VALENTINE AND HER VENGEANCE
But as he watched, a strange drawn look appeared on the countenance of
Francis Agnew the Scot. And there came that set look to his mouth, which
had enabled him to endure so many things.
"The lad also!" he muttered, "and I had begun to love him!"
For it was not given to Francis Agnew, more than to any other son of
Adam, to divine the good when the appearance is evil. And with his
elbows on his knees he thought of Claire, of her hope deferred, and of
the waiting of the sick heart. She believed this man faithful. And now,
would even her father's return (if ever he did return) make up to her
for this most foul treachery?
To John d'Albret he spoke no further word. He asked no question, as they
rested side by side during the night-watches. The stammered explanation
which the Abbe John began after Valentine's departure was left
unanswered. Francis Agnew had learned a great secret--how to keep
silence. It is an excellent gift.
The ancient, high-piled town loomed up tier above tier, white and grey
and purple under the splendours of the moon. The Abbe John took it in
bit by bit--the black ledges and capes with the old Moorish castles, and
later corsair watch-towers, the flaring _phare_ at the mouth of the
harbour, the huge double swell of the cathedral crowning all, the long
lines of the arch-episcopal palace on the slope, the vineyards and
oliveyards--all stood up blanched and, as it were, blotched in pen and
ink under the silver flood of light and the steady milky blue arch of
the sky. Such was Tarragona upon that night of sleepless silence.
The morning brought a new order, grateful to both.
The armourer of the _Conquistador_ came down, and with file, and rasp,
and pince-monseigneur, he speedily undid the iron belt which had not yet
had time to eat into the flesh. The Abbe John was commanded to go on
shore. During his short time aboard he had made himself a favourite. The
Turk, Ben Hamal, hugged him to his hairy chest and stammered a blessing
in the name of the Prophet. Others here and there wished him good speed,
and looked wistfully at him, even though after John had departed they
shook their heads, and with quick upward motions of their thumbs
imitated the darting flames of the bi-weekly _auto de fe_.
They understood why he was sent for--and envied him.
Only Francis Agnew the Scot said no word, bade no adieu, wished no wish,
gazing steadily at a post on the shore, which to his distorted
imagination took on the shape of a woman dressed in white waiting for
John d'Albret.
Had he only thought, he would have known that to be impossible. But he
did not think--except of Claire, his daughter. And--as he had said--he
had begun to love the lad. So much the worse for him and for all.
* * * * *
It was not upon the shore, but high in the city that the Abbe John found
Valentine la Nina. She awaited him in that secular annex to the palace
of the Archbishop which the great Teres Doria now occupied as Viceroy of
Catalonia. The Archbishop-Governor had put his private cabinet at her
service. One does not say no to the daughters of reigning sovereigns,
when one has served both father and grandfather.
Doria had ordered his valet, a layman with mere servitor's vows to give
him a standing, to assist John d'Albret in his toilet. So before long
the Abbe John found himself in a suit of black velvet, severe and
unbroidered, which fitted him better than it could ever have done the
stouter Don Jacques Casas, for whom it had been made. A sword hung at
his side--a feeble blade and blunt, as John d'Albret ascertained as soon
as he was left a moment alone, but sheathed in a scabbard of price. He
sat still and let the good valet perfume and lave, and comb out his
love-locks, without thinking much of what was coming. His mind was
benumbed and curiously oppressed. Fate planned above his head, shadowy
but unseen. And somehow he was afraid--he knew not why.
Finally all was done. Even Jacques Casas was satisfied, and smiled. The
galley-slave had become a man again.
The cabinet of the Cardinal-Viceroy of Catalonia looked over the city
wall, very nearly at its highest seaward angle, in the place where now
they have pierced a gate, where red-kerchiefed gipsies sit about on
steps, and vagabonds in mauve caps sell snails by measure. But then a
little vice-regal garden fronted the windows, and the ancient walls of
Tarragona, older than the Romans or the Greeks, older than
Carthage--older even than the galleys of Tyre--fell away beneath towards
the sea verges, so solid that to the eye there was little difference
between them and the living rock on which they were founded. The giants
who were in the times before the flood built them, so the townsmen said.
And as no one knows anything about the matter, that opinion is as good
as any other.
The two young people stood regarding each other, silent. The blonde
masses of the girl's hair seemed less full of living gold and fire than
of yore. Perhaps there was a thread or two of grey mingling with the
graciousness of those thick coils and curves. But the great eyes,
coloured like clover-honey dropped from the comb, were moist and
glorious as ever. They had manifestly gained in directness and nobility.
The Abbe John bowed low. Valentine la Nina did not respond. There was,
however, a slight colour on her cheeks of clear ivory. Man born of woman
had never seen that before.
"I have sent for you," said Valentine la Nina, in a low and thrilling
contralto, "I would speak with you! Yet this one time more!"
She put her hand rapidly to her throat, as if something there impeded
her utterance.
"Yes," she continued, swallowing down her emotion with difficulty, "I
would speak with you--it may be for the last time."
After this she was silent a while, as if making up her mind what to say.
Then with a single instinctive mechanical gesture she twitched her long
robe of white and creamy lace behind her. It seemed as if she wanted all
space wide and clear before her for what she had to say and do. Her eyes
devoured those of John d'Albret.
"You--still--love her?" she said, forcing the words slowly from her
lips.
