THE LAST FAREWELL
She saw in a moment how much older he looked, and quaintly wondered
whether the black doublet and cloak caused him to seem so. Harry
Plantagenet--happiest of dogs now that his master roamed about with him
once more--walked with a proud step beside him.
She looked such a dainty picture, framed in the rich embrasure of the
great window, her graceful figure with its crown of gold looking
majestic and noble on the raised dais, ethereal and almost ghostlike,
with its rich white draperies.
Just for one moment as Wessex entered the room the events of the last
fortnight suddenly vanished from his memory. She was there before him,
in that same soft gown of white, as she had stood that day, with a sheaf
of roses in her arms--or were they marguerites?--and once more, as he
had done then, he vaguely wondered what colour were her eyes. On his
lips he seemed to feel again the savour of her passionate kiss, and once
again to smell the perfume of her golden hair as for that one brief,
heavenly minute she had lain next to his heart.
But reality--wanton, crude, and cruel--chased this brief, happy vision
away with one cut of her swishing lash, and then brought before his eyes
that same face and form, but with wild, restless eyes, bare neck and
bosom, and with the Spaniard's hand resting masterfully on her
shoulder. And Ursula, who had watched him keenly, saw the cold,
contemptuous look in his eyes, the shudder which shook his powerful
frame as he approached her, and she even seemed actually to be touching
that stony barrier of wilful self-control, which he interposed between
himself and her.
But the obeisance which he made to her was profound and full of cold
respect.
"You desired to speak with me, lady?" he said. "My life, which you have
deigned to save, is entirely at your service."
She had stepped down from the dais as he approached, calling upon every
fibre within her, upon every power granted to a woman who loves to touch
the heart of the loved one. Though she knew that for ever after, he and
she would henceforth be parted, her heart had so yearned for him that
vaguely she had begun to delude herself with the hope that after all
only a great misunderstanding existed between him and her, and that
before they spoke the last words of farewell their hands would meet just
once again--only as friends--only as comrades perhaps--but closely,
trustfully for all that.
It was solely in this hope that she had begged for an interview.
His coldness chilled her. Now that he was near her again, she once more
became conscious of that bitter feeling of awful jealousy which had
caused her the most exquisite heart-ache which a human being could be
called upon to endure. Memory brought back to her the vision of another
woman--an unknown creature whom he loved, to the destruction of his own
soul and honour.
And with the advent of this memory the tender appeal died upon her lips,
and she only said in a hard, callous voice--
"Is that all that Your Grace would say to me?"
"Nay, indeed," he replied with the same icy calm, "there is much I ought
to say, is there not? I should tell you how grateful I am for my life,
which I owe to you. And yet I cannot even find it in my heart to say
'thank you' for so worthless a gift."
"Does life then seem so bitter now that the woman you love has proved a
wanton and a coward?" she retorted vehemently.
He looked at her, a little puzzled by her tone, then said quietly--
"Nay! the woman I loved has proved neither a wanton nor a coward . . .
only an illusion, a sweet dream of youth and innocence, which I, poor
fool, mistook for reality."
There was such an infinity of sadness, of deception, and of
life-enduring sorrow in his voice as he spoke that every motherly
instinct, never far absent from a true woman's heart, was aroused in
hers in an instant. She forgot her bitterness in the intensity of her
desire to comfort him, and she said quite gently--
"You loved her very dearly, then?"
"I worshipped my dream, but 'tis gone."
"Already?" she asked, not understanding.
And he, not comprehending, replied--
"Nothing flies so quickly as an illusion when it is on the wing."
Then he added more lightly--
"But I pray you, do not think of that. I am grateful to you--very
grateful. Your ladyship hath deigned to send for me. What do you desire
of me? My name and protection are now at your service, and I am
ready--whenever you wish it--to fulfil the promise our fathers made on
our behalf."
She drew back as if a poisoned adder had stung her.
At first she had not realized what he meant to say; then the intention
dawned upon her and the insult nearly knocked her down like a blow. She
could hardly speak, her own words seemed to choke her; her rich young
blood flew to her pallid cheeks and dyed them with the crimson hue of
shame.
"You would . . . ?" she murmured faintly. "You thought that I . . . ?
Oh! . . ." she gasped in the infinity of her pain.
But like the wounded beast when first it sees its own hurt, so did this
man now--gentle, artistic, fastidious though he was--suddenly feel every
cruel instinct of the primitive savage rise within him at the thought of
the great wrong which he believed this woman had done him. All the
latent tenderness in his heart was crushed. Manlike, he only longed now
to make her suffer one tithe of the agony which he had endured because
of her treachery. He thought that she had played with him and fooled him
in sheer wantonness, and he wished to crush her pride, her youth, her
gaiety as she had broken his life and his honour.
He despised her for what she had done, and longed to let her see the
full measure of his contempt. Glad that he had succeeded in hurting her,
he tried to turn the blade within the wound.
"Nay, you need have no fear, lady," he said, "the wars in France will
soon claim my presence, and the world will be quite ready to forgive to
the Duchess of Wessex the sins of Lady Ursula Glynde, especially after a
chance French arrow had made her free again."
