than all the rest together; and they were silent only because their
hearts were too full for speech. These were madame, Alixe, and David the
dwarf. While the little man worked at the decoration of the chapel, the
women adorned the bridal chamber; and in all that week of preparation,
not a soul save these two set foot over that sacred threshold. Madame
had selected the room. It was not Gerault’s usual chamber, but one on
the second floor, on the northwest corner of the Castle, separated from
madame’s room only by the place in which Laure had slept of old, and
which madame now kept closed to all save herself.
For the adornment of Gerault’s and Lenore’s apartment, madame brought
out the old historic tapestries, embroideries, and precious silken
hangings that had been for years stowed away in great chests in the
spinning-room. The bed was hung with curtains in which were woven
illustrations of the “Romant of the Rose,” a poem that had once been
much recited in Le Crépuscule. On the walls were great squares of
tapestry representing the battles of the family of Montfort. On the
floor were two or three strips of precious brocade, brought out of the
East a century before by some crusading lord. Finished, the room looked
very rich, but very sombre; and, this being the fashion of the times, it
was satisfactory to all that saw it. Eleanore only, with eyes new-opened
by the thought of approaching happiness, feared the room a little dark,
a little heavy for the reception of so delicate a creature as the young
Lenore. But every one else in the Castle was in such delight over its
appearance that she left it as it was. Meantime the lower hall was hung
with banners and scarred pennants and gay streamers; and then the
pillars were wreathed with greenery and flowers till the still, gray
place was all transformed, and resembled a triumphal hall awaiting the
coming of a conqueror.
Thus the week of waiting passed merrily and rapidly away, and the day of
the departure of Courtoise and the squires for Croitôt speedily arrived.
With them also went a picked half-dozen men-at-arms, who were bursting
with pride at this honor done their brilliant steel and smooth-flanked
horses. After their going, when everything in the Castle was in
readiness for the reception, a little wave of reaction set in among
those left at home. Eleanore retired to commune with her own happy mind.
David sought solitude in which to arrange a programme of welcome. And
Alixe, seized with a sudden mood of misery, fled away to a certain cave
in the base of the Castle cliff, and here wept and raged by herself, for
some undefined reason, till her tears cleared the mists from her soul,
and she was herself again. Still, as she returned to the Castle, she
knew that there remained a bitterness in her heart. Eleanore, who had
long ago come to mean mother to her, had, in the last month or two, for
the first time given her almost a mother-love, that had fed Alixe’s
hungry heart as the body of the Lord had never fed her soul. And now
this love was to be taken away again. A real daughter was coming into
the household, a daughter by the marriage of the Seigneur; and this,
Alixe knew, must be a closer tie than any of time or custom. She must go
back to her old place, the place she had held in the days of Laure; but
she could never hope to find in the stranger the beautiful friendship
that had existed between her and her foster-sister.
That evening was a quiet one in the Castle. Monseigneur of St. Nazaire
had arrived in the afternoon; but he seemed wearier than his wont, and,
out of consideration for him, Eleanore ordered the general retirement at
an early hour.
The next day, the great day, dawned over Le Crépuscule, red and clear
and intensely hot. Every one was up before the sun; and when fast had
been broken and prayer said in the chapel, every one went forth to the
meadow, some even down to the moor, half a mile below the moat, to
gather flowers to be scattered in the courtyard for the coming of the
bride. The party was expected to arrive by noon at latest; and, as the
morning waned, Eleanore found herself uncontrollably nervous. Alixe and
David both stood in the watch-tower, looking for the first sign of
horses and banners on the edge of the forest at the foot of the long
hill. Noon passed, and the earliest hour of afternoon, and the Castle
was on tiptoe with excitement. At two o’clock came a cry from Alixe, in
the tower. Down the hill, round the sweep in the road, was the flutter
of a blue and white pennant, presently flanked by a longer one of gray.
There was a pause of two or three moments. Then the trumpeters dashed
out from the keep, ranged up before their captain, and blew a quick,
triumphal, if somewhat jerky, fanfare. There was an outpouring of
retainers into the courtyard, and presently, from far away, came the
faint sounds of an answering blast from Gerault’s heralds. As this died
away, a great shout of excitement and delight arose from the waiting
company, now massed about the flower-strewn drawbridge, and only at this
time Madame Eleanore came out of the Castle.
