The Tangled Skein

by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy

  CHAPTER XXII

  THE WHITE QUEEN

  Wessex after a while was ready enough to dismiss the unpleasant subject.Perhaps he had no right to be censorious or to resent the Spaniard'ssomewhat unusual attitude. In England, undoubtedly, a gentleman wouldnever--except under very special circumstances--allude to any passingliaison he might have with a lady of his own rank. That was a strictcode of honour which had existed from time immemorial, even in the daysof King Harry's youth, when the virtue of high-born women had been butlittle thought of.

  Abroad, perhaps, it was different. Spaniards, just then, were noted forthe light way in which they regarded the favours of the fair sex, andDon Miguel's code of honour had evidently prompted him to consultWessex' wishes in the matter of his own intrigue. Loyalty to their ownsex is perhaps, on the whole, more general in men than is their chivalrytowards women, and perhaps the Marquis' feelings would have revolted atthe thought of seeing a lady of such light virtue in the position ofDuchess of Wessex.

  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, whilstregistering a vow to chastise the young blackguard if his impertinenceshowed signs of recurrence.

  He was on the point of yielding to his faithful Harry's canine appealsby allowing him to lead the way towards his own distant lodgings, whenhis 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 abutting at a door, which gave accessto the Duchess of Lincoln's and other ladies' lodgings. The rustle of asilk skirt seemed to come from there.

  Perhaps Wessex would not have taken notice of it, except that his everythought was filled with a strange excitement since the rencontre of theafternoon. At times now he felt as if his very senses ached with thelonging to see once more that entrancing, girlish figure, dressed all inwhite and crowned with the halo of her exquisite golden hair, to hearonce more the sound of that fresh young voice, that merry, childlikelaugh, through which there vibrated the thrill of a newly awakenedpassion.

  Since he had met her he was conscious of a wonderful change in himself.He did not even analyse his feelings: he knew that he loved her now:that, in a sense, he had always loved her, for his poetic and romantictemperament 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 oppositeto her in a boat among the reeds, in the cool of the afternoon, with thelazy river gently rocking the light skiff, and the water birds for solewitnesses of his happiness. They had hardly exchanged a word then, forhe had enjoyed the delight--dear to every man who loves--of watching theblushes come and go upon her cheek in response to his ardent gaze. Whatdid words matter? the music in their souls supplied all that they wishedto 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 transientsmile, His Grace of Wessex, in fact, who had loved so often yet soinconstantly--knew now that the stern little god, who will not for longbrook 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 pausedinstinctively, vaguely, madly hoping that chance, and the great wildlonging which was in him, had indeed drawn her footsteps hither.

  The door above, at the end of the gallery, was tentatively opened.Wessex could see nothing, for those distant corners of the room were incomplete darkness, but he heard a voice, low and sweet, humming thelittle 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 ofthe short flight of oak steps. She seemed to be hesitating a little, asif afraid to venture farther into the large, dimly lighted hall.

  The flicker of the tall wax tapers now caught her dainty figure, castinggolden lights and deep, ruddy shadows on her fair young face and on thewhiteness of her gown. In her arms she held an enormous sheaf of palepink monthly roses, the spoils of the garden, lavish in its autumnalglory.

  Never had Wessex--fastidious, fickle, insouciant Wessex--seen anythingmore radiant, more exquisite, more poetic than this apparition whichcame towards him like the realization of all his maddest dreams.

  For one moment more he lingered, his ardent, passionate soul was loathto give up these heaven-born seconds spent in looking at her. Her eyesshone darkly in the gleam of the candle light and had wondrousreflections in them, which looked ruddy and hot; her delicatelychiselled features were suffused with a strange glow, which seemed tocome from within; and her lips were slightly parted, moist and red likesome ripe summer fruit. From her whole person there came an exhalationof youth and womanhood, of purity and soul-stirring passion.

  "Come down, sweet singer," said Wessex to her at last.

  She gave a startled little cry, leant over the balustrade, and the sheafof flowers dropped from her arms, falling in a long cascade of leavesand blossoms, rose-coloured and sweet-scented, at his feet.

  "Ah, Your Grace frightened me!" she whispered, with just a touch offeminine 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 yourdear eyes."

  "But my flowers," she said, with a sudden access of timidity, broughtforth by the thrilling ardour of his voice. "I had picked them for HerMajesty's oratory."

  "Nay! let them all wither save one . . . which I will take from yourhand. Come down. . . ."

  One of the roses had remained fixed in the stiff fold of her panier. Shetook it between her fingers and sighed.

  "Oh! I dare not," she said sadly. "Your Grace does not know,--cannotguess, what dire disgrace would befall me if I did."

  "Perish the thought of disgrace," rejoined Wessex gaily. "Marry! thesaints in Paradise must come down from heaven sometimes, else the worldwould be consumed by its own wickedness. Come down," he added moreearnestly, seized with a mad, ungovernable desire to clasp her to hisheart, "come down, or I swear that I'll bring you down in my arms."

  "No . . . no . . . no!" she protested, alarmed at his vehemence. "I'llcome down."

  With a quaintly mischievous gesture she flung the rose at him; it hithim in the face, then fell; he had perforce to stoop in order to pick itup. When he once more straightened his tall figure she was standingquite close to him.

