go without an explanation, she was dearer to him than ever, and, as he
sat there with his face in his hands, he knew that if matters went on
as they were going, the time would soon come when he would throw
caution to the dogs and would try the impossible--to win her for his
own. Caution and judgment still sat enthroned, and they told him now
what he knew full well they would not tell him after a short
time--that failure was certain to follow the attempt, and disaster
sure to follow failure. First, the king would, in all probability, cut
off his head upon an intimation of Mary's possible fondness for him;
and, second, if he should be so fortunate as to keep his head, Mary
could not, and certainly would not, marry him, even if she loved him
with all her heart. The distance between them was too great, and she
knew too well what she owed to her position. There was but one thing
left--New Spain; and he determined while sitting there to sail with
the next ship.
The real cause of Brandon's manner had never occurred to Mary.
Although she knew her beauty and power, as she could not help but know
it--not as a matter of vanity, but as a matter of fact--yet love had
blinded her where Brandon was concerned, and that knowledge failed to
give her light as to his motives, however brightly it might illumine
the conduct of other men toward whom she was indifferent.
So Mary was angry this time; angry in earnest, and Jane felt the
irritable palm more than once. I, too, came in for my share of her ill
temper, as most certainly would Brandon, had he allowed himself to
come within reach of her tongue, which he was careful not to do. An
angry porcupine would have been pleasant company compared with Mary
during this time. There was no living with her in peace. Even the king
fought shy of her, and the queen was almost afraid to speak. Probably
so much general disturbance was never before or since collected within
one small body as in that young Tartar-Venus, Mary. She did not tell
Jane the cause of her vexation, but only said she "verily hated
Brandon," and that, of course, was the key to the whole situation.
After a fortnight, this ill-humor began to soften in the glowing
warmth of her heart, which was striving to reassert itself, and the
desire to see Brandon began to get the better of her sense of injury.
Brandon, tired of this everlasting watchfulness to keep himself out of
temptation, and, dreading at any moment that lapse from strength which
is apt to come to the strongest of us, had resolved to quit his place
at court and go to New Spain at once. He had learned, upon inquiry,
that a ship would sail from Bristol in about twenty days, and another
six weeks later. So he chose the former and was making his
arrangements to leave as soon as possible.
He told me of his plans and spoke of his situation: "You know the
reason for my going," he said, "even if I have never spoken of it. I
am not much of a Joseph, and am very little given to running away from
a beautiful woman, but in this case I am fleeing from death itself.
And to think what a heaven it would be. You are right, Caskoden; no
man can withstand the light of that girl's smile. I am unable to tell
how I feel toward her. It sometimes seems that I can not live another
hour without seeing her; yet, thank God, I have reason enough left to
know that every sight of her only adds to an already incurable malady.
What will it be when she is the wife of the king of France? Does it
not look as if wild life in New Spain is my only chance?"
I assented as we joined hands, and our eyes were moist as I told him
how I should miss him more than anyone else in all the earth--excepting
Jane, in mental reservation.
I told Jane what Brandon was about to do, knowing full well she would
tell Mary; which she did at once.
Poor Mary! The sighs began to come now, and such small vestiges of her
ill-humor toward Brandon as still remained were frightened off in a
hurry by the fear that she had seen the last of him.
She had not before fully known that she loved him. She knew he was the
most delightful companion she had ever met, and that there was an
exhilaration about his presence which almost intoxicated her and made
life an ecstasy, yet she did not know it was love. It needed but the
thought that she was about to lose him to make her know her malady,
and meet it face to face.
Upon the evening when Mary learned all this, she went into her chamber
very early and closed the door. No one interrupted her until Jane
went in to robe her for the night, and to retire. She then found that
Mary had robed herself and was lying in bed with her head covered,
apparently asleep. Jane quietly prepared to retire, and lay down in
her own bed. The girls usually shared one couch, but during Mary's
ill-temper she had forced Jane to sleep alone.
After a short silence Jane heard a sob from the other bed, then
another, and another.
"Mary, are you weeping?" she asked.
"Yes."
"What is the matter, dear?"
"Nothing," with a sigh.
