Helena's Path

Stillford paused and looked at the Marchesa. The document did not begin in a conciliatory manner. It asserted the right to use Beach Path in the most uncompromising way.

"Go on," commanded the Marchesa, a little flushed, still holding Norah's hand.

"'And Whereas the said Lord Lynborough is desirous that his rights as above defined shall receive the recognition of the said Marchesa, which recognition has hitherto been withheld and refused by the said Marchesa: And Whereas great and manifold troubles have arisen from such refusal: And Whereas the said Lord Lynborough is desirous of dwelling in peace and amity with the said Marchesa – '"

"There, Helena, you see he is!" cried Norah triumphantly.

"I really must not be interrupted," Stillford protested. "'Now Therefore the said Lord Lynborough, moved thereunto by divers considerations and in chief by his said desire to dwell in amity and good-will, doth engage and undertake that, in consideration of his receiving a full, gracious, and amicable recognition of his right from the said Marchesa, he shall and will, year by year and once a year, to wit on the Feast of St. John Baptist, also known as Midsummer Day – '"

"Why, that's to-morrow!" exclaimed Violet Dufaure.

Once more Stillford commanded silence. The Terms of Peace were not to be rudely interrupted just as they were reaching the most interesting point. For up to now nothing had come except a renewed assertion of Lynborough's right!

"'That is to say the twenty-fourth day of June – repair in his own proper person, with or without attendants as shall seem to him good, to Nab Grange or such other place as may then and on each occasion be the abode and residence of the said Marchesa, and shall and will present himself in the presence of the said Marchesa at noon. And that he then shall and will do homage to the said Marchesa for such full, gracious, and amicable recognition as above mentioned by falling on his knee and kissing the hand of the said Marchesa. And if the said Lord Lynborough shall wilfully or by neglect omit so to present himself and so to pay his homage on any such Feast of St. John Baptist, then his said right shall be of no effect and shall be suspended (And he hereby engages not to exercise the same) until he shall have purged his contempt or neglect by performing his homage on the next succeeding Feast. Provided Always that the said Marchesa shall and will, a sufficient time before the said Feast in each year, apprise and inform the said Lord Lynborough of her intended place of residence, in default whereof the said Lord Lynborough shall not be bound to pay his homage and shall suffer no diminution of his right by reason of the omission thereof. Provided Further and Finally that whensoever the said Lord Lynborough shall duly and on the due date as in these Presents stipulated present himself at Nab Grange or elsewhere the residence for the time being of the said Marchesa, and claim to be admitted to the presence of the said Marchesa and to perform his homage as herein prescribed and ordered, the said Marchesa shall not and will not, on any pretext or for any cause whatsoever, deny or refuse to accept the said homage so duly proffered, but shall and will in all gracious condescension and neighborly friendship extend and give her hand to the said Lord Lynborough, to the end and purpose that, he rendering and she accepting his homage in all mutual trust and honorable confidence, Peace may reign between Nab Grange and Scarsmoor Castle so long as they both do stand. In Witness whereof the said Lord Lynborough has affixed his name on the Eve of the said Feast of St. John Baptist.

    Lynborough.'"

Stillford ended his reading, and handed the scroll to the Marchesa with a bow. She took it and looked at Lynborough's signature. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lips struggled not to smile. The rest were silent. She looked at Stillford, who smiled back at her and drew from his pocket – a stylographic pen.

"Yes," she said, and took it.

She wrote below Lynborough's name:

"In Witness whereof, in a desire for peace and amity, in all mutual trust and honorable confidence, the said Marchesa has affixed her name on this same Eve of the said Feast of St. John Baptist.

    Helena di San Servolo."

She handed it back to Stillford. "Let it dry in the beautiful sunlight," she said.

The Ambassadors rose to their feet. She rose too and went over to Stabb with outstretched hands. A broad smile spread over Stabb's spacious face. "It's just like Ambrose," he said to her as he took her hands. "He gets what he wants – but in the prettiest way!"

She answered him in a low voice: "A very knightly way of saving a foolish woman's pride." She raised her voice. "Bid Lord Lynborough – aye, Sir Ambrose Athelstan Caverly, Baron Lynborough, attend here at Nab Grange to pay his homage to-morrow at noon." She looked round on them all, smiling now openly, the red in her cheeks all triumphant over her olive hue. "Say I will give him private audience to receive his homage and to ask his friendship." With that the Marchesa departed, somewhat suddenly, into the house.

