CHAPTER XV
THREE AT TORTSENTIER
At Tortsentier there was very little daylight, because the trees aboutit formed a thick wall. The branches of the pines tapped at the windowson one side; on the other they linked arms with their comrades, and sostood for a mile on all sides of the tower. Paths there were none, norways to come by unless you were free of the place. The winter stormsmoaned, lashed themselves above it, yet below were hushed down to along sighing. The quiet visitations of the snow, the dripping of theautumn rains, the sun's force, the trap-bite of the frost, or that newbreath that comes stealing through woodlands in spring, were allstrangers alike to the carpet of brown needles about Maulfry's hold. Nobirds ever sang there. Death and a great mystery, the dark, air like alake's at noon, kept fur and feather from Tortsentier, and left Maulfryalone with what she had.
Within, it was a spacious place. A great hall ran the whole height(although not the whole area) of it, having a gallery midway up whenceyou gained what other chambers there were. Below the gallery were deepalcoves hung with tapestry (of which Maulfry was a diligent worker),and thickened with curtains; between every alcove hung trophies ofshields and arms. Mossy carpets, skins, and piled cushions were on thefloor; the place smelt of musk: it was lighted by coloured torches andlamps, and warmed with braziers. It was by a spiral stair that youfound the gallery and doors of the other rooms, or as many of them asit was fitting you should find. There were doors there which were nodoors at all unless occasion served. These rooms had windows; but thehall had only a lantern in the roof, and its torches. From all this itwill appear that Isoult was a prisoner, since a prisoner you are if,although you can go out, there is nowhere for you to go; if, further,your hostess neither goes out herself nor gives you occasion to leaveher. Yet Maulfry made her guest elaborately free of the place.
"Child," she said, "you see how I live here. My trees, my birds--" shehad many birds in cages--"my collections of arms and arras and oddbooks, are my friends for want of better. If you can help me to anysuch I shall be very much obliged to you. Other friends Ihave--yourself I may count among them, one other you know,--but theyare of the world, and refuse to hang upon my walls. Sometimes they payme a visit, stay for a little season, remonstrate, argue with me,shrug, and leave me gladder than I was to receive them. I am a hermit,my child, when all's said. These other friends, these more constantfriends, on the other hand, suit me better. They talk to me when I bidthem, are silent when I want to think. They have no vapours, unless Igive them of mine, no airs but what I choose to find in them. And theyare complaisant, they seek nothing beyond my entertainment. My friendsfrom outside come to please themselves and to take what they can of mystore. Sometimes they take each other. One of them (not unknown to myIsoult!) will come before long--he is overdue now--and find my storeenriched. I doubt he will turn thief. You may well blush, child, for,apart that it becomes you admirably, thieving is a sin, and naturallyyou cannot approve of it. It is to be hoped he has rifled no treasuryalready. There, there, I have your word for it; but you know my way!Living alone in the woods at a distance from men, which makes them antsin a swarm for me, I become a philosopher. Can you wonder?"
To such harangues, delivered with a pretty air of mockery andextravagance, which was never allowed to get out of hand, Isoultlistened as she had listened to the cheerful prophetics of the Abbessof Gracedieu, with her gentle smile and her locked lips. Maulfry talkedby the hour together while she and Isoult sat weaving a tapestry. Forthe philosopher which it seemed she was, the subject of the piece wasvery pleasant. It was the story of Troilus and Cresseide, no less,wherein Sir Pandarus, (departing from the custom) was represented ayoung man of tall and handsome presence, and the triangle of loverslike children. Diomede was an apple-cheeked school-boy, Troilus had atunic and bare legs, Cresseide in her spare moments dandled a doll.Calchas, for his part, kept a dame-school in this piece, which for therest was treated with a singular freedom. Isoult, poor girl, wasoccasionally troubled at her part of the work; but the philosopherlaughed heartily at her.
"What ails thee with the piece, child?" she would cry out in her heartyway. "Dost thou think lovers are men and women, to be taken seriously?It is to be hoped they are not, forsooth! For if they are not innocent,what shall be said of their antics?" and more to the same tune.
