OF HOW MY LADY PLAYED DELILAH--CONTINUED
AS I crossed the broad terrace, looking neither to the right nor left,
the moon flung my dark shadow upon the gravel path and the soft night
wind stole through the silent gardens and fanned my face. But my eyes
were blind to the beauties of the silvery landscape, light as day
itself, and of the starry heavens above me; for it was my lady! my
lady! ever my lady! that was my one recurring thought--the sum total of
my reflections.
For the time being I was as one distraught, bewitched, indeed, by
the spell her beauty had cast upon me. Wild, fleeting visions of the
future rose before my eyes. With the fall of the Stuart the old order
had changed; who knew what might occur under the new? A good sword
coupled with brains might carry a man far upon the road to success
in these unsettled times. He who was poor to-day might yet aspire to
climb the ladder which led to fame, providing that he was prepared
to grasp the means of rising or had wit enough to rightly use his
opportunities. Many a man, indeed, dated the foundation of his fortunes
to the Revolution, and received a title in reward for his services.
Then why not I? The former requisite for success I knew that I already
had. I believed that I possessed the brains, or the experience of years
of wandering had been in vain. And afterwards----? I had no settled
purpose in my brain; all was a chaos, through which my lady’s face
alone shone, beckoning me upward.
That William would be successful in the coming struggle I had not
the slightest doubt. I knew the man well, for I had fought under
him in Flanders; and though, in the light of future history, he may
not be considered as a great soldier in the same sense as were his
contemporaries, Turenne and Luxembourg, yet he possessed a genius for
snatching victory out of defeat. As for James, with the infatuated
imbecility that characterised him throughout every great crisis of his
career, he had taken no pains to keep up the discipline of his troops
during the past winter, wasting his time with his so-called Court at
Dublin whilst his army spread over the surrounding country, committing
every species of rapine and plunder. One thing above all was plain to
me: Ireland at the present time was the field that offered scope for a
man’s ambition. There, when blows would shortly be exchanged notice was
to be won and promotion achieved. Little did I guess that the battle
of the Boyne had already been lost and won, and that even now the
mean-spirited James was in full flight for France, after reproaching
his army with the cowardice which his own folly had principally
engendered.
’Twas in meditating thus that I came at length to the entrance of
the rose garden and halted beneath the arch of yew. Before me the
fountain gleamed white in the moonlight that flooded all the open space
surrounding and flung fantastic shadows of the closely-cropped trees
upon the grass. In the distance came faintly to my ears the murmur of
the sea, and the gardens around me were full of the voices of the night.
I crossed quickly to the fountain, and even before I reached it I saw
the object of my errand lying upon the marble basin. It was in all
respects a dainty fan--a thing of painted silk and ivory, with the
perfume of violets yet clinging to it, and with my lady’s monogram in
gold upon the handle. I lingered for a few moments, holding it in my
hand, recalling again the face of its beautiful owner, and pondering
upon our late conversation.
Then with a settled purpose in my mind, I retraced my steps by way of
the terraces, and so to the house. I found my lady seated in the same
room where I had left her. She looked up quickly when I entered and
thanked me prettily in a few low-spoken words. The colour had deepened
in her cheeks, and I noticed that the hand which she held out for her
fan was slightly trembling. But I would have none of her thanks.
“Do not thank me, madam, for so slight a service,” I said quickly. “I
would do far more to pleasure your ladyship, a proof of which I am
about to give you.” I drew from my breast the folded paper, which I
had placed there before leaving the inn. “This paper,” I began slowly,
gazing straight at my lady, who had risen in sudden agitation, “of
which I took possession in this very hall, under certain circumstances
that I doubt not are still fresh in your ladyship’s memory, and that
bore a dangerous resemblance to conspiracy, is folded as you see it
was folded when it came into my hands.”
She did not seem to comprehend the full significance of my words or to
grasp my meaning. I paused for a moment, and continued more slowly: “Am
I wrong in supposing this paper to contain the names of a few gallant
but misguided gentlemen who favour the cause of James?”
“You should best know, sir,” she replied in a low voice.
“No, my lady,” I answered quietly; “that is where you are wrong. I do
not know the contents of this paper, because I have not opened it.”
