CHAPTER XLIII
Aymery was still in a deep sleep when Marpasse returned to the priest’s house an hour before sunset, and found Grimbald baking cakes on the hearth. Marpasse might have laughed at his housewifeliness had she not been in a very earnest temper about Denise. So she drew a stool up and sat down as though to make sure that Grimbald did not burn the cakes which he had made while she was away.
“I have found her,” she said, and Grimbald had only to listen, for Marpasse’s generous impatience had ample inspiration.
“Never tell me women are not obstinate, Father, for I swear to you that Denise was born to make misery for herself. A Jew hunting for a farthing in the mud is not more careful than Denise to hunt out something to grieve over. I should like to cut the conscience out of her, and bury it.”
Grimbald held up a hand, and rising from the stool, went to the doorway of the inner room, and looked in to see that Aymery was asleep. He closed the door softly, and came back to the hot cakes and Marpasse.
“You are a great battle-horse, my child,” he said bluntly. “Denise’s flanks are not for the same spur.”
Marpasse took the rebuke with the best of tempers.
“Dear Lord, but the pity of it. All this to-do, and blood-spilling, and no marriage bed at the end of it. There is no law of the Church against it, Father, surely? The monks clapped vows on her, and pulled them off again with their own hands.”
Grimbald bent forward, and methodically turned the cakes.
His strong face shone like burnished copper in the firelight; a gaunt, good face, honest and very shrewd. Marpasse watched him, and the thought flashed on her from somewhere that it would be an excellent thing to have the baking of such a man’s bread. And with a quaint impulsiveness she put her hand up over her mouth, symbolising the smothering of so scandalous a conceit.
Having turned all the cakes, Grimbald gave his judgment.
“I have no love for the convent women,” he said, “and there—I am out of fashion.”
Marpasse saw the worldly side of the picture, and smoothed away a smile.
“Then you would make them man and wife, Father if the chance offered?”
“Against all the monkish law in the kingdom,” he said stoutly; “we put no vows on her when she had her cell up yonder. And some of the folk here would have been burnt for her if she had asked it. Only that lewd dog of a Gascon——Well, we broke their teeth at Lewes.”
Marpasse stared solemnly into the fire as though looking for pictures amid the blaze of the burning wood.
“If Denise could only forget a year,” she said.
Grimbald nodded wisely.
“God wastes nothing,” he answered; “those who never suffer, never learn.”
Aymery slept the whole night, and woke soon after dawn with a rush of memories like clouds over a March sky. He found Grimbald sitting by his bed. Grimbald was dozing, but his eyes opened suddenly and looked straight at Aymery like the eyes of an altar saint in the dimness of the room.
The first word that Aymery uttered was the name of Denise.
Grimbald’s gaunt face remained thoughtful and placid.
“Marpasse has found her,” he said.
Aymery’s eyes asked more than Grimbald had the heart to tell.
“She is safe,” was all that he would say, and acting as though there were no secret to be concealed, he went out to lay the fire on the hearth of the great room.
Now Marpasse showed a most managing temper that May morning, and went about as though she had some grave work on hand. She herself took food in to Aymery, remained awhile with the door shut, and came out looking very set about the mouth.
“I have told him a lie,” she said to Grimbald in a whisper, “his eyes asked for it. Go in and barber him, Father; a lover looks best with a clean chin.”
Grimbald stared her in the face.
“What have you told him?”
“That we kept her away last night—for the sake of his wounds.”
Grimbald’s lips came together for a “but.” Marpasse whispered on.
“Get your razor and barber him, Father, and keep a clean edge on the lie. His eyes asked for it—I tell you, and I had not the heart to dash in the truth. I have the yoke on my own shoulders. Two lies sometimes make the truth.”
She took Grimbald’s holly staff from the corner, and put on her hood.