While affecting to treat her with freedom, Maulfry kept in reality asteady rein.
"Go out?" she would cry in mock dismay, at the least hint of such awish from the girl--"why under the sun should we go out? To see athicket of twigs and breathe rotten vapours? Or do you think we haveprocessions passing in and out of the tree-trunks? Ah, minx, 'tis aprocession of one you would be spying for! Nay, nay, never look bigeyes at me, child. I know your processioner better than you. He willcome in his time; and whether he come through the door or down thestairs I cannot tell you yet. Who taught you, pray, that he was in thewood? Not I, I vow. Why should he not be skulking in the blue alcoveawaiting the hour? You look thither; how you kindle at a word! Well,well, go and see for yourself if he is in the blue alcove."
Poor trembling Isoult went on tiptoe, was fool enough to peep throughthe curtains, but good soul enough to take Maulfry's railing in fairpart. She got as much as she deserved, and the joke was none too goodperhaps; but as a trick, it sufficed to keep her on the fine edge ofexpectation. She dared not go out for fear of missing Prosper. She grewso tight-strung as to doubt of nothing. Had Maulfry told her he wouldbe with them to supper on such and such a night, she would have comeshaking to the meal, rosy as a new bride, nothing doubting but that thenext lift of her shy eyes would reveal him before her. Thus Maulfry byhints in easy degrees led her on; and not only did she not dare to goout, but she lost all wish to peer for him in the wood, because she hadbeen led to the conviction that he was actually in the tower--amysterious, harboured visitant who would appear late or soon, obedientto his destiny. A door even was pointed at, smiled and winked at,passed by light-foot as they went along the gallery. Maulfry had abiting humour which sometimes led her further than she was aware.
She kept Isoult in a fever by her tricks; by this particular trick sherisked a different fire--jealousy. For of the four persons who made upthe household, she alone went behind that door. Vincent, the youngpage, brought food and wine to the threshold; Maulfry came out and tookthem in. But there she was perfectly safe. Isoult could never bejealous of Prosper; she would despair, but would resent nothing hemight do. Jealousy requires two things exorbitantly--self-love and asensitive surface. Isoult loved Love and Prosper--the two in oneglorious image; and as for her surface, that, like the rest of her,body and soul, was his when Love allowed. Nor was she even curious, atfirst. Many thrashings, acquaintance with her world which was close ifnot long, and a deeply-driven scorn of herself threw her blindly uponthe discretion of the only man she had ever found to be at oncesplendid and humane. What he chose was the law and what he declared theprophets. But she might get curious on other grounds, on grounds wheredestiny and suchlike mannish appendages did not hold up a finger ather. And in fact she did.
* * * * *
Meantime Maulfry took charge of her body and will. Isoult was obedientin everything but one. Maulfry, who always saw the girl undress and goto bed, objected to her prayers.
"Pray!" she would call out, "for what and to what do you pray? Pray toyour husband when you have one, and he will give you according to yourdeserts, which he alone can appraise. Trust him for that. But to craveboons you know little of, from a God of whom you know nothing at all,save that you made him in your own image--what profit can that be?"
To which Isoult replied, "He told me always to pray, ma'am, and Icannot disobey any of his words."
"Ah, I remember he was given to the game. Hum! And what else did hetell you, child?"
"Deal justly, live cleanly, breathe sweet breath," Isoult answered in awhisper, as if she were in church: "praise God when He is kind, bowhead and knees when He is angry, look for Him to be near at all
times.Do this, and beyond it trust to thine own heart."
Maulfry pished and pshawed at this hushed oracle. "You would do betterto eat well and sleep softly. 'Twould bring you nearer your heart'sdesire. Men like a girl to be sleek."