But it was the very magnitude of the insult which restored to Ursula her
self-possession, nor would she let him see now how deeply she was
wounded. With her self-control, her dignity also returned to her, and
she said with a coldness at least equal to his own--
"The world has naught to forgive me, as you know best, my lord."
"Nay! but I know that I must be grateful. By the mass! the story was
well concocted, and I must congratulate you, fair Bacchante!" He laughed
bitterly, ironically. "Your honour threatened! . . . my timely
interference! . . . and I who feared for the moment you might make full
confession."
"Confession of what? . . . you are mad, my lord."
She had drawn nearer to him, and for the first time since the
commencement of this terrible tragedy of errors, one corner of that veil
of impenetrable mystery was lifted from before her eyes. She did not
make even a remote guess at the truth as yet, but vaguely she became
aware that she and this man whom she loved were at some deadly
cross-purposes, were playing at some horrible hide-and-seek, wherein
they were staking their life and happiness. There was something in his
look which suddenly revealed to that unerring feminine instinct in her
that his bitterness, his cruelty, his insults, had their rise in a heart
overburdened with a hopeless passion. He, the most perfect gentleman,
most elegant courtier of his time, did not even try to curb his tongue,
when speaking to her, who had never wronged him, and who had nobly saved
his life, when he must _know_ that she had done it out of disinterested
self-sacrifice.
_Did he know that?_
The question struck at her heart with sudden, overwhelming power. The
look of him, his whole attitude, told her in a vague, undefinable,
ununderstandable way that it was _herself_ whom he loved, that he
despised her for something she had not done, and yet that he spoke of
_her_ when he sighed after an illusion.
"Confession of what? You are mad, my lord!" she repeated wildly.
"Aye! mad!" he said bitterly, "mad when I feel the magic of your eyes
stealing my honour away! . . . mad, indeed! for with a fellow-creature's
blood still warm upon that dainty hand, I long to fall on my knees and
cover it with kisses."
His voice broke almost in a sob now that at last he had given utterance
to that which had weighed on his soul all these days. He loathed her
crime, yet loved her more passionately than before. Oh! eternal mystery
of the heart of man!
"Blood on my hands?" she retorted violently. "You are mad, my lord . . .
mad, I say! A man's blood? . . . Did you not then kill Don Miguel to
save her whom you loved? . . . did you not suffer disgrace, prepare for
death, all because of her? . . . Did I not lie for you, give up mine
honour . . . mine all for you? . . . Is it I who am mad, my lord, or
you?"
"Nay! an you will have it so, fair one," he replied, trying to steady
his voice, which still was trembling, "'tis I am mad! I'll believe
anything, doubt everything, mine eyes, mine ears . . . the memory of you
. . . as I saw you that night. . . . I'll try to remember only that I
owe you my life . . . such as it is . . . and let my senses be gladdened
at the thought that you are beautiful."
Ursula watched him with wild, burning eyes. Was the truth dawning at
last? She, as the woman, was bent on knowing what lay hidden beneath the
expression of this debasing passion. He, as the man, had fought a battle
and lost; he loved her too madly, too completely to tear her out of his
life. His passion _had_ become base; he despised himself now more than
he had ever despised her, but he could no longer battle against that
overpowering desire to fold her once more to his heart, to forgive and
forget all save her beauty and the magic of her presence.
But she, though loving as ardently as he, wanted the truth above all.
Never would she have accepted this degrading passion, which would have
left her for ever bruised and ashamed. She mustered up all her energy,
all her presence of mind; it was her turn now to fight for happiness and
for honour.
Who knows what destiny fate would have meted out to these two young
people if only she had been left a free hand? Would she have brought
them together or parted them finally and for ever? The fickle jade
smiled upon them for a moment or two, then allowed a stronger hand to
lead her away into bondage.
So accurately had the Cardinal de Moreno calculated his chance of final
success that he himself was able to lead the Queen of England to the
Great Hall for the approaching ceremony, at the very moment when Wessex
and Ursula were on the point of understanding one another.
Ursula had just uttered an energetic and momentous--
"My lord! . . ."
She had stepped away from him and was looking him fearlessly in the
face, resolved to question and cross-question until she understood
everything, when the door was suddenly opened and Mary Tudor appeared,
escorted by some of her ladies, and accompanied by His Eminence the
Spanish envoy.
It was the stroke of a relentless sword across the Gordian knot which
she had sought to unravel. She had only just made up her mind to stake
her all upon a final throw of the dice--an explanation with Wessex. He
was still completely deceived. She could see that what she already more
than guessed he had not even begun to suspect. The idea of a gigantic
misunderstanding had not yet entered his brain; she would have brought
it before him, made him understand. . . . And fate suddenly said, No!
Fate, or that cruel hand which pulled the strings that brought all
puppets forward on this momentous stage? The Cardinal had darted a
quick, anxious look on Wessex and then had smiled with satisfaction.
Ursula caught both look and smile, and also that sudden hardening of the
Cardinal's clever face, and knew that her last chance had gone.
Wessex had seemed relieved when the Queen entered, and Ursula knew that
never again would she be allowed to see him alone, never again would she
be able to speak to him undisturbed.
"Nothing flies more quickly than an illusion when it is on the wing!"
Nothing! . . . save happiness . . . when it begins to slip slowly away,
and tired hands are too weak to retain it.