“I am going to fetch her,” she said; “no—I shall not scold. I have my plan. You may sit in the wood-shed out of sight, Father Grimbald, when I bring her back with me. If she sees you it will spoil the whole brew.”
She turned on the threshold, and Grimbald saw suddenly that her eyes were wet.
“Pray for them both, good Father,” she said to him, “my heart’s in the thing whatever rough words my mouth may say.”
And Grimbald promised, and let her go. Yet when she had gone, and he was left alone in the great room with its black beams and smoking hearth, he saw through his prayers the brave, brown face of Marpasse.
Yet Marpasse’s warm-hearted, yet coarser, nature could not vibrate to the subtler emotions that stirred in Denise. The two were like crude sunshine and moonlight; Marpasse healthy and vital in herself, yet lacking mystery and the glimmer of visionary things. Denise had often been more a spirit than a body, though the woman in her had been awakened, and the rich warm scent of the earth had ascended into her nostrils. Suffering had made her very human, and yet the soul in her still beat its wings, even though those wings should carry it away from the world’s desire nearer to the cold stars in a lonely sky. To Marpasse, Denise’s self-condemnation might seem a kind of futile and pitiable sanctity, but then Marpasse had more blood and bone in her, and less of that spirit that is crucified by its own purity.
Denise had passed the whole night in the long grass under the rose tree, looking at the stars and the vague, black shapes of the great beeches. The cell had a horror for her, and she would not enter it, as though her other self lay dead within. That other memory was more vivid than the memories of those nights when Aymery had lain there wounded little more than a year ago.
Give herself to the man she felt she could not, for she was too sensitive, too much a sad soul in a beautiful body not to feel the veil of aloofness that covered her face, that veil that was invisible and impalpable to Marpasse. Her own innocence made her more conscious of that other life—that other innocent soul that had been born in her, and which had taken from the mother that which she would have given to Aymery whom she loved. Only a pure woman could feel what Denise felt in her heart of hearts. The divine girdle had been torn from her. Love might be blind to it, but Denise’s soul could not be blind.
And yet a sense of great loneliness rushed upon her that night, weighing her down into the long grass, and making her heart heavy. The petals of the rose fell dew drenched into her lap. The night was still and fragrant, and no wind made the trees mutter like the hoarse whisperings of an oracle in some ancient forest. The heart of Denise was heavy within her. The sad deeps of life seemed between her and the world, a dark voiceless gulf that no living soul could cross.
So the day came, and with it Marpasse, holly staff in hand, alert, and on her guard. But she was disarmed that morning by Denise herself. The first glimpse of that tragic and troubled face drove the rougher words out of Marpasse’s mouth. She took Denise in her arms, and kissed her, seeing in those brown eyes such deeps of sincerity and sadness, that Marpasse humbled herself, feeling herself near to something greater than a woman’s whim.
Marpasse guessed what Denise had to say. The renunciation lay in the brown eyes like a dim mist of tears.
“I am going away, Marpasse,” she said. “I have thought of it all the night.”
Marpasse hid her impulses, and was patient and very gentle.
“Heart of mine, where will you go?”
“To Earl Simon.”
Marpasse opened her eyes.
“I shall go to him, and put everything before him. He has a great heart, Marpasse, and his lady has the soul of Mary—Our Mother. Nor shall I go in vain.”
She spoke very simply, like one resigned, but Marpasse felt the wild heart of a woman who loved palpitating beneath her courage. It was the purpose of one whose knees shook under her, and who strove to keep herself from looking back. A touch, and love would break out, with a great passionate cry. Marpasse saw it all, and took her inspiration.
“So be it, heart of mine,” she said, looking sad enough; “and yet—before you go—there is Father Grimbald yonder. The good man strained a sinew last night, or he would have been here with me this morning. He would not forgive your going without seeing him.”
Denise breathed out the answer that Marpasse was expecting.
“But I cannot go! He—is there.”
Marpasse, brazen-faced, told the lie of her life.
