Kitabı oku: «In the Days of Chivalry: A Tale of the Times of the Black Prince», sayfa 27

CHAPTER XXVII. PETER SANGHURST'S WOOING

"Joan – sweetest mistress – at last I find you; at last my eyes behold again those peerless charms for which they have pined and hungered so long! Tell me, have you no sweet word of welcome for him whose heart you hold between those fair hands, to do with it what you will?"

Joan, roused from her reverie by those smoothly-spoken words, uttered in a harsh and grating voice, turned quickly round to find herself face to face with Peter Sanghurst – the man she had fondly hoped had passed out of her life for ever.

Joan and her father, after a considerable period spent in wanderings in foreign lands (during which Sir Hugh had quite overcome the melancholy and sense of panic into which he had been thrown by the scourge of the Black Death and his wife's sudden demise as one of its victims), had at length returned to Woodcrych. The remembrance of the plague was fast dying out from men's minds. The land was again under cultivation; and although labour was still scarce and dear, and continued to be so for many, many years, whilst the attempts at legislation on this point only produced riot and confusion (culminating in the next reign in the notable rebellion of Wat Tyler, and leading eventually to the emancipation of the English peasantry), things appeared to be returning to their normal condition, and men began to resume their wonted apathy of mind, and to cease to think of the scourge as the direct visitation of God.

Sir Hugh had been one of those most alarmed by the ravages of the plague. He was full of the blind superstition of a thoroughly irreligious man, and he knew well that he had been dabbling in forbidden arts, and had been doing things that were supposed in those days to make a man peculiarly the prey of the devil after death. Thus when the Black Death had visited the country, and he had heard on all sides that it was the visitation of God for the sins of the nations, he had been seized with a panic which had been some years in cooling, and he had made pilgrimages and had paid a visit to his Holiness the Pope in order to feel that he had made amends for any wrongdoing in his previous life.

He had during this fit of what was rather panic than repentance avoided Woodcrych sedulously, as the place where these particular sins which frightened him now had been committed. He had thus avoided any encounter with Peter Sanghurst, and Joan had hoped that the shadow of that evil man was not destined to cross her path again. But, unluckily for her hopes, a reaction had set in in her father's feelings. His blind, unreasoning terror had now given place to an equally wild and reckless confidence and assurance. The Black Death had come and gone, and had passed him by (he now said) doing him no harm. He had obtained the blessing of the Pope, and felt in his heart that he could set the Almighty at defiance. His revenues, much impoverished through the effects of the plague, made the question of expenditure the most pressing one of the hour; and the knight had come to Woodcrych with the distinct intention of prosecuting those studies in alchemy and magic which a year or two back he had altogether forsworn.

Old Sanghurst was dead, he knew – the devil had claimed one of his own. But the son was living still, and was to be heard of, doubtless, at Basildene. Peter Sanghurst was posing in the world as a wealthy man, surrounded by a halo of mystery which gave him distinction and commanded respect. Sir Hugh felt that he might be a very valuable ally, and began to regret now that his fears had made him so long an exile from his country and a wanderer from home.

Many things might have happened in that interval. What more likely than that Sanghurst had found a wife, and that his old affection for Joan would by now be a thing of the past? The knight fumed a good deal as he thought of neglected opportunities. But there was just the chance that Sanghurst might be faithful to his old love, whilst surely Joan would have forgotten her girlish caprice, and cease to attempt a foolish resistance to her father's will. Had he been as much in earnest then as he now was, the marriage would long ago have been consummated. But in old days he had not felt so confident of the wealth of the Sanghursts as he now did, and had been content to let matters drift. Now he could afford to drift no longer. Joan had made no marriage for herself, she was unwed at an age when most girls are wives and mothers, and Sir Hugh was growing weary of her company. He wished to plunge once again into a life of congenial dissipation, and into those researches for magic wealth which had always exercised so strong a fascination over him; and the first step necessary for both these objects appeared to be to marry off his daughter, and that, if possible, to the man who was supposed to be in possession of these golden secrets.

Joan, however, knew nothing of the hopes and wishes filling her father's mind. She was glad to come back to the home she had always loved the best of her father's residences, and which was so much associated in her mind with her youthful lover.

She believed that so near to Guildford she would be sure to hear news of Raymond. Master Bernard de Brocas would know where he was; he might even be living beneath his uncle's roof. The very thought sent quick thrills of happiness through her. Her face was losing its thoughtful gravity of expression, and warming and brightening into new beauty. She had almost forgotten the proximity of Basildene, and Peter Sanghurst's hateful suit, so long had been the time since she had seen him last, until the sound of his voice, breaking in upon a happy reverie, brought all the old disgust and horror back again, and she turned to face him with eyes that flashed with lambent fire.

