CHAPTER XXIII
THE BRIDE'S DOT.
The Abbess left alone in the garden-chamber listened intently; lookingnow on the door which had closed on her rival, now on the windows,whence it was just possible that she might catch the flutter of thegirl's flying skirts. But she did not move to the windows, nor makeany attempt to look down. She knew that her ears were her bestsentinels; and motionless, scarcely breathing, in the middle of thefloor, she strained them to the utmost to catch the first sounds ofdiscovery and alarm.
None reached her, and after the lapse of a minute she breathed morefreely. On the other hand, the waiting-maid--glad to prolong herfreedom--did not return. The Abbess, still listening, still intent,fell to considering, without moving from the spot, other things. Thelight was beginning to wane in the room--the room she remembered sowell--the corners were growing shadowy. All things promised to favourand prolong her disguise. Between the inset windows lay a block ofdeep gloom; she had only to fling herself down in that place and hideher face on her arms, as the Countess, in her abandonment, had hiddenhers, and the woman would discover nothing when she entered--nothinguntil she took courage to disturb the bride--and would dress her.
The bride? Even in the last minute the room had grown darker--dark andvague as her sombre thoughts. But it happened that amid its shadowsone object still gleamed white--a tiny oasis of brightness in a desertof gloom. The pile of dainty bride-clothes, lawn and lace, that lay onthe window-seat caught and gave back what light there was. It seemedto concentrate on itself all that remained of the day. Presently shecould not take her eyes from the things. They had at first repelledher. Now, and more powerfully, they fascinated her. She dreamed, withher gaze fixed on them; and slowly the colour mounted to her brow,her face softened, her breast heaved. She took a step towards thebride-clothes and the window, paused, hesitated; and, flushed andfrowning, looked at the door.
But no one moved outside, no footstep threatened entrance; andher eyes returned to the lace and lawn, emblems of a thing thatfrom Eve's day to ours has stirred women's hearts. She was notover-superstitious. But it could not be for nothing, a voice whisperedher it could not be for nothing that the things lay there and, whilenight swallowed all besides, still shone resplendent in the gloaming.Were they not only an emblem, but a token? A sign to her, a fingerpointing through the vagueness of her future to the clear path ofsafety?
The Abbess had thought of that path, that way out of her difficulties,not once only, nor twice. It had lain too open, too plain to bemissed. But she had marked it only to shrink from it as too dangerous,too bold even for her. Were she to take it she must come into fatalcollision, into irremediable relations with the man whom she loved;but whom others feared, and of whom his little world stood in an aweso dire and so significant.
Yet still the things beckoned her; and omens in those days went formore than in these. Things still done in sport or out of a sentimentalaffection for the past--on All-hallows' E'en or at the new moon--werethen done seriously, their lessons taken to heart, their dictatesfollowed. The Abbess felt her heart beat high. She trembled and shookon the verge of a great resolve.
Had she time? The cloak slipped a little lower, discovering her bareshoulders. She looked at the door and listened, looked again at thepale bride-clothes. The stillness encouraged her, urged her. And, forthe rest, had she not boasted a few minutes before that, whoeverfeared him, she did not; that, whoever drifted helpless on the tide offate, she could direct her life, she could be strong?
She had the chance now if she dared to take it! If she dared? Alreadyshe had thwarted him in a thing dear to him. She had released hisprisoner, conveyed away his bride, wrecked his plans. Dared she thwarthim in this last, this greatest thing? Dared she engage herself andhim in a bond from which no power could free them, a bond that,the deed done, must subject her to his will and pleasure--and hiswrath--till death?
She did fear him, she owned it. And she had not dared the venture hadshe not loved him more. But love kicked the beam. Love won--as loveever wins in such contests. Swiftly her mind reviewed the position: somuch loss, so much gain. If he would stand worse here he would standbetter there. And then she did not come empty-handed. Fain would shehave come to him openly and proudly, with her dower in her hands, asshe had dreamed that she would come. But that was not possible. Or, ifit were possible, the prospect was distant, the time remote; while,this way, love, warm, palpitating, present love, held out arms to her.