"Do you wish me to come to your bed?"
"Yes, I do." So Jane went over and lay beside Mary, who gently put her
arms about her neck.
"When will he leave?" whispered Mary, shyly confessing all by her
question.
"I do not know," responded Jane, "but he will see you before he goes."
"Do you believe he will?"
"I know it;" and with this consolation Mary softly wept herself to
sleep.
After this, for a few days, Mary was quiet enough. Her irritable mood
had vanished, but Jane could see that she was on the lookout for some
one all the time, although she made the most pathetic little efforts
to conceal her watchfulness.
At last a meeting came about in this way: Next to the king's
bed-chamber was a luxuriously furnished little apartment with a
well-selected library. Here Brandon and I often went, afternoons, to
read, as we were sure to be undisturbed.
Late one day Brandon had gone over to this quiet retreat, and having
selected a volume, took his place in a secluded little alcove half
hidden in arras draperies. There was a cushioned seat along the wall
and a small diamond-shaped window to furnish light.
He had not been there long when in came Mary. I can not say whether
she knew Brandon was there or not, but she was there and he was there,
which is the only thing to the point, and finding him, she stepped
into the alcove before he was aware of her presence.
Brandon was on his feet in an instant, and with a low bow was backing
himself out most deferentially, to leave her in sole possession if she
wished to rest.
"Master Brandon, you need not go. I will not hurt you. Besides, if
this place is not large enough for us both, I will go. I would not
disturb you." She spoke with a tremulous voice and a quick, uneasy
glance, and started to move backward out of the alcove.
"Lady Mary, how can you speak so? You know--you must know--oh! I beg
you--" But she interrupted him by taking his arm and drawing him to a
seat beside her on the cushion. She could have drawn down the Colossus
of Rhodes with the look she gave Brandon, so full was it of command,
entreaty and promise.
"That's it; I don't know, but I want to know; and I want you to sit
here beside me and tell me. I am going to be reconciled with you,
despite the way you treated me when last we met. I am going to be
friends with you whether you will or not. Now what do you say to that,
sir?" She spoke with a fluttering little laugh of uneasy
non-assurance, which showed that her heart was not nearly so confident
nor so bold as her words would make believe. Poor Brandon, usually so
ready, had nothing "to say to that," but sat in helpless silence.
Was this the sum total of all his wise determinations made at the cost
of so much pain and effort? Was this the answer to all his prayers,
"Lead me not into temptation"? He had done his part, for he had done
all he could. Heaven had not helped him, since here was temptation
thrust upon him when least expected, and when the way was so narrow he
could not escape, but must meet it face to face.
Mary soon recovered her self-possession--women are better skilled in
this art than men--and continued:
"I am not intending to say one word about your treatment of me that
day over in the forest, although it was very bad, and you have acted
abominably ever since. Now is not that kind in me?" And she softly
laughed as she peeped up at the poor fellow from beneath those
sweeping lashes, with the premeditated purpose of tantalizing him, I
suppose. She was beginning to know her power over him, and it was
never greater than at this moment. Her beauty had its sweetest
quality, for the princess was sunk and the woman was dominant, with
flushed face and flashing eyes that caught a double luster from the
glowing love that made her heart beat so fast. Her gown, too, was the
best she could have worn to show her charms. She must have known
Brandon was there, and must have dressed especially to go to him. She
wore her favorite long flowing outer sleeve, without the close fitting
inner one. It was slit to the shoulder, and gave entrancing glimpses
of her arms with every movement, leaving them almost bare when she
lifted her hands, which was often, for she was as full of gestures as
a Frenchwoman. Her bodice was cut low, both back and front, showing
her large perfectly molded throat and neck, like an alabaster pillar
of beauty and strength, and disclosing her bosom just to its shadowy
incurving, white and billowy as drifted snow. Her hair was thrown back
in an attempt at a coil, though, like her own rebellious nature, it
could not brook restraint, and persistently escaped in a hundred
little curls that fringed her face and lay upon the soft white nape of
her neck like fluffy shreds of sun-lit floss on new cut ivory.
