III

It was nearly noon at the Castle of Wresting, and the whole house was

deserted, for the Duke had ridden out at daybreak to the hunt; and all

that could find a horse to ride had gone with him; and, for it was not

far afield, all else that could walk had gone afoot. So bright and

cheerful a day was it that the Duchess had sent out her pavilion to be

pitched in a lawn in the wood, and the Duke with his friends were to

dine there; none were left in the castle save a few of the elder

serving-maids, and the old porter, who was lame. About midday, however,

it seemed that one had been left; for Paul, now a tall man, strongly

built and comely, yet with a somewhat dreamful air, as though he

pondered difficult things within himself, and a troubled brow, under

which looked out large and gentle eyes, came with a quick step down a

stairway. He turned neither to right nor left, but passed through the

porter's lodge. Here the road from the town came up into the castle on

the left, cut steeply in the hill, and you could see the red roofs laid

out like a map beneath, with the church and the bridge; to the right ran

a little terrace under the wall. Paul came through the lodge, nodding

gravely to the porter, who returned his salute with a kind of reverence;

then he walked on to the terrace, and stood for a moment leaning against

the low wall that bounded it; below him lay for miles the great wood of

Wresting, now all ablaze with the brave gold of autumn leaves; here was

a great tract of beeches all rusty red; there was the pale gold of elms.

The forest lay in the plain, here and there broken by clearings or open

glades; in one or two places could be seen the roofs of villages, with

the tower of a church rising gravely among trees. On the horizon ran a

blue line of downs, pure and fine above the fretted gold of the forest.

The air was very still, with a fresh sparkle in it, and the sun shone

bright in a cloudless heaven; it was a day when the heaviest heart grows

light, and when it seems the bravest thing that can be designed to be

alive.

Once or twice, as Paul leaned to look, there came from the wood, very

far away, the faint notes of a horn; he smiled to hear it, and it seemed

as though some merry thought came into his head, for he beat cheerfully

with his fingers on the parapet. Presently he seemed to bethink himself,

and then walked briskly to the end of the terrace, where was a little

door in the wall; he pushed this open, and found himself at the head of

a flight of stone steps, with low walls on either hand, that ran turning

and twisting according to the slope of the hill, down into the wood.

Paul went lightly down the steps; once or twice he turned and looked up

at the grey walls and towers of the castle, rising from the steep green

turf at their foot, above the great leafless trees--for the trees on the

slope lost their leaves first in the wind. The sight pleased him, for he

smiled again. Then he stood for a moment, lower down, to watch the great

limbs and roots of a huge beech that seemed to cling to the slope for

fear of slipping downwards. He came presently to a little tower at the

bottom that guarded the steps. The door was locked; he knocked, and

there came out an old woman with a merry wrinkled face, who opened it

for him with a key, saying, "Do you go to the hunt, Sir Paul?" "Nay," he

said smiling, "only to walk a little alone in the wood." "To make music,

perhaps?" said the old woman shyly. "Perhaps," said Paul smiling, "if

the music come--but it will not always come for the wishing."

As Paul walked in the deep places of the wood, little by little his

fresh holiday mood died away, and there crept upon him a shadow of

thought that had of late been no stranger to him. He asked himself, with

some bitterness, what his life was tending to. There was no loss of

skill in his art; indeed it was easier to him than ever; he had a rich

and prodigal store of music in him, music both of word and sound, that

came at his call. But the zest was leaving him. He had attained to his

utmost desire, and in his art there was nothing more to conquer. But as

he looked round about him and saw all the beautiful chains of love

multiplying themselves about those among whom he lived, he began to

wonder whether he was not after all missing life itself. He saw children

born, he saw them growing up; then they, too, found their own path of

love, they married, or were given in marriage; presently they had

children of their own; and even death itself, that carried well-loved

souls into the dark world, seemed to forge new chains of faith and

loyalty. All this he could say and did say in his music. He knew it, he

divined it by some magical instinct; he could put into words and sounds

the secrets that others could not utter--and there his art stopped. It

could not bring him within the charmed circle--nay, it seemed to him

that it was even like a fence that kept him outside. He looked forward

to a time when his art of itself must fade, when other minstrels should

arise with new secrets of power; and what would become of him then?