Many eyes were turned upon her as she crossed the courtyard, bearing
herself as royally as a princess. She was garbed in flowing robes of
damask, white, and olive green, silver-studded, and her head was dressed
in those great horns so much in fashion at this time, but seldom
affected by her, and now lending an unrivalled majesty to her
appearance.
Madame took her place at the right of the drawbridge, and, like all the
throng, strained her eyes toward the approaching cavalcade that
contained the future of Le Crépuscule. Apparently madame was very calm.
In reality her heart beat so that it was like to suffocate her, for now
Gerault’s form took on distinct shape before her eyes. The sun shot
serpents of light around his helmet and his steel-encased arms, while
over his body-pieces he wore the silken surcoat of pale gray,
embroidered with the arms of his Castle. Gerault’s lance, held in rest,
fluttered a pennant of azure and white, the colors of his lady; and
Courtoise, who rode just behind his master, carried the gray streamer of
Le Crépuscule.
Amid a tumult of blaring trumpets, vigorous shouting, and eager choruses
of welcome and greeting, the Lord of Crépuscule, with his bride on her
white palfrey beside him, rode across the drawbridge of the Twilight
Castle. Just inside the courtyard Gerault halted, leaped from his horse,
and ran quickly to embrace his mother. When he had held her for a moment
in his arms, he turned, lifted his lady from her horse, and, amid an
embarrassing silence of curiosity, led the young girl up to madame.
“In the name of Le Crépuscule and of its lord, I bid thee welcome to
this Castle, my daughter! Good people, give greeting to your lady!”
Men and maidens, serving-maids and henchmen, still gazing wide-eyed at
the figure of the Seigneur’s wife, sent forth an inarticulate buzz of
welcome and of admiration; and, when it had died away, Gerault took his
bride by the hand, and, with Eleanore upon the other side, moved slowly
across the courtyard toward the Castle doorway, where now stood the
Bishop of St. Nazaire, waiting to add his welcome to the newly wed. Nor
did the Bishop refrain from a little exclamation of pleasure at sight of
the young wife, as she sank upon her knees before his mitre, to receive
a blessing.
A few moments later the whole company crowded into the brilliantly
decorated hall and moved about, each selecting a desired place at the
great horseshoe table ready prepared for the feast. Gerault was standing
in the middle of the room, looking about him in surprise and pleasure at
the preparations made to do him honor. Presently, however, he turned to
his mother, who stood close at his elbow, and said, after a second’s
hesitation: “I do not see Alixe, madame. Is she not here in the Castle?”
Eleanore looked about her in some surprise. “Hast not seen her? Where
hath she been? Ah, yes, there she stands, in yonder corner. Alixe!
Hither!”
“Alixe!” echoed Gerault; and strode to where she stood, half concealed,
between the staircase and the chapel door, her head drooping, her eyes
cast down.
“Come, Alixe, and greet Lenore. She hath heard much of thee, and I would
have you friends, for you are both young, and you must be good
companions here together.” So he took her hand and kissed her, and led
her out to where Eleanore and the young wife stood waiting.
“Lenore, this is my foster-sister. La Rieuse have we called her, and she
is well named. Give her greeting—” Gerault came to rather a halting
pause; for the attitude of the two women nonplussed him.
Lenore stood motionless, suddenly putting on a little dress of dignity,
and looking steadfastly into the dark face of the other girl. Alixe,
anything but laughing now, was absorbing, detail by detail, the delicate
and exquisite personality of Gerault’s bride. More fairy-like than human
she seemed, with her slender, beautifully curved child’s figure, her
face neither white nor pink, but of a transparent, pearly tint
indescribably ethereal, in which were set great eyes of violet hue, and
all around which floated her hair,—that wonderful hair that was, indeed,
a captive sun-ray. The curve of Lenore’s lips, the turn of her nostril,
the poise of her head, and the delicacy of her hands and feet, all
proclaimed her noble birth. The dress that she wore set off her beauty
as pure gold makes a gem more brilliant. She wore a loosely fitting
bliault of greenish blue, embroidered in long, silver vines, while her
undersleeves and yoke were of frosty cloth of silver. Her head was
crowned with a simple circlet of gold, far less lustrous than her hair;
and from it, at the back, fell a veil of silver tissue that touched the
hem of her robe. All this dress was disordered and dusty with long
riding; but the carelessness of it seemed to become her the better. In
the rich heat of the July sun she had seemed a little too colorless, a
little too pale and misty, for beauty; but here, in the cool shadows of
the great stone hall, she was brighter than any angel.
