WITHERED ROSES
FOOL You cry in your heart, and perchance again, Fool! Yet for my part I
find his folly in a manner to my liking. I had liefer see a man prodigal
of his gifts, though he bestow them on an unworthy object, than see him
a niggard, grudging in his giving.
But, an’ you would know him truly, he saw not himself as giving,
believed not that he bestowed gifts, believed himself merely the
recipient of them. Wherein the wrong lay verily was that he forgot the
Creator in the created. This you will have doubtless guessed already; it
needs not that I show it you.
An’ you call to mind the prophecy of the old sage, who read the message
of the stars at his birth, you will remember his foretelling; see
Peregrine here the recipient of favours from one of high birth, will
look to their withering like June roses when picked. Now to the manner
of their withering.
* * * * *
It will be found in the chronicles of the Lords of Belisle that in a
certain year of Grace, on the Feast of St. Mary Magdalene, one Count
Bonaventure de Novello came to the Castle, bearing letters from Lord
Robert to his daughter Isabel. It is further shown that he was received
with hospitality, and remained for a time as a favoured guest of the
Castle. The manner of his departure is not so clearly given, but one may
guess that he departed in somewhat lesser favour. Yet it is neither his
departure nor the manner of it that concerns us chiefly, but rather his
arrival and his sojourn.
A comely man this Bonaventure de Novello, so I have heard; of average
height, olive-skinned, and bright-eyed. He could dance, he could sing;
he had moreover a very pretty wit, and a tongue that knew well the
handling of it. Up to a point it stood him in better stead than rapier,
since the tongue may madden more readily than steel; the point passed
the rapier was not lacking in its skill. In the matter of love he made
it not at all, since he got plenty without his making, and scorned it
accordingly. It was the same, I take it, with homage, liking, or any
other favour. Therefore you will see Isabel looking queerly on him at
the first, since it was ever her way to receive willingly rather than to
give. Anon she began to exercise her customary wiles over him. Finding
him none too easy to lure the task absorbed her. We may see Peregrine
forgotten. Here it was that his roses began to wither.
It is no easy task to show you Peregrine at this time. Very silent,
showing his mind to none, one can but guess at it. I fancy he saw at
first in Isabel’s bearing but the natural extra courtesy to a new-comer,
a guest. Found—before a stranger—her apparent indifference towards
himself to be expected. For a time he suffered it gladly, seeing himself
thereby enduring a trifle of hardship for her sake, and at her will.
Anon perplexity dawned upon his soul. A dog look crept into his eyes,
the wonder of a dumb animal who believes he has displeased, yet knows
not the manner of the displeasing; who holds none the less utter faith
in his master. A word, a look at this time would have restored full
buoyancy to his heart. None came, therefore he suffered mutely.
“Truly you possess a very merry Jester,” quoth the Count one day, light
sarcasm in the words.
“A dull fellow,” said Isabel idly.
“He eyes you like a dog at one time fondled, now relegated to the
courtyard,” laughed Bonaventure. Easily uttered, spoken wholly in jest,
the words shot very straight to Isabel’s heart, dyed her face with faint
colour.
“An’ his sire had not been Jester before him, I would have none of him,”
she answered a thought over-readily. “Custom gave him the cap and bells
which he wears, as you perceive, with a very long face.”
Bonaventure laughed again. “An’ but custom gave him the motley, methinks
I would override custom,” he responded. And thereupon turned to other
matters.
His words, however, remained with Isabel. Plainly, she was weary of the
Jester. Body and soul she saw him hers; there was no longer aught to
gain. Also she misliked very heartily the dumb pleading of his eyes.
Weariness turned to impatience, impatience to something akin to anger.
What right had he to stir compunction in her? Her favours were her own
to give or withhold at will. Given, they must be received with
gratitude; withheld, there must be no whining. Yet Peregrine had never
whined; he had, however, looked with the eyes of a dumb dog.
Sitting in her chamber she brooded somewhat sullenly on the matter.
After some space a thought came to her, gradually crystallizing.
Bonaventure might perchance aid her in dealing with the affair. Here she
calculated briefly, lightly. It would entail a slight wandering from the
truth. What then? Truth it happened was of less consideration to her
than ease of mind. From the one thought she turned to others. They
followed each other quickly. Purposing to wrong the Jester, hatred
followed swiftly in its train. There is ever but a step between the two.
Her revolution of feeling towards him being sudden was proportionately
strong. It brought ice to her heart, not heat. This is the more
dangerous, since with it there is no surcharging of the brain to
unbalance thought. Briefly, she would say to Bonaventure, “Rid me of
this man,” yet employ not those words at all. Her request simply put in
other fashion it would remain to see if he accepted it with a like
simplicity, if a dealing that smacks very surely of meanness may be
termed simple.
Being alone with the Count she spoke to him very levelly.
“A while ago you mentioned our long-faced Jester.”
“Truly, Madam, I did,” replied Bonaventure, “yet have small desire to
mention him again. I had as lief dwell on an east wind blight.”
Isabel smiled, then sighed. “An’ my father had not given him the post I
would have none of him. In his absence I like not to oust his servants.”