Amid much merriment and reciprocal congratulations the Ambassadors were honorably escorted back to their coach and four.

"Keep your eye on the Castle to-night," Roger Wilbraham whispered to Norah as he pressed her hand.

They drove off, Stillford leading a gay "Hurrah!"

At night indeed Scarsmoor Castle was a sight to see. Every window of its front blazed with light; rockets and all manner of amazing bright devices rose to heaven. All Fillby turned out to see the show; all Nab Grange was in the garden looking on.

All save Helena herself. She had retreated to her own room; there she sat and watched alone. She was in a fever of feeling and could not rest. She twisted one hand round the other, she held up before her eyes the hand which was destined to receive homage on the morrow. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed, her red lips trembled.

"Alas, how this man knows his way to my heart!" she sighed.

The blaze at Scarsmoor Castle died down. A kindly darkness fell. Under its friendly cover she kissed her hand to the Castle, murmuring "To-morrow!"

Chapter Thirteen

THE FEAST OF ST. JOHN BAPTIST

"As there's a heaven above us," wrote Lynborough that same night – having been, one would fain hope, telepathically conscious of the hand-kissing by the red lips, of the softly breathed "To-morrow!" (for if he were not, what becomes of Love's Magic?) – "As there's a heaven above us, I have succeeded! Her answer is more than a consent – it's an appreciation. The rogue knew how she stood: she is haughtily, daintily grateful. Does she know how near she drove me to the abominable thing? Almost had I – I, Ambrose Caverly – issued a writ! I should never, in all my life, have got over the feeling of being a bailiff! She has saved me by the rightness of her taste. 'Knightly' she called it to old Cromlech. Well, that was in the blood – it had been my own fault if I had lost it, no credit of mine if to some measure I have it still. But to find the recognition! I have lit up the country-side to-night to celebrate that rare discovery.

"Rare – yes – yet not doubted. I knew it of her. I believe that I have broken all records – since the Renaissance at least. Love at first sight! Where's the merit in that? Given the sight be fine enough (a thing that I pray may not admit of doubt in the case of Helena), it is no exploit; it is rather to suffer the inevitable than to achieve the great. But unless the sight of a figure a hundred yards away – and of a back fifty – is to count against me as a practical inspection, I am so supremely lucky as never to have seen her! I have made her for myself – a few tags of description, a noting of the effect on Roger and on Cromlech, mildly (and very unimaginatively) aided my work, I admit – but for the most part and in all essentials, she, as I love her (for of course I love her, or no amount of Feast of St. John Baptist should have moved me from my path – take that for literal or for metaphorical as ye will!) – is of my own craftsmanship – work of my heart and brain, wrought just as I would have her – as I knew, through all delightful wanderings, that some day she must come to me.

"Think then of my mood for to-morrow! With what feelings do I ring the bell (unless perchance it be a knocker)! With what sensations accost the butler! With what emotions enter the presence! Because if by chance I am wrong – ! Upon which awful doubt arises the question whether, if I be wrong, I can go back. I am plaguily the slave of putting the thing as prettily as it can be put (Thanks, Cromlech, for giving me the adverb – not so bad a touch for a Man of Tombs!), and, on my soul, I have put that homage of mine so prettily that one who was prudent would have addressed it to none other than a married lady —vivente marito, be it understood. But from my goddess her mortal mate is gone – and to explain – nay, not to explain (which would indeed tax every grace of style) – but to let it appear that the homage lingers, abides, and is confined within the letter of the bond – that would seem scarce 'knightly.' Therefore, being (as all tell me) more of a fool than most men, and (as I soberly hope) not less of a gentleman, I stand thus. I love the Image I have made out of dim distant sight, prosaic shreds of catalogued description, a vividly creating mind, and – to be candid – the absolute necessity of amusing myself in the country. But the Woman I am to see to-morrow? Is she the Image? I shall know in the first moment of our encounter. If she is, all is well for me – for her it will be just a question of her dower of heavenly venturousness. If she is not – in my humble judgment, you, Ambrose Caverly, having put the thing with so excessive a prettiness, shall for your art's sake perish – you must, in short, if you would end this thing in the manner (creditable to yourself, Ambrose!) in which it has hitherto been conducted, willy-nilly, hot or cold, confirmed in divine dreams or slapped in the face by disenchanting fact – within a brief space of time, propose marriage to this lady. If there be any other course, the gods send me scent of it this night! But if she should refuse? Reckon not on that. For the more she fall short of her Image, the more will she grasp at an outward showing of triumph – and the greatest outward triumph would not be in refusal.

