Copyright Story. THE LAST MASQUE.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXV, Issue XXII, 1 December 1900, Page 1006

Copyright Story. THE LAST MASQUE.

By

J. R. HENSLOWE.

U. Il was the winter of lu4B-9. In a small house in the town of Windsor sat Denzil Wotton, turning listlessly the leaves of a book on tne table before hint. The seven years that had passed over his head since we last saw him hatl altered him in no small measure.

It was not only the stamp of weak health (and when he rose to his feet one could see that he was lame), but the expression of impatient despondency which almost effaced the youth which should still have been manifest in his face. In the years that had tied, some of the most eventful in English history, he had borne his part, but at Naseby he received the wound which, making him almost a cripple, put an end to his soldiering and sent him back an enforced guest to the house of his uncle. But it was not only this which embittered his life. The belief in his own poetic powers, the restless craving for fame, were ever present with him, and as things were there seemed less hope than ever of satisfaction.

It was curious when the door opened and Dr. Wren entered to contrast the habitual serenity on the face of the uncle with the sad unrest on that of the nephew. And yet the Dean had hail his own sorrows. Ejected by the Parliament from the Deanery, which was promptly ransacked, he had felt the yet sharper pang of beholding the spoliation of his stately chapel and the theft of the Garter Jewels which he had striven so gallantly to preserve. He had taken refuge in the small abode which was all that fines enabled him to tifford. There had his wife gone to her rest. Yet, after all. there was far more quiet content on his fact than on that of Denzil Wotton. •lust now, however, the Dean wore tin expression of deep sadness, as he eatue slowly forward into the room and sat down. His nephew looked

"Is it true, sir?" he asked. “Aye. 1 have seen him,” said the Dean. “One brief glanee I had as the eoaeli turned into the Lower Vt aril. But it was under a strong guard. Alas’ what doth this portend?” “It may be but for safe keeping, as the last time,” said Denzil. His uncle shook his head.

“I hear many things,” he said sadly, “and I cannot choose but fear. Well, the Lord is with His anointed.” He roused himself after a short silence.

“And you. Denzil.” he said, almost cheerfully, “what have you done?” “Nought but a few lines,” said the other, shrugging bis shoulders. “The power seems lacking to me now. Besides of what use is it after all? I can get nothing imprinted, and as for”

“Mayhap a time is coming.” said his uncle encouragingly. “Coming! 1 have waited for seven years, but the luck hath passed me.” “Luck is no fitting word.” said the Dean quietly, “else what may be said of many in these evil days? Of the King—”

•-•Forgive me.” said Denzil with quick compunction, and laid a hand on Tils uncle’s.

But he was thinking many bitter thoughts, ami not the least galling reflection was that he had that day seen riding up the High-street, on her way back to the Castle. Mistress Whicheott. who had been in other days Alicia Gerard. It was a strange reversal which saw the sometime maid of honour, the daughter of a proud and ancient house, return to the Palace, where she had served a queeu, to rule as the wife of the Puritan Governor, with his bran new shield, and only hiswealth as an equivalent. Yet she looked contented erough, as beautiful as ever, and attired as richly as her husband's views would admit of it. Altogether there was about her an air of calm prosperity which was sorely trying to the ruined cavalier whom she had flouted. He could not but

wonder, too, at her feelings this day, a day which saw the King brought back a captive to his own old Palace. Denzil need no: h ive po d. red the question. Alicia Whicheott had long studied the art of dismissing from her mind all unwelcome reflections. She thought, at ah times, as little as possible of her former loyal connections, held carefully aloof from all knowledge of the royal prisoner, and tried to remember only, that she had married a successful soldier, and that therefore she had a right to be comfortable.

Oniy once during the King's short stay at Windsor was Denzil Wotton permitted to see him. No longer might the former come, as had been his wont in happier days, to worship in the chapel whirh his fathers had raised; that was waste and desolate, and the voice of prayer and praise was hushed. A stranger was in the Deanery where he and Dr. Wreu had often sat in thoughtful converse, but on Christmas Eve a chance was afforded.

For an hour or two the King was permitted to walk on the terrace, on the north side of the Upper Ward. He was guarded, indeed, and Colonel Whicheott was in close attendance, but a few persons who were known were allowed to approach. As the King and his warders turned, the quick eye of the former caught sight of the lame stranger, and he stopped.

“Under favour, Master Governor.” he said, “yonder is a face 1 once knew. Approach, sir,” and Whicheott, with an impulse of pity, offered no objection.