  There she was, just as he had always thought of her, even as a boy whenfirst he began to dream. She, the perfect woman whom one day he wouldmeet, and on that day would love wholly, passionately, humbly, andproudly, his own and yet his queen; she the most perfect product ofNature, with just that tone of gold in her hair, just those eyes, soinscrutable, so full of colour, so infinite in their variety; not verytall, but graceful and slender, with her dainty head on a level with hisshoulder, 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 longingwas still in him to clasp her in his arms, to hold her closely, tenderlyto 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 inall her purity, her innocence . . . soon . . . to-day perhaps . . . butcertainly one day . . . and that she would come with every fibre in herentire being vibrating in responsive passion to him.

  She looked up at him shyly, tentatively. His very soul went out to heras he returned her gaze. A great and glorious exultation thrilled everyfibre of her being. She knew that she had conquered, that the love whichin her girlish heart she had kept for him had borne fruit athousandfold. Her heart seemed to stop beating at the immensity of herhappiness.

  But woman-like, she was m
ore self-possessed than he was.

  "I must not stay," she said gravely and with only an imperceptiblequiver in her voice. "I am in disgrace, you know . . . for that strollon 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, alecture from Her Grace of Lincoln! Twenty minutes! Three, four, andfive, pin-pricks from the ladies and a lonely supper in my roomto-night."

  He loved her in this gayer mood which made her seem so young andchildlike.

  "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 theevening. Her Grace of Lincoln and the others are at prayers with HerMajesty. I was confined to that room up there. How is it Your Gracehappened to be in this hall just when I came out?"

  "A moth is always to be found where the light happens to be," he repliedgravely.

  "But how did you know I should be here?"

  "My eyes, since this afternoon, see you constantly where you arenot--how could they fail to see you where you are?"

  "Then, as Your Grace has seen me . . ." she added with timidnervousness, seeing that he now stood between her and the steps, "willyou allow me to go up again?"

  "No."

  "I entreat!" she pleaded.

  "Impossible."

  "Her Grace of Lincoln will be looking for me."

  "Then stay here with me until she does."

  "What to do?" she queried innocently.

  "To make me happy."

  "Happy?" she laughed merrily. "Ho! ho! ho! How can I, a humblewaiting-maid, manage to make His Grace of Wessex happy?"

  "By letting me look at you."

  With quaint and artless coquetry she picked up the folds of her heavybrocaded paniers, right and left, with two delicate fingers, andexecuted a dainty pirouette in front of him.

  "There!" she said merrily, "'tis done. . . . And now?"

  "By letting me whisper to you . . ." he murmured.

  She drew back quickly, and said with mock severity--

  "That which I must not hear."

  "Why not?"

  "Because Your Grace is not free," she rejoined archly. "Not free towhisper anything in any woman's ear, save in that of Lady UrsulaGlynde."

  "Then you guessed what I would have whispered to you?"

  "Perhaps."

  "What was it?"

  She veiled the glory of her eyes with their fringe of dark lashes.

  "That you loved me . . ." she murmured, "for the moment. . . ."

  How irresistible she was, with just that soupcon of coquetry to whet thedesire of this fastidious man of the world, and with it all so free fromartifice, so young and fresh and pure:--a madonna, yet made to temptmankind.

  "Nay! if you would let me, sweet saint, I would whisper in your tiny earthat I worship you!" he said in all sincerity and truth, and with thering of an ardent passion in every tone of his voice.

  "Worship me? . . ." she queried in mock astonishment, "and Your Gracedoes not even know who I am."

  "Faith! but I do. You are the most beautiful woman on this earth."

  "Oh! . . . but my name! . . ."

  "Nay! as to that I care not . . . You shall tell it me anon, if youlike. . . . For the moment I love to think of you as I first beheld youin the garden this afternoon--a fairy or sprite . . . I know not which. . . an angel mayhap . . . in your robes of white, surrounded withflowers and dark bosquets of hazelnut and of yew, with golden tints ofruddy autumn around you, less glorious than your hair. Let me worshipblindly . . . fettered . . . your slave."

  She sighed, a quaint little sigh, which had a tinge of melancholy in it.

  "For how long?" she murmured.

  "For my whole life," he replied earnestly. "Will you not try me?"

  "How?"

  "You love me, sweet saint?"

  "I . . ." she began shyly.

  "Let me look into your eyes. . . . I will find my answer."

  Her arms dropped by her side, she looked up and met his eyes, ardent,burning with passion, fixed longingly upon her. He came close to her,quite close, his presence thrilled her; she closed her eyes in order toshut out from her innermost soul everything from the outside world, savethe exquisite feeling of her newly awakened love.

  "Now, see how perverse I am," he whispered passionately. "I do not wantyou to tell me anything just now . . . open your eyes, dear saint . . .for I but want to stand like this . . . and read in their blue depths. . . enjoying every fraction of a second of this heavenly moment.. . ."

  She tried to speak, but instinctively he stopped her.

  "No . . . no . . . do not speak. . . . And yet . . . 'tis from yoursweet lips I'd have my final answer."

  He took her in his arms. She lay against him, unresisting, her sweetface turned up to his, soul meeting soul at last in the ecstasy of afirst kiss. He held her to his heart. It seemed as if he could never lether go from him again. Everything was forgotten, the world had ceased tobe. For him there was but one woman on this earth, and she was his own.