The Tangled Skein

by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  THE LAST FAREWELL

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

  She looked such a dainty picture, framed in the rich embrasure of thegreat window, her graceful figure with its crown of gold lookingmajestic and noble on the raised dais, ethereal and almost ghostlike,with its rich white draperies.

  Just for one moment as Wessex entered the room the events of the lastfortnight 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 sheafof roses in her arms--or were they marguerites?--and once more, as hehad done then, he vaguely wondered what colour were her eyes. On hislips he seemed to feel again the savour of her passionate kiss, and onceagain 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 visionaway with one cut of her swishing lash, and then brought before his eyesthat same face and form, but with wild, restless eyes, bare neck andbosom, and with the Spaniard's hand resting masterfully on hershoulder. And Ursula, who had watched him keenly, saw the cold,contemptuous look in his eyes, the shudder which shook his powerfulframe as he approached her, and she even seemed actually to be touchingthat stony barrier of wilful self-control, which he interposed betweenhimself and her.

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

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

  She had stepped down from the dais as he approached, calling upon everyfibre within her, upon every power granted to a woman who loves to touchthe heart of the loved one. Though she knew that for ever after, he andshe would henceforth be parted, her heart had so yearned for him thatvaguely she had begun to delude herself with the hope that after allonly a great misunderstanding existed between him and her, and thatbefore they spoke the last words of farewell their hands would meet justonce 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 morebecame conscious of that bitter feeling of awful jealousy which hadcaused her the most exquisite heart-ache which a human being could becalled upon to endure. Memory brought back to her the vision of anotherwoman--an unknown creature whom he loved, to the destruction of his ownsoul 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 oughtto 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 awanton 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, poorfool, mistook for reality."

  There was such an infinity of sadness, of deception, and oflife-enduring sorrow in his voice as he spoke that every motherlyinstinct, never far absent from a true woman's heart, was aroused inhers in an instant. She forgot her bitterness in the intensity of herdesire 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--verygrateful. Your ladyship hath deigned to send for me. What do you desireof me? My name and protection are now at your service, and I amready--whenever you wish it--to fulfil the promise our fathers made onour 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 intentiondawned upon her and the insult nearly knocked her down like a blow. Shecould hardly speak, her own words seemed to choke her; her rich youngblood flew to her pallid cheeks and dyed them with the crimson hue ofshame.

  "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 thisman now--gentle, artistic, fastidious though he was--suddenly feel everycruel instinct of the primitive savage rise within him at the thought ofthe great wrong which he believed this woman had done him. All thelatent tenderness in his heart was crushed. Manlike, he only longed nowto make her suffer one tithe of the agony which he had endured becauseof her treachery. He thought that she had played with him and fooled himin sheer wantonness, and he wished to crush her pride, her youth, hergaiety as she had broken his life and his honour.

  He despised her for what she had done, and longed to let her see thefull 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 willsoon claim my presence, and the world will be quite ready to forgive tothe Duchess of Wessex the sins of Lady Ursula Glynde, especially after achance French arrow had made her free again."

  But it was the very magnitude of the insult which restored to Ursula herself-possession, nor would she let him see now how deeply she waswounded. With her self-control, her dignity also returned to her, andshe 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 mass! the story waswell concocted, and I must congratulate you, fair Bacchante!" He laughedbitterly, ironically. "Your honour threatened! . . . my timelyinterference! . . . and I who feared for the moment you might make fullconfession."

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

  She had drawn nearer to him, and for the first time since thecommencement of this terrible tragedy of errors, one corner of that veilof impenetrable mystery was lifted from before her eyes. She did notmake even a remote guess at the truth as yet, but vaguely she becameaware that she and this man whom she loved were at some deadlycross-purposes, were playing at some horrible hide-and-seek, whereinthey were staking their life and happiness. There was something in hislook which suddenly revealed to that unerring feminine instinct in herthat his bitterness, his cruelty, his insults, had their rise in a heartoverburdened with a hopeless passion. 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 nobly savedhis life, when he must _know_ that she had done it out of disinterestedself-sacrifice.

  _Did he know that?_

  The question struck at her heart with sudden, overwhelming power. Thelook of him, his whole attitude, told her in a vague, undefinable,ununderstandable way that it was _herself_ whom he loved, that hedespised 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 eyesstealing my honour away! . . . mad, indeed! for with a fellow-creature'sblood still warm upon that dainty hand, I long to fall on my knees andcover it with kisses."

  His voice broke almost in a sob now that at last he had given utteranceto that w
hich had weighed on his soul all these days. He loathed hercrime, yet loved her more passionately than before. Oh! eternal mysteryof 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 tosave her whom you loved? . . . did you not suffer disgrace, prepare fordeath, all because of her? . . . Did I not lie for you, give up minehonour . . . mine all for you? . . . Is it I who am mad, my lord, oryou?"

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

  Ursula watched him with wild, burning eyes. Was the truth dawning atlast? She, as the woman, was bent on knowing what lay hidden beneath theexpression of this debasing passion. He, as the man, had fought a battleand lost; he loved her too madly, too completely to tear her out of hislife. His passion _had_ become base; he despised himself now more thanhe had ever despised her, but he could no longer battle against thatoverpowering desire to fold her once more to his heart, to forgive andforget 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 passion, which would haveleft 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 andfor honour.

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

  So accurately had the Cardinal de Moreno calculated his chance of finalsuccess that he himself was able to lead the Queen of England to theGreat Hall for the approaching ceremony, at the very moment when Wessexand Ursula were on the point of understanding one another.

  Ursula had just uttered an energetic and momentous--

  "My lord! . . ."

  She had stepped away from him and was looking him fearlessly in theface, resolved to question and cross-question until she understoodeverything, when the door was suddenly opened and Mary Tudor appeared,escorted by some of her ladies, and accompanied by His Eminence theSpanish envoy.

  It was the stroke of a relentless sword across the Gordian knot whichshe had sought to unravel. She had only just made up her mind to stakeher all upon a final throw of the dice--an explanation with Wessex. Hewas still completely deceived. She could see that what she already morethan guessed he had not even begun to suspect. The idea of a giganticmisunderstanding had not yet entered his brain; she would have broughtit before him, made him understand. . . . And fate suddenly said, No!

  Fate, or that cruel hand which pulled the strings that brought allpuppets forward on this momentous stage? The Cardinal had darted aquick, anxious look on Wessex and then had smiled with satisfaction.Ursula caught both look and smile, and also that sudden hardening of theCardinal's clever face, and knew that her last chance had gone.

  Wessex had seemed relieved when the Queen entered, and Ursula knew thatnever again would she be allowed to see him alone, never again would shebe able to speak to him undisturbed.

  "Nothing flies more quickly than an illusion when it is on the wing!"

  Nothing! . . . save happiness . . . when it begins to slip slowly away,and tired hands are too weak to retain it.