THE CASTING OF THE NET
LOYALTY holding Brigid silent concerning certain matters between her and
the Lady Isabel, we, owing none, may well probe somewhat further, though
doubtless the manner of the happening is already patent to you.
Isabel had found discovery exceeding unpleasant to her mind. A hidden
good disclosed may irk men somewhat, a hidden evil disclosed will irk
them very surely. Isabel brooked it not at all. Anger possessed her
soul. Hereafter she would ever see reproach in the girl’s eyes, read
condemnation in her very silence. So unpleasant a state of things was
assuredly not to be suffered. Nor was it discovery alone that displeased
her. Conscience pricking tardily showed her that night’s work as very
ill. Compunction in a manner was present with her, yet no true sorrow.
Desirous of forgetting it she was willing to profit by what knowledge it
had brought her. Yet forgetfulness were impossible with Brigid’s eyes to
remind her of it.
Her spirit rebelled at the thought. She would have all men see in her
the perfection she desired them to perceive. An’ she could not lull
Brigid’s mind to a like forgetfulness, wake once more in her the full
homage she believed ever to have received of her, she desired her
presence no longer. There was the matter very plainly. It lay wholly
between her and the girl. The warfare—for such after a manner it
became—had place in private. It was of brief duration. To outward
seeming Isabel was the victor, yet to my thinking it was Brigid who had
triumphed, since never for an instant had Isabel’s will gained the
mastery over hers.
A faint whisper of evil, very subtly set afloat, caused the court to
look askance at her. Some few cried, “I cannot believe it,” yet rather
in false piety than as true statement of disbelief. Certainly the evil
remained unproven, since none sought to prove it, caring little in the
matter. As for Brigid, the whisper was too faint to gain her ears. Later
it grew somewhat louder, when she was beyond its reach. Then it was left
to Mary Chester to defend her, which she did right royally.
In the small hours of the morning Brigid rode away, the sun not far
above the horizon, the dew yet heavy on the grass. Pippo, his arms full
of flowers he had culled for her from the garden, was at the postern
gate to watch her depart.
“God keep you,” he said as she took his flower burden from him.
Peregrine using the salutation at times he now used it himself, though
shyly.
“God keep you too, Pippo,” she said, smiling her thanks for his gift.
Anon, turning in her saddle, she waved her hand to him. Mary Chester’s
friendship, and Pippo’s bright face were her pleasantest memories of the
life she was leaving. Here, too, were the child’s flowers in her arms.
Thus she rode away to Sangdieu, as we have seen.
* * * * *
Isabel rejoiced at her departure, felt herself free for the matter she
had in hand. Throwing aside all thought of a certain night that June,
she yet retained in part the memory of the words then given her.
“That which thou dost desire is above thee. Yet must thou stoop to
attain it.”
On the further speech she did not care to dwell. This utterance sufficed
her. Quick-witted, she saw very clearly the significance therein. It
behooved her merely to act upon it. Here was a delicate matter,
requiring careful handling. She had no mind to see herself caught in the
meshes she would spread for another, a thing just possible to her shrewd
thinking. She must throw the light cords deftly, that no breath of fancy
should recoil them on herself. This, for all the seeming poetry of the
task, would require an exceeding level head, a cool and very calculating
judgment.
With care she conned the part she saw herself about to play, marked her
entrance with the meshes, made very sure of her exits. Having it to her
mind at her finger tips she waited for Chance to set the stage.
To leave matters to Chance is at times to leave matters half way to the
Devil. An’ he is so minded he will come the other half to meet them.
Verily to my thinking he did so now, took them in hand and arranged them
with age-old skill, exceeding simply. And to this purpose he used a
garden for his first setting.
* * * * *
Isabel walking in the garden one morning of soft air and sunshine saw
Peregrine by the sundial. A favourite position this for our Jester.
Seating herself on the stone balustrade of the terrace she raised her
hand, beckoned him to her. He came, stood before her, his eyes alight
like a child’s who has been called by a close friend.