The end was certain. For all things, the time, the gathering darkness,her gaoler's absence, seconded the temptation. Had she resisted longershe had been more than woman. As it was, she had time for all she mustdo. When the waiting-maid returned, and glanced around the darkenedroom, she was not surprised to find her crouching on the floor in theposture in which she had left her, with head bowed on the window-seat.But she was surprised to see that she had donned the bride-clothes setfor her. True, the shimmer of white that veiled the head and shouldersagreed ill with the despondency of the figure; but that was to beexpected. And at least--the woman recognised with relief--there wouldbe no need of force, no scene of violence, no cries to Heaven. Sheuttered a word of thanksgiving for that; and then, thinking that lightwould complete the improvement and put a more cheerful face on thematter, she asked if she should fetch candles.
"For I think the priest is below, my lady," she continued doubtfully;she had no mind to quarrel with her future mistress if it could beavoided. "And my lord may be looked for at any moment."
The crouching figure stirred a foot fretfully, but did not answer.
"If I might fetch them----"
"No!" sharply.
"But, if it please you, it is nearly dark. And----"
"Am I not shamed enough already?" The bride as she spoke--in a tonehalf ruffled, half hysterical--raised her arms with a passionategesture. "If I must be married against my will, I will be marriedthus! Thus! And without more light to shame me!"
"Still it grows--so dark, my lady!" the maid ventured again, thoughtimidly.
"I tell you I will have it dark! And"--with another movement as of atrapped animal--"if they must come, bid them come!" Then, in a chokingvoice, "God help me!" she murmured, as she let her head fall again onher arms.
The woman wondered, but felt no suspicion; there was something ofreason in the demand. She went and told the elder woman who waitedbelow. She left the room door ajar, and the Abbess, raising her pale,frowning face from the window-seat, could hear the priest's voicemingling in the whispered talk. Light steps passed hurriedly awaythrough the garden, and after an interval came again; and by-and-byshe heard more steps, and voices under the window--and a smotheredlaugh, and then a heavier, firmer tread, and--his voice--his! Shepictured them making way for the master to pass through and enter.
She had need of courage now, need of the half-breathed prayer;for there is no cause so bad men will not pray in it. Need ofself-control, too, lest she give way and fall in terror at his feet.Yet less need of this last; for fear was in her part, and natural tothe right playing of it. So that it was not weakness or modest tremorsor prostration would betray her.
She clutched this thought to her, and had it for comfort. And when thedoor opened to its full width, and they appeared on the threshold andentered, the priest first, the lord of Vlaye's tall presence next, andafter these three or four witnesses, with the two women behind all,those less concerned found nothing to marvel at in the sight; nor inthe dim crouching figure, lonely in the dark room, that roseunsteadily and stood cowering against the wall, shrinking as if infear of a blow. It was what they had looked to see, what they hadexpected; and they eyed it, one coveting, another in pity, seeing bythe half-light which was reflected from the pale evening sky littlemore than is here set down. For the priest, appearances might havebeen trebly suspicious, and he had suspected nothing; for he wasterribly afraid himself. And M. de Vlaye, ignorant of the Abbess'svisit and exulting in the success of his plan, a succe
ss won in theteeth of his enemy, had no grounds for suspicion. Even the marriage inthe gloaming seemed only natural; for modesty in a woman seems naturalto a man. He was more than content if the little fool would raise nodisturbance, voice no cries, but let herself be married without theneed of open force.
With something of kindness in his tone, "The Countess prefers it thus,does she?" he said, raising his head, as he took in the scene. "Thenthus let it be! Her will is mine, and shall be mine. Still it is dark!You do, in fact, Countess," he continued smoothly, "prefer it so? Igathered your meaning rightly--from those you sent?"
With averted face she made a shamed gesture with her hand.
"You do not----"
"If it must be--let it be so!" she whispered. "And now!" And suddenlyshe covered her face--they could picture it working pitifully--withher hands.
M. de Vlaye turned to his witnesses. "You hear all present," he said,"that it is with the Countess of Rochechouart's consent that I wedher. For me it is my part now and will be my part always to do herpleasure." Then turning his face again to the shrinking figure, thatuttered no protest or word of complaint, "Father, you hear?" hecontinued, a note of triumph in his voice. "Do your office on us Ipray, and quickly." And he advanced a step towards his bride.
The Romish sacrament of marriage is short, and reduced to itsessentials is of the simplest. Father Benet had his orders, andthankful to be so cheaply quit of his task--for she might haveappealed to him, might have shrieked and struggled, might have made ofhis work a public crime--he hastened to bind the two together. For onesecond, at the most critical part of the rite--if that could be saidto have parts which was done within the minute--the bride hung,wavered, hesitated--seemed about to protest or faint. The next, as bya supreme effort, she tottered a step nearer to the bridegroom, andplaced her hand, burning with fever, in his. In a few seconds thewords that made them man and wife, the irrevocable "_Conjungo vos_,"were spoken.
