"Pooh, your gla.s.s will have told you. They don"t lie."
"I never had a gla.s.s till I came here. Not even at the convent."
"And did you never get close enough to use somebody"s eyes?" said Maulfry, with a sly look.
Isoult had nothing to say to this. Touch her on the concrete of her love, 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 on knees as you now are. In two minutes you will not be on your own, but on 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 ventured.
"Come out, child? Out of what? Out of a box?" Maulfry cried in mock rage. ""Tis my belief you know as much as I do. "Tis my belief you have been 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 wounded hare"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 so I will tell Messire, if by any chance I should see him first." And so on, until they went to bed.
When at last that breathing s.p.a.ce came, Isoult was nearly choked with the 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 her night-dress, and crept out into the gallery. The door creaked as she opened it; she stood white and quailing, while her heart beat like a hammer. But nothing stirred. She went first to Maulfry"s door and listened. She heard her breathing. All fast there. Then like a hare she fled on to the door she knew so well. There was a light under it: she heard a rustle as of paper or parchment. Whoever was there was turning the leaves of a book. In the silence which seemed to press upon her ears 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 give way. There was but one place for a wife. Maulfry did not know she was his wife. She listened again. Inside the room she now heard some one shift in bed, and--surely that was a low groan. Oh, Lord! Oh, Love! She turned the handle; she stood in the doorway; she saw Galors sitting up in 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 a sour 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 a little curse. Go to bed, Maulfry."
Isoult had the wit to withdraw. What little she had left after that pointed a shaking finger at one thing only--flight. She had been unutterably betrayed. Her conception of the universe reeled over and was 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 had believed herself capable of. She slipt back to her room without doubt or terror, and put on the clothes in which she had come from the convent, a grey gown with a leather girdle, woollen stockings, thick shoes--over all a long red hooded cloak. This done she stood a moment thinking. No, she dare not try the creaking door again; the window must serve her turn. She opened it and looked out. Through the fretty tracery of the firs she could see a frosty sky, blue-grey fining to green, green to yellow where the moon swam, hard and bright. There was not a breath of air.
She climbed at once on to the window-ledge, and stood, holding to the jamb, looking down at the black below.
A great branch ran up to the wall at a right angle; it seemed made for her intent. Sitting with your legs out of the window it was easy to take hold of a branch. She tried; it was easy, but not in a cloak. So she 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 feet touched another, and very slowly (for she was panic-stricken at the least noise) she worked her way downwards to the trunk of the great tree. Once there it was easy; she was soon on the ground. But she had no notion what to do next, save that she must do it at once--whither to turn, how to get out of the wood the best and safest way. Then another thing struck her. She would be chased, that was of course. She had been chased before, and tracked, and caught. Little as she could dare that, what chance had she, a young girl flying loose in this part of the forest, a young girl decently dressed, looking as she knew now that she looked; what chance had she indeed? Well, what was she to do?
She remembered Vincent.
Vincent and Nanno did not sleep in the tower: that would have been inconvenient in Maulfry"s view. They had a little outhouse not ten paces from it, and slept there. Thither went Isoult, jumping at every snapt twig; the door yielded easily, but which bed should she try?
Nanno, she knew, snored, for Vincent had once made her laugh by recounting his troubles under the spell of it. Well, the left-hand bed was undoubtedly Nanno"s at that rate; Isoult went to the right-hand bed and 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 in his ear.
"Whisper, Vincent, whisper," she said; "whisper back to me. Do you love me, Vincent? Whisper."
"You know that I love you, Isoult," Vincent whispered. "Hush! not too loud," said she again. "Vincent, will you get up and come into the wood with me? I want to tell you something. Will you come very quietly indeed?"
"Yes," said Vincent. The whole breathless intercourse worked into his dreams 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 herself could have no doubt. She lost no time.
"Vincent, I must tell you everything. I shall be in your hands, at your mercy. I must go away at once, Vincent. If I stay another hour I shall never see the daylight again. They will kill me, Vincent, or do that which no one can speak of. Then I shall kill myself. This is quite true. I have seen something to-night. There is no doubt at all.
Will you 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 tell you. You must lend me some of your clothes, any that you have, now, at once. Will you do this?"
"My clothes!" he began to gasp.
"Yes. Go and get them, please. But make no noise, for the love of Christ."
Vincent tip-toed back. He returned, after a time of dreadful rummaging in the dark, with a bundle.
"I have brought what I could find. They are all there. I could not bring what I put on every day, for many reasons. These are the best I have. 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 to lovers.
"I will manage," she said. "Turn round, please."
Vincent did as he was bid. He even shut his eyes. Presently Isoult spoke again.
"Could you find me a pair of scissors, Vincent?" She had been quick to learn that beauty must be obeyed. She would have asked Vincent for the moon if she had happened to want it, and would have seen him depart on the errand without qualm. Sure enough, he brought the scissors before her 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. It might have echoed Vincent"s reproach. But the mistress of both was inexorable.
"Cut it to clear my shoulders, please."
He groaned, but remembered that there would be spoils, that he must even touch this hedged young G.o.ddess. So as she stood, doubleted, breeched, and in his long red hose, he hovered round her. Soon she was lightened 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 is that?"
He told her. Keep straight away from the moon. It was just there: he pointed with his hand. As long as the moon held she could not fail to hit it. Beyond the pine-wood there was an open shaw; she could keep through that, then cross a piece of common with bracken cut and stacked. Afterwards came a very deep wood, full of beech-timber. You crossed a brook at Four Mile Bottom,--you could hear the ripples of the ford a half-mile away,--and held straight for the top of Galley Hill. After that the trees began again, oaks mostly. A tall clump of firs would lead you there. Beyond them was the yew-tree wood. The precinct was there. But the moon was her best lamp. He was talking to her in language which she understood better than he. She could never miss the road now.
She thanked him. Then came a pause.
"I must go, Vincent," said she. "You have been my friend this night. I will tell my lord when I see him. He will reward you better than I."
"He can never reward me!" cried Vincent.