The Cream of the Jest by James Branch Cabell (the first e reader TXT) 📕

ay, sir, I may say it without conceit that my fingers have in these matters tolerable compass and variety.”

“A cardsharp!” sneers the boy. “La, half of us suspected it already; but it will be rare news to the town that Master Lionel Branch⁠—as I must continue to call you⁠—stands detected in such Greek knaveries.”

“Nay, but you will hardly live to moralize of it, sir. Oh, no, sir, indeed my poor arts must not be made public: for I would not seem to boast of my accomplishments. Harkee, sir, I abhor vainglory. I name no man, sir; but I know very well there are snotty-nosed people who regard expedients toward amending the quirks of fate with puritan disfavor. Hah, but, signior, what is that to us knights of the moon, to us gallants of generous spirit?⁠—Oh, Lord, sir, I protest I look upon such talents much as I do upon my breeches. I do consider them as possessions, not certainly to be vaunted, but indispensable to any gentleman who hopes to make a pleasing figure in the world.”

“All this bluster is wordy foolery, Master Branch. What I have seen, I have seen; and you will readily guess how I mean to use my knowledge.”

“I would give a great deal to find out what he is talking about,” was Kennaston’s reflection. “I have discovered, at least, that my present alias is Branch, but that I am in reality somebody else.” Aloud he said: “ ’Fore God, your eyesight is of the best, Master Skirlaw⁠—(How the deuce did I know his name, now?)⁠—Hah, I trust forthwith to prove if your sword be equally keen.”

“I will fight with no cheats⁠—”

“I’faith, sir, but I have heard that wine is a famed provoker of courage. Let us try the byword.” So saying, Kennaston picked up one mug, and flung its contents full in the boy’s face. It was white wine, Kennaston noted, for it did not stain Master Skirlaw’s handsome countenance at all.

“The insult is sufficient. Draw, and have done!” the lad said quietly. His sword gleamed in the restive reflections of that unseen fire behind Kennaston.

“Na, na! but, my most expeditious cockerel, surely this place is a thought too public? Now yonder is a noble courtyard. Oh, ay, favored by tonight’s moon, we may settle our matter without any hindrance or intolerable scandal. So, I will call my host, that we may have the key. Yet, upon my gentility, Master Skirlaw, I greatly fear I shall be forced to kill you. Therefore I cry you mercy, sir, but is there no business on your mind which you would not willingly leave undischarged? Save you, friend, but we are all mortal. Hah, to a lady whom I need not name, it is an affair of considerable import what disposition a bold man might make of this ring⁠—”

Leering, Kennaston touched the great signet-ring on the lad’s thumb; and forthwith the universe seemed to fold about him, just as a hand closes. In this brief moment of inexplicable yearning and self-loathing he comprehended that the boy’s face was the face of Ettarre.

And Kennaston, awake, was pleading, with meaningless words: “Valentia! forgive me, Valentia!⁠ ⁠…”

And that was all. This dream remained an enigma. Kennaston could never know what events had preceded this equivocal instant, or how Ettarre came to be disguised as a man, or what were their relations in this dream, nor, above all, why he should have awakened crying upon the name of Valentia. It was simply a law that always when he was about to touch Ettarre⁠—even unconsciously⁠—everything must vanish; and through the workings of that law this dream, with many others, came to be just a treasured moment of unexplainable but poignant emotion.

XXXI Horvendile to Ettarre: At Whitehall

To Kennaston the Lord Protector was saying, with grave unction: “You will, I doubt not, fittingly express to our friends in Virginia, Master Major, those hearty sentiments which I have in the way of gratefulness, in that I have received the honor and safeguard of their approbation; for all which I humbly thank them. To our unfriends in that colony we will let action speak when I shall have completed God’s work in Ireland.”

“Yet the Burgesses, sir, are mostly ill-affected; and Berkeley, to grant him justice, does not lack bravery⁠—”

“With Heaven’s help, Master Major, I have of late dealt with a king who did not lack bravery. Nay, depend upon it, I shall some day grant William Berkeley utter justice⁠—such justice as I gave his master, that proud curled man, Charles Stuart.” Then the Lord Protector’s face was changed, and his harsh countenance became a little troubled. “Yes, I shall do all this, with Heaven’s help, I think. But in good faith, I grow old, Master Major. I move in a mist, and my deeds are strange to me.⁠ ⁠…”

Cromwell closed and unclosed his hands, regarding them; and he sighed. Then it was to Ettarre he spoke:

“I leave you in Master Major’s charge. It may be I shall not return alive into England; indeed, I grow an old man and feel infirmities of age stealing upon me. And so, farewell, my lass. Truly if I love you not too well, I err not on the other hand much. Thou hast been dearer to me than any other creature: let that suffice.” And with this leave-taking he was gone.

As the door closed upon Cromwell’s burly figure, “No, be very careful not to touch me,” Kennaston implored. “The dream must last till I have found out how through your aid, Ettarre, this bull-necked country squire has come to rule England. It is precisely as I expected. You explain Cromwell, you explain Mohammed⁠—Richelieu and Tamburlaine and Julius Caesar, I suspect, and, as I know, Napoleon⁠—all these men who have inexplicably risen from nothing to earthly supremacy. How is it done, Ettarre?”

“It is not I who contrive it, Horvendile. I am but an incident in such men’s lives. They have known me⁠—yes: and knowing me, they were bent enough on their