Aymery was still in a deep sleep when Marpasse returned to the priest’s
house an hour before sunset, and found Grimbald baking cakes on the
hearth. Marpasse might have laughed at his housewifeliness had she not
been in a very earnest temper about Denise. So she drew a stool up and
sat down as though to make sure that Grimbald did not burn the cakes
which he had made while she was away.
“I have found her,” she said, and Grimbald had only to listen, for
Marpasse’s generous impatience had ample inspiration.
“Never tell me women are not obstinate, Father, for I swear to you that
Denise was born to make misery for herself. A Jew hunting for a farthing
in the mud is not more careful than Denise to hunt out something to
grieve over. I should like to cut the conscience out of her, and bury
it.”
Grimbald held up a hand, and rising from the stool, went to the doorway
of the inner room, and looked in to see that Aymery was asleep. He
closed the door softly, and came back to the hot cakes and Marpasse.
“You are a great battle-horse, my child,” he said bluntly. “Denise’s
flanks are not for the same spur.”
Marpasse took the rebuke with the best of tempers.
“Dear Lord, but the pity of it. All this to-do, and blood-spilling, and
no marriage bed at the end of it. There is no law of the Church against
it, Father, surely? The monks clapped vows on her, and pulled them off
again with their own hands.”
Grimbald bent forward, and methodically turned the cakes.
His strong face shone like burnished copper in the firelight; a gaunt,
good face, honest and very shrewd. Marpasse watched him, and the thought
flashed on her from somewhere that it would be an excellent thing to
have the baking of such a man’s bread. And with a quaint impulsiveness
she put her hand up over her mouth, symbolising the smothering of so
scandalous a conceit.
Having turned all the cakes, Grimbald gave his judgment.
“I have no love for the convent women,” he said, “and there—I am out of
fashion.”
Marpasse saw the worldly side of the picture, and smoothed away a smile.
“Then you would make them man and wife, Father if the chance offered?”
“Against all the monkish law in the kingdom,” he said stoutly; “we put
no vows on her when she had her cell up yonder. And some of the folk
here would have been burnt for her if she had asked it. Only that lewd
dog of a Gascon——Well, we broke their teeth at Lewes.”
Marpasse stared solemnly into the fire as though looking for pictures
amid the blaze of the burning wood.
“If Denise could only forget a year,” she said.
Grimbald nodded wisely.
“God wastes nothing,” he answered; “those who never suffer, never
learn.”
Aymery slept the whole night, and woke soon after dawn with a rush of
memories like clouds over a March sky. He found Grimbald sitting by his
bed. Grimbald was dozing, but his eyes opened suddenly and looked
straight at Aymery like the eyes of an altar saint in the dimness of the
room.
The first word that Aymery uttered was the name of Denise.
Grimbald’s gaunt face remained thoughtful and placid.
“Marpasse has found her,” he said.
Aymery’s eyes asked more than Grimbald had the heart to tell.
“She is safe,” was all that he would say, and acting as though there
were no secret to be concealed, he went out to lay the fire on the
hearth of the great room.
Now Marpasse showed a most managing temper that May morning, and went
about as though she had some grave work on hand. She herself took food
in to Aymery, remained awhile with the door shut, and came out looking
very set about the mouth.
“I have told him a lie,” she said to Grimbald in a whisper, “his eyes
asked for it. Go in and barber him, Father; a lover looks best with a
clean chin.”
Grimbald stared her in the face.
“What have you told him?”
“That we kept her away last night—for the sake of his wounds.”
Grimbald’s lips came together for a “but.” Marpasse whispered on.
“Get your razor and barber him, Father, and keep a clean edge on the
lie. His eyes asked for it—I tell you, and I had not the heart to dash
in the truth. I have the yoke on my own shoulders. Two lies sometimes
make the truth.”
She took Grimbald’s holly staff from the corner, and put on her hood.
“I am going to fetch her,” she said; “no—I shall not scold. I have my
plan. You may sit in the wood-shed out of sight, Father Grimbald, when I
bring her back with me. If she sees you it will spoil the whole brew.”
She turned on the threshold, and Grimbald saw suddenly that her eyes
were wet.
“Pray for them both, good Father,” she said to him, “my heart’s in the
thing whatever rough words my mouth may say.”
And Grimbald promised, and let her go. Yet when she had gone, and he was
left alone in the great room with its black beams and smoking hearth, he
saw through his prayers the brave, brown face of Marpasse.
Yet Marpasse’s warm-hearted, yet coarser, nature could not vibrate to
the subtler emotions that stirred in Denise. The two were like crude
sunshine and moonlight; Marpasse healthy and vital in herself, yet
lacking mystery and the glimmer of visionary things. Denise had often
been more a spirit than a body, though the woman in her had been
awakened, and the rich warm scent of the earth had ascended into her
nostrils. Suffering had made her very human, and yet the soul in her
still beat its wings, even though those wings should carry it away from
the world’s desire nearer to the cold stars in a lonely sky. To
Marpasse, Denise’s self-condemnation might seem a kind of futile and
pitiable sanctity, but then Marpasse had more blood and bone in her, and
less of that spirit that is crucified by its own purity.
Denise had passed the whole night in the long grass under the rose tree,
looking at the stars and the vague, black shapes of the great beeches.
The cell had a horror for her, and she would not enter it, as though her
other self lay dead within. That other memory was more vivid than the
memories of those nights when Aymery had lain there wounded little more
than a year ago.