"I love her!" John answered simply. He had nothing to add to that. It
had been said before. Any apology would be an insult to Claire. Sympathy
a deeper insult to the woman before him.
The carmine flush deepened on her cheek. But it was not anger. The girl
was singularly mistress of herself--calm, resolved, clear-seeing.
"Ah," said Valentine la Nina softly, "I expected no other answer. But
still, have you remembered that I once gave you your liberty? How you
lost it a second time, I do not know. Now I am putting all my cards on
the table. I play--hearts only. If I and my love are not worthy of
yours, will you tell me why another, who has done nothing for you, is
preferred to me, who has risked, and am willing to risk everything for
you--life, death, the world, position, freedom, honour, all! Tell me!
Answer me!"
"I loved her first!" said the Abbe John.
"Ah, that too you said before," she cried, with a kind of sigh, "and you
have nothing more to say--I--nothing more to offer. Yet I cannot tell
why it should be so. It seems, in all dispassion, that if I were a man,
I should choose Valentine la Nina. Men--many men--ah, how many men, have
craved for that which I have begged you to accept--not for your vague
princedom, not for your vague hopes, not for your soldier's courage,
which is no rare virtue. But for you--yourself! Because you are you--and
have drawn me, I know not how--I see not where----"
"I do not ask you to obtain my release," said John d'Albret, somewhat
uneasily, "I have no claim to that; but I have on board that ship a
comrade"--here he hesitated--"yes, I will tell you his name, for you are
noble. It is Francis Agnew, her father, he who was left for dead on the
Street of the University by the Guisards of Paris on the Day of the
Barricades. He is now at the same bench as I, in the _Conquistador_----"
"What!" cried Valentine, "not the old man with the white tangled beard I
saw by your side when--when--I saw you?"
"The same," the Abbe John answered her softly.
Then came a kind of glory over the girl's face, like the first certainty
of forgiveness breaking over a redeemed soul. She drew in her breath
sharply. Her hands clasped themselves on her bosom. Then she smiled, but
the bitterness was gone out of the smile now.
"I must see this Claire," she said, speaking shortly and somewhat
sternly to herself; "I must know whether she is worthy. For to obtain
from my father (who will not of his own goodwill call me daughter)--from
Philip the King, I mean--pardon for two such heretics, one of them the
cousin of his chief enemy--I must have a great thing to offer. And such
I have indeed--something that he would almost expend another Armada to
obtain. But, before I decide, I must see Claire Agnew. I must look in
her eyes, and know if she be worthy. Then I will do it. Or, perhaps, she
and I together."
The last words were murmured only.
The Abbe John, who knew not of what she was speaking, judged it prudent
to say nothing.
"Yes--I must know," she went on, still brusquely, "you will tell me
where she is. I will go there. And afterwards I will return to the
Escorial to see my father--Philip the King. Meantime I will speak to the
Duke of Err, and to his mother, as well as to the Viceroy Doria. You
shall abide in Pilate's House down there, where is a prison garden----"
"And my friend?" said John d'Albret.
The girl hesitated a little, and then held out her hand. The young man
took it.
"And your friend!" she said. "There in Pilate's House you must wait, you
two, till I see--till I know that she is worth the sacrifice."
Once again she laughed a little, seeing a wave of joy or perhaps some
more complex emotion sweep over John's face.
"Ah," she cried, with a returning trace of her first bitterness, "you
are certain that she is worthy. Doubtless so for you! But as the
sacrifice is mine--I also must be certain--ah, very certain. For there
is no back-going. It is the end of all things for Valentine la Nina."
She laughed little and low, like one on the verge of hysterics. A nerve
twitched irregularly in her throat under her chin to the right. The pink
came out brighter to her cheek. It was a terrible laugh to hear in that
still place. And the mirthlessness of it--it struck the Abbe John cold.
"This shall be my revenge," she said, fixing him, with flame in her
honey-coloured eyes; "long after, long--oh, so--so long after"--she
waved her arm--"you will know! And you will see that, however much she
has loved you, hers was the love which takes. But mine--ah, mine is
different. Mine is the love which gives--the only true woman's
love--without scant, without measure, without bounds of good or evil,
without thought of recompense, or hope of reward. Love net, unselfish,
boundless, encompassing as the sea, and like a fountain sealed within
the heart of a woman. And then--then you shall remember that when ye
might--ye would not--ah, ye would not!"
A sob tore her throat.
"But one day, or it may be through all eternity, you shall know which is
the greater love, and you shall wish--no, you are a man, you will be
content with the lesser, the more comprehensible, the goodwife warming
her feet by the fire over against yours. There is your ideal. While
I--I--would have carried you beyond the stars!"
The Abbe John took a step nearer her. He had some vague notion of
comforting--not knowing.
But she thrust her arms out furiously as if to strike him.
"Go--go!" she cried, "you are breaking my heart every instant you
remain. Is it not enough, that which you have done? I would be quiet.
They are waiting for you to take you to Pilate's House. But tell me
first where to find this--this Claire Agnew!"
She pronounced the name with difficulty.
"Ah," Valentine continued, when John had told her how she was safe in
Provence, "that is no great way. I shall go and soon return. Then to
Madrid is farther, but easier. But if I suffer--what I must suffer--you
can well abide here a little season. The hope--the future is with you.
For me there is neither--save to do the greatest thing for you that ever
woman did for man! That shall be my revenge."