Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “Yes, it is I,” Odette answered roughly. “It is I.”

  “But why? Why are you here? Why you?”

  “To save you, girl,” the Abbess answered. “To save you — do you hear? But every moment is of value. Hold your tongue, ask no questions, do as I tell you, and all may be well. Hesitate, and it will be too late. See, the sun still shines on the head of that tall tree! Before it leaves that tree you must be away from here. Is it true that he weds you to-night?”

  The other uttered a cry of despair. “And for naught!” she said. “Do you understand, for naught! He has not let him go! He lied to us! He has not released him! He holds me, but he will not release him.”

  “And he will not!” the Abbess replied, with something like a jeer. “So, if you would not give all for naught, listen to me! Put some wrapping about your shoulders, and a kerchief on your head to heighten you, and over these my robes and hood. And be speedy! On your feet these” — with a rapid movement she drew from some hiding-place in her garments a pair of thick-soled shoes. “Hold yourself up, be bold, and you may pass out in my place.”

  “In your place?” the girl stammered, staring in astonishment.

  The Abbess had scant patience with her rival’s obtuseness. “That is what I said,” she replied, with a look that was not pleasant in her eyes.

  The Countess saw the look, and, fearful and doubting, hung back. She could not yet grasp the position. “But you!” she murmured. “What of you?”

  “What is that to you?”

  “But — —”

  “Fear nothing for me!” the Abbess cried vehemently. “Think only of yourself! Think only of your own safety. I” — with scorn— “am no weak thing to suffer and make no cry. I can take care of myself. But, there” — impatiently— “we have lost five minutes! Are you going to do this or not? Are you going to stay here, or are you going to escape?”

  “Oh, escape! Escape, if it be possible!” the Countess answered, shuddering. “Anywhere, from him!”

  “You are certain?”

  “Oh, yes, yes! But it is not possible! He is too clever.”

  “We will see if that be so,” the Abbess answered, smiling grimly. And taking the matter into her own hands, she began to strip off her robe and hood.

  That decided the girl. Gladly would she have learned how the other came to be there, and why and to what she trusted. Gladly would she have asked other things. But the prospect of escape — of escape from a fate which she dreaded the more the nearer she saw it — took reality in view of the Abbess’s actions. And she, too, began. Escape? Was it possible? Was it possible to escape? With shaking fingers she snatched up a short cloak, and wrapped it about her shoulders and figure, tying it this way and that. She made in the same way a turban of a kerchief, and stood ready to clothe herself. By this time the Abbess’s outer garments lay on the floor, and in three or four minutes the travesty, as far as the younger woman was concerned, was effected.

  Meantime, while they both wrought, and especially while the Countess, stooping, stuffed the large shoes and fitted them and buckled them on, the Abbess never ceased explaining the remainder of the plan.

  “Go down the stairs,” she said, “and if you have to speak mutter but a word. Outside the door, turn to the right until you come to the gate in the iron railing. Pass through it, cross the court, and go out through the great gate, speaking to no one. Then follow the road, which makes a loop to the left and passes under itself. Descend by it to the market-place, and then to the right until you see the town gate fifty paces before you. At that point take the lane on the left, and a score of yards will show you the horses waiting for you, and with them a friend. You understand? Then I will repeat it.”

  And she did so from point to point in such a way and so clearly that the other, distracted as she was, could not but learn the lesson.

  “And now,” the Abbess said, when all was told, “give me something to put on.” Her beautiful arms and shoulders were bare. “Something — anything,” she continued, looking about her impatiently. “Only be quick! Be quick, girl!”

  “There is only this,” the Countess answered, producing her heavy riding-cloak. “Unless” — doubtfully— “you will put on those.” She indicated the little pile of wedding-clothes, of dainty silk and lace and lawn, that lay upon the window-seat.

  “Those!” the Abbess exclaimed. And she looked at the pile as at a snake. “No, not those! Not those! Why do you want me to put on those? Why should I?” with a suspicious look at the other’s face.