"In my human weakness I wish that – just for once – I had seen her! But in the strong spirit of the wine of life – whereof I have been and am an inveterate and most incurable bibber – I rejoice in that wonderful moment of mine to-morrow – when the door of the shrine opens, and I see the goddess before whom my offering must be laid. Be she giant or dwarf, be she black or white, have she hair or none – by the powers, if she wears a sack only, and is well advised to stick close to that, lest casting it should be a change for the worse – in any event the offering must be made. Even so the Prince in the tales, making his vows to the Beast and not yet knowing if his spell shall transform it to the Beauty! In my stronger moments, so would I have it. Years of life shall I live in that moment to-morrow! If it end ill, no human being but myself shall know. If it end well, the world is not great enough to hold, nor the music of its spheres melodious enough to sound, my triumph!"

It will be observed that Lord Lynborough, though indeed no novice in the cruel and tender passion, was appreciably excited on the Eve of the Feast of St. John Baptist. In view of so handsome a response, the Marchesa's kiss of the hand and her murmured "To-morrow" may pass excused of forwardness.

It was, nevertheless, a gentleman to all seeming most cool and calm who presented himself at the doors of Nab Grange at eleven fifty-five the next morning. His Ambassadors had come in magnificence; humbly he walked – and not by Beach Path, since his homage was not yet paid – but round by the far-stretching road and up the main avenue most decorously. Stabb and Roger had cut across by the path – holding the Marchesa's leave and license so to do – and had joined an excited group which sat on chairs under sheltering trees.

"I wish she hadn't made the audience private!" said Norah Mountliffey.

"If ever a keyhole were justifiable – " sighed Violet Dufaure.

"My dear, I'd box your ears myself," Miss Gilletson brusquely interrupted.

The Marchesa sat in a high arm-chair, upholstered in tarnished fading gold. The sun from the window shone on her hair; her face was half in shadow. She rested her head on her left; hand the right lay on her knee. It was stripped of any ring – unadorned white. Her cheeks were pale – the olive reigned unchallenged; her lips were set tight, her eyes downcast. She made no movement when Lord Lynborough entered.

He bowed low, but said nothing. He stood opposite to her some two yards away. The clock ticked. It wanted still a minute before noon struck. That was the minute of which Lynborough had raved and dreamed the night before. He had the fruit of it in full measure.

The first stroke of twelve rang silvery from the clock. Lynborough advanced and fell upon his knee. She did not lift her eyes, but slowly raised her hand from her knee. He placed his hand under it, pressing it a little upward and bowing his head to meet it half-way in its ascent. She felt his lips lightly brush the skin. His homage for Beach Path and his right therein was duly paid.

Slowly he rose to his feet; slowly her eyes turned upward to his face. It was ablaze with a great triumph; the fire seemed to spread to her cheeks.

"It's better than I dreamed or hoped," he murmured.

"What? To have peace between us? Yes, it's good."

"I have never seen your face before." She made no answer. "Nor you mine?" he asked.

"Once on Sandy Nab you passed by me. You didn't notice me – but, yes, I saw you." Her eyes were steadily on him now; the flush had ceased to deepen, nay, had receded, but abode still, tingeing the olive of her cheeks.

"I have rendered my homage," he said.

"It is accepted." Suddenly tears sprang to her eyes. "And you might have been so cruel to me!" she whispered.

"To you? To you who carry the power of a world in your face?"

The Marchesa was confused – as was, perhaps, hardly unnatural.

"There are other things, besides gates and walls, and Norah's head, that you jump over, Lord Lynborough."

"I lived a life while I stood waiting for the clock to strike. I have tried for life before – in that minute I found it." He seemed suddenly to awake as though from a dream. "But I beg your pardon. I have paid my dues. The bond gives me no right to linger."

She rose with a light laugh – yet it sounded nervous. "Is it good-by till next St. John Baptist's day?"