the path of the king-第33节

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his　sprawling　script　in　the　Record　Office。　His　true　name；　which　was　Nicholas　Lovel；　was　known　at　Weld　House；　at　the　White　Horse　Tavern；　and　the　town　lodgings　of　my　lords　Powis　and　Bellasis；　but　had　you　asked　for　him　by　that　name　at　these　quarters　you　would　have　been　met　by　a　denial　of　all　knowledge。　For　it　was　a　name　which　for　good　reasons　he　and　his　patrons　desired　to　have　forgotten。

He　was　a　man　of　not　yet　forty；　furtive；　ill…looking　and　lean　to　emaciation。　In　complexion　he　was　as　swarthy　as　the　King；　and　his　feverish　black　eyes　were　set　deep　under　his　bushy　brows。　A　badly　dressed　peruke　concealed　his　hair。　His　clothes　were　the　remnants　of　old　finery；　well　cut　and　of　good　stuff；　but　patched　and　threadbare。　He　wore　a　sword；　and　carried　a　stout　rustic　staff。　The　weather　was　warm　for　October；　and　the　man　had　been　walking　fast；　for；　as　he　peered　through　the　autumn　brume　into　the　dark　entry；　he　mopped　his　face　with　a　dirty　handkerchief。

The　exercise　had　brought　back　his　ailment　and　he　shivered　violently。　Punctually　as　autumn　came　round　he　had　these　fevers；　the　legacy　of　a　year　once　spent　in　the　Pisan　marshes。　He　had　doped　himself　with　Jesuits'　powder　got　from　a　woman　of　Madame　Carwell's；　so　that　he　was　half　deaf　and　blind。　Yet　in　spite　of　the　drug　the　fever　went　on　burning。

But　to　anyone　looking　close　it　would　have　seemed　that　he　had　more　to　trouble　him　than　a　malarial　bout。　The　man　was　patently　in　an　extreme　terror。　His　lantern…jaw　hung　as　loose　as　if　it　had　been　broken。　His　lips　moved　incessantly。　He　gripped　savagely　at　his　staff；　and　next　moment　dropped　it。　He　fussed　with　the　hilt　of　his　sword。　。　。　。　　He　was　a　coward；　and　yet　had　come　out　to　do　murder。

It　had　taken　real　panic　to　bring　him　to　the　point。　Throughout　his　tattered　life　he　had　run　many　risks；　but　never　a　peril　so　instant　as　this。　As　he　had　followed　his　quarry　that　afternoon　his　mind　had　been　full　of　broken　memories。　Bitter　thoughts　they　were；　for　luck　had　not　been　kind　to　him。　A　childhood　in　cheap　lodgings　in　London　and　a　dozen　French　towns；　wherever　there　was　a　gaming…table　and　pigeons　for　his　father　to　pluck。　Then　drunken　father　and　draggletailed　mother　had　faded　from　the　scene；　and　the　boy　had　been　left　to　a　life　of　odd　jobs　and　fleeting　patrons。　His　name　was　against　him；　for　long　before　he　reached　manhood　the　King　had　come　back　to　his　own；　and　his　grandfather's　bones　had　jangled　on　a　Tyburn　gibbet。　There　was　no　hope　for　one　of　his　family；　though　Heaven　knew　his　father　had　been　a　stout　enough　Royalist。　At　eighteen　the　boy　had　joined　the　Roman　Church；　and　at　twenty　relapsed　to　the　fold　of　Canterbury。　But　his　bread…and…butter　lay　with　Rome；　and　in　his　trade　few　questions　were　asked　about　creed　provided　the　work　were　done。　He　had　had　streaks　of　fortune；　for　there　had　been　times　when　he　lay　soft　and　ate　delicately　and　scattered　money。　But　nothing　lasted。　He　had　no　sooner　made　purchase　with　a　great　man　and　climbed　a　little　than　the　scaffolding　fell　from　his　feet。　He　thought　meanly　of　human　nature　for　in　his　profess　he　must　cringe　or　snarl；　always　the　undermost　dog。　Yet　he　had　some　liking　for　the　priests；　who　had　been　kind　to　him；　and　there　was　always　a　glow　in　his　heart　for　the　pale　wife　who　dwelt　with　his　child　in　the　attic　in　Billingsgate。　Under　happier　circumstances　Mr。　Nicholas　Lovel　might　have　shone　with　the　domestic　virtues。