Yet as she stood there in the entrance to that leafy bower which was her favourite retreat at Woodcrych, Peter Sanghurst felt as though he had never before seen so queenly a creature, and said in his heart that she had grown tenfold more lovely during the years of her wanderings.

Joan was now no mere strip of a girl. She was three-and-twenty, and had all the grace of womanhood mingling with the free, untrammelled energy of youth. Her step was as light, her movements as unfettered, as in the days of her childhood; yet now she moved with an unconscious stately grace which caused her to be remarked wherever she went; and her face, always beautiful, with its regular features, liquid dark eyes, and full, noble expression, had taken an added depth and sweetness and thoughtfulness which rendered it remarkable and singularly attractive. Joan inspired a considerable amount of awe in the breasts of those youthful admirers who had flitted round her sometimes during the days of her wanderings; but she had never given any of them room to hope to be more to her than the passing acquaintance of an hour. She had received proffers of life-long devotion with a curious gentle courtesy almost like indifference, and had smiled upon none of those who had paid her court.

Her father had let her do as she would. No suitor wealthy enough to excite his cupidity had appeared at Joan's feet. He intended to make a wealthy match for her before she grew much older; but the right person had not yet appeared, and time slipped by almost unheeded.

Now she found herself once again face to face with Peter Sanghurst, and realized that he was renewing, or about to renew, that hateful suit which she trusted had passed from his mind altogether. The face she turned towards him, with the glowing autumn sunshine full upon it, was scarcely such as could be called encouraging to an ardent lover. But Peter Sanghurst only smiled as she stood there in her proud young beauty, the russet autumn tints framing her noble figure in vivid colours.

"I have taken you by surprise, sweet lady," he said; "it is long since we met."

"Long indeed, Master Peter – or should I say Sir Peter? It hath been told to me that you have been in the great world; but whether or not your gallantry has won you your spurs I know not."

Was there something of covert scorn in the tones of her cold voice? Sanghurst could not tell, but every smallest stab inflicted upon his vanity or pride by this beautiful creature was set down in the account he meant to settle with her when once she was in his power. His feelings towards her were strangely mixed. He loved her passionately in a fierce, wild fashion, coveting the possession of that beauty which maddened whilst it charmed him. She enchained and enthralled him, yet she stung him to the quick by her calm contempt and resolute avoidance of him. He was determined she should be his, come what might; but when once he had won the mastery over her, he would make her suffer for every pang of wounded pride or jealousy she had inflicted upon him. The cruelty of the man's nature showed itself even in his love, and he hated even whilst he loved her; for he knew that she was infinitely his superior, and that she had read the vileness of his nature, and had learned to shrink from him, as purity always shrinks from contact with what is foul and false.

Even her question stung his vanity, and there was a savage gleam in his eye as he answered:

"Nay, my spurs are still to be won; for what was it to me whether I won them or not unless I might wear them as your true knight? Sweetest mistress, these weary years have been strangely long and dark since the light of your presence has been withdrawn from us. Now that the sun has risen once again upon Woodcrych, let it shine likewise upon Basildene. Mistress Joan, I come to you with your father's sanction. You doubtless know how many years I have wooed you – how many years I have lived for you and for you alone. I have waited even as the patriarch of old for his wife. The time has now come when I have the right to approach you as a lover. Sweet lady, tell me that you will reward my patience – that I shall not sue in vain."

Peter Sanghurst bent the knee before her; but she was acute enough to detect the undercurrent of mockery in his tone. He came as a professed suppliant; but he came with her father's express sanction, and Joan had lived long enough to know how very helpless a daughter was if her father's mind were once made up to give her hand in marriage. Her safety in past days had been that Sir Hugh was not really resolved upon the point. He had always been divided between the desire to conciliate the old sorcerer and the fear lest his professed gifts should prove but illusive; and when he was in this mood of uncertainty, Joan's steady and resolute resistance had not been without effect. But she knew that he owed large sums of money to the Sanghursts, who had made frequent advances when he had been in difficulties, and it was likely enough that the day of reckoning had now come, and that her hand was to be the price of the cancelled bonds.

Her father had for some days been dropping hints that had raised uneasiness in her mind. This sudden appearance of Peter Sanghurst, coupled with his confident words, showed to Joan only too well how matters stood.

