CHAPTER XXXI.

THE STORY OF MARION WYATT

For three days the rain--when it was not a damp snow that melted ere it reached the earth--had fallen, had been falling incessantly since Andrew and his companions were rescued; and now, in the best room of the inn at Plombières, Marion Wyatt lay slowly dying.

Andrew had caused her to be brought here for more reasons than one: firstly, because it was the best inn of the neighbourhood; and, secondly, because at Remiremont, on the morning of their escape, every room in the place had been occupied by the first brigade of Turenne's army, the brigade of cavalry eighteen hundred strong, accompanied by two companies of the Auxiliaries, which had crossed the Vosges with him.

Now, all were gone--the war had rolled towards Mühlhausen and Belfort, the junction was being made with the brigades which had passed the mountains by other routes; soon, this night, perhaps--the army of France would fall upon the unsuspecting Imperialists.

Yet, of that army, one member, at least, remained behind--one who, feeble and unable to take the field, though no longer with his brain clouded or his speech impaired, had been on his way into Lorraine under the protection of his countrymen--Valentin, Marquis Debrasques. The news of the rescue of two women and a man from the burning house which the brigade had observed on its downward march from the mountains, had reached his ears almost before he had found quarters--he having also been sent on to Plombières to do so; ere another hour had passed he, standing at the door of the inn, had seen them approaching, Marion and Clemence in a _calèche_ that had been obtained at Remiremont, Andrew walking by their side on foot. Also, he had heard--nay, knew well enough, for in his aunt's life he had been here with her--whose house it was from which the flames streamed forth on the wintry morning air.

"You have saved her from him, at least," he said, his eye glancing into the _calèche_, where he saw Marion lying inert, her head on Clemence's shoulder. Then, sinking his voice even lower than it had been, he asked:

"And he. Is he dead?"

"Not yet," answered Andrew. "Not yet. He has evaded me so far!"

"Where is he?"

Later in the day--when Marion had been put into a warm and comfortable bed, in which she lay in a stupor for hour after hour--Andrew told him, and gave the Marquis the history of all that had occurred since he quitted the army for a time, after having obtained leave from Turenne to do so.

"And now, Valentin," he said, "since you have recovered sufficiently to do so, and since, also, it seems, poor girl! that Marion will pass away without being able to throw any light on all the mystery which surrounds her abduction from England--her long detention in that house of his--I ask you, I call upon you to tell me----"

But, ere he could proceed further in his demand, they were interrupted by the entrance of Clemence into the room in which they sat--the room in which, a month, ago, he and Jean had meditated on how he should gain admission into the now ruined house of the Wolf of Lorraine.

"She desires to see you," she said, addressing Andrew; "she is now entirely herself again. Yet," and, as she spoke, both the others could see that she had been weeping; that, also, it was with difficulty she kept back her tears. "Yet, it will not, cannot be for long. My God! My God!" she exclaimed, with a sudden wail of anguish, while the great full lips trembled with emotion, and from her large eyes the drops ran down to her cheeks, "she is dying. Will not live through the night! Come to her. Come at once!"

Bidding Debrasques await his return, Andrew arose and followed her. Followed her, recognizing that, if he ever was to hear the whole story of De Bois-Vallée's villainy, it must be now. If what Clemence said was true--if she was not mistaken, and the unhappy girl was close to her end--he must learn all now or never.

He found her sitting up in her bed, her fair hair streaming down behind her back, her eyes sunk deep in their sockets, with, round them, an awful purple blackness; upon her face that look which even those who have never previously seen the signs of swift advancing death understand in a moment. And one quick glance at her from him, who had been so often face to face with death, was sufficient now. No need to speak, to ask any question--that look told all.

He stood before her, by her side--this man who had striven so hard to save her, this rough, valiant soldier, whose life had been risked a dozen times within the last month in the hope that he should bear her off to freedom again; stood before her gazing down on that pallid face, then turned his own away as once--how long ago it seemed now!--he had turned it away from the brother whom he had also seen stretched upon what was soon to be his death-bed.

"Nay," she said, looking up at him--and he was startled, he knew not why, at the calmness of her tones--"Nay! do not turn away. Ah!" for as at her bidding he faced round again, she saw that his eyes were wet with tears, "do not weep. You have been so bold, so strong, so brave, have struggled so hard for me, on my behalf, on Philip's behalf. Do not weep!" and she put out her hand--he felt the clamminess of death upon it!--and clasped his.

