THE BRIDE'S DOT.
The Abbess left alone in the garden-chamber listened intently; looking
now on the door which had closed on her rival, now on the windows,
whence it was just possible that she might catch the flutter of the
girl's flying skirts. But she did not move to the windows, nor make
any attempt to look down. She knew that her ears were her best
sentinels; and motionless, scarcely breathing, in the middle of the
floor, she strained them to the utmost to catch the first sounds of
discovery and alarm.
None reached her, and after the lapse of a minute she breathed more
freely. On the other hand, the waiting-maid--glad to prolong her
freedom--did not return. The Abbess, still listening, still intent,
fell to considering, without moving from the spot, other things. The
light was beginning to wane in the room--the room she remembered so
well--the corners were growing shadowy. All things promised to favour
and prolong her disguise. Between the inset windows lay a block of
deep gloom; she had only to fling herself down in that place and hide
her face on her arms, as the Countess, in her abandonment, had hidden
hers, and the woman would discover nothing when she entered--nothing
until she took courage to disturb the bride--and would dress her.
The bride? Even in the last minute the room had grown darker--dark and
vague as her sombre thoughts. But it happened that amid its shadows
one object still gleamed white--a tiny oasis of brightness in a desert
of gloom. The pile of dainty bride-clothes, lawn and lace, that lay on
the window-seat caught and gave back what light there was. It seemed
to concentrate on itself all that remained of the day. Presently she
could not take her eyes from the things. They had at first repelled
her. Now, and more powerfully, they fascinated her. She dreamed, with
her gaze fixed on them; and slowly the colour mounted to her brow,
her face softened, her breast heaved. She took a step towards the
bride-clothes and the window, paused, hesitated; and, flushed and
frowning, looked at the door.
But no one moved outside, no footstep threatened entrance; and
her eyes returned to the lace and lawn, emblems of a thing that
from Eve's day to ours has stirred women's hearts. She was not
over-superstitious. But it could not be for nothing, a voice whispered
her it could not be for nothing that the things lay there and, while
night swallowed all besides, still shone resplendent in the gloaming.
Were they not only an emblem, but a token? A sign to her, a finger
pointing through the vagueness of her future to the clear path of
safety?
The Abbess had thought of that path, that way out of her difficulties,
not once only, nor twice. It had lain too open, too plain to be
missed. But she had marked it only to shrink from it as too dangerous,
too bold even for her. Were she to take it she must come into fatal
collision, into irremediable relations with the man whom she loved;
but whom others feared, and of whom his little world stood in an awe
so dire and so significant.
Yet still the things beckoned her; and omens in those days went for
more than in these. Things still done in sport or out of a sentimental
affection for the past--on All-hallows' E'en or at the new moon--were
then done seriously, their lessons taken to heart, their dictates
followed. The Abbess felt her heart beat high. She trembled and shook
on the verge of a great resolve.
Had she time? The cloak slipped a little lower, discovering her bare
shoulders. She looked at the door and listened, looked again at the
pale bride-clothes. The stillness encouraged her, urged her. And, for
the rest, had she not boasted a few minutes before that, whoever
feared him, she did not; that, whoever drifted helpless on the tide of
fate, she could direct her life, she could be strong?
She had the chance now if she dared to take it! If she dared? Already
she had thwarted him in a thing dear to him. She had released his
prisoner, conveyed away his bride, wrecked his plans. Dared she thwart
him in this last, this greatest thing? Dared she engage herself and
him in a bond from which no power could free them, a bond that,
the deed done, must subject her to his will and pleasure--and his
wrath--till death?
She did fear him, she owned it. And she had not dared the venture had
she not loved him more. But love kicked the beam. Love won--as love
ever wins in such contests. Swiftly her mind reviewed the position: so
much loss, so much gain. If he would stand worse here he would stand
better there. And then she did not come empty-handed. Fain would she
have come to him openly and proudly, with her dower in her hands, as
she had dreamed that she would come. But that was not possible. Or, if
it were possible, the prospect was distant, the time remote; while,
this way, love, warm, palpitating, present love, held out arms to her.
The end was certain. For all things, the time, the gathering darkness,
her gaoler's absence, seconded the temptation. Had she resisted longer
she had been more than woman. As it was, she had time for all she must
do. When the waiting-maid returned, and glanced around the darkened
room, she was not surprised to find her crouching on the floor in the
posture in which she had left her, with head bowed on the window-seat.
