Part 15

But Father Ambrose replied not; instead, he was looking with curious, thoughtful eyes into the half-emptied phial which the girl had yielded into his outstretched hand. But whatever the thoughts that stirred in the old man's brain, they were at present too intangible to resolve into words; the shadow of suspicion was too vague, his mind in too chaotic a whirl, for him to realize what this strange happening portended. He, the friend of the little Gwennola, who had loved her from a child with an affection almost paternal, had long watched with concern and suspicion the machinations of this woman against his darling. But with regard to her dealings with Yvon he was more perplexed; from the first he had doubted her love for the young Sieur de Mereac, and readily guessed that she acted a part under the influence of her brother. As for that brother, it is to be confessed that there was little of the spirit of charity in the gentle old man's breast towards this man whose presence had proved ever so baneful to those under whose roof he lived, and who had won his love. It was the same natural repulsion of a human creature to some gliding, treacherous snake, which he watched in fear and suspicion, knowing that where the reptile coils most lovingly around its object it is but in preparation to strike a fatal blow. And now the blow had fallen, but so unexpectedly that it seemed impossible that it should have been struck by the serpent in question. That Gwennola was innocent Father Ambrose would have staked his soul; but who was the guilty, if guilty one there were? Was not this illness, perhaps, rather the finger of Heaven? Puzzled and bewildered by the very contrariety of his thoughts, this fresh development completely mystified the good man. If this woman were guilty of the apparently wanton act of poisoning her lover, wherefore this distress, this simulated agony of love and devotion? As for the draught, what was it? A fresh potion from the sorcerer? A love-philtre? or what? Did it bring death or healing with the quaffing? His experienced eye saw, to its infinite surprise, that already a change had stolen over his patient. The drawn, pinched look had gone; the blue lines, around lips, nose, and eyes, were fading into a more healthful white; the breathing was more regular and less laboured. And, whilst still wondering at the apparent miracle, Father Ambrose turned to speak to his strange visitor, behold! her place was empty, and he heard the soft swish of the tapestry curtain as it fell again into its place.

There was a smile on the lips of Diane de Coray as, a few hours later, she stood gazing out of her window in the chamber which had been set aside for her use. She was meditating deeply, it would seem, on things pleasant and joyful, for she did not hear the door softly open, nor was she aware that she was no longer alone till a hand grasped her shoulder.

"Guillaume!" she cried, facing him with the rich colour surging swiftly to her cheeks; but it had faded again, leaving them the paler by contrast, before he spoke.

"It is I, Diane."

"So I may well see for myself," she laughed, but the laugh flickered a little tremulously as her eyes fell before his.

"He is not dead," he said in a low, menacing tone; "what means it, Diane?"

"Means it?" she echoed vaguely. "What should it mean? Perchance the drug was less potent than Lefroi told thee, or Yvon too strong to succumb beneath its power."

"Thou knowest it is neither," he hissed. "Traitress and fool that thou art, but now Father Ambrose told me, with shrewd looks of suspicion, that the noble Sieur lay at the point of death, but that, since he had partaken of a draught given him by the lady, my sister, he had rallied in a manner truly miraculous."

She laughed merrily and stood there defying him, seeing that concealment of her act was useless.

"And the old man speaks truth," she cried gaily; "I have saved him--saved him! Ah! thanks be to the holy saints that I have done so!--saved him, Guillaume, my brother! And wherefore? askest thou. Why, because I love him--love him with all my heart and soul; because riches, greatness--all--would be nothing to me if he lay cold and silent in the grave. Dost thou not understand? Cannot thy cold heart learn what such love is?--what fires it kindles in the breast, what passion it arouses? Nay! I care little for thy anger--I love him, I tell thee."

"Fool!" he snarled, "and thrice times fool for thy pains! Dost think that I shall be balked by thy puling fancy, now, on the eve of all my plans' fulfilment? Love! ay, perchance I also know the flame that burns within, and which shall consume all else which stands as barrier to its fulfilment. But to compare my love with thine----!" He broke off with a scornful laugh, changing his tone to one of cold sarcasm.

"And so thou lovest him, this weak fool whom thou plottedst to destroy? Nay, blanch not, but picture to thyself how great will be his love to thee when he knoweth the truth! Picture to yourself his rage, his despair, his agony, when he learns that his sister perished in innocence, and the woman who dragged her to the stake, the woman whose arms clung around his neck, whose warm kisses were passed to his lips, whose siren tongue whispered of faith and devotion, was also the one to pour into the betrothal cup the deadly drops that should send the proud bridegroom to keep festival with Death!"

She covered her face with her hands, shuddering.