A very dutiful daughter, she sighed more deeply.
“You would an’ you could?” he queried.
“He hath done no ill,” said Isabel musing. “’Tis wrong of me thus to
mislike him, and foolish truly, since why should I concern myself with
the fellow at all? Yet ’tis, as you say, the east wind blight that
causes me to shiver.”
Bonaventure smiled. Truly the transparency of her desire was very
patent. An’ he would he saw himself giving aid in the matter.
Considering a brief space he decided to take it in hand, this rather
from light mischief than any ill-will towards Peregrine.
“Truly, as you say,” said he solemn-faced, “the fellow has done no ill.
’Twere unjust to hold him to account for a long visage and a hang-dog
look. He is also a peaceable man.”
“Very peaceable,” averred Isabel.
“Then ’tis evident he must bide here, since ’tis your father’s
pleasure.” He looked not at Isabel as he spoke; but she, glancing
side-ways at his face, was by no means so ill-satisfied at what she saw
there. Matters to her mind were put in train.
Feeling them so, pity brought a slight thaw to hatred. Once she smiled
on the Jester, gave her hand to be kissed on the conclusion of a song
that pleased her. Light tokens truly, yet hope springing swift anew to
Peregrine’s heart the subsequent happenings were the more bitter.
* * * * *
One morning Isabel sitting in her chamber heard voices below her window.
The words themselves reached her not, yet the tone was apparent to her.
There was the Count’s smooth, exceeding silky; Peregrine’s holding
exasperation for the moment well controlled.
Seemingly unheeding she yet listened intently. Mary Chester raised
anxious eyes from her embroidery; Leonora calm as her mistress, worked
steadily; Monica, paling, fingered her rosary.
Anon the Count laughed. Light though the sound was it held a stinging
note. Peregrine’s voice rose somewhat harder.
“Madam,” breathed Mary very low some unnamed fear clutching at her
heart.
Isabel looked towards her. “Yes?” she queried, eyebrows raised.
“’Tis naught,” stammered Mary reddening, words halting on her tongue.
“Ah!” The exclamation came from without. Though holding pain, Mary
detected triumph in the sound. She moved very swiftly to the window.
“Madam!” she said again in horror.
“What is it?” asked Isabel quickly.
“The Count Bonaventure lies upon the ground,” stammered Mary. “Methinks
that Peregrine—” she broke off trembling.
Isabel joined her at the window.
“Go below, see to what hath chanced,” she ordered. And to herself she
added, “I pray Count Bonaventure hath not over-reached himself in the
matter.”
Ill news flies very swiftly. Within the space of five minutes the whole
Castle was agog with the happening. Peregrine the Jester had stabbed
Count Bonaventure. True the wound was not over-serious, yet that was
rather by good fortune than by good intention. Some half hour later
Peregrine lay in the cellar; the Count, his wound bound, made light of
the matter.
“I can take it none so easily,” said Isabel hard-eyed.
“The fellow should be hanged,” said Roger March, the captain of the
guard, very bluntly. These were rude times, and Roger a hard-headed
soldier.
“Bah!” laughed Bonaventure ruefully, “’tis no matter for so harsh
dealing.” Already he half-regretted his part in the affair. He liked
Peregrine for his onslaught; saw the tongue a mean weapon to have used
for his provoking.
Isabel’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot overlook it,” she repeated very cold,
seeing opportunity slipping from her.
“Shall he hang, Madam?” asked Roger briefly.
“By the Lord, no,” burst forth the Count. “You will not have a woman
give orders to hang a man. An’ he deserve punishment give him a drubbing
and dismiss him the Castle. So shall all be satisfied,” he added half
maliciously.
Roger looked at Isabel, awaited her pleasure.
“You have heard the Count’s words,” said Isabel very icily. “The injured
may assign his own reward for the injury. I leave the affair.”
Roger March saluted and withdrew.
The Count, by the window, drummed lightly on the sill with his fingers,
looked not at Isabel standing rigid by the hearth. The mental atmosphere
held an unpleasant chill.
Sudden sounds broke the silence; trampling of feet on the stairway,
exclamations of anger.
Isabel and the Count faced about towards the door. The heavy draperies
of the curtain swung aside. Peregrine burst into the room, fell on his
knees before Isabel.
“Madam,” he cried thickly, imploring, “I come to crave pardon. Allot me
what punishment you will, but dismiss me not from your presence.” The
words were out of his lips ere the captain of the guard and two of his
men had gained the chamber. Beyond the swaying curtain was a group of
women with scared faces.
The Count looked at the kneeling figure; the somewhat cynical smile on
his lips was not for it. From the Jester he glanced at Isabel.
“Take the fellow away,” said Isabel.
At the sound of her voice Peregrine looked up at her face. Realization
dawned on him. He got to his feet, staggering like a man dazed with
over-much wine.
“Your will, Madam?” said Roger sternly. He trusted now to find his hands
busy with the rope.
“I have given you my orders already,” said Isabel harshly.
Roger March, grim-faced, led Peregrine away.
The Count looked at Isabel. Meeting her eyes very full he smiled
mockingly.
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