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!"
CHAPTER XXXII
MORE LIGHT
"Yes," Debrasques said, after Andrew told him of Marion's death and also of all that, in the delirium of her end, she had revealed. "I knew something of what she informed you. Knew that he had brought her to France, had run away with her from an Englishman of your name. Thought at first, when we met in Paris-after you helped me with those vagabonds-that you were he. You remember my agitation?"
"Yes. I remember." Then, reflectively-putting the fire logs together with the toe of his boot-he went on: "Yet-yet-do not be hurt with me, Valentin-but-such an affair as that is deemed in France only one of gallantry-deemed so, too, in England now, since Charles has returned. Why, therefore, was the agitation of which you speak so great? He was a good swordsman, could hold his own well-in our encounter 'twas chance as much as skill gave me the advantage. Was it fear for his life-of my vengeance-that unnerved you so?"
"Nay. Nay," the other said. "Nay! Rather the fear of disgrace to our family if he were exposed-the fear of the punishment Louis would mete out to him for his deception. For his lie."
"His deception! His lie! To whom-Louis?"
"Ay," Debrasques answered. "Ay. And to Turenne. Barillon, our Minister to your Court, sent over a complaint that had been made by her father-it reached Louis' ears-he sent it on to the Marshal-to Turenne. Then-then-De Bois-Vallée had to give an explanation and-nothing short of his word that he and the lady were married would have saved him from disgrace-from expulsion from Turenne's bodyguard."
"And," said Andrew quickly, "he gave that word?"
"Heaven help him! Yes. So, also, did I."
"You, Valentin?"
"Yes. Believing him. He told me-told my mother-in our own house, that she came from England with him willingly enough-that they were married when they landed at Ambleteuse."
"And every word was a lie!"
"So we knew later-so I found out. And in a marvellous way."
"How?"
"From the woman now in this house-the woman who watches ever upstairs by that poor girl's body-"
"Clemence?"
"Ay, Clemence! You know her history?"
"Something of it. Also I know-heaven grant I may never forget! – that to her it is owing that I am not lying choked to death in that garret. By a chance only that I am not also lying a mass of charred ashes. As well might that wing have caught fire as the others while I still lay shackled in it, and then farewell to Andrew Vause and his opportunity for saving Marion from that death, if no other. And 'tis to Clemence that all is owing. Yet-how ever to have believed it!"
"She is the strangest creature," Debrasques said; "a vast combination of good and evil promptings. Half woman-sometimes half tigress-demoniac! She thought his father loved her-cherished the belief that he would marry her for her wild beauty-I have heard my mother say that in her youth she was as beautiful as the Queen of Night-went mad for a time when he did marry-thought my cousin was her own son. Then-for she would never quit the house-she passed her life alternately loving him and-torturing him, so that, at last, she was never allowed to see the child for fear that she would do it mortal injury. Again, later, when both his father and mother were dead, her love for him was another change in her insanity-until he brought that poor dead one upstairs to the house-"
"And then," said Andrew-"and then?"
As he asked the question the door behind them opened slightly-had not both been sitting with their backs to it and gazing into the fire, they would have seen four long, slim fingers grasping it. Would have seen, too, a moment later, the form of Clemence standing behind them. Yet, in another instant, they knew that she was there, heard her voice give the answer to Andrew's question-heard her say:
"Then she hated him."
Springing from their seats they turned and faced her-appalled almost by the change that had come over her.
The face-always pallid since Andrew had first seen it-was livid now to the lips, the eyes dim and sunken into their sockets-the full lips shook and quivered. And-was it fancy on both their parts, or was it the case? – it seemed to them that the dark hair was now doubly streaked with grey-was far whiter than it had been a day or so ago when she and the others were saved from the ruined house.
"Then-she hated him. Listen. Let me tell the story," and as she spoke she advanced to where they were, and stood before them.