But she was surprised to see that she had donned the bride-clothes set
for her. True, the shimmer of white that veiled the head and shoulders
agreed ill with the despondency of the figure; but that was to be
expected. And at least--the woman recognised with relief--there would
be no need of force, no scene of violence, no cries to Heaven. She
uttered a word of thanksgiving for that; and then, thinking that light
would complete the improvement and put a more cheerful face on the
matter, she asked if she should fetch candles.
"For I think the priest is below, my lady," she continued doubtfully;
she had no mind to quarrel with her future mistress if it could be
avoided. "And my lord may be looked for at any moment."
The crouching figure stirred a foot fretfully, but did not answer.
"If I might fetch them----"
"No!" sharply.
"But, if it please you, it is nearly dark. And----"
"Am I not shamed enough already?" The bride as she spoke--in a tone
half ruffled, half hysterical--raised her arms with a passionate
gesture. "If I must be married against my will, I will be married
thus! Thus! And without more light to shame me!"
"Still it grows--so dark, my lady!" the maid ventured again, though
timidly.
"I tell you I will have it dark! And"--with another movement as of a
trapped animal--"if they must come, bid them come!" Then, in a choking
voice, "God help me!" she murmured, as she let her head fall again on
her arms.
The woman wondered, but felt no suspicion; there was something of
reason in the demand. She went and told the elder woman who waited
below. She left the room door ajar, and the Abbess, raising her pale,
frowning face from the window-seat, could hear the priest's voice
mingling in the whispered talk. Light steps passed hurriedly away
through the garden, and after an interval came again; and by-and-by
she heard more steps, and voices under the window--and a smothered
laugh, and then a heavier, firmer tread, and--his voice--his! She
pictured them making way for the master to pass through and enter.
She had need of courage now, need of the half-breathed prayer;
for there is no cause so bad men will not pray in it. Need of
self-control, too, lest she give way and fall in terror at his feet.
Yet less need of this last; for fear was in her part, and natural to
the right playing of it. So that it was not weakness or modest tremors
or prostration would betray her.
She clutched this thought to her, and had it for comfort. And when the
door opened to its full width, and they appeared on the threshold and
entered, the priest first, the lord of Vlaye's tall presence next, and
after these three or four witnesses, with the two women behind all,
those less concerned found nothing to marvel at in the sight; nor in
the dim crouching figure, lonely in the dark room, that rose
unsteadily and stood cowering against the wall, shrinking as if in
fear of a blow. It was what they had looked to see, what they had
expected; and they eyed it, one coveting, another in pity, seeing by
the half-light which was reflected from the pale evening sky little
more than is here set down. For the priest, appearances might have
been trebly suspicious, and he had suspected nothing; for he was
terribly afraid himself. And M. de Vlaye, ignorant of the Abbess's
visit and exulting in the success of his plan, a success won in the
teeth of his enemy, had no grounds for suspicion. Even the marriage in
the gloaming seemed only natural; for modesty in a woman seems natural
to a man. He was more than content if the little fool would raise no
disturbance, voice no cries, but let herself be married without the
need of open force.
With something of kindness in his tone, "The Countess prefers it thus,
does she?" he said, raising his head, as he took in the scene. "Then
thus let it be! Her will is mine, and shall be mine. Still it is dark!
You do, in fact, Countess," he continued smoothly, "prefer it so? I
gathered your meaning rightly--from those you sent?"
With averted face she made a shamed gesture with her hand.
"You do not----"
"If it must be--let it be so!" she whispered. "And now!" And suddenly
she covered her face--they could picture it working pitifully--with
her hands.
M. de Vlaye turned to his witnesses. "You hear all present," he said,
"that it is with the Countess of Rochechouart's consent that I wed
her. For me it is my part now and will be my part always to do her
pleasure." Then turning his face again to the shrinking figure, that
uttered no protest or word of complaint, "Father, you hear?" he
continued, a note of triumph in his voice. "Do your office on us I
pray, and quickly." And he advanced a step towards his bride.
The Romish sacrament of marriage is short, and reduced to its
essentials is of the simplest. Father Benet had his orders, and
thankful to be so cheaply quit of his task--for she might have
appealed to him, might have shrieked and struggled, might have made of
his work a public crime--he hastened to bind the two together. For one
second, at the most critical part of the rite--if that could be said
to have parts which was done within the minute--the bride hung,
wavered, hesitated--seemed about to protest or faint. The next, as by
a supreme effort, she tottered a step nearer to the bridegroom, and
placed her hand, burning with fever, in his. In a few seconds the
words that made them man and wife, the irrevocable "_Conjungo vos_,"
were spoken.
