Love Among the Ruins

by Warwick Deeping

  IX

  Faith, golden crown of the Christian! Self-mesmerism, subtle alchemy ofthe mind! How the balance of belief swings between these twain!

  A spiritual conception born in a woman's brain is as a savour of richspices sweetening all the world. How great a power of obstinacy stirsin one small body! A pillar of fire, a shining grail. She will bringforth the finest gems that hang upon her bosom, the ruby of heroism, thesapphire of pity. She will cast all her store of gold into the lap ofFate. Give to her some radiant dream of hope, and she may prove themost splendid idealist, even if she do not prove a wise one. Rememberthe women who watched about the Cross of Christ.

  There had been trickery in the miracle, a tinge of flesh in the vision.The Virgin, in the ruck of religion, had suffered herself to bepersonated by a clever little "player" from Gilderoy, aided andidealised by a certain notorious charlatan who dealt in magic, was notabove aiding ecclesiastical mummeries on occasions, and conspiring forthe solemn production of miracles. A priest's juggling box, a secretdoor at the back of the altar used in bygone days for the manipulationof a wonder-working image, musicians, incense, and Greek fire. Thesehad made the portent possible. As for Fulviac, rugged plotter, he wasas grave as an abbot over the business; his words were wondrousbeatific; he spoke of the interventions of Heaven with bated breath.

  It was a superstitious age, touched with phantasy and gemmed with magic.Relics were casketed in gold and silver; holy blood amazed with yearlyliquefactions the souls of the devout; dreamers gazed into mirrors,crystals, finger-nails, for visions of heaven. Jewels were poured inscintillant streams at the white feet of the Madonna. It was all donewith rare mysticism, colour, and rich music. The moon ruled marriage,corn, and kine. The saints, like a concourse of angels, walked withmelancholy splendour through the wilds.

  As for the girl Yeoland, she had the heart of a woman in the noblestmeasure, a red heart, pure yet passionate. The world waxed propheticthat shrill season. She was as full of dreams and phantasies as anastrologer's missal. Nothing amazed her, and yet all earth wasmysterious. The wind spoke in magic syllables; the trees were oracular;the stars, white hands tracing symbols in the sky. She was borne aboveherself on the pinions of ecstasy, heard seraph wings sweep the air, sawthe glimmer of their robes passing the portals of the night. Mysticismmoved through the world like the sound of lutes over a moonlit sea.

  One March morning, Fulviac came to her in the northern chamber of thecliff. Yeoland had masses of scarlet cloth and threads of gold upon herknees, for she was broidering a banner, the banner of the Maid ofGilderoy. Her eyes were full of violet shadow. She wore a cross overher bosom, emeralds set in silver; a rosary, dangling on her wrist, toldhow her prayers kept alternate rhythm with her fingers. Fulviac crookedthe knee to the crucifix upon the wall, sat down near her on a richbench of carved cedar wood.

  The man was in a beneficent mood, and beamed on her like a lusty summer.He had tidings on his tongue, tidings that he hoarded with the craft ofan epicure. It was easy to mark when the world trundled well with hishumour. He put forth smiles like a great oak whose boughs glisten inthe sun.

  "You will tire yourself, little sister."

  She looked at him with one of her solemn glances, a glance that spoke ofvigils, soul-searchings, and prayer.

  "My fingers tire before my heart," she said to him.

  "Rest, rest."

  "Do I seem weary to you?"

  "Nay, you are fresh as the dawn."

  He brushed back the tawny hair from off his forehead, and the linesabout his mouth softened.

  "I have news from the west."

  "Ah!"

  "We gather and spread like fire in a forest. The mountain men are withus, ready to roll down from the hills with hauberk and sword. In twomonths Malgo will have sent the bloody cross through all the west."

  The golden thread ran through the girl's white fingers; the beads of herrosary rattled; she seemed to be weaving the destiny of a kingdom intothe device upon her banner.

  "How is it with us here?" she asked him.

  "I have a thousand stout men and true camped upon the cliff. Levies arecoming in fast, like steel to a magnet. In a month we shall outbulk aRoman legion."

  "And Gilderoy?"

  "Gilderoy and Geraint will give us a score thousand pikemen."

  "The stars fight for us."

  Fulviac took her lute from the carved bench and began to thrum thechords of an old song.

  "Spears crash, and swords clang, Fame maddens the world. Come battle and love. Iseult-- Ah, Iseult."

  He broke away with a last snap at the strings, and set the lute aside.

  "Bear with me," he said.

  Her dark eyes questioned him over her banner.

  "I offer you the first victim."

