CHAPTER XXIV. THE WOOING OF CYNTHIA
Cynthia's swoon was after all but brief. Upon recovering consciousnessher first act was to dismiss her woman. She had need to be alone--theneed of the animal that is wounded to creep into its lair and hideitself. And so alone with her sorrow she sat through that long day.
That her father's condition was grievous she knew to be untrue, so thatconcerning him there was not even that pity that she might have felt hadshe believed--as he would have had her believe that he was dying.
As she pondered the monstrous disclosure he had made, her heart hardenedagainst him, and even as she had asked him whether indeed she was hisdaughter, so now she vowed to herself that she would be his daughter nolonger. She would leave Castle Marleigh, never again to set eyes uponher father, and she hoped that during the little time she must yetremain there--a day, or two at most--she might be spared the ordeal ofagain meeting a parent for whom respect was dead, and who inspired herwith just that feeling of horror she must have for any man who confessedhimself a murderer and a thief.
She resolved to repair to London to a sister of her mother's, where forher dead mother's sake she would find a haven extended readily.
At eventide she came at last from her chamber.
She had need of air, need of the balm that nature alone can offer insolitude to poor wounded human souls.
It was a mild and sunny evening, worthy rather of August than ofOctober, and aimlessly Mistress Cynthia wandered towards the cliffsoverlooking Sheringham Hithe. There she sate herself in sad dejectionupon the grass, and gazed wistfully seaward, her mind straying now fromthe sorry theme that had held dominion in it, to the memories that veryspot evoked.
It was there, sitting as she sat now, her eyes upon the shimmering wasteof sea, and the gulls circling overhead, that she had awakened tothe knowledge of her love for Crispin. And so to him strayed now herthoughts, and to the fate her father had sent him to; and thus backagain to her father and the evil he had wrought. It is matter forconjecture whether her loathing for Gregory would have been as intenseas it was, had another than Crispin Galliard been his victim.
Her life seemed at an end as she sat that October evening on the cliffs.No single interest linked her to existence; nothing, it seemed, was lefther to hope for till the end should come--and no doubt it would be longin coming, for time moves slowly when we wait.
Wistful she sat and thought, and every thought begat a sigh, and thenof a sudden--surely her ears had tricked her, enslaved by herimagination--a crisp, metallic voice rang out close behind her.
"Why are we pensive, Mistress Cynthia?"
There was a catch in her breath as she turned her head. Her cheeks tookfire, and for a second were aflame. Then they went deadly white, andit seemed that time and life and the very world had paused in itsrelentless progress towards eternity. For there stood the object of herthoughts and sighs, sudden and unexpected, as though the earth had casthim up on to her surface.
His thin lips were parted in a smile that softened wondrously theharshness of his face, and his eyes seemed then to her alight withkindness. A moment's pause there was, during which she sought her voice,and when she had found it, all that she could falter was:
"Sir, how came you here? They told me that you rode to London."
"Why, so I did. But on the road I chanced to halt, and having halted Idiscovered reason why I should return."
He had discovered a reason. She asked herself breathlessly what mightthat reason be, and finding herself no answer to the question, she putit next to him.
He drew near to her before replying. "May I sit with you awhile,Cynthia?"
She moved aside to make room for him, as though the broad cliff had beena narrow ledge, and with the sigh of a weary man finding a resting-placeat last, he sank down beside her.
There was a tenderness in his voice that set her pulses stirring wildly.Did she guess aright the reason that had caused him to break his journeyand return? That he had done so--no matter what the reason--she thankedGod from her inmost heart, as for a miracle that had saved him from thedoom awaiting him in London town.
"Am I presumptuous, child, to think that haply the meditation in whichI found you rapt was for one, unworthy though he be, who went hence butsome few days since?"
The ambiguous question drove every thought from her mind, filling it tooverflowing with the supreme good of his presence, and the frantic hopethat she had read aright the reason of it.
"Have I conjectured rightly?" he asked, since she kept silence.
"Mayhap you have," she whispered in return, and then, marvelling at herboldness, blushed. He glanced sharply at her from narrowing eyes. It wasnot the answer he had looked to hear.