Then followed a single moment of awkwardness. The Captain of Vlaye'sheart was high and uplifted. All had gone well, all had gone betterthan his hopes. Yet he was prudent as he was bold. He would fain haveraised her veil before them all and kissed her, and proved beyondcavil her willingness. But he doubted the wisdom of the act. Hereflected that women were strange beings and capricious. She might befoolish enough to shriek--more, to faint, to resist, to speak; shemight realise, now that it was too late, the thing which she had done.And a dozen curious eyes were on them, were watching them, werejudging them. He contented himself with bowing over her hand.
"Would you be alone, madame?" he said gently. "If so, say so, sweet.And you shall be alone, while you please."
The answer, low and half-stifled as it was, astonished him. "Withyou," she murmured, with face half-averted. And as the others, smilingand with raised eyebrows, looked at one another, and then at a glancefrom him turned to withdraw, "And a light," she added, in the samesubdued tone, "if you please."
"Bring a light," he said to the waiting-woman. "And, mark you, seethat when your lady wants supper it be ready for her."
She had still, before they withdrew, a surprise for him. "I would havea draught of wine--now," she murmured.
He passed the order to them with a gay air, thinking the while of thequeer nature of women. And he stood waiting by the door until theorder was carried out. The footsteps of the witnesses and theirlaughter rose from the garden below as the maid brought in lights andwine and set them on the table beside him. "You can go," he said; andafter a fleeting glance, half of envy, half of wonder at her newmistress--who had sunk into a sitting posture on the window-seat--thewoman went out.
"May I serve you?" he murmured gallantly. And he poured for her.
With her face turned from him she lifted the gauzy veil with one handand with the other--it trembled violently--she raised the wine to herlips. Still with her shoulder to him--but he set this down tomodesty--she gave him back the empty cup, and he went and set it downon the table beside the door. When he turned again to her she hadraised her veil and risen to her feet, and stood facing him withshining eyes.
"By Heaven!" he cried. And he recoiled a pace, his swarthy face gonesallow. Was he mad? Was he dreaming? The priest had been silent on theAbbess's visit. He believed her leagues distant. He had no reason tothink otherwise. And he had not been more astonished if the one womanhad turned into the other before his eyes. "By Heaven!" he repeated.For the moment sheer astonishment, the stupor of bewilderment, heldhim dumb.
She did not speak, but neither did she quail. She stood confrontinghim, erect and stately, her beauty never more remarkable than now, herbreast heaving slightly under the lace.
"Am I mad?" he muttered again. And he closed his eyes and opened them."Or dreaming?"
"Neither!" she replied.
"Then who in God's name are you?" he retorted, in somethingapproaching his natural voice; though the awe of the unnatural stillheld his mind.
"Your wife," she answered.
"My wife!" With the words the full shock of that which had happenedstruck him.
"Your wife," she rejoined unblenching, though her heart beat wildly,furiously, in her bosom, and she feared, ah, how she feared! "Yourwife! And which of us two"--she continued proudly--"has a better rightto be your wife? I,"--and with the word she flung the lace superblyfrom her head and shoulders, and stood before him in the fullsplendour of her beauty--"or that child? That puny weakling? Thatdoll? I," with increasing firmness--he had not struck her yet!--"whohave your vows, sir, your promises, your sacred oath--and all my due,as God knows and you know--or that puppet? I, who dare, and for yoursake have dared--you know it only too well!--or that craven, pulingand weeping and waiting for the first chance to flee you or betrayyou? What I have done for you"--and proudly she held out her hands tohim--"you know, sir. What she would have done you know not."
"I know that you have ruined me," he said, looking darkly at her.
"And in return for--what?" she answered, with a look as dark.
His nostrils quivered, a pulse beat hard in his cheek. Only the sheerboldness of that which she had done, only the appeal of the lioness inher to the lion in him--and her beauty--held his hand; held his handfrom striking her down, woman though she was, at his feet. Had shefaltered, had she turned pale or trembled, had she uttered but oneword of supplication, or done aught but defy him, he had flung herbrutally to the floor and trampled upon her.
