Kitabı oku: «The Tangled Skein», sayfa 10
CHAPTER XXII
THE WHITE QUEEN
Wessex after a while was ready enough to dismiss the unpleasant subject. Perhaps he had no right to be censorious or to resent the Spaniard's somewhat unusual attitude. In England, undoubtedly, a gentleman would never – except under very special circumstances – allude to any passing liaison he might have with a lady of his own rank. That was a strict code of honour which had existed from time immemorial, even in the days of King Harry's youth, when the virtue of high-born women had been but little thought of.
Abroad, perhaps, it was different. Spaniards, just then, were noted for the light way in which they regarded the favours of the fair sex, and Don Miguel's code of honour had evidently prompted him to consult Wessex' wishes in the matter of his own intrigue. Loyalty to their own sex is perhaps, on the whole, more general in men than is their chivalry towards women, and perhaps the Marquis' feelings would have revolted at the thought of seeing a lady of such light virtue in the position of Duchess of Wessex.
Be that as it may, His Grace had no wish to probe the matter further; with a shrug of the shoulders he dismissed it from his thoughts, whilst registering a vow to chastise the young blackguard if his impertinence showed signs of recurrence.
He was on the point of yielding to his faithful Harry's canine appeals by allowing him to lead the way towards his own distant lodgings, when his ear suddenly caught the sound of a silk dress rustling somewhere, not far from where he stood.
At the end of the room closest to him, a few steps led up to a gallery, which ran along the wall, finally abutting at a door, which gave access to the Duchess of Lincoln's and other ladies' lodgings. The rustle of a silk skirt seemed to come from there.
Perhaps Wessex would not have taken notice of it, except that his every thought was filled with a strange excitement since the rencontre of the afternoon. At times now he felt as if his very senses ached with the longing to see once more that entrancing, girlish figure, dressed all in white and crowned with the halo of her exquisite golden hair, to hear once more the sound of that fresh young voice, that merry, childlike laugh, through which there vibrated the thrill of a newly awakened passion.
Since he had met her he was conscious of a wonderful change in himself. He did not even analyse his feelings: he knew that he loved her now: that, in a sense, he had always loved her, for his poetic and romantic temperament had ever been in search of that perfect type of womanhood, which she seemed so completely to embody in herself.
He had only spoken to her for about half an hour, then had sat opposite to her in a boat among the reeds, in the cool of the afternoon, with the lazy river gently rocking the light skiff, and the water birds for sole witnesses of his happiness. They had hardly exchanged a word then, for he had enjoyed the delight – dear to every man who loves – of watching the blushes come and go upon her cheek in response to his ardent gaze. What did words matter? the music in their souls supplied all that they wished to say.
And he – who had been deemed so fickle, who had made of love a pastime, taking what joys women would give him with a grateful yet transient smile, His Grace of Wessex, in fact, who had loved so often yet so inconstantly – knew now that the stern little god, who will not for long brook defiance of his laws, had wounded him for life or death at last.
And even now, when he heard the rustle of a kirtle, he paused instinctively, vaguely, madly hoping that chance, and the great wild longing which was in him, had indeed drawn her footsteps hither.
The door above, at the end of the gallery, was tentatively opened. Wessex could see nothing, for those distant corners of the room were in complete darkness, but he heard a voice, low and sweet, humming the little ditty which she, his queen, had sung this afternoon.
"Disdaine me not that am your own,
Refuse me not that am so true,
Mistrust me not till all be knowen,
Forsake me not now for no new."
She walked slowly along the gallery, and paused not far from the top of the short flight of oak steps. She seemed to be hesitating a little, as if afraid to venture farther into the large, dimly lighted hall.
The flicker of the tall wax tapers now caught her dainty figure, casting golden lights and deep, ruddy shadows on her fair young face and on the whiteness of her gown. In her arms she held an enormous sheaf of pale pink monthly roses, the spoils of the garden, lavish in its autumnal glory.
Never had Wessex – fastidious, fickle, insouciant Wessex – seen anything more radiant, more exquisite, more poetic than this apparition which came towards him like the realization of all his maddest dreams.
