Chapter XVI
The Sieur de Mereac was sick. No longer could there be any disguising of the fact; he had grown in the past week thin and emaciated, whilst his great blue eyes, so like his young sister’s, looked out of his sunken face with a pathetic wistfulness which touched a chord of pity in the hardest heart.
Yet what the reason of so strange and deadly a sickness might be it seemed impossible to say. Vague suspicions, indeed, seemed to float like faint and evil breaths upon the air of the château; but so intangible were they, that men scarce dared to look into the thought which from time to time stirred within them. Gloom had suddenly seemed to fall upon the household which had before resounded with a mirth scarcely befitting, seeing that so short a time had elapsed since the death of the old Sieur. And now it would seem that death again stretched forth his hand, but not this time to gather to his full garner one whose head was already white with the snows of age, but to snatch greedily at youth, with its swift pulsations of joy and life. What did death here? What place had he at the betrothal board? What right had his shadow to fall between the sunshine of love and its fulfilment? Such questions were hard indeed to answer, and by reason of them the shadow of fear fell on those who pitied, whilst they loved, the young master, whose footsteps through life had led him in such tragic paths, and who now seemed, in the dawn of happiness, before unknown, to stand before the yawning chasm of a grave.
Yet, strangest and most mysterious of all did it seem that Gwennola de Mereac—she who, in past days, had been so tenderly attached to her brother—should scarcely heed the fact of his altered appearance, and, from brooding melancholy, herself assume all suddenly an aspect of content and happy expectation.
So the retainers of Mereac gazed at the mysterious march of events, whilst the whisper on the air grew clearer day by day. But Gwennola suspected none of these things. True, her heart ached for her brother as she noted his altered looks; yet so wide had grown the gulf which Diane de Coray had made between them, that her pride refused to allow her to show the anxious solicitude she felt; whilst Diane herself strove secretly to make such solicitude the more impossible by her attitude towards the girl she hated. Yvon was made silently to know that he must choose between his sister and his lady-love; and there was no hesitation possible in his mind as Diane bent tenderly over his couch, whilst Gwennola held coldly aloof, allowing no one to guess the bursting grief and jealousy which raged in her heart.
But it was not altogether pride alone which set Gwennola’s lips into a calm and serene smile of seeming unconcern for her brother’s sickness; for, setting apart her anxiety for him,—and youth is skilful in persuading itself that such fears are groundless,—she was rejoicing secretly in the message brought to her by the hand of Jean Marcille.
Ah! what a joy it had been, and yet how fierce an anxiety brooded behind it! As she sat by her window, watching the brown leaves of the forest trees caught and whirled away in the autumn wind, her heart was singing, yet shuddering, as she thought of the time, but three days hence, when she should creep forth as she had done months ago and find, under that forest shade, the lover, faithful and true, who laughed at perils for the joy of clasping her once more in his arms. How sweet it was to rehearse over and over again that meeting—the terrors of the woodland path, the haunting dread of spying eyes, all forgotten and swallowed up in the glad moment when she should feel those strong arms holding her to him, and should look up to read the old, old story in eyes so full of love’s deepest tenderness. Then the exquisite joy of the picture faded, as fears crowded with jeering, mocking faces around the dream. What if he should be discovered? This time there would, she knew, be no escape. No shadow of suspicion would be too faint to seal his doom. Revenge, she knew, was smouldering deeply in de Coray’s heart, and the hatred and jealousy of his sister would but too eagerly seize upon this means of repaying her rival, whose influence, she knew, would fain have been exerted to drive her from the château gates.
But Marie Alloadec had no such fears. The faithful maiden rejoiced not only in her mistress’s romance, but in one of her own which was being woven at the same time. The handsome face of Monsieur d’Estrailles’ messenger had already made its impression on the Breton girl’s susceptible heart; and Jean Marcille had been no backward wooer, finding it altogether to his own pleasure, as well as his master’s interests, to make love to the pretty waiting-woman whilst he attended to her mistress’s commands.
All three were keenly aware of the dangers that beset them; but love laughs at such dangers, and the happy optimism of Marie and Marcille comforted, if it did not convince, Gwennola. For Marie it was easy to be gay, for her lover was beside her; but for her own part, Gwennola shivered even whilst she smiled, so fearful of ill was she.
But at last the night had arrived, a night so calm, so peaceful, that it seemed as one born out of time in that wild month of November. True, there was but a dying moon to light the way through the forest path, and from time to time even her wavering light was dimmed by the scudding clouds which obscured her. But this time Gwennola went not to her tryst unattended; indeed, such a course was fraught with dangers, which had necessarily multiplied since the summer, for the hungry wolves grew more importunate than ever for their prey. Shielded, however, by the strong arm of Jean Marcille, and accompanied by Marie, who pleaded to be allowed to follow her mistress on her dangerous errand, she felt little fear of these four-footed enemies; whilst behind, she knew, Job Alloadec guarded faithfully the open postern gate.
It was, however, only discreet that Jean and Marie should remain behind in the shadow of the trees, whilst she advanced alone towards the ruined chapel.
