HUNTER AND HUNTED.
"But when they knew she was good as she was fair,
Then homage to the maid they paid."
Kophetua was naturally of a much too chivalrous disposition to suffer
himself to be guided far by the impulse to which his sudden meeting with
Penelophon had given rise. Indeed, before he had ridden half a mile he
began to find his conduct inexcusable. He fully believed the story of
the beggar-maid's light behaviour which had been so carefully prepared
for his ears; but to see so sudden and shocking a confirmation of her
wantonness had thrown him off his balance.
Now he was recovering himself, and he felt how unworthily of his
philosophy he was acting. He was foolishly resenting as a crime an
action which was the natural and almost inevitable outcome of a woman's
contemptible nature. This girl had made a ridiculous fool of him, to be
sure; but that was no reason why he should forget his self-respect. She
was in trouble. No matter who or what she was, he must see her out of
it. It was a rule of life with him, and, as a philosopher, he must
observe his rules. They are not things to be broken with impunity.
Such was the reason he gave himself for reining in his horse and calling
Captain Pertinax to his side. Yet it was hardly the real cause of his
change of purpose. Kophetua had lost faith in himself and all the world.
The lofty ideals of his romantic youth were withered and trodden under
foot. He thought, like other men, that because they grew no longer green
and vigorous in the ruined garden of his soul, that all such things for
him had perished. He knew not how the flowers which once we valued
highest, and whose savour seemed our very life, will fall and wither and
be lost a while, only that forms of a beauty and fragrance beyond all we
knew before may blossom out of their decay. So the King's good purpose
sprang up and bore its flowers, but he knew not why. He remembered not
how he himself had enriched with noble aspirations the soil in which it
grew, nor ever guessed from what dead ideals its roots drew nourishment,
deep down within his heart, in the grave where his boyhood lay buried.
"I wish you to ride back to the village," said Kophetua, in a
constrained manner, as Captain Pertinax came up.
"And how can I serve your majesty there?" asked the gendarme.
"Did you recognise the girl in the stocks?" said the King.
"I did, sire," answered Pertinax indifferently, as though he wished to
imply it was an affair of his majesty's about which he had no curiosity,
though, if the truth were told, his interest in the girl had certainly
not diminished since the night he rescued her.
"Then you are aware," continued the King, "that she is the person whom
you allowed to escape from your custody?"
"I am painfully aware of my neglect," answered the officer, with
humility.
"Very well," said the King shortly; "go and repair it. You know your
duty." And with that he gathered his reins to ride on, thinking how
neatly he had got over his difficult task. But his instructions were
still incomplete, and Pertinax did not go.
"Your majesty," began the officer, with hesitation.
"Well, sir?" cried the King sharply.
"Your majesty," continued Pertinax, "has omitted to indicate the
destination of the prisoner when re-arrested."
"Bring her," said the King desperately,--"bring her up to the castle.
Where else could you lodge her? Here is my warrant to the town bailiff."
He handed his signet ring to Captain Pertinax; and the gendarme, with
great alacrity, rode rapidly back to the village, where he carried out
Kophetua's orders with the business-like despatch which characterised
all his professional movements.
As for the King, he went on to his solitude in the castle; for solitude
indeed it was. It had always been his custom, when he periodically
retired there, to live as far as possible the simple life of a hunter,
with but one companion. It was only, he used to say, by lying in the
bowers which your own axe had hewn, and living on the food which your
own hand had won, that you could dip in the well-spring of life, and be
made whole of all the diseases that were engendered in a civil state of
existence.
Formerly this companion had always been Turbo, but that was impossible
now. So when Kophetua determined to cut the bonds that were being so
artfully twined round him, and boldly free himself by escape, he could
think of none better to accompany him than the smart, jovial soldier
with whom he had recently come in contact. He was a high-spirited,
pleasant fellow enough, with a fund of stories and a rattling laugh. He
was handsome, too, and good to have to look at, and, as for sport and
camp-life, his fertility of resource in all the shifts and expedients of
the hunter was quite phenomenal. When, added to all this, the King found
that his comrade's activity and endurance were only surpassed by the
sparkle and persistence of his good humour, he was delighted with his
choice.
In a few days, however, Kophetua found out the difference between an
attendant and a companion. As the former Captain Pertinax was complete;
as the latter, entirely without value. It was well enough while they
were out on the mountains, and could talk of sport or jest together over
their rude meals; but when the night spread its pall of sadness and
gloom over the world, Kophetua's mind was full of other things, of which
he longed to speak. Once or twice he even attempted such conversation
with Captain Pertinax, but the poor fellow stared at him with such a
look of worried wonder that Kophetua soon desisted from his efforts.
