The Tangled Skein Part 29

Harry Plantagenet was a philosopher. He had seen his master in this kind of mood before. He wagged his tail as if to express his approval of the broad principles thus submitted for his consideration, but at the same time he showed a distinct desire that his master should talk less and come more speedily to bed.

CHAPTER XXII

THE WHITE QUEEN

Wess.e.x 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 att.i.tude. In England, undoubtedly, a gentleman would never--except under very special circ.u.mstances--allude to any pa.s.sing 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 s.e.x, and Don Miguel's code of honour had evidently prompted him to consult Wess.e.x' wishes in the matter of his own intrigue. Loyalty to their own s.e.x 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 d.u.c.h.ess of Wess.e.x.

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 ab.u.t.ting at a door, which gave access to the d.u.c.h.ess of Lincoln's and other ladies' lodgings. The rustle of a silk skirt seemed to come from there.

Perhaps Wess.e.x 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 pa.s.sion.

Since he had met her he was conscious of a wonderful change in himself.

He did not even a.n.a.lyse 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 Wess.e.x, in fact, who had loved so often yet so inconstantly--knew now that the stern little G.o.d, 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. .h.i.ther.

The door above, at the end of the gallery, was tentatively opened.

Wess.e.x 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 Wess.e.x--fastidious, fickle, insouciant Wess.e.x--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, pa.s.sionate 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 pa.s.sion.

"Come down, sweet singer," said Wess.e.x to her at last.

She gave a startled little cry, leant over the bal.u.s.trade, 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 Wess.e.x 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, pa.s.sionately, 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 pa.s.sion 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-p.r.i.c.ks 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?"