He strove to speak, to say some word--yet none came to his lips; he was mute. Yet wondered at himself for being so, remembering how rarely words failed him when wanted--whether gibe, or joke, or defiance to a foe. Could do nothing but seat himself in the deep chair by the bed-head, to which she had motioned him with a glance of her eyes, and hold her hand in his own great brown one. Nor could he think of aught except the two lives which had both been wrecked by the same man, and wonder if words--or, better still, actions--would fail him when at last, and finally (it must be finally this time, he found himself meditating), he and De Bois-Vallée met again.

Then suddenly, breaking in on his thoughts, he heard Marion Wyatt speaking again. The voice clear as before.

"You will meet Philip soon now," she was saying. "You will tell him all. Alas! that I may not see him myself ere I die."

He could not find it in his heart to tell her how near she was to meeting his brother now: how soon their souls would be together--dared not tell her that he was dead.

"Of what use to do that?" he thought. "If I inform her, she will die, thinking her disappearance slew him. Time enough to know when they meet in heaven."

"I wrote him," she said, "as I was brought through Paris. Confided my letter to a sure hand. Told him how I had been trapped, snared. Bade him come seek for me, save me. Often," she went on, "since first you made your way into that house, I have wondered why he came not himself in answer to my prayer; why sent you in his place. Was it because you are so big and powerful--or was he sick; could not come himself?"

What answer should be made? To say that his brother sent him in his place must bring her lover before the dying woman's eyes in a pitiable light; to say that he was dead would torture her last hours unnecessarily. And--how let her know that the letter she spoke of had never reached her lover's hands?--that he had died believing against his own will that she was false to him. Yet, he must say something, give her some answer. Tell her that the letter had never been received! Yes, that would be best. When, suddenly, even as he so determined--her mind, perhaps, unhinged by approaching death--she herself relieved him of the necessity for any answer.

She began dejectedly to go over the whole story of De Bois-Vallée's connection with her; his treachery to her. And he, sitting there by her bedside, piecing together one broken sentence with another, learnt at last the truth. Learnt what, before, neither Philip nor her father had ever known or he, himself, guessed at.

Discovered that De Bois-Vallée was no stranger to her when he arrived in London in the suite of Henrietta of Orleans.

"I had not seen him for four years," she murmured, lying back upon her pillows, with still her hot, moist hand in his; "not since my father and I returned to England after the King was seated safely on his throne. Not for four years."

"You knew him, Marion?" Andrew asked astonished.

"Very well--surely I told you--I mean, told Philip. Surely! Surely! He was often at my father's lodgings in the Quartier de Picpus. It was there, he being a welcome guest of my father's, who liked him well because of his manliness, his activity, his cleverness with the sword and all arms--that he first told me he loved me, asked my love in return."

"My God!" muttered Andrew beneath his breath, so that she heard him not. "My God! Strange news this. Strange news. Philip knew naught of it."

"But," the dying girl went on, "I had none to give him. I liked him well enough then, but I had no love for him. Yet he teased me often; swore some day I should be his; vowed he would never lose me. But at that time my father had resolved to return home, to die, as he said, in his own house where he was born. It was while Camille De Bois-Vallée was absent from Paris that we left for England."

"Ha!" muttered Andrew, again to himself, and unheard by her. "Ha! And he followed?" he said aloud.

"He wrote," the girl went on--and it seemed to him, listening by her side, that her voice was growing weaker--"that, though I had put the sea between us even that should not deter him. He would find me yet; win me. He used no threat, even as he thus wrote; he contented himself with saying he loved me so fondly that he must gain his way to my heart in the end."

"Ay," Andrew said, still unheard by her, "in the end. Well, let's see for the end. He won you away from Philip, anyhow."

"Three years later," Marion continued, "I knew that he had come to London--with the Duchess of Orleans. I was in the Duke of York's garden giving on the Mall, in the suite of his Duchess, when I saw him pass. He, too, saw me. Then he left the Mall and came over to where I was and spoke to me. Said that never for an instant had he forgotten me; never ceased to love me. Now that we had met again, would I not return his love? I told him that I was affianced to Philip. To--to--Philip."

She paused a moment; lay back even more than before on her pillow. Andrew thought she would speak no further. Yet, again, she took up her story.

"Affianced to Philip. Philip, my beloved. Philip whom I shall never see in this world again. Ah! Philip! Philip! Philip!"--and she stretched out her arms before her as though calling to him.

"Heart up, poor girl," Andrew murmured. "Heart up. Ere long you may meet again."

"Never now in this world. Never. And--and--my God! how long I may have to wait in heaven for him ere he joins me. How long!"

He dared not tell her that Philip was already there awaiting her coming; dared not give her a shock which should shorten her almost closed life by one moment. The thread was nearly run out now; why snap it at the end!

