The Line of Love. Dizain des Mariages

come to rescue you.' 

Fulke d'Arnaye shrugged his shoulders. 'That was my thought, too,' he admitted, with a laugh. 'Always I dream of escape, mademoiselle. Have a care of me, sweet enemy! I shall escape yet, it may be.'

'But I will not have you escape,' said Adelais. She tossed her glittering little head. 'Winstead would not be Winstead without you. Why, I was but a child, my lord, when you came. Have you forgotten, then, the lank, awkward child who used to stare at you so gravely?'

'Mademoiselle,' he returned, and now his voice trembled and still the hunger in his eyes grew more great, 'I think that in all these years I have forgotten nothing—not even the most trivial happening, mademoiselle,—wherein you had a part. You were a very beautiful child. Look you, I remember as if it were yesterday that you never wept when your good lady mother—whose soul may Christ have in his keeping!—was forced to punish you for some little misdeed. No, you never wept; but your eyes would grow wistful, and you would come to me here in the garden, and sit with me for a long time in silence. 'Fulke,' you would say, quite suddenly, 'I love you better than my mother.' And I told you that it was wrong to make such observations, did I not, mademoiselle? My faith, yes! but I may confess now that I liked it,' Fulke d'Arnaye ended, with a faint chuckle.

Adelais sat motionless. Certainly it was strange, she thought, how the sound of this man's voice had power to move her. Certainly, too, this man was very foolish.

'And now the child is a woman,—a woman who will presently be Marchioness of Falmouth. Look you, when I get free of my prison—and I shall get free, never fear, mademoiselle,—I shall often think of that great lady. For only God can curb a man's dreams, and God is compassionate. So I hope to dream nightly of a gracious lady whose hair is gold and whose eyes are colored like the summer sea and whose voice is clear and low and very wonderfully sweet. Nightly, I think, the vision of that dear enemy will hearten me to fight for France by day. In effect, mademoiselle, your traitor beauty will yet aid me to destroy your country.'

The Sieur d'Arnaye laughed, somewhat cheerlessly, as he lifted her hand to his lips.

And certainly also (she concluded her reflections) it was absurd how this man's touch seemed an alarm to her pulses. Adelais drew away from him.

'No!' she said: 'remember, lord, I, too, am not free.'

'Indeed, we tread on dangerous ground,' the Frenchman assented, with a sad little smile. 'Pardon me, mademoiselle. Even were you free of your trothplight—even were I free of my prison, most beautiful lady, I have naught to offer you yonder in that fair land of France. They tell me that the owl and the wolf hunt undisturbed where Arnaye once stood. My chateau is carpeted with furze and roofed with God's Heaven. That gives me a large estate—does it not?—but I may not reasonably ask a woman to share it. So I pray you pardon me for my nonsense, mademoiselle, and I pray that the Marchioness of Falmouth may be very happy.'

And with that he vanished into the autumn-fired recesses of the garden, singing, his head borne stiff. Oh, the brave man who esteemed misfortune so slightly! thought Adelais. She remembered that the Marquis of Falmouth rarely smiled; and once only—at a bull-baiting—had she heard him laugh. It needed bloodshed, then, to amuse him, Adelais deduced, with that self-certainty in logic which is proper to youth; and the girl shuddered.

But through the scarlet coppices of the garden, growing fainter and yet more faint, rang the singing of Fulke d'Arnaye.

Sang the Frenchman:

'Had you lived in Roman times 
No Catullus in his rhymes 
Had lamented Lesbia's sparrow: 
He had praised your forehead, narrow 
As the newly-crescent moon, 
White as apple-trees in June; 
He had made some amorous tune 
Of the laughing light Eros 
Snared as Psyche-ward he goes 
By your beauty,—by your slim, 
White, perfect beauty.

'After him 
Horace, finding in your eyes 
Horace limned in lustrous wise, 
Would have made you melodies 
Fittingly to hymn your praise, 
Sweet Adelais.'

3. Roger is Explicit

Into the midst of the Michaelmas festivities at Halvergate that night, burst a mud-splattered fellow in search of Sir Hugh Vernon. Roger Darke brought him to the knight. The fellow then related that he came from Simeon de Beck, the master of Castle Rising, with tidings that a strange boat, French-rigged, was hovering about the north coast. Let Sir Hugh have a care of his prisoner.

Vernon swore roundly. 'I must look into this,' he said. 'But what shall I do with Adelais?'

'Will you not trust her to me?' Roger asked. 'If so, cousin, I will very gladly be her escort to Winstead. Let the girl dance her fill while she may, Hugh. She will have little heart for dancing after a month or so of Falmouth's company.'

'That is true,' Vernon assented; 'but the match is a good one, and she is bent upon it.'

So presently he rode with his men to the north coast. An hour later Roger Darke and Adelais set out for Winstead, in spite of all Lady Brudenel's protestations that Mistress Vernon had best lie with her that night at Halvergate. 

It was a clear night of restless winds, neither warm nor chill, but fine September weather. About them the air was heavy with the damp odors of decaying leaves, for the road they followed was shut in by the autumn woods, that now arched the way with sere foliage, rustling and whirring and thinly complaining overhead, and now left it open to broad splashes of moonlight, where fallen leaves scuttled about in the wind vortices. Adelais, elate with dancing, chattered of this and that as her gray mare ambled homeward, but Roger was moody.

Past Upton the road branched in three directions; here Master Darke caught the gray mare's bridle and turned both horses to the left.

'Why, of whatever are you thinking!' the girl derided him. 'Roger, this is not the road to Winstead!'

He grinned evilly over his shoulder. 'It is the road to Yaxham, Adelais, where my chaplain expects us.'

In a flash she saw it all as her eyes swept these desolate woods. 'You will not dare!'

'Will I not?' said Roger. 'Faith, for my part, I think you have mocked me for the last time, Adelais, since it is the wife's duty, as Paul very justly says, to obey.'

Swiftly she slipped from the mare. But he followed her. 'Oh, infamy!' the girl cried. 'You have planned this, you coward!'

'Yes, I planned it,' said Roger Darke. 'Yet I take no great credit therefor, for it was simple enough. I had but to send a feigned message to your block-head brother. Ha, yes, I planned it, Adelais, and I planned it well. But I deal honorably. To-morrow you will be Mistress Darke, never fear.'

He grasped at her cloak as she shrank from him. The garment fell, leaving the girl momentarily free, her