  “If you will not — —”

  “Will not?” — violently. “No, I will not. And why do you ask me? But I prate as badly as you, and we lose time. Are you ready now? Let me look at you.” And feverishly, while she kicked off her own shoes and donned the riding-cloak and drew its hood over her head, she turned the Countess about to assure herself that the disguise was tolerable — in a bad light.

  Then, “You will do,” she said roughly, and she pushed the girl from her. “Go now. You know what you have to do.”

  “But you?” the little Countess ventured. Words of gratitude were trembling on her lips; there were tears in her eyes. “You — what will you do?”

  “You need not trouble about me,” the Abbess retorted. “Play your part well; that is all I ask.”

  “At least,” the Countess faltered, “let me thank you.” She would have flung her arms round the other’s neck.

  But the Abbess backed from her. “Go, silly fool!” she cried savagely, “unless, after all, you repent and want to keep him.”

  The insult gave the needed fillip to the other’s courage. She turned on her heel, opened the door with a firm hand, and, closing it behind her, descended the stairs. The waiting-maid and the grim-faced woman were talking in the passage, but they ceased their gossip on her appearance, and turned their eyes on her. Fortunately the place was ill-lit and full of shadows, and the Countess had the presence of mind to go steadily down to them without word or sign.

  “I hope mademoiselle has succeeded,” the waiting-woman murmured respectfully. “It is not a business I favour, I am sure.”

  The Countess shrugged her shoulders — despair giving her courage — and the grim-faced woman moved to the door, unlocked it, and held it wide. The escaping one acknowledged the act by a slight nod, and, passing out, she turned to the right. She walked, giddily and uncertainly, to the open gate in the railing, and then, with some difficulty — for the shoes were too large for her — she descended the two steps to the court. She began to cross the open, and a man here and there, raising his head from his occupation, turned to watch her.

  CHAPTER XXII.

  A NIGHT BY THE RIVER.

  The Countess knew that her knees were shaking under her. The gaze, too, of the men who watched was dreadful to her. She felt her feet slipping from the shoes; she felt the kerchief, that, twined in her hair, gave her height, shift with the movement; she felt her limbs yielding. And she despaired. She was certain that she could not pass; she must faint, she must fall. Then the scornful words of the woman she had left recurred to her, stung her, whipped her courage once more; and, before she was aware of it, she had reached the gateway. She was conscious of a crowd of men about her, of all eyes fixed on her, of a jeering voice that hummed:

  “Amoureuse,

  Malheureuse,

  J’ai perdu mon gallant!”

  and — and then she was beyond the gate! The cool air blowing in the gorge between the two breasts fanned her burning cheeks — never breeze more blessed! — and with hope, courage, confidence all in a moment revived and active, she began to descend the winding road that led to the town.

  There were men lounging on the road, singly or in groups, who stared at her as she passed; some with thinly-veiled insolence, others in pure curiosity. But they did not dare to address her; though they thought, looking after her, that she bore herself oddly. And she came unmolested to the spot where the road passed under the drawbridge. Here for an instant
sick fear shook her anew. Some of the men in the gateway had come out to watch her pass below; she thought that they came to call her back. But save for a muttered jeer and the voice of the jester repeating slyly:

  “Malheureuse,

  Amoureuse,

  A perdu son gallant!”

  no one spoke; and as pace by pace her feet carried her from them, carried her farther and farther, her courage returned, she breathed again. She came at the foot of the descent, to the carved stone fountain and the sloping market-place. She took, as ordered, the road that fell away to the right, and in a twinkling she was hidden by the turn from the purview of the castle.

