Under King Constantine Part 3

"The debt of loyalty is due to self, And we must well fulfil it, Gwendolaine, No matter how another may have failed."

A sudden horror crossed her thought,--"Sanpeur; You do not love me less that I have come?"

"Ah! my beloved woman-child, I know Your many-sided nature far too well To judge you or condemn you by one act, Born of a frenzied moment of despair; When the true Gwendolaine has time to think, Naught I could urge would keep her, though she came."

"But Torm would kill me if I did return"--

"Leave that to me; but if he should, my love, Your soul would then be free,--what ask you more?

Now you are weary, very weary, sweet; Go in the castle, let me call my dames To tend and serve you until morning light; And on the morrow you will choose to go With me, I am full sure, and make your peace With Torm, as worthy of your better self."

"With you? O G.o.d! Sanpeur, if I return, I go alone as I have come! Think you That I would take you with me to your death?"

"My life is yours,--how use it better, dear, Than winning peace and happiness for you?"

"But it would be keen misery for life"--

"It leadeth unto happiness and peace In the far future, if we fail not now.

This life is but the filling of a trust, To prove us worthy of the life beyond, And happiness is never to be sought.

If it comes,--well; if not, we shall know why.

When we are happy in the sight of G.o.d."

Then there was silence on the battlements; No sound was heard but the slow measured clang Of feet that paced the stony path below;-- Gwendolaine pushed aside the wind-blown hair From her wild eyes, and gazed into Sanpeur's.

As the slow minutes pa.s.sed the frenzied mood Faded away from her like fevered dream; With hands clasped in a pa.s.sion of devout, Complete surrender, falling at his feet She whispered, brokenly, between her sobs;

"Sanpeur, I will go back to Torm,--for you,-- Go back and live my life as best I may, If he forgive me;--and if not, receive The condemnation of my fault as meet.

Your love has done what love should ever do,-- Illumined duty's path, and its far goal, Hid for a moment by a dark despair.

I thought I loved you perfectly before, But my soul tells me, deep below the pain, I love you more than if you bade me stay."

He took her hands and kissed them tenderly With quiet kisses, long and calm, which held Sure promise of the strength he fain would give; Then, bending o'er her yearningly, he said In tones that stilled her spirit into rest, "G.o.d guard you, my beloved, evermore."

A new force flowed into her soul from his.

She rose and left him.

He gave orders strict For her best comfort; then walked out alone, To meet and wrestle with his pa.s.sion, held So long in leash by honour, free at last With overmastering and giant strength.

The subtle fragrance of her hands pervades His senses; in his veins he feels the flow Of her warm breath, which entered into them That moment he had caught her as she fell; Her words of love sweep like a surging tide Across the quiet of his self-control.

When she was there, his love for her had kept His pa.s.sion from uprising, though against His pleading heart, so long her pleading seemed.

Now she is gone, all calm and thought are lost In the impa.s.sioned wish for her, the thirst To drink the sweetness of her deep, rich soul, Without a thought of Torm, or all the world.

Sanpeur's well-rounded nature is triune, And flesh and sense as much a part of him As his clear brain and spirit consecrate.

Pa.s.sion for once a.s.serts itself; he starts, And towards the castle strides with rapid steps; "She is my own, Fate sent her here to me; I cannot war against it any more; I will go in and fold her to myself."

He clasps his empty arms upon his breast, In the abandonment of wild desire, And feels, beneath the pressure of his hands, The sacred Order of the Holy Ghost.

"Good Lord, deliver me from sin," he cries, And bows his knightly head in silent prayer.

No earnest soul can ask and not receive: Before the warden's deep-toned voice calls out Another watch, Sanpeur has overcome.

He pa.s.sed his night beneath the silent stars, Below the resting-room of Gwendolaine, Who lay within his castle, loving him, While he kept watch, to guard her from himself.

Just ere the morning light, there was a cry From his most faithful seneschal to rouse The va.s.sals to defend the brave Sanpeur, Loved loyally; and from the battlements He saw Sir Torm, waging a savage fight To win an entrance through his castle gate.

With hurried steps he reached the gate, and with The cry,--drowned by the din of clas.h.i.+ng arms,-- "Withhold! it is a friend," he threw himself Before Sir Torm, and took the mortal wound That had been aimed by his own seneschal.

"Let fighting cease; hurt not Sir Torm!" he cried, And fell into the arms of grim old Ule, Who pierced his own soul when he wounded him.

A sudden sound of wailing rent the court; The dames flocked from the castle in dismay, And with them came the Lady Gwendolaine, A pace or two, and then stood motionless; Her limbs, that brought her quickly to confront The evil she had wrought, grew powerless; Her wide, tense gaze was as of one who walks In sleep unseeing; her dishevelled hair Veiled the abandon of her dress, her cheeks Were colourless as marble, but for the stain Of crimson. Paralysed and dumb she stood, Too far to reach him, but full near to hear, As Sanpeur, having lifted hand to hush The wailing, broke the silence rapidly, Like one who feels his time for speech is short.

"In Christ's dear name, who alway doth forgive, I pray you, hear me speak one word, Sir Torm."

There was a force within Sir Sanpeur's eyes Sir Torm dared not resist "Speak on," he said.

"Your wife, my lord, is here, and in my care, She came to me scarce knowing what she did,-- Wounded, and driven to a wild despair By your quick anger, which has stamped its seal Upon the perfect beauty of her face.