Ah! the memories that thronged around the spot!—memories of terror long past, as also of that father, so dear and yet so imperious, whose anger she had braved, and whose forgiveness she had won, all for the sake of the man who stood now once more before her. No gallant knight was here, however, as in those other days when the warm summer breezes stirred the ivy round the grey walls, and the scent of the flowers was sweet on the night air. The very moonlight seemed to shrink at sight of the tall figure whose brown cowl was drawn so closely round its head, as it stood waiting there alone. But as Gwennola, with a little cry, ran forward, the cowl fell back from a dark head which was assuredly not that of any spirit of ill, and strong, human arms caught and held her in their warm embrace, whilst passionate kisses were pressed on the rosy, trembling lips which whispered over and over again his name. No wonder that the white owl who sheltered herself amongst the ivy of the ruin fled shrieking dismally against the sacrilege which thus desecrated with human love the haunt of her ghostly friends; no wonder that the lizard which crept up the crumbling wall paused to peep with cunning, glittering eyes at the scene which his forefathers had watched in the garden of man’s innocence. But at that supreme moment what cared those two for watching eyes?—so oblivious were they of any other in the wide world than the ones into which each looked.
True eyes, brave eyes, eyes in which the story of love and faithfulness was so easy to read! And then once more down to earth and the perilous present they must come, and leave the all-absorbing joy of that first moment of oblivion to the past and to the dim, sweet future to which both were looking with eager longing, the more impatient for that brief moment of rapture.
But it was no time for love dreams then, with the keen winter wind whistling around, and the still colder fear of danger which whispered of separation.
There was so much to tell, so much to hear, so much to plan, and oh! so short a time for the speaking of it all.
Together they sat there amongst the ruins of a dead past, and built golden castles for the future; shining, gorgeous castles, all love-illumined and beautiful. But even as they built them, difficulties innumerable and insuperable blew them once more to their feet. The situation was indeed one which well might dismay lovers so devoted. The vast army of Charles was already advancing towards Rennes; and though it appeared to menace rather than to attack, still the danger to the duchy seemed imminent if the Duchess Anne held fast to her determination, as it seemed only too likely she would do.
In faltering tones Gwennola told the story of the past months: of her father’s death, of the coming of Diane de Coray, of Yvon’s fatal infatuation, of the return of Guillaume de Coray and of the complete sway he and his sister held over her brother’s weak mind; of Yvon’s illness and her own estrangement from him; finally, of Diane’s veiled persecution and her fears for her own future.
A stormy picture, so dark that for the moment it held both lovers speechless; till, as he bent to look into the face half hidden on his shoulder, Henri caught sight of a bright tear which trembled on the drooping lashes.
“Nay, weep not, my darling,” he whispered passionately. “Thou shalt not thus weep and fear such things; it shall not be permitted. Sooner than that I will mount thee on good Charlemagne yonder, and ride with thee to Touraine, where we will laugh together at these vile plotters—ay, and at thy brother too for bringing such unhappiness to his little sister’s heart. Fie on him! hath he forgotten that but for thy bravery he would even now have been rotting in some foul dungeon?”
“Nay,” she whispered, smiling, “but that also was more for thy sake, Henri, than for his, though well I loved him—ay, and love him still for all his harshness, for I know that his eyes are, for the time, blinded by reason of this woman.”
“But, say,” cried d’Estrailles pleadingly, “is it then so impossible to aid thee, little one? Would I might go boldly to yonder château and claim thee for my bride, for it seemeth to me but a coward’s part to hide like any evil-doer in such a manner.”
“Ah, Henri,” she sighed, “what foolishness thou wouldest speak! Surely, little couldst thou aid me by entering the lion’s den, or save me from a dreary fate by dying as a spy, as thou wouldst surely be dubbed if thou camest hitherward in thy proper guise.”
“The lion’s den!” he echoed scornfully. “Rather I would term them jackals, seeing that their ways are cowards’ ways, and their thoughts the thoughts of traitors. But tell me, sweet, is then my plan so impossible? or wilt thou fear to trust all,—even thyself,—to my honour?”
“Fear?” she smiled; “fear!”—and she raised her lips to meet his caress. “Nay, Henri, ’tis no fear that causeth me to hesitate, but because—because——”
“Because?” he questioned, holding her hands in his. “Because, little one?”
“Truly, I know not,” she whispered softly; “only, perchance ’tis foolishness, but my mind misgiveth me as to what is best. Let us wait, my Henri, till to-morrow, and I will ask the advice of dear Father Ambrose, who loves me well, and who, methinks, hath no more liking for these de Corays, brother and sister both, than have I. Moreover, I am assured that he pitieth me, and would fain see me happy, which he wotteth well I could never be in convent cell or other arms than thine. So till to-morrow, Henri, let us wait, and it may be—it may be I will come.”
So again they sat there side by side, dreaming of all the bliss that coming would make, whilst he told her again of the happy, merry life of Touraine, so vividly that it seemed to Gwennola that she was already riding by his side through the laughing meadows and sunny orchards singing rondeaux and virelais gay and sweet as their surroundings, with no weird melancholy such as every song reverberated with in this grey, yet for ever dear, land of Brittany. But dreams must fade ofttimes before the dawn, and erelong they must say farewell, those foolish young lovers, who found the world so entirely made for them alone. And yet not farewell, but au revoir—au revoir until the morrow, with, perchance, Father Ambrose’s approval, if not his blessing, on their flight from troubles and shadows, suspicions and jealousies.
“Au revoir! Au revoir!” The very sweetness of the words made a melody in Gwennola’s heart as she and her attendants hurried homewards, and her lips trembled in a smiling happiness, warm with the memory of his kisses. As for Marcille and the rosy-faced little Marie, they also had found the waiting time less irksome than might have been supposed; for the example of one’s betters, see you, is a fine thing to follow, and the atmosphere of love is so infectious that perchance it had even become wafted towards the shadow of the trees where the two waited; and that may explain, the reason why Marie’s rosy lips dimpled too as she smiled in the darkness and a hand which should have been holding her cloak slid downwards to meet and be grasped by another hand, strong and tender, which held it so fast that the smile nearly overflowed into a merry laugh for the very happiness of youth.