He had by this time walked very far into the wood, and as he came down

through a little rise, covered with leafy thickets, he saw before him a

green track, that wound away among the trees. He followed it listlessly.

The track led him through a beech wood; the smooth and shapely stems,

that stood free of undergrowth, thickly roofed over by firm and glossy

autumn foliage, with the rusty fallen floor of last year's leaves

underfoot, brought back to him his delight in the sweet and fresh

world--so beautiful whatever the restless human heart desired in its

presence.

He became presently aware that he was approaching some dwelling, he knew

not what; and then the trees grew thinner; and in a minute he was out in

a little forest clearing, where stood, in a small and seemly garden,

inclosed with hedges and low walls and a moat, a forest lodge, a long

low ancient building, ending in a stone tower.

The place had a singular charm. The ancient battlemented house,

overgrown with ivy, the walls green and grey with lichens, seemed to

have sprung as naturally out of the soil as the trees among which it

stood, and to have become one with the place. He lingered for a moment

on the edge of the moat, looking at a little tower that rose out of the

pool, mirrored softly in the open spaces of the water, among the

lily-leaves. The whole place seemed to have a wonderful peace about it;

there was no sound but the whisper of leaves, and the doves crooning,

in their high branching fastnesses, a song of peace.

As Paul stood thus and looked upon the garden, a door opened, and there

came out a lady, not old, but well advanced in years, with a shrewd and

kindly face; and then Paul felt a sort of shame within him, for standing

and spying at what was not his own; and he would have hurried away, but

the lady waved her hand to him with a courtly air, as though inviting

him to approach. So he came forward, and crossing the moat by a little

bridge that was hard by, he met her at the gate. He doffed his hat, and

said a few words asking pardon for thus intruding on a private place,

but she gave him a swift smile and said, "Sir Paul, no more of this--you

are known to me, though you know me not. I have been at the Duke's as a

guest; I have heard you sing--indeed," she added smiling, "I have been

honoured by having been made known to the prince of musical men--but he

hath forgotten my poor self; I am the Lady Beckwith, who welcomes you

to her poor house--the Isle of Thorns, as they call it--and will deem it

an honour that you should set foot therein; though I think that you came

not for my sake."

"Alas, madam, no," said Paul smiling too. "I did but walk solitary in

the forest; I am lacking in courtesy, I fear; I knew not that there was

a house here, but it pleased me to see it lie like a jewel in the wood."

"You knew not it was here, or you would have shunned it!" said the Lady

Beckwith with a smile. "Well, I live here solitary enough with my

daughters--my husband is long since dead--but to-day we must have a

guest--you will enter and tarry with us a little?"

"Yes, very willingly," said Paul, who, like many men that care not much

for company, was tenderly courteous when there was no escape. So after

some further passages of courtesy, they went within.

The Lady Beckwith led him into a fair tapestried room, and bade him be

seated, while she went to call upon her servants to make ready

refreshments for him. Paul seated himself in an oak chair and looked

around him. The place was but scantily furnished, but Paul had pleasure

in looking upon the old solid furniture, which reminded him of the House

of Heritage and of his far-off boyhood. He was pleased, too, with the

tapestry, which represented a wood of walnut-trees, and a man that sate

looking upon a stream as though he listened; and then Paul discerned the

figure of a brave bird wrought among the leaves, that seemed to sing;

while he looked, he heard the faint sound in a room above of some one

moving; then a lute was touched, and then there rose a soft voice, very

pure and clear, that sang a short song of long sweet notes, with a

descant on the lute, ending in a high drawn-out note, that went to

Paul's heart like wine poured forth, and seemed to fill the room with a

kind of delicate fragrance.

Presently the Lady Beckwith returned; and they sate and talked awhile,

till there came suddenly into the room a maiden that seemed to Paul like

a rose; she came almost eagerly forward; and Paul knew in his mind that

it was she that had sung; and there passed through his heart a feeling

he had never known before; it was as though it were a string that

thrilled with a kind of delicious pain at being bidden by the touch of a

finger to utter its voice.

"This is my daughter Margaret;" said the Lady Beckwith; "she knows your

fame in song, but she has never had the fortune to hear you sing, and

she loves song herself."