As a father might have done he took the slender hand that rested uponthe grass beside him, and she, poor child, mistaking the promptings ofthat action, suffered it to lie in his strong grasp. With averted headshe gazed upon the sea below, until a mist of tears rose up to blot itout. The breeze seemed full of melody and gladness. God was very goodto her, and sent her in her hour of need this great consolation--aconsolation indeed that must have served to efface whatever sorrow couldhave beset her.
"Why then, sweet lady, is my task that I had feared to find all fraughtwith difficulty, grown easy indeed."
And hearing him pause:
"What task is that, Sir Crispin?" she asked, intent on helping him.
He did not reply at once. He found it difficult to devise an answer.To tell her brutally that he was come to bear her away, willingor unwilling, on behalf of another, was not easy. Indeed, it wasimpossible, and he was glad that inclinations in her which he had littledreamt of, put the necessity aside.
"My task, Mistress Cynthia, is to bear you hence. To ask you to resignthis peaceful life, this quiet home in a little corner of the world,and to go forth to bear life's hardships with one who, whatever be hisshortcomings, has the all-redeeming virtue of loving you beyond aughtelse in life."
He gazed intently at her as he spoke, and her eyes fell before hisglance. He noted the warm, red blood suffusing her cheeks, her brow, hervery neck; and he could have laughed aloud for joy at finding so simplethat which he had feared would prove so hard. Some pity, too, creptunaccountably into his stern heart, fathered by the little faith whichin his inmost soul he reposed in Jocelyn. And where, had she resistedhim, he would have grown harsh and violent, her acquiescence struckthe weapons from his hands, and he caught himself well-nigh warning heragainst accompanying him.
"It is much to ask," he said. "But love is selfish, and love asks much."
"No, no," she protested softly, "it is not much to ask. Rather is itmuch to offer."
At that he was aghast. Yet he continued:
"Bethink you, Mistress Cynthia, I have ridden back to Sheringham to askyou to come with me into France, where my son awaits us?"
He forgot for the moment that she was in ignorance of his relationshipto him he looked upon as her lover, whilst she gave this mention of hisson, of whose existence she had already heard from her; father, littlethought at that moment. The hour was too full of other things thattouched her more nearly.
"I ask you to abandon the ease and peace of Sheringham for a life as asoldier's bride that may be rough and precarious for a while, though,truth to tell, I have some influence at the Luxembourg, and friends uponwhose assistance I can safely count, to find your husband honourableemployment, and set him on the road to more. And how, guided by so sweeta saint, can he but mount to fame and honour?"
She spoke no word, but the hand resting in his entwined his fingers inan answering pressure.
"Dare I then ask so much?" cried he. And as if the ambiguity whichhad marked his speech were not enough, he must needs, as he put thisquestion, bend in his eagerness towards her until her brown tressestouched his swart cheek. Was it then strange that the eagernesswherewith he urged another's suit should have been by her interpreted asher heart would have had it?
She set her hands upon his shoulder
s, and meeting his eager gaze withthe frank glance of the maid who, out of trust, is fearless in hersurrender:
"Throughout my life I shall thank God that you have dared it," she madeanswer softly.
A strange reply he deemed it, yet, pondering, he took her meaning to bethat since Jocelyn had lacked the courage to woo boldly, she was gladthat he had sent an ambassador less timid.
A pause followed, and for a spell they sat silent, he thinking of howto frame his next words; she happy and content to sit beside him withoutspeech.
She marvelled somewhat at the strangeness of his wooing, which waslike unto no wooing her romancer's tales had told her of, but thenshe reflected how unlike he was to other men, and therein she saw theexplanation.
"I wish," he mused, "that matters were easier; that it might be mineto boldly sue your hand from your father, but it may not be. Even hadevents not fallen out as they have done, it had been difficult; as itis, it is impossible."
Again his meaning was obscure, and when he spoke of suing for her handfrom her father, he did not think of adding that he would have sued itfor his son.
"I have no father," she replied. "This very day have I disowned him."And observing the inquiry with which his eyes were of a sudden charged:"Would you have me own a thief, a murderer, my father?" she demanded,with a fierceness of defiant shame.