Business　had　been　good　of　late；　if　that　could　ever　be　called　good　which　was　undertaken　under　perpetual　fear。　He　had　been　given　orders　which　took　him　into　Whig　circles；　and　had　made　progress　among　the　group　of　the　King's　Head　Tavern。　He　had　even　won　an　entrance　into　my　Lord　Shaftesbury's　great　house　in　Aldersgate　Street。　He　was　there　under　false　colours；　being　a　spy　of　the　other　camp；　but　something　in　him　found　itself　at　home　among　the　patriots。　A　resolve　had　been　growing　to　cut　loose　from　his　old　employers　and　settle　down　among　the　Whigs　in　comparative　honesty。　It　was　the　winning　cause；　he　thought；　and　he　longed　to　get　his　head　out　of　the　kennels。　。　。　。　But　that　had　happened　yesterday　which　scattered　his　fine　dreams　and　brought　him　face　to　face　with　terror。　God's　curse　on　that　ferrety　Justice；　Sir　Edmund　Berry　Godfrey。

He　had　for　some　time　had　his　eye　on　the　man。　The　year　before　he　had　run　across　him　in　Montpelier；　being　then　engaged　in　a　very　crooked　business；　and　had　fancied　that　the　magistrate　had　also　his　eye　on　him。　Taught　by　long　experience　to　watch　potential　enemies；　he　had　taken　some　trouble　over　the　lean　high…beaked　dignitary。　Presently　he　had　found　out　curious　things。　The　austere　Protestant　was　a　friend　of　the　Duke's　man；　Ned　Coleman；　and　used　to　meet　him　at　Colonel　Weldon's　house。　This　hinted　at　blackmailable　stuff　in　the　magistrate；　so　Lovel　took　to　haunting　his　premises　in　Hartshorn　Lane　by　Charing　Cross；　but　found　no　evidence　which　pointed　to　anything　but　a　prosperous　trade　in　wood　and　sea…coal。　Faggots；　but　not　the　treasonable　kind！　Try　as　he　might；　he　could…get　no　farther　with　that　pillar　of　the　magistracy；　my　Lord　Danly's　friend；　the　beloved　of　Aldermen。　He　hated　his　solemn　face；　his　prim　mouth；　his　condescending　stoop。　Such　a　man　was　encased　in　proof　armour　of　public　esteem；　and　he　heeded　Mr。　Lovel　no　more　than　the　rats　in　the　gutter。

But　the　day　before　had　come　a　rude　awakening。　All　this　talk　of　a　Popish　plot；　discovered　by　the　Salamanca　Doctor；　promised　a　good　harvest　to　Mr。　Lovel。　He　himself　had　much　to　tell　and　more　to　invent。　Could　he　but　manage　it　discreetly；　he　might　assure　his　fortune　with　the　Whigs　and　get　to　his　feet　at　last。　God　knew　it　was　time；　for　the　household　in　the　Billingsgate　attic　was　pretty　threadbare。　His　busy　brain　had　worked　happily　on　the　plan。　He　would　be　the　innocent；　cursed　from　childhood　with　undesired　companions；　who　would　suddenly　awaken　in　horror　to　the　guilt　of　things　he　had　not　understood。　There　would　be　a　welcome　for　a　well…informed　penitent。　。　。　。　But　he　must　move　slowly　and　at　his　own　time。　。　。　。　　And　now　he　was　being　himself　hustled　into　the　dock；　perhaps　soon　to　the　gallows。