Still she gazed at me as if she did not understand. On a sudden she
drew a step nearer, and I saw the colour fade from her face. Doubtless
until this moment she had thought that I had already made use of
it--had placed it in the hands of the authorities.
“You--you have not opened it?” she said in a troubled voice.
“No, madam,” I answered. “Scarcely can I expect you to believe me, yet
on my honour as a gentleman it is the truth.”
“Then--then--you mean----” she faltered, resting both hands upon the
table and leaning forward, probing my eyes as if she would read my soul.
I met her gaze unflinchingly.
“The names that this paper contains are known to you, madam?” I replied
quietly.
“Yes,” she whispered; and I saw that she was trembling.
“Then, my lady,” I answered firmly, stepping to the table and holding
the paper in the flame of the nearest candle until only a little
feathery ash remained, “I give the lives of these gentlemen to you.
Your secret is your own.”
“You give them to me, sir?” she cried passionately. “You do this for
me? Ah, Mr. Cassilis, why do you shame me so?”
“How, madam?” I said, totally at a loss to understand her words. “Shame
you?”
“Yes, yes--shame me,” she continued in the same passionate tone, “by
this that you have done for me; by the forbearance that you have shown
towards me--towards one who is unworthy----”
“My lady,” I cried, “unworthy?”
“Oh,” she continued, “if you would not believe in me; if you knew
all--if you knew!” She broke off and laughed a trifle wildly. “Ah,
forget my foolish words!”
“Say, rather, that it will be my happiness to remember them, madam,”
I replied gravely; though I confess that I was puzzled at her marked
agitation, for which, so far as I could see, there was no adequate
reason. “And do not think that I blame you for your devotion to the
cause of James. Were there many among his adherents as courageous as
yourself, we should speedily see the Stuart back at Whitehall. Though
in the accomplishment of this object you have not my sympathy, yet the
very boldness of the scheme by which you hoped to effect a rising in
this county cannot but command my admiration. The very hopelessness
of imagining that you could succeed in the face of William’s settled
government would appeal to any soldier.”
“And you who wear his uniform--you to whom these men were enemies--can
yet find it in your heart to spare them?” she said in a low voice.
I took two steps towards her.
“Nay, do not credit me with a generosity which a nature such as mine is
incapable of forming. A month ago I would have sent these men to death
and recked little of the doing, save, indeed, to count it to my credit.
Shall I tell your ladyship why I have not done so?”
She made a faint gesture of protest, but I took no heed and continued:
“Because I knew that your name headed the list, madam.” And I stopped,
overcome by my own temerity.
She had moved to the window while I was speaking, and her face was
turned from me. I could not guess what thoughts were passing through
her brain, but I fancied that I saw her shoulders heave. Yet she made
no reply, though I waited almost trembling for the words that did not
come.
“I can feel but little sympathy for men who required a woman’s name to
stimulate them to action,” I said at length. “On your part it was a
brave deed to do, though a foolish one. Yet had I been in your place,
doubtless I, too, should have considered that the end justified the
means.”
“Ah,” she cried, turning swiftly to face me, “say those words again! Do
you think that, Mr. Cassilis? Do you indeed believe that?”
“What, madam?” I answered, smiling.
“That--that the end justifies the means?” she said almost fiercely.
“Surely that is true, is it not?”
“Providing always that the means employed be honourable, madam,” I
replied.
“And if not?” she cried quickly. “What if--if I--had given my word--had
pledged myself to a certain course--then----”
“I think that the thing is too monstrous for supposition,” I replied
firmly. “That aught dishonourable and you could have anything in common
is beyond conception.”
Again she turned away to the window, and stood looking over the
park. In the silence that followed it was not without a certain
guilty surprise that I heard the church clock strike ten. Suddenly I
remembered my promise to the sergeant.
“I regret that I must take leave of you, madam,” I said hastily. “I was
unaware that the hour had grown so late.”
“You must leave me so soon, Mr. Cassilis?” she said, with a reproachful
glance. “I was hoping that you would tell me somewhat of your life
abroad.”
“And believe me sincere when I say that it is not from any choice of
mine that I cannot stay to gratify your curiosity, madam,” I replied.