"Would he love thee?" mocked Guillaume de Coray; "would his arms again seek to clasp so foul a bride to his heart? Would he woo thy kisses to his lips when the death-cries of his sister rang in his ears?"

"But it is not yet too late," cried Diane passionately. "Alas! alas! my sin hath been great,--the sin which thou didst conceive, cruel demon that thou art; but I will yet save her--I will tell all,--all; and it may be that he will forgive me, even though he cannot love me again."

"Not so," replied de Coray softly, as with a sudden spring he caught her in his arms; "not so, fair lady. Nay, struggle not with me, else will it be the worse for thee." And, clasping her with one arm, he placed his hand before her mouth, bearing, or rather dragging, her towards the bed as he did so. She was powerless in his grasp, and after a few vain attempts to free herself lay passive as he gagged and bound her.

"So," he said softly, as he stood over her, meeting the helpless glare of her eyes with a mocking smile, "thy wings are clipped for the present, my bird. So thou thoughtest to cross the path of thy dear and well-beloved brother, didst thou, sweetest maiden? Alas! I fear me 'twas rash--too rash. Adieu, little one, adieu! All will, I am assured, regret to hear of the sudden and dangerous sickness of mademoiselle; it will be altogether clear to them that she has been bewitched--alas! poor maid! In the meantime I must bid thee rest, Diane; thou art weary--so weary. 'Tis too long and too perilous a walk for one so tender and so innocent, to Henri Lefroi's hut,--fie on thee for so forward and unmaidenly an undertaking! What wouldst have done hadst thou met the Brown Friar himself? Nevertheless, I will not distract thee with reproaches, but will leave thee to thy orisons, or perchance to still sweeter meditations,--of thy lover, it may be, or of thy brother. In the meantime, have no fear that the dear Yvon shall miss thy tender care; I will myself usurp thy place for very love's sake. Ah! I will tend him right well, my Diane; he also shall have rest, such peace and rest! Slumber is good for the sick, say the leeches; therefore he shall sleep--so long, so well, I fear me it will need warmer kisses than thine, my sister, to rouse him again. But I go at once, for it seemeth that thou carest little for my presence. Take comfort, for I swear none shall disturb thee, not even the worthy Jeanne, and anon I will myself bring thee food and wine; for if in truth thou art bewitched, the evil spirit may not leave thee till the hot flames have devoured her who had so ill a will upon thee."

With a sinking and agonized heart the unhappy girl saw the mocker turn away, heard the bolts shoot back into their places, and knew that she was as close a prisoner as any who languished in dungeon cell.

"Yvon!--Yvon!--Yvon!" It was the dumb cry of pain and terror which surged within her so helplessly, so passionately. Bound and gagged as she lay, she could neither move nor cry aloud; and, in the midst of all her agony, came the fatal intuition that even now, once again, death would be awaiting her lover. Terrible hours those; the limits of human endurance stretched to their utmost on the rack, not only of love's fears but the crudest torture of remorse. Vividly there came before the eyes of Diane de Coray the picture of her life,--a picture so sad, so melancholy, so pathetic, that the tears of self-pity and sympathy splashed down her pale cheeks.

An orphan from earliest youth, she had been left under the guardianship of a brother little fitted to govern so tender a maid. Himself the tool of an infamous scoundrel, his friends were little likely to be fitting companions to a young girl of gentle birth; and so Diane had grown up amidst wild and reckless surroundings, courted and flattered for her beauty and sparkling wit by men with whom she should never have been associated. For friends of her own sex she had neither taste nor inclination; and, of the few she possessed, one had so ill an influence over her as had successfully placed her in her brother's power. Ignorant girl that she was, she had yet shrunk back appalled from the practice of the black art of which she was invited to be a devotee; but, even in escaping from the peril, the smirch of contamination had sufficiently soiled the whiteness of her honour to lead her to believe that her brother, if he chose, might denounce her as a witch.

