Copyright. THE KING’S SMILE.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLV, Issue 2, 13 July 1910, Page 55

Copyright. THE KING’S SMILE.

By

DORA GREENWELL

McCHESNEY, Author ofKathleen Clare,”

" The City of Quest," etc.

TREMULOUS April sunlight, shining the more softly after rain, across the park and pleasanee of Travers Manor, and a girl’s voice singing in the stillness. “ Come, my rose, my queen of flowers Spring was only made for this— Let the fairest of her hours Treasure tliy compacted bliss. Come, my rose, to bud and bloom, Crown art thou of all our Springs, Centring sweet of all perfume, Queen of flowers and flower of kings.” The song dropped sudclenly: something in the words, or some thought that lay behind the words, broke on the heedless, happy mood. There were many -maidens in England, those dark war times, who had lost the heart for singing; many homes which had forgotten how to echo any sound of mirth. But over Lady Elizabeth Travers, as over her peaceful home, the storm seemed to have passed but lightly. If she checked her music when those words—the flower of kings—brought back the thought of strife, it was with a wistful and wondering sadness, not the keen pang therewith some women beat time to every heart-throb. About Travers Manor there were no traces of war; no single tree had been untimely felled in those stately ranks of beeches, green already, for April that year had come with unwonted warmth. And along that avenue no father or lover had ridden forth into peril; it was for no returning hoof-beats that Lady Elizabeth waited, as she leaned on the broad grey balustrade of the terrace, and looked across garden and woodland to the glimmering line of the far-off sea. So fair a world it seemed for wrong and suffering to find a place—small wonder that the maiden, musing in the sunlight, could see no visions but dimly and afar off. And yet those visions had grown a little nearer and a little darker with each month that passed since the first war had swept over England. In the sheltered home, where Lady Elizabeth the last of her race, ruled like a young queen, the stress of the time made little entrance. A crippled soldier might pause at Travers Manor, craving alms or harbourage; a foraging party might halt for some brief space at its gates, and that was all. But still the tidings came, of siege and rout and rally, drifting into the quiet garden among the flowers. And the months grew years. The Howers in the borders budded, ehanged and fell; the leaves in the beech avenue put forth, and dropped, and were caught away by the autumn wind. Lady Elizabeth loved her garden, and dreamed many dreams there through the long Spring and Summer, from the time when the eroeuses lit their tips of flame, till the brave wallflowers smouldered dimly on the verge of Winter. She marked the passing of the months in part by that procession of bloom, in part—sadly enough—by tho war word from without. It had been in the blaze of high Summer, when the earnations crimsoned all the garden and filled it with poignant sweetness, that the tidings came of Marston Moor and the loss of the North. Another year, and through a June of roses brkoe the fatal cry of Naseby—and the end of all. And now another Spring had brightened; soon the roses —the royal flowers—would bloom again; but what of the King?

The King—he was still at Oxford, so ran the latest news; but there were daily rumours of his quitting the city, round which the foe was drawing an ever narrowing circle. And what then—what next? Lady Elizabeth began to pace the terraee restlessly, looking down on the pleasanee below with eyes that saw not, but were gazing in memory on the King’s face, as she had seen it—once only—on his ride from Nottingham to Newark. She could not picture it changed, that gracious, kingly countenance; she could not see the lines which time and sorrow must have traced' there. It had been shadowed even then, veiled rather, by a wistful melancholy. The first faint greyness of twilight, felt rather than seen—such had been the sadness of King Charles’ face, till across

it there flashed suddenly the light of a smile searee less sad—the King's smile, for the hope or memory of which men did not find it hard to die. Companioning with these thoughts and with' these memories Lady Elizabeth passed down the low, broad steps leading from the terrace to the park, which swept away from the front of the old house. Crossing the grass lightly, she struck into the great beech avenue and followed it. The sun high in the heavens, east down flickering leaf shadows and sudden glints of light on the gold of her uncovered hair, and on her rich attire. For all the war which had raged about her so long, the maiden was not troubled by any fear of possible violence or invading peril, and as she moved slowly in 'her composed grace and fair regality of beauty, it seemed no roughness could approach her. When she reached-the great gates—which by her guardian’s careful order were kept closed but not barred; that none of either party might assert that Travers Manor was in a state of warlike defence against them—she was seized with a desire for glimpse of the outer world. Putting forth all her strength, she

swung the great grudging portals a little ajar, and passed out between the couchant hounds of stone. It was so fair around her; she caught sight of the faint gold of a cluster of primroses, and the violets made sparks and flashes of blue in the thick grass. All the air was sweet and astir with the sense of growing things.

