em; you must go to ’em like coy wenches: amuse ’em, feed ’em with pathetical flim-flams, flout ’em, then seem to forget ’em, then be somewhat bold with ’em, laugh at ’em; last, i’ the happy instant, ring up the grand main piece. Now I, cousin, am a loose, plain, rude talker: call a spade a spade. But you, and you would, should do this to admiration.’

‘I have handled such a matter ere now,’ said Lessingham, ‘and have not spoilt things utterly.’

‘Cousin,’ said the Vicar: ‘harkee, I would have your head in this. I would have you fare south and play this game for me. You shall be my ambassador. And, so you magnify it not beyond all reason, you shall name your own reward.’

‘I did think you knew,’ said Lessingham, ‘that it is not my way to do aught upon reward. Reason why, that to such things only am I wont to set my hand as the reward thereof lieth in the doing of ’em.’

‘’Twould make a dog laugh to hear such fiddle-faddle,’ said the Vicar. ‘Go to, I shall give you wide choice of dominion and treasure when the time comes. Will you do it?’

‘I will do it,’ answered Lessingham: ‘but upon conditions.’ His eyes were a-sparkle.

‘Well,’ said the Vicar.

Lessingham said, ‘First is, that you uphold the King’s testament.’

‘That,’ replied he, ‘proceedeth without question. It is my open proclaimed policy to uphold it throughly, and if you will I’ll swear to it.’

‘Second is,’ said Lessingham, ‘that you own and acknowledge to me, for my private ear only, here in this place, that ’twas by your rede, more, your direct commandment, the King was lately thus miserably murdered.’

The Vicar laughed. ‘’Las cousin, will you, too, give credit to that slanderous rumour and obloquy now going abroad?’

‘I see,’ said Lessingham: ‘you will not fulfil my second condition. Good. Get you another ambassador.’

The Vicar’s face was scarlet to look upon. He said, ‘I swear to you by God, the very founder, furtherer, and finisher of truth—’

Lessingham brake in upon him: ‘Give over, cousin. Indeed, if you be not damned already ’twere pity damn yourself for so hopeless an attempt as make me credit what I well know to be a lie. Be not angry, cousin: here we be close as the grave: surely ’twixt you and I ’tis stretch courtesy past use and reason to pretend I know you not for a most approved liar and forswearer.’ He ate a bit of marmalade, and leaned back in his chair. ‘To be open with you,’ he said, ‘you have put me into such a gog of going. I would not stay now for the world. Yet see the pass we stand in: if it be as hard for you to tell the truth as for me to go back from my word, I’m sorry for it, for then all goeth miss.’

‘Put case it were true,’ said the Vicar. ‘Were it not rash in you to desire a knowledge might hurry you to ruin? Like to that great man’s mistress, wheedled him to confess a horrid murder, which done, he swore her to silence upon a poisoned book: knowing it lay not in her to conceal his counsel, bound her to’t by death.’

Lessingham looked at him with the flicker of a smile in his eyes. ‘When I am grown so useless to you, cousin, as you should afford to lose me, I’ll think it danger to receive such secrets of you. Till then, no. I’ll trust no man’s affections, but I trust your wisdom most securely. Most securely, cousin.’

The Vicar toyed with his wine-cup. ‘Be that as it may,’ he said at last. ‘This you talk on is a monstrous folly. Where’s the reason of the thing? I were a fine fool to a murdered the young suck-egg, when ’twas in my hand to have overthrown him with force of arms.’

‘There,’ replied Lessingham, ‘you do much belie your prudent mind. It had been folly indeed to stand in the eyes of the world a usurping rebel, when ’twas the readier way, with some devilish pothecary stuff, stibium, henbane, I know not what, to whiffle him off and then put on your mourning and say his jealous brother did it.’

‘Ay, and did he,’ said the Vicar. ‘And did set too the lying tongues a-wag to say ’twas I.’

Lessingham yawned and studied the back of his hand, the little silky black hairs that grew fine and smooth on the shapely finger-joints, and the heavy ancient golden worm that he wore on his middle finger, scaly, eating of its own tail, its head a cabochon ruby big as a sparrow’s egg, that glowed with inward fires like the blood-red fires of sunset.

‘You will go then?’ said the Vicar.

‘But upon condition of confession,’ answered he.

The Vicar lurched up from the table and began to pace about. Lessingham yawned again and played with his ring. Neither spoke. After a minute the Vicar, grinding his teeth, came and stood over against him. Lessingham looked up. ‘Dear cousin,’ he said, ‘how long will you stay this matter’s going into action, of so much worth and moment? And how long will you seek to cast suds in my eyes that am long since satisfied of the truth, but will have it of you in friendship? You did send me out of the way to Mornagay whiles it was done. But I know it.’

The Vicar laughed with anger. ‘Know it? Upon what evidence?’ He ground his teeth. ‘Gabriel, that filth, was’t he told you this? I’ll have him hewn in pieces.’

‘O spare your pains,’ said Lessingham. ‘Should Gabriel tell me at noonday ’twas twelve o’clock, I’d have evidence corroborative ere I’d believe it. No, cousin, I am satisfied you did act this murder; not by your own hand, indeed: that were too simple: but yours the deed was. And since you will be so strange with me as deny the thing: well, the Gods be with you, I’ll have no further hand with you.’