As Denzil advanced, uncovered, the King looked kind'iy at him. “1 remember you well,” he said kindly; “the winds which have blown these late years have been apt to wither the flowers of poesy, even as they have beat down all other matters. It may be that after these days, there will come a calm and a rain from Heaven. Commend us to your good uncle?” With a grave smile, he turned, giving no time to Denzil to kneel, and thus.prob ibly doing him a good turn. But the latter made his way homeward, half sad. yet wholly proud. Christmas Eve! The feast might no longer be kc pt, but in Windsor. of all places, the mind must needs go back to the Christmas-tides long past; the feis.ing for the poor, the mirth, the loyal pageants, the service sung in the now silent chapel, and question whether, indeed, things had changed so much for the better. And in the Castle. King Charles was keeping his iast earthly Christmas. Those who had perilled all for his crown were no longer with him; dead, exiled, s: altered here and there; and he was alone. Surely, the sins, the mistakes, Ihe weakness of the past had exacted already a heavy payment, but the cup hail yet to be drained. On the 19th January he was rem ved to London.

A gloomy afternun in February. Cp from the town came Dean Wren and his nephew, climbing the Castle Hill. Both were si ent, and on the face of the elder, worn and haggard, were the traces of tears, pitiful to see. They entered the gate without difficulty, and passid on to the south side of the ehapel, where at the door stood the Governor and four gentlemen in deep mourning habits, while a few paces off wai ed a file of soldiers. with unlight-, d torches.

“You have tarried by the way,” said Colonel Whicheott. r Highly, “and it wears late”; but* oie of his eomjanions stepped forward and uncovered, bowing courteously. “We have given vou this trouble, Mr Dean,” he said, ‘ b.‘cause we verily believe no man else can aid us in that we seek.”

“Call it not a trouble, my Lord Duke,” answered the Dean, in a low. broken voice, “but rather a sacred, though sorrowful duty.”

“Have with you, then,” said Whicheott impatiently, as he put the key in the door and turned it,” and make what haste ye can.”

He walked in first, with a certain ostentation of irreverence, while his companion followed, bare-headed. Bas it indeed St. Georges? vias it the glorious fane of King Edward and King Henry, wherein so many English Sovereigns had worshipped, whither they had brought their costly offerings? Where were the tomb and chantry, banner and painted quarry? All was desolation, and the smoky, uncertain glare from the torches served but to add to and intensify the wild chaos. For a moment the Dean stood with clasped hands, looking eastward into the black mystery of the choir, while a faint exclamation died away on his lips; then, repressing all signs of emotion, he addressed himself to the task before him. It was long, in spite of his intimate knowledge of the place, before that task was fulfilled, so completely had the familiar landmarks been removed, so thorough was the work of spoliation. After sounding the pavement in various places, the vault of King Henry \ 111. was with some difficulty discovered and Whicheott agreed that it should be opened. Silently the little group passed down the ohoir, and at its entranee the Dean paused again and looked back, a long yearning gaze. “How long. O Lord?” he whispered, and then, with a. sigh, followed the others. “Come with us, sir,” said the Duke of Richmond, as they emerged, and with Denzil holding his arm Dr Wren passed through the cloisters to his own old home.

There, in the Dean’s Hall, lay all that was mortal of the King. By the coffin knelt Bishop Juxon. faithful still. and as he rose to his feet the Dean came forward and fell on his knees to ask his blessing, weeping sore. One duty remained. A piece of lead was brought and the name and date were inscribed thereon by Richmond, to be lapped round the nameless eofl’n.

So the faithful servants kept their vigil, and Denzil Wotton. in the presence of that awful tragedy, forgot his own ills and grievances as he never before had done. If his poor hopes had perished there, were not aspirations not far more lofty, possessions infinitely wider, splendour and power and glory buried there as well? Who was he that he should repine? His poor little boat had but been swamped in the storm which had engulfed so many stately vessels, even to the flagship.

The next day, the 9th of February, St. George’s Chapel received the relics of a slaughtered King. Fair and eold and clear was the winter day when the loyal four followed their master forth from the Deanery round to the greaf west door, but ere they reached it the clouds had gathered and the snow was falling fast on- the velvet pall There, with the badges of the great Plantagenet Kings sculptured round in solemn memorial of past splendour the sad procession ascended the steps, while before them walked Bishop Juxon, Prayer Book in hand, brave and undaunted, ready to recite the forbidden office for the Burial of the Dead. But it was not to be. At the open door stood Colonel Whicheott with uplifted hand.