Wandering on heedlessly along tho road, between the blossoming drifts of white-thorn, Lady Elizabeth noted not, for a little, how a change had swept across the April day. The sky dimmed with sudden clouds, the wind began a restless sighing, amt at last a drop of rain on her forehead startled her. At that, she turned quickly, to retrace her steps, and the same moment saw, not many paces from her, a man advancing slowly. A little dismayed yet too proud for flight, she stood with lifted head, and wide eyes fixed upon the stranger. Assuredly there was nothing to fear from this single unmounted way-

farer, walking with so slow and hesitant a step, as one in ddubt or exceeding weary. No Cavalier, that much might be read even from afar in the fashioning of his dark, plain clothes, something worn and travel-stained; and when he came nearer, the same was declared by his short hair and eleanshaven face, since these were accounted signs, denoting the stricter sect of Puritans. After her brief survey, Lady Elizabeth turned away with a gentle indifference not untouched by pity, for the solitary figure suggested to her fancy one who had journeyed long and was yet far from his resting-place. But as she would have gone, the stranger stayed her by a gesture of greeting or summons, and drawing near, asked of her in a troubled tone—hesitant, that also—whether she could give him guidance to the nearest town. He had lost his companions, he said, casting a helpless glance round but was assured that a friend waited him hard by; he was not certain of his road, being strange to those Eastern countries. He spoke with an anxiety, a constraint, which would have roused a man to instant and keen suspicion, but the girl looked in hie face ami saw naught there to fear. A face that must in youth have been very fair, having in it something both of gentleness and pride; not young now, though it was not easy to tell the stranger’s age, since trouble as well as time might have worn the hollows in cheek and temple, and touched the hair with grey. Yes, trouble had not failed, if there was truth in the message of those sad grey eyes, which soiqjht and yet escaped her own. Rebel or traitor, let the man be what he might, Lady Elizabeth could not gainsay her pity. She answered his

questions courteously, then paused; in those wild days it was most perilous to harbour an unknown guest. Yet she could not forbear to add: “But the storm draws on; you will scarce reach shelter ere it breaks.” He glanced up at the darkening sky. “Nay,” he answered with a stifling sigh, “nay, ’tis no matter; this storm I do not fear.” But she had conquered her hesitation. “My home is near,” she said gently, “if it will please you to take shelter there.” He gave her a questioning glance, almost one of distrust, she could have fancied. “In these distempered days—” lie said, then checked himself. “I will very gladly come,” he ended, “for 1 am, in ■truth, weary, most weary.” They went on in silence then, ami entered the great gates together. It did not seem fitting to Lady Elizabeth that she should seek to know more of her

guest Hum he ehose. himself to tell. Along the avenue, then round by rhe pleasanee, she led the way. Suddenly the stranger stopped: he was looking, not at the house before him, noble structure though it was, nor at the far, fair pros]>ect; his glanee- dwelt on a frail, unfolded rose —a crimson rose—on the south wall hard by. “A sheltered garden,” he said softly, as in unconscious musing, “a sheltered garden—where April roses bloom.” Then, indeed, he lifted his eyes, sweeping with a long wistful gaze all the peaceful scene. The'girl watched him wonderingly: could a Puritan, then, be so moved by a flower’s fairness? Puritan or no, how homeless a look was his. Swayed by a sudden gentle impulse she stepped forward, and gathered the rose, reached it to him without a word. The stranger thanked her with a smile, no more; a sad, brief smile which scarce stirred his lips, yet touched the face with light: as swift as sweet, that passing gleam transfigured for an instant the wan, tired countenance. With a ]?ow cry Of wonder Lady Elizabeth Travers sank to her knees at the feet of the wayworn stranger. “The King!” she cried, in a passion of loyal tenderness and pain. “It is the King’s smile.” And then she bowed her head before him in silence. The strange pause was quickly broken. “Hush —arise!” he said in a hurried whisper. “This may be seen —ah, what more miserable than a fugitive prince, whom even loyalty may undo?” She rose obediently, and strove to calm herself. .. “Sire,” she said, “if these rebellious days forbid me to' receive my sovereign aright, yet deign to accept what I still

may offer. None shall know the secret of my guest.” lie shook his head. “Not so,” he replied, “not so. Whilst that I was still unknown to you there was but little peril in my seeking rest here for an hour, but now—, know you not the proclamation of Parliament, threatening with instant death those that shall offer so much as a erust of bread to their King? Enough have perished for me—ah, too many!—l will go straightway hence.” But she barred his way as he turned. “Am I counted so unworthy,” she pleaded, “as that I should be forbidden to serve my King and, if need be, suffer for him? I beseech you, Sire, do me this honour, enter my poor house! Let me prove that Elizabeth Travers is not a name too base to be writ amongst those of your true subjects.” “Elizabeth—” repeated the King, “I have a daughter so named —” “In her name, then, grant me my

