"Gone, earth-clod? How now? Perhaps you, too, wished to give a hostage to fortune, to forestall me in mercy?"
He turned to the girl beside him.
"You see," he said, "to what lengths this spirit of the Holy Day extends itself. Our friend here--" Then he saw her face and knew the truth.
The smile set a little on his lips.
"Why, then," he said to the gaoler, "such mercy should have its reward." He turned to Joan. "What say you? Shall I station him at your door, sweet lady, as a guard of honour?"
Things went merrily after that, for Guillem drew a knife and made, not for the seigneur, but for Joan. The troubadours feared to stop singing without a signal, so they sang through white lips. The dogs gnawed at their bones and the seigneur sat and smiled, showing his teeth.
Guillem, finally unhanded, stood with folded arms and waited for death.
"It is the time of the Truce of God," said the seigneur softly, and, knowing that death would be a boon, sent him off unhurt.
* * * * *
The village, which had eaten full, slept early that night. Down the hill at nine o'clock came half a dozen men-at-arms on horseback and clattered through the streets. Word went about quickly. Great oaken doors were unbarred to the news:
"The child Clotilde is gone!" they cried through the streets. "Up and arm. The child Clotilde is gone."
Joan, deserted, sat alone in the great hall. For the seigneur was off, riding like a madman. Flying through the Market Square, he took the remains of the great fire at a leap. He had but one thought. The Jew had stolen the child; therefore, to find the Jew.
In the blackest of the night he found him, sitting by the road, bent over his staff. The eyes he raised to Charles were haggard and weary. Charles reined his horse back on his haunches, his men-at-arms behind him.
"What have you done with the child?"
"The child?"
"Out with it," cried Charles and flung himself from his horse. If the Jew were haggard, Charles was more so, hard bitten of terror, pallid to the lips.
"I have seen no child. That is--" He hastened to correct himself, seeing Charles' face in the light of a torch. "I was released by a child, a girl. I have not seen her since."
He spoke with the simplicity of truth. In the light of the torches Charles' face went white.
"She released you?" he repeated slowly. "What did she say?"
"She said: 'It is the birthday of our Lord,'" repeated the Jew, slowly, out of his weary brain. "'And I am doing a good deed.'"
"Is that all?" The Jew hesitated.
"Also she said: 'But you do not love our Lord.'"
Charles swore under his breath. "And you?"
"I said but little. I--"
"What did you say?"
"I said that her Lord was also a Jew." He was fearful of giving offence, so he hastened to add: "It was by way of comforting the child. Only that, my lord."
"She said nothing else?" The seigneur's voice was dangerously calm.
The Jew faltered. He knew the gossip of the town.
"She said--she said she wished two things, my lord. To become a boy and--to see her mother."
Then Charles lifted his face to where the stars were growing dim before the uprising of the dawn, and where, as far away as the eye could reach and as far again, lay the castle of his cousin Philip of the Black Beard. And the rage was gone out of his eyes. For suddenly he knew that, on that feast of mother and child, Clotilde had gone to her mother, as unerringly as an arrow to its mark.
And with the rage died all the passion and pride. In the eyes that had gazed at Joan over the parapet, and that now turned to the east, there was reflected the dawning of a new day.
* * * * *
The castle of Philip the Black lay in a plain. For as much as a mile in every direction the forest had been sacrificed against the loving advances of his cousin Charles. Also about the castle was a moat in which swam noisy geese and much litter.
When, shortly after dawn, the sentry at the drawbridge saw a great horse with a double burden crossing the open space he was but faintly interested. A belated peasant with his Christmas dues, perhaps. But when, on the lifting of the morning haze, he saw that the horse bore two children and one a girl, he called another man to look.
"Troubadours, by the sound," said the newcomer. For the Fool was singing to cheer his lack of breakfast. "Coming empty of belly, as come all troubadours."
But the sentry was dubious. Minstrels were a slothful lot, averse to the chill of early morning.