Then followed a single moment of awkwardness. The Captain of Vlaye's
heart was high and uplifted. All had gone well, all had gone better
than his hopes. Yet he was prudent as he was bold. He would fain have
raised her veil before them all and kissed her, and proved beyond
cavil her willingness. But he doubted the wisdom of the act. He
reflected that women were strange beings and capricious. She might be
foolish enough to shriek--more, to faint, to resist, to speak; she
might realise, now that it was too late, the thing which she had done.
And a dozen curious eyes were on them, were watching them, were
judging them. He contented himself with bowing over her hand.
"Would you be alone, madame?" he said gently. "If so, say so, sweet.
And you shall be alone, while you please."
The answer, low and half-stifled as it was, astonished him. "With
you," she murmured, with face half-averted. And as the others, smiling
and with raised eyebrows, looked at one another, and then at a glance
from him turned to withdraw, "And a light," she added, in the same
subdued tone, "if you please."
"Bring a light," he said to the waiting-woman. "And, mark you, see
that when your lady wants supper it be ready for her."
She had still, before they withdrew, a surprise for him. "I would have
a draught of wine--now," she murmured.
He passed the order to them with a gay air, thinking the while of the
queer nature of women. And he stood waiting by the door until the
order was carried out. The footsteps of the witnesses and their
laughter rose from the garden below as the maid brought in lights and
wine and set them on the table beside him. "You can go," he said; and
after a fleeting glance, half of envy, half of wonder at her new
mistress--who had sunk into a sitting posture on the window-seat--the
woman went out.
"May I serve you?" he murmured gallantly. And he poured for her.
With her face turned from him she lifted the gauzy veil with one hand
and with the other--it trembled violently--she raised the wine to her
lips. Still with her shoulder to him--but he set this down to
modesty--she gave him back the empty cup, and he went and set it down
on the table beside the door. When he turned again to her she had
raised her veil and risen to her feet, and stood facing him with
shining eyes.
"By Heaven!" he cried. And he recoiled a pace, his swarthy face gone
sallow. Was he mad? Was he dreaming? The priest had been silent on the
Abbess's visit. He believed her leagues distant. He had no reason to
think otherwise. And he had not been more astonished if the one woman
had turned into the other before his eyes. "By Heaven!" he repeated.
For the moment sheer astonishment, the stupor of bewilderment, held
him dumb.
She did not speak, but neither did she quail. She stood confronting
him, erect and stately, her beauty never more remarkable than now, her
breast heaving slightly under the lace.
"Am I mad?" he muttered again. And he closed his eyes and opened them.
"Or dreaming?"
"Neither!" she replied.
"Then who in God's name are you?" he retorted, in something
approaching his natural voice; though the awe of the unnatural still
held his mind.
"Your wife," she answered.
"My wife!" With the words the full shock of that which had happened
struck him.
"Your wife," she rejoined unblenching, though her heart beat wildly,
furiously, in her bosom, and she feared, ah, how she feared! "Your
wife! And which of us two"--she continued proudly--"has a better right
to be your wife? I,"--and with the word she flung the lace superbly
from her head and shoulders, and stood before him in the full
splendour of her beauty--"or that child? That puny weakling? That
doll? I," with increasing firmness--he had not struck her yet!--"who
have your vows, sir, your promises, your sacred oath--and all my due,
as God knows and you know--or that puppet? I, who dare, and for your
sake have dared--you know it only too well!--or that craven, puling
and weeping and waiting for the first chance to flee you or betray
you? What I have done for you"--and proudly she held out her hands to
him--"you know, sir. What she would have done you know not."
"I know that you have ruined me," he said, looking darkly at her.
"And in return for--what?" she answered, with a look as dark.
His nostrils quivered, a pulse beat hard in his cheek. Only the sheer
boldness of that which she had done, only the appeal of the lioness in
her to the lion in him--and her beauty--held his hand; held his hand
from striking her down, woman though she was, at his feet. Had she
faltered, had she turned pale or trembled, had she uttered but one
word of supplication, or done aught but defy him, he had flung her
brutally to the floor and trampled upon her.
