CHAPTER I.
A TOPIC AT COURT.
IN the midst of a gay throng, in the production of which the Court of King James lagged little, if any, behind that of his brother, Charles, Adam Rust and Captain Phipps were prime favorites. Sir William, who had adopted a cane, gave no promise that he would ever be at home with the disciples of the minuet and the hunt, while Adam seemed a very part of the social mechanism.
Richly dressed, ready with his wit and his sword, handsome, wealthy enough to attract the soft glances of dames of all ages and degrees, he was a puzzle to the blunt captain, who had marked a change that had come upon him between going home from Jamaica and coming back again to help in recovering the treasure.
Whitehall was ablaze with light and warmth, which were reflected from myriad sparkling jewels and from rosy cheeks. The King had disappointed his guests, nevertheless they were not at a loss to find amusement. Ready as ever to entertain, either with a song for the ladies or a duel with the men, Adam was pressed for a roundel to fit the merry hour. He had found a glass which responded with a particularly musical tinkle to the tap of his finger. He held it up before the admiring company and rang it crisply. Catching the key from its mellifluous tintinnabulation he began his song:
“Oh your jolliest girl is your cup of sack,
Your Mistress Sack, with her warm, brown eyes;
She’ll love you, and never she’ll turn her back,
Nor leave you a thought
In her meshes uncaught,
And never you’ll know if she lies.
“Then it’s drink, drink, drink,
And you’ll never have need to think;
And it’s fol de rol,
And who has use for a brain?
With your cup that loves your lip,
You need fear no faithless slip,
And your heart will never know the stabs of pain.
“Oh your languorous maid is your glass of wine,
Your Lady Amour, with her ruby kiss.
She suffers no rivals, or thinking—in fine,
She owns all your soul
And she takes for her toll
A payment in dull-witted bliss.
“Then drink, drink, drink, etc.
“Oh, your mistress for faith is your poison cup.
Your poison cup, with its juice of death.
She’ll hold you, ha! ha! till the Doomsday’s up,
In her passion’s embrace,
And so close to her face
That you’ll never get time for a breath.
“Then it’s drink, drink, drink,
And you never of love need think;
And it’s fol de rol,
For who has use for a heart?
With a cup that loves your lip,
You need fear no faithless slip,
Nor feel the pangs of any pains that dart.”
Not being at all certain that they knew what he meant, the company applauded with great enthusiasm.
“But, my dear sir,” said a nobleman, with a head on him hardly bigger nor less wrinkled than a last winter’s apple, and a stomach as big as a tun, “you have not tasted a drink to-night. Demme, look at me, sir. I love my sack and my wine. I know nothing of your poison cup, and I have no wish to, demme. But, sir, I think you have no bowels for drinking.”
“My lord, you furnish the bowels and I will furnish the brains to know about drinking,” said Adam. “By my faith, no drink ever yet went to your head.”
“No, sir! I’m proud of it, demme,” said his lordship. “I have drunk up a fortune, and where is it?—It’s gone.”
“Distill your breath and get it back,” suggested Rust.
“What’s that? Demme, you are laughing at me, sir.”
“Never!” said Adam, decisively. “Above all persons you make me sober. Breathe toward our friend the Viscount. He has ever wished fortune to wing in his direction.”
“The Viscount? Where? Demme, yes. My dear old chap, how are you?” and turning, inconsequently, to a friend whose little eyes seemed to swim around in the florid sea of his face, his lordship was deserted by the rover. Sauntering through a cluster of friends who would have detained him, Adam approached a window, where he sat himself down on a miniature divan.
Here he had but a second to himself, for while somebody else was preparing to sing to the company, a beautiful little lady, with eyes that were fairly purple in their depths of blue, came and took the seat beside him.
“Oh, Mr. Rust,” she said, “what a strange song that was. Why, but you know nothing of wine and sack, and poison. Oh, why did you say poison? That was dreadful. And why should you wish never to think of love? What has poor little love ever done to you?”
“You must remember, Lady Violet,” said Adam, “that before I sang I had not seen you, to speak a word, during the entire evening.”
Lady Violet blushed. “That hasn’t anything to do with anything,” she said.
Adam replied: “That makes me equivalent to nothing.”
“It doesn’t,” the lady protested. “You mix me all up. I don’t believe you know anything more about love than you do about drinking.”
“Do you counsel me to learn of these arts?”
“No, not of drinking—certainly not, Mr. Rust.”
“If we eliminate the drinking, that only leaves the love.”
“Oh, but I—I didn’t say that I—I don’t wish to counsel you at all. You twist about everything I say.”
“And you twist about every man you meet,” retorted Adam.
“Oh, I do not!” she objected. “How rude you are to say so. I don’t even like all the men I meet, and if I did——”
“You mean, then, that you twist only the ones like myself, that you like.”
“I don’t! I——You make me say things I don’t want to say.”
“Then I shall make you say that you love me desperately,” said Adam, complacently.
“Mr. Rust!” she gasped. “I—I—I——”
“If you are going to say it now, let me know,” Adam interrupted.
She was blushing furiously. She did love him, just about as Rust had described, but he had never guessed it and was merely toying with the one absorbing and universal topic of the court.
“I—I am not going to say anything of the kind!” she stammered.
“Then that proves my case,” Adam announced, judicially. “I cannot compel you to say anything at all that is not already at the point of your tongue.”
“You—you are very rude,” she said, helplessly.
“So I have been told by Lady Margaret,” Adam confessed. “Here she is herself. Lady Margaret, we are having quite a discussion. Tell us, if a man tries to make a lady say she loves him desperately, is he necessarily rude?”
A superb young widow, who was gradually emerging from her mourning black, and who had come to the gathering with her father, halted in front of the two on the small divan and looked them over.
“Dear Lady Violet,” said the new comer, “your brother and Lord Kilkrankie are looking for you everywhere.”
“Oh, thank you, so much,” said the confused little lady, and without waiting for anything further she jumped up and fled from the scene. She was vexed at and distrustful of Lady Margaret; but she could not remain and give her battle.
The second lady took Violet’s seat, calmly. “What have you been saying of love to that little, brainless child?” she said. “You haven’t been making love to her, surely?”
“Oh no,” said Adam, “I was occupying my time till you should come along and make love to me.”
“You wretch,” she said, with perfect calm. “You wouldn’t know love if you saw it.”
“Is it so rare at Court?” he inquired. “Perhaps I should spend my time better in looking at you.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “But tell me, what is your opinion, really, of love.”
“It makes a poor fare for dinner, a poor coat in the winter, and a poor comfort when you are dead,” said Rust. “It tricks the clever; it’s the wandering Jew of emotions. If you wish me to do you an injury, bid me to love you forthwith.”
“Where have you learned, that you speak with such wisdom?” said Lady Margaret. “Surely not such a child as Violet——”
“You do yourself an injustice,” Adam interrupted.
“Adam,” she said, “this is the sort of thing you say to all the women.”
“And which of your friends would you ask me to neglect?” he asked. “A woman’s judgment is the one thing I lack.”
“You are a heartless wretch!” she announced.
“On the contrary, I am a wretch of a thousand hearts,” he corrected. “How long would you continue to love me if I had any less?”
“Adam! I don’t love you, and you know it.”
“That leaves a vacancy in my life which I shall fill at once,” he told her. “Wait—perhaps I can catch the eye of the Countess.”
The Countess had one of the most catchable eyes imaginable. She came up immediately.
“Margaret says she no longer loves me,” said the incorrigible Rust, “I shall give her place to you.”