For one moment more he lingered, his ardent, passionate soul was loath to give up these heaven-born seconds spent in looking at her. Her eyes shone darkly in the gleam of the candle light and had wondrous reflections in them, which looked ruddy and hot; her delicately chiselled features were suffused with a strange glow, which seemed to come from within; and her lips were slightly parted, moist and red like some ripe summer fruit. From her whole person there came an exhalation of youth and womanhood, of purity and soul-stirring passion.
"Come down, sweet singer," said Wessex to her at last.
She gave a startled little cry, leant over the balustrade, and the sheaf of flowers dropped from her arms, falling in a long cascade of leaves and blossoms, rose-coloured and sweet-scented, at his feet.
"Ah, Your Grace frightened me!" she whispered, with just a touch of feminine coquetry. "I.. I.. didn't know you were here."
"I swear you did not, sweet saint.. but now.. as I am here.. come down quickly ere I perish with longing for a nearer sight of your dear eyes."
"But my flowers," she said, with a sudden access of timidity, brought forth by the thrilling ardour of his voice. "I had picked them for Her Majesty's oratory."
"Nay! let them all wither save one.. which I will take from your hand. Come down.."
One of the roses had remained fixed in the stiff fold of her panier. She took it between her fingers and sighed.
"Oh! I dare not," she said sadly. "Your Grace does not know, – cannot guess, what dire disgrace would befall me if I did."
"Perish the thought of disgrace," rejoined Wessex gaily. "Marry! the saints in Paradise must come down from heaven sometimes, else the world would be consumed by its own wickedness. Come down," he added more earnestly, seized with a mad, ungovernable desire to clasp her to his heart, "come down, or I swear that I'll bring you down in my arms."
"No.. no.. no!" she protested, alarmed at his vehemence. "I'll come down."
With a quaintly mischievous gesture she flung the rose at him; it hit him in the face, then fell; he had perforce to stoop in order to pick it up. When he once more straightened his tall figure she was standing quite close to him.
There she was, just as he had always thought of her, even as a boy when first he began to dream. She, the perfect woman whom one day he would meet, and on that day would love wholly, passionately, humbly, and proudly, his own and yet his queen; she the most perfect product of Nature, with just that tone of gold in her hair, just those eyes, so inscrutable, so full of colour, so infinite in their variety; not very tall, but graceful and slender, with her dainty head on a level with his shoulder, her fair young forehead on a level with his lips.
Now that she was so near, he was as if turned to stone. The wild longing was still in him to clasp her in his arms, to hold her closely, tenderly to his heart, yet he would not have touched her for a kingdom.
But as he looked at her he knew that she, herself, would come to him in all her purity, her innocence.. soon.. to-day perhaps.. but certainly one day.. and that she would come with every fibre in her entire being vibrating in responsive passion to him.
She looked up at him shyly, tentatively. His very soul went out to her as he returned her gaze. A great and glorious exultation thrilled every fibre of her being. She knew that she had conquered, that the love which in her girlish heart she had kept for him had borne fruit a thousandfold. Her heart seemed to stop beating at the immensity of her happiness.
But woman-like, she was more self-possessed than he was.
"I must not stay," she said gravely and with only an imperceptible quiver in her voice. "I am in disgrace, you know.. for that stroll on the river.. with you.. this afternoon."
"Why? what happened?" he asked with a smile.
She held up her little hand and counted on her fingers.
"Number one, a frown and a colder shoulder from Her Majesty! Two, a lecture from Her Grace of Lincoln! Twenty minutes! Three, four, and five, pin-pricks from the ladies and a lonely supper in my room to-night."
He loved her in this gayer mood which made her seem so young and childlike.
"Could you not have contrived to let me know?"
"Why?.. What would you have done?"
"Made it less lonely for you."
"You are doing that now. I thought I should be alone the rest of the evening. Her Grace of Lincoln and the others are at prayers with Her Majesty. I was confined to that room up there. How is it Your Grace happened to be in this hall just when I came out?"
"A moth is always to be found where the light happens to be," he replied gravely.
"But how did you know I should be here?"
"My eyes, since this afternoon, see you constantly where you are not – how could they fail to see you where you are?"
"Then, as Your Grace has seen me." she added with timid nervousness, seeing that he now stood between her and the steps, "will you allow me to go up again?"
"No."
"I entreat!" she pleaded.
"Impossible."