Alixe examined her long and carefully, to the confusion of the girl,
whose feeling of strangeness and embarrassment continually increased. In
the face of “La Rieuse” it was easy to read the struggle between
jealousy and admiration. Alixe was, secretly, a worshipper of beauty;
and beauty such as this of Lenore’s she had never seen before. In the
end it triumphed. Alixe’s eyes grew brighter and brighter as she gazed;
and presently, when the strain of silence was not much longer to be
endured, there burst from her the involuntary exclamation,—
“God of dreams! How art thou fair!”
And from that moment the allegiance of Alixe was fixed. She was on her
knees to Lenore, this fair usurper of her place, this Gerault’s bride.
Presently the moving company resolved itself into order, and each sought
his place at the table, where the Seigneur and St. Nazaire now stood
side by side, at the head, with Lenore upon Gerault’s left hand, madame
on St. Nazaire’s right, and Alixe next madame and opposite Courtoise,
who was placed beside the bride. There was a long Latin grace from the
Bishop, and then the feast began. It was like all the feasts of the day,
a matter of stuffing till one could hold no more, and then of drinking
till one knew no more; for, to the commoner folk, and those below the
salt, this was the greatest pleasure in life. To those for whom the
feast was given, and to the rest of the little group at the head of the
table, the whole business was sufficiently tedious: not to say, however,
that monseigneur and even Gerault showed no symptoms of fondness for a
morsel of peacock’s breast, or a calf’s head stuffed with the brains,
pounded suet, and raisins, over which was poured a good brown gravy.
Courtoise and Alixe also displayed healthy appetites. But madame and
Lenore, whether from excitement or other causes, sat for the most part
playing with what was put before them, and eating nothing.
After half an hour at the table Madame Eleanore found herself watching,
with rather unexpected interest, the attitude of Gerault toward his
wife. And she perceived, with a kind of dull surprise, that his
attentions savored of perfunctoriness. The Seigneur failed in no way to
do his lady courtesy; but that air of tender delight that the
personality of the young girl would be expected to draw from a young
husband, was not there. Whatever impression of indifference madame
received, however, she admitted no such thing to herself. Her heart was
too full of joy for Gerault, and for Le Crépuscule. For, great as had
been her hopes of her son’s choice, her dreams had never pictured a
being so rare and so lovely as this who was come to dwell at her side in
the gray and ancient Castle.
As for Lenore herself, she seemed to see nothing but devotion in
Gerault’s attitude toward her. She sat with a smile upon her face,
playing daintily with what she had to eat, answering any question or
remark put to her with a straightforwardness that had in it no taint of
self-consciousness, even addressing a sentence or two of her own to
Courtoise on her right; but at the same time holding all heart and soul
for Gerault. The Seigneur did not speak much with his wife, but answered
her modest glances with an air of mild indulgence, taking small notice
of anything that went on round him save the keen looks now and then shot
from the scintillating green eyes of Alixe. Of all the tableful, Alixe
was the only one that found any food for thought in the situation before
her; and, surprisingly enough, the key to her reflections lay in the
curious behavior of Courtoise, who, as time went on, became so uneasy,
so fidgety, so restless, that Gerault finally leaned over the table and
asked him rather sharply if he were ill.
In the course of time, however, the last jack was emptied, the last song
sung, the last questionable story told. Monseigneur de St. Nazaire rose
and repeated the ending grace, and then the whole drowsy, witless
company followed him into the glowing chapel, where a short mass was
performed. Lenore and Gerault knelt side by side to the right of the
altar, with Eleanore a little behind them, where she could watch the
bright candle-rays vie with the radiance of Lenore’s golden hair, and
see where the silvery bridal robe overlapped a little the edge of the
gray surcoat of Le Crépuscule, that swept the floor beside it. The
mother-eyes were all for the girlish form of the new daughter; and her
heart went out again to Gerault, who had brought this fairy creature to
Le Crépuscule, in place of her who had been so terribly mourned.
