A Lady of Quality [72]
was a race as if for life or death. The beasts bounded forward, spurning the earth beneath their feet. My lady's face was set, her eyes were burning flame, her breath came short and pantingly between her teeth. Oxon's fair face was white with passion; he panted also, but strained every nerve to keep at her side, and kept there.
"Keep back! I warn thee!" she cried once, almost gasping.
"Keep back!" he answered, blind with rage. "I will follow thee to hell!"
And in this wise they galloped over the white road until the hedges disappeared and they were in the streets, and people turned to look at them, and even stood and stared. Then she drew rein a little and went slower, knowing with shuddering agony that the trap was closing about her.
"What is it that you would say to me?" she asked him breathlessly.
"That which I would say within four walls that you may hear it all," he answered. "This time 'tis not idle threatening. I have a thing to show you."
Through the streets they went, and as her horse's hoofs beat the pavement, and the passers-by, looking towards her, gazed curiously at so fine a lady on so splendid a brute, she lifted her eyes to the houses, the booths, the faces, and the sky, with a strange fancy that she looked about her as a man looks who, doomed to death, is being drawn in his cart to Tyburn tree. For 'twas to death she went, nor to naught else could she compare it, and she was so young and strong, and full of love and life, and there should have been such bliss and peace before her but for one madness of her all- unknowing days. And this beside her--this man with the fair face and looks and beauteous devil's eyes, was her hangman, and carried his rope with him, and soon would fit it close about her neck.
When they rode through the part of the town where abode the World of Fashion, those who saw them knew them, and marvelled that the two should be together.
"But perhaps his love has made him sue for pardon that he has so borne himself," some said, "and she has chosen to be gracious to him, since she is gracious in these days to all."
When they reached her house he dismounted with her, wearing an outward air of courtesy; but his eye mocked her, as she knew. His horse was in a lather of sweat, and he spoke to a servant.
"Take my beast home," he said. "He is too hot to stand, and I shall not soon be ready."
CHAPTER XVI--Dealing with that which was done in the Panelled Parlour
He followed her to the Panelled Parlour, the one to which she had taken Osmonde on the day of their bliss, the one in which in the afternoon she received those who came to pay court to her over a dish of tea. In the mornings none entered it but herself or some invited guest. 'Twas not the room she would have chosen for him; but when he said to her, "'Twere best your ladyship took me to some private place," she had known there was no other so safe.
When the door was closed behind them, and they stood face to face, they were a strange pair to behold--she with mad defiance battling with mad despair in her face; he with the mocking which every woman who had ever trusted him or loved him had lived to see in his face when all was lost. Few men there lived who were as vile as he, his power of villainy lying in that he knew not the meaning of man's shame or honour.
"Now," she said, "tell me the worst."
"'Tis not so bad," he answered, "that a man should claim his own, and swear that no other man shall take it from him. That I have sworn, and that I will hold to."
"Your own!" she said--"your own you call it--villain!"
"My own, since I can keep it," quoth he. "Before you were my Lord of Dunstanwolde's you were mine--of your own free will."
"Nay, nay," she cried. "God! through some madness I knew not the awfulness of--because I was so young and had known naught but evil-- and you were so base and wise."
"Was your ladyship an innocent?" he answered. "It seemed not so to me."
"An innocent of all good," she cried--"of all things good on earth-- of all that I know now,
"Keep back! I warn thee!" she cried once, almost gasping.
"Keep back!" he answered, blind with rage. "I will follow thee to hell!"
And in this wise they galloped over the white road until the hedges disappeared and they were in the streets, and people turned to look at them, and even stood and stared. Then she drew rein a little and went slower, knowing with shuddering agony that the trap was closing about her.
"What is it that you would say to me?" she asked him breathlessly.
"That which I would say within four walls that you may hear it all," he answered. "This time 'tis not idle threatening. I have a thing to show you."
Through the streets they went, and as her horse's hoofs beat the pavement, and the passers-by, looking towards her, gazed curiously at so fine a lady on so splendid a brute, she lifted her eyes to the houses, the booths, the faces, and the sky, with a strange fancy that she looked about her as a man looks who, doomed to death, is being drawn in his cart to Tyburn tree. For 'twas to death she went, nor to naught else could she compare it, and she was so young and strong, and full of love and life, and there should have been such bliss and peace before her but for one madness of her all- unknowing days. And this beside her--this man with the fair face and looks and beauteous devil's eyes, was her hangman, and carried his rope with him, and soon would fit it close about her neck.
When they rode through the part of the town where abode the World of Fashion, those who saw them knew them, and marvelled that the two should be together.
"But perhaps his love has made him sue for pardon that he has so borne himself," some said, "and she has chosen to be gracious to him, since she is gracious in these days to all."
When they reached her house he dismounted with her, wearing an outward air of courtesy; but his eye mocked her, as she knew. His horse was in a lather of sweat, and he spoke to a servant.
"Take my beast home," he said. "He is too hot to stand, and I shall not soon be ready."
CHAPTER XVI--Dealing with that which was done in the Panelled Parlour
He followed her to the Panelled Parlour, the one to which she had taken Osmonde on the day of their bliss, the one in which in the afternoon she received those who came to pay court to her over a dish of tea. In the mornings none entered it but herself or some invited guest. 'Twas not the room she would have chosen for him; but when he said to her, "'Twere best your ladyship took me to some private place," she had known there was no other so safe.
When the door was closed behind them, and they stood face to face, they were a strange pair to behold--she with mad defiance battling with mad despair in her face; he with the mocking which every woman who had ever trusted him or loved him had lived to see in his face when all was lost. Few men there lived who were as vile as he, his power of villainy lying in that he knew not the meaning of man's shame or honour.
"Now," she said, "tell me the worst."
"'Tis not so bad," he answered, "that a man should claim his own, and swear that no other man shall take it from him. That I have sworn, and that I will hold to."
"Your own!" she said--"your own you call it--villain!"
"My own, since I can keep it," quoth he. "Before you were my Lord of Dunstanwolde's you were mine--of your own free will."
"Nay, nay," she cried. "God! through some madness I knew not the awfulness of--because I was so young and had known naught but evil-- and you were so base and wise."
"Was your ladyship an innocent?" he answered. "It seemed not so to me."
"An innocent of all good," she cried--"of all things good on earth-- of all that I know now,