With the mood that was upon her, I wonder Brandon maintained his
self-restraint even for a moment. He felt that his only hope lay in
silence, so he sat beside her and said nothing. He told me long
afterwards that while sitting there in the intervals between her
speech, the oddest, wildest thoughts ran through his brain. He
wondered how he could escape. He thought of the window, and that
possibly he might break away through it, and then he thought of
feigning illness, and a hundred other absurd schemes, but they all
came to nothing, and he sat there to let events take their own course
as they seemed determined to do in spite of him.
After a short silence, Mary continued, half banteringly: "Answer me,
sir! I will have no more of this. You shall treat me at least with the
courtesy you would show a bourgeoise girl."
"Oh, that you were only a burgher's daughter."
"Yes, I know all that; but I am not. It can't be helped, and you shall
answer me."
"There is no answer, dear lady--I beg you--oh, do you not see--"
"Yes, yes; but answer my question; am I not kind--more than you
deserve?"
"Indeed, yes; a thousand times. You have always been so kind, so
gracious and so condescending to me that I can only thank you, thank
you, thank you," answered Brandon, almost shyly; not daring to lift
his eyes to hers.
Mary saw the manner quickly enough--what woman ever missed it, much
less so keen-eyed a girl as she--and it gave her confidence, and
brought back the easy banter of her old time manner.
"How modest we have become! Where is the boldness of which we used to
have so much? Kind? Have I always been so? How about the first time I
met you? Was I kind then? And as to condescension, don't--don't use
that word between us."
"No," returned Brandon, who, in his turn, was recovering himself, "no,
I can't say that you were very kind at first. How you did fly out at
me and surprise me. It was so unexpected it almost took me off my
feet," and they both laughed in remembering the scene of their first
meeting. "No, I can't say your kindness showed itself very strongly in
that first interview, but it was there nevertheless, and when Lady
Jane led me back, your real nature asserted itself, as it always does,
and you were kind to me; kind as only you can be."
That was getting very near to the sentimental; dangerously near, he
thought; and he said to himself: "If this does not end quickly I shall
have to escape."
"You are easily satisfied if you call that good," laughingly returned
Mary. "I can be ever so much better than that if I try."
"Let me see you try," said Brandon.
"Why, I'm trying now," answered Mary with a distracting little pout.
"Don't you know genuine out-and-out goodness when you see it? I'm
doing my very best now. Can't you tell?"
"Yes, I think I recognize it; but--but--be bad again."
"No, I won't! I will not be bad even to please you; I have determined
not to be bad and I will not--not even to be good. This," placing her
hand over her heart, "is just full of 'good' to-day," and her lips
parted as she laughed at her own pleasantry.
"I am afraid you had better be bad--I give you fair warning," said
Brandon huskily. He felt her eyes upon him all the time, and his
strength and good resolves were oozing out like wine from an
ill-coppered cask. After a short silence Mary continued, regardless of
the warning:
"But the position is reversed with us; at first I was unkind to you,
and you were kind to me, but now I am kind to you and you are unkind
to me."
"I can come back at you with your own words," responded Brandon. "You
don't know when I am kind to you. I should be kinder to myself, at
least, were I to leave you and take myself to the other side of the
world."
"Oh! that is one thing I wanted to ask you about. Jane tells me you
are going to New Spain?"
She was anxious to know, but asked the question partly to turn the
conversation which was fast becoming perilous. As a girl, she loved
Brandon, and knew it only too well, but she knew also that she was a
princess, standing next to the throne of the greatest kingdom on
earth; in fact, at that time, the heir apparent--Henry having no
children--for the people would not have the Scotch king's imp--and the
possibility of such a thing as a union with Brandon had never entered
her head, however passionate her feelings toward him. She also knew
that speaking a thought vitalizes it and gives it force; so, although
she could not deny herself the pleasure of being near him, of seeing
him, and hearing the tones of his voice, and now and then feeling the
thrill of an accidental touch, she had enough good sense to know that
a mutual confession, that is, taking it for granted Brandon loved her,
as she felt almost sure he did, must be avoided at all hazards. It was
not to be thought of between people so far apart as they. The brink
was a delightful place, full of all the sweet ecstasies and thrilling
joys of a seventh heaven, but over the brink--well! there should be no
"over," for who was she? And who was he? Those two dreadfully stubborn
facts could not be forgotten, and the gulf between them could not be
spanned; she knew that only too well. No one better.