This evening they were dining in a commonplace way in the castle, and
Captain Pertinax was more than ever unsatisfactory. Kophetua's meeting
with Penelophon had seriously unsettled the comparative equanimity at
which he had arrived, and he found it quite impossible to be interested
in the soldier's conversation. So, as soon as the meal was over, he
dismissed him, and sat looking out from his window over the fertile
valley below. Far away it stretched, a broad, checkered expanse of
cultivation, till it reached to the fantastic shapes of the mountain
wall which shielded it from the Sahara. He watched the sunset glowing on
its tanks and water-courses, and thought how often he had sat there with
Turbo, talking over schemes for improving its irrigation. The past
glowed in pleasant radiance through the veil of years, and made the
present the more glaring and hideous. Do what he would, he could not
keep from his mind the bright little sparks which, in the last few
months, had seemed to be kindling his life. Untimely the glow had been
smothered; and now it seemed as though, instead of the living fire, a
smouldering smoke were rising up and spreading a black and stifling
vapour over his gloomy life. As one that is suffocating, he strained
unconsciously after a purer air. Again and again, in sighs that grew
ever sweeter, the balmy fragrance he desired was wafted to his poisoned
senses, and whence it was he could not choose but know.
Down from the turret-chamber overhead it came--down from the room where
lay the beggar-maid locked up all alone. It was useless to try and
forget her. In the corner of the room was the little door which opened
on to the turret stair; at his elbow hung the key which made her his.
His solitude grew insupportable, and he began to cheat himself with
reasons why he should visit his prisoner. He fell to wondering what was
to be done with her. He told himself it was only half doing his work to
bring her there and not try to find out how she got into trouble. Unless
he knew that, there was little chance of getting her out of it. At any
rate, it would only be kind to go and ask her what she would like him
to do with her, and learn how he could get her back to her friends, the
players.
He was playing with the key now as he sat and thought. A cynical smile
was over his handsome face, as he held it up in his hand, and talked to
it as though it were a little devil that was stronger than he. "Why,
what a stubborn little rogue it is!" he said. "Here am I, thy King and
master, changing to a thousand purposes like a summer wind, whilst thou
wilt not flinch or waver a hair's-breadth for all I can say. Curse thee
for a stubborn rogue that will have his way at last!"
In truth, it was a stunted, sturdy-looking thing, as he held it up to
the light. It seemed to Kophetua everything that he was not. "Why, lad,"
he cried again, "'tis thou shouldst wear the crown. Thou wouldst make a
better king than I. Yes, thou shalt be king--a sturdy little stubborn
king--and I'll be slave."
In bitter contempt of what he called his weakness, he laughed unsteadily
as he rose and went to the door. Lightly he mounted the winding stairs,
jesting wildly in a low, excited voice to the key as he went. "Hey!
little rogue," he muttered, as he reached the room he sought. "Hey!
little rogue. In with thee now, and have thy way." He thrust it into the
lock, and turned it sharply with another "Hey! little rogue!" Then in a
moment his whole aspect was changed, and he stopped listening outside
the closed door.
It was a sob he had heard. Just a woman's sob, low and tender, and
heartrending beyond all that words can tell. What sound has power like
that? The voice that tells of a gentle soul that is bruised and rent; of
a tender spirit that can battle no more with its grief; of a staunch
little heart that is stricken down at last, and is lying helpless in its
anguish, while the woes it has so bravely fought trample it in triumph
under foot.
Then another--and another--like voices that called to him out of heaven,
and bade him imperiously be a man. Quietly he opened the door and looked
in. She was lying on a rough pallet, still in her paint and shameless
dress, sobbing herself to sleep like a child. The soft red light of the
dying day shed a false glow of reality over the picture. Her little
sylph-like figure glistened with an unearthly radiance as she sobbed,
and the spangles on her elfish costume caught and lost the light. The
colour on her cheeks glowed rich and warm, and her white breast and arms
shone from out her littered hair with a fairy light of their own. She
seemed an elf that was imprisoned and enchanted there; and Kophetua,
moved with the beautiful sight, advanced into the room and closed the
door with beating heart.
At the snap of the lock she looked up, and for a moment stared at him
vacantly, as though her reason were unhinged. Then she started up on the
bed with the wild, helpless look of a fawn, when its captor visits it
for the first time.
"What!" she cried, "not you too! Surely you have not come to mock me
like the rest? Go, go! for the love of Heaven! You must not see me thus.