"Her Grace of Lincoln will be looking for me."
"Then stay here with me until she does."
"What to do?" she queried innocently.
"To make me happy."
"Happy?" she laughed merrily. "Ho! ho! ho! How can I, a humble waiting-maid, manage to make His Grace of Wessex happy?"
"By letting me look at you."
With quaint and artless coquetry she picked up the folds of her heavy brocaded paniers, right and left, with two delicate fingers, and executed a dainty pirouette in front of him.
"There!" she said merrily, "'tis done… And now?"
"By letting me whisper to you." he murmured.
She drew back quickly, and said with mock severity —
"That which I must not hear."
"Why not?"
"Because Your Grace is not free," she rejoined archly. "Not free to whisper anything in any woman's ear, save in that of Lady Ursula Glynde."
"Then you guessed what I would have whispered to you?"
"Perhaps."
"What was it?"
She veiled the glory of her eyes with their fringe of dark lashes.
"That you loved me." she murmured, "for the moment.."
How irresistible she was, with just that soupçon of coquetry to whet the desire of this fastidious man of the world, and with it all so free from artifice, so young and fresh and pure: – a madonna, yet made to tempt mankind.
"Nay! if you would let me, sweet saint, I would whisper in your tiny ear that I worship you!" he said in all sincerity and truth, and with the ring of an ardent passion in every tone of his voice.
"Worship me?." she queried in mock astonishment, "and Your Grace does not even know who I am."
"Faith! but I do. You are the most beautiful woman on this earth."
"Oh!.. but my name!."
"Nay! as to that I care not.. You shall tell it me anon, if you like… For the moment I love to think of you as I first beheld you in the garden this afternoon – a fairy or sprite.. I know not which.. an angel mayhap.. in your robes of white, surrounded with flowers and dark bosquets of hazelnut and of yew, with golden tints of ruddy autumn around you, less glorious than your hair. Let me worship blindly.. fettered.. your slave."
She sighed, a quaint little sigh, which had a tinge of melancholy in it.
"For how long?" she murmured.
"For my whole life," he replied earnestly. "Will you not try me?"
"How?"
"You love me, sweet saint?"
"I." she began shyly.
"Let me look into your eyes… I will find my answer."
Her arms dropped by her side, she looked up and met his eyes, ardent, burning with passion, fixed longingly upon her. He came close to her, quite close, his presence thrilled her; she closed her eyes in order to shut out from her innermost soul everything from the outside world, save the exquisite feeling of her newly awakened love.
"Now, see how perverse I am," he whispered passionately. "I do not want you to tell me anything just now.. open your eyes, dear saint.. for I but want to stand like this.. and read in their blue depths.. enjoying every fraction of a second of this heavenly moment.."
She tried to speak, but instinctively he stopped her.
"No.. no.. do not speak… And yet.. 'tis from your sweet lips I'd have my final answer."
He took her in his arms. She lay against him, unresisting, her sweet face turned up to his, soul meeting soul at last in the ecstasy of a first kiss. He held her to his heart. It seemed as if he could never let her go from him again. Everything was forgotten, the world had ceased to be. For him there was but one woman on this earth, and she was his own.
CHAPTER XXIII
CHECK TO THE QUEEN
How long they stood thus, heart to heart, they themselves could never have said. The sound of many voices in the near distance roused them from their dream. Ursula started in alarm.
"Holy Virgin!" she exclaimed under her breath, "if it should be the Queen!"
But Wessex held her tightly, and she struggled in vain.
"Nay! then let the whole Court see that I hold my future wife in my arms," he said proudly.
But with an agitated little cry she contrived to escape him. He seemed much amused at her nervousness; what had she to fear? was she not his own, to protect even from the semblance of ill? But Ursula, now fully awakened to ordinary, everyday surroundings, was fearful lest her own innocent little deception should be too crudely, too suddenly unmasked.
She had so earnestly looked forward to the moment when she would say to him that she in sooth was none other than Lady Ursula Glynde, the woman whom every conventionality had decreed that he should marry, and whom – because of these conventionalities – he had secretly but certainly disliked.
Her woman's heart had already given her a clear insight into the character and the foibles of the man she loved. His passion for her now, sincere and great though it was, was partly dependent on that atmosphere of romance which his poetical temperament craved for, and which had surrounded the half-mysterious personality of exquisite, irresistible "Fanny."