But in this Isoult had her way, though she said her prayers in bed. Inall else she was meek as a mouse. Maulfry made her dress to suit herown taste, and let down her hair. The dress was of thin silk, fittedclose, and was cut low in the neck. Isoult, who had known pinned rags,and had gone feet and legs bare without a thought, went now as if shewere naked, or clothed only in her shame. But it was the fashionMaulfry adopted towards her own person, and there were no others toconvict her. Nanno the old serving-woman and Vincent the page, who wasonly a boy, made up the household-except for the closed door. Nannonever looked at anything higher than the ground; and as for Vincent, hewas in love with Isoult, and would sooner have looked at Christ injudgment.
Of those two people Nanno was believed to be dumb; Isoult, at least,never got speech of her. Vincent, who was treated by Maulfry as if hehad been a mechanism, was a very simple machine. If Maulfry had beenless summary with him she might have prevented the inevitable; but likeall people with brains she thought a simpleton was an ass, and kicksyour only speech with such. Vincent and Isoult, therefore, becamefriends as the days went on. Maulfry's cagebirds drew their headstogether, and in Vincent's case, at any rate, it was not long beforethe blood began to beat livelier for the contact. Isoult was as simpleas he was, and concealed nothing from him that came up in their talkstogether. She knew much more than he about birds, about the woods, thecountry beyond the forest--great rolling sheep-pastures, dim stretchesof fen, sleepy rivers, the heaths and open lands about Malbank. Of allthese things which came to him through her voice almost with a breathof their own roving air, he knew absolutely nothing, whereas there wasvery little county-lore which she did not know. She seemed indeed tohim a woodland creature herself, in touch with the birds and beasts.She could put her hand into a cage full of them; the little twinklingeyes were steady upon her, but there was no fluttering or beating atthe bars. Her hand closed on the bird, drew it out: the next minute itwas free upon her shoulder, peeping into her sidelong face. She couldhold it up to her lips: it would take the seed from her. The horsesknew her call and her speaking voice. They would go and come, stand orstart, as she whispered in their pricked ears. Vincent thought shemight easily be a fairy. But, "No, Vincent," she would say to that, "Iam a very poor girl, poorer than you."
One day Vincent disputed this point.
"You go in silks and have pearls on your head."
"They are not mine, Vincent."
"My mistress loves you."
"Oh, in love I am very rich," said the girl.
"Everybody would love you, I think," he dared.
But she shook her head at this.
"I have not found that. I am not sure of anybody's love."
"I know of one person of whom you may be very sure," said the boy, outof breath.
"But I never meant that when I said I was rich. I meant that I was richin love, not in being loved. Ah, no!"
"You ask not to be loved, Isoult?"
"Oh, it would be impossible to be loved as I mean, as I love."
"I would like to know that. Whom do you love?"
"Why, my lord, of course! Must I not love my lord?"
"Your lord!" stammered Vincent, red to the roots of his hair. "Yourlord! I never knew that you loved a lord." He gulped, and went on atrandom--"And where is your lord?"
"I cannot tell. He may be in this castle. I only know that I shall seehim when his time comes."
"If he is in this castle, Isoult," said Vincent, sober again, "his timeis not yet."
She caught her breath.
"How do you know that?" she panted.
"I know that there is a great lord in the Red Chamber, him that MadamMaulfry tends with her own hands."
"Ah, ah! You have seen him?"
"No, I have never seen him. He is very ill."
Isoult gazed at him, shocked to the soul. Ill, and she not near by!
"Oh, Vincent," she whispered. "Oh, Vincent!"
"Yes, Isoult,"--Vincent had caught some breath of her horror, andwhispered,--"Yes, Isoult, he is very ill. He has been ill since theautumn, with bleeding and bleeding and bleeding. I know that is true,though I have never seen him since he was brought here swathed up in alitter; but I once saw Madam Maulfry bury something in the wood, veryearly in the morning. And I was frightened. Ah! I have seen strangethings here, such as I dare not utter even now. So I watched my timeand dug up what she had concealed. They were bloody clothes, Isoult,very many of them, and ells long! So it is true."
Isoult swayed about like a broken bough. Vincent ran to catch her,fearing she would fall. He felt the shaking of her body under hishands. That frightened him. He began to beseech.