“To-morrow, should you be of the same mind, I shall count myself
fortunate in relating the experiences of a life that has been mostly
spent in roving the cities of the Continent. To-night it is impossible,
for a soldier’s first obedience is to duty.”
“Do not let me detain you, sir,” she answered somewhat coldly, turning
slowly from the window and moving towards the stair.
“I trust, madam,” I said humbly, anxious not to lose her good opinion,
“that you are not offended by my abrupt departure?”
“How should that be, Mr. Cassilis?” she replied graciously. “Are we not
friends?”
I bowed low to conceal the exultation her words caused me, and then,
taking my hat and cloak, I advanced to the table for my pistols. On a
sudden I was startled by a low cry of pain from behind me. I turned
swiftly at the sound. My lady had stumbled upon the lowest step and
had fallen forward upon her hands. She recovered her feet almost
immediately, but only to lean with half-closed eyes against the carved
oak balustrade.
“Are you ill, madam?” I cried anxiously, crossing quickly to her side.
“No, no, it is nothing, sir,” she gasped. “Only my foot slipped, and
my wrist--I am afraid that it is sprained.” And again a piteous little
moan that was almost a sob escaped her lips.
“Let me summon assistance, madam,” I said hastily, stepping to the door.
“No, no,” she cried again, “I beg that you will not, sir. Indeed, it is
nothing, and I would not alarm my--my sister.”
“Yet I fear that you are in pain, my lady,” I said, pausing
irresolutely, my hand upon the handle.
“It will pass, sir,” she answered bravely. “It is foolish of me, and
you will think me a great coward, Mr. Cassilis, but I would not cause
unnecessary alarm; and if--if I may rest here for a moment, until this
faintness is passed----”
As she spoke she moved somewhat unsteadily across the floor and sank
again into the chair with a long-drawn, shuddering sigh she strove in
vain to suppress.
I stood gazing at her, torn by conflicting emotions. It was growing
late and I had already broken my word to the sergeant; yet, almost as
if she divined my thoughts, she raised her head.
“Are you still there, sir?” she said in a low voice, with a quiver as
of pain in it. “Ah, let me beg of you to leave me!” And she leaned her
head upon her hand so that I could no longer see her face--to hide her
tears, I fancied.
I flung my cloak and hat from me and returned slowly to her side. She
was a woman and in pain. I could do no less.
“Since that you do not desire me to call your women, madam,” I said
hesitatingly, “if you would permit me to look at your wrist myself. I
am possessed of some slight knowledge of surgery,” I continued, growing
bolder at her silence--“a knowledge acquired by many years’ familiarity
with wounds and sickness in foreign lands.”
She did not make any reply to this, nor even a gesture of dissent. I
waited for a few moments in silence.
“May I, madam?” I said at length, in a voice I strove to render steady.
“If you would be so good, sir,” she murmured.
With my heart beating furiously, I sank upon one knee beside her and
gently took her white hand in both my own strong brown ones. Gently as
I raised it, however, at my touch I saw a tremor of pain pass through
her.
It was with momentary surprise that as she turned her face swiftly
towards me I noted there were no traces of tears upon her cheeks, but
that her eyes were hard and glittering. Yet I was in no condition to
remark upon this at the time, for the warm touch of her hand rendered
me scarcely less agitated than she was for some reason herself. As I
gazed at the soft, white wrist and jewelled fingers resting quietly in
mine, in the silence of the room I could hear the loud beating of my
own heart, and I know that my hands were trembling.
For now that I was in such near proximity to her, I fell beneath the
spell of her wondrous beauty, as many a better man, I ween, had done
before me. So close, indeed, was I, that a fold of her rich gown swept
my knee--so close that I could mark every heave of her white bosom as
it rose and fell stormily; and the perfume of her presence was in my
nostrils.
In that moment, with the lovely, flower-like face in its frame of gold
so close to mine, I forgot my promise to the sergeant--the lateness of
the hour--the difference of rank--my duty--all!
Kneeling there at her feet, I would have given up honour, life--nay,
my very hope of heaven itself, to do her pleasure. Madness, you will
say. Aye, such madness as moved the first unhappy parent of our
race--madness which women will inspire till time shall be no more.