Instinctively she dreaded the rough hand of commonplace, that ugly, coarse destroyer of poetic idylls. A few hastily uttered words might shatter in an hour the mystic shrine wherein Wessex had enthroned her. She had meant to tell him soon, to-morrow perhaps, perhaps only after a few days, but she wished to find her own time for this, when he knew her inner soul better, and the delicate cobwebs of this great love-at-first-sight had fallen away from his eyes.
She could not altogether have explained to herself why a sudden disclosure of her identity at this moment would have been peculiarly unpleasant to her. It was a weak, childish feeling no doubt. But such as it was, it was real, and strong, and genuine.
Barely a minute had elapsed whilst these quick thoughts and fears went wildly coursing through her mind. There was no time to tell him everything now. The voices came from the next room, within the next few seconds probably the great door would be open to admit a group of people: the Duchess of Lincoln and the ladies mayhap, or the Queen on her way to chapel. And His Grace of Wessex looked terribly determined.
"No! no! no! – not just this moment, sweet Grace," she entreated, "by your love! not just this moment… The Queen would be so angry.. oh! not just now!"
She looked so genuinely disturbed, and so tenderly appealing, that he could not help but obey.
"But you cannot send me away like this," he urged. "Another word, sweet saint… Faith! I could not live without another kiss.."
"No, no, no, I entreat Your Grace.. not to-night," she protested feebly.
He thought, however, that he detected a sign of yielding in her voice, although she was already beginning to mount the steps ready for flight.
"Just one tiny word," he whispered hurriedly: "when the Queen has passed through, linger up there for one brief minute only. I'll wait in there!"
And he pointed to a small door close behind him, which led to an inner closet at right angles with the gallery. Before she had time to protest – nay! perhaps she had no wish to refuse – he had disappeared behind its heavy panels, quickly calling to his dog to follow him. But in that one moment's hesitation, those few brief and delicious words hastily exchanged, she had lost her opportunity for escape.
The next instant the door at the further end of the room was thrown open, and the Queen entered followed by some of her ladies. She was accompanied by the Duchess of Lincoln, and His Eminence the Cardinal de Moreno was on her left.
As chance or ill-luck would have it, the first sight which greeted Her Majesty's eyes was the figure of Lady Ursula, midway up the steps which led to the gallery, some mysterious imp of mischief having contrived that the light from the wax tapers should unaccountably and very vividly fall upon the white-clad form of the young girl. An exclamation of stern reproval from Her Grace of Lincoln brought Ursula to a standstill.
Flight now was no longer possible; she could but trust in her guardian angel, or in any of those protective genii who have in their keeping the special care of lovers in distress, and who happened to be hovering nigh.
It was not seemly to be half-way up a flight of stairs when Her Majesty was standing on the floor below. Ursula, with her cheeks aflame with vexation, slowly descended, whilst encountering as boldly as she could the artillery fire of half a dozen pairs of eyes fixed steadily upon her.
Mary Tudor looked coldly severe, Her Grace of Lincoln horror-struck, His Eminence ironical, and the ladies vastly amused.
"Ah, child!" said Her Majesty, in her iciest tone of voice, "all alone, and in this part of the Palace?"
She looked the dainty young figure disdainfully up and down, then her eye caught the sheaf of roses lying in a fragrant tangle close to the foot of the stairs. There was a quick flash of anger in her face, then a frown. Ursula wondered how much she guessed or what she suspected.
But the Queen, after that one quick wave of passionate wrath, made an obvious effort to control herself. She turned composedly to the Duchess of Lincoln.
"Your Grace is aware," she said drily, "that I deem it most indecorous for my maids-of-honour to wander about the Palace alone."
The wrinkled old face of the kindly Duchess expressed the most heartfelt sorrow.
"I crave Your Majesty's humble pardon." she stammered in an agony of misery at this public reproof. "I."
"Nay, Duchess, I know the difficulty of your task," rejoined Mary Tudor bitingly, "the other ladies are docile, and their behaviour is maidenly and chaste. 'Tis not always so with the Lady Ursula Glynde."