"Isoult, dear Isoult, I have hurt you, I who would rather die, Iwho--am very fond of you, Isoult. Look now, be yourself again--think ofthis. He may not be ill by now; he is likely much better. I will findout for you. Trust me to find it all out."
"No, no, no," she whispered in haste; "you must do nothing, can donothing. This is mine. I will find out."
"Will you ask Madam Maulfry?" said Vincent. "She will kill me if sheknows that I have told you. Not that I mind that," he added in his ownexcuse, "but you will gain nothing that way."
"No," Isoult answered curtly. "I will find out by myself. Hush! Someone is coming. Go now."
Vincent went slowly away, for he too heard the sweep of Maulfry's robe.There was a long looking-glass in the wall, flickering over whichIsoult's eyes encountered their own woeful image-brooding, reproachful,haunted eyes; this would never do for her present business. Determinedto meet craft with craft, she wried her mouth to a smile, she drovepeace into her eyes, took a bosomful of breath, and turned to beactress for the first time in her life. This meant to realize and thenexpress herself. She was like to become an artist.
Towards the end of that night her brain swam with fatigue. She had hadto study, first Maulfry, second, her new self, third, her old self. Instudying Maulfry she began unconsciously to prepare for the shock tocome--the shock of a free-given faith, than which no crisis can be moreexquisite for a child. So far, however, she had no cause to distrusther chatelaine's honour, nor even her judgment. Both, she doubted not,were in Prosper's keeping.
Maulfry was in a gay, malicious humour. She pinched Isoult's cheek whenshe met her.
"Tired of waiting, my minion?" she began.
"No, ma'am, I am not tired at all."
"That is well. I went by the eye-shine. So you are still patient forthe great reward! Well, build not too high, my dear. All men are alike,as I find them."
"My reward is to serve, ma'am, not to win."
"It is a reward one may weary of with time. There may be too muchservice where the slave is willing, child. But to win gives an appetitefor more winning; and so the game goes on."
Again, later on, she said--
"I should like him to see you tonight, child. He would be moremalleable set near such a fire. Your cheeks are burning bright! As foryour big eyes, I believe you burnish them. Do you know how handsome youare, I wonder?"
"No one has ever told me that but you, ma'am," said Isoult, demure.
"Pooh, your glass will have told you. They don't lie."
"I never had a glass till I came here. Not even at the convent."
"And did you never get close enough to use somebody's eyes?" saidMaulfry, with a sly look.
Isoult had nothing to say to this. Touch her on the concrete of herlove, and she was always dumb.
"Well then, I will stay flattering you, and advise," Maulfry pursued."When that august one chooses to unveil, do you present yourself onknees as you now are. In two minutes you will not be on your own, buton his, if I know mankind."
Isoult changed the talk.
"Do you know, or can you tell me, when my lord will come out, ma'am?"she vent
ured.
"Come out, child? Out of what? Out of a box?" Maulfry cried in mockrage. "'Tis my belief you know as much as I do. 'Tis my belief you havebeen at a keyhole."
Mockery gave way; the matter was serious.
"Remember now, Isoult, in doing that you will disobey a greater than I,and as good a friend. And remember what disobedience may mean."
Again she changed her tone in view of Isoult's collapse.
"You look reproaches," she said; "your eyes seem to say, like a woundedhare's, 'Strike me again. I must quiver, but I will never run.' So,child, so, I was but half in earnest. You are an obedient child, and soI will tell Messire, if by any chance I should see him first." And soon, until they went to bed.