Something of what was passing in my mind must have appeared in my face,
for my lady shrank back a little and made as if to withdraw her hand;
and at that I bent my head to hide my tell-tale eyes and made a brief
examination of her wrist. There was no sign of bruise upon the white,
rounded arm--such an arm as Venus herself might have envied, where the
blue veins meandered beneath a skin as soft as velvet.
“I do not think that the injury sustained is serious, madam,” I said
after a few moments. “Nevertheless, it were well to avoid using your
hand as much as possible until it has been seen by your own physician.”
As I was speaking, I took the silken scarf that I wore at my throat and
deftly bound it round her wrist, in the manner that I had watched a
little French surgeon do the like for me, when an unlucky fall from my
horse had once kept my sword within its sheath for well-nigh a month.
“There, madam,” I said in a low voice, tying the ends of the scarf
into a bow, “I think that for the present, at least, that bandage
will serve, for fault of a better one.” And, moved by a sudden
uncontrollable impulse, I raised her hand to my lips.
Again a quick shudder passed through her, and with a low, startled cry
she snatched away her hand almost roughly and rose quickly to her feet.
And I rose, too, and our eyes met.
“Ah, forgive me, madam!” I said humbly. “I fear that my roughness has
hurt you. Yet God knows how willingly I would bear your pain.”
“Yes, yes,” she cried passionately, “I am in pain, but not as you
think, sir. It is your solicitude for me, your generous care for me,
that hurts me--that brands me to-night with shame. And yet--and yet--”
she muttered, passing her hand across her brow, “you have said that the
end justifies the means. They were your own words, sir.”
“With a qualification, madam,” I said quietly.
She raised her hand with a gesture of entreaty.
“Spare me!” she cried, with increased agitation. “Do not add by your
words to the sense of infamy I feel. Perhaps even yet it is not too
late--perhaps--ah!----” She broke off with a sudden gasp and I saw the
colour had forsaken her face.
Thinking nothing but that the faintness had returned to her, I took a
step hurriedly towards her. But in a moment I realised that she was not
looking at me, but that her gaze was rivetted upon something behind my
back.
I turned swiftly to glance at the open window. And there a sight met my
eyes that caused me to pause in genuine astonishment.
I have already said that above the trees of the park rose the square
Norman tower of the church; and now upon the summit of the tower a
bright light suddenly flashed, that grew momentarily in volume, until
a broad sheet of flame ascended into the sky. Some one had kindled a
fire upon the church tower--for what? One object, and one alone, was
possible. It was a signal. And even as I gazed, upon the still night
air came the sound of two shots fired in quick succession--aye, and
following hard upon them a dozen straggling reports--and then silence.
But with those reports the instincts of the soldier returned to me.
There was danger, then--danger at the village--and I was not there to
share!
I stood for a moment summing up all the possibilities of the situation;
and in that moment a dozen or more lanterns broke from the woodland
path that led to the village, and a little crowd of dark figures, with
here and there the moonlight giving back the flash of steel, made
straight for the terrace. At that my brain cleared with lightning
rapidity, and turning swiftly, I snatched my pistols from the table.
Was it force of habit merely, or some dim suspicion of the truth that
caused me to bend closer to look at them in the light of the candles?
A single glance was sufficient. The flints had been removed--the
weapons were useless! I stood staring at them in dull perplexity; and
then I raised my eyes and they fell upon my lady.
She was standing upon the hearth, erect and motionless, both hands
pressed against her bosom, gazing at me with a strange expression, half
fearful, half defiant, as if some secret struggle were raging in her
breast. She did not speak; there was no need for words. In her face,
her attitude, I received the full confirmation of my suspicions--read
the truth in all its naked hideousness.
Now I remembered all too late that I had left my spare flints in my
holsters. Now I understood only too well for what purpose my lady had
left her fan in the garden, who it was that had tampered with the
weapons in my hands. With a sickening feeling of despair I realised
that all this time she had been but playing a part, had been the lure
to keep me from the village while they worked their will upon the men
whom I commanded. Her graciousness, her altered demeanour towards me,
had been but assumed--part of the snare into which, despite my boasted
knowledge of the world, I had fallen as easily as any rustic Corydon.