Mary's voice had been so trenchant and hard that it seemed to Ursula's sensitive ears as if its metallic tones must have penetrated to every corner of the Palace. She gave a quick, terrified look towards the door, longing with all her might for the gift to see through its massive panels – to know what went on within that inner closet, where Wessex was waiting and must have heard.
One pair of eyes, however, had caught that swift glance, and noted the sudden obvious fright which accompanied it. His Eminence had not taken his piercing eyes from off the young girl's face; he had seen every movement of the delicate nostril, every quiver of the eyelid.
What Mary Tudor only half suspected, what the good old Duchess could not even conjecture, that His Eminence had already more than guessed.
The delicate, rosy blush which suffused the young girl's cheeks, that indescribable something which emanated from her entire personality, the half-withered roses, all told their tale to this experienced diplomatist, accustomed to read his fellow-creatures' thoughts. Then that quick, apprehensive look towards the door had confirmed his every surmise.
"She has seen His Grace… He is closeted in there!" were his immediate mental deductions. And whilst Ursula met Her Majesty's cold glances with as much boldness as she could command, and Her Grace of Lincoln lost herself in a maze of abject apologies, His Eminence, seemingly unconcerned, edged up to the low door, keeping the lock and handle thereof well in view.
"I crave Your Majesty's indulgence for the child," the Duchess of Lincoln was muttering. "She meant no harm, I'll take my oath on that, and she will, I know, return at once to her room, there to grieve over Your Majesty's disapproval of her. She – "
"Nay, Duchess," interrupted the Queen sternly, "repentance is far from Lady Ursula's thoughts, and her behaviour is not the thoughtlessness of a moment."
"Your Majesty." protested the Duchess, whilst Ursula threw her head back in token of proud denial.
"The rumour has already reached us," continued Mary, "of a maid-of-honour's strange wanderings at night and in disguise outside the purlieus of the Palace, and that the maiden who so far forgot her rank and her modesty was none other than the Lady Ursula Glynde."
Again that quick apprehensive glance directed towards the closet door at mention of her name, a glance unseen by any one present save by His Eminence's watchful eyes. To him it had revealed all that he wished to know, whilst the Queen, blinded by her own jealousy, saw nothing but a rival whom she desired to humiliate.
"Wessex is behind that door." mused His Eminence. "She starts every time her name is uttered.. ergo, he made love to her without knowing who she is."
It was natural and simple. The very logical sequence of a series of co-ordinated thoughts, together with a shrewd knowledge of human nature.
How this little incident would affect his own immediate plans His Eminence had not yet conjectured. That it would prove of vast importance, he was never for a moment in doubt. Therefore, at a moment when every one's eyes were fixed upon the Queen or Ursula, he quietly turned the key in the lock of that closet door, and slipped the key in his own pocket.
After that he rejoined the group of ladies, feeling that he could wait in peace until the close of the dramatic little episode.
"The rumour, if rumour there was," Ursula had retorted defiantly, "is a false one, Your Majesty."
"Indeed, child," said the Queen coldly, "did you not, then, some days ago leave the Palace with no other companion save weak-willed Margaret Cobham?"
"Verily, I."
"In order to visit, in disguise, or masked, or cloaked – we know not – some public entertainment, a country fair, methinks?"
"Of a truth, but."
"You do not deny that, meseems."
"I do not deny it, Your Majesty. I meant no harm."
"No harm! hark at the girl! Was there no harm then in your meeting certain gentlemen of our Court, under circumstances not altogether creditable to the fair fame of our English maidens?"
"Has the Marquis de Suarez dared.."
"Nay! We did not name the Marquis, girl. Of a truth a gentleman will dare all, once a maid forgets her own dignity. But enough of this. I spoke a word of warning in your own interests. The Marquis – saving His Eminence's presence – has all the faults of his race. We warn you to cease this intercourse, which doth no credit to your modesty."
"Your Majesty." retorted Ursula, proud and rebellious at this slight put upon her, and forgetting for the moment even the invisible presence of the man she loved.
But Mary Tudor, though at times capable of noble and just impulses, was far too blinded by her own passion to give up the joy of this victory over the girl who had become her rival. At any rate, Fate had done one great thing for her: she was the Queen, ruling as every Tudor had ruled, by divine right, absolutely, unquestionably.