“Messire Aymery? He is so little the worse that he was in the saddle at daybreak, and searching the woods to the west, and half the village with him.”
Denise looked into Marpasse’s eyes.
“That is the truth?”
“Heart of mine, why should I tell you a lie!”
Denise seemed to hesitate. She shrank from the sight of any familiar face that morning, and yet her heart reproached her because of Grimbald. The thought was often with her that she might have trusted him more deeply.
Marpasse, dreading to seem too eager, put in a frank plea.
“Why shun a good friend?” she said; “he would be grieved. The man is no Ursula, God forbid!”
Denise surrendered.
“I will come,” she said; “but I will see no one but Grimbald.”
“Leave it to me, sister; we can keep to the woods.”
Marpasse played her part so well that no flicker of suspicion passed over Denise’s face as they made their way across the valley to the priest’s house under the silver birches. Only here and there had they to leave the woodlands to cross a meadow or a piece of the wild common where the villagers pastured their cattle. Denise walked with her hood drawn forward, looking about her wistfully at the hills and valleys that were so familiar, and had been so dear. She felt like a stranger in the Goldspur woods that morning, a bird of passage that passed and left no loneliness in the heart of the land she left. Marpasse talked much upon the way, entering into Denise’s plans as though she were resigned to them, the most loving of hypocrites who lied for the sake of love. She even warned Denise to take care of her long-suffering body. “Two nights without sleep,” she said, “is enough for any woman. Live your life in such a hurry and you will be as thin as a post in three months, with wrinkles all over your face. The pity of it! Like a piece of fine silk left out in the wind and rain.”
So they came to Grimbald’s house amid the silver stems of the birches, Marpasse alert and on the watch lest some piece of clumsiness should make her plot miscarry. Denise was shy and wild as an untamed falcon, her brown eyes half afraid of the birch wood, as though Aymery might come riding out with half Goldspur village at his heels. Marpasse saw the look in Denise’s eyes. One clap of the hands and the bird would be skimming on frightened wings.
“Courage, sister,” she said, “there is not a soul to be seen. I will keep guard and watch while you are talking with Grimbald. No, the good man will not try to over-persuade you. If I whistle, then you will know that there is danger in the distance.”
They entered the porch, Marpasse first, Denise following.
“The good man is abed resting that sprained ankle of his. I will see whether he is ready.”
Marpasse crossed the outer room, peeped in, held up a hand to Aymery, and turned and called Denise. There was an iron catch on the door that hooked into a staple, so that the door could be fastened on the outer side. Moreover the door opened outwards into the larger room, and Marpasse stood with her hand on the catch.
“She is coming, Father,” she said, keeping her eyes upon Denise.
The grey figure brushed past Marpasse, and crossed the threshold in all innocence. No sooner was Denise within, than Marpasse clapped to the door, fastened it, and ran like a mad woman out of the house.
In the wood-shed at the end of the rough garden she found Grimbald sitting patiently on the chopping block behind a screen of faggots.
“I have shut her in with him,” she said; “now love must win—or never.”
CHAPTER XLIV
The morning sunlight poured through the window and struck upon Denise as she stood leaning against the door that Marpasse had closed on her. The first impulse had been one of anger, the anger of one caught in an ambuscade. For it was not Grimbald that she saw, but Aymery, propped against a pillow, with a face like wax, his eyes shining at her, eyes full of that truth which she had sought to shun.
“Denise!”
He held out his hands to her, rising in the bed so that the sunlight fell upon his head and shoulders. And Denise, leaning against the door, found her anger sinking into a kind of stupor. Her face was as white as Aymery’s, and she shrank like a bird when the hand of the fowler comes into the trap.
Aymery’s eager face was still luminous, as though the soul shone through the flesh. Denise’s hood was drawn, yet beneath it he caught the gleam of her splendid hair. She did not move or utter a word, but stood there helplessly, hearing her own heart beating like a thing that struggles to be free.