And when the pair came nearer and drew up beyond the moat, the soldiers were still at a loss. The Fool's wandering eyes and tender mouth bespoke him no troubadour, and the child rode with head high like a princess.
"I have come to see my mother," Clotilde called, and demanded admission, clearly.
Here were no warriors, but a Fool and a child. So they let down the bridge and admitted the pair. But they raised the bridge at once again against the loving advances of Philip's cousin Charles.
But once in the courtyard Clotilde's courage began to fail her. Would her mother want her? Prayer had been unavailing and she was still a girl. And, at first, it seemed as though her fears had been justified, although they took her into the castle kindly enough, and offered her food which she could not eat and plied her with questions which she could not answer.
"I want my mother," was the only thing they could get out of her. Her little body was taut as a bowstring, her lips tight. They offered her excuses; the lady mother slept; now she was rising and must be clothed. And then at last they told her, because of the hunted look in her eyes.
"She is ill," they said. "Wait but a little and you shall see her."
Deadly despair had Clotilde in its grasp with that announcement. These strange folk were gentle enough with her, but never before had her mother refused her the haven of her out-held arms. Besides, they lied. Their eyes were shifty. She could see in their faces that they kept something from her.
Philip, having confessed himself overnight, by candle-light, was at mass when the pair arrived. Three days one must rot of peace, and those three days, to be not entirely lost, he prayed for success against Charles, or for another thing that lay close to his heart. But not for both together, since that was not possible.
He knelt stiffly in his cold chapel and made his supplications, but he was not too engrossed to hear the drawbridge chains and to pick up his ears to the clatter of the grey horse.
So, having been communicated, he made short shift of what remained to be done, and got to his feet.
The Abbot, whose offices were finished, had also heard the drawbridge chains and let him go.
When Philip saw Clotilde he frowned and then smiled. He had sons, but no daughter, and he would have set her on his shoulder. But she drew away haughtily.
So Philip sat in a chair and watched her with a curious smile playing about his lips. Surely it were enough to make him smile, that he should play host to the wife and daughter of his cousin Charles.
Because of that, and of the thing that he had prayed for, and with a twinkle in his eyes, Black Philip alternately watched the child, and from a window the plain which was prepared against his cousin. And, as he had expected, at ten o'clock in the morning came Charles and six men-at-arms, riding like demons, and jerked up their horses at the edge of the moat.
Philip, still with the smile under his black beard, went out to greet them.
"Well met, cousin," he called; "you ride fast and early."
Charles eyed him with feverish eyes.
"Truce of God," he said, sulkily, from across the moat. And then: "We seek a runaway, the child Clotilde."
"I shall make inquiry," said Philip, veiling the twinkle under his heavy brow. "In such a season many come and go."
But in his eyes Charles read the truth, and breathed with freer breath.
They lowered the drawbridge again with a great creaking of windlass and chain, and Charles with his head up rode across. But
his men-at-arms stood their horses squarely on the bridge so that it could not be raised, and Philip smiled into his beard.
Charles dismounted stiffly. He had been a night in the saddle and his horse staggered with fatigue. In Philip's courtyard, as in his own, were piled high the Christmas tithes.
"A good year," said Philip agreeably, and indicated the dues. "Peaceful times, eh, cousin?"
But Charles only turned to see that his men kept the drawbridge open, and followed him into the house. Once inside, however, he turned on Philip fiercely.
"I am not here of my own desire. It appears that both my wife and child find sanctuary with you."
"Tut," said Philip, good-naturedly, "it is the Christmas season, man, and a Sunday. We will not quarrel as to the why of your coming."
"Where is she?"
"Your wife or Clotilde?"
Now all through the early morning Charles had longed for one as for the other. But there was nothing of that in his voice.
"Clotilde," he said.
"I shall make inquiry if she has arrived," mumbled Philip into his beard, and went away.
