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, enclosed 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 springtime 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 warlike

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

daïs 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 daïs--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 too 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 springtime 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.