"And does more than love it," said Paul almost tremblingly, feeling the

eyes of the maiden set upon his face; "for I heard but now a lute

touched, and a voice that sang a melody I know not, as few that I know

could have sung it."

The maiden stood smiling at him, and then Paul saw that she carried a

lute in her hand; and she said eagerly, "Will you not sing to us, Sir

Paul?"

"Nay," said the Lady Beckwith smiling, "but this is beyond courtesy! It

is to ask a prince to our house, and beg for the jewels that he wears."

The maiden blushed rosy red, and put the lute by; but Paul stretched out

his hand for it. "I will sing most willingly," he said. "What is my life

for, but to make music for those who would hear?"

He touched a few chords to see that the lute was well tuned; and the

lute obeyed his touch like a living thing; and then Paul sang a song of

spring-time that made the hearts of the pair dance with joy. When he had

finished, he smiled, meeting the smiles of both; and said, "And now we

will have a sad song--for those are ever the sweetest--joy needs not to

be made sweet."

So he sang a sorrowful song that he had made one winter day, when he had

found the body of a little bird that had died of the frost and the hard

silence of the unfriendly earth--a song of sweet things broken and good

times gone by; and before he had finished he had brought the tears to

the eyes of the pair. The Lady Beckwith brushed them aside--but the girl

sate watching him, her hands together, and a kind of worship in her

face, with the bright tears trembling on her cheeks. And Paul thought he

had never seen a fairer thing; but wishing to dry the tears he made a

little merry song, like the song of gnats that dance up and down in the

sun, and love their silly play--so that the two smiled again.

Then they thanked him very urgently, and Margaret said, "If only dear

Helen could hear this"; and the Lady Beckwith said, "Helen is my other

daughter, and she lies abed, and may not come forth."

Then they put food before him; and they ate together, Margaret serving

him with meat and wine; and Paul would have forbidden it, but the Lady

Beckwith said, "That is the way of our house--and you are our guest and

must be content--for Margaret loves to serve you." The girl said little,

but as she moved about softly and deftly, with the fragrance of youth

about her, Paul had a desire to draw her to him, that made him ashamed

and ill at ease. So the hours sped swiftly. The maiden talked little,

but the Lady Beckwith had much matter for little speech; she asked Paul

many questions, and told him something of her own life, and how, while

the good Sir Harry, her husband, lived, she had been much with the

world, but now lived a quiet life, "Like a wrinkled apple-tree behind a

house," she added with a smile, "guarding my fruit, till it be plucked

from the bough." And she went on to say that though she had feared, when

she entered the quiet life, the days would hang heavy, yet there never

seemed time enough for all the small businesses that she was fain to do.

When the day began to fall, and the shadows of the trees out of the

forest began to draw nearer across the lawn, Paul rose and said, "Come,

I will sing you a song of farewell and thanks for this day of pleasure,"

and he made them a cheerful ditty; and so took his leave, the Lady

Beckwith saying that they would speak of his visit for many days--and

that she hoped that if his fancy led him again through the wood, he

would come to them; "For you will find an open door, and a warm hearth,

and friends who look for you." So Paul went, and walked through the low

red sunset with a secret joy in his heart; and never had he sung so

merrily as he sang that night in the hall of the Duke; so that the Duke

said smiling that they must often go a-hunting, and leave Sir Paul

behind, for that seemed to fill him to the brim with divine melody.

Now Paul that night, before he laid him down to sleep, stood awhile, and

made a prayer in his heart. It must be said that as a child he had

prayed night and morning, in simple words that Mistress Alison had

taught him, but in the years when he was with Mark the custom had died

away; for Mark prayed not, and indeed had almost an enmity to churches

and to priests, saying that they made men bound who would otherwise be

free; and he had said to Paul once that he prayed the best who lived

nobly and generously, and made most perfect whatever gift he had; who

was kind and courteous, and used all men the same, whether old or young,

great or little; adding, "That is my creed, and not the creed of the

priests--but I would not have you take it from me thus--a man may not

borrow the secret of another's heart, and wear it for his own. All

faiths are good that make a man live cleanly and lovingly and

laboriously; and just as all men like not the same music, so all men are

not suited with the same faith; we all tend to the same place, but by

different ways; and each man should find the nearest way for him."

