On the next day, the same day rather, for they sat together in the
laboratory till long after the sun was high, Hilary, to his own
amazement, found that he had an official post in the household of
the young Queen which would keep him continually about her. Indeed,
he had to pack up instantly on being informed of the fact, in order
to follow Fleta to her own dominions. How this had been effected
none could tell—Hilary, least of all, for he saw immediately on
presenting himself in King Otto’s presence that he was regarded by
him with dislike and distrust. Before, Otto had scarcely noticed
him. The present state of things was decidedly a change for the
worse. However, Hilary had already perceived very clearly that to
serve under Fleta was to serve under a hard master. And he had no
longer any kind of choice. Life was inconceivable without
her—without the pain caused by her difficult service. He had rather
suffer that than enjoy any other kind of pleasure. And, indeed,
pleasure, apart from Fleta, did not appear to him to exist.
And yet he was still capable of doubting her.
Fleta had chosen a companion of royal birth to travel with her; a
young duchess who bore the same family name as Fleta herself. This
girl had been reared in a nunnery, and then taken to court, where
she took part in all the pageants and immediately found herself
surrounded by suitors. She was not very pretty, and certainly not at
all clever. To go with Fleta seemed to her delightful, as it would
introduce her to a new court and a fresh series of suitors. It
struck Hilary as quite extraordinary that Fleta should choose this
child as her companion—not that the Duchess was any younger than
Fleta—indeed, they were almost of an age; but Fleta appeared to
carry within her beautiful head the wisdom of centuries, while the
Duchess was a mere school-girl trained in court etiquette.
These three were to travel together in Fleta’s own favourite
travelling carriage. She simply refused to travel with her husband.
When he addressed her on the subject, she merely replied:
“You would weary me; and, moreover, I have work to do.”
And so they started; and as Hilary took his place, he thought of
that strange drive when he and Fleta, and Father Amyot, had been the
three. Recollecting this made him wonder what had become of Father
Amyot; for the priest had not returned to his duties in the city. He
asked Fleta, while the thought was in his mind, why Amyot was not
with her now.
“He is of no use to me,” she answered coldly.
The journey was a very long and a very weary one to Hilary; for the
Duchess, finding no one else to flirt with, insisted upon flirting
with him; while Fleta lay back in her corner of the carriage hour
after hour, with her eyes closed. What was the work she had to do?
Hilary, who had overheard her answer to the King, wondered very
much. And yet, as he watched her intently he saw that her face
changed. It grew darker, more inscrutable, more set in purpose.
Late one evening, and when they were indeed travelling later than
usual, hoping to reach their destination that same night, a curious
thing happened. All day long Fleta had been silent, seemingly buried
in thought; but sometimes when Hilary was watching her he noticed
her lips move as if in speech. He sat opposite her whenever he
could; this was not always possible, as the young Duchess would talk
to him, and the carriage being very large and roomy, he had to
change his position, and go nearer to her in order to carry on a
conversation with any comfort. But as it grew dark the Duchess grew
tired, and leaned back half asleep, for indeed they had had a long
day’s journey.
Hilary withdrew himself to the corner opposite Fleta. It grew so
dark he could no longer see her; they had a swinging-lamp in the
roof of the carriage, but he did not want to light it unless Fleta
wished it so; and, indeed, he longed for the quiet and the darkness
very much. It made him feel more alone with her, he could try to
follow and seize her thoughts then without the perpetual disturbance
of the little Duchess’s quick eyes on him and her light voice in his
ears.
He sat still and thought of Fleta—Fleta herself in her glorious
beauty—sitting there opposite him shrouded by the darkness. He could
endure it no longer—the man rose up in him and asserted itself—he
leaned forward and put his hand upon her. He had scarcely done so
when the Duchess uttered a shrill cry.
“My God!” she exclaimed, in a voice of horror, “who is in the
carriage with us?”
She flung herself across and knelt upon the floor between Hilary and
Fleta; her terror was so great she did not know what she was doing.