"I hated him because of what he had done to this poor helpless girl-one could not help but love her! – hated him, too, because I saw another victim to the insensate passions of all his race. Told him he was a coward, a villain, to thus betray a woman, bring her a prisoner from her own land. Yet-listen-there is one thing you do not know, neither of you know. It was no fault of his that they were not man and wife-as he tricked you into believing they had become, Valentin Debrasques. He loved the woman dearly, madly-again and again he besought her to marry him. In that respect he was no villain."
"Thank God!" broke from the Marquis's lips as he heard these words-from Andrew Vause there came no utterance. In truth, he was amazed. Had he misjudged the man after all-had-? But he paused in his reflections-remembering that the allurement of the woman from her own land, the breaking thereby of Philip's heart, the long detention of Marion, were sufficient villainy. Again Clemence went on.
"When he returned hastily from his post in Turenne's guard, but a little while ere you yourself came here" – and she directed her eyes towards Andrew-"it was to cast himself once more at her feet, to beg, to pray, to implore that she would pardon him for all the wrong he had done-that she would be his wife. Great God how he besought her. And, when she turned still a deaf ear to him-answering that, sooner would she linger out years here, sooner die here than grant what he demanded-ay! though she remained a prisoner till she was old and grey, he besought her in another manner. Told her that, already, he had suffered enough for his sin-that there was one who sought his life, who ere long would obtain it-was implacable-and that, now, worse even than loss of life threatened him. That this sin was known to more than one, that his honour was in peril-unless he could stand before his King with her for wife at his side, he was a ruined, broken man. That nothing could save him-even though he should abjure France and join with the Duke it would but forestall the King's vengeance for a time. Soon Louis would triumph over Lorraine, and then he would still be disgraced."
"And her answer?" asked Andrew. "Yet-what need the question! I know it." And to himself he muttered, "thank God, she was true to Philip. Even though he is in his grave, thank God for that," while, even as he so thought, another reflection ran swiftly through his mind.
"Perhaps-perhaps," he pondered, "he knows all now. Perhaps!"
"What more to tell!" Clemente went on, standing still before those two, controlling herself as best she could-mastering, as it seemed to Andrew, some terrible agony that racked her soul. "What more? You came here, entered his house as none have ever entered it before, your life hung on a thread a dozen times; you know not how nearly it was taken as you lay stretched in that hall ere you were carried to the garret-how nearly again-by-but no matter! And in your coming I saw her chance, recognized that you who feared nothing might open the way to freedom for that poor, injured lamb-show her the road back to him she loves. Alas! 'twas not to be."
"Alas!" also said Andrew, "it never could have been. He whom she loved had gone before her."
"Dead!" Clemente said, staring at him. "He is dead? Her lover-your brother?"
"Yes, dead."
"Did she know it?" the woman asked, almost hissed, as she bent forward and touched his arm, "did she know it-and die cursing him?"
"Nay, nay, she died cursing none-left the world with peace in her heart, upon her lips, believing that they would soon meet again now. As they will-as they have done," and he turned his face away from her and Debrasques so that they might not see his grief.
Later that night, when Andrew and the Marquis sat once more together in front of the fire, and while Clemence still watched above in the room where the dead girl lay-she was to be buried in the morning in a remote portion of the abbey grounds, the noble ladies of Remiremont having permitted that, in spite of her not being of their faith-the Marquis spoke to him and said:
"Is the feud ended now, Captain Vause, the task accomplished? Are you content?"
"Content?" Andrew said, looking up at him. "Content with what-failure?"
"Have you failed?"
"Ay, from first to last. See! Reflect! My brother lies in his grave unavenged-to-morrow she will lie in hers. Both victims to that man. And-he-is free."
"Free! Free! He is ruined, beggared, bankrupt in honour, too. His career is ended-he can never rejoin the army nor serve France again-even though you should spare him, he should not draw sword again for my country. I would prevent it. Would myself tell the King. Also he must fly Lorraine; they, his own countrymen, will never let him obtain another denier from his land. He must be an outcast-proscribed-a vagabond on the face of the earth. Will that not suffice?"
