'BIDE THE TIME'
Walking the rounds at Hauterive the night of his coming there, a man
sprang out at Prosper from a black entry and stabbed at him between the
shoulders. "For the ravisher of Isoult!" was all the message that did
not miscarry, for Galors' mail of proof stopped the rest. Prosper whipt
round in an instant, but the assassin had made up the passage-way.
There was a quick chase through the break-neck lanes of the steep
little town, then blood told. Prosper ran his man to earth in a
churchyard. He proved to be a red-haired country lout, whose bandy legs
had been against him in this work. He asked for no quarter, seemed
beside himself with rage.
"Friend," said Prosper, "you struck me from behind. You must have
wished to make very sure. Why?"
Said Falve, "Thou ravisher, Galors."
"I cannot be called Galors to my face; politics may go to the devil.
Keep my secret, countryman; I am in Galors' shell, but I will be Galors
no more."
Falve dropped on his knees. "Oh, my lord, my lord--" he began to cry
out.
"Enough of lords," said Prosper. "Some of them do not very lordly, I
grant you. Your words touched me nearly. Be so good as to make yourself
plain. Who is Isoult?"
"Isoult la Desirous, my wife, Messire."
"Your wife!" cried Prosper, grinding his teeth.
"As good as that, my lord. I should have married her in the morning if
my mother hadn't played the Turk on me."
So he had the whole story out of him. Prosper learnt that Isoult had
been put in her way to safety by the old woman, who immediately after
had made that way the most perilous of all--with the best intentions
always.
"Master Falve, I am your debtor," said Prosper at the end; "I wish you
good evening."
"Messire, will you not find my wife?"
"Your wife again, sirrah!" cried he, turning sharply.
"Ah, my lord, if you have any ill-will to that----"
"I have the greatest possible ill-will, my man, because she is already
my own."
"Heaven round about us, was there ever such a married woman!" cried
poor Falve, tearing his hair.
The politics of a lady to whom, so far as he then knew, he owed no
service held Prosper till the morning. The rest of the night he spent
walking the ramparts. At the first flutter of light he beat up the
garrison, assembled the men of both parties, and declared himself.
"Hauterive returns to its allegiance," said he. "Conradin de Lamport is
commandant. The former garrison will deliver up all arms and take the
oath of fealty. A declaration of hue-and-cry is posted for Galors, with
a reward for his head. In three days' time the Countess will send her
Viceroy to claim the keys. Gentlemen, I bid you good morning."
Conradin de Lamport was the name of the man who had accompanied him
into Wanmeeting. Prosper knew he was to be trusted. Then with
conscience cleared he mounted his horse and left Hauterive.
Keeping a sharp look-out as he went, he was rewarded by the find of a
shoe, glowing like a crimson toadstool in the moss. Not far off were
its fellow, and a pair of drenched silk stockings. He kissed the
vestiges of the feet of Isoult, hung them to the peak of the saddle,
and forward again like a westerly gale. After this came a fault which
delayed him the best part of three days. The deer were dumb animals for
him, whose business had hitherto been to bleed not milk them. There
were deer feeding in the glades of Thornyhold; but Belvisée was nursing
her wound under the oak by the pool, and Mellifont was beside her. The
deer snuffed an enemy in the friend of their friend; they gave him a
lead astray, which unconsciously he took. Thus he found himself, after
two days' aimless wandering and two nights' dreamless sleep, on the
high ground by Deerleap, with the forest behind and the rolling purple
fells stretched out before him, and at last a blue gauzy ribbon which
he knew for the sea. Out of heart he turned and beat back to
Thornyhold, this time to better purpose.
A rustle in the fern, a start, a glint of the sun on a side not furry,
a flash of flying green and russet, a streamer of hair like a litten
cloud--by Heavens, how the brown girl ran! Prosper, laughing but keen,
gave chase. She led him far, in and out of the oak stems, doubling like
a hare; but he rode her down by cutting off the corners: flushed,
panting and wild, defiant she stood, ready to flinch at the blow.
Prosper's horse was properly breathed; as for him he burst into a laugh.
"My child, you bolted like a rabbit. But own that I gave you a good
run."
"You beat me," said Mellifont.
"Well, and now I am going to do what I like with you."
"Of course."
"You must be obedient. Answer my question now. Why did you run?"