When at last that breathing space came, Isoult was nearly choked withthe fatigue of her artistic escapades; but there was no time to lose.As soon as she dared she got up in the dark, put her cloak over hernight-dress, and crept out into the gallery. The door creaked as sheopened it; she stood white and quailing, while her heart beat like ahammer. But nothing stirred. She went first to Maulfry's door andlistened. She heard her breathing. All fast there. Then like a hare shefled on to the door she knew so well. There was a light under it: sheheard a rustle as of paper or parchment. Whoever was there was turningthe leaves of a book. In the silence which seemed to press upon herears and throb in them, she debated with herself what she should do.She knew that there was indeed no question about it. If he was ill,everything--all her humility and all his tacit authority--must giveway. There was but one place for a wife. Maulfry did not know she washis wife. She listened again. Inside the room she now heard some oneshift in bed, and--surely that was a low groan. Oh, Lord! Oh, Love! Sheturned the handle; she stood in the doorway; she saw Galors sitting upin bed with a book on his knees, a lamp by his side. His sick face,bandaged and swathed, glowered at her, with great hollow eyes and asour mouth dropped at one corner.
She stood unable to move or cry.
"All is well, dear friend," said Galors; "I did but shift and let alittle curse. Go to bed, Maulfry."
Isoult had the wit to withdraw. What little she had left after thatpointed a shaking finger at one thing only--flight. She had beenunutterably betrayed. Her conception of the universe reeled over andwas lost in fire. There was no time to think of it, none to be afraid;she did what there was to do swiftly, with a clearer head than she hadbelieved herself capable of. She slipt back to her room without doubtor terror, and put on the clothes in which she had come from theconvent, a grey gown with a leather girdle, woollen stockings, thickshoes--over all a long red hooded cloak. This done she stood a momentthinking. No, she dare not try the creaking door again; the window mustserve her turn. She opened it and looked out. Through the frettytracery of the firs she could see a frosty sky, blue-grey fining togreen, green to yellow where the moon swam, hard and bright. There wasnot a breath of air.
She climbed at once on to the window-ledge, and stood, holding to thejamb, looking down at the black below.
A great branch ran up to the wall at a right angle; it seemed made forher intent. Sitting with your legs out of the window it was easy totake hold of a branch. She tried; it was easy, but not in a cloak. Soshe sat again on the sill, took off her cloak, and tried once more.Soon she was out of the window, swinging by the branch. Then her feettouched another, and very slowly (for she was panic-stricken at theleast noise) she worked her way downwards to the trunk of the greattree. Once there it was easy; she was soon on the ground. But she hadno notion what to do next, save that she must do it at once--whither toturn, how to get out of the wood the best and safest way. Then anotherthing struck her. She would be chased, that was of course. She had beenchased before, and tracked, and caught. Little as she could dare that,what chance had she, a young girl flying loose in this part of theforest, a young girl decently dressed, looking as she knew now that shelooked; what chance had she indeed? Well, what was she to do? Sheremembered Vincent.
Vincent and Nanno did not sleep in the tower: that would have beeninconvenient in Maulfry's view. They had a little outhouse not tenpaces from it, and slept there. Thither went Isoult, jumping at everysnapt twig; the door yielded easily, but which bed should she try?Nanno, she knew, snored, for Vincent had once made her laugh byrecounting his troubles under the spell of it. Well, the left-hand bedwas undoubtedly Nanno's at that rate; Isoult went to the right-hand bedand felt delicately with her hand at its head. Vincent's curls!
Then she knelt down and put her face close to the boy's, whispering inhis ear.
"Whisper, Vincent, whisper," she said; "whisper back to me. Do you loveme, Vincent? Whisper."
"You know that I love you, Isoult," Vincent whispered. "Hush! not tooloud," said she again. "Vincent, will you get up and come into the woodwith me? I want to tell you something. Will you come very quietlyindeed?"
"Yes," said Vincent. The whole breathless intercourse worked into hisdreams of her; but he woke and sat up.
"Come," said Isoult. She crept out again to wait for him.
Vincent came out in his night-gown. The moon showed him rather scared,but there was no doubt about his sentiments. Love-blind Isoult herselfcould have no doubt. She lost no time.
"Vincent, I must tell you everything. I shall be in your hands, at yourmercy. I must go away at once, Vincent. If I stay another hour I shallnever see the daylight again. They will kill me, Vincent, or do thatwhich no one can speak of. Then I shall kill myself. This is quitetrue. I have seen something to-night. There is no doubt at all. Willyou help me, Vincent?"