And so terrible had been the thought, that she had been willing to accede to any command of his which would insure his silence. Brought up to regard lightly all sorts of treachery, the plan conceived by de Coray for his own enrichment and revenge struck her with no pangs of horror, and she had started on her journey comparatively light of heart. But all had fallen out so strangely beyond her expectations. The gentle, tender Yvon de Mereac, with his weak, wavering will, but chivalrous heart, had by degrees inflamed her with a passion hitherto unknown. From contempt at first had sprung pity, and, from pity, love itself; not the calm, sweet love of the smoothly-flowing stream, but the mad, tumultuous rush of the mountain torrent, which sweeps aside all obstructions, and dashing blindly over rocks and boulders flings itself with exhausted passion into the deep, still pool below. The mutual dislike between Gwennola and herself had risen, on her own part, from inborn jealousy. She hated instantly this proud, pure girl who had never looked on temptations such as had beset her path, or been lured into such danger as had nearly ended in her own destruction; and as she met the glance of the clear, blue eyes it seemed that Gwennola must read, perforce, her guilty secret. Yet she had hardened herself against shame or the first mysterious whisperings of her own heart. Goaded by Gwennola's cold contempt, she had for long continued to do her brother's will, and it was only the rush of the last few days' terrible events that had opened her eyes to the intensity of her passion, and inspired her with the resolution to save her lover at all risks--ay! even at the price of her own life; even,--and this was hardest of all,--even at the risk of losing for ever the love which had grown so precious a thing. And now,--now when she had seen hope burst radiant and glorious upon the darkness of night--hope, love, and life itself seemed as suddenly quenched; and all that she could do was to moan forth short, agonized prayers for succour, in her despair, to Him Who alone could still protect the doomed house of Mereac.

*CHAPTER XXII*

The chamber in which Diane de Coray lay had grown light at last,--light, at least, as the grey dawn of a November day could make it as it crept through the narrow slits which served as windows. Yet there were shadows everywhere; she could see them as she moved her weary eyes to look through the opening where her brother's hand had rudely torn aside the bed hangings. Half-fainting with suffocation and the strain on her over-burdened heart, she felt no throb of surprise or fear as she saw the feeble light swiftly blotted out by a dark-robed figure. Yet, as the figure moved, coming quickly to her side with a low exclamation of horror, her senses began to return to her, and her eyes looked up in joyful recognition to meet the stern but puzzled glance of Father Ambrose.

"Daughter," said the old man gravely, "what meaneth this?"

He had severed her bonds and removed the gag, helping the poor girl, whose limbs at first were cramped and useless, to raise herself into a sitting posture.

For reply Diane stared vaguely into the troubled eyes bent upon her; her brain was cramped too with the long agony of those terrible hours, but at last comprehension slowly returned as the stinging blood began once more to circulate in her numbed members.

"How came you hither, father?" she questioned faintly, staring from her unexpected visitor to the closely barred door.

"Suffice that I am here," was the enigmatical reply. "Yet time presses, daughter, and I must have an answer to my question. Alas! it may even now be too late!"

"Too late?" she echoed, a fresh fear striking its chill to her heart. "Nay, tell me, father--he lives?--he is better?--he will recover?"

"I spake not of Yvon de Mereac," said the priest in a stifled tone, "but of the pure and innocent maid, his sister, who hath been condemned falsely by wicked men, to suffer death at noon; and yet," he added slowly, fixing a piercing glance on Diane's pale face,--"I can see already that there lieth much behind this. Speak, maiden, without delay--confess all thou knowest of this plot, and save thy soul from the blood of the innocent."

"To die!" whispered Diane slowly; "to die!"

On the instant the whole picture of her guilt flared before her eyes, and the words of her brother rang in her ears: "Picture to yourself his rage, his despair, his agony, when he learns that his sister perished in innocence, and the woman who dragged her to the stake, the woman whose warm kisses were pressed to his lips, whose siren tongue whispered of faith and devotion, was also the one to pour into the betrothal cup the deadly drops that should send the proud bridegroom to keep festival with Death."

"To die!" she cried again, flinging out her hands as if in supplication to the priest, who stood there stern, grave, and immovable. "To die!--and for my sin! Merciful Virgin, Mother of Help! save her!--save her!--for she is innocent!"

She had sunk on to the ground at the old man's feet, at the last words, and, clinging to his robe, sobbed out her terrible confession. In the remorse and shame of her agony she hid nothing; and as he listened, Father Ambrose's stern face relaxed into a softer expression of pity.

"Daughter," he said gently, as he raised the weeping girl from the floor, "Daughter, be of good comfort; to one also who had greatly sinned were words of pardon spoken for love's sake, and it may be that repentance hath not come too late. But," he added, his face hardening, "we may not delay; come, child--see, I will trust thee to play thy part in the salvation, not only of the innocent, but of the man whom thou lovest. Come speedily, for it may be that that man of blood and treachery,--upon whose soul shall rest the curse of God and whose damnation shall be quick,--may come hither to bring thee food. But we shall yet escape the snare and pluck the innocent lamb in time from the cruel death prepared for her."

As he spoke he was supporting the weeping Diane across the room, pressing back an unseen door, cunningly secreted from view in the shape of a sliding panel, through which he passed, still guiding her carefully as they descended a winding, spiral stair which led downwards to another part of the chateau.