There was a sudden sense of a shadow stealing across the room. The man’s face had clouded. A troubled, questioning look came into the eyes, the look of a dog trying to understand. His hands sank slowly to the bed, and were no longer stretched out to her, but lay open, palms upward, the hands of a man waiting for alms from heaven.
For the moment Denise saw nothing but those hands. The rush of blind anger against Marpasse went out before a spasm of compassion. The silence of the room seemed the silence of a great church where the Holy Blood is uplifted. Then a mystery of infinite, dim things swept over her like a cloud of incense. She shivered, and held her breath.
“Denise.”
She struggled to find words.
“I thought that it was Grimbald here. Marpasse deceived me.”
How poor and miserly the words seemed, and the sense of their ineffectual coldness drove her to glance at Aymery’s face. He was lying back in the shadow, his eyes watching her with that same puzzled, questioning, and wistful look. She saw them fill suddenly with understanding, and the generous gleam that followed, humbled her heart.
“I did not know——” he began.
“Marpasse told me——”
She bit her lips, and was silent.
“Denise—it was no trick of mine, God knows that!”
She leant against the door, hiding her face.
“I lost you—after Gaillard and I had ended it. They brought me here, and told me that they had found you, but that they would not bring you to me—because of my wounds. That—is everything. Call Marpasse. She shall open the door and let you go.”
Denise glanced at him, half furtively, and that one glance seemed to make the metal of her purpose melt and flow into a stream of living fire. She turned with an inarticulate cry, and threw back her hood, letting the sunlight fall upon her face.
“Lord, how can I, I who remember all the past!”
“Denise!”
He was up, leaning towards her, stretching out his hands.
“God! What is all that—to me! Can you not understand?”
She swayed, closing her eyes, her hands feeling the air as though she were blind.
“My heart—oh—my heart!”
“Denise!”
“May the sin of it be forgiven.”
She was on her knees beside the bed, her arms flung out over it, her face hidden in the coverlet.
“Lord—save me——!”
Aymery’s arms went round her, and she clung to him with sudden passion, as though life were there, and love, and hope.
“Hold me—keep me—let me not go! Oh, but the shame of it—the selfishness! Closer, closer to you! I am afraid—I am afraid!”
She was trembling like one lifted from the torture of the rack. Her hands clung to him, the hands of a frightened child, and of an impassioned woman. Aymery turned her in his arms, so that her hair fell down across the bed, and her face was under his.
“Rest here, my heart. Who—on God’s earth—shall take you from me?”
Their eyes met and held in one long look.
“Lord, lord—ah—do not pity me,” she said, “not in the way that hurts a woman’s heart.”
Aymery kissed her upon the mouth.
“God forgive me,” he said, “if ever I have made you think that.”
Meanwhile Marpasse had returned, leaving Grimbald in the wood-shed, and creeping softly across the room she stood listening at the closed door. Such a true friend was Marpasse that the two within might have forgiven her her eaves-dropping. It was no inquisitive spirit that waited there silent, and open-mouthed, listening with wet eyes to words that were sacred. Marpasse soon knew the truth, and she crept away on tip-toe.
But Marpasse was no sooner out of the house than a delirious mood seized her, and she ran like a girl, her wet eyes ablaze, her face exultant. There was no need for Grimbald to ask her how things sped.
“Love is lord of all,” she sang; “and I have the weight of a lie off my shoulders! Good saints, good saints—I wish I could give you a lapful of silver!”
She laughed up to Grimbald in her delight, caught him by the shoulders, and kissed him full upon the mouth.
“Mea culpa, Father; I am a mad fool, but my heart was in the venture, and when I am glad—like a dog—I must show it.”
