SURRENDER
But this interview with the inimical Quaker had more than strengthened
Sir Marmaduke's design to carry his bold scheme more rapidly to its
successful issue.
The game which he had played with grave risks for over three months now
had begun to be dangerous. The mysterious patriot from France could not
afford to see prying enemies at his heels.
Anon when the graceful outline of Lady Sue's figure emerged from out the
surrounding gloom, Sir Marmaduke went forward to meet her, and clasped
her to him in a passionate embrace.
"My gracious lady ... my beautiful Sue ..." he murmured whilst he
covered her hands, her brow, her hair with ardent kisses, "you have come
so late--and I have been so weary of waiting ... waiting for you."
He led her through the gardens to where one gigantic elm, grander than
its fellows, had thrown out huge gnarled roots which protruded from out
the ground. One of these, moss-covered, green and soft, formed a perfect
resting place. He drew her down, begging her to sit. She obeyed, scared
somewhat as was her wont when she found him so unfettered and violent.
He stretched himself at full length at her feet, extravagant now in his
acts and gestures like a man who no longer can hold turbulent passion in
check. He kissed the edge of her kirtle, then her cloak and the tips of
her little shoes:
"It was cruel to keep me waiting ... gracious lady--it was cruel," he
murmured in the intervals between these ardent caresses.
"I am so sorry, Amédé," she repeated, grieving to see him so sorrowful,
not a little frightened at his vehemence,--trying to withdraw her hands
from his grasp. "I was detained ..."
"Detained," he rejoined harshly, "detained by someone else ... someone
who had a greater claim on your time than the poor exile ..."
"Nay! 'tis unkind thus to grieve me," she said with tender reproach as
she felt the hot tears gather in her eyes. "You know--as I do--that I am
not my own mistress yet."
"Yes! yes! forgive me--my gracious, sweet, sweet lady.... I am mad when
you are not nigh me.... You do not know--how could you? ... what
torments I endure, when I think of you so beautiful, so exquisite, so
adorable, surrounded by other men who admire you ... desire you,
mayhap.... Oh! my God! ..."
"But you need have no fear," she protested gently, "you know that I gave
my whole heart willingly to you ... my prince ..."
"Nay, but you cannot know," he persisted violently, "sweet, gentle
creature that you are, you cannot guess the agonies which a strong man
endures when he is gnawed by ruthless insane jealousy ..."
She gave a cry of pain.
"Amédé!" for she felt hurt, deeply wounded by his mistrust of her, when
she had so wholly, so fully trusted him.
"I know ... I know," he said with quick transition of tone, fearful that
he had offended her, striving to master his impatience, to find words
which best pleased her young, romantic temperament, "Nay! but you must
think me mad.... Mayhap you despise me," he added with a gentle note of
sadness. "Oh, God! ... mayhap you will turn from me now...."
"No! no!"
"Yet do I worship you ... my saint ... my divinity ... my Suzanne....
You are more beautiful, more adorable than any woman in the world ...
and I am so unworthy."
"You unworthy!" she retorted, laughing gayly through her tears. "You, my
prince, my king! ..."
"Say that once more, my Suzanne," he murmured with infinite gentleness,
"oh! the exquisite sweetness of your voice, which is like dream-music in
mine ears.... Oh! to hold you in my arms thus, for ever ... until death,
sweeter than life ... came to me in one long passionate kiss."
She allowed him to put his arms round her now, glad that the darkness
hid the blush on her cheeks; thus she loved him, thus she had first
learned to love him, ardent, oh, yes! but so gentle, so meek, yet so
great and exalted in his selfless patriotism.
"'Tis not of death you should speak, sweet prince," she said, ineffably
happy now that she felt him more subdued, more trusting and fond,
"rather should you speak of life ... with me, your own Suzanne ... of
happiness in the future, when you and I, hand in hand, will work
together for that great cause you hold so dear ... the freedom and
liberties of France."
"Ah, yes!" he sighed in utter dejection, "when that happy time comes ...
but ..."
"You do not trust me?" she asked reproachfully.
"With all my heart, my Suzanne," he replied, "but you are so beautiful,
so rich ... and other men ..."
"There are no other men for me," she retorted simply. "I love you."
"Will you prove it to me?"
"How can I?"
"Be mine ... mine absolutely," he urged eagerly with passion just
sufficiently subdued to make her pulses throb. "Be my wife ... my
princess ... let me feel that no one could come between us...."
"But my guardian would never consent," she protested.
"Surely your love for me can dispense with Sir Marmaduke's consent...."
"A secret marriage?" she asked, terrified at this strange vista which
his fiery imagination was conjuring up before her.
"You refuse? ..." he asked hoarsely.
"No! no! ... but ..."
"Then you do not love me, Suzanne."
The coolness in his tone struck a sudden chill to her heart. She felt
the clasp of his arms round her relax, she felt rather than saw that he
withdrew markedly from her.
"Ah! forgive me! forgive me!" she murmured, stretching her little hands
out to him in a pathetic and childlike appeal. "I have never deceived
anyone in my life before.... How could I live a lie? ... married to you,
yet seemingly a girl.... Whilst in three months...."
She paused in her eagerness, for he had jumped to his feet and was now
standing before her, a rigid, statuesque figure, with head bent and arms
hanging inert by his side.
"You do not love me, Suzanne," he said with an infinity of sadness,
which went straight to her own loving heart, "else you would not dream
of thus condemning me to three months of exquisite torture.... I have
had my answer.... Farewell, my gracious lady ... not mine, alas! but
another man's ... and may Heaven grant that he love you well ... not as
I do, for that were impossible...."
His voice had died away in a whisper, which obviously was half-choked
with tears. She, too, had risen while he spoke, all her hesitation
gone, her heart full of reproaches against herself, and of love for him.
"What do you mean?" she asked trembling.
"That I must go," he replied simply, "since you do not love me...."
Oh! how thankful she was that this merciful darkness enwrapped her so
tenderly. She was so young, so innocent and pure, that she felt half
ashamed of the expression of her own great love which went out to him in
a veritable wave of passion, when she began to fear that she was about
to lose him.
"No, no," she cried vehemently, "you shall not go ... you shall not."
Her hands sought his in the gloom, and found them, clung to them with
ever-growing ardor; she came quite close to him trying to peer into his
face and to let him read in hers all the pathetic story of her own deep
love for him.
"I love you," she murmured through her tears. And again she repeated: "I
love you. See," she added with sudden determination, "I will do e'en as
you wish.... I will follow you to the uttermost ends of the earth.... I
... I will marry you ... secretly ... an you wish."
Welcome darkness that hid her blushes! ... she was so young--so ignorant
of life and of the world--yet she felt that by her words, her promise,
her renunciation of her will, she was surrendering something to this
man, which she could never, never regain.
Did the first thought of fear, or misgiving cross her mind at this
moment? It were impossible to say. The darkness which to her was so
welcome was--had she but guessed it--infinitely cruel too, for it hid
the look of triumph, of rapacity, of satisfied ambition which at her
selfless surrender had involuntarily crept into Marmaduke's eyes.