"Child," he said again softly, as they paused, close to the tapestry curtain which separated them from Yvon's room--"child, the way of repentance is no easy one. Confession must be made, not only to God, the Judge of all, but to him whom thou hast so injured, and against whom thou plannedst this ill. I leave to thee this task, so terrible yet so necessary, weak and sick though he be, for the sake of one whose life I go to save, if the will of the Lord and our Lady permit it, as I well wot shall be, seeing that they ever guard the innocent from the snares of the evil-doers."

"But it will kill him," moaned Diane; "it will kill him, father! Oh! say that I may wait until he grows stronger,--then I will confess all--yes, all, even to the uttermost!"

But the priest shook his head.

"Confession must be made without delay," he said gravely. "Thou thyself mayest well see the necessity, daughter; for, weak and sick though he be, Yvon de Mereac must know the truth of his sister's innocence, and also the guilt and evil intentions of the man who hath thus plotted against his life and who hath but used thee, poor maid, as his tool. But delay not, for I may not linger with the sweet voice of Gwennola calling me to hasten to her deliverance."

With a sob, Diane yielded to the old man's will, and with trembling fingers raised the curtain and entered her lover's room.

He was lying there, still, amongst his cushions; but even in those few, short hours the change in the emaciated face was marvellous. It was no longer the face of a dying man, drawn, blue-hued, and pinched with suffering. Haggard and gaunt still, yet the eyes which met Diane's were bright with recognition.

"Diane! Diane!" he whispered; "fairest love, with what an aching heart I have awaited thy coming! She is condemned, Diane--the little Gwennola is condemned to death; and yet so fair a dream I had of her but yesternight, for methought she was a child again, lily-crowned and laughing, and that she ran to me, crying my name in joy, and, clinging to my neck, pressed her flowers upon me, saying she had gathered them for love's sake; and her eyes looked into mine with so sweet a tenderness that I awoke sobbing, calling to remembrance that she was a witch who had striven for my death."

"No witch!" cried Diane, as she knelt, weeping, at his side; "no witch, Yvon, but pure and innocent as the child of thy dreams. Alas! alas! that, for the sake of thy love for her, thy love for me must die; and yet I am unworthy of it, unworthy of aught but thy hatred, thy loathing, and thy scorn!"

"My hatred?" he whispered tenderly, whilst his feeble hands strayed fondly towards the tresses of her bowed head. "My hatred, little Diane? That could never be, wert thou--wert thou--ah! all that thou art not, my sweetest one!"

"Alas! alas! thou knowest not!" sobbed the girl. "Ah! the bitterness of telling thee, Yvon! Why may I not die the sooner, so that I shall not look into thine eyes and see the scorn and loathing which thou must needs feel towards a thing so foul?"

"Hush!" he whispered faintly, "thou shalt not say such words, Diane, my adored."

The very tenderness of his speech, the quiver in his voice, made the task more terrible; yet it had to be essayed, and with bowed head and sobbing breath she faltered it forth.

When it was finished there was silence in the room. Outside the wind moaned and shrieked; reproachful voices, they sounded, calling to those within that that very day innocence was suffering for the guilty. The raindrops that splattered against the grey walls without seemed to be fingers knocking for admittance, ghostly fingers which mocked and gibed whilst the wind voices wept and lamented the louder. And as she listened, Diane de Coray crouched the lower in a very agony of self-abasement and remorse, not daring to look up and find the eyes she had learnt to love so passionately grow hard and cruel as love died within them.

"Diane!"

The voice roused her, and in spite of her forebodings she slowly raised her head. The face on the pillows was deathly pale, and the poor lips quivered piteously in their pain and horror; but the eyes--ah! those eyes! love was not dead there, but so mortally wounded that his agony was the more terrible to witness.

"Yvon! Yvon!" she moaned. "Ah! why may I not die? Why may I not die? I may not ask thee to forgive me, but oh! for the sake of our sweet Lady of Pity, curse me not!"

"Curse thee?" he muttered faintly, "nay, myself the rather, seeing I love thee still, and as truly as ever; and yet the little Gwennola----"

A smothered sob choked him, and Diane knew that though love stood there calling to her with outstretched arms of forgiveness, there lay between them the irrevocable shadow of a sister's blood.

"Oh, merciful heavens!" she cried, clasping her hands, wringing them together in a paroxysm of grief and entreaty, "grant that they may be in time!"

"In time?" faintly whispered the sick man; "in time?"

"Ay," she sobbed, "ay, Yvon, there is yet a hope, for Father Ambrose and Alain Fanchonic ride at full speed to Martigue to proclaim her innocence."

"And--and thou hast told Father Ambrose all?" he murmured, and the thin hand on the coverlet strayed once more nearer to the bent figure at his side.

"All--all!" she cried passionately; "for thy sake, Yvon, for thy sake--and for love's!"

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