For a moment she stood silent, battling with her fierce loathing and disgust, her fingers toying with the gold circlet her lover had placed upon her finger. The very thought of Raymond steadied her nerves, and gave her calmness and courage. She knew that she was in a sore strait; but hers was a spirit to rise rather than sink before peril and adversity.

"Master Peter Sanghurst," she answered, calmly and steadily, "I thought that I had given you answer before, when you honoured me by your suit. My heart is not mine to give, and if it were it could never be yours. I pray you take that answer and be gone. From my lips you can never have any other."

A fierce gleam was in his eye, but his voice was still smooth and bland.

"Sweet lady," he said, "it irks me sore to give you pain; but I have yet another message for you. Think you that I should have dared to come with this offer of my heart and hand if I had not known that he to whom thy heart is pledged lies stiff and cold in the grip of death – nay, has long since mouldered to ashes in the grave?"

Joan turned deadly pale. She had not known that her secret had passed beyond her own possession. How came Peter Sanghurst to speak of her as having a lover? Was it all guesswork? True, he had been jealous of Raymond in old days. Was this all part of a preconcerted and diabolical plot against her happiness?

Her profound distrust of this man, and her conviction of his entire unscrupulousness, helped to steady her nerves. If she had so wily a foe to deal with, she had need of all her own native shrewdness and capacity. After a few moments, which seemed hours to her from the concentrated thought pressed into them, she spoke quietly and calmly:

"Of whom speak you, Sir? Who is it that lies dead and cold?"

"Your lover, Raymond de Brocas," answered Sanghurst, rising to his feet and confronting Joan with a gaze of would-be sympathy, though his eyes were steely bright and full of secret malice – "your lover, who died in my arms after the skirmish of which you may have heard, when the English army routed the besieging force around St. Jean d'Angely; and in dying he gave me a charge for you, sweet lady, which I have been longing ever since to deliver, but until today have lacked the opportunity."

Joan's eyes were fixed upon him wide with distrust. She was in absolute ignorance of Raymond's recent movements. But in those days that was the fate of those who did not live in close contiguity. She had been a rover in the world, and so perchance had he. All that Sanghurst said might be true for aught she could allege to the contrary.

Yet how came it that Raymond should confide his dying message to his sworn and most deadly foe? The story seemed to bear upon it the impress of falsehood. Sanghurst, studying her face intently, appeared to read her thoughts.

"Lady," he said, "if you will but listen to my tale, methinks I can convince you of the truth of my words. You think that because we were rivals for your hand we were enemies, too? And so of old it was. But, fair mistress, you may have heard how Raymond de Brocas soothed the dying bed of my father, and tended him when all else, even his son, had fled from his side; and albeit at the moment even that service did not soften my hard heart, in the times that followed, when I was left alone to muse on what had passed, I repented me of my old and bitter enmity, and resolved, if ever we should meet again, to strive to make amends for the past. I knew that he loved you, and that you loved him; and I vowed I would keep away and let his suit prosper if it might. I appeal to you, fair mistress, to say how that vow has been kept."

"I have certainly seen naught of you these past years," answered Joan. "But I myself have been a wanderer."

"Had you not been, my vow would have been as sacredly kept," was the quick reply. "I had resolved to see you no more, since I might never call you mine. I strove to banish your image from my mind by going forth into the world; and when this chance of fighting for the King arose, I was one who sailed to the relief of the English garrison."

She made no response, but her clear gaze was slightly disconcerting; he looked away and spoke rapidly.

"Raymond de Brocas was on board the vessel that bore us from England's shores: ask if it be not so, an you believe me not. We were brothers in arms, and foes no longer. I sought him out and told him all that was in my heart. You know his nature – brave, candid, fearless. He showed his nobility of soul by giving to me the right hand of fellowship. Ere the voyage ended we were friends in truth. When the day of battle came we rode side by side against the foe."

Joan's interest was aroused. She knew Raymond well. She knew his nobility of nature – his generous impulse to forgive a past foe, to bury all enmity. If Sanghurst had sought him with professions of contrition, might he not have easily been believed? And yet was such an one as this to be trusted?

"In the melee – for the fighting was hard and desperate – we were separated: he carried one way and I another. When the French were driven back or taken captive I sought for Raymond everywhere, but for long without avail. At last I found him, wounded to the death. I might not even move him to our lines. I could but give him drink and watch beside him as he slowly sank.