Lenore listened to the repetition of the mass with a reverent air, but
without much thinking of the familiar form. Her mind was busy with
thoughts of these new surroundings and the faces of the new vassals and
companions. Gerault, her beloved, was at her side; the great silver
crucifix that hung over the altar gave her a sense of comfort and
protection, and she found a restful pleasure in the tones of the
Bishop’s voice. The bright candle-light that shone into her eyes
produced in her a semi-hypnotic state, and she seemed to have knelt
there at the altar but three or four minutes when the words of the
benediction fell upon her ears, and presently the whole company was
trooping out into the great hall, whence all signs of the feast had been
removed.
In the same dreamlike way, Lenore went with her husband and madame
upstairs, to the room that had been prepared for her and Gerault. Here
her two demoiselles were already unpacking the coffer which had come
from Rennes with them. And here she removed her travel-stained garments,
bathed the dust from her face and arms, was combed and perfumed like the
great lady she had become, and lay down to rest for a little time in the
twilight, with new ministers to her comfort all about her. Later, as it
grew dark, she dressed again and descended to the great hall, where
further merriment was in progress.
The demoiselles and squires of the Castle were now holding high revel,
and their games caused the old stone walls to echo with laughter and
shrieks of delight. In one corner of the room madame and the Bishop sat
together over a game of chess. Gerault was near them, where he could
watch the battle; but his eyes were often to be seen following the light
figure of Lenore through the mazes of the dances and games in which she
so eagerly joined. The sports in which these maidens and young men grown
indulged, were commonly played by older folk throughout France, and have
descended almost intact to the children of a more advanced and less
light-hearted age. Lenore entered into the play with a pleasure too
unconscious not to be genuine. She laughed and sang and chattered, and
put herself at home with every one. She was soon the leading spirit of
the company, as she had been wont to be in her own home. The games were
innumerable: _Pantouffle_, _Pince-Mérille_, _Bric_, _Qui Féry_, _Le Roi
qui ne Ment pas_, and a dozen others. And were there a forfeit to be
paid in the shape of a kiss, she instantly deserted Courtoise and David,
who, enraptured with her youth and gayety, kept close on either side of
her, and delivered it with shy delight to Gerault, who scarcely appeared
to appreciate the gifts he got.
In the course of time a “Ribbon Dance” was ordered, and madame and
monseigneur actually left their game to lead it, drawing Gerault with
them into the sport. Obediently he gave one hand to Lenore, the other to
Alixe, and went through the dance with apathetic grace, bringing by his
half unconscious manner the first chill upon Lenore’s happy evening.
This was, however, the end of the amusement; and when the flushed and
panting company finally halted, Gerault at once drew his wife to
madame’s side, himself saluted his mother, and then followed Lenore up
the torchlit stairs. In ten minutes the whole company had dispersed, and
Eleanore remained alone in the great hall.
When she had extinguished all the lights below, madame passed up the
stairs, putting out the smoking torches as she went, and, reaching the
upper hall, went immediately to her own bedroom. Here she slipped off
the heavy mantle and the modified “cote-hardi.” Then, clad only in a
long, light, damask tunic, she went over to one of the wide-open west
windows, and, leaning across its sill, looked out upon the vasty,
murmurous, summer sea. Low on the horizon, among a group of faint
clustering stars, swung the crescent moon, which was reflected in the
smooth surface of a distant wave. A great, fresh, salt breath came up
like a tonic through the wilted air. The voice of the sea was infinitely
soothing. Eleanore listened to it eagerly, her lips parted, her eyes
wandering along that distant wave-line; her thoughts almost as far away.
Presently the door of her room opened, softly; and some one paused upon
the threshold. Instinctively she knew who it was that entered. Half
turning, she said gently,—
“Thou’rt come here, Gerault?”
Her son came forward slowly, halted a few steps away, and held out one
hand to her. She went to him and took it, wondering a little at his
manner, but not questioning him. Quietly she drew the young man to the
window where she had been; and both stood there and looked out upon the
scene. They were silent for a long time. It was intensely difficult for
Gerault to speak; and madame knew not how to help him. At length, in a
voice that sounded slightly strained, he asked: “Thou’rt pleased with
her? Thou’rt satisfied, my mother?”