The cause of that fierce blow she told me not; Be what it may, I know full well, my lord, It could not merit such a harsh retort To wife whose loyalty and troth to you Have been the marvel of the court; whose name, Her beauty notwithstanding, has been held As high from stain as she has e'er held yours.

She has not failed to you until this hour, When she was not herself for one brief s.p.a.ce, Mad with the fever in her heated brain You long have known I loved her,--none could well Withhold the tribute of his life from her,-- And you must know, my lord, beyond all doubt, I loved her with a love that honoured you In thought, in word, in purpose, and in deed.

She came to me because her trust in me Was absolute as knowledge that my love Was measureless I would not plead, Sir Torm, Excuse for sin; alas! I know her act Was most unworthy of her truer self.

But this I say--he should not blame her most Who drove her to this deed against herself.

And I will tell you,--should it chance you fail To know from your own knowledge of your wife, Without the need of confirmation sure,-- That when her pa.s.sionate, poor, wounded heart Had time and strength to rea.s.sert itself, Her memory, and truth to you as wife, Enwrapt her once again, and she withdrew E'en from the love that, trusting, she had sought.

She lay within my castle with my dames, Resting, and waiting for the dawn of day, When she had bade me lead her back to you, That she might ask forgiveness for her fault.

Now, by my knighthood and the sign I wear, I speak the truth, Sir Torm!--With my last breath I pray you grant her pardon, for my sake, Who die, to save you, of wounds meant for you."

His breath came slower. None beholding him Could doubt him, for within his steadfast eyes, Though growing dim with coming death, was that The Order on his bosom symbolised.

Torm bowed before him, silent, with a sense Of hallowed presence from beyond this earth.

Convinced of Sanpeur's truth, there flashed on him The revelation of a better life Than self-indulgence and the pride of arms; And here, at last, before the pa.s.sing soul, Strong in its purity and in its peace, He felt a new-born and a deep desire For truer life than he had ever known.

After the whisper, "G.o.d s.h.i.+eld Gwendolaine,"

The slow breath ceased.

With shrill and piercing cry Gwendolaine broke the strange, benumbing trance That had withheld her; rus.h.i.+ng from the dames And falling p.r.o.ne upon the silent form That gave her heart no answering throb, she cried, With voice grief-pierced and sorrow-broken, "Wait For Gwendolaine, O Sanpeur! Wait for Gwendolaine, And take her with you unto death!"

She lay In silent desolation on his breast, So still, awhile, they thought her spirit gone; Then rose majestic in the dignity Of her incomparable grief.

"Sir Torm,"

She said in tense, surcharged tones, "Sanpeur Has told but half the story; he forgot To tell, as n.o.ble souls are wont to do, The measure of his own n.o.bility.

I came to stay, my lord, to be his wife, His serving-maid, his mistress,--what he would; I told him that I loved him beyond men; I pleaded and entreated him, in vain, To keep and hold me evermore. No word Could move him, no allurement charm; he bade Me wait the dawn and then return to you, To beg you with humility for grace, And pardon for my utter want of truth, Complete forgetfulness of womanhood, And wifely loyalty. My lord, Sir Torm, I promised him! and by his silent corse,-- And with a broken heart,--I pray that you Will grant me pardon, though you cast me off."

"My Gwendolaine," Torm answered quickly, moved By an uplifting impulse in his soul,-- "For you are mine, whomever you may love,-- I know that Sir Sanpeur did speak the truth; You have not sinned in deed; and though you sinned In purpose, it was more my fault than yours; I drove you to it, and would fain atone.

Return with me, and help me overcome, And with my temper I will tilt, until I die or kill it. By the Blood of Christ, I swear to you that you shall love me yet; For I will be,--G.o.d help me,--worthier."

Back to their home she went with Torm, and strove With gracious sweetness to make him forget; To banish his keen memory of her love For Sir Sanpeur, not by disproving it, But by new proving of new love for him.

The greater made her rich to give the less; She, being more, had still the more to give.

The apocalyptic vision granted her Of Love immortal, vital and supreme,-- Kept by the grace of G.o.d all undefiled,-- Had dowered her with largess; what she gave, Albeit not the utmost, was more worth Than best had been from her starved soul before.

Sir Torm was helped in his self-given task-- To struggle with ill humours and with pride-- Far more by her new gentleness and grace Than he had been by waywardness and scorn And fitful fascination, as of old.

To help Torm was her life's new quest, and well Did she essay to gain it.

When the tide Of sorrow for Sanpeur would over-sweep Her heart; and when, sometimes, Sir Torm would lapse Into forgetfulness of his resolve, Confronting her o'ercome with wine or wrath, Low to herself she whispered Sanpeur's words, "Life is the filling of a trust," and straight Her soul grew strong again.

From year to year, Beneath her planting and her fostering, Torm's nature blossomed, and his manhood grew More fine, more fruitful. Men, at last, could mark In his whole bearing greater dignity; And Constantine once gave him, for some feat, A brilliant Order, with the meaning words, "The greatest conquest is to conquer self."

But there was one deep shadow in his life: Upon the lovely face of Gwendolaine Were two long, narrow, seamed scars. One day He touched them tenderly, and said, "G.o.d's faith, I would give all but knighthood to efface Those h.e.l.lish scars that mar your peerless cheek."

She turned her head quick to his hand's embrace, Buried her cheek within its palm, and said, "Those scars, my Torm, I would not now resign For any dower that the world could give; They are the Order of my higher life, The birthmarks of your new n.o.bility."