So it came about that Charles was alone when he saw the child and caught her up in his hungry arms. As for Clotilde, her fear died at once in his embrace. When Philip returned he found them thus and coughed discreetly. So Charles released the child and put her on her feet.
"I have," said Philip, "another member of your family under my roof as to whom you have made no inquiry."
"I have secured that for which I came," said Charles haughtily.
But his eyes were on Philip and a question was in them. Philip, however, was not minded to play Charles' game, but his own, and that not too fast.
"In that event, cousin," he replied, "let the little maid eat and then take her away. And since it is a Sunday and the Truce of God, we can drink to the Christmas season. Even quarrelling dogs have intervals of peace."
So perforce, because the question was still in his heart if not in his eyes, Charles drank with his cousin and enemy Philip. But with his hand in that small hand of Clotilde's which was so like her mother's.
Philip's expansiveness extended itself to the men-at-arms who still sat woodenly on the drawbridge. He sent them hot liquor, for the day was cold, and at such intervals as Charles' questioning eyes were turned away, he rubbed his hands together furtively, as a man with a secret.
"A prosperous year," said Philip.
Charles grunted.
"We shall have snow before night," said Philip.
"Humph!" said Charles and glanced toward the sky, but made no move to go.
"The child is growing."
To this Charles made no reply whatever and Philip bleated on. "Her mother's body," he said, "but your eyes and hair, cousin."
Charles could stand no more. He pushed the child away and rose to his feet. Philip, to give him no tithe of advantage, rose too.
"Now," said Charles squarely, "where is my wife? Is she hiding from me?"
Then Philip's face must grow very grave and his mouth set in sad lines.
"She is ill, Charles. I would have told you sooner, but you lacked interest."
Charles swallowed to steady his voice.
"How--ill?"
"A short and violent illness," said Philip. "All of last night the women have been with her, and this morning--" He glanced toward the window. "I was right, as you see, cousin. It is snowing."
Charles clutched him by the arm and jerked him about. "What about this morning?" he roared.
"Snow on Christmas," mused Philip, "prophesies another prosperous year." Then having run his quarry to earth, he showed mercy.
"Would you like to see her?"
Charles swallowed again, this time his pride.
"I doubt if she cares to see me."
"Probably not," said Philip. "Still a few words--she is a true woman, and kindly. Also it is a magnanimous season. But you must tread softly and speak fair. This is no time for a high hand."
Charles, perforce, must promise mildness. He made the concession with poor grace, but he made it. And in Philip's eyes grew a new admiration for this hulking cousin and enemy, who ate his pride for a woman. At the entrance to an upper room where hung a leather curtain, he stood aside.
"Softly," he said through his beard. "No harsh words. Send the child in first."
So Philip went ponderously away and left Charles to cool his heels and wait. As he stood there sheepishly he remembered many things with shame. Joan, and the violence of the last months, and the Bishop's averted head. For now he knew one thing, and knew it well. The lady of his heart lay in that quiet room beyond; and the devils that had fought in him were dead of a Christmas peace.
Little cries came to him, Clotilde's soft weeping, and another voice that thrilled him, filled with the wooing note that is in a mother's voice when she speaks to her child. But it was a feeble voice, and its weakness struck terror to his soul. What was this thing for which he had cast her away, now that he might lose her? His world shook under his feet. His cousin and enemy was, willy-nilly, become his friend. His world, which he had thought was his own domain, as far from his castle as the eye could reach and as far again, was in an upper room of Philip's house, and dying, perhaps.
But she was not dying. They admitted him in time to save his pride, for he was close to distraction. And, being admitted, he saw only the woman he had put away.
He went straight to his wife's bed and dropped on his knees beside it. Not for his life could he have spoken then. Inarticulate things were in his mind, remorse and the loneliness of the last months, and the shame of the girl Joan.
He caught her hand to him and covered it with kisses.
"I have tried to live without you," he said, "and death itself were better."