For the Captain of Vlaye was no knight of romance. And no scruple onhis part, no helplessness on hers would have restrained his hand. Buthe loved her after his fashion. He loved her beauty, which had neverbeen more brilliant or alluring; he loved the spirit that proved herfit helpmeet for such as he. And thwarted, tricked, baffled, hangingstill on the verge of violence over which the least recoil on her partwould push him, he still owned reason in her claim. She was the moreworthy--of the two; such beauty, such spirit, such courage would gofar. And not many weeks back he had looked no higher, aimed nofarther, but had deemed her birth fit dower. But love sits lightly onthe ambitious, and driven by a new danger to a new shift, forced tolook abroad for aid, he had put her aside at the first temptation--notwithout a secret thought that she might be still what she had been tohim.
Her eyes, her words told a different story, and in his secret heart hegave her credit for her act; and he held his hand. But his looks weredark and bitter and passionate, as he told her again that she hadruined him, and flung it coarsely in her face that she broughtherself, and naught besides to the bargain.
"It is but a little since you thought that enough!" she replied, withflashing eyes.
"You are bold to speak to me thus!" he said between his teeth. "What?You that call yourself my wife, to beard me!"
"That am your wife!" she answered, though sick fear rapped at herheart.
"Then for that the greater need to heed what you say!" he replied."Wives that come empty-handed to husbands that ask them not had bestbe silent and be patient! Or in a very little time they creep as lowas before they went h
igh! You beautiful fool!" he continued, in a toneof mingled rage and admiration, "to do this in haste and forget Icould punish at leisure! To do me ill, ay, to ruin me, and forget thathenceforth my pleasure must be yours, my will your rule! My wife, sayyou?" with increasing bitterness. "Ay! And therefore my creature,helpless as the scullion I send to the scourge, or the trooper I hangup by the heels for sleeping! You--you----" and with a movement asfierce as it was sudden he grasped her wrist and twisted her roundforcibly so that her eyes at close quarters looked into his. "Do younot yet repent? Do you not begin to see that in tricking the Captainof Vlaye you have made your master?"
She could have screamed with pain, for the bones of her slender wristseemed to be cracking in his cruel grip--but she knew that in hercourage, and in that only, lay her one hope. "I know this," shereplied hardily, forcing herself to meet his eyes without flinching,"that you mistake! I do not come empty--or I had not come," withpride. "I bring you that will save you--if you treat me well. But ifyou hold me so----"
"What will you do?" savagely.
"Release me and I will tell you," she answered. "I shall not fly. Andif I say nothing to the purpose, I shall still be in your power."
He yielded, moved in secret by her spirit. "Well," he said, "speak!But let it be to the purpose, madam, that is all."
"Said I not it should be to the purpose?" she answered, her eyesbright. "And I keep my word, if you do not. Tell me, sir, frankly,what had that child, that doll"--bitterly--"to put in the scalesagainst me? Beauty?"
"Nay!"
"A skin as white as mine or arms as round?" She held them out to him."Or brighter eyes? You have looked in mine often enough and sworn youloved me, sworn that you would do me no wrong! You should know them--and hers!"
"It was none of these."
"Her birth? Nay, but she is no better born than I am! A Rochechouartis what a Villeneuve was. Her rank? No. Then what was it?"
"No one thing," he answered drily. "But five hundred things."
"Spears?"
"You are quick-witted. Spears."
"And her manors also, I suppose?" with contempt. "Her lordships hereand there! Her farms and castles in Poitou and the Limousin and Beauceand the Dordogne! Her mills in the Bourbonnais and her fishings inSologne!"
"Not one of these!"
"No?"
"The spears only, as God sees me!" he answered firmly. "For withoutthese I could enjoy not the smallest of those. Without these, of whichyou, beautiful fool, have robbed me--robbing me therewith of my lastchance--I take no farm nor smallest mill, nor hold one groat of that Ihave won! Do you think, my girl," he continued grimly, "that I was notpressed when I gave up your lips and your kisses for that child'scompany? Do you think it was for a whim, a fancy, a light thing that Iturned my back on you and your smiles, and at risk sought a pulinggirl, when I could have had you without risk? Bah! I tell you it wasnot to gain, but to hold--because he had no other choice and no otherway--it was not for love but for life, that the King went to his Mass!And I to mine!"
"All this I thought," she said quietly. She was no longer afraid ofhim.