  She ventured then — the town seemed to stifle her — to move more quickly; as quickly as her clumsy shoes would let her move on stones sloping and greasy. Here and there a person, struck by something in her walk, turned to take a second glance at her; or a woman in a low doorway bent curious eyes on her as she came and went. She could not tell whether she bred suspicion in them or not, or whether she seemed the same woman — but a trifle downcast — who had passed that way before. For she dared not look back nor return their gaze. Her heart beat quickly, and more quickly as the end drew near. Success that seemed within her grasp impelled her at last almost to a run. And then — she was round the corner in the side lane that had been indicated to her, and she saw before her the horses and the men gathered before the chapel gate. And Roger — yes, Roger himself, with a face that worked strangely and words that joy stifled in his throat, was leading her to a horse and lending his knee to mount her. And they were turning, and moving back again into the street.

  “There is only the gate now,” he muttered, “only the gate! Courage, mademoiselle! Be steady!”

  And the gate proved no hindrance. Though not one moment of all she had passed was more poignant, more full of choking fear, than that which saw them move slowly through, under the gaze of the men on guard, who seemed for just one second to be rising to question them. Then — the open country! The open country with its air, its cool breezes, its spacious evening light and its promise of safety. And quick on this followed the delicious moment when they began to trot, slowly at first and carelessly, that suspicion might not be awakened; and then more swiftly, and more swiftly, urging the horses with sly kicks and disguised spurrings until the first wood that hid them saw them pounding forward at a gallop, with the Countess’s robe flapping in the wind, her kerchief fallen, her hair loosened. Two miles, three miles flew by them; they topped the wooded hill that looked down on Villeneuve. Then, midway in the descent on the farther side, they left the path at a word from Roger, plunged into the scrub and rode at risk — for it was dark — along a deer-trail with which he was familiar. This brought them presently, by many windings and through thick brush, to a spot where the brook was fordable. Thence, in silence, they plodded and waded and jogged along damp woodland ways and through watery lanes that attended the brook to its junction with the river.

  Here, at length, in the lowest bottom of the Villeneuve valley, they halted. For the time they deemed themselves safe; since night had fallen and hidden their tracks, and Vlaye, if he followed, would take the ordinary road. It had grown so dark indeed, that until the moon rose farther retreat was impossible; and though the river beside which they stood was fordable at the cost of a wetting, Roger thought it better to put off the attempt. One of the servants, the man at the Countess’s bridle, would have had him try now, and rest in the increased security of the farther bank. But Roger demurred, for a reason which he did not explain; and the party dismounted where they were, in a darkness which scarcely permitted the hand to be seen before the face.

  “The moon will be up in three hours,” Roger said. “If we cannot flee they cannot pursue. Mademoiselle,” he continued, in a voice into which he strove to throw a certain aloofness, “if you will give me your hand,” he felt for it, “there is a dry spot here. I will break down these saplings and put a cloak over them, and you may get some sleep. You will need it, for the moment the moon is up we must ride on.”

  The snapping of alder boughs announced that he was preparing her resting-place. She felt for the spot, but timidly, and he had to take her hand again and place her in it.

  “I fear it is rough,” he said, “but it is the best we can do. For food, alas, we have none.”

  “I want none,” she answered. And then hurriedly, “You are not going?”

  “Only a few yards.”

  “Stay, if you please. I am frightened.”

  “Be sure I will,” he answered. “But we are in little danger here.”

  He made a seat for himself not far from her, and he sat down. And if she was frightened he was happy, though he could not see her. He was in that stage of love when no familiarity has brought the idol too near, no mark of favour has declared her human, no sign of preference has fostered hope. He had done her, he was doing her a service; and all his life it would be his to recall her as he had seen her during their flight — battered, blown about, with streaming hair and draggled clothes, the branches whipping colour into her cheeks, her small brown hand struggling with her tangled locks. In such a stage of love to be near is enough, and Roger asked no more. He forgot his sister’s position, he forgot des Ageaux’ danger. Listening in the warm summer night to the croaking of the frogs, he gazed unrebuked into the darkness that held her, and he was content.

  Not that he had hope of her, or even in fancy thought of her as his. But this moment was his, and while he lived he would possess the recollection of it. All his life he would think of her, as the monk in the cloister bears with him the image of her he loved in the world; or as the maid remembers blamelessly the lover who died between betrothal and wedding, and before one wry word or one divided thought had risen to dim the fair mirror of her future.