"It was then he spoke of thee, Joan." Sanghurst's voice took a new tone, and seemed to quiver slightly; he dropped the more formal address hitherto observed, and lapsed into the familiar "thou." "The sole trouble upon that pure soul was the thought of thee, left alone and unprotected in this harsh world. He spoke of thee and that love he bore thee, and I, who had also loved, but had resigned all my hopes for love of him, could but listen and grieve with him. But he knew my secret – his clear eyes had long ago divined it – and in talking together of thee, Joan, as we had many times done before, he had learned all there was to know of my hopeless love. As he lay dying he seemed to be musing of this; and one short half-hour before he breathed his last, he spoke in these words -

"'Sanghurst, we have been rivals and foes, but now we are friends, and I know that I did misjudge thee in past days, as methinks she did, too.' (Joan, this is not so. It was not that ye misjudged me, but that I have since repented of my evil ways in which erst I rejoiced.) 'But thou wilt go to her now, and tell her what has befallen her lover. Tell her that I died with her name on my lips, with thoughts of her in my heart. And tell her also not to grieve too deeply for me. It may be that to die thus, loving and beloved, is the happiest thing that can befall a man. But tell her, too, that she must not grieve too bitterly – that she must not lead a widowed life because that I am taken from her. Give to her this token, good comrade; she will know it. Tell her that he to whom she gave it now restores it to her again, and restores it by the hand of his best and truest friend, trusting that this trusty friend will some day meet the reward he covets from the hand of her who once gave the token to him upon whom the hand of death is resting. Give it her, and tell her when you give it that her dying lover's hope is that she will thus reward the patient, generous love of him who shall bring it to her.'"

As he spoke these words, Sanghurst, his eyes immovably fixed upon the changing face of the beautiful girl, drew from his breast a small packet and placed it within her trembling hands.

He knew he was playing a risky game, and that one false move might lose him his one chance. It was all the veriest guesswork; but he believed he had guessed aright. Whilst Raymond had been stretched upon the rack, swooning from extremity of pain, Sanghurst's eyes, fixed in gloating satisfaction upon the helpless victim, had been caught by the sight of this token about his neck, secured by a strong silver cord. To possess himself of the charm, or whatever it might be, had been but the work of a moment. He had felt convinced that it was a lover's token, and had been given to Raymond by Joan, and if so it might be turned to good account, even if other means failed to bend the stubborn will of the youth who looked so frail and fragile.

Raymond had escaped from his hands by a species of magic, as it had seemed to the cruel captors, when he had tasted but a tithe of what they had in store for him. Baffled and enraged as Sanghurst was, he had still the precious token in his possession. If it had been given by Joan, she would recognize it at once, and coupled with the supposed dying message of her lover, surely it would not be without effect.

Eagerly then were his eyes fixed upon her face as she undid the packet, and a gleam of triumph came into them as he saw a flash of recognition when the little heart was disclosed to view.

Truly indeed did Joan's heart sink within her, and every drop of blood ebbed from her cheek; for had not Raymond said that he would never part from her gift whilst he had life? and how could Peter Sanghurst have become possessed of it unless his tale were true? He might be capable of robbing a dead body, but how would he have known that the token was given by her?

A mist seemed to float before the girl's eyes. At that moment she was unable to think or to reason. The one thought there was room for in her mind was that Raymond was dead. If he were lost to her for ever, it was little matter what became of herself.

Sanghurst's keen eyes, fixed upon her with an evil gleam, saw that the charm was working. It had worked even beyond his hopes. He was so well satisfied with the result of this day's work, that he would not even press his suit upon her farther then. Let her have time to digest her lover's dying words. When she had done so, he would come to her again.

"Sweet lady, I grieve that thou shouldst suffer though any words I have been forced to speak; but it was a promise given to him who is gone to deliver the message and the token. Lady, I take my leave of thee. I will not intrude upon thy sacred sorrow. I, too, sorrow little less for him who is gone. He was one of the brightest ornaments of these days of chivalry and renown."

He caught her hand for a moment and pressed it to his lips, she scarce seeming to know what he did or what he said; and then he turned away and left her alone with her thoughts, a strangely malicious expression crossing his face as he knew himself hidden from her eyes.

That same evening, when father and daughter were alone together in the room they habitually occupied in the after part of the day, Sir Hugh began to speak with unwonted decision and authority.

"Joan, child, has Peter Sanghurst been with thee today?"

"He has, my father."

"And has he told thee that he comes with my sanction as a lover, and that thou and he are to wed ere the month is out?"

"He had not said so much as that," answered Joan, who spoke quietly and dreamily, and with so little of the old ring of opposition in her voice that her father looked at her in surprise.