For the Captain of Vlaye was no knight of romance. And no scruple on
his part, no helplessness on hers would have restrained his hand. But
he loved her after his fashion. He loved her beauty, which had never
been more brilliant or alluring; he loved the spirit that proved her
fit helpmeet for such as he. And thwarted, tricked, baffled, hanging
still on the verge of violence over which the least recoil on her part
would push him, he still owned reason in her claim. She was the more
worthy--of the two; such beauty, such spirit, such courage would go
far. And not many weeks back he had looked no higher, aimed no
farther, but had deemed her birth fit dower. But love sits lightly on
the ambitious, and driven by a new danger to a new shift, forced to
look abroad for aid, he had put her aside at the first temptation--not
without a secret thought that she might be still what she had been to
him.
Her eyes, her words told a different story, and in his secret heart he
gave her credit for her act; and he held his hand. But his looks were
dark and bitter and passionate, as he told her again that she had
ruined him, and flung it coarsely in her face that she brought
herself, and naught besides to the bargain.
"It is but a little since you thought that enough!" she replied, with
flashing eyes.
"You are bold to speak to me thus!" he said between his teeth. "What?
You that call yourself my wife, to beard me!"
"That am your wife!" she answered, though sick fear rapped at her
heart.
"Then for that the greater need to heed what you say!" he replied.
"Wives that come empty-handed to husbands that ask them not had best
be silent and be patient! Or in a very little time they creep as low
as before they went high! You beautiful fool!" he continued, in a tone
of mingled rage and admiration, "to do this in haste and forget I
could punish at leisure! To do me ill, ay, to ruin me, and forget that
henceforth my pleasure must be yours, my will your rule! My wife, say
you?" with increasing bitterness. "Ay! And therefore my creature,
helpless as the scullion I send to the scourge, or the trooper I hang
up by the heels for sleeping! You--you----" and with a movement as
fierce as it was sudden he grasped her wrist and twisted her round
forcibly so that her eyes at close quarters looked into his. "Do you
not yet repent? Do you not begin to see that in tricking the Captain
of Vlaye you have made your master?"
She could have screamed with pain, for the bones of her slender wrist
seemed to be cracking in his cruel grip--but she knew that in her
courage, and in that only, lay her one hope. "I know this," she
replied hardily, forcing herself to meet his eyes without flinching,
"that you mistake! I do not come empty--or I had not come," with
pride. "I bring you that will save you--if you treat me well. But if
you hold me so----"
"What will you do?" savagely.
"Release me and I will tell you," she answered. "I shall not fly. And
if I say nothing to the purpose, I shall still be in your power."
He yielded, moved in secret by her spirit. "Well," he said, "speak!
But let it be to the purpose, madam, that is all."
"Said I not it should be to the purpose?" she answered, her eyes
bright. "And I keep my word, if you do not. Tell me, sir, frankly,
what had that child, that doll"--bitterly--"to put in the scales
against me? Beauty?"
"Nay!"
"A skin as white as mine or arms as round?" She held them out to him.
"Or brighter eyes? You have looked in mine often enough and sworn you
loved me, sworn that you would do me no wrong! You should know them--
and hers!"
"It was none of these."
"Her birth? Nay, but she is no better born than I am! A Rochechouart
is what a Villeneuve was. Her rank? No. Then what was it?"
"No one thing," he answered drily. "But five hundred things."
"Spears?"
"You are quick-witted. Spears."
"And her manors also, I suppose?" with contempt. "Her lordships here
and there! Her farms and castles in Poitou and the Limousin and Beauce
and the Dordogne! Her mills in the Bourbonnais and her fishings in
Sologne!"
"Not one of these!"
"No?"
"The spears only, as God sees me!" he answered firmly. "For without
these I could enjoy not the smallest of those. Without these, of which
you, beautiful fool, have robbed me--robbing me therewith of my last
chance--I take no farm nor smallest mill, nor hold one groat of that I
have won! Do you think, my girl," he continued grimly, "that I was not
pressed when I gave up your lips and your kisses for that child's
company? Do you think it was for a whim, a fancy, a light thing that I
turned my back on you and your smiles, and at risk sought a puling
girl, when I could have had you without risk? Bah! I tell you it was
not to gain, but to hold--because he had no other choice and no other
way--it was not for love but for life, that the King went to his Mass!
And I to mine!"
"All this I thought," she said quietly. She was no longer afraid of
him.