  Alas, of all the dainty things in the world, too delicate in their nature to be twice tasted, none is more evanescent than this first worship; this reverence of the lover for her who seems rather angel than woman, framed of a clay too heavenly for the coarse touch of passion.

  Once before, in the hay-field, he had tried to save her, and he had failed. This time — oh, he was happy when he thought of it — he would save her. And he fell into a dream of a life — impossible in those days, however it might have been in the times of Amadis of Gaul, or Palmerin of England — devoted secretly to her service and her happiness; a beautiful, melancholy dream of unrequited devotion, attuned to the solemnity of the woodland night with its vast spaces, its mysterious rustlings and gurgling waters. Those who knew Roger best, and best appreciated his loyal nature, would have deemed him sleepless for the Lieutenant’s sake — whose life hung in the balance; or tormented by thoughts of the Abbess’s position. But love is of all things the most selfish; and though Roger ground his teeth once and again as Vlaye’s breach of faith occurred to him, his thoughts were quickly plunged anew in a sweet reverie, in which she had part. The wind blew from her to him, and he fancied that some faint scent from her loosened hair, some perfume of her clothing came to him.

  It was her voice that at last and abruptly dragged him from his dream. “Are you not ashamed of me?” she whispered.

  “Ashamed?” he cried, leaping in his seat.

  “Once — twice, I have failed,” she went on, her voice trembling a little. “Always some one must take my place. Bonne first, and now your other sister! I am a coward, Monsieur Roger. A coward!”

  “No!” he said firmly. “No!”

  “Yes, a coward. But you do not know,” she continued in the tone of one who pleaded, “how lonely I have been, and what I have suffered. I have been tossed from hand to hand all my life, and mocked with great names and great titles, and been with them all a puppet, a thing my family valued because they could barter it away when the price was good — just as they could a farm or a manor! I give orders, and sometimes they are carried out, and sometimes not — as it suits,” bitterly. “I am shown on high days as Madonnas are shown, carried shoulder high throug
h the streets. And I am as far from everybody, as lonely, as friendless,” her voice broke a little, “as they! What wonder if I am a coward?”

  “You are tired,” Roger answered, striving to control his voice, striving also to control a mad desire to throw himself at her feet and comfort her. “You will feel differently to-morrow. You have had no food, mademoiselle.”

  “You too?” in a voice of reproach.

  He did not understand her, and though he trembled he was silent.

  “You too treat me as a child,” she continued. “You talk as if food made up for friends and no one was lonely save when alone! Think what it must be to be always alone, in a crowd! Bargained for by one, snatched at by another, fawned on by a third, a prize for the boldest! And not one — not one thinking of me!” pathetically. And then, as he rose, “What is it?”

  “I think I hear some one moving,” Roger faltered. “I will tell the men!” And without waiting for her answer, he stumbled away. For, in truth, he could listen no longer. If he listened longer, if he stayed, he must speak! And she was a child, she did not know. She did not know that she was tempting him, trying him, putting him to a test beyond his strength. He stumbled away into the darkness, and steering for the place where the horses were tethered he called the men by name.

  One answered sleepily that all was well. The other, who was resting, snored. Roger, his face on fire, hesitated, not knowing what to do. To bid the man who watched come nearer and keep the lady company would be absurd, would be out of reason; and so it would be to bid him stand guard over them while they talked. The man would think him mad. The only alternative, if he would remove himself from temptation, was to remain at a distance from her. And this he must do.

  He found, therefore, a seat a score of paces away, and he sat down, his head between his hands. But his heart cried — cried pitifully that he was losing moments that would never recur — moments on which he would look back all his life with regret. And besides his heart, other things spoke to him; the warm stillness of the summer night, the low murmur of the water at his feet, the whispering breeze, the wood-nymphs — ay, and the old song that recurred to his memory and mocked him —