“Not so. Master Bishop,” he said. “That ill-mumbled mass book of thine is unlawful and shall not be used where I command. Pass in; be silent and speedy.” The Bishop bowed his head in meek submission, but" he kept his place and marshalled silently the White King to his rest.

There, in the vast church, among the craven imagery, with the haughty names of long dead princes blazoned on the Garter plates above him, was the slaughtered King lowered to his tomb. No King-at-arms to proclaim his titles and honours; no choir to lend sweet voices to the holy service; only the bitter tears of a few faithful followers, and the voiceless prayers and blessings of Dean and Bishop. The snow-covered pall was thrown In last and the mourners turned away. Denzil Wotton was slowly and painfully following his uncle down the dismantled nave when a woman’s figure emerged from behind one of the pillars and advanced to meet him. It struck him with a sense of incongruity that she wore no mourning habit; but, after all, this could scarcely be expected of Alicia Whicheott, as things were. She looked very handsome—as handsome as in theolddays—standing there with the wan winter light falling on

her fair face and dark eyes. She held a deeply furred mantle round her, but the tresses of silky hair escaped in rich profusion from the violet satin hood. She was a little pale, but she held out her hand with the old eon* ij uerinjf smile. "1 thought it was you,” she said "It is long- since we met.” He did not take the small g-loved hand, but bowed profoundly, his eyes on hers.

"1 heard you had l>een wounded.” she went on. 1 grieve to see you halt. Well, things have changed in strange sort. Who would have thought, when I was in waiting on the Queen, that I should come hither again thus?” "Truly, no one. Madam,” said Denzil bitterly. ”1 trust you find it more to your liking than one had once thought.” She coloured a little, but stood her ground. "Ah. you would reproach me.” she answered, “well. 1 can a-bye it. Do vou remember the masque you wrote once, and how I presented Artemis? That was to be the harbinger of great things for you. How have you sped?” "It is not here and now that I can answer you.” said Denzil. his voice trembling with mingled pain and resentment. "this is too sore a day for England. Between us is yon grave, and I ”

A heavy, measured tread came down the aisle, and the Governor advanced towards them. "Art here, Madam?” he said, as he saw his wife, "best come in, for ’tis parlous cold. Who is this gentleman?" he added with a sharp glance of disfavour at Denzil.

“A friend in etyly and foolish days,” said Alicia, composedly, "he and I have alike learned wisdom. Farewell, sir.” she added, “and bear no malice.

I pray.” All three were outside by this time, and the Governor, turning the key in the loek. curtly bade their companion adieu, and walked away with his wife to the Norman Gate. 111. Sixteen hundred and sixty, the year of the Restoration. King Charles is at Windsor —Windsor which saw the last act of so great a tragedy, and mirth and feasting have come round again. Dr. Christopher Wren is once more Dean, de facto, as well as de jure, and hopes to live long enough to bring back something of the old order to his desecrated church, wherein his son. already famous, may perhaps help him. He stands once more in the Deanery, in that solemn hall where the White King lay eleven years ago. and he is musing over the past

By the window, in a deep easy chair, sits Denzil Wotton. In him. these last yeais have wrought a gradual, but no less certain, change. They have been years of suffering, but he is almost past that; they have also been years of discipline; and he has at last learnt a lesson of patience. The mills of God grind slowly, it is true, but the work is nearing perfection. The divine image that was stamped on the coin becomes ever more clearly visible, bit by bit, the alloy falls away. In more ways than one Denzil’s long patience is rewarded, for in his thin hand is a manuscript. It is that of his old masque of Artemis, and tomorrow it will be presented before the King. The old Dean comes up to him, and lays a withered hand tenderly on the frail shoulder.

"Rest a little, dear lad," he says in the old way, “think not so much of this matter.”

Denzil smiled faintly. “I have striven to put it all from me these many years, sir,” he answers, “but now' that the chance hath come to me, I cannot choose but welcome it. And there is the book, my sonnets, imprinted at last —and the King hath promised ” He pauses from weakness and failure of breath, but goes on in a minute. “You must make me fit to go up yonder to-morrow; to see it, once again.” “Thou wert ever a wilful lad,” says the Dean, gently. “How ean I make thee fit, and thou wilt not rest, nor take thy cordials?” He takes a cup from the table and hands it to his nephew, but at that moment a knock is heard at the outer door.