"You know, then?" he ejaculated.
"Yes," she answered sorrowfully, "I know all there is to be known. Ilearnt it all this morning. All day have I pondered it in my shame toend in the resolve to leave Sheringham. I had intended going to Londonto my mother's sister. You are very opportunely come." She smiled up athim through the tears that were glistening in her eyes. "You come evenas I was despairing--nay, when already I had despaired."
Sir Crispin was no longer puzzled by the readiness of her acquiescence.Here was the explanation of it. Forced by the honesty of her pure soulto abandon the house of a father she knew at last for what he was, therefuge Crispin now offered her was very welcome. She had determinedbefore he came to quit Castle Marleigh, and timely indeed was his offerof the means of escape from a life that was grown impossible. A greatpity filled his heart. She was selling herself, he thought; acceptingthe proposal which, on his son's behalf, he made, and from which at anyother season, he feared, she would have shrunk in detestation.
That pity was reflected on his countenance now, and noting itssolemnity, and misconstruing it, she laughed outright, despite herself.He did not ask her why she laughed, he did not notice it; his thoughtswere busy already upon another matter.
When next he spoke, it was to describe to her the hollow of the roadwhere on the night of his departure from the castle he had been flungfrom his horse. She knew the spot, she told him, and there at dusk uponthe following day she would come to him. Her woman must accompany her,and for all that he feared such an addition to the party might retardtheir flight, yet he could not gainsay her resolution. Her uncle, helearnt from her, was absent from Sheringham; he had set out four daysago for London. For her father she would leave a letter, and in thismatter Crispin urged her to observe circumspection, giving no indicationof the direction of her journey.
In all he said, now that matters were arranged he was calm, practical,and unloverlike, and for all that she would he had been lessself-possessed, her faith in him caused her, upon reflection, even toadmire this which she conceived to be restraint. Yet, when at parting hedid no more than courteously bend before her, and kiss her hand as anysimpering gallant might have done, she was all but vexed, and not to beoutdone in coldness, she grew frigid. But it was lost upon him. He hadnot a lover's discernment, quickened by anxious eyes that watch for eachflitting change upon his mistress's face.
They parted thus, and into the heart of Mistress Cynthia there creptthat night a doubt that banished sleep. Was she wise in entrustingherself so utterly to a man of whom she knew but little, and that learntfrom rumours which had not been good? But scarcely was it becauseof that that doubts assailed her. Rather was it because of his cooldeliberateness which argued not the great love wherewith she fain wouldfancy him inspired.
For consolation she recalled a line that had it great fires were soonburnt out, and she sought to reassure herself that the flame of hislove, if not all-consuming, would at least burn bright and steadfastlyuntil the end of life. And so she fell asleep, betwixt hope and fear,yet no longer with any hesitancy touching the morrow's course.
In the morning she took her woman into her confidence, and scared herwith it out of what little sense the creature owned. Yet to such purposedid she talk, that when that evening, as Crispin waited by the coach hehad taken, in the hollow of the road, he saw approaching him a portly,middle-aged dame with a valise. This was Cynthia's woman, and Cynthiaherself was not long in following, muffled in a long, black cloak.
He greeted her warmly--affectionately almost yet with none of therapture to which she held herself entitled as some little recompense forall that on his behalf she left behind.
Urbanely he handed her into the coach, and, after her, her woman. Thenseeing that he made shift to close the door:
"How is this?" she cried. "Do you not ride with us?"
He pointed to a saddled horse standing by the roadside, and which shehad not noticed.
"It will be better so. You will be at more comfort in the carriagewithout me. Moreover, it will travel the lighter and the swifter, andspeed will prove our best friend."
He closed the door, and stepped back with a word of command to thedriver. The whip cracked, and Cynthia flung herself back almost in apet. What manner of lover, she asked herself, was thin and what mannerof woman she, to let herself be borne away by one who made so little useof the arts and wiles of sweet persuasion? To carry her off, and yet notso much as sit beside her, was worthy only of a man who described such ajourney as tedious. She marvelled greatly at it, yet more she marvelledat herself that she did not abandon this mad undertaking.
The coach moved on and the flight from Sheringham was begun.