“I am weary,” she said softly.
“Truly, Madam!” quoth Peregrine very astonished. Here was no day for
weariness. Sun-kissed, splendid in light and colour, the earth breathed
vitality and joy.
“Of my own company,” said Isabel, smiling at his look.
“Madam,” stammered Peregrine, “I will fetch your women to you.”
She laughed outright very musically. “That is like to a man,” she said.
“An’ they were here I were none the less weary.” She fetched a little
sigh.
“Madam,” said Peregrine troubled.
She looked across the moorland, sadness in her eyes. “Aye,” she said on
a faint note of bitterness, “soul-weary.”
“Madam,” said Peregrine for the third time, any word but the one hard to
find.
“Methinks,” she said very low, “that the loneliness of a woman seemingly
surrounded by many friends is a very bitter loneliness. She looks for
understanding and finds it not. Those she has counted as truest to her
may ofttimes play her false, revile her, and leave her. Yet to revile in
turn were ill done. She must smile when her heart is sore; laugh when
her spirit is bruised and bleeding, lest she bring sadness into other
lives.” She stopped.
“Madam,” said Peregrine very earnestly, anger towards Brigid in his
soul, “there is at least one heart would suffer death gladly for your
sake.”
“Ah,” she smiled sadly, “at times I have dreamed so. Yet where can I put
trust? They offer me homage with their lips yet none with their hearts.
Outwardly they speak me fair, inwardly they see me shallow. Do you think
me shallow, Peregrine?” Here was a note of pleading as from a child.
“Never,” said Peregrine hotly.
She looked at him very strangely. “An’ you speak so with your heart in
your voice it tempts me to believe you. You are Jester, Peregrine; yet
methinks the fool’s motley but hides the heart of a loyal man. Is it so,
Peregrine?” She lingered on the name.
“Madam,” said Peregrine, the heart in question beating very hotly, “it
beats in your service alone.”
“You, too, are lonely?”
“Madam, it was so at one time.”
“And now?”
“Since you have shown me favour, since you have deigned to see the man
beneath the motley, my heart has been too full for loneliness.”
“I think,” she said softly, musing, “we understand each other very well.
It is strange, is it not, it should be so? I, Isabel de Belisle, and you
a Jester, the meanest of my household, so men would say, and we hold a
bond of understanding between us. Let us not heed what men would say. I
have told you they see me very shallow. ’Tis sweet to me to think you
believe it not. Shall we keep our understanding a secret between us,”
she held out her hand.
Dropping on one knee he kissed it very humbly. Had she demanded his soul
from him at that instant he had given it, believing it were better in
her keeping than in his own. Perchance she had spoken again, but Mary
Chester came softly across the grass, saw the two with eyes faintly
troubled.
* * * * *
Hereafter there were days of sweet glamour for Peregrine. That he was
understood he had guessed before in part, as we have seen. Here now were
the words from his lady’s very lips. Of all those who did her service
none knew her as he knew her, none saw the depths beneath the sparkling
surface, none saw the heart-loneliness beneath the radiant smile.
Days followed on days, outwardly the same, yet holding many an exchange
of glances, many a tender half-uttered sigh, now and again an unwatched
meeting. There were hours in her chamber when he sang to her among her
women, each word holding a meaning known to the two alone; hours in the
garden in the full radiance of sun and colour, when every bird that
sang, when every flower that bloomed poured benediction on them;
and—quintessence of joy—rare solitary meetings, when heart spoke freely
to heart in low tender words. Small wonder he forgot all else in the
thought of her. Even Pippo’s artless companionship became at times
burdensome to him.
So she lured him on, saw the white flame of his adoration turn to red
with the fuel of her giving. And softly day by day she threw closer
meshes round his soul. Unsuspecting, it struggled not at all, made no
attempt to escape.
Isabel smiled. The Devil, who had set the stage, I am very sure laughed.
At Sangdieu Brigid prayed.
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