On a sudden, still with her eyes on mine, my lady slowly raised
her injured arm. Slowly, slowly, she raised it, then with a quick,
passionate gesture she tore the bandage from her wrist and flung it
into the empty grate behind her. That broke the spell.
With a long-drawn, shivering breath I recovered my composure. “God
forgive you, madam,” I said quietly; “for I believe that you have
sent me to my death.” And without further word or glance at her, I
threw my useless pistols upon the floor at her feet, and, drawing my
sword, stepped through the open window. But as I set foot upon the
terrace I realised to the full my danger; for upon turning to the left,
intending, if possible, to reach the stables, I saw the steward and the
youth Martin advancing from their direction, and the moonlight shone
upon the barrels of the muskets in their hands. They raised a shout at
my sudden appearance, but they dared not fire, for I was between them
and their friends advancing from the opposite end of the terrace, who
now, indeed, were within a hundred feet of me. And before me was the
moat, which even if I could by any means clear (and my heavy riding
boots rendered the chance more than doubtful), to cross the open lawns
exposed to their shot was but to court certain death.
Moreover, small desire of escape was there in my heart; for so stung
was I by the knowledge of my lady’s treachery and of my own disgrace,
that I was minded to die rather, and so to hide my shame. How after
this could I face my comrades, with the knowledge that I had betrayed
the trust reposed in me, and, despite my age and experience, had been
tricked, cozened, cheated by a woman, like the veriest country clown.
A little to my right two buttresses projecting from the wall offered
security from all save a frontal attack. Between these I ensconced
myself and awaited my enemies with the desperate determination of
selling my life as dearly as possible. In a moment they were around
me--a score or more of the hardier rogues from the village, armed for
the most part with pitchforks and scythe blades lashed to poles, and
led by Sir Rupert Courtenay, my lady’s cousin.
Seeing me standing there, stern and motionless, they came to a sudden
halt, and the shouts with which they had before greeted my appearance
died away to silence.
“Give up your sword, sir,” said the young baronet sharply. “Your
troopers are in our hands and resistance is futile.”
At that I put aside the thrust of a scythe blade from the man who was
nearest to me, at the same time slashing him across the wrist, and
as the knaves drew back a little, not relishing their reception, I
condescended to give him an answer.
“On guard, sir,” I said through my set teeth. “Unless, indeed, you
prefer to stand by and let your followers murder me. Undoubtedly it is
your safest course.”
For a moment he hesitated, thinking, I make no doubt, of the fair girl
who awaited him within the house, or perhaps he knew my reputation with
the sword, that had made older men pause ere provoking me; but the
sneering laugh with which I accompanied my last words caused him to
flush with shame, as I had so intended.
“By heaven, no!” he burst out. “If you are bent on being killed,
captain, I will oblige you. And you others, stand back. I have already
an account to settle with this gentleman.”
And as, obedient to his command, they drew back a little on either
side, leaving us a clearer space to wield our weapons, he sprang
impetuously forward, and our blades clashed together. Yet scarcely had
we exchanged a dozen passes ere my lady’s voice rang high above the
music of our swords.
“Do not kill him! do not kill him!” she cried.
Whether it was that her sudden appearance within the circle, or that
the events of the night had unstrung my nerves and robbed my hand of
its cunning, I do not know. But on a sudden my sword wavered, and in
that brief instant my opponent’s blade slipped within my guard and his
point pierced my left breast. Yet still for a moment I did not fall. I
staggered, indeed, against the wall, but my brain was so clear that
the whole scene was printed indelibly upon my memory. The moonlight
falling upon the ring of encircling faces, the young baronet staring
stupidly at his encrimsoned blade, scarce crediting his victory, and,
lastly, my lady’s white, stricken face, as, wide-eyed, she gazed at the
fast reddening circle on my breast.
Suddenly the silence was broken by the sharp click of her fan as it
fell upon the gravel walk.
“Madam,” I said huskily, taking two steps toward her, with earth and
sky rocking in one red mist before my eyes, “you have dropped your fan;
permit me to restore it to you.” And I fell heavily at her feet.