The Tangled Skein Part 53

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII

THE LAST FAREWELL

She saw in a moment how much older he looked, and quaintly wondered whether the black doublet and cloak caused him to seem so. Harry Plantagenet--happiest of dogs now that his master roamed about with him once more--walked with a proud step beside him.

She looked such a dainty picture, framed in the rich embrasure of the great window, her graceful figure with its crown of gold looking majestic and n.o.ble on the raised dais, ethereal and almost ghostlike, with its rich white draperies.

Just for one moment as Wess.e.x entered the room the events of the last fortnight suddenly vanished from his memory. She was there before him, in that same soft gown of white, as she had stood that day, with a sheaf of roses in her arms--or were they marguerites?--and once more, as he had done then, he vaguely wondered what colour were her eyes. On his lips he seemed to feel again the savour of her pa.s.sionate kiss, and once again to smell the perfume of her golden hair as for that one brief, heavenly minute she had lain next to his heart.

But reality--wanton, crude, and cruel--chased this brief, happy vision away with one cut of her swishing lash, and then brought before his eyes that same face and form, but with wild, restless eyes, bare neck and bosom, and with the Spaniard's hand resting masterfully on her shoulder. And Ursula, who had watched him keenly, saw the cold, contemptuous look in his eyes, the shudder which shook his powerful frame as he approached her, and she even seemed actually to be touching that stony barrier of wilful self-control, which he interposed between himself and her.

But the obeisance which he made to her was profound and full of cold respect.

"You desired to speak with me, lady?" he said. "My life, which you have deigned to save, is entirely at your service."

She had stepped down from the dais as he approached, calling upon every fibre within her, upon every power granted to a woman who loves to touch the heart of the loved one. Though she knew that for ever after, he and she would henceforth be parted, her heart had so yearned for him that vaguely she had begun to delude herself with the hope that after all only a great misunderstanding existed between him and her, and that before they spoke the last words of farewell their hands would meet just once again--only as friends--only as comrades perhaps--but closely, trustfully for all that.

It was solely in this hope that she had begged for an interview.

His coldness chilled her. Now that he was near her again, she once more became conscious of that bitter feeling of awful jealousy which had caused her the most exquisite heart-ache which a human being could be called upon to endure. Memory brought back to her the vision of another woman--an unknown creature whom he loved, to the destruction of his own soul and honour.

And with the advent of this memory the tender appeal died upon her lips, and she only said in a hard, callous voice--

"Is that all that Your Grace would say to me?"

"Nay, indeed," he replied with the same icy calm, "there is much I ought to say, is there not? I should tell you how grateful I am for my life, which I owe to you. And yet I cannot even find it in my heart to say 'thank you' for so worthless a gift."

"Does life then seem so bitter now that the woman you love has proved a wanton and a coward?" she retorted vehemently.

He looked at her, a little puzzled by her tone, then said quietly--

"Nay! the woman I loved has proved neither a wanton nor a coward . . .

only an illusion, a sweet dream of youth and innocence, which I, poor fool, mistook for reality."

There was such an infinity of sadness, of deception, and of life-enduring sorrow in his voice as he spoke that every motherly instinct, never far absent from a true woman's heart, was aroused in hers in an instant. She forgot her bitterness in the intensity of her desire to comfort him, and she said quite gently--

"You loved her very dearly, then?"

"I worshipped my dream, but 'tis gone."

"Already?" she asked, not understanding.

And he, not comprehending, replied--

"Nothing flies so quickly as an illusion when it is on the wing."

Then he added more lightly--

"But I pray you, do not think of that. I am grateful to you--very grateful. Your ladyship hath deigned to send for me. What do you desire of me? My name and protection are now at your service, and I am ready--whenever you wish it--to fulfil the promise our fathers made on our behalf."

She drew back as if a poisoned adder had stung her.

At first she had not realized what he meant to say; then the intention dawned upon her and the insult nearly knocked her down like a blow. She could hardly speak, her own words seemed to choke her; her rich young blood flew to her pallid cheeks and dyed them with the crimson hue of shame.

"You would . . . ?" she murmured faintly. "You thought that I . . . ?

Oh! . . ." she gasped in the infinity of her pain.

But like the wounded beast when first it sees its own hurt, so did this man now--gentle, artistic, fastidious though he was--suddenly feel every cruel instinct of the primitive savage rise within him at the thought of the great wrong which he believed this woman had done him. All the latent tenderness in his heart was crushed. Manlike, he only longed now to make her suffer one t.i.the of the agony which he had endured because of her treachery. He thought that she had played with him and fooled him in sheer wantonness, and he wished to crush her pride, her youth, her gaiety as she had broken his life and his honour.