When she did not reply, but lay back, white to the lips, he rose and looked down at her.
"I can see," he said, "that my touch is bitterness. I have merited nothing better. So I shall go again, but this time, if it will comfort you, I shall give you the child Clotilde--not that I love her the less, but that you deserve her the more."
Then she opened her eyes, and what he saw there brought him back to his knees with a cry.
"I want only your love, my lord, to make me happy," she said. "And now, see how the birthday of our Lord has brought us peace." She drew down the covering a trifle, close to his bent head, and showed the warm curve of her arm. "Unto us also is born a son, Charles."
"I have wanted a son," said Charles the Fair, "but more than a son have I wanted you, heart of my heart."
* * * * *
Outside in the courtyard the Fool had drawn a circle about him.
"I am adventuring," he said. "Yesterday I caught this horse when the others ran from him. Then I saved a lady and brought her to her destination. This being the Christmas season and a Sunday, I shall rest here for a day." He threw out his chest magnificently. "But tomorrow I continue on my way."
"Can you fight?" They baited him.
"I can sing," he replied. And he threw back his head with its wandering eyes and tender mouth and sang:
"The Light of Light Divine, True Brightness undefiled. He bears for us the shame of sin, A holy, spotless Child."
* * *
CONTENTS
TISH
The Chronicle of Her Escapades and Excursions
By MARY ROBERTS RINEHART
MIND OVER MOTOR
HOW TISH BROKE THE LAW AND SOME RECORDS
I
So many unkind things have been said of the affair at Morris Valley that I think it best to publish a straightforward account of everything. The ill nature of the cartoon, for instance, which showed Tish in a pair of khaki trousers on her back under a racing-car was quite uncalled for. Tish did not wear the khaki trousers; she merely took them along in case of emergency. Nor was it true that Tish took Aggie along as a mechanician and brutally pushed her off the car because she was not pumping enough oil. The fact was that Aggie sneezed on a curve and
fell out of the car, and would no doubt have been killed had she not been thrown into a pile of sand.
It was in early September that Eliza Bailey, my cousin, decided to go to London, ostensibly for a rest, but really to get some cretonne at Liberty's. Eliza wrote me at Lake Penzance asking me to go to Morris Valley and look after Bettina.
I must confess that I was eager to do it. We three were very comfortable at Mat Cottage, "Mat" being the name Charlie Sands, Tish's nephew, had given it, being the initials of "Middle-Aged Trio." Not that I regard the late forties as middle-aged. But Tish, of course, is fifty. Charlie Sands, who is on a newspaper, calls us either the "M.A.T." or the "B.A.'s," for "Beloved Aunts," although Aggie and I are not related to him.
Bettina's mother's note:--
Not that she will allow you to do it, or because she isn't entirely able to take care of herself; but because the people here are a talky lot. Bettina will probably look after you. She has come from college with a feeling that I am old and decrepit and must be cared for. She maddens me with pillows and cups of tea and woolen shawls. She thinks Morris Valley selfish and idle, and is disappointed in the church, preferring her Presbyterianism pure. She is desirous now of learning how to cook. If you decide to come I'll be grateful if you can keep her out of the kitchen.
Devotedly, ELIZA.
P.S. If you can keep Bettina from getting married while I'm away I'll be very glad. She believes a woman should marry and rear a large family!
E.
We were sitting on the porch of the cottage at Lake Penzance when I received the letter, and I read it aloud. "Humph!" said Tish, putting down the stocking she was knitting and looking over her spectacles at me--"Likes her Presbyterianism pure and believes in a large family! How old is she? Forty?"
"Eighteen or twenty," I replied, looking at the letter. "I'm not anxious to go. She'll probably find me frivolous."
Tish put on her spectacles and took the letter. "I think it's your duty, Lizzie," she said when she'd read it through. "But that young woman needs handling. We'd better all go. We can motor over in half a day."
The Best of Mary Roberts Rinehart Page 357