She was very pale, and there was a look in her eyes he did not understand; but the flush of anger or defiance he had thought to see did not show itself. He began to think Sanghurst had spoken no more than the truth in saying that Mistress Joan appeared to have withdrawn her opposition to him as a husband.

"But so it is to be," answered her father, quickly and imperiously, trying to seize this favourable moment to get the matter settled. "I have long given way to thy whimsies – far too long – and here art thou a woman grown, older than half the matrons round, yet never a wife as they have long been. I will no more of it. It maketh thee and me alike objects of ridicule. Peter Sanghurst is my very good friend. He has helped me in many difficulties, and is ready to help me again. He has money, and I have none. Listen, girl: this accursed plague has carried off all my people, and labourers are asking treble and quadruple for their work that which they have been wont to do. Sooner would I let the crops rot upon the ground than be so mulcted by them. The King does what he can, but the idle rogues set him at defiance; and there be many beside me who will feel the grip of poverty for long years to come. Peter Sanghurst has his wealth laid up in solid gold, not in fields and woods that bring nothing without hands to till or tend them. Marry but him, and Woodcrych shall be thy dower, and its broad acres and noble manor will make of ye twain, with his gold, as prosperous a knight and dame (for he will soon rise to that rank) as ye can wish to be. Girl, my word is pledged, and I go not back from it. I have been patient with thy fancies, but I will no more of them. Thou art mine own daughter, my own flesh and blood, and thy hand is mine to give to whom I will. Peter Sanghurst shall be thy lord whether thou wilt or no. I have said it; let that be enough. It is thy part to obey."

Joan sat quite still and answered nothing. Her eyes were fixed upon the dancing flames rushing up the wide chimney. She must have heard her father's words, yet she gave no sign of having done so. But for that Sir Hugh cared little. He was only too glad to be spared a weary battle of words, or a long struggle with his high-spirited daughter, whose force of character he had come to know. That she had yielded her will to his at last seemed only right and natural, and of course she must have been by this time aware that if her father was really resolved upon the match, she was practically helpless to prevent it.

She was no longer a child; she was a woman who had seen much of the world for the times she lived in. Doubtless she had begun to see that she must now marry ere her beauty waned; and having failed to make a grander match during her years of wandering, was glad enough to return to her former lover, whose fidelity had doubtless touched her heart.

"Thou wilt have a home and a dowry, and a husband who has loved thee long and faithfully," added Sir Hugh, who felt that he might now adopt a more paternal tone, seeing he had not to combat foolish resistance. "Thou hast been a good daughter, Joan; doubtless thou wilt make a good wife too."

Still no reply, though a faint smile seemed to curve Joan's lips. She presently rose to her feet, and making a respectful reverence to her father – for daily embraces were not the order of the day – glided from the room as if to seek her couch.

"That is a thing well done!" breathed the knight, when he found himself once more alone, "and done easier than I had looked for. Well, well, it is a happy thing the wench has found her right senses. Methinks good Peter must have been setting his charms to work, for she never could be brought to listen to him of old. He has tamed her to some purpose now."

Meantime Joan had glided up the staircase of the hall, along several winding passages, and up and down several irregular flights of narrow steps, till she paused at the door of a room very dim within, but just lighted by the gleam of a dying fire. As she stepped across the threshold a voice out of the darkness accosted her.

"My ladybird, is it thou, and at such an hour? Tell me what has befallen thee."

"The thing that thou and I have talked of before now, Bridget," answered Joan, speaking rapidly in a strange low voice – "the thing that thou and I have planned a hundred times if the worst should befall us. It is tenfold more needful now than before. Bridget, I must quit this house at sunset tomorrow, and thou must have my disguise ready. I must to France, to find out there the truth of a tale I have this day heard. Nat will go with me – he has said so a hundred times; and I have long had money laid by for the day I ever knew might come. Thou knowest all. He is a man of the sea; I am his son. We have planned it too oft to be taken unawares by any sudden peril. Thus disguised, we may wander where we will, molested by none. Lose no time. Rise and go to Nat this very night. I myself must not be seen with him or with thee. I must conduct myself as though each day to come were like the one past. But thou knowest what to do. Thou wilt arrange all. God bless thee, my faithful Bridget; and when I come back again, thou shalt not lack thy reward!"

"I want none else but thy love, my heart's delight," said the old nurse, gathering the girl into her fond arms; and Joan hid her face for one moment upon that faithful breast and gave way to a short burst of weeping, which did much for her overcharged heart.

Then she silently stole away and went quietly to her own chamber.