Brandon answered her question: "I do not know about going; I think I
shall. I have volunteered with a ship that sails in two or three weeks
from Bristol, and I suppose I shall go."
"Oh, no! do you really mean it?" It gave her a pang to hear that he
was actually going, and her love pulsed higher; but she also felt a
sense of relief, somewhat as a conscientious house-breaker might feel
upon finding the door securely locked against him. It would take away
a temptation which she could not resist, and yet dared not yield to
much longer.
"I think there is no doubt that I mean it," replied Brandon. "I should
like to remain in England until I can save enough money out of the
king's allowance to pay the debt against my father's estate, so that I
may be able to go away and feel that my brother and sisters are secure
in their home--my brother is not strong--but I know it is better for
me to go now, and I hope to find the money out there. I could have
paid it with what I lost to Judson before I discovered him cheating."
This was the first time he had ever alluded to the duel, and the
thought of it, in Mary's mind, added a faint touch of fear to her
feeling toward him.
She looked up with a light in her eyes and asked: "What is the debt?
How much? Let me give you the money. I have so much more than I need.
Let me pay it. Please tell me how much it is and I will hand it to
you. You can come to my rooms and get it or I will send it to you. Now
tell me that I may. Quickly." And she was alive with enthusiastic
interest.
"There now! you are kind again; as kind as even you can be. Be sure, I
thank you, though I say it only once," and he looked into her eyes
with a gaze she could not stand even for an instant. This was growing
dangerous again, so, catching himself, he turned the conversation
back into the bantering vein.
"Ah! you want to pay the debt that I may have no excuse to remain? Is
that it? Perhaps you are not so kind after all."
"No! no! you know better. But let me pay the debt. How much is it and
to whom is it owing? Tell me at once, I command you."
"No! no! Lady Mary, I cannot."
"Please do. I beg--if I cannot command. Now I know you will; you would
not make me _beg_ twice for anything?" She drew closer to him as she
spoke and put her hand coaxingly upon his arm. With an irresistible
impulse he took the hand in his and lifted it to his lips in a
lingering caress that could not be mistaken. It was all so quick and
so full of fire and meaning that Mary took fright, and the princess,
for the moment, came uppermost.
"Master Brandon!" she exclaimed sharply, and drew away her hand.
Brandon dropped the hand and moved over on the seat. He did not speak,
but turned his face from her and looked out of the window toward the
river. Thus they sat in silence, Brandon's hand resting listlessly
upon the cushion between them. Mary saw the eloquent movement away
from her and his speaking attitude, with averted face; then the
princess went into eclipse, and the imperial woman was ascendant once
more. She looked at him for a brief space with softening eyes, and,
lifting her hand, put it back in his, saying:
"There it is again--if you want it."
Want it? Ah! this was too much! The hand would not satisfy now; it
must be all, all! And he caught her to his arms with a violence that
frightened her.
"Please don't, please! Not this time. Ah! have mercy, Charl--Well!
There!... There!... Mary mother, forgive me." Then her woman spirit
fell before the whirlwind of his passion, and she was on his breast
with her white arms around his neck, paying the same tribute to the
little blind god that he would have exacted from the lowliest maiden
of the land. Just as though it were not the blood of fifty kings and
queens that made so red and sweet, aye, sweet as nectar thrice
distilled, those lips which now so freely paid their dues in coined
bliss.
Brandon held the girl for a moment or two, then fell upon his knees
and buried his face in her lap.
"Heaven help me!" he cried.
She pushed the hair back from his forehead with her hand and as she
fondled the curls, leaned over him and softly whispered:
"Heaven help us both; for I love you!"
He sprang to his feet. "Don't! don't! I pray you," he said wildly, and
almost ran from her.
Mary followed him nearly to the door of the room, but when he turned
he saw that she had stopped, and was standing with her hands over her
face, as if in tears.