She would not let the girl speak, she would see her go, humiliated, with head bent, forcibly swallowing her tears of shame. Mary only regretted this: that Wessex could not be witness of this scene.
She threw back her head, drew herself up to her full height, and pointed peremptorily up towards the gallery.
"Silence, wench!" she commanded. "Go!"
And Ursula could not help but obey.
Slowly she mounted the stairs, her heart burning with defiance. To have angered Mary Tudor further by renewed rebellion would have been worse than madness; it would inevitably have brought more ignominy and worse perchance upon herself.
But the tears, which she tried in vain to suppress, were not caused by the Queen's harsh words, but by the terrible doubts which assailed her when she thought of Wessex.
Had he heard?
What would he think?
Would he understand the cause of her innocent deception, or would he believe – as indeed he must if he heard them – the evil insinuations so basely put forward by the Queen.
As she found her way along the gallery she heard Mary's voice once more.
"Duchess, I pray you see that in future more strict surveillance is kept over the young maids under your charge. Lady Ursula's conduct has put me verily to shame before the ambassadors of foreign Courts."
With a sob of impotent revolt Ursula disappeared within the upper room.
The Cardinal watched her until the door closed upon her and he was quite sure that she was well out of hearing. Then he approached the Queen and said in his most suave manner —
"Nay! Your Majesty, methinks, takes this trifling matter too much au sérieux. You deigned to mention the Marquis de Suarez just now. Believe me, he is far too proud of the favours bestowed upon him by Lady Ursula to look on England with any reproach."
The Duchess of Lincoln would have spoken, if she dared. Her loyal old soul rebelled against this insinuation, which she knew to be utterly false. But to tax His Eminence with the uttering of unfounded gossip and in the presence of the Queen of England – that task was quite beyond the worthy Duchess's powers.
But in her motherly heart she registered the resolution to take Ursula's part as hotly as she dared whenever Her Majesty would give her leave to speak, and in any case she would not allow the Cardinal's imputation to rest long upon the innocent young girl.
The Queen, on the other hand, had visibly brightened up when His Eminence himself mentioned the name of the young Spaniard in such close connection with that of Ursula. She seemed to drink in with delight the poisoned cup of thinly veiled slander which His Eminence held so temptingly before her.
She wanted to think of Ursula as base and wanton and had, until now, never quite dared to believe the many strange rumours which certainly had reached her ears.
With all her faults, Mary was a just woman and above all a proud one; she would never have allowed her rival to suffer long and seriously under a false calumny. The name of the Marquis de Suarez, when she uttered it, had been but a shaft hurled at random.
But since His Eminence so palpably hinted a confirmation of her hopes, she was more than ready to give his insinuations the fullest credence. So pleased was she that she gave him quite a pleasant smile, the first he had had from her since the afternoon.
"As Your Eminence justly remarks," she said graciously, "the matter is perhaps not of grave moment. But our interest in the young maidens who form our Court is a genuine one nevertheless. I pray you let it pass – Duchess, we'll speak of it all on the morrow. My lord Cardinal, we will wish you good night."
She was about to finally pass him and to leave the room when her curiosity got the better of her usual dignified reserve.
"Is it the last night Your Eminence will spend at our Court?" she asked pointedly.
"I think not, Your Majesty," replied the Cardinal blandly. "'Tis many days yet which I shall hope to spend in Your Majesty's company."
"Yet the skein is still entangled, my lord."
"'Twill be unravelled, Your Majesty."
"When?"
"Quien sabe?" he replied. "Perhaps to-night."
"To-night?"
She had allowed herself to be led away by the eagerness of her desire to know what was happening. Shrewd enough where her own wishes and plans were concerned, she could not help but notice the air of contentment, even of triumph, which the Cardinal had worn throughout the evening. He certainly did not look like a man about to be sent back discomfited, to an irate master, there to explain that he had failed in the task allotted to him.
Mary's curiosity was very much on the alert, but His Eminence's monosyllabic answers were not intended to satisfy her, and perforce she had to desist from further questioning him. Obviously he did not mean to tell her anything just yet. She bade him good night with more graciousness than he could have anticipated, and his bow to her was full of the most profound respect.
A moment later she had passed out of the room, followed by Her Grace of Lincoln and her maids-of-honour.