Therefore, still he held his peace.

"Where was I? What saying?" she asked, staring at him, and he noticed that her eyes were more glassy than before. "What? And--and--why has it grown so dark? Is the night at hand?"

"Not yet, Marion," Andrew answered, in a broken voice. "Not yet, poor child. And--it will be lighter soon."

"I pray God. A light clear as day, in which I shall see Philip. Philip! We are affianced still--are we not?" she asked suddenly, her hot, feverish hand closing more tightly on his.

"Always. Always. Have patience, dear one. It cannot be long ere you and he meet again."

His words, though, it may be, she did not grasp their meaning, seemed to bring comfort to her as she lay dying there. Soon she grew as tranquil as before; began once more her recital.

"When he heard that, he said then all hope was gone for him; that--that he must forget he had ever known and loved me. Must go away, return to France, live for his profession of arms alone. Philip--Andrew--the light does not come."

"Patience, dear Marion."

But, as he calmed her, he knew that the end was very near at hand; feared, too, that, ere she went, her story would not be told. He doubted if she would ever speak again.

Yet once more she roused herself, the flame still flickering in the lamp of life, though, now, as she spoke, her words were incoherent and without sequence, making it difficult for him to piece them together.

"My father could not live," she whispered: "He must see me. A night's journey, at least, to Dorchester. And no horses. No horses to be had. None! Ah! what was to do? And nigh fifty leagues--nigh fifty leagues."

"What is she telling me?" Andrew wondered, gazing at her.

"Hark how their hoofs ring upon the ground," she went on, speaking rapidly, strongly also. "Hark! See, too, how the carriage sways; listen to the crack of the whips. And he will live, he tells me; will surely live till I reach him. Live to bless me, his child! Away! On! Always on! Now across a moor, a heath; now a village; and now rest. A change of horses. Ha! we grow nearer. He brings me drink and food; drink, warm and spiced. And, see, the summer dawn is coming; the rooks leave the trees. Soon--soon we shall be there. I can feel the sea breeze on my cheek--feel it, inhale it--we are on the sea. We shall be there soon, he tells me--on the sea."

"On the sea!" muttered Andrew to himself. "On the sea! To reach Dorchester!"

"Over the sea, now. Over. Away. We draw near. Yet. Yet--I do not recognize my own country, my father's land. Why do these people speak the French tongue? What plains, what mountains are these? It is not Dorset; not--not Dorset; the door opens. See, there is Clemence--how she scowls at me--and Beaujos. Ha! look, Andrew; look, he scowls too. Look! Look! Look! Where am I? My God! a prisoner. In his power. Philip! Father! Andrew! Save me. Save me. Save----"

She fell back exhausted, her hands trembling on the coverlet, plucking and clutching at it, too; her hair dank and heavy with wet, her face as marble, and her lips flecked with foam.

"Philip! Philip," she moaned. "Philip, save me!"

"Be calm, Marion, there is none can harm you. I am by your side. Here."

"And Philip?"

"He--he is not far now!"

"Thank God! Yet Philip--Andrew--oh! I cannot see your face, know not which it is; keep him away from me. Kill him rather--kill him--kill him dead. Hark he is coming up the stairs; he is outside; listen. And Clemence, too; can you not hear her? Hark how she speaks to him. Calls him coward, villain, base, vile--ah! like his mother! You hear him?"

She raised herself by some last remaining force within her, stretched out her hands, and seemed to push away some hateful form from her, whispered once--with horror unspeakable in her glazed eyes--"Marry you! Better death!" then fell back once more. Yet still again her lips moved, again she muttered "Kill him! Kill him dead!"

After these last words she lay quietly for a considerable space of time, her breathing calm and tranquil, her bosom heaving gently, the wave of life receding peacefully. Yet once or twice she murmured to herself, also uttered Philip's name and her father's, then was quiet and still again--so still that Andrew knew not at some moments whether she was sleeping or dying; whether she was asleep or dead.

But the last change came ere long; she murmured now of the fire from which she thought they were still fleeing; of the black night, and, next, the breaking dawn. Then, half rose up in her bed once more, and held out feebly, piteously, her hands.

"Andrew," she whispered, "Andrew, how dark the night is. I can scarce see your face. Will daylight never come?"

"Soon, sweet; soon, poor one," he said, standing now close by her, his arms around her, his voice deep and low. "The light is coming fast."

"And Philip. Will he not come? I shall see him?"

"Soon. Very soon."

"Never more to part?"

"Never more to part," he answered in broken tones. "We shall be happy always? Always together?"

"Always now. For ever!"