Part 23 (2/2)
”You will send me speedy word of your landing, my Lord?”
”You will learn it, my Lady.”
Why did he speak so vaguely? Had he some dim presentiment that his ”other-whither” might be Jerusalem the Golden?
No such hidden meaning occurred to Constance. She was almost startled by the sudden flood of pent-up, pa.s.sionate feeling, which swept all the usual conventionalities out of his way, and made him whisper in accents of inexpressible love--
”My darling! my darling! G.o.d keep and bless thee! Farewell once more-- Custance!”
They had never come so near to each other's hearts as in that moment of parting. And the moment after, he was gone.
In the court-yard little Richard was running and dancing about under Maude's supervision; and his father stayed an instant, to take the child again into his arms and bless him once more. And then he left his Castle by the little postern gate which led down to the jetty. There were barges pa.s.sing up and down the Channel, and Le Despenser's intention was to row out to one of those bound for Ireland, and so prosecute his voyage. He wore, we are told, a coat of furred damask; and carried with him a cloak of motley velvet. The term ”motley” was applied to any combination of colours, from the simplest black and white to the showiest red, blue, and yellow. In the one portrait occurring in Creton's life-like illuminations, which I am disposed to identify with that of Le Despenser, he wears a grey gown, relieved by very narrow stripes of red. Perhaps it was that identical cloak or gown which hung upon the arm of Bertram Lyngern, just outside the postern gate.
”Nay, good friend!” objected Le Despenser, with his customary kindly consideration. ”I have wearied thee enough these six days. Master Giles shall go with me now.”
”My Lord,” replied Bertram, deferentially, yet firmly, ”your especial command except, we part not, by your leave.”
Le Despenser acquiesced with a smile, and both entered the boat. When Davy the ferryman returned, an hour later, he reported that his master had embarked safely on a barge bound for Ireland.
”Then all will be well,” said Constance lightly.
”G.o.d allowing!” gravely interposed the old lady. ”There be winds and waves atween Cardiff and Ireland, fair Daughter.”
Did she think only of winds and waves?
No news reached them until the evening of the following Thursday. They had sat down to supper, about four o'clock, when the blast of a horn outside broke the stillness. The Lady Le Despenser, whom the basin of rose-water had just reached for the opening was.h.i.+ng of hands, dropped the towel and grew white as death.
”Jesu have mercy! yonder is Master Lyngern's horn!”
”He is maybe returned with a message, Lady,” suggested Father Ademar, the chaplain; but all eyes were fixed on the door of the hall until Bertram entered.
The worst apprehensions which each imagination could form took vivid shape in the minds of all, when they saw his face. So white and woe-begone he looked--so weary and unutterably sorrowful, that all antic.i.p.ated the news of some heavy and irreparable calamity, from which he only had escaped alone to tell them.
”Where left you your Lord, Master Lyngern?”
It was the Dowager who was the first to break the spell of silence.
”Madam,” said Bertram, in a husky, faltering voice, ”I left him not at all--till he left me.”
He evidently had some secret meaning, and he was afraid to tell the awful truth at once. Constance had risen, and stood nervously grasping the arm of her state chair, with a white, excited face; but she did not ask a question.
”Speak the worst, Bertram Lyngern!” cried the old lady. ”Thy Lord--”
It seemed to Bertram as if the only words that would come to his lips in reply were two lines of an inscription set up in many a church, and as familiar to all present as any hackneyed proverb to us.
”'_Pur ta pite, Jesu, regarde, Et met cest alme en sauve garde_.'”
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