Give herself to the man she felt she could not, for she was too
sensitive, too much a sad soul in a beautiful body not to feel the veil
of aloofness that covered her face, that veil that was invisible and
impalpable to Marpasse. Her own innocence made her more conscious of
that other life—that other innocent soul that had been born in her, and
which had taken from the mother that which she would have given to
Aymery whom she loved. Only a pure woman could feel what Denise felt in
her heart of hearts. The divine girdle had been torn from her. Love
might be blind to it, but Denise’s soul could not be blind.
And yet a sense of great loneliness rushed upon her that night, weighing
her down into the long grass, and making her heart heavy. The petals of
the rose fell dew drenched into her lap. The night was still and
fragrant, and no wind made the trees mutter like the hoarse whisperings
of an oracle in some ancient forest. The heart of Denise was heavy
within her. The sad deeps of life seemed between her and the world, a
dark voiceless gulf that no living soul could cross.
So the day came, and with it Marpasse, holly staff in hand, alert, and
on her guard. But she was disarmed that morning by Denise herself. The
first glimpse of that tragic and troubled face drove the rougher words
out of Marpasse’s mouth. She took Denise in her arms, and kissed her,
seeing in those brown eyes such deeps of sincerity and sadness, that
Marpasse humbled herself, feeling herself near to something greater than
a woman’s whim.
Marpasse guessed what Denise had to say. The renunciation lay in the
brown eyes like a dim mist of tears.
“I am going away, Marpasse,” she said. “I have thought of it all the
night.”
Marpasse hid her impulses, and was patient and very gentle.
“Heart of mine, where will you go?”
“To Earl Simon.”
Marpasse opened her eyes.
“I shall go to him, and put everything before him. He has a great heart,
Marpasse, and his lady has the soul of Mary—Our Mother. Nor shall I go
in vain.”
She spoke very simply, like one resigned, but Marpasse felt the wild
heart of a woman who loved palpitating beneath her courage. It was the
purpose of one whose knees shook under her, and who strove to keep
herself from looking back. A touch, and love would break out, with a
great passionate cry. Marpasse saw it all, and took her inspiration.
“So be it, heart of mine,” she said, looking sad enough; “and
yet—before you go—there is Father Grimbald yonder. The good man
strained a sinew last night, or he would have been here with me this
morning. He would not forgive your going without seeing him.”
Denise breathed out the answer that Marpasse was expecting.
“But I cannot go! He—is there.”
Marpasse, brazen-faced, told the lie of her life.
“Messire Aymery? He is so little the worse that he was in the saddle at
daybreak, and searching the woods to the west, and half the village with
him.”
Denise looked into Marpasse’s eyes.
“That is the truth?”
“Heart of mine, why should I tell you a lie!”
Denise seemed to hesitate. She shrank from the sight of any familiar
face that morning, and yet her heart reproached her because of Grimbald.
The thought was often with her that she might have trusted him more
deeply.
Marpasse, dreading to seem too eager, put in a frank plea.
“Why shun a good friend?” she said; “he would be grieved. The man is no
Ursula, God forbid!”
Denise surrendered.
“I will come,” she said; “but I will see no one but Grimbald.”
“Leave it to me, sister; we can keep to the woods.”
Marpasse played her part so well that no flicker of suspicion passed
over Denise’s face as they made their way across the valley to the
priest’s house under the silver birches. Only here and there had they to
leave the woodlands to cross a meadow or a piece of the wild common
where the villagers pastured their cattle. Denise walked with her hood
drawn forward, looking about her wistfully at the hills and valleys that
were so familiar, and had been so dear. She felt like a stranger in the
Goldspur woods that morning, a bird of passage that passed and left no
loneliness in the heart of the land she left. Marpasse talked much upon
the way, entering into Denise’s plans as though she were resigned to
them, the most loving of hypocrites who lied for the sake of love. She
even warned Denise to take care of her long-suffering body. “Two nights
without sleep,” she said, “is enough for any woman. Live your life in
such a hurry and you will be as thin as a post in three months, with
wrinkles all over your face. The pity of it! Like a piece of fine silk
left out in the wind and rain.”
So they came to Grimbald’s house amid the silver stems of the birches,
Marpasse alert and on the watch lest some piece of clumsiness should
make her plot miscarry. Denise was shy and wild as an untamed falcon,
her brown eyes half afraid of the birch wood, as though Aymery might
come riding out with half Goldspur village at his heels. Marpasse saw
the look in Denise’s eyes. One clap of the hands and the bird would be
skimming on frightened wings.
“Courage, sister,” she said, “there is not a soul to be seen. I will
keep guard and watch while you are talking with Grimbald. No, the good
man will not try to over-persuade you. If I whistle, then you will know
that there is danger in the distance.”
They entered the porch, Marpasse first, Denise following.
“The good man is abed resting that sprained ankle of his. I will see
whether he is ready.”
Marpasse crossed the outer room, peeped in, held up a hand to Aymery,
and turned and called Denise. There was an iron catch on the door that
hooked into a staple, so that the door could be fastened on the outer
side. Moreover the door opened outwards into the larger room, and
Marpasse stood with her hand on the catch.
“She is coming, Father,” she said, keeping her eyes upon Denise.
The grey figure brushed past Marpasse, and crossed the threshold in all
innocence. No sooner was Denise within, than Marpasse clapped to the
door, fastened it, and ran like a mad woman out of the house.
In the wood-shed at the end of the rough garden she found Grimbald
sitting patiently on the chopping block behind a screen of faggots.
“I have shut her in with him,” she said; “now love must win—or never.”