“Oh, Gerault! Gerault! She is so fair, so delicate, so like some faery
child! I almost fear to see her beauty fade in the shadow of these gray
walls.”
“And will she—Lenore—help thee, in a way, to forget thy grief in Laure?”
Eleanore gave a sudden, involuntary sob; for none had pronounced that
name to her since the early spring. The sob was answer enough to
Gerault’s question. But in a moment she said, in a voice that was
perfectly controlled: “Methinks I love her, thy lady, already. Ah, my
son, she is very sweet! Very, very sweet and fair!”
[Illustration]
_CHAPTER SEVEN_
THE LOST LENORE
[Illustration]
When Gerault left her to go to his mother’s room, on that first evening
in the Castle that was to be her home, Lenore was still fully dressed.
As soon as she was alone, however, she made herself ready for the night;
and then, wrapping herself about in her long day-mantle, went to a
window overlooking the sea, and sat there waiting for her lord’s return.
Now that the excitement of the day, of the arrival, of meeting so many
new people, all eager to make her welcome, was over, Lenore began to
feel herself very weary, a little homesick, a little wistful, and
tremulously eager for Gerault’s speedy return. She clung to the thought
of him and her newly risen love, with pathetic anxiety. Was it not
lawful and right that she should love him? Was it not equally lawful and
therefore equally certain that he must love her? She knew little enough
of love and of men, young Lenore; yet this idea came to her
instinctively, and it seemed impossible that it could be otherwise. It
was so recently that she had been a little girl in all her thoughts and
pleasures and habits, that this sudden transition to the dignified
estate of wifehood had left her singularly helpless, singularly
dependent on the man whom she had married out of duty and fallen in love
with afterwards, on the way from Rennes. Gerault helped her, in his way.
He was kind, he was gentle, was solicitous for her comfort, and required
of her nothing but a quiet demeanor. But that he failed in some way to
give her what was her due, the young girl rather felt than knew.
While she waited here alone, looking out upon the lonely sea, that was
so new and so wonderful a sight to her, the Lady Lenore bitterly
regretted and took herself to task for her gayety of the evening. The
silly games that she had once so loved to play—alas! he had not joined
in them, doubtless thought them trivial and unbecoming in a woman grown
and married! She had made herself a fool before him! He was older than
she, and wiser, and a gallant knight. Lenore’s cheeks flushed with pride
as she remembered how he could joust and tilt at the ring. She
remembered when she had first seen him, from the gallery of the list at
Rennes, when he unseated the Seigneur Geoffrey Cartel. This lordly sport
was as simple to him as her games to her. Little wonder that she had
exhausted his patience! And yet—if he would but come to her now! She was
so sadly weary; and it grew so late. Her little body ached, her temples
throbbed, her eyes burned with the past glare of the sun on the white
dust, and the recent flickering light of the torches. If he would but
come back, and forgive her her childishness, and kiss her before she
slept, she would be very happy.
In point of fact Gerault did come soon. Knowing that Lenore must be
weary, he remained but a short time with his mother, and returned
immediately to his wife. The moment that he entered the room, Lenore
rose from her place, and ran to him with a faint cry of delight.
“At last thou art come! Thou art come!” she said indistinctly, not
wanting him to hear the words, yet unable to keep from saying them.
“And didst thou sit up for me, child, and thou so weary? I went but to
give my mother good-night, for thou knowest ’tis long since I saw her
last. She sent thee her blessing and sweet rest; and my wish is fellow
to hers. Come now, child.”
Gerault lifted her up in his arms, and, carrying her to the bed, laid
her down in it, mantle and all. In the carrying, Lenore had leaned her
head upon his shoulder, and her two tired arms folded themselves around
his neck. How it was that Gerault felt no thrill at this touch; that it
was almost a relief to him when the hold loosened; and how, though he
slept at her side that night, his dreams, freer replica of his
day-thoughts, were filled with vague trouble, he himself could scarce
have told; and yet it was so.
[Illustration:
_Only one among them seemed
not of their mood.—Page 31_
]