Paul, after that, had followed his own heart in the matter; and it led

him not wholly in the way of the priests, but not against them, as it

led Mark. Paul took some delight in the ordered solemnities of the

Church, the dark coolness of the arched aisles, the holy smell--he felt

there the nearer to God. And to be near to God was what Paul desired;

but he gave up praying at formal seasons, and spoke with God in his

heart, as a man might speak to his friend, whenever he was moved to

speak; he asked His aid before the making of a song; he told Him when he

was disheartened, or when he desired what he ought not; he spoke to Him

when he had done anything of which he was ashamed; and he told Him of

his dreams and of his joys. Sometimes he would speak thus for half a day

together, and feel a quiet comfort, like a strong arm round him; but

sometimes he would be silent for a long while.

Now this night he spoke in his heart to God, and told him of the sweet

and beautiful hope that had come to him, and asked Him to make known to

him whether it was His will that he should put forth his hand, and

gather the flower of the wood--for he could not even in his secret heart

bring himself that night to speak, even to God, directly about the

maiden; but, in a kind of soft reverence, he used gentle similitudes.

And then he leaned from his window, and strove to send his spirit out

like a bird over the sleeping wood, to light upon the tower; and then

his thought leapt further, and he seemed to see the glimmering maiden

chamber where she slept, breathing evenly. But even in thought this

seemed to him too near, as though the vision were lacking in that awful

reverence, which is the herald of love. So he thought that his spirit

should sit, like a white bird, on the battlement, and send out a quiet

song.

And then he fell asleep, and slept dreamlessly till the day came in

through the casements; when he sprang up, and joy darted into his heart,

as when a servitor fills a cup to the brim with rosy and bubbling wine.

Now that day, and the next, and for several days, Paul thought of little

else but the house in the wood and the maiden that dwelt there. Even

while he read or wrote, pictures would flash before his eye. He saw

Margaret stand before him, with the lute in her hand; or he would see

her as she had moved about serving him, or he would see her as she had

sate to hear him sing, or as she had stood at the door as he went

forth--and all with a sweet hunger of the heart; till it seemed to him

that this was the only true thing that the world held, and he would be

amazed that he had missed it for so long. That he was in the same world

with her; that the air that passed over the house in the wood was

presently borne to the castle; that they two looked upon the same sky,

and the same stars--this was all to him like a delicate madness that

wrought within his brain. And yet he could not bring himself to go

thither. The greater his longing the more he felt unable to go without a

cause; and yet the thought that there might be other men that visited

the Lady Beckwith, and had more of the courtly and desirable arts of

life than he, was like a bitter draught--and so the days went on; and

never had he made richer music; it seemed to rush from his brain like

the water of a full spring.

A few days after, there was a feast at the castle and many were bidden;

and Paul thought in his heart that the Lady Beckwith would perhaps be

there. So he made a very tender song of love to sing, the song of a

heart that loves and dares not fully speak.

When the hour drew on for the banquet, he attired himself with a care

which he half despised, and when the great bell of the castle rang, he

went down his turret stairs with a light step. The custom was for the

guests to assemble in the great hall of the castle; but they of the

Duke's household, of whom Paul was one, gathered in a little chamber off

the hall. Then, when the Duke and Duchess with their children came from

their rooms, they passed through this chamber into the hall, the

household following. When the Duke entered the hall, the minstrels in

the gallery played a merry tune, and the guests stood up; then the Duke

would go to his place and bow to the guests, the household moving to

their places; then the music would cease, and the choir sang a grace,

all standing. Paul's place was an honourable one, but he sate with his

back to the hall; and this night, as soon as he entered the hall, and

while the grace was sung, he searched with his eyes up and down the

great tables, but he could not see her whom he desired to see, and the

joy died out of his heart. Now though the Lords and Knights of the

castle honoured Paul because he was honoured by the Duke, they had

little ease with him; so to-night, when Paul took his place, a Knight

that sate next him, a shrewd and somewhat malicious man, who loved the

talk of the Court, and turned all things into a jest, said "How now, Sir

Paul? You entered to-night full of joy; but now you are like one that

had expected to see a welcome guest and saw him not." Then Paul was

vexed that his thoughts should be so easily read, and said with a forced

smile, "Nay, Sir Edwin, we musical men are the slaves of our moods;

there would be no music else; we have not the bold and stubborn hearts

of warriors born." And at this there was a smile, for Sir Edwin was not

held to be foremost in war-like exercise. But having thus said, Paul

never dared turn his head. And the banquet seemed a tedious and hateful

thing to him.