Vincent gaped at her. "How--what--why--what shall I do?" he murmured,beginning to tremble. "Oh, Isoult, you know how I--what I whispered--!"
"Yes, yes, I know. That is why I came. You must do exactly what I tellyou. You must lend me some of your clothes, any that you have, now, atonce. Will you do this?'
"My clothes!" he began to gasp.
"Yes. Go and get them, please. But make no noise, for the love ofChrist."
Vincent tip-toed back. He returned, after a time of dreadful rummagingin the dark, with a bundle.
"I have brought what I could find. They are all there. I could notbring what I put on every day, for many reasons. These are the best Ihave. How will you--can you--? They are not easy to put on, I think,for a girl."
Poor Vincent! Isoult had no time nor heed for the modesty proper tolovers.
"I will manage," she said. "Turn round, please."
Vincent did as he was bid. He even shut his eyes. Presently Isoultspoke again.
"Could you find me a pair of scissors, Vincent?" She had been quick tolearn that beauty must be obeyed. She would have asked Vincent for themoon if she had happened to want it, and would have seen him depart onthe errand without qualm. Sure enough, he brought the scissors beforeher held-out hand had grown tired.
"Cut off my hair," she said, "level with my shoulders."
"Your hair!" cried the poor lad. "Oh, Isoult, I dare not."
It reached her knees, was black as night, and straight as rain. Itmight have echoed Vincent's reproach. But the mistress of both wasinexorable.
"Cut it to clear my shoulders, please."
He groaned, but remembered that there would be spoils, that he musteven touch this hedged young goddess. So as she stood, doubleted,breeched, and in his long red hose, he hovered round her. Soon she waslightened of her load of glory, and as spruce as a chamber-page.
"Now," she said, "you must tell me the way to the nearest shelter.There is a place called St. Lucy's Precinct, I have heard. Where isthat?"
He told her. Keep straight away from the moon. It was just there: hepointed with his hand. As long as the moon held she could not fail tohit it. Beyond the pine-wood there was an open shaw; she could keepthrough that, then cross a piece of common with bracken cut andstacked. Afterwards came a very deep wood, full of beech-timber. Youcrossed a brook at Four Mile Bottom,--you could hear the ripples of theford a half-mile away,--and held straight for the top of Galley Hill.After that the trees began aga
in, oaks mostly. A tall clump of firswould lead you there. Beyond them was the yew-tree wood. The precinctwas there. But the moon was her best lamp. He was talking to her inlanguage which she understood better than he. She could never miss theroad now.
She thanked him. Then came a pause.
"I must go, Vincent," said she. "You have been my friend this night. Iwill tell my lord when I see him. He will reward you better than I."
"He can never reward me!" cried Vincent.
She sighed and turned to go, but he started forward and held her withboth hands at her waist. She seemed so like a boy of his age, it gavehim courage.
"Isoult," he stammered, "Isoult!"
"Yes, Vincent," says she.
"Are you going indeed?"
"I must go at once."
"Shall I see you again?"
"Ah, I cannot tell you that."
"Do you care nothing?"
"I think you have been my friend. Yes, I should like to see you again,some day."
"Oh, Isoult--"
"What?"
"Will you give me something?"
"What have I, Vincent? If I could you know that I would."
He had her yet by the waist. There was no blinking what he wanted.Isoult stood.
"You may kiss me there," she said with the benignity of a princess, andgave him her hand.
The boy's mouth was very near her cheek. Something--who knowswhat?--checked him. He let go her waist, dropped on his knees andkissed the hand, turned little prince in his turn. Isoult was as nearloving him then as she could ever be. This was no great way, perhaps,but near enough for immediate purposes. When Vincent got up she gavehim her hand frankly to hold. They were two children now, and like twochildren kissed each other without under-thought. Then, as she spedaway from the moon, Vincent crept back to his cold bed with an armfulof black hair.