Hilary leaned across her and instantly discovered that she was
right—that there was another man in the carriage besides himself.
“Oh, kill him! kill him!” cried the little Duchess, in an agony of
fear; “he is a thief, a murderer, a robber!”
Hilary rose up and precipitated himself upon this person whom he
could not see. A sense of self-defence, of defence of the women with
him, seized him as we see it seize the animals. He discovered that
this man had risen also. Blindly and furiously he attacked him, and
with extraordinary strength. Hilary was young and full of vigour,
but slight and not built like an athlete. Now, however, he seemed to
be one. He found his adversary to be much larger and stronger than
himself.
A fearful struggle followed. The carriage drove on through unseen
scenery as fast as possible; Fleta could have stopped it had she
thrown the window down and cried out to the postilions. But Fleta
remained motionless—she might have fainted, she was so still. The
little Duchess simply cowered on the ground beside her, clinging to
her motionless figure. This terrified girl had not the presence of
mind to think of stopping the carriage, and so obtaining help. She
was too horror-struck to do anything. And, indeed, it was horrible,
for the swaying struggling forms sometimes were right upon the two
women, sometimes at the other side of the carriage; it was a deadly,
horrible, ghastly struggle, all the more horrid for the silence.
There were no cries, no exclamations, for indeed, so far as Hilary
was concerned, he had no breath to spare for them. There were only
gasps, and heavy breathings, and the terrible sound that comes from
a man’s throat when he is fighting for his life. How long this
hideous battle lasted none could tell—Hilary had no idea of the
passage of time. The savage in him had now come so entirely
uppermost and drowned all other consciousness, that his one thought
was he must kill—kill—kill—and at last it was done. There was a
moment when his adversary was below him, when he could use his whole
force upon him—and then came a gasp and an unearthly cry—and
silence.
Absolute silence for a little while. No one moved, no one stirred.
The Duchess was petrified with horror. Hilary had sunk exhausted on
the seat of the carriage—not only exhausted, but bewildered, for a
host of other emotions besides savage fury began to rise within him.
What—who—-was this being he had destroyed? At that moment they were
urged into a gallop, for they were entering the city gates. Hilary
threw down the window next him with a crash. “Lights, lights!” he
cried out, “bring lights.” The carriage stopped, and there was a
crowd immediately at the windows, and the glare of torches fell into
the carriage, making it bright as day. The little Duchess was
crouched in the corner on the ground in a dead faint. Fleta sat up,
strangely white, but calm. Nothing else was to be seen, alive or
dead, save Hilary himself; and so horror-struck was he at this
discovery that he turned and buried his face in the cushions of the
carriage, and he never knew what happened—whether he wept, or
laughed, or cursed—but some strange sound of his own voice he heard
with his ears.
There was a carriage full of servants behind Fleta’s carriage; when
hers stopped so suddenly they all got out and came quickly to the
doors.
“The Duchess has fainted,” said Fleta, rising so as to hide Hilary;
“the journey has been too long. Is there a house near where she can
lie still a little while, and come on later to the palace?”
Immediately offers of help were made, and the servants and those who
were glad to help them carried the poor little Duchess away.
“On to the palace!” cried Fleta, and shut the door and drew down the
blinds. The postilion started the horses with all speed.
Suddenly the blood in Hilary’s body began to surge and burn. Was it
Fleta’s arms that clung round him? Fleta’s lips that printed warm,
living kisses on his neck, his face, his hair? He turned and faced
her.
“Tell me the truth,” he said. “Are you a devil?”
“No,” she answered, “I am not. I want to find my way to the pure
good that governs life. But there are devils about me, and you have
killed one of them to-night. Hush, calm yourself; remember what we
are in the eyes of the world. For we are at the palace door, and
Otto is standing there to receive us.”
She stepped out, the young queen.
Hilary followed her, stumbling, broken. He said he was ill, to those
who spoke to him; and stood staring in wonder at the brilliant sight
before him.