But at last it wore to an end, and healths had been drunk, and grace

was sung; and then they withdrew to the Presence Chamber, where the Duke

and Duchess sate upon chairs of state under a canopy, and the guests

sate down on seats and benches. And presently the Duke sent courteous

word to Paul that if he would sing they would gladly hear him. So Paul

rose in his place and made obeisance, and then moved to a dais which was

set at the end of the chamber; and a page brought him his lute. But Paul

first made a signal to the musicians who were set aloft in a gallery,

and they played a low descant; and Paul sang them a war-song with all

his might, his voice ringing through the room. Then, as the voice made

an end, there was a short silence, such as those who have sung or spoken

from a full heart best love to hear--for each such moment of silence is

like a rich jewel of praise--and then a loud cry of applause, which was

hushed in a moment because of the presence of the Duke.

Then Paul made a bow, and stood carelessly regarding the crowd; for

from long use he felt no uneasiness to stand before many eyes; and just

as he fell to touching his lute, his eye fell on a group in a corner;

the Lady Beckwith sate there, and beside her Margaret; behind whom sate

a young Knight, Sir Richard de Benoit by name, the fairest and goodliest

of all in the castle, whom Paul loved well; and he leaned over and said

some words in the maiden's ear, who looked round shyly at him with a

little smile.

Then Paul put out all his art, as though to recover a thing that he had

nearly lost. He struck a sweet chord on the lute, and the talk all died

away and left an utter silence; and Paul, looking at but one face, and

as though he spoke but to one ear, sang his song of love. It was like a

spell of magic; men and women turned to each other and felt the love of

their youth rise in their hearts as sweet as ever. The Duke where he

sate laid a hand upon the Duchess' hand and smiled. They that were old,

and had lost what they loved, were moved to weeping--and the young men

and maidens looked upon the ground, or at the singer, and felt the hot

blood rise in their cheeks. And Paul, exulting in his heart, felt that

he swayed the souls of those that heard him, as the wind sways a field

of wheat, that bends all one way before it. Then again came the silence,

when the voice ceased; a silence into which the last chords of the lute

sank, like stones dropped into a still water. And Paul bowed again, and

stepped down from the dais--and then with slow steps he moved to where

the Lady Beckwith sate, and bowing to her, took the chair beside her.

Then came a tumbler and played many agile tricks before them; and then a

company of mummers, with the heads of birds and beasts, danced and

sported. But the Lady Beckwith said, "Sir Paul, I will tell you a tale.

A bird of the forest alighted at our window-sill some days ago, and

sang very sweetly to us--and we spread crumbs and made it a little

feast; and it seemed to trust us, but presently it spread its wings and

flew away, and it comes not again. Tell us, what shall we do to tempt

the wild bird back?" And Paul, smiling in her face, said, "Oh, madam,

the bird will return; but he leads, maybe, a toilsome life, gathering

berries, and doing small businesses. The birds, which seem so free, live

a life of labour; and they may not always follow their hearts. But be

sure that your bird knows his friends; and some day, when he has

opportunity, he will alight again. To him his songs seem but a small

gift, a shallow twittering that can hardly please." "Nay," said the Lady

Beckwith, "but this was a nightingale that knew the power of song, and

could touch all hearts except his own; and thus, finding love so simple

a thing to win, doubtless holds it light." "Nay," said Paul, "he holds

it not light; it is too heavy for him; he knows it too well to trifle

with it."

Then finding that the rest were silent, they two were silent. And so

they held broken discourse; and ever the young Knight spoke in

Margaret's ear, so that Paul was much distraught, but dared not seem to

intervene, or to speak with the maiden, when he had held aloof so long.

