"My arm and coach are yours, madame," pleaded his lordship, as he gallantly offered an arm.

"Pardon, my lord; Nell, my arm!" said Hart.

"Heyday!" cried the witch, bewitchingly. "Was ever maid so n.o.bly squired? This is an embarra.s.sment of riches." She looked longingly at the two attending gallants. There was something in her voice that might be mockery or that might be love. Only the devil in her eyes could tell.

"Gentlemen, you tear my heart-strings," she continued. "How can I choose between such loves? To-night, I sup at Whitehall!" and she darted quickly toward the door.

"Whitehall!" the rivals cried, aghast.

"Aye, Whitehall--_with the King_!"

There was a wild, hilarious laugh, and she was gone.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MISTRESS NELL IS TOLD OF THE KING'S DANGER.]

Buckingham and Hart stood looking into each other's face. They heard the sound of coach-wheels rapidly departing in the street.

CHAPTER V

_It was never treason to steal a King's kisses._

A year and more had flown.

It was one of those glorious moon-lit nights in the early fall when there is a crispness in the air which lends an edge to life.

St. James's Park was particularly beautiful. The giant oaks with their hundreds of years of story written in their rings lifted high their spreading branches, laden with leaves, which shimmered in the light. The historic old park seemed to be made up of patches of day and night. In the open, one might read in the mellow glow of the harvest-moon; in the shade of one of its oaks, a thief might safely hide.

Facing on the park, there stood a house of Elizabethan architecture.

Along its wrinkled, ivy-mantled wall ran a terrace-like bal.u.s.trade, where one might walk and enjoy the night without fear.

The house was well defined by the rays of the moon, which seemed to dance upon it in a halo of mirth; and from the park, below the terrace, came the soft notes of a violin, tenderly picked.

None other than Strings was sitting astride of a low branch of an oak, looking up at a window, like some guardian spirit from the devil-land, singing in his quaintly unctuous way:

_"Four and twenty fiddlers all in a row, And there was fiddle-fiddle, and twice fiddle-fiddle."_

"How's that for a serenade to Mistress Nell?" he asked himself as he secured a firm footing on the ground and slung his fiddle over his back.

"She don't know it's for her, but the old viol and old Strings know." He came to a stand-still and winced. "Oons, my old wound again," he said, with a sharp cry, followed as quickly by a laugh. His eyes still wandered along the bal.u.s.trade, as eagerly as some young Romeo at the balcony of his Juliet. "I wish she'd walk her terrace to-night," he sighed, "where we could see her--the lovely lady!"

His rhapsody was suddenly broken in upon by the approach of some one down the path. He glided into the shadow of an oak and none too quickly.

From the obscurity of the trees, into the open, a chair was swiftly borne, by the side of which ran a pretty page of tender years, yet well schooled in courtly wisdom. The lovely occupant leaned forward and motioned to the chairmen, who obediently rested and a.s.sisted her to alight.

"Retire beneath the shadow of the trees," she whispered. "Have a care; no noise."

The chairmen withdrew quietly, but within convenient distance, to await her bidding.

Strings's heart quite stopped beating. "The d.u.c.h.ess of Portsmouth at Mistress Nell's!" he said, almost aloud in his excitement. "Then the devil must be to pay!" and he slipped well behind the oak-trunk again.

Portsmouth's eyes snapped with French fire as she glanced up at Nell's terrace. Then she turned to the page by her side. "His Majesty came this path before?" she asked, with quick, French accent.

"Yes, your grace," replied the page.

"And up this trellis?"

"Yes, your grace."

"Again to-night?"

"I cannot tell, your grace," replied the lad. "I followed as you bade me; but the King's legs were so long, you see, I lost him."

Portsmouth smiled. "Softly, pretty one," she said. "Watch if he comes and warn me; for we may have pa.s.sed him."

The lad ran gaily down the path to perform her bidding.

"State-business!" she muttered, as she reflected bitterly upon the King's late excuses to her. "_Mon Dieu_, does he think me a country wench? I was schooled at Louis's court." Her eyes searched the house from various points of advantage. "A light!" she exclaimed, as a candle burned brightly from a window, like a spark of gold set in the silver of the night. "Would I had an invisible cloak." She tiptoed about a corner of the wall--woman-like, to see if she could see, not Nell, but Charles.

Scarcely had she disappeared when a second figure started up in the moonlight, and a gallant figure, too. It was the Duke of Buckingham.

"Not a mouse stirring," he reflected, glancing at the terrace. "Fair minx, you will not long refuse Buckingham's overtures. Come, Nelly, thy King is already half stolen away by Portsmouth of France, and Portsmouth of France is our dear ally in the great cause and shall be more so."

To his astonishment, as he drew nearer, he observed a lady, richly dressed, gliding between himself and the terrace. He rubbed his eyes to see that he was not dreaming. She was there, however, and a pretty armful, too.

"Nell," he chuckled, as he stole up behind her.

Portsmouth meanwhile had learned that the window was too high to allow her to gain a view within the dwelling. She started--observing, more by intuition than by sight, that she was watched--and drew her veil closely about her handsome features.

"Nelly, Nelly," laughed Buckingham, "I have thee, wench. Come, a kiss!--a kiss! Nay, love; it was never treason to steal a King's kisses."

He seized her by the arm and was about to kiss her when she turned and threw back her veil.

"Buckingham!" she said, suavely.

"Portsmouth!" he exclaimed, awestruck.

He gathered himself together, however, in an instant, and added, as if nothing in the world had happened: "An unexpected pleasure, your grace."

"Yes," said she, with a pretty shrug. "I did not know I was so honoured, my lord."

"Or you would not have refused the little kiss?" he asked, suggestively.

"You called me 'Nelly,' my lord. I do not respond to that name."

"Damme, I was never good at names, Louise," said he, with mock-apology, "especially by moonlight."