He despised her for what she had done, and longed to let her see the full measure of his contempt. Glad that he had succeeded in hurting her, he tried to turn the blade within the wound.

"Nay, you need have no fear, lady," he said, "the wars in France will soon claim my presence, and the world will be quite ready to forgive to the d.u.c.h.ess of Wess.e.x the sins of Lady Ursula Glynde, especially after a chance French arrow had made her free again."

But it was the very magnitude of the insult which restored to Ursula her self-possession, nor would she let him see now how deeply she was wounded. With her self-control, her dignity also returned to her, and she said with a coldness at least equal to his own--

"The world has naught to forgive me, as you know best, my lord."

"Nay! but I know that I must be grateful. By the ma.s.s! the story was well concocted, and I must congratulate you, fair Bacchante!" He laughed bitterly, ironically. "Your honour threatened! . . . my timely interference! . . . and I who feared for the moment you might make full confession."

"Confession of what? . . . you are mad, my lord."

She had drawn nearer to him, and for the first time since the commencement of this terrible tragedy of errors, one corner of that veil of impenetrable mystery was lifted from before her eyes. She did not make even a remote guess at the truth as yet, but vaguely she became aware that she and this man whom she loved were at some deadly cross-purposes, were playing at some horrible hide-and-seek, wherein they were staking their life and happiness. There was something in his look which suddenly revealed to that unerring feminine instinct in her that his bitterness, his cruelty, his insults, had their rise in a heart overburdened with a hopeless pa.s.sion. He, the most perfect gentleman, most elegant courtier of his time, did not even try to curb his tongue, when speaking to her, who had never wronged him, and who had n.o.bly saved his life, when he must _know_ that she had done it out of disinterested self-sacrifice.

_Did he know that?_

The question struck at her heart with sudden, overwhelming power. The look of him, his whole att.i.tude, told her in a vague, undefinable, ununderstandable way that it was _herself_ whom he loved, that he despised her for something she had not done, and yet that he spoke of _her_ when he sighed after an illusion.

"Confession of what? You are mad, my lord!" she repeated wildly.

"Aye! mad!" he said bitterly, "mad when I feel the magic of your eyes stealing my honour away! . . . mad, indeed! for with a fellow-creature's blood still warm upon that dainty hand, I long to fall on my knees and cover it with kisses."

His voice broke almost in a sob now that at last he had given utterance to that which had weighed on his soul all these days. He loathed her crime, yet loved her more pa.s.sionately than before. Oh! eternal mystery of the heart of man!

"Blood on my hands?" she retorted violently. "You are mad, my lord . . .

mad, I say! A man's blood? . . . Did you not then kill Don Miguel to save her whom you loved? . . . did you not suffer disgrace, prepare for death, all because of her? . . . Did I not lie for you, give up mine honour . . . mine all for you? . . . Is it I who am mad, my lord, or you?"

"Nay! an you will have it so, fair one," he replied, trying to steady his voice, which still was trembling, "'tis I am mad! I'll believe anything, doubt everything, mine eyes, mine ears . . . the memory of you . . . as I saw you that night. . . . I'll try to remember only that I owe you my life . . . such as it is . . . and let my senses be gladdened at the thought that you are beautiful."

Ursula watched him with wild, burning eyes. Was the truth dawning at last? She, as the woman, was bent on knowing what lay hidden beneath the expression of this debasing pa.s.sion. He, as the man, had fought a battle and lost; he loved her too madly, too completely to tear her out of his life. His pa.s.sion _had_ become base; he despised himself now more than he had ever despised her, but he could no longer battle against that overpowering desire to fold her once more to his heart, to forgive and forget all save her beauty and the magic of her presence.

But she, though loving as ardently as he, wanted the truth above all.

Never would she have accepted this degrading pa.s.sion, which would have left her for ever bruised and ashamed. She mustered up all her energy, all her presence of mind; it was her turn now to fight for happiness and for honour.

Who knows what destiny fate would have meted out to these two young people if only she had been left a free hand? Would she have brought them together or parted them finally and for ever? The fickle jade smiled upon them for a moment or two, then allowed a stronger hand to lead her away into bondage.

So accurately had the Cardinal de Moreno calculated his chance of final success that he himself was able to lead the Queen of England to the Great Hall for the approaching ceremony, at the very moment when Wess.e.x and Ursula were on the point of understanding one another.

Ursula had just uttered an energetic and momentous--