"Because you came."
"Why did you run?"
"Because you are a man."
"Madam Virgin, what a prude! Did you think I should hurt you?"
"Yes."
"Well, have I?"
"Not yet."
"Look at me now. Do I look like hurting you?" He put up his visor. The
softest brown eyes a girl can have trembled over him.
"No--o. Oh!" The negative was drowned in discovery. Prosper followed
her gaze. He held up the red stockings.
"Do you know them, child?"
"I know to whom they belong. Are you going to hunt her?"
"Hunt her! I am going to find her. I think she has had hunting enough,
God bless her."
"Yes, she has," said Mellifont gravely.
Prosper stooped in his saddle and laid a hand on her head.
"My dear," said he, "I love that hunted lady beyond everything in the
world; I never knew how much until I had lost her. But no wrong will
happen to her till she hears me tell her the truth. If you know
anything you must not hide it from me."
Mellifont peered up at him through her hair.
"Are you Prosper?" she asked.
"Yes, I am indeed. Did she speak to you about me?"
"Often."
"Is she--ah, Lord of Hosts! she is not here?"
"No, not now. She was here. Come with me. But you must leave your horse
and sword behind you."
Prosper obeyed her without a thought. Mellifont took his hand and led
him to the hollow under the oak. Belvisée was there, dumbly nursing her
side, which a stooping hind was licking when the pair came up. Prosper
received the red robe and the sequins from her hands, and in time
pieced the story together. It cut him to the soul.
"Take me to the place where the dogs got her," he said in a whisper.
Belvisée and Mellifont led him there. Once more, then, he wasted his
eyes on crushed herbage, black fern, and stained earth; again loathed
himself very heartily for what he had not done; but in time understood
what he had done. He turned deliberately to the sisters. "Belvisée and
Mellifont, listen to what I shall tell you. There is no strength like a
woman's, and no blindness like that of a man. For the woman is strong
because she is blind and cannot see the man she loves as he is;
therefore she makes him in her own glorious image. But the man is blind
because he is strong, and because he seeth himself so glorious that he
can abide no other near him save as a servant. In that he doth deadly
sin to Love, because the food of Love is service, and he that serves
not Love starves him. But the woman feedeth him with her own milk; so
Love is with her till she dies. I, by the mercy of God, have learned
what Love is, and can feed him with service. And Isoult la Desirous has
taught me, who is now Isoult la Desirée."
Prosper ceased. Mellifont was crying on Belvisée's shoulder. The latter
said--
"Prosper, if all men were like thee, we might leave the forest and
dwell with them."
"Come with me," he said, "and I will see you safely bestowed."
"No, no; we will stay where we are known and with whom we know. All men
are not like you."
"As you must, it must needs be," replied Prosper. He kissed each on the
cheek, and watched them go hand-in-hand down the glade. The herd closed
in upon them, so neither he nor the Argument knows them any more.
Prosper knelt down to pray; but what he found set him to better work.
He found Isoult's wedding-ring.
"By God," he cried, "who made men to labour, I will pray with my hands
this turn!"
He ran for his horse and sword. Courage came with his gallop, courage
and self-esteem, without which no man ever did anything yet. With
self-esteem returned sober thought.
"I can do Malbank in three or four hours. There is light enough for
what I have to settle there. I will spare my horse and save time in the
end. Meantime I will think this affair out." So said Prosper galloping
to Prosper on his feet, the late moralist. His plan was very simply to
confront the Abbot with his ring. If that failed he would scour his own
country, raise a troop, and lay leaguer on Saint Thorn. He had
forgotten Galors. He was soon to have a reminder of that grim fighter.
The doors of the great church stood open, so Prosper rode in. It was
cold and dark, and smelt of death and candle-fumes. The pilasters of
the nave were already swathed in black velvet; in the choir were great
lights set on the floor, in the midst of them a bier. A priest was at a
little altar by the bier's head, other cowled figures crouched about
it. There was a low murmur of praying, even, whining, and mechanical.
On the bier Prosper saw the comely Abbot Richard Dieudonné, in cope and
mitre, holding in his hand the staff of his high office. This pastor of
the Church was at peace; the man of the world was sober with access of
wisdom; the man of modes smiled pleasantly at his secret thoughts. Very
handsome, very remote, very pure he looked; for so death purges off the
dross which we work into the good clay.