"You thought it?"
"I knew it."
"You knew it? You knew, madam," he repeated, his face darkening, "on
what a narrow edge I stood, and you dashed away my one holdfast?"
"To replace it by another," she replied, her figure welling with
confidence. "I tell you, sir, I come not to you empty-handed, if I
come unasked. I bring my dowry."
He eyed her gloomily. "It should be a large one," he muttered, "if it
is to take the place of that I have lost."
"It is a large one," she answered. "But," with a change to gentleness,
"do me credit. I have not puled nor wept. I have uttered no cry, I
have made no complaint. But I have righted myself, doing what not one
woman in a hundred would have dared to do! I have wit that has tricked
you, and courage that has not quailed before you. And henceforward I
claim to be no puppet for your play, no doll for your dull hours! But
your equal, my lord, and your mate; deepest in your counsels, the
heart of your plans, your other brain, your other soul! Make me this,
hold me thus--close to you, and----
"Is that the thing you bring me?" he said, with sarcasm. Yet she had
moved him.
"No!" She fell a little from her height, she looked appeal. "My dowry
is different. But say first, sir, I shall be this!"
"Bring me the spears," he answered, his eyes gleaming, "and you shall
be that and more. Bring me the spears, and----" He made as if he would
take her forcibly in his arms.
She recoiled, but her eyes shone. "I am yours," she said, "when you
will! Do you not know it? But, for the present, listen. I have a
husband, but I have also a lover. A lover of whom"--she continued more
slowly, marking with joy how he started at the word--"my lord and
master has no need to be jealous. He has not touched of me more than
the tips of my fingers; yet if I raise but those fingers he has spears
and to spare--five hundred and five hundred to that!--and I have but
to play the laggard a little, and dangle a hope, and they dance to my
piping."
He understood. A deep flush tinged the brown of his lean face. "You
have brought," he said, "the Duke to parley."
"To parley!" She pointed superbly to the floor. "Nay, but to my feet!
What will you of him? Spears, his good word, his intercession with the
King, a post? Name what you will, and it shall be yours."
He looked at her shrewdly, with a new admiration, a new and stronger
esteem. Already she filled the place which she had claimed, already
she was to him what she had prayed to be. "You are sure?" he said.
"In a week, had I not loved you, I had had him and his Duchy, and all
those spears! And mills and manors and lordships and governments, all
had been mine, sir! Mine, had I wished this man; mine, had I been
willing to take him! But I"--letting her arms fall by her sides and
standing submissive before him--"am more faithful than my master!"
He stood staring at her. "But if this be so," he said at last, his
brows coming together, "what of it? How does it help us? You are now
my wife?"
"He need not know that yet."
"No?"
"He need not know it," she continued firmly, "until he has played his
part, and wrung your pardon from the King! Or at the least--for that
may take time--until he has drawn off his power and left you to face
those whom you can easily match!"
"He would have wedded you?" he asked, eyeing her in wonder.
"For certain."
"But, sweet----"
"I am sweet now!" she said, with tender raillery.
"To do this you must go to him?"
"He shall touch of me no more than the tips of my fingers," she
answered smiling. "Nor"--and at the word a blush stole upward from her
neck to her brow, "need I go on the instant, if your men can be
trusted not to talk, my lord."
"He is soon without a tongue," he replied grimly, "who talks too fast
here! You should know that of old."
She lowered her eyes, the colour mounting anew to her brow. "Yes,"
she murmured. "I know that your people can be silent. But the
Lieutenant of Perigord is here. You have not"--with a quick,
frightened look--"injured him?"
"Have no fear."
"For that were fatal," she continued anxiously. "Fatal! If things go
wrong, he may prove our safety."
"Pooh, I know it well," Vlaye replied, with a nod of intelligence.
"None better, my girl. But have no fear, he will hear naught of our
doings. Not, I suppose"--with a searching look, half humorous, half
suspicious--"that he is also a captive of your bow and spear."
"I hate him," she answered.
Her tone, vehement, yet low, struck the corresponding chord in his
nature. He took her into his arms with a reckless laugh. "You were
right and I was wrong!" he cried, as he fondled her. "You will bring
me more than a clump of spears, my beauty! More than that foolish
child! God! In a month I had strangled her! But you and I--you and I,
sweet, will go far together! And now, to supper! To supper! And the
devil take to-morrow and our cares!"