“A gentlewoman craves speech of your reverence,” say's the old servant who enters, “she will give no name ”

But uo denial is given, and a tall figure comes into the room. As she puts back her Ihhml, nude and nephew at once recognise Mistress Whieheott. She advances to the window, and stands before Denzil Wotton, who rises with difficulty, though he sinks Itack into his chair a moment after. She is a beautiful woman still, though the brilliancy is goue, and the soft bloom faded, and her attire is mean and poor.

"You wonder to see me here,” she says abruptly, "but you have the sun on your side of the hedge now, and 1 was one who ever loved sunshine.”

"Will it please you to sit. Madam,” says the Dean, with grave courtesy, while his nephew is striving to collect himself.

“ "Tis as well said standing,” she answers, in the same careless, selfreliant manner. "Times have changed again. Once, as you mind, I was maid of honour up yonder. Then the wheel went round, and the wife of the rebel Whieheott ruled where she had once served. Now his wealth that I cared so dearly for hath made itself wings, and he, my husband, is a poor Knight across the way there. We are quite impoverished, and the time of royal favour has come round for other folk. Master Wotton. your masque will be played to-morrow as I hear. Ido not ask,” she goes on bitterly, “to fill the part of Artemis, as you may guess, but of your charity, speak my name to the King, for his mother's sake. She loved me once.”

Denzil is looking at her. a long yearning gaze, full of memories of past days, and that of one who reads a long closed book for the last time. “Madam,” he begins, “aught that I or my uncle can do—” For the first time she seems to realise the ominous change in him. “Mayhap.” she says, faltering a little. “I should not have come. Nevertheless, forgive me. I see that you are ill at ease. Still you are happier than I. You have kept an unstained faith through many changes and have not sold it. Farewell.” She holds out a hand much thinner than of old and Denzil would have raised it to his lips, but she draws it quickly away, and with a slight obeisance to the Dean wraps her cloak round her and goes quietly away. Denzil bows his head upon his hands for a few seconds, then looks up into his unde’s anxious face. “You will remember, sir," he says earnestly, “if I have not the chance?” And the Dean promises. It is a glittering pageant that in Saint George's Hall, with a curious likeness to that other scene nearly nine!w.n years ago: and yet how few’ of the faces are the same. Gone are King and Queen. Gone are Ladies Derby and Carlisle and D’Aubigny. Gone are Falkland and Holland and Carnarvon, with the circle of the fair and noble of their day. Some have fallen like their master, beneath the headsman’s axe. Others on battlefields through the length and breadth of England. All are swept away. And yet, the same words are said, the same songs sung. Artemis and her nymphs wind through the mazes of their graceful measure, as if to prove the undying nature of a poet’s dream. And the music might be that which heralded Alicia Gerard’s radiant beauty in the days that are gone. When it is over the King, careless, heedless, yet always good natured, comes across the hall to congratulate the successful poet. Denzil is leaning back, white and breathless, one cold hand clasped In his uncle’s, while the younger Christopher Wren bends over him, forgetting for the moment his own dream of the sister art.

“I give you joy, Master Wotton," says King Charles. “Never did your reverend kinsman of Eton write more tuneful numbers nor fashion aught so enchanting.” The words die on his lips a-s he scans more closely the poet’s face, for Denzil’s eyes do not open, and he seems unconscious of the gracious words. “How is this, Mr Dean?” says the King hurriedly. “Master Wotton is surely ill. Send for a physician some one.” He is really sorry and interested for the moment.

“In truth it has been over much for him,” falters the old man; “but he was so set on beholding his work pen formed before Your Majesty.” At the moment the swoon passes, and Denzil looks up into the swarthy face of the King.

**lt hath come at last and 1 am content/' he murmurs. “I asked but fo® this.” Then in a fainter voive, “Alicia Gerard, I forget how they call her now. I promised

A doctor comes forward ami the King moves gravely away.

As soon as may be Denzil Wotton is carried home through the cloisters t<» the Deanery. Then* J lean Wren watches somrt% fully by him and recites the prayers for the dying. There at daybreak, with his sonnets ami the masque of Artemis beside him, but with his hands joined in prayer, he passes to his rest. He had waited many years, truly, years of repining, of despondency, of hope deferred; years likewise ol humility and faith and patience. At last the earthly fame for which his hot. youth had panted has been accorded to him, but the gift has dropped from his hands in the same hour, because with it has come the summons from a greater King.