Presently the Lady Beckwith said she had a boon to ask, and that she

would drop her parables. And she said that her daughter Helen, that was

sick, had been very envious of them, because she had not heard his

songs, but only a soft echo of them through the chamber floor. "And

perhaps, Sir Paul," she said, "if you will not come for friendship, you

will come for mercy; and sing to my poor child, who has but few joys, a

song or twain." Then Paul's heart danced within him, and he said, "I

will come to-morrow." And soon after that the Duke went out and the

guests dispersed; and then Paul greeted the Lady Margaret, and said a

few words to her; but he could not please himself in what he said; and

that night he slept little, partly for thinking of what he might have

said: but still more for thinking that he would see her on the morrow.

So when the morning came, Paul went very swiftly through the forest to

the Isle of Thorns. It was now turning fast to winter, and the trees had

shed their leaves. The forest was all soft and brown, and the sky was a

pearly grey sheet of high cloud; but a joy as of spring was in Paul's

heart, and he smiled and sang as he went, though he fell at times into

sudden silences of wonder and delight. When he arrived, the Lady

Beckwith greeted him very lovingly, and presently led him into a small

chamber that seemed to be an oratory. Here was a little altar very

seemly draped, with stools for kneeling, and a chair or two. Near the

altar, at the side, was a little door in the wall behind a hanging; the

Lady Beckwith pulled the hanging aside, and bade Paul to follow; he

found himself in a small arched recess, lit by a single window of

coloured glass, that was screened from a larger room, of which it was a

part, by a curtain. The Lady Beckwith bade Paul be seated, and passed

beyond the curtain for an instant. The room within seemed dark, but

there came from it a waft of the fragrance of flowers; and Paul heard

low voices talking together, and knew that Margaret spake; in a moment

she appeared at the entrance, and greeted him with a very sweet and

simple smile, but laid her finger on her lips; and so slipped back into

the room again, but left Paul's heart beating strangely and fiercely.

Then the Lady Beckwith returned, and said in a whisper to Paul that it

was a day of suffering for Helen, and that she could not bear the light.

So she seated herself near him, and Paul touched his lute, and sang

songs, five or six, gentle songs of happy untroubled things, like the

voices of streams that murmur to themselves when the woods are all

asleep; and between the songs he spoke not, but played airily and

wistfully upon his lute; and for all that it seemed so simple, he had

never put more art into what he played and sang. And at last he made the

music die away to a very soft close, like an evening wind that rustles

away across a woodland, and moves to the shining west. And looking at

the Lady Beckwith, he saw that she had passed, on the wings of song,

into old forgotten dreams, and sate smiling to herself, her eyes

brimming with tears. And then he rose, and saying that he would not be

tedious, put the lute aside, and they went out quietly together. And the

Lady Beckwith took his hand in both her own and said, "Sir Paul, you are

a great magician--I could not believe that you could have so charmed an

old and sad-hearted woman. You have the key of the door of the land of

dreams; and think not that I am ungrateful; that you, for whose songs

princes contend in vain, should deign to come and sing to a maiden that

is sick--how shall I repay it?" "Oh, I am richly repaid," said Paul,

"the guerdon of the singer is the incense of a glad heart--and you may

give me a little love if you can, for I am a lonely man." Then they

smiled at each other, the smile that makes a compact without words.

Then they went down together, and there was a simple meal set out; and

they ate together like old and secure friends, speaking little; but the

Lady Beckwith told him somewhat of her daughter Helen, how she had been

fair and strong till her fifteenth year; and that since that time, for

five weary years, she had suffered under a strange and wasting disease

that nothing could amend. "But she is patient and cheerful beneath it,

or I think my heart would break;--but I know," she added, and her mouth

quivered as she spoke, "that she can hardly see another spring, and I

would have her last days to be sweet. I doubt not," she went on, "the

good and wise purposes of God, and I think that he often sends his

bright angels to comfort her--for she is never sad--and when you sing as

you sang just now, I seem to understand, and my heart says that it is

well."

While they spoke the Lady Margaret came into the room, with a sudden

radiance; and coming to Paul she kneeled down beside him, and kissed his

hand suddenly, and said, "Helen thanks you, and I thank you, Sir Paul,

for giving her such joy as you could hardly believe."