My shame will never end if you look on it once. Go, for the love of
Heaven, and come not near me! It is more than I can bear that you, too,
should look at me!"
She was sitting up on the bed, resting on one arm, with her feet curled
under her. The other was stretched out against him, as though to keep
his presence away. Still he came near, not knowing what he did. Her
beauty drew him like a charm. In the anguish of her shame Penelophon
made one more effort, and, springing from her pallet, she fell on her
knees before him. In wild entreaty she was gazing up out of her dark
eyes, which still shone with all the added radiance of Frampa's art, and
she held the hem of his coat convulsively in her little white hands as
she poured forth her passionate prayer.
"Leave me, leave me!" she cried, "for the love of God! Do not be angry
that I ask this thing. I have not forgotten; but you cannot understand
the anguish you bring. Indeed, it is more than I can bear. You cannot
tell what it is to crouch here, befouled as I am, for a man to see. If
you were a woman, you would guess. I know your greatness and nobleness
and spotless honour. I have not forgotten; indeed, I have not, though
you see me so changed. I know you cannot think an evil thought or do an
evil thing, yet even you I cannot endure to see me thus. You have come
in kindness, I know, to help and comfort me, as you always did. I have
not forgotten. But oh! my angel, for you to see my shame is greater pain
than even you can heal! So leave me--leave me, as you are great and
godlike, before the anguish kills me. You have power above all to take
away sorrow and drive out sin. It is you who bring down heaven to me on
earth; but not even for heaven can I be seen like this. To be near you
was like paradise. I have not forgotten; I cannot forget. You are all
the world to me; but not as I am--not as I am!"
"But why are you thus," he said, irresolute and unable to comprehend
whether it was play or earnest, "if it was not your desire? Was it not
for this you ran away to the players? What else did you expect? You
should be glad, they have made you so pretty."
"Don't! don't!" she said in anguish, as she hid her painted face in her
hands; "I cannot bear it. I never dreamed they would be so wicked when
your good mother took me to them. She would punish them if she knew."
"What!" exclaimed the astonished King, "my mother took you to them? What
do you mean? Tell me quickly."
And Penelophon, in a low, hurried voice, told him the story of her
betrayal. Overwhelmed with shame she could hardly speak. Her distress
was so acute and genuine that Kophetua's heart bled for her as she told,
in simple words, of the ordeal through which she had passed unscathed. A
sort of fierce, defiant joy sprang up in his heart as she ceased, to
think that his own mother, with all her saintliness, the last friend who
had not proved untrue, should now be found out as false and wicked and
worldly as the rest. He rejoiced, for at last he was sure that he and
the poor crouching thing at his feet were alone in the world together.
He had seen her in her filth and rags, he had seen her in the chaste
simplicity of her handmaid's dress, he had seen her as one over whom the
cleansing hand of Death had passed; yet never had she shone so pure and
holy in his eyes as now, all wantonly bedizened and painted as she was.
The frame of dishonour in which her angel beauty was set seemed but to
make her more divine. Humbled and ashamed, Kophetua devoutly laid his
hand upon her head, and turned her face up to him. He saw no more the
rouge and the paint. He marked not the wanton garb in which her beauty
was displayed. There was nothing there but the image of perfect
womanhood which his dreams had made. He had one wild impulse to take her
up in his arms and kiss away her shame, but the holiness which shone in
her pleading eyes still held her sacred.
"I will go, child," he said, very gently. "I ask your pardon that I ever
came. I will go and see that ere an hour is passed your suffering is
ended."
She kissed the lace on the skirts of his coat, as though she would have
stayed him for her thanks; but he hurried away, feeling it were guilt to
look again.
Presently the women of the castle came to her with water in which she
might wash, and a bundle of old clothes, too worn and stained for them
to wear. So it was they obeyed the King's behest to see her fitly clad.
Still they were such as she would have chosen for herself; and the night
closed in upon her as she slept in peace, happy at last in her mean
attire.
In the morning they came again to bring her food; but, in wonder, they
saw the chamber was empty. In great trepidation they ran to Captain
Pertinax for advice. With his usual determination he said the King must
be awakened. The morning was well advanced, and he feared no evil
consequences, especially as the news was important and pressing. He
took the responsibility on himself, and entered the King's bedchamber.
Presently he came out, looking very serious. They scanned his face
narrowly, fearing some ill news.
"His majesty is indisposed," was all he said. "He will not come forth
to-day, and will need no attendance but mine."
But the trusty captain lied for his master. The King was gone too.