He went back to her and said: "I tried to avoid this, and if you had
helped me, it would never--" But he remembered how he had always
despised Adam for throwing the blame upon Eve, no matter how much she
may have deserved it, and continued: "No; I do not mean that. It is
all my fault. I should have gone away long ago. I could not help it; I
tried. Oh! I tried."
Mary's eyes were bent upon the floor, and tears were falling over her
flushed cheeks, unheeded and unchecked.
"There is no fault in any one; neither could I help it," she murmured.
"No, no; it is not that there is any fault in the ordinary sense; it
is like suicide or any other great, self-inflicted injury with me. I
am different from other men. I shall never recover."
"I know only too well that you are different from other men, and--and
I, too, am different from other women--am I not?"
"Ah, different! There is no other woman in all this wide, long world,"
and they were in each other's arms again. She turned her shoulder to
him and rested with the support of his arms about her. Her eyes were
cast down in silence, and she was evidently thinking as she toyed with
the lace of his doublet. Brandon knew her varying expressions so well
that he saw there was something wanting, so he asked:
"Is there something you wish to say?"
"Not I," she responded with emphasis on the pronoun.
"Then is it something you wish me to say?"
She nodded her head slowly: "Yes."
"What is it? Tell me and I will say it."
She shook her head slowly: "No."
"What is it? I cannot guess."
"Did you not like to hear me say that--that I--loved you?"
"Ah, yes; you know it. But--oh!--do you wish to hear me say it?"
The head nodded rapidly two or three times: "Yes." And the black
curving lashes were lifted for a fleeting, luminous instant.
"It is surely not necessary; you have known it so long already, but I
am only too glad to say it. I love you."
She nestled closer to him and hid her face on his breast.
"Now that I have said it, what is my reward?" he asked--and the fair
face came up, red and rosy, with "rewards," any one of which was worth
a king's ransom.
"But this is worse than insanity," cried Brandon, as he almost pushed
her from him. "We can never belong to each other; never."
"No," said Mary, with a despairing shake of the head, as the tears
began to flow again; "no! never." And falling upon his knees, he
caught both her hands in his, sprang to his feet and ran from the
room.
Her words showed him the chasm anew. She saw the distance between them
even better than he. Evidently it seemed farther looking down than
looking up. There was nothing left now but flight.
He sought refuge in his own apartments and wildly walked the floor,
exclaiming, "Fool! fool that I am to lay up this store of agony to
last me all my days. Why did I ever come to this court? God pity
me--pity me!" And he fell upon his knees at the bed, burying his face
in his arms, his mighty man's frame shaking as with a palsy.
That same night Brandon told me how he had committed suicide, as he
put it, and of his intention to go to Bristol and there await the
sailing of the ship, and perhaps find a partial resurrection in New
Spain.
Unfortunately, he could not start for Bristol at once, as he had given
some challenges for a tournament at Richmond, and could furnish no
good excuse to withdraw them; but he would not leave his room, nor
again see "that girl who was driving him mad."
It was better, he thought, and wisely too, that there be no
leave-taking, but that he should go without meeting her.
"If I see her again," he said, "I shall have to kill some one, even if
it is only myself."
I heard him tossing in his bed all night, and when morning came he
arose looking haggard enough, but with his determination to run away
and see Mary no more, stronger than ever upon him.
But providence, or fate, or some one, ordered it differently, and
there was plenty of trouble ahead.
_CHAPTER VIII_
_The Trouble in Billingsgate Ward_
About a week after Brandon's memorable interview with Mary an incident
occurred which changed everything and came very near terminating his
career in the flower of youth. It also brought about a situation of
affairs that showed the difference in the quality of these two persons
thrown so marvelously together from their far distant stations at each
end of the ladder of fortune, in a way that reflected very little
credit upon the one from the upper end. But before I tell you of that
I will relate briefly one or two other matters that had a bearing upon
what was done, and the motives prompting it.
To begin with, Brandon had kept himself entirely away from the
princess ever since the afternoon at the king's ante-chamber. The
first day or so she sighed, but thought little of his absence; then
she wept, and as usual began to grow piqued and irritable.