  "Ah!"

  "Flavian of Gambrevault."

  An indefinite shadow descended upon the girl's face. The inspiredradiance seemed dimmed for the moment; the crude realism of her thoughtsrang in discord to her dreams. She lost the glimmering thread from herneedle. Her hands trembled a little as she played with the scarlet foldsof the banner.

  "Well?"

  "A lad of mine bears news--a black-eyed rogue from the hills ofCarlyath, sharp as a sword's point, quaint as an elf. I sent himgleaning, and he has done bravely. You would hear his tale from his ownlips?"

  She nodded and seemed distraught.

  "Yes. Bring him in to me," she said.

  Fulviac left her, to return with a slim youth sidling in behind him likea shadow. The lad had a nut-brown skin and ruddy cheeks, a pair oftwinkling eyes, a thatch of black hair over his forehead. Bred amid thehills of Carlyath, where the women were scarlet Eves, and the land aparadise, he had served in Gilderoy as apprentice to an armourer.Carlyath's wilds and the city's roguery had mingled in him fantasticstrains of extravagant sentiment and cunning. Half urchin, half elf, hestood with bent knees and slouched shoulders, his black eyes alert onFulviac, his lord.

  The man thrust him forward by the collar, with an eloquent gesture.

  "The whole tale. Try your wit."

  The Carlyath lad advanced one foot, and with an impudent southern smirk,remarked--

  "This, madame, is an infatuated world."

  Thus, sententiously delivered, he plunged into a declamation with apicturesque and fanciful extravagance that he had imbibed from thestrolling romancers of his own land.

  "In the city of Gilderoy," he said, speaking very volubly and with manygestures, "there lives a lady of surpassing comeliness. Her eyes are asthe sky, her cheeks as June roses, her hair a web of gold. She is aright fair lady, and daily she sits at her broad casement, singing, andplaiting her hair into shackles of gold. She has bound the Lord Flavianof Gambrevault in a net starred with poppies, scarlet poppies of thefield, so that he ever dreams dreams of scarlet, and sees visions oflips warm as wine. Daily the Lord Flavian scours the country betweenAvalon and the fair city of Gilderoy, till the very dust complains ofhis fury, and the green grass curses his horse's heels. But the ladywith the hair of gold compasses him like the sunset; she has stolen theeyes of heaven, and the stars are blind."

  Fulviac smiled over the extreme subtlety of the rendering. It was adelicate matter, delicately handled. The Carlyath lad had wit, and amost seraphic tongue.

  "What more?"

  "There is yet another lady at Avalon."

  "Well?"

  "A lady whose name is Duessa, a lady with black hair and a blackertemper. Lord Flavian has a huge horror of her tongue. Therefore herides like a thief, without trumpets, to Gilderoy."

  "Yet more."

  The lad spread his hands with an inimitable gesture, shrugged, andheaved a most Christian sigh.

  "The Lady Duessa is the Lord Flavian's wife," he said.

  "Surely."

  "Therefore, sire, he is a coward."

  The lad drew back with a bow and a scrape of the foot, keeping his e
yeson the floor with the discretion of a veteran lackey. At a sign fromFulviac, he slipped away, and left Yeoland and the man alone.

  The girl's hands were idle in her lap; the great scarlet banner trailedin rich folds about her feet. There was a white mask of thought uponher face, and her eyes searched the distance with an oblivious stare.All the strong discords of the past rushed clamorous to her brain; herconsecrated dreams were as so many angels startled by the assaults ofhell.

  She rose from her chair, cast the casement wide, and stood gazing overthe forest. Youth seemed in the breeze, and the clear voice of theSpring. The green woods surged with liberty; the strong zest of lifebreathed in their bosoms. In the distance the pines seemed to beckon toher, to wave their caps in windy exultation.

  Fulviac had stood watching her with the calm scrutiny of one wise in thepassionate workings of the soul. He suffered her to possess herthoughts in silence for a season, to come by a steady comprehension ofthe past. Presently he gathered the red banner, and hung it on theframe, went softly to her and touched her sleeve.

  "Shall they kill him on the road?" he asked.

  She pondered a moment, and did not answer him.

  "It is easy," he said, "and a matter of sheer justice."

  The words seemed to steel her decision.

  "No," she said, "let them bring him here--to me."

  "So be it," he answered her.

  Fulviac found her cold and taciturn, desirous of solitude. He humouredthe mood, and she was still staring from the window when he left her.The woodland had melted before her into an oblivious mist. In its steadshe saw a tower flaming amid naked trees, a white face staringheavenwards with the marble tranquillity of death.