"Ah, ah, my Lord Rippingdale!" said Charles, half aloud, "so this is where my lord and secret history meet--my dear, dumb lord."

Continuing, the young lady read a fair and just account of the King's meeting with John Enderby, of Enderby's refusal to accept the knighthood, and of his rescue of the King at Sutterby.

"Enderby? Enderby?" interjected the King, "that was not one Sir Garrett Enderby who was with the Scottish army at Dunbar?"

"No, your Majesty," said the young lady, scarcely looking up from the page she held, "Sir Garrett Enderby died in Portugal, where he fled, having escaped from prison and Cromwell's vengeance."

"What Enderby did this fine thing then? My faith, my martyred father had staunch men--even in Lincolnshire."

"The father of Sir Garrett Enderby it was, your Majesty."

"How came the son by the knighthood? 'S'death, it seems to me I have a memory of this thing somewhere, if I could but find it!"

"His gracious Majesty of sacred memory gave him his knighthood."

"Let me hear the whole story. Is it all there, Mistress Falkingham?"

said the King, nodding towards the pages she held.

"It is not all here, your Majesty; but I can tell what so many in England know, and something of what no one in England knows."

The Queen put out her hand as if to stay the telling, for she saw what an impression her fair reader had made upon the King. But the young lady saw no one save Charles--she did not note the entrance of two gentle men, one of whom looked at her in surprise. This was Sir Richard Mowbray of Leicester. The other was Lord Rippingdale (now lord chamberlain), who had brought Sir Richard thither at the request of the King. Sir Richard had been momentarily expected on his return from a mission to Spain, and my Lord had orders to bring him to the King on the very instant of his arrival.

The King waved his hand when Lord Rippingdale would have come forward, and the young lady continued with the history of John Enderby. She forgot her surroundings. It seemed as though she were giving vent to the suppressed feelings, imaginations, sufferings and wrongs of years.

Respectfully, but sadly, when speaking of the dead King; eloquently, tenderly, when speaking of her father; bitterly, when speaking of Oliver Cromwell, she told the story with a point, a force and a pa.s.sionate intelligence, which brought to the face of Charles a look of serious admiration. He straightened himself where he sat, and did not let his eyes wander from the young lady's face. As she spoke of Sir Garrett Enderby and his acts--his desertion when Lord Rippingdale laid siege to the house, his quarrel with his father, the trial of the son, the father's refusal to testify against him, and the second outlawing by Cromwell--her voice faltered, but she told the tale bravely and determinedly; for she now saw Lord Rippingdale in the chamber. Whenever she had mentioned his name in the narrative, it was with a slight inflection of scorn, which caused the King to smile; and when she spoke of the ruin of Enderby House, her brother's death and her father's years of exile, tears came into the Queen's eyes, and the King nodded his head in sympathy.

Sir Richard Mowbray, with face aflame, watched her closely. As she finished her story he drew aside to where she could not see him without turning round. But Lord Rippingdale she saw with ease, and she met his eyes firmly, and one should say, with some malicious triumph, were she not a woman.

"My lord Rippingdale," said the King, slowly and bitingly, "what shall be done to the man whom the King delighteth to honour?"

"Were I Mordecai I could better answer that question, Sir," was my Lord's reply.

"Perhaps my Lord Rippingdale could answer for Haman, then," returned his Majesty.

"My imagination is good, but not fifty cubits high, Sir."

The answer pleased the King. For he ever turned life into jest--his sorrows and his joys. He rose motioning towards the door, and Lord Rippingdale pa.s.sed out just behind him, followed by Sir Richard Mowbray, who stole a glance at the young chronicler as he went. She saw him, then recognised him, and flushed scarlet.

She did not dare, however, to let him come to her. He understood, and he went his way after the King and Lord Rippingdale.

In all the years that had pa.s.sed since the night he had helped her father and herself to escape from Enderby House; since he aided them to leave their hiding-place on the coast and escape to Holland, she had never forgotten his last words to her, the laughing look of his eyes, the pressure of his hand. Many a time since she had in her own mind thought of him as she had heard her father call him, even as "Happy d.i.c.k Mowbray!" and the remembrance of his joyous face had been a help to her in all her sufferings. His brown hair was now streaked with grey, but the light in the face was the same; there was the same alertness and buoyant health in the figure and the same row of laughing white teeth.

As she stood watching the departing figure, she scarcely knew that the Queen was preparing to go to her bed-chamber. She became aware of it definitely by the voice of her Majesty, now somewhat petulant.

Two hours later she was walking alone in one of the galleries when, hearing a gentle step behind her, she turned and saw the King. She made an obeisance and was about to move on, when he stopped her, speaking kindly to her, and thanking her for the great pleasure she had given him that afternoon.

"What should be done for this quasi knight of Enderby?" asked the King.

"He saved the life of the King," she said; then boldly, confidently, "your Majesty, for conscience sake he lost all--what can repay him for his dishonoured years and his ruined home!"

"What think you, Mistress, should be done with him? Speak freely of the man whom the King delighteth to honour."

She felt the sincerity under the indolent courtesy, and spoke as only a woman can speak for those she loves. "Your Majesty, he should have the earldom promised his ancestor by Wolsey, and his estates restored to him as he left them."

The King laughed dryly.

"He might refuse the large earldom, as he scorned the little knighthood."

"If your Majesty secured him estates suitable to his rank he could have no reason to refuse. He was solicitous and firm then for his son--but now!"

Her reply was as diplomatic and suggestive as it was sincere, and Charles loved such talents.

"Upon my soul, dear Mistress Falkingham, I love your cleverness," said the King, "and I will go further, I--" He stooped and whispered in her ear, but she drew back in affright and anxiety.

"Oh, your Majesty, your Majesty," she said, "I had not thought--"

She moved on distractedly, but he put out his hand and stayed her.

"Ah, a moment, sweetheart," he urged.

"I must go to the Queen," she answered hurriedly. "Oh, your Majesty, your Majesty," she repeated, "would you ruin me?" Her eyes filled with tears. "Until the Queen welcomed me here I have had nothing but sorrow.

I am friendless and alone."

"No, no," said Charles, kindly, "not alone while Charles is King in England."

"I am little more than an orphan here," she said, "for my father is now only a common soldier, your Majesty, and--"

"A common soldier!" repeated Charles a little stiffly; "they told me he was a gentleman of England doing service in Italy."

"My father is in your Majesty's household guard," she answered. "He was John Enderby--alas! none would recognise him now as such."

The King stared at her a moment. "You--you--Mistress--you are John Enderby's daughter?"

Her reply was scarce above a whisper. "His only child, Sir."

"Upon my soul! Upon my soul!" was all Charles said for a moment, and then he added: "Why did you not speak before?"

"My father would not permit me, your Majesty. He is only returned to England these few months."

"He is here to--?"

"To be near to myself, Sir."

The King bowed low over her hand.

"Mistress Enderby," said he, frankly, "we are honoured by your presence in this place. To-morrow morning at eleven your father shall come to us.

You are still but a child in face," he said; "and yet--eh?"

"I am twenty-seven years old," she answered frankly.