Prosper, meditative always at the sight of death, stood and pondered
upon it. Everything was well, no doubt; such things should be! but the
indifference of the defunct seemed almost shocking. Do they not care
for decent interment? Then he turned to a bystander.
"You mourn for your father?" he asked.
"Master, we do indeed. What! a great lord, a throned and pompous
priest, to be felled like a calf; his body spitted like a lark's! No
leave asked! You may well judge whether we mourn. I suppose there never
was such a mournful affair since a king died in this country."
"Murdered?" cried Prosper, highly scandalized.
"Murdered by Prosper le Gai for the sake of the Chained Virgin."
"By Prosper le Gai?"
"'Tis so indeed. And well he did his work, if there's anything in wrist
play. For first he spits the Abbot, and then he sunders the chain, and
next he overhauls the girl, and next the Abbot. And he puts her under
his arm like a marketable hen, and away he gallops over the heath. Hot
work!"
"Galors' work," said Prosper to himself as he turned away.
He prayed at three altars for the man's soul, turned, mounted, and
galloped. He forded Wan. A horseman met him on the further bank,
shouting. Prosper lowered his head and shot at him as from a catapult.
The spear drove deep, the man threw his arms out, sobbed, and dropped
like a stone. Prosper went on his race.
It was growing dusk when he stood on the threshold of Matt's intake,
battering at the door. The hag-ridden face of old Mald stared out. She
parted her tattered hair from her eyes and pointed a shaky finger at
him.
"Galors," she wailed, "Galors, thou monk forsworn, thinkest thou to
have the Much-Desired? No, but her husband has her at last, and shall
have her with all that is hers--ah, though he have done murder to get
her. Swear back, Galors, and pray for thy dead master."
Prosper held up his hand to stay the tide.
"Mother, I am Prosper, the husband of the Much-Desired. No murder have
I done, though I have seen murder. And I have not my wife; but I
believe she is with Galors."
Old Mald came fawning out to him at this, and took his hands in her own
trembling hands.
"He passed an hour agone," said she. "He will do her no wrong till he
hath her at High March, trust him for that. And by now he should be
near Martle, and she before him on the saddle-bow."
She began to weep and wag her silly head. Prosper made to go, having no
time to waste; but, "Stop," she quavered, "and hear me out. Though the
Abbot Richard was murdered at his prayers, yet withal he got his
deserts, for he hatched a worse wrong than ever Galors did. The child
was chained by the middle, and came to me chained riding a white
palfrey. In green and white she came, and round her middle was a chain,
long and supple, and a monk on horse-back held the end thereof. She
came to me to the hearth at the length of her chain, and held me in her
dear arms, and kissed me, cheeks and forehead. Down I sat on my stool
and she on the knees of me, and she hid her face on my leanness while
she spoke of you, my lord--called you her dear heart, and told of all
the bitter longings she had. Ah, now! Ah, now! If you but knew."
"God forgive me," cried the lacerated wretch, "but I know it all! Yet
tell me what else she said."
"There was little more," said Mald, "for the monk pulled at her, and
she went as she came."
"Have they passed an hour gone?" said Prosper in a dry whisper.
"Ah, and more."
"God be with you," said he; "pray for her."
"Pray!" mocked the crone in a rage; "and pray what will that do?"
"No more than I, mother, just now. God is all about us. Farewell!"
And he was gone amid flying peats.
Midway of the heath a second knight met him, challenged him, and
charged. Prosper was not for small game that night. His head grew
cooler, as always, for his haste, his arm steady as a rock. Thereupon
he ran his man through the breastbone. He broke his spear, but took the
other's, and away. At the edge of the wood the moon-rays gleamed a
third time upon mail. It was Galors' last sentry, who hallooed to stay
him. Prosper was on him before he was ready, and hurled him from the
saddle. He never moved. Prosper galloped through the wood.
The snapping branches, thunder of hoofs, labouring belly and hard-won
breath of his beast, more than all the wind that sang in his ears,
prevented him from hearing what Galors and his prey had already heard.
He went headlong down the slope of the ground; but before anything more
welcome he caught the music of the brook in the bottom.
There was a gap in the trees just there; the moon swam in the midst
large and golden. Then at last he saw what he wanted, and knew that the
hour had come.