The sunlight pierced the faggot wall of the shed, and burnt like golden tongues on the sombre cloth of the man’s cassock. Something in Grimbald’s eyes sobered Marpasse abruptly. It was not anger, not an amused and fatherly tolerance, but a look in which the deep strong heart of the man betrayed itself. Marpasse caught her breath, and went fiercely red under her brown skin. Then, a sudden virginal softness seemed to steal over her face. She hung her head, but not foolishly. For the moment neither she nor Grimbald spoke.
Marpasse gave a short, curious laugh, picked up a rotten stick, and began to snap it into small pieces between her hands.
“May they be very happy,” she said; “the love of a strong man is life to a woman, Father—and the children that may come of it.”
She looked up quickly at Grimbald, and her bold eyes had grown like the eyes of a girl.
“I might have made a good mother—but there——!” and she threw the pieces of broken wood aside, and spread her hands “children have not come my way—nor the man who will master me,” and she was silent, staring at the ground.
Grimbald’s face shone like a rock with the sunlight on it.
“To some of us such things are not given,” he said; “my children are down yonder—and yet——! I chose what I chose—when I was a lad.”
Marpasse seemed to be struggling to say something that would not shape itself into words.
“It is so lonely—sometimes,” and her eyes looked into the past; “dear heart, I have often spat at the thought of myself! It is always ‘the might have been,’ with some of us. The world often leers at a woman, Father, when it offers her a penny. I was just as tall as the harvest wheat when they pushed me out on the road. But I am not bad to the core, Father, though few people would think it the truth.”
She heard Grimbald draw his breath.
“The core of the world is a generous heart,” he said; “look at me, Marpasse. Many things might happen, but for what I am.”
He took Marpasse’s hands, held them a moment, and then dropped them reverently, looking at her to see that she understood. And these two brave souls gazed in each other’s eyes, knowing that they could come no nearer, and that their lives might cross but never travel the same road.
Yet Marpasse went out from the wood-shed into the sunlight with a smile upon her face, the smile of a woman who has re-discovered mystery in herself. A look of the eyes, a few words, a touch of the hands—that was all! Marpasse pressed her face between her two hands, and stood staring and staring away towards the distant woods. The scoffing voice was silent in her, the mouth strangely soft, the eyes the eyes of a young girl.
And Denise, who kissed her that night, as a woman who is loved kisses the woman who loves her, saw no shadow of sadness on the brave, brown face of Marpasse.
Made and Printed in Great Britain byThe Greycaine Book Manufacturing Company Limited, Watford
Made and Printed in Great Britain by
The Greycaine Book Manufacturing Company Limited, Watford
NOVELS BY WARWICK DEEPING
KittyDoomsdaySorrell and SonSuvla JohnThree RoomsThe Secret SanctuaryOrchardsLantern LaneSecond YouthCountess GlikaUnrestThe Pride of EveThe King Behind the KingThe House of SpiesSincerityFox FarmBess of the WoodsThe Red SaintThe SlanderersThe Return of the PetticoatA Woman’s WarValourBertrand of BrittanyUther and IgraineThe House of AdventureThe Prophetic MarriageApples of GoldThe Lame EnglishmanMarriage by ConquestJoan of the TowerMartin ValliantRust of RomeThe White GateThe Seven StreamsMad Barbara
Kitty
Doomsday
Sorrell and Son
Suvla John
Three Rooms
The Secret Sanctuary
Orchards
Lantern Lane
Second Youth
Countess Glika
Unrest
The Pride of Eve
The King Behind the King
The House of Spies
Sincerity
Fox Farm
Bess of the Woods
The Red Saint
The Slanderers
The Return of the Petticoat
A Woman’s War
Valour
Bertrand of Brittany
Uther and Igraine
The House of Adventure
The Prophetic Marriage
Apples of Gold
The Lame Englishman
Marriage by Conquest
Joan of the Tower
Martin Valliant
Rust of Rome
The White Gate
The Seven Streams
Mad Barbara
Transcriber’s Notes:
Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting and punctuation errors have been corrected without note.
[End ofThe Red Saintby Warwick Deeping]