For　the　afternoon　before　he　had　been　sent　for　by　Godfrey　and　most　searchingly　examined。　He　had　thought　himself　the　spy；　when　all　the　while　he　had　been　the　spied　upon。　The　accursed　Justice　knew　everything。　He　knew　a　dozen　episodes　each　enough　to　hang　a　poor　man。　He　knew　of　Mr。　Lovel's　dealings　with　the　Jesuits　Walsh　and　Phayre；　and　of　a　certain　little　hovel　in　Battersea　whose　annals　were　not　for　the　public　ear。　Above　all；　he　knew　of　the　great　Jesuit　consult　in　April　at　the　Duke　of　York's　house。　That　would　have　mattered　littleindeed　the　revelation　of　it　was　part　of　Mr。　Lovel's　plansbut　he　knew　Mr。　Lovel　s　precise　connection　with　it；　and　had　damning　evidence　to　boot。　The　spy　shivered　when　he　remembered　the　scene　in　Hartshorn　Lane。　He　had　blundered　and　stuttered　and　confessed　his　alarm　by　his　confusion；　while　the　Justice　recited　what　he　had　fondly　believed　was　known　only　to　the　Almighty　and　some　few　whose　mortal　interest　it　was　to　be　silent。　。　。　。　　He　had　been　amazed　that　he　had　not　been　there　and　then　committed　to　Newgate。　He　had　not　gone　home　that　night；　but　wandered　the　streets　and　slept　cold　under　a　Mairylebone　hedge。　At　first　he　had　thought　of　flight；　but　the　recollection　of　his　household　detained　him。　He　would　not　go　under。　One　pompous　fool　alone　stood　between　him　and　safetyperhaps　fortune。　Long　before　morning　he　had　resolved　that　Godfrey　should　die。

He　had　expected　a　difficult　task；　but　lo！　it　was　unbelievably　easy。　About　ten　o'clock　that　day　he　had　found　Sir　Edmund　in　the　Strand。　He　walked　hurriedly　as　if　on　urgent　business；　and　Lovel　had　followed　him　up　through　Covent　Garden；　across　the　Oxford　road；　and　into　the　Marylebone　fields。　There　the　magistrate's　pace　had　slackened；　and　he　had　loitered　like　a　truant　schoolboy　among　the　furze　and　briars。　His　stoop　had　deepened；　his　head　was　sunk　on　his　breast；　his　hands　twined　behind　him。

Now　was　the　chance　for　the　murderer　lurking　in　the　brambles。　It　would　be　easy　to　slip　behind　and　give　him　the　sword…point。　But　Mr。　Lovel　tarried。　It　may　have　been　compunction；　but　more　likely　it　was　fear。　It　was　also　curiosity；　for　the　magistrate's　face；　as　he　passed　Lovel's　hiding…place；　was　distraught　and　melancholy。　Here　was　another　man　with　bitter　thoughts　perhaps　with　a　deadly　secret。　For　a　moment　the　spy　felt　a　certain　kinship。

Whatever　the　reason　he　let　the　morning　go　by。　About　two　in　the　afternoon　Godfrey　left　the　fields　and　struck　westward　by　a　bridle…path　that　led　through　the　Paddington　Woods　to　the　marshes　north　of　Kensington。　He　walked　slowly；　but　with　an　apparent　purpose。　Lovel　stopped　for　a　moment　at　the　White　House；　a　dirty　little　hedge　tavern；　to　swallow　a　mouthful　of　ale；　and　tell　a　convincing　lie　to　John　Rawson；　the　innkeeper；　in　case　it　should　come　in　handy　some　day。　Then　occurred　a　diversion。　Young　Mr。　Forset's　harriers　swept　past；　a　dozen　riders　attended　by　a　ragged　foot　following。　They　checked　by　the　path；　and　in　the　confusion　of　the　halt　Godfrey　seemed　to　vanish。　It　was　not　till　close　on　Paddington　village　that　Mr。　Lovel　picked　him　up　again。　He　was　waiting　for　the　darkness；　for　he　knew　that　he　could　never　do　what　he　purposed　in　cold　daylight。　He　hoped　that　the　magistrate　would　make　for　Kensington；　for　that　was　a　lonely　path。

But　Sir　Edmund