Will!" she urged; till at length, half loth, lie yielded. “So be it: I trust I do you no wrong. I will follow. • Some hours later King Charles sat in the oak parlour looking across the pleasttnce. Tiie late light filled the chamber and. outside, the woods and garden lay in the stillness of eventide. Lady Elizabeth had won his leave to dispatch an old and most trusted servant to seek out Dr. Hudson—that friend whom he had missed—deliver a word written in cypher, and bring back an answer. While lie waited, not knowing whether it was safe io tui'ii, the King yffelded himself 0 the sense of rest and shelter. His gaze dwelt sometimes on the. flickering fire on the hearth—for the Spring day grew ehill at the close—and travelled sometimes through the casement to that far silver line. ■ “The sea,” he said, “it hath seemed sometimes as though I must turn thither for safety, so hath disallegiance (pursued me; but 1 would not forsake any own country—nay, 1 love it well, land I do think there is more love for tno in England than would commonly appear; the people are misled. 1 have doubted even, of late, whether to journey .Ito the Scot’s camp, or turn, instead, to London.” “It would seem, Sire, to my poor thought,” ventured Lady Elizabeth, “that there in your capital and court tyou should find surest safety.” ‘ “I know not,” he said uncertainly. “There be many questions and many Counsellors; ’tis not easy to judge which to choose. I Set forth from ■Whitehall in dark days—ah—” he pressed his hand above his eyes —“days the very memory whereof is dark. It seemjteth oft limes that the storm which hath shut in about me will not sutler my return unto that port wherefrom I first put forth.” He fell silent: then. as the calm around him made itself felt, the troubled linos of his face relaxed. Leaning Lack in the great chair, one hand idly touching the silver goblet, which Lady Elizabeth, acting as his cupbearer, had filled, he seemed to put from him, for the first time, his burdening cares. The maiden beside him moved in a strange «nd rapt content; she might serve and minister to him; her home, for that brief hour, was his court, his kingdom, and her love and loyalty circled him round with peace. “How fair,” he said at length, “your pleasanee, sweet lady, calleth to mind the garden at Hampton Court, where I Walked with my children and”—his voice Softened — “my wife. I would fain think those days might soon return. Assuredly, 1 and this my realm have borne chastening; an hour, even, peaceful as this, is strange to me.” “May it be but the pledge, Sir, of peaeeful years to come,” she said softly. “Ay,” he made answer, looking from the ordered fairness without to the fire which made clear within, and the young face in its glow, “if God will, so may it be, and your rose—a good gift, is it not England’s flower—-may serve ” He paused suddenly; in speaking, lie liad lifted the rose, and a shower of loosened petals drifted downward, and lay crimson on the dark boards. The King smiled sorrowfully. “ ’Tis ill to trust in omens,” he said; “this is not the first ” Steps sounded without, and Lady Elizabeth sprang to the door to meet tier messenger. “Found you the gentleman?” she asked. “I’leasc your Ladyship, yes,” returned the man; ‘Mie made demur at me at first, then gave me this slip of parchment. and Imre me ride for my life.” I.eft alone, she brought the missive to the King, who drew a long, quivering sigh as he broke the seal. “Hudson writes there is danger—he prayed me to meet him without delay; lie will be some three miles hence on the road.” lie said wearily. “ 'Twill bo the Scot’s camp, then; there is no other Way. 1 had noped to strike throng'll to my brave Montrose but 1 know not — ill fortune attendeth nil who light for me since —since Wentworth. So it must tie. The Scots at Newark are not my friends, yet will they deal honourably.” ‘‘Yield not to foes, your Majesty!” pleaded the girl. “There, is none among your true (Snlyects but would gladly die ere that should be. A steed is ready, Sire, if you will needs go forth when Hight is gathering; but, oh, trust your-

self rather to them that love you—go not so!” The King stood silent, irresolute; thei peace of the brief respite was past, and as he looked into the gathering greyness lie saw no light beyond. In the approaching gloom what peril might lurk? What grim shadows lifted, dark even on the darkness? King Charles looked out with haunted eyes, and then moved from the rest and shelter of the quiet room to follow whither his errant fate might lead him. He held out his hand to the maiden, who, as she kissed it, looked up and saw his facewan In thg fading light—and caught his farewell glance. A moment later hoofs rang on the stillness. He had passed into the .shadows, and Elizabeth Travers’ Royal hour was at end. Kneeling where he had stood, in the solitary chamber while the gloaming felt, she kept as her treasure and her portion, only the scattered crimson rose leaves and the memoir of the King’s smile.

•the strike were to go on, there would be an indefinite continuation of bread and soup—and, in a little while, there might be no bread. An advance of twenty years had been made in the last two months; .wouldn’t it be better to rest content for a while—even without the union? When he finished speaking, no one replied. Three thousand girls sat in stunned silence. For twenty full seconds, there was not the rustling of a foot nor the sound of a voice. Then, in unison, as if the three thousand girls had been trained for a month to do what they were about to do, there swept over the hall a mighty sob. It was like the scene in Reading Jail when Oscar Wilde and his fellow prisoners knew that the man who “did not wear his scarlet coat” was about to be hanged: With sudden shock, the prison clock ■Smote on the shivering air; And, from all the jails rose up a wail Of impotent despair. The children of Israel were again