“Through the mist of years does it gleam as yet—
That fair and free extent
Of moonlit turret and parapet,
Which castled, once, Content?
“Ei ho! Ei ho! the Castle of Content,
With drowsy music drowning merriment
Where Dreams and Visions held high carnival,
And frolicking frail Loves made light of all—
Ei ho! the vanished Castle of Content!”
As I ended, the casement was pushed open, and the Lady Adeliza came upon the balcony, the light streaming from behind her in such fashion as made her appear an angel peering out of Heaven at our mortal antics. Indeed, there was always something more than human in her loveliness, though, to be frank, it savored less of chilling paradisial perfection than of a vision of some great-eyed queen of faery, such as those whose feet glide unwetted over our fen-waters when they roam o’ nights in search of unwary travellers. Lady Adeliza was a fair beauty; that is, her eyes were of the color of opals, and her complexion as the first rose of spring, blushing at her haste to snare men’s hearts with beauty; and her loosened hair rippled in such a burst of splendor that I have seen a pale brilliancy, like that of amber, reflected by her bared shoulders where the bright waves fell heavily against the tender flesh, and ivory vied with gold in beauty. She was somewhat proud, they said; and to others she may have been, but to me, never. Her voice was a low, sweet song, her look that of the chaste Roman, beneficent Saint Dorothy, as she is pictured in our Chapel here at Tiverton. Proud, they called her! to me her condescensions were so manifold that I cannot set them down: indeed, in all she spoke and did there was an extreme kindliness that made a courteous word from her of more worth than a purse from another.
She said, “Is it you, Will Sommers?”
“Madonna,” I answered, “with whom else should the owls confer? It is a venerable saying that extremes meet. And here you may behold it exemplified, as in the conference of an epicure and an ostrich: though, for this once, Wisdom makes bold to sit above Folly.”
“Did you carol, then, to the owls of Tiverton?” she queried.
“Hand upon heart,” said I, “my grim gossips care less for my melody than for the squeaking of a mouse; and I sang rather for joy that at last I may enter into the Castle of Content.”
The Lady Adeliza replied, “But nobody enters there alone.”
“Madonna,” said I, “your apprehension is nimble. I am in hope that a woman’s hand may lower the drawbridge.”
She said only “You—!” Then she desisted, incredulous laughter breaking the soft flow of speech.
“Now, by Paul and Peter, those eminent apostles! the prophet Jeremy never spake more veraciously in Edom! The fool sighs for a fair woman—what else should he do, being a fool? Ah, madonna, as in very remote times that notable jester, Love, popped out of Night’s wind-egg, and by his sorcery fashioned from the primeval tangle the pleasant earth that sleeps about us—even thus, may he not frame the disorder of a fool’s brain into the semblance of a lover’s? Believe me, the change is not so great as you might think. Yet if you will, laugh at me, madonna, for I love a woman far above me—a woman who knows not of my love, or, at most, considers it but as the homage which grateful peasants accord the all-nurturing sun; so that, now chance hath woven me a ladder whereby to mount to her, I scarcely dare to set my foot upon the bottom rung.”
“A ladder?” she said, oddly: “and are you talking of a rope ladder?”
“I would describe it, rather,” said I, “as a golden ladder.”
There came a silence. About us the wind wailed among the gaunt, deserted choir of the trees, and in the distance an owl hooted sardonically.
The Lady Adeliza said: “Be bold. Be bold, and know that a woman loves once and forever, whether she will or no. Love is not sold in the shops, and the grave merchants that trade in the ultimate seas, and send forth argosies even to jewelled Ind., to fetch home rich pearls, and strange outlandish dyes, and spiceries, and the raiment of imperious queens of the old time, have bought and sold no love, for all their traffic. It is above gold. I know”—here her voice faltered somewhat—“I know of a woman whose birth is very near the throne, and whose beauty, such as it is, hath been commended, who loved a man the politic world would have none of, for he was not rich nor famous, nor even very wise. And the world bade her relinquish him; but within the chambers of her heart his voice rang more loudly than that of the world, and for his least word said she would leave all and go with him whither he would. And—she waits only for the speaking of that word.”
“Be bold?” said I.
“Ay,” she returned; “that is the moral of my tale. Make me a song of it tonight, dear Will—and tomorrow, perhaps, you may learn how this woman, too, entered into the Castle of Content.”
“Madonna—!” I cried.
“It is late,” said she, “and I must go.”
“Tomorrow—?” I said. My heart was racing now.
“Ay, tomorrow—the morrow that by this draws very near. Farewell!” She was gone, casting one swift glance backward, even as the ancient Parthians are fabled to have shot their arrows as they fled; and, if the airier missile, also, left a wound, I, for one, would not willingly have quitted her invulnerate.
III
Night, and a Stormed Castle
I went forth into the woods that stand thick about Tiverton Manor, where I lay flat on my back among the fallen leaves, dreaming many dreams to myself—dreams that were frolic songs of happiness, to which the papers in my jerkin rustled a reassuring chorus.
I have heard that night is own sister to death; now, as the ultimate torn cloud
