“Well, my heart,” said the king, as he strode through the door of the
Sunny Chamber.
With a keen glance he took in all that was to be seen. The woodwork of
the walls and floors that were polished and polished again until they
shone like crystal. The great carved chairs, each placed at the same
prim distance from the other and from the wall; and the skins and furs
that formed geometrical patterns and gradations of colour on the floor.
Conachúr shook his head as he regarded.
“Methodical,” he said, as he sat down.
“Orderly, master,” she corrected gently.
“It is a woman’s room,” he insisted. “No man could live in it.”
“No man does,” said the humble dame.
“And by merely entering I have ruined it already,” the king continued
in a grievous tone; “I have kicked three rugs out of alignment,” he
said ruefully.
“It is a small matter,” said Lavarcham.
“I am certain that your heart is ill at ease, and although your hands
are folded they are twitching to restore these rugs; rearrange them if
you must, my good friend.”
“If the king permits me,” she cried joyfully, and with a few deft
touches she replaced the rugs.
“You may sit down,” said the king. “And now, where is this baby you
deafen the world about?”
Lavarcham clapped her hands, and, to the servant who appeared in the
doorway--
“Tell your mistress, Deirdre, that she is required immediately--and do
not tell her that a visitor is with me, or woe betide you.”
The servant disappeared.
Conachúr looked at her quizzically.
“The girl does not know that I was coming?”
Lavarcham pursed her lips.
“I have not mentioned it to her.”
The king, with his elbow on his knee, continued to regard her mockingly.
“Is it that you are careful or careless, my friend?”
“I am careful, master. I am always careful,” she replied.
“But,” he continued gently, “she will not be apparelled so as to be
looked on by a visitor.”
“She will be seen as she would be seen any hour of any day, and thus it
will be known, master, that Lavarcham does her duty.”
“You are the wonder of Emania,” said Conachúr. “I hear a step,” he
continued, and, removing his elbow from his knee, he stretched out a
great leg and turned towards the door.
Deirdre entered like a whirlwind of legs and laughter, and, seeing a
huge man staring at her, she halted as if she had been stopped by a
wall, whirled about and would have vanished again but that Lavarcham’s
voice restrained her.
“The king has come to visit us, my pulse,” said the suave Lavarcham.
The blood pounded into Deirdre’s heart and into her temples; for
an instant her body seemed to be filled with noise and blindness,
and in the next instant the lady, trained for every emergency and in
every etiquette, was mistress again. Deirdre advanced, made a great
reverence, and knelt at the king’s knee.
He gave her his hand to kiss.
“You may rise, my fawn,” said the monarch.
She arose and stood with downcast eyes. She did not dare to look at
him. All that came within her vision was a mighty leg draped in green
silk, from which long tassels of gold swung gently. The king stared
narrowly at her, and Lavarcham stared narrowly at the king.
“Go now, my dear,” said Lavarcham, “and see that refreshments are
brought for the king.”
Deirdre again made her deep reverence, and, on rising, her hasty upward
glance was caught by Conachúr’s eye. She trod swiftly backwards,
staring, and it was with parted lips and wide eyes that she disappeared
from the room.
But the king continued staring at the doorway like one who has seen
a vision and is striving with every fibre to recreate that which has
vanished.
“Was I not right, master?” said Lavarcham gently.
“She is the Bud of the Branch,” said Conachúr. “She is the Fragrant
Apple of the Bough.”
“Did I not say that she was beautiful?” cried the gleeful and vehement
lady.
“You did not say so,” he replied sternly. “You never told me of this.”
“Nay, master, you would not believe me.”
“It could not be told,” the thoughtful monarch admitted. “If the
flight of the swallow could be imparted by words, or the crisping of
foam: if the breath of the lily could be uttered, or the beauty of a
young tree on a sunny hill: then this Troubler might be spoken of.
Have you noticed, my friend, how the sun paints glories and wonders
on the sky as he goes west in the evening, or at early morn with what
noble tenderness he comes again: she is radiant and tender as the sun,
Lavarcham.”
“Thus it is,” said Lavarcham.
“She is nine times sweeter than the cuckoo on the branch,” he cried.
“I give her the Pass before all the women of the world, for she is
notable and delicate and dear.”
“Then you will marry her as is fitting,” Lavarcham pleaded. “You will
not give my baby to a rough gentleman.”
The king stood furiously from his chair.
“She is for no man but the king,” he stormed. “She shall be my one wife
until Doom.”