There came a kind of mist over Paul's eyes, to feel the touch of the

lips that he loved so well upon his hand; but at the same time it

appeared to him like a kind of sin that he who seemed to himself, in

that moment, so stained and hard, should have reverence done him by one

so pure. So he raised her up, and said, "Nay, this is not meet"; and he

would have said many other words that rushed together in his mind, but

he could not frame them right. But presently the Lady Beckwith excused

herself and went; and then Paul for a sweet hour sate, and talked low

and softly to the maiden, and threw such worship into his voice that she

was amazed. But he said no word of love. And she told him of their

simple life, and how her sister suffered. And then Paul feared to stay

longer, and went with a mighty and tumultuous joy in his heart.

Then for many days Paul went thus to the Isle of Thorns--and the Lady

Margaret threw aside her fear of him, and would greet him like a

brother. Sometimes he would find her waiting for him at the gate, and

then the air was suddenly full of a holy radiance. And the Lady

Beckwith, too, began to use him like a son; but the Lady Helen he never

saw--only once or twice he heard her soft voice speak in the dark room.

And Paul made new songs for her, but all the time it was for Margaret

that he sang.

And they at the castle wondered why Sir Paul, who used formerly to sit

so much in his chamber, now went so much abroad. But he guarded his

secret, and they knew not whither he went; only he saw once, from looks

that passed between two of the maidens, that they spoke of him; and this

in times past might have made him ashamed, but now his heart was too

high, and he cared not.

There came a day when Paul, finding himself alone with the Lady

Beckwith, opened his heart suddenly to her; but he was checked, as it

were, by a sudden hand, for there came into her face a sad and troubled

look, as though she blamed herself for something. Then she said to him,

faltering, that she knew not what to say, for she could not read her

daughter's heart--"and I think, Sir Paul," she added, "that she hath no

thought of love--love of the sort of which you speak. Nay, the maiden

loves you well, like a dear brother; she smiles at your approach, and

runs to meet you when she hears your step at the door"; and then seeing

a look of pain and terror in the face of Paul, she said, "Nay, dear

Paul, I know not. God knows how gladly I would have it so, but hearts

are very strangely made; yet you shall speak if you will, and I will

give you my prayers." And then she stooped to Paul, and kissed his brow,

and said, "There is a mother's kiss, for you are the son of my heart,

whatever befall."

So presently the maiden came in, and Paul asked her to walk a little

with him in the garden, and she went smiling; and then he could find no

words at all to tell her what was in his heart, till she said, laughing,

that he looked strangely, and that it seemed he had nought to say. So

Paul took her hand, and told her all his love; and she looked upon him,

smiling very quietly, neither trembling nor amazed, and said that she

would be his wife if so he willed it, and that it was a great honour;

"and then," she added, "you need not go from us, but you can sing to

Helen every day." Then he kissed her; and there came into his heart a

great wave of tenderness, and he thanked God very humbly for so great a

gift. Yet he somehow felt in his heart that he was not yet content, and

that this was not how he had thought it would fall out; but he also told

himself that he would yet win the maiden's closer love, for he saw that

she loved not as he loved. Then after a little talk they went together

and told the Lady Beckwith, and she blessed them; but Paul could see

that neither was she content, but that she looked at Margaret with a

questioning and wondering look.

Then there followed very sweet days. It was soon in the spring-time of

the year; the earth was awaking softly from her long sleep, and was by

gentle degrees arraying herself for her summer pomp. The primroses put

out yellow stars about the tree roots; the hyacinths carpeted the woods

with blue, and sent their sweet breath down the glade; and Paul felt

strange desires stir in his heart, and rise like birds upon the air; and

when he walked with the Lady Margaret among the copses, or rested awhile

upon green banks, where the birds sang hidden in the thickets, his heart

made continual melody, and rose in a stream of praise to God. But they

spoke little of love; at times Paul would try to say something of what

was in his mind; but the Lady Margaret heard him, sedately smiling, as

though she were pleased that she could give him this joy, but as though

she understood not what he said. She loved to hear of Paul's life, and

the places he had visited. And Paul, for all his joy, felt that in his

love he was, as it were, voyaging on a strange and fair sea alone, and

as though the maiden stood upon the shore and waved her hand to him.

When he kissed her or took her hand in his own, she yielded to him

gently and lovingly, like a child; and it was then that Paul felt most

alone. But none the less was he happy, and day after day was lit for him

with a golden light.