"You thought it?"
"I knew it."
"You knew it? You knew, madam," he repeated, his face darkening, "onwhat a narrow edge I stood, and you dashed away my one holdfast?"
"To replace it by another," she replied, her figure welling withconfidence. "I tell you, sir, I come not to you empty-handed, if Icome unasked. I bring my dowry."
He eyed her gloomily. "It should be a large one," he muttered, "if itis to take the place of that I have lost."
"It is a large one," she answered. "But," with a change to gentleness,"do me credit. I have not puled nor wept. I have uttered no cry, Ihave made no complaint. But I have righted myself, doing what not onewoman in a hundred would have dared to do! I have wit that has trickedyou, and courage that has not quailed before you. And henceforward Iclaim to be no puppet for your play, no doll for your dull hours! Butyour equal, my lord, and your mate; deepest in your counsels, theheart of your plans, your other brain, your other soul! Make me this,hold me thus--close to you, and----
"Is that the thing you bring me?" he said, with sarcasm. Yet she hadmoved him.
"No!" She fell a little from her height, she looked appeal. "My dowryis different. But say first, sir, I shall be this!"
"Bring me the spears," he answered, his eyes gleaming, "and you shallbe that and more. Bring me the spears, and----" He made as if he wouldtake her forcibly in his arms.
She recoiled, but her eyes shone. "I am yours," she said, "when youwill! Do you not know it? But, for the present, listen. I have ahusband, but I have also a lover. A lover of whom"--she continued moreslowly, marking with joy how he started at the word--"my lord andmaster has no need to be jealous. He has not touched of me more thanthe tips of my fingers; yet if I raise but those fingers he has spearsand to spare--five hundred and five hundred to that!--and I have butto play the laggard a little, and dangle a hope, and they dance to mypiping."
He understood. A deep flush tinged the brown of his lean face. "Youhave brought," he said, "the Duke to parley."
"To parley!" She pointed superbly to the floor. "Nay, but to my feet!What will you of him? Spears, his good word, his intercession with theKing, a post? Name what you will, and it shall be yours."
He looked at her shrewdly, with a new admiration, a new and strongeresteem. Already she filled the place which she had claimed, alreadyshe was to him what she had prayed to be. "You are sure?" he said.
"In a week, had I not loved you, I had had him and his Duchy, and allthose spears! And mills and manors and lordships and governments, allhad been mine, sir! Mine, had I wished this man; mine, had I beenwilling to take him! But I"--letting her arms fall by her sides andstanding submissive before him--"am more faithful than my master!"
He stood staring at her. "But if this be so," he said at last, hisbrows coming together, "what of it? How does it help us? You are nowmy wife?"
"He need not know that yet."
"No?"
"He need not know it," she continued firmly, "until he has played hispart, and wrung your pardon from the King! Or at the least--for thatmay take time--until he has drawn off his power and left you to facethose whom you can easily match!"
"He would have wedded you?" he asked, eyeing her in wonder.
"For certain."
"But, sweet----"
"I am sweet now!" she said, with tender raillery.
"To do this you must go to him?"
"He shall touch of me no more than the tips of my fingers," sheanswered smiling. "Nor"--and at the word a blush stole upward from herneck to her brow, "need I go on the instant, if your men can betrusted not to talk, my lord."
"He is soon without a tongue," he replied grimly, "who talks too fasthere! You should know that of old."
She lowered her eyes, the colour mounting anew to her brow. "Yes,"she murmured. "I know that your people can be silent. But theLieutenant of Perigord is here. You have not"--with a quick,frightened look--"injured him?"
"Have no fear."
"For that were fatal," she continued anxiously. "Fatal! If things gowrong, he may prove our safety."
"Pooh, I know it well," Vlaye replied, with a nod of intelligence."None better, my girl. But have no fear, he will hear naught of ourdoings. Not, I suppose"--with a searching look, half humorous, halfsuspicious--"that he is also a captive of your bow and spear."
"I hate him," she answered.
Her tone, vehement, yet low, struck the corresponding chord in hisnature. He took her into his arms with a reckless laugh. "You wereright and I was wrong!" he cried, as he fondled her. "You will bringme more than a clump of spears, my beauty! More than that foolishchild! God! In a month I had strangled her! But you and I--you and I,sweet, will go far together! And now, to supper! To supper! And thedevil take to-morrow and our cares!"