The Lady of the Mount Part 43

"Why?" Still endeavoring to regard him as if the charge could only be preposterous, too unreasonable to answer, she was, nevertheless, conscious of the flame on her face--tacit refutation of the denials in her eyes! "Why?" she repeated.

"That is just what I was asking myself when I saw you, my Lady."

"And, of course, knowing there could be no--that it was too senseless--" The words she was searching for failed her; she looked toward the path over the neck of rock, but he continued to stand between it and her.

"I have heard the story in all its details; all that pa.s.sed at the Mount, while Nanette was there. And," instead of having undermined his belief, she felt she had only strengthened it, "I am sure you went to the Monastery St. Ranulphe, knowing--"

"You are sure!" she interrupted quickly. "It wasn't long ago you were sure it was I who betrayed you, and--"

"I was wrong, then; but," his eyes continued to meet hers, "I am not wrong now."

Behind her, my lady's hand closed hard on the rock.

"Deny it!" his voice went on. "In so many words!"

"Why should I?" She caught her breath quickly. "I denied something to you once, and you did not believe."

"I'll believe you now!"

"I should feel very much flattered, I am sure; but after--" A spark of defiance began to gleam in her eyes. "You are sure one moment, and not, the next! You are ready to believe, or not to believe!" More certain now, she lifted her head; she, whose a.s.surance and wit had never failed her at court, would not be put to confusion by him!

His answer was unexpected; to her; to himself. Perhaps it was the peasant--the untamed half-peasant--in his blood that caused it; that made a sudden, unceremonious act, his reply! He caught both her hands; drew her to him. He knew she could never care for him--she, the beautiful lady! But he forgot himself for the moment; thought only of what she had done; her courage, her fineness, her delicate loveliness!

Her life for his. To pay a fancied debt, perhaps? And all the while he had thought-- Self-reproaches fell from his lips; were followed by bolder, more daring words. All he would have said the night on the beach, when he had borne her from the fiery rock to the s.h.i.+p, now burst from him; all he had felt when he had held her in his arms--motionless, unresisting, the still, white face upturned, offering itself freely to his gaze!

At the neck of the rock, beneath his feet, the waves thundered; near them, wild birds circled, wheeled and were borne on by the strong breath of the wind. Had he spoken; what had he said? A gradual consciousness of the beating of the sea smote his senses, as with rhythmical regularity it arose. He listened; slowly in his eyes that light that demanded--claimed, as it were, its own--was replaced by another; his hands released hers. My lady made no sound; her proud lips trembled. Very pale, she leaned back.

So silence lengthened. "Pardon, my Lady!" he said at last, very humbly. "It had not occurred to me my secret was not safe; that I, master of s.h.i.+ps and men, should not be master of myself! But I had not expected to be alone with your Ladys.h.i.+p, and," a shadow of a smile crossed the strong, reckless face, "your Ladys.h.i.+p can weigh the provocation! If the excuse will not serve, I have none other to offer.

Certainly, will I retract nothing. What's said, is said, and--no lies will unsay it!"

He looked at the water; the tide was nearly in; he turned. She would never see him again, for which she would be very glad, since the sight of him must always have been hateful to her. Had not fate decreed--bitterly--she should look upon him only as an enemy? It might be, in time, she would condone his presumption, when his presence would no longer vex her! He was going one way; she, another, soon, with--

"You--you are mistaken, Monsieur!" My lady's tone was tremulous.

"Mistaken?"

"The--Marquis de Beauvillers left last night, on a fis.h.i.+ng bark."

"Left!" abruptly he wheeled. "Why?" She did not answer. "You mean?"

Before the sudden swift question that shone from his eyes, hers fell.

"Speak!" He seized her hand; his dark, eager face was near hers now.

"You have sent him away? He will never return?" She lifted her head; answered not in words; but a new light in her eyes met the flash of his. "My Lady!" he cried, bewildered for the moment at what that glance revealed. An instant she seemed once more striving to combat him, when, drawing her gently toward him, he bent lower; kissed softly her lips.

[Ill.u.s.tration: His dark, eager face was near hers now]

"Is it, then, true--"

"You find it so hard to believe?"

"That you love me? That I seem no longer your enemy?"

"My enemy? You? Who risked so much--saved my life! Ah, no, no! Do you not remember," softly, "he, too, said--'Forget!'"

"I only remember I have long loved you! For me have you ever been the princess--who dwelt in the clouds--in a palace, enchanted--" Her face changed. "That saddens you! Forgive me!"

"It seems like a dream--that life, then! All made up of lightness and gaiety; courtiers and fine masques, until--" Beneath the bright gold of her hair, my lady's brow knit.

"Until?"

"Nay; I know not until--just when! Only, for long, I seem to have lived in a world, unreal and false. Last night, when in the garden, I felt stifled. This marriage! Arranged--for what?" She made a quick gesture. "The words came--had to come--though they hurt my lord's pride; touched his vanity! Nothing deeper! It was gone. Besides--"

My lady stopped. "Go on!" he urged, his voice eager.

"That is all. At least, all I would acknowledge to myself, then."

"And now?" His arm tightened; he held my lady close. "Now?"

Her lips lifted; though silent, made answer in the abandonment of the moment, the past and all its vicissitudes vanished; only the present held them--the present and the future, beautiful as the horizon, now rosy and glowing beneath the warm touch of the dawn.

The tide came in and the tide went out.

"_Mon capitaine_ must have changed his mind," said old Pierre at the inn. And he gazed toward a s.h.i.+p, stranded on the sands of the harbor.

THE END