"No," Andrew said, bending across the table to look into the young man's eyes. "No, Valentin Debrasques, it cannot suffice. If it could-for your sake-I would be content. But-my brother is unavenged, Marion Wyatt is unavenged-De Bois-Vallée and Andrew Vause are alive. The feud ends when one or both are dead. Not before."
"He said to her-to Clemence," whispered Debrasques, "that you were implacable."
"He said true. In such a cause, Valentin, I am implacable. Listen to me, deem me pagan, bloodthirsty-what you will-but understand me. I was a vaurien from my boyhood, always in trouble, doing ever the wrong thing-yet never losing the love of two creatures on this earth. My mother-and Philip. Because of that, because when I was a man, a soldier-a bravo, some called me! – because of their love for me, because the door of our old home stood open always when I turned my wandering steps that way; because, too, there was never aught of reproach but only words of love and welcome for greeting-sweeter to the ears of him who has been homeless for weeks and months together than to any other! – I loved, I worshipped those two."
He paused a moment-and, to the younger man gazing up at him, it seemed as if the firm, strong soldier was overmastered by an emotion such as none could have ever dreamt would sway him-then went on.
"Loved, worshipped them. Became at last, through that love, I think, a better, more thoughtful man. Grew careful of my reputation, did naught that should bring discredit to them, to the old name I bore. Do you wonder, therefore, that, when I saw my brother lowered to his grave-knowing well what had driven him to it-I took the vow I did, swore that the man who was the primary cause of all should himself find his grave at my hands?"
"I do not wonder," Valentin Debrasques replied softly-"I understand."
"And," Andrew went on, "there is one other thing. I owe this man an opportunity of crossing swords with me again-villain though he is-and he shall have it."
"Yet he seeks not that reparation. Has escaped, fled. What will you do? Follow him across the world-perhaps never to find him even then?"
"No. Again listen. I do not believe I shall have far to go. Valentin, it is borne in on me that De Bois-Vallée is at no very great distance from here now."
"What!"
"I believe that he is secreted somewhere in that house of his at this moment."
"At Bois-le-Vaux?"
"Yes. At Bois-le-Vaux."
"It is impossible."
"Nay-it is most probable. Let me repeat to you what I have said happened at the moment when he escaped from my grasp. The garret was full of smoke-dense, black smoke-none could see an inch beyond themselves. Then-in an instant, he was gone. Yet-where? Not backwards to the corridor; that was impossible. There, even if he had regained it, he could not have lived ten minutes-in the garret itself, we should have been suffocated in the same space of time had I not been able to get the trap open-moreover, he could not have passed behind us. We were all together-Marion's form extended along the floor. That was impossible."
"And the roof? Might there be no way down from that?"
"There may be, yet it seems unlikely. For, see. Even though there were some opening, some descent-'tis possible-I searched not the leads as carefully as afterwards I searched the garret floor! – to where would it lead him? Back into that burning house again."
"And the shaft?"
"Ay! the shaft. The oubliette. 'Tis in truth there, I do believe, that he escaped."
"Yet you have said you probed it as far as you were able, flung down the link of chain to test its depth, and found nothing. How, therefore, is it likely that he can have escaped by that road?"
"That, I purpose to once more seek out. At best my examination was but hasty. A second search may reveal more."
"A second search. You intend to make one? In that ruined house-the walls likely enough to fall at any moment and overwhelm you, bury you beneath them. You will do that?"
"I will-and ere many hours are passed. To-morrow, when-she-has been laid in her grave I make my way to Bois-le-Vaux again. And," he continued-speaking now in a tone that, almost unknowingly to Debrasques, carried conviction to his mind, "the clue will be there to his whereabouts. The end will not be far off then."
"Let us go together."
"You wish to go? Remember, it is not the end itself-but the beginning of the end only. If he has escaped down that oubliette it may be that he is a hundred leagues away ere now, that I may have far to go ere I come up with him. Your road lies towards Paris and your mother's house, Valentin-mine leads I know not where."
"No matter